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A Conversation with Gibson, Dali and Leyner at the Seattle Arcology, Downside by Andre Monserrat
published in Volume 3, Issue 3 on July 8th, 1996

Strawy bush of twists dangling behind, indifferent, and falling through a crevice of melons screwed on to trenchcoats, suits and gothic leather. The current is slow, dropping at ninety-degree angles. Down and down the metal tide I ride, distance never changing, but oh so much closer. I fling bolts of red hot concentrated rape at the back of your neck, but you switch to a different channel. Granite heads drift by. You ignore them. I'm about to cash in and you're as calm as a land mine.

The table sat down in front of Deadly, between him and Legs, Firm Ass, Yes/No Eyes, Eat My Mouth, Lust My Flesh. Hunched stage hands bustled about to construct the atmosphere. Today it was a nouveau bar made of cardboard and transparisteel, folding up around them like a milk carton. She commented on the perpetual droning with a voice of naked skin on satin. He swallowed a beer bottle and belched shards of glass. She was impressed. Her smile fell off, rolled across the synthetic wood, and fell down his pants with a hot splash.

"You're so deadly, Deadly," she sauntered. She had someone else's eyes, but you couldn't tell unless you looked really close. They held resonance bought with cash, not time. He had known her for two seconds five minutes ago, but the intonation was ages old. Deadly heard their life pass by, wind spit newspapers spread wide open to the Wanted Ads and the Obits; life's constant tragicalamity in bands of splattered static.

"I know," he sharked and shoved both barrels through her chest. The other patrons wailed about the noise and blood, crawling up to the ceiling or strangling themselves in the bathroom pens to escape the drama.

"You killed me," you observe. Your costume is ruined by shags of rawness and soaked in saltwater. Opening your handbag, you scoop in some ruddy chunks; you know a good surgeon. The chair below you is sloppy-ass drunk. You feel so violated and wet. "Do it again. Just don't touch me."

Look at you, in your mirror jacket; you're such a wannabe me. Subtley plays no part in your bag of tricks. Hovering there among the cardstock Nofaces, you're a crucifixion in a library. You've never met me and already you want a piece of the action. Your stockings and perfume get a vicegrip around my waist, rocking me like dice: a sweaty gamble where you play to lose. Damn you, I'll ride you off the edge of oblivion for the crimes you make me think.

Deadly smiled and holstered his sawed-off high calibre double barreled jacked up parallel processing acid washed black leather lying ass tongue and said, "How can I kill you if you won't let me touch you? You long only for the anticipation of pain, not the agony itself. I don't use glass condoms."

He's such a rake, you think.

Flipping through the chrome tunes. You're into Dredge, Riptyme, and Neo-Klassikal. So we slot the same grooves... so what? Does that buy my balls, babe? Will you wear them on a chain or put them in a little crypt-shaped chest on your night stand? You're the kind that demands guerilla warfare, an extended seige to win your chameleon heart. But I pick locks with shaped plastique, get dragged in the back door by the cat, and won't that be a surprise?

I'll let him kiss me, you decide. But when he does, I'll bite his tongue off.

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