He hawked his throat clear. The mucous tasted like a consumer brand of insecticide. Why did I even quit smoking?

he had about him a certain je ne sais gofuckyourself quality

*

I was happy that their team lost. End of story.

*

a machine that enables selective reconfiguration of one's own past actions to influence a personalized virtual reality of possible future outcomes

a note of unerring sadness

 

a note of ineffable sadness

 

with mute tenderness

 

composure

There's no way and no reason now to segue this all back into something more honest reasonable so I'm not going to try

all these story lines can just go and go and go and in fact they will indeed and in fact
the next trick might be to start resurrecting some from the wayback

like the one about the friends who journey to the magic mountain, there to seek a girl
or the one where I play guitar and make a boy fly
or the one about drinking and dying in the woods by the river in winter

like all the ones back in these pages

*

I used to write crazy when drunk;
now, just lame and sad.

This book was always lame and sad,
but now it's minus crazy
and sanity is a lot less fun

but who knows where a few more drinks
might take me
(I'm speaking metaphorically)

(Oh no I'm not)

*

I'm sick, but that's
our little secret,

stranger

"Oh, shit," said Zhen Lee.

Whatever this is, I thought, I can barely be bothered.

We were on break. The others had fallen back to the Living Room to partake of the customary catered meal and video entertainment options. Lee and I, however, were in the habit of taking our plates back to the Control Room, where we would take turns monitoring Patient activity and freely perusing the System Web, as was respectively required and permitted by our Senior clearance status.

Needless to say, we both spent most of our time Web surfing, occasionally and sporadically looking in on the Patients just to see what was what with that miserable, mindless class of vermin

I was clicking through the Club Spa's most recently posted selection of courtiers and activities. I needed to relax. This morning I'd learned -- through certain non-official, but highly reliable, channels -- that our Group's Perrennial Review had been moved up to the end of next quarter. I hadn't told anyone else in the Group yet.

I had to admit my paranoia. Had I made enemies at the Professional Council? I had no reason to think so - not that this meant anything. Professionals of much higher status than I had gone down for reasons shrouded and apparently - apparently - arbitrary.

In any event, I needed to relax--and I planned to.

"Oh, SHIT!" screamed Lee.

I flinched badly, knocking my plate of spaghetti and meatballs to the floor and dumping over my cup, spilling cherry soda all over the console. I quickly composed myself, notwithstanding the mess. In a quiet, steady tone, I asked, "What is it?"

"CLAY IS EATING THE PATIENTS," screamed Lee.

Tiny, icy wings seemed to erupt everywhere on my skin.

"Where's he at?" My voice cracked. Lee stared, apparently more unsettled at my tone than at Clay's behavior.

"Day Salon. Round Room," he croaked.

I flipped open my phone and thumbscrolled down to "Professional Public Intercom."

"Code Orange A9, Code Orange A9. Containment team needed on DS4. Please advise...ASAP."

I flipped the phone shut and immediately flipped it back open, thumbscrolling to the Living Room Intercom. I spoke as evenly as I could manage.

"All of you get back in here NOW. We've got an Eater..."

"Ah Jesus," Lee muttered, "He's eating their brains."

In a daze, not thinking, I refreshed the Spa courtier screen, only to see Jellice's face and profile appear.

That was quick, I thought.

Much too quick.

Lee said, laughing now with an edge of dangerous hysteria, "You've got to see this."

Jellice...have they gotten to you, my pretty, young one? Are you set to snare me, my pretty young one?

"Send me the link."

Bannister pulled out the Score for Patient 3654532 for the evening of March 29, 2001, selected the passage occuring in the Restaurant with the Woman From Work, and made the notation:

failureissimo

 

 

After the last one's blood centrifuge analysis, we sent him off to the showers with the others. "You can scald 'em up good now," said Clay to the shift controller, a white-haired, adolescent female known as Jellice. I made a mental note to inform the Club Madam about her. Later.

Zhen Lee tapped some figures into his handset, then looked up at me with his peculiar air of ironic insouciance, and murmered, "Diagnosis?"

*

Diagnosis: Subpaleoanachrophilia
Symptoms:
Treatment:

*

The lukewarm mist issuing from the ceiling spray nozzles hissed suddenly into pressurized steam. At her post in the control room, Jellice with her stylus carefully drew the system's temperature up to 125 degrees Celsius, her grey eyes flat and unblinking.

The patients, of course, screamed wildly under the deluge.