Read Online Codename Prague by D. Harlan Wilson - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: D. Harlan Wilson
Tags: Fiction, General, Science-Fiction, Action & Adventure, Assassins, Dystopias, Prague (Czech Republic), Androids, Cyberpunk Culture
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stomped on one, two, three, four birdwatchers…Tsunami of surrogate blood, mudslide of entrails. Haunted house screeches and moans…Pulp alien octopi-craft stormed the circus, reducing animals, humans, mutants to puddles of semi-conscious sludge. A brigade of comic book superheroes followed in the aliens’ train and committed their own irreplaceable acts of ultraviolence…
… Cirque de socius , thought Dr Teufelsdröckh. If a man doesn’t have a woman, he tries to get a woman. If a man has a woman, he tries to get another woman. Fin …
He opened an umbrella to shield himself from the rain of gore. “I have in my possession one of John Keats’ death masks,” he continued, oblivious, raising his voice above the hullabaloo. “It’s an original, constructed the day after he died by a Roman creatore del candlestick . Do you know that Keats’ visage was the spitting image of Jean-Claude Van Damme’s? The cheekbones. The lips. The chin…Do you know who Jean-Claude Van Damme was? Have you ever seen the film Bloodsport ? Let me ask you this: have you ever seen No Retreat, No Surrender , or, even better, Breakin’ ? Van Damme appeared in all of these films. And while his acting skills left something to be desired, he certainly did have a nice body, and he was a remarkable protoscikungfi fighter. If only Keats had possessed the actor’s body. And his moves.”
Dr Teufelsdröckh ventured a look at Delilah Jive. She was dead. And in two parts. One part twitched wildly on the floor as the other leaked aromatic coffee beans.
How long had he been talking to himself?
He felt a tug on his shoulder. He turned around.
Truth.
“What the? How did you get in here?”
Truth shrugged. “Beauty ate all the celery. We need more.” He shrugged again. “What should I do?”
Poltergeists began to leap out of people and devour the residual bodies. “Christ. I can’t leave you alone for fifteen minutes.” It was time to leave anyway. But that didn’t mean Dr Teufelsdröckh had to like it. He tried to steady his breath, wondering what Truth and Beauty could have been doing with celery. He despised celery. An entirely lackluster vegetable. He certainly wouldn’t have authorized its use, even privately. “This is the last straw,” he assured Truth. “Come with me.”
Escorted by the gongs of Apocalypse, the doktor and his assistant left the Question Mark Circus, tipping the head waiter at the door as they hurried into the brown night.
06
The Count of Vincent Prague
“Eighty-six, eighty-seven, eighty-eight, eighty-nine, nrrrrrrr…”
He trailed off. He hadn’t been counting long. But there was nothing else to do. He grew bored of the count quicker than desired or anticipated. How long had he been incarcerated here? No more than a few hours. Maybe just a few minutes. Now what could he do?
This is what happened next: eighteen years passed…
07
Eleven Mad Scientists & Fifty-Five Monsters
The monster-making kit came with four additional items, free of charge: a Mr Hyde action figure, a test tube of hemlock (in case the final product turned against its master), a vintage 8-track cassette tape of the Cryptkicker’s song “Monster Mash” (incl. four remixes), and a lock of Mary Shelley’s hair. The hair wasn’t authentic, but it had been cloned from a simulacrum of a replica of a carbon copy of a genetic twin of the original mane’s imagined DNA. Batteries not included.
“For a little extra,” said the monster peddler, “I’ll throw in this DAT, too. Can’t get this one anywhere anymore.” He inserted the tape into a vaginal slit that opened in his forehead, pressed his right nipple, and opened his mouth. A Bass-O-Matic version of “The Purple People Eater” flooded the room.
“No thank you!”
He pressed his left nipple, closed his mouth. “Suit yourself. Your loss.” His chest ejected the tape. The monster peddler crushed it in his fist and tossed it into an incinerator hole.
… Cirque de socius , thought Dr Teufelsdröckh. If a man doesn’t have a woman, he tries to get a woman. If a man has a woman, he tries to get another woman. Fin …
He opened an umbrella to shield himself from the rain of gore. “I have in my possession one of John Keats’ death masks,” he continued, oblivious, raising his voice above the hullabaloo. “It’s an original, constructed the day after he died by a Roman creatore del candlestick . Do you know that Keats’ visage was the spitting image of Jean-Claude Van Damme’s? The cheekbones. The lips. The chin…Do you know who Jean-Claude Van Damme was? Have you ever seen the film Bloodsport ? Let me ask you this: have you ever seen No Retreat, No Surrender , or, even better, Breakin’ ? Van Damme appeared in all of these films. And while his acting skills left something to be desired, he certainly did have a nice body, and he was a remarkable protoscikungfi fighter. If only Keats had possessed the actor’s body. And his moves.”
Dr Teufelsdröckh ventured a look at Delilah Jive. She was dead. And in two parts. One part twitched wildly on the floor as the other leaked aromatic coffee beans.
How long had he been talking to himself?
He felt a tug on his shoulder. He turned around.
Truth.
“What the? How did you get in here?”
Truth shrugged. “Beauty ate all the celery. We need more.” He shrugged again. “What should I do?”
Poltergeists began to leap out of people and devour the residual bodies. “Christ. I can’t leave you alone for fifteen minutes.” It was time to leave anyway. But that didn’t mean Dr Teufelsdröckh had to like it. He tried to steady his breath, wondering what Truth and Beauty could have been doing with celery. He despised celery. An entirely lackluster vegetable. He certainly wouldn’t have authorized its use, even privately. “This is the last straw,” he assured Truth. “Come with me.”
Escorted by the gongs of Apocalypse, the doktor and his assistant left the Question Mark Circus, tipping the head waiter at the door as they hurried into the brown night.
06
The Count of Vincent Prague
“Eighty-six, eighty-seven, eighty-eight, eighty-nine, nrrrrrrr…”
He trailed off. He hadn’t been counting long. But there was nothing else to do. He grew bored of the count quicker than desired or anticipated. How long had he been incarcerated here? No more than a few hours. Maybe just a few minutes. Now what could he do?
This is what happened next: eighteen years passed…
07
Eleven Mad Scientists & Fifty-Five Monsters
The monster-making kit came with four additional items, free of charge: a Mr Hyde action figure, a test tube of hemlock (in case the final product turned against its master), a vintage 8-track cassette tape of the Cryptkicker’s song “Monster Mash” (incl. four remixes), and a lock of Mary Shelley’s hair. The hair wasn’t authentic, but it had been cloned from a simulacrum of a replica of a carbon copy of a genetic twin of the original mane’s imagined DNA. Batteries not included.
“For a little extra,” said the monster peddler, “I’ll throw in this DAT, too. Can’t get this one anywhere anymore.” He inserted the tape into a vaginal slit that opened in his forehead, pressed his right nipple, and opened his mouth. A Bass-O-Matic version of “The Purple People Eater” flooded the room.
“No thank you!”
He pressed his left nipple, closed his mouth. “Suit yourself. Your loss.” His chest ejected the tape. The monster peddler crushed it in his fist and tossed it into an incinerator hole.
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