visit he met Bibi, who thought he was cute; as soon as he left, "Why don't you use him for the shows? He can help set stuff up or something, run cables."
"Altruist, huh," but Tess had already had the same idea. It would be good to have an assistant other than Crane, or Paul; and Bibi's frown, "At least Paul can dance. That Crane, he better shape up a little bit and I don't mean his fucking pecs that he's so proud of. Know what it was today?" and talking as working, as both turned to their larger tasks, how to make the metal arms clench and twist without breaking, herself a twist of flesh, bent and hedgehog frowning, oblivious as she spoke.
"We are priests," Raelynne's voice amplified, witchy and hoarse, "in the service of motion," and a crash like God's sky opened, the tumbling rush of half-inch bearings down the curve of a makeshift ramp, cataract fall onto a sheet of thin aluminum to scatter haphazard among the audience: twice as many, this time, they filled the room nearly to the doors; ready.
This time it was louder, rattle and thump and the fat blades of an amped-up blower poisonously a-clatter over the bass subsonics, over Raelynne's whoops and Paul's wet growls through a borrowed throat mike, their simulated sex atop a blistered landscape of sheet metal and the others circling like buzzards, masks made hasty of old welding helmets, the twin planes of safety glass, clear and heavy green, slid free to be replaced by thick blinding broadcloth, raveled and black. And Tess again in back, burning, this time working on a piece, right there, through the shriek and clatter, the off-balance pulse of strobes above and the new metal arms mounted high atop a stolen stop-sign pole, grabbing and pulling, fantastically jury-rigged but the people watching did not know, did not suspect just how rigged they were. The sign itself had been stenciled don't across its age-blistered face and nailgunned to the top of the bearing ramp.
The piece absorbing Tess's attention, burn and spatter and smoke, running her own slippery edge, working hard and looking up only rarely, to see where she was in the show: now Sandrine's butcher-dance, hacking at plastic hands; now the lovers in combat, clumsy gauntlets of corrosive-grade plastic and Paul had knocked Raelynne to the ground, not in the script, and Bibi leaping like a crazy lizard from the top of the bearing ramp, landing with a hideous thump on the sheet metal, eyes wide in the surprise of great injury and a fat bubble of blood bursting red from her mouth and Raelynne rising to be struck from behind, Crane and Sandrine hand-to-hand, Sandrine's tattoo ringed with a shiny gloss to make it sparkle, exotic prosthetic in the flexing flesh.
Tess through the mask, smoke around her head and the panels occluding, it was getting harder and harder to see; Bibi on her knees and crawling in a broken way toward Paul, who was not looking, people yelling and her fingers strangely tight in work gloves, into the burn again, legs braced and somebody crashed into her, her fire hitting plastic and the flare of poison stink, instant and dire: we need air. "Air in here!" and the smatter of glass, somebody else shrieking, Tess struggling back to see Raelynne rise again bloody-mouthed to deliver an enormous suck-erpunch to Paul's unprotected belly, doubling him up, striking him again in the moment of his fall. More broken glass. The tape looping back onto itself like the birth cries of giants, the groans of the dinosaurs in their pits and plastic still afire, fumes, Tess dizzy in the shadow of her own fire and someone hit the crashbars, the doors wide and people stumbling out, coughing, the entering air feeding the plastic fire and Jerome, suddenly, wide eyes and extinguisher spray, fat gobbets of foam from atop one of the sculptures, just to the left of the grabbing arms which threatened to push him from balance. And the tape still booming, and the fire out, and the room empty
"Altruist, huh," but Tess had already had the same idea. It would be good to have an assistant other than Crane, or Paul; and Bibi's frown, "At least Paul can dance. That Crane, he better shape up a little bit and I don't mean his fucking pecs that he's so proud of. Know what it was today?" and talking as working, as both turned to their larger tasks, how to make the metal arms clench and twist without breaking, herself a twist of flesh, bent and hedgehog frowning, oblivious as she spoke.
"We are priests," Raelynne's voice amplified, witchy and hoarse, "in the service of motion," and a crash like God's sky opened, the tumbling rush of half-inch bearings down the curve of a makeshift ramp, cataract fall onto a sheet of thin aluminum to scatter haphazard among the audience: twice as many, this time, they filled the room nearly to the doors; ready.
This time it was louder, rattle and thump and the fat blades of an amped-up blower poisonously a-clatter over the bass subsonics, over Raelynne's whoops and Paul's wet growls through a borrowed throat mike, their simulated sex atop a blistered landscape of sheet metal and the others circling like buzzards, masks made hasty of old welding helmets, the twin planes of safety glass, clear and heavy green, slid free to be replaced by thick blinding broadcloth, raveled and black. And Tess again in back, burning, this time working on a piece, right there, through the shriek and clatter, the off-balance pulse of strobes above and the new metal arms mounted high atop a stolen stop-sign pole, grabbing and pulling, fantastically jury-rigged but the people watching did not know, did not suspect just how rigged they were. The sign itself had been stenciled don't across its age-blistered face and nailgunned to the top of the bearing ramp.
The piece absorbing Tess's attention, burn and spatter and smoke, running her own slippery edge, working hard and looking up only rarely, to see where she was in the show: now Sandrine's butcher-dance, hacking at plastic hands; now the lovers in combat, clumsy gauntlets of corrosive-grade plastic and Paul had knocked Raelynne to the ground, not in the script, and Bibi leaping like a crazy lizard from the top of the bearing ramp, landing with a hideous thump on the sheet metal, eyes wide in the surprise of great injury and a fat bubble of blood bursting red from her mouth and Raelynne rising to be struck from behind, Crane and Sandrine hand-to-hand, Sandrine's tattoo ringed with a shiny gloss to make it sparkle, exotic prosthetic in the flexing flesh.
Tess through the mask, smoke around her head and the panels occluding, it was getting harder and harder to see; Bibi on her knees and crawling in a broken way toward Paul, who was not looking, people yelling and her fingers strangely tight in work gloves, into the burn again, legs braced and somebody crashed into her, her fire hitting plastic and the flare of poison stink, instant and dire: we need air. "Air in here!" and the smatter of glass, somebody else shrieking, Tess struggling back to see Raelynne rise again bloody-mouthed to deliver an enormous suck-erpunch to Paul's unprotected belly, doubling him up, striking him again in the moment of his fall. More broken glass. The tape looping back onto itself like the birth cries of giants, the groans of the dinosaurs in their pits and plastic still afire, fumes, Tess dizzy in the shadow of her own fire and someone hit the crashbars, the doors wide and people stumbling out, coughing, the entering air feeding the plastic fire and Jerome, suddenly, wide eyes and extinguisher spray, fat gobbets of foam from atop one of the sculptures, just to the left of the grabbing arms which threatened to push him from balance. And the tape still booming, and the fire out, and the room empty
Similar Books
