Read Online Strange Flesh by Michael Olson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Michael Olson
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rat’s nest of narrow brick corridors with rusty pipes overhead and industrial doors spaced at irregular intervals. To enhance the atmosphere,residents have covered the walls with prison graffiti, and at one intersection, a realistic skeleton hangs from shackles.
Xan stops at an office and appears surprised at the oversized Master Lock hanging from its latch. She consults a sheet in her portfolio and mumbles, “Bollocks. This is supposed to be open.”
I drift halfway down the hall to where a rickety door stands ajar. A naked overhead bulb reveals the room to be a tiny dank cell with a slouching brick wall running along one side and a set of water-stained drywall planes composing the other three. In the back, an ancient desk stands devoid of contents.
“This looks okay,” I call out.
Xan seems hesitant to abandon the room listed on her clipboard, but she walks slowly over and checks out the one I’ve selected. She darts a glance across the hall at a sturdy steel door.
Finally, she says, “Right. Well, I hope you’re very happy here. I should say that we’re having a bit of a fete tonight. If you meet me outside at eleven, I’ll hand you around to your new colleagues.”
“Sounds great.”
“Welcome to the GAME, James. You know where I am. If you need anything, don’t hesitate to ask.”
“Well, there is one thing. I understand Billy has disappeared. You haven’t seen him recently, have you?”
Xan chuckles softly. “Billy? I don’t believe I’ve laid eyes on him for quite a while. But that’s not so unusual.”
“Seems like there’s some reason to worry. What with the Jackanapes suicide epidemic.”
“Now James, I like lurid drama as much as the next girl, but two separate tragedies hardly make an epidemic.”
I nod amenably but silently reply, Yeah, but who says it’s over?
9
A pproaching the GAME building that night, I’m surprised to see a scene resembling the sidewalk of a hot nightclub. There’s a brace of enormous black bouncers accompanied by a transvestite in an astro-Krishna getup holding a clipboard. Beyond the perimeter, a group of the unnamed angrily thumb their phones. Xan, ravishing in leather pants and black cashmere, leads me smoothly past the doorgoyles.
Inside is a labyrinth of giant screens, each providing a window into some strange universe of grave jeopardy and eternal resurrection. Projectors mounted in any available corner make surfaces crawl with a chaos of ill-defined images. Smoke from DIY holographic displays pervades the place with a sense of spectral menace. Condensing mist drips onto the cables crisscrossing the floor. Having considered the topic recently, I assess the possibility of electrocution.
The crowd is a pan-tribal confab representing suits, geeks, and the new-media media. Omnipresent black lights impart a Tron -ish computer glow even to those guests not dressed like gaudy NOD avatars. A series of statuesque women, faces hidden by Boschian beaked-creature masks, are dancing up on platforms.
A DJ I dimly recognize is working through a dissonant eight-bit set, occasionally manipulating a panel of raw circuitry.
Though it seems like typical art-rave eclecticism, eventually I notice that the unifying undercurrent here is play . Scanning the room I see a groupof what I’m forced to characterize as upscale punk intelligentsia running around trying to assassinate each other with their cell phones. There are several home-brewed Magic : The Gathering –style card games going, hard-core LARPers fencing with prop-quality light sabers, and a techno-hippie drum circle gathered around an iPhone collaborative music app. They’re wearing headphones, so the group’s synchronized nodding comes off eerie in its silence. The aquarium I saw Xan working on earlier now allows players to fight phosphorescent piranhas with a remote-control submarine.
My host sees a passing waiter, all of whom are dressed as snow ninjas, and liberates two magenta drinks. She
Xan stops at an office and appears surprised at the oversized Master Lock hanging from its latch. She consults a sheet in her portfolio and mumbles, “Bollocks. This is supposed to be open.”
I drift halfway down the hall to where a rickety door stands ajar. A naked overhead bulb reveals the room to be a tiny dank cell with a slouching brick wall running along one side and a set of water-stained drywall planes composing the other three. In the back, an ancient desk stands devoid of contents.
“This looks okay,” I call out.
Xan seems hesitant to abandon the room listed on her clipboard, but she walks slowly over and checks out the one I’ve selected. She darts a glance across the hall at a sturdy steel door.
Finally, she says, “Right. Well, I hope you’re very happy here. I should say that we’re having a bit of a fete tonight. If you meet me outside at eleven, I’ll hand you around to your new colleagues.”
“Sounds great.”
“Welcome to the GAME, James. You know where I am. If you need anything, don’t hesitate to ask.”
“Well, there is one thing. I understand Billy has disappeared. You haven’t seen him recently, have you?”
Xan chuckles softly. “Billy? I don’t believe I’ve laid eyes on him for quite a while. But that’s not so unusual.”
“Seems like there’s some reason to worry. What with the Jackanapes suicide epidemic.”
“Now James, I like lurid drama as much as the next girl, but two separate tragedies hardly make an epidemic.”
I nod amenably but silently reply, Yeah, but who says it’s over?
9
A pproaching the GAME building that night, I’m surprised to see a scene resembling the sidewalk of a hot nightclub. There’s a brace of enormous black bouncers accompanied by a transvestite in an astro-Krishna getup holding a clipboard. Beyond the perimeter, a group of the unnamed angrily thumb their phones. Xan, ravishing in leather pants and black cashmere, leads me smoothly past the doorgoyles.
Inside is a labyrinth of giant screens, each providing a window into some strange universe of grave jeopardy and eternal resurrection. Projectors mounted in any available corner make surfaces crawl with a chaos of ill-defined images. Smoke from DIY holographic displays pervades the place with a sense of spectral menace. Condensing mist drips onto the cables crisscrossing the floor. Having considered the topic recently, I assess the possibility of electrocution.
The crowd is a pan-tribal confab representing suits, geeks, and the new-media media. Omnipresent black lights impart a Tron -ish computer glow even to those guests not dressed like gaudy NOD avatars. A series of statuesque women, faces hidden by Boschian beaked-creature masks, are dancing up on platforms.
A DJ I dimly recognize is working through a dissonant eight-bit set, occasionally manipulating a panel of raw circuitry.
Though it seems like typical art-rave eclecticism, eventually I notice that the unifying undercurrent here is play . Scanning the room I see a groupof what I’m forced to characterize as upscale punk intelligentsia running around trying to assassinate each other with their cell phones. There are several home-brewed Magic : The Gathering –style card games going, hard-core LARPers fencing with prop-quality light sabers, and a techno-hippie drum circle gathered around an iPhone collaborative music app. They’re wearing headphones, so the group’s synchronized nodding comes off eerie in its silence. The aquarium I saw Xan working on earlier now allows players to fight phosphorescent piranhas with a remote-control submarine.
My host sees a passing waiter, all of whom are dressed as snow ninjas, and liberates two magenta drinks. She
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