Read Online The Damned Highway by Nick Mamatas - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Nick Mamatas
Ads: Link
Moloch!
ââ
If you think I am out of options or weaponry, then you donât know me very well at all. I have some technology with me, the sort of thing that will change the world one day. The Mojo Wire! From any phone jack I can plug it in and feed it finished copy, one sheet at a time, and facsimile sheets will spit forth from the wireâs opposite number in the editorial office of whoever is paying my bar tab at the moment. If only everyone had one of these things, whole nations would collapse into the sort of mutualist anarchic Utopia only a Russian prince could dream of. Imagine a Mojo Wire in every home, and the masses accessing it from anywhere! That would be rich, eh? But for now, the tool belongs to me. Or it is lent to me occasionally by my editor, to keep me off his home telephone at three a.m. But this gem of a machine, only twenty-three pounds and sturdy enough to survive the Big One, if the Big One were a sufficient number of miles away, needs two thingsâa phone jack and an electrical receptacle. Neither is anywhere nearby, and the rest stop is no help, not with Mac stomping around on the other side of the dark glass, raving and flailing his arms as he finishes his exegesis without me. But I am in Middle America, damn it, walking on the sandy shoulder of a major highway. By law and common decencyâthe American Dream!âthere will be a neon oasis sooner rather than later. Gas, Food, and Lodging, a veritable Disneyland compared to the awful Knottâs Berry Farm of that last rest stop. Buses go by here, for the love of God!
I walk for what seems like minutes and see a faded billboard looming over the highway. war is over , it reads, if you want it . I remember reading in the news that John Lennon and Yoko Ono commissioned a dozen or so such billboards several months back to promote his new single, which was unavoidable on the airwaves only a month before. Lennon could have been a warrior, but instead, heâs become just another American, if by proxy. A Royalist turned Peacenik turned Royalist again. Thatâs what this political climate does to people. Lennon stood for something once. Now his idea of a progressive decade is a camelhair jacket in every closet and a Gucci on every foot. Or maybe thatâs Tom Wolfe. I canât remember. I havenât heard from Tom since I gave him my tapes of the gangbang at the Merry Prankstersâ party, that notorious weekend when Kesey and his people introduced acid to the Hells Angels. I wonder where Tom is now? New York, I guess, along with Lennon. I feel a surge of anger. He should be here with me. Where are the other warriors for truth? Where are Kesey and Hoffman and Ayers and the rest of the Happy Fun-Time Club? Someone should be here with me, on this dark and desolate stretch of damned highway. At this moment, I decide I was wrong to go on this journey alone. I even wish for my goddamned attorney, before remembering that the Brown Buffalo is probably dead and fish bait. At least, thatâs the rumor, and we have a saying in this business about rumors. But who am I kidding? The truth is, heâs been living on borrowed time since Vegas. He saw the same things there I saw. One does not boldly go into Bat Country and expect to come through unscathed. Vegas took a terrible toll on his psyche and spirit. He was a walking corpse after that. His death is merely a hastened eventuality. I miss him, sometimes. At any rate, I owe him too much moneyâthe retainer has long since been consumed by coke and grapefruitsâeven if he is alive.
A few minutes later, I come across a local knockoff of one of the big chain motels. Call it Super 7 if you like, because thatâs what they did. Thereâs no concierge, no bellowing demands for three dozen grapefruit, no lounge with live light jazz and whores who spackle the wrinkles from their faces with foundation makeup, not even a color television. But itâs cheap and takes credit
ââ
If you think I am out of options or weaponry, then you donât know me very well at all. I have some technology with me, the sort of thing that will change the world one day. The Mojo Wire! From any phone jack I can plug it in and feed it finished copy, one sheet at a time, and facsimile sheets will spit forth from the wireâs opposite number in the editorial office of whoever is paying my bar tab at the moment. If only everyone had one of these things, whole nations would collapse into the sort of mutualist anarchic Utopia only a Russian prince could dream of. Imagine a Mojo Wire in every home, and the masses accessing it from anywhere! That would be rich, eh? But for now, the tool belongs to me. Or it is lent to me occasionally by my editor, to keep me off his home telephone at three a.m. But this gem of a machine, only twenty-three pounds and sturdy enough to survive the Big One, if the Big One were a sufficient number of miles away, needs two thingsâa phone jack and an electrical receptacle. Neither is anywhere nearby, and the rest stop is no help, not with Mac stomping around on the other side of the dark glass, raving and flailing his arms as he finishes his exegesis without me. But I am in Middle America, damn it, walking on the sandy shoulder of a major highway. By law and common decencyâthe American Dream!âthere will be a neon oasis sooner rather than later. Gas, Food, and Lodging, a veritable Disneyland compared to the awful Knottâs Berry Farm of that last rest stop. Buses go by here, for the love of God!
I walk for what seems like minutes and see a faded billboard looming over the highway. war is over , it reads, if you want it . I remember reading in the news that John Lennon and Yoko Ono commissioned a dozen or so such billboards several months back to promote his new single, which was unavoidable on the airwaves only a month before. Lennon could have been a warrior, but instead, heâs become just another American, if by proxy. A Royalist turned Peacenik turned Royalist again. Thatâs what this political climate does to people. Lennon stood for something once. Now his idea of a progressive decade is a camelhair jacket in every closet and a Gucci on every foot. Or maybe thatâs Tom Wolfe. I canât remember. I havenât heard from Tom since I gave him my tapes of the gangbang at the Merry Prankstersâ party, that notorious weekend when Kesey and his people introduced acid to the Hells Angels. I wonder where Tom is now? New York, I guess, along with Lennon. I feel a surge of anger. He should be here with me. Where are the other warriors for truth? Where are Kesey and Hoffman and Ayers and the rest of the Happy Fun-Time Club? Someone should be here with me, on this dark and desolate stretch of damned highway. At this moment, I decide I was wrong to go on this journey alone. I even wish for my goddamned attorney, before remembering that the Brown Buffalo is probably dead and fish bait. At least, thatâs the rumor, and we have a saying in this business about rumors. But who am I kidding? The truth is, heâs been living on borrowed time since Vegas. He saw the same things there I saw. One does not boldly go into Bat Country and expect to come through unscathed. Vegas took a terrible toll on his psyche and spirit. He was a walking corpse after that. His death is merely a hastened eventuality. I miss him, sometimes. At any rate, I owe him too much moneyâthe retainer has long since been consumed by coke and grapefruitsâeven if he is alive.
A few minutes later, I come across a local knockoff of one of the big chain motels. Call it Super 7 if you like, because thatâs what they did. Thereâs no concierge, no bellowing demands for three dozen grapefruit, no lounge with live light jazz and whores who spackle the wrinkles from their faces with foundation makeup, not even a color television. But itâs cheap and takes credit
Similar Books
