Mandy and I smiled.
We smiled. And something passed between us. Don't ask what.
"Has the snake gone?" Mandy asked.
Dreamsnakes came out of a bad feather called Takshaka. Any time something small and worthless was lost to the Vurt, one of these snakes crept through in exchange. Those snakes were taking over, I swear. You couldn't move for them.
"It's gone. Hit the switch one more time. Let's finish this."
So we climbed the stairs together. Two humans, one alien strung heavy between them, and we managed to get to the second landing before the lights went out again. We clattered down the corridor, Mandy going for the switch with one hand, the other desperately trying to hold onto the slippery flesh. No luck.
There's never any luck!
The Thing hit the floor like a sack of meat pulp. The darkness was thick, and full of breathings.
"Do the lights, new girl." "I can't --"
"Do it."
"I can't find it."
"Get out of the way --"
Just then her fingers found the switch.
The light came on for an instant, then was gone, with a flat pop of burn-out. Bulb gone. In the brief flare we both saw the rapid flicking of violet and green.
"Snake!" I was screaming. "Move it! Move it!"
We hauled the Thing up and dragged him along, as best we could, which wasn't that good, and more or less manhandled that meat towards the haven of flat 315. I smashed into the door, expecting hard response, but the way was open, well open, as we fell through, all three of us; male, female, alien. Mandy kicked the door shut with a neat back-heel and we collapsed into one shivering heap on the hall carpet.
The snake's head was trapped in the door and the Beetle walked through from the kitchen, carrying a breadknife.
He cut that fucker off.
This week's black selection:
SKULL SHIT is one heavy fuck. Don't try it alone, kittlings. This Vurt is going to blast you. You'll be travelling the paths of your own mind, and that's some maze in there. There's a beast at the centre and it's angry. Only the chosen know what the beast looks like, because only the chosen get that far.
The Cat's been there, of course, and lived to write the review, but I wouldn't wish the sight on my children (if I had any). Unless they're ultra-brats, in which case. . . feed them this. Skull Shit aka The Synapse Murders, Head Fuck, Temple Vomit, Id Slayer.
Call it what you like, do what you like; remember the rule: Be careful. Be very, very careful. Not for the weak.
Note: possession of this beauty can land you a two year stretch. That's a load of game-time to be missing, so stay cool. Keep it close. This Cat has warned you.
Brid was slumped on the settee, slow-gazing at a two-week-old copy of the Game Cat. Beetle was standing by the window, leafing through the feather stash. He had the snake head pinned to his jacket lapel. I had the right side of my face laid out on the dining table, my left eye fixed on a small lump of apple jam. I was getting my gear back together. That was a hard ride. The Thing-from-Outer-Space was lying on the floor, waving for a fix, his grease dripping onto Bridget's Turkish rug. Mandy was in the kitchen, eating bread and honey.
Yeah, sure!
And the King was in his counting house, counting out his money.
No doubt.
Except that we'd just trashed a week's dripfeed on five lousy Blues and a single done-it-already Black. Sure, the Beetle could sell some low-level Vurt to a robo-crusty. Or maybe I could persuade Brid to sing some smoky songs in one of the locals, me on keyboards and decks, but the shadowcops were everywhere. Most pubs had one, broadcasting from above the Vurtbox, shining inpho all over undesirables. Those inphobeams could match a face up to the Cop Banks in half a nanosec.
Everybody was afraid of the shadowcops. There was this rumour going around that they could beam right into your brains, reading your thoughts there, just like a shadowgirl could do. Not true. They were just roboshads; taking in only what their beams could see, which was only the everyday surfaces. Don't believe the hype; shadowcops ain't got soul.
DEAR SIR, WE HAVE REASON TO BELIEVE THAT YOU ARE
CURRENTLY RECEIVING BASIC NEEDS ALLOWANCE.
Who the fuck doesn't take dripfeed these days?
WE HOPE YOU ARE NOT RECEIVING PAYMENT FOR TONIGHT'S PERFORMANCE. I would look over to the bar, seeking assistance from the landlady. She would be hiding her face in a jar of Fetish. THIS WOULD BE IN DIRECT VIOLATION OF DECREE 729. PLEASE DISCLOSE.
Of course, officer. Straight away.
I think not.
That apple jam sure looked tasty. Boy, we were hungry!
Mandy came back out of the kitchen, clutching a doorstopper sandwich. She plumped herself down on a scatter cushion. We were all there, all five of us, the Stash Riders, in some form of life or other. The Beetle turned to face us, the five blue feathers clutched in one hand. He took each Blue into his other hand, saying their names out loud, each in turn, and then let them fall to the carpet. Thermo Fish. Crack Flowers.
Venus Dust. Thunderwings. Honey Suckers. . ." We watched the feathers drift. Beetle turned directly to Mandy; "Cheap Blues," he said. "We don't do cheap Blues --"
"I had to buy something," cried Mandy. "You can't just go in the shop, ask for black feathers! Seb would've laughed --"
"You got the hots for this shop guy?" Beetle asked. Mandy just turned away. The Beetle opened his baccy box, took out the black feather. He moved towards us, waving that Vurt like a dream ticket. "So. For tonight's entertainment. . . Skull Shit." His lips were smiling. It was a wicked smile.
Mandy turned back to face him; "Christ, if I'd known it was going to be like this
--"
"You want this, don't you, Scribble?" The Beetle asked, totally cutting her out. "It's not the Voodoo, Bee," I said.
"I don't believe you guys!" Mandy butting in.
"No, it's not the Voodoo," the Beetle drawled. "But it's all we've got. And the
Beetle needs succour. Let's take some feather!"
Mandy opened her mouth immediately, like she had something to prove. The Beetle pushed the feather into her mouth, until he could stroke it against the back of her throat. New girl took it all the way, like a Pornovurt star, and her eyes started to glaze. "See how she takes it?" said the Beetle. "Smooth and easy. That's my baby." Beetle pulled the feather out, and then turned to Bridget.
Brid was lying on the couch, face covered by the copy of Game Cat. "Can I miss this one?" she asked, in that smoky voice. "I'm not up to it, Bee. I'd like to just settle down with Co-operation Street."
Co-op Street was a real low-level blue Soapvurt. You bought it every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. It took you to a small Northern terrace, gave you a house to live in, gave you a home and a husband or a wife, and you got to interact with all the famous characters as their epic stories unfolded. Seemed like the whole world was hooked up to it. Except for the Dodos of course; those few poor flightless birds, who could take feathers down to the stomach, and still not feel a flutter. Officially they were known as the Vurtually Immune, but the kids called them Dodos, and it stuck. I had met one years ago and the look of despair in his eyes would never leave me.
"Nobody misses nothing," Beetle said, scrunching the paper from Brid's face, and then forcing the feather into her mouth.
Shit! That was face rape!
But I was too weak to do anything. Next he turned to the Thing, feeding the feather into the nearest orifice. The Thing was rolling all over the carpet; I swear I could almost hear him cheering. Then he turned to me.
"Scribble. . ." The Beetle's voice calling to me, over the years. "I'm not into it, Bee," I said. "I just want to find Voodoo --" "Nobody misses out," he replied.
"Desdemona. . ."
"We'll find her." :
"There's some Voodoo coming in, tomorrow. . . Mandy told me. Let's wait --" "Fuck waiting! Take it!"
He forced my mouth wide open; the fingers of one hand squeezing my cheeks, the other hand pushing the feather home, deep, to the back of the throat. I could feel it there, tickling, making me want to gag. And then the Vurt kicked in. And then I was gone. I felt the opening advurts roll, and then the credits. The pad went morphic and my last thoughts were;
Why are we doing this? Skull Shit? It's so low-level, it's even got advurts in it. We should be going higher, searching for lost love.
Instead we were just playing, just playing at --
Screaming down tunnels of brain flesh, putting thoughts together, building words and cries, cries from the heart. Electric impulses, leading me on, the room wallpapered in reds and pinks, blood all flowing down from the ceiling. Brid hiding behind the settee. The Beetle taking Mandy from behind on the Turkish rug. A Thing-from-Outer-Space floating in the air, gently landing on the dining table. Me walking through a swamp of flesh towards the kitchen door, in search of breakfast cereal. Stepping over Beetle and Mandy, finding the kitchen door locked and barred, looking just like a wall of beef.
Blood pulsing from the keyhole. Brid coming out from behind the settee, clutching a breadknife. The Thing finding a lump of jam on the table top. Licking at it. I wanted that jam for myself. Jam turning into spunk, apple spunk. Thing licking at it. Me turning to the lovemakers. Brid taking slices out of the Thing's backside, trying to feed them to me. Me turning my face away from the pink flesh. Didn't know why. Flower clock reading twenty petals to eleven. Beetle shooting apple cum. It splattered over my poster of Interactive Madonna at Woodstock Seven. Mandy coming with him. Brid turning the blade into Beetle's neck. Blood flowing from Beetle's neck. Me licking up the blood.
Tasted like apple jam. Tasted like Vurt. Just like a dream. Tasted like a dream. That means. . .
oh shit!
Sudden scream.
Shit! I was getting Haunted! That means. . . that means we're in the Vurt!
Now it was the alien making love to Mandy. And the Beetle was on the table covered, head to toe, in that apple jam. Acid jam. Jam was burning him. He was shrieking. I was just watching. Brid was turning the blade inside her wrist. And it was getting to me. Like this is all too much. It can't be real. Those kind of feelings. The Haunting! There's another life somewhere.
This isn't the only one!
"This isn't real, Bee!" I think I was shouting. The Beetle just looking at me, his
lips covered with apple jam, that smirk on his face --
"Beetle! Listen to me! We're in the Vurt! I'm getting the Haunting!
The Haunting was the feeling you got sometimes, in the Vurt; the real world calling you home.
There's more to life than this.
This is just a game.
The Beetle just kept on tasting the jam, rolling it on his tongue. He reached out to stroke Mandy's arm, as she plunged the knife into her veins. The blood was spraying over Interactive Madonna, mixing with the spunk already plastered there.
I guess that dead star was really interacting now.
And then Mandy had Desdemona's face, and it was Desdemona doing the screaming. The blood pouring out of her beautiful mouth. It was too much for me. I had to get out of there.
Sudden jerk! Backwards!
Ghost grabbing me, under the armpits, jerking me into reality and then the real world breaking open. A locked door being axed open. Me screaming backwards, into the clock-face. Two fingers of time grabbing me, the hour and the minute hands. . .
The chair receiving my body like a corpse. Blood seeping back into the closing wounds on the wall. The room a scream of pain. A glass vase, containing flowers picked by Brid, in shatters, broken by the jerk. A voice calling from the mirror on the wall. . .
"Who the fuck!" Beetle's voice.
"Who the fuck? Who the fuck jerked out?" No answers.
Beetle was wide-screening us all, his eyes still covered with layers of flesh, of game-flesh. He had a raging full-on and he was waving it like a flag.
"Who the fuck! Any answers?" Nothing.
Brid on the settee, Game Cat torn into shreds. Mandy on the floor, beside the scatter cushion. Two vicious gashes had torn it apart. Feathers floating.
"I was having a good time in there!" the Beetle said.
I was trapped in the chair. Through a haze of feathers and flesh, the desperate shapes of Vurt still clinging on to life, I could just about make out the Thing-from-Outer- Space. He was screaming and shaking, watching the cushion feathers fall, waving his
feelers in a mad dance, thinking them Vurt feathers. He stuffed a dozen or so into various holes that had opened up in his flesh. Then spat them all out. Man, he was suffering, and I could see the holes in his flesh where the knife had cut. The Thing was always affected badly by Vurt. But the wounds were healing over, regenerating. This was the Thing's special skill; total flesh replacement. But still he was suffering.
Everything goes wrong.
Eventually, everything goes wrong.
I still couldn't move, just listening to his keening. The Thing just wanted to be home and peaceful. What the fuck were we going to do with him?
"Who the fuck pulled out?"
"Not me, Bee," I managed. Lying. Scared.
"I was having a good fucking time! Nobody takes me out like that! Nobody!" Silence then. Each of us looking at him. The last glaze of Vurt falling from him,
from all of us and the room was suddenly cold, cold and lonely, and full of aftershock.
Pulling out was bad. Real bad. It was a built in-option with low-level theatres but nobody liked doing it It was like admitting defeat. Like you weren't strong, not up to it. Who dared admit that? Even worse, you pulled all the other players out with you. And that was painful. That was like being skinned.
"It was me." Brid's lonely voice. "I was scared, Bee." "The fuck you were!"
"Bee!"
"That's the point. Tell me. Isn't that the point?" "That's the point, Beetle," answered Mandy. "Scribble?"
"That's the point, Bee. That's the point of Skull Shit. It gets you scared."
I was ashamed. . .