It was 7:18:20 AM.
Good morning, Denton! Good morning good morning good morning! And how are we on this gloriously sunny, bra-and new day? Peachy keen? As if Denton could ever be sad, eh, Margaret? Why certainly, Thomas. And speaking of peaches, today marks the beginning of Denton's Annual Peachathlon. Grab your bike and your best sport suit, 'cause all of Denton's gonna shimmy their shimmy's dow-- thing like a brand new sport sadist ultra, now leasing at-- ook out! Those creepy little aliens are at it again, John-- ooky Charms, they're marginally delicious! And now in specially marked boxes of Kooky Charms: your very own twirling, plastic thingamabob. Cheaply made with pride by underpaid Vietnamese women in a filth infested factory owned by the United States of Ameri-- hinos glide gracefully to the surface to take a new breath of fresh air before submerging once more int--
Columbia came into view, a toothbrush gripped in her left hand, the suds and multicoloured paste dripping down her wrist. It took her a while to say anything. She simply stood there, right in front of the screen, gazing down at him as if she were trying to remember who he was and why he looked like he did. Skinny, scraggly blond hair tangling down his back, black leather pants, scratchy black vest, a pile of bones that had managed to grow watery blue eyes and pencil thin lips below and above a nose. He looked like a corpse. He wanted to kick her, but his muscles felt like plastic liquids and he couldn't convince his motor nerves to do it.
"What're you watching?" she asked at length. Behind her the theme song from Beers had begun to play on WKPX Channel 15, servicing all of Denton and Flagpole County. He hated Beers. He heard the television set's frequency shiver a moment before a smooth, ultra synthetic car commercial melted across the screen at three kilometres an hour. He flipped to a different channel, Columbia's legs balancing left and right as she brushed her teeth and padded away to spit out the paste and suds and morning bleahs on a potted plant.
"The master likes that one," he grumbled. He didn't really care, but a pomp and circumstance Vice Credit card commercial was playing, shooting out with its rectangular hips how precious junk bought with Vice could be. Credit card commercials always made him edgy. He wasn't even sure if he was really being edgy, but he felt edgy. Like the edges of Vice. Tonight at the De-rena, Wei� Kreuz. Tickets on sale now at Sam Loony and Ticket Monster. Wei�'s music filtered out like a jumbled symphony of nails on a board. He liked it. He flipped the channel.
"What's for breakfast?"
It was Columbia again, pulling on a pair of worn out, pink leather pants. She combed her fingers through her hair, pulling at it as she mumbled beneath her breath. He craned his neck, the drone of an early morning news report on boats and dead waterfowl drowning out Columbia's voice. Squeaks and tremors. He flipped three channels in succession and landed in a tangle of static.
"Magenta's cooking breakfast this morning. The master already ate... He left orders not to be disturbed. He's in the laboratory. And this channel's programming is fascinating. A ceaseless hum drum clatter of tight packed grey cells shivering towards the hypnotism of an entire nation. I had no idea they were that sophisticated..."
"It's called static, Riff. The channel just ain't working properly, that's all."
That hurt.
�
�
coda
This is the last of the
instalments, written shortly after I bought my first issue of Warren Ellis's
Transmetropolitan because Spider Jerusalem is bald and funny and
I thought it'd be a lark if Richard O'Brien could play him (without using
his Ink Thief voice, although The Ink Thief in itself is great and
thank you Q for sending it our way!). But I lose my train of thought. Written
at home, on a Sunday, while me house mates watched, what else?, the tellie.
Thank you for reading. Thanks for all the fishies. Don't get a permanent
tattoo you'll regret toting around, and keep at least one good flashlight
in your house. Ha ha.
�
� February 1999 Team Bonet. The Rocky Horror Picture Show is � 1973 Richard O'Brien. Transmetropolitan is � 1997 Warren Ellis and DC Vertigo and Helix, probably. Not us, that's for sure. And why have I got "Kiss the Girl" stuck in my head?!