When the Justin divested himself of material goods, he donated most to the worthy cause of the Teen Choice Awards; but some he had buried. Thus he had a gondola in the next world, and a pole.
He had been pushing down the after-Nile for days, looking for Ptah, when a stringy-haired hermit with a Strat called to him. “Coins for the ferryman,” he cried. “Silver dollars from my blind eyes, for passage across.”
“Wrong river,” said the Justin, “but I’ll take you for free.” He poled in through reeds.
“Bless you!”
“What’s your name?”
“Stevie,” the hermit said.
“It’s time we stopped pretending, Dagan,” murmurs Tamara throatily. Dagan becomes suddenly aware of her nearness, the warmth and bulk of her tall body.
“I d-don’t know what you mean,” he replies nervously.
Then she’s gripping his wrists, pinning his naked back against the window, ravishing his mouth with brutal, hungry kisses. The evening’s champagne makes Dagan giddy; blood rushes to his head–and heat, to lower places.
“Stop–no–” he gasps. “It’s wrong, I’m your secretary–”
“The only thing that could be wrong, now,” she growls, “would be stopping,” and scoops him up to carry him into the bedroom.
You can’t use a brush for this: they’re already perfectly good at depicting the truth. You need a fountain pen.
Cardiff pumps the lever and drenches the halogen bulb in ink, which mostly steams or drips right off: the smell is oily and redolent of mushrooms. He empties cartridge after cartridge, and some the residue begins to build up. It dims.
When it’s thick enough, he can take off his dark goggles and look directly at it. The dry shell has already started cracking; Cardiff waves his fingers slowly over them and watches their outlines flicker like lightning on the wall.
Which is why, the next day, she simply walks up behind Proserpina, grabs a fistful of her hair, and hauls sideways. Proserpina bites back a yelp and lets the taller girl pull her off the dining hall chair.
“I’ve read the boarding school stories too,” Radiane says, trembling. “I’m not going to be your little victim, you understand? I know how to handle a bully.”
She cautiously lets go. Proserpina wipes tears from her eyes. “You know how to stand up to me, you say?”
“Y-yes,” snaps Radiane.
“Good,” breathes Proserpina, and proceeds to break Radiane’s nose and two ribs.
“It’s a known area of vulnerability,” says Harris. “Aquatic attack! Enemy frogmen, firing spearguns from the reeds before the bodyguard can shake off his shock!”
“Or her shock,” says Burlington.
“A female bodyguard wouldn’t be shocked,” says Harris firmly.
Burlington lets this pass and waves vaguely. “Okay,” he says, “your solution?”
Harris yanks the curtain from the big plastic tank. Its occupant heaves itself onto the edge, whiskers brandished in a rampant pose of fierce vigilance.
“Let’s see them,” grins Harris, “get past a guard manatee!”
The manatee proves to be completely useless so they eat it and get a dog.
Waves soften the smeared-out traces of his figure.
“There’s only one place safe from it,” says the end of the world, stepping out onto a wave. “Where nothing can really be inscribed.”
“That’s absurd!” he snaps, trying to follow. He doesn’t have the trick of it: he splashes where she skates. “There are plenty of symbols in the sea. White whales, albatrosses–for heaven’s sake, look what you’re doing–”
“Not the water,” she says, “although it’s better than the sand.” The sea floor drops out beneath him; he treads.
“Then where?” he gasps.
Rising, the great beast swallows them both.
“Fall, Socialist Satans!” Randigrad shrieks through cavernous megaphones, unleashing another cannonade. Marxopolis rocks on its treads and spits back an electrostatic volley.
“Your epithets are inconsistent with rationality,” it trumpets. “Clearly your logic is as flawed as your elitist philosophy!”
“Eat alloy!” snaps Randigrad, and labors to bring its broadside to bear.
Deep in the sweating bowels of Marxopolis, Karl and Leoben heave at one of the thousand yokes that keep the gears turning, then brace for the shock of impact.
“Heard anything about what the infidel Objectivists use for power?” says Leoben wistfully.
“Pretty much the same thing,” says Karl.
“How many books have you collected–specifically, relating to antique races and departed rulers?” asks the King. “Do you know the works of the poets by heart? Have you studied philosophy and the sciences? Are you polite, or at least witty; are you well-read?”
They’re alone in the starlit garden. “I’m only just sixteen,” says Cehrazad shakily.
“I’m only just sixteen, Your Majesty.”
“Yes,” she says.
“Old enough,” he purrs, “to tell me a story tonight,” and touches her arm.
Cehrazad is running, scrambling, wild over fantastic hedges. She stumbles down a vast stairway; the unnamed mask shatters on stone.
Sullivan pulls the two halves of the lady apart. She wiggles her feet; applause; he grins, flourishing scarves.
“That’s an old trick, though,” he says. “Which is why I’m going to cut this lady… in three!”
They ooh and titter in anticipation. Sullivan walks to the wing of the stage, grabs the fire axe, walks back on and starts hacking. Blood fountains merrily. Part of her skull falls off.
Sullivan roars over the crowd. “But that’s not all! I will now make myself… disappear!”
The police swarm the stage. Sullivan’s buried in a truncheoned, khaki pileon.
“MAGIC!” he shrieks, invisible beneath them.