Nora was right—I wasn’t her Michael anymore. I wasn’t the dancer, or the crazed half brother I had been when I ran at the satin. Instead, as I stood before the suit, and the orange ebbed and throbbed like the surface of a violent and stormy planet, I felt that I was nearing a final point, one beyond anger and revenge, a place of only action.
I heard the door close. I had wanted to pummel Xavid’s face as I had seen them do in the PartyHaus basement, but I knew he wasn’t worth it.
“Let’s get you ready!” said the director, as he rushed back in. “Dressed for the show.” Behind him came Mr. Cedar and Pheff.
“The show,” I repeated, thinking of the audience in the PartyHaus. When I’d thought about blowing up Father and me, I had not imagined an audience and wasn’t sure I liked the idea. The problem was, this crowd would love the brutality, and I hated to imagine them standing and cheering our charred bodies. But I couldn’t let it worry me. Whether they loved it, thought of me as a fool or a horrible and ungrateful son, and whether or not they came to understand what had happened, none of that mattered.
Stepping beside me, Mr. Cedar spoke quietly. “The original material was too volatile. I doubted you would last the evening, so I rewove it, created a twill with two layers and functions. The top is both photo-luminescent and protective. The lower layer is…” He paused and twisted his beard hair once. “… quite hazardous.”
As he spoke, Pheff removed the suit from the box and took the pants from the hanger. I glanced from the fabric to my tailor. Maybe it was the glow from the suit, but the scar that ran down the middle of his face was more visible than usual, and I swore it looked like a nearly microscopic, flat-fell seam with two lines of stitches.
His steel-grey eyes met mine and held, and while I sensed the same serene I always did, I felt something else, something much darker. My tailor was originally from the slubs, and although we had never spoken about it, he must have struggled, and I began to think that he had suffered much more than I had ever imagined, and probably experienced far worse than I.
Turning, he pointed to the box and said, “The shirt and tie.”
From a separate compartment, Pheff took out a beautifully ironed shirt and an exact copy of Love Alone. Mr. Cedar presented them to me. I wanted to thank him, not just for what he had done today, but for all he had done for me, but it was so much, I couldn’t fathom how.
Pheff helped me slip on the pants, the jacket, and knotted the tie. The jacket felt wider and heavier, but much like any of my others. When I ran my hand over the slightly rough material, the orange turned russet as though my body heat, my presence, or maybe my intentions tarnished it.
“A firm impact,” whispered my tailor, as he mimed a punch at my shoulder.
Then, bowing his head, he quoted, “Texture of her overcoat.”
His quote felt jarring—Pure H, grey satellite wools, coffee shops, and silence music seemed, like a distant and forgotten land. And the image that accompanied that copy was strange. A man and woman, both in elaborate clothes—a frock and vest suit for him, a high-necked ball gown for her—sit on a small, odd, two-horse carrousel. He faces right, she, left. From their somber, even perturbed expressions, they have been arguing. I assumed, and Joelene agreed, that they were no longer in love, but I couldn’t imagine that was how Mr. Cedar saw it. Maybe he thought the couple on the carrousel was as doomed as Nora and I.
“We’re ready!” said the director, into one of his screens. “He looks great! Yes… we’re coming down. Get ready to start the show!”
The director and I rode down in a different elevator and he talked on his screens the whole time. “Tell Hiro we’re ready. Check on the speaker power… they were running the line to the grid.… Are all the channel guests ready? Talk to Thomas and make sure he doesn’t go over—”
“Can I ask you a favor?” I tried to interrupt.
“No! Don’t look there. I put more vacuum bulbs behind the station… Clear out the backstage and…” He turned to me. “What?”
“My advisor.” With the show about to begin, I worried that I wouldn’t be able to see Joelene again. “She was the one on the floor in the dungeon where you found me. It’s a mistake that she’s there. Could you please get her released?”
His eyes searched my face, as if baffled. “I’ll try.”
“I’m counting on you,” I said. “Please remember.”
“Yes.” He smiled for a moment but still looked confused.
When the elevator doors opened, we were beneath the balconies, opposite the stage. From here, I could see over the crowd. The curtains were straight ahead. The air was dense with a hundred perfumes, the sticky sweet of fermented vegetables, vomit, and that ever-present sweaty, PartyHaus desperation. Different parts of the crowd were chanting, as though they wanted things to begin.
“You’ll walk out,” said the director, pointing. “Straight down this aisle. Just go down and take a bow. Wave and smile. That’s your father and the vips’ table down front. You sit and watch the show. Just clap and cheer. We’ve got cameras on you, so no nose picking. Before it’s time for the wedding, I’ll come and get you, so don’t worry.” Into a screen, he said, “Cue the girls… music… lights… announcer… and go!”
“And now,” said a tremendous, deep-throated house voice, as a distorted drum began pounding, “it is my super-amazing and spectacular honor to welcome you to the thirty-third annual RiverGroup product show and Ültra extravaganza. As you all know, recent events have tried to cloud our future, but tonight’s show will obliterate those clouds, all doubts, and all eardrums within a seventy-five-mile radius!”
The audience howled. Nearby, I heard someone shout, “Execute my ears!”
Meanwhile, along either side of the aisle, hospitality girls all covered with sticky and shiny liquids and semisolids lined up on either side and saluted. A thousand colored spotlights fluttered over them, like glowing confetti. From high above, tendrils of violet smoke poured down like a million octopus legs. Four feet above the crowd, the phalanxes of smoke were chopped up by the frenzy of the crowd.
“Go!” said the director. “Go on!” He nudged me.
“Don’t touch!” I said, afraid he would set off the suit. I stepped forward and a blinding light hit me in the face.
“There he is, Ültra children of pain, the famous, sexy, funny, exciting, clever, pliable, willing Michael Rivers. The greatest dancer in the history of the universe has on a fabulous suit that is just like the famous suits in HammørHêds’Adjoining Tissue. Let’s scream our throats raw!”
The crowd rose and cheered, and with the light in my eyes, it was just like when I had danced. The energy spurred me on as I continued down the aisle.
“There’s a rumor,” continued the voice, “that he’s going to get married tonight, but will he really end the drenched and debauched dreams of a billion insanely horny girls? You’ll definitely want to sit through the exciting product upgrades and important business announcements to see if it all happens right here before your eyes!”
At the end of the aisle, stood Father, cheering. He wore a dark blue short-sleeve jacket, made of something that looked as stiff and luxurious as recycled cardboard. The orange shirt beneath it had huge, bloated sleeves that hung like semi-deflated pumpkins. At his wrists were enormous cuffs and a dozen black snaps. Around his neck was a wad of rhubarb-colored paisley fabric that wanted to be a collar, turtleneck, and tie. It spilled down his front in a floppy, unappetizing mess. As for pants, he wore iridescent blue bell-bottoms with too-tight dark orange shorts over top. The front zipper was open and what amounted to a large, white, codpiece hung out. So swollen and fat was it, he appeared to be giving birth to two honeydews and a plumber’s wrench. His wig, a stringy, purple thing, was long and dangled around his ears and down his back. Scattered in his hair were white blobs—mushrooms or marshmallows, maybe. Whipping his arms at the crowd to spur them on, he looked like a flightless, technicolor pirate.
For a moment, I considered rushing him now and blowing us up. The problem was, too many innocent people were near, including Walter Kez—or whatever his name was. I wished I’d asked the director about the wedding! I hoped it was still supposed to be like the choreography I had seen before, where Father and I were alone on the stage. That would be the moment.
I stopped behind an empty chair. The crowd hadn’t let up at all.
“Bombastic fantastic!” enthused Father, over the roar. “I got you a Poünd outfit like mine, but that’s the greatest suit I’ve ever seen in the history of my life!” Turning to the others he said, “Look at him! It’s like Adjoining Tissue! Remember that epic?”
“An all-time classic,” screamed Jun.
“We’re going all out!” said Father. “You have to hang with us now! You can’t leave when he’s getting Ültra again!”
Around the circular, shiny ultramarine table, where rest bowls of puffy snacks, bottles of wine, programs, and what looked like motorcycle helmets, sat twelve others. Starting on my left and going counterclockwise was an empty chair, presumably for Elle after the wedding, then Walter and his uncle in his beetle-green suit and necklaces.
The rest I recognized like I might have great aunts and uncles. Back when the rages were happening, I saw them every night, but now, it was just once a year at the product shows. Jun, the CEO from BrainBrain, who had become a soft, rounded little man, wore a black suit covered with little mirrors, green makeup, and vampire hair. He smiled at me and the flesh around his eyes turned wrinkled and dry. To his right were the LETTT brothers. Both had muskrat faces—all pointy noses, toothy mouths, and bushy blond eyebrows. Their matching articulated aluminum shirts made them look like robot clichés. Looped around their necks was a half a mile of orange string. Beside the aluminum twins was the president of iip-2. Instead of Ültra, she seemed to think she had become a teenager again and was dressed like an Om Om girl in a brown suit with her lips cut open. The next two wore striped jackets, plaid shirts, and awful nonwoven ties. They had on so much crusty purple makeup they looked more like two freshly dug-up beets. I didn’t know who they were or what company they represented. Finally, the man in the paisley robe, neon shirt, and a frilly tie that looked like soap suds, was CEO of SLT. Ten years ago he had had an aneurysm at the PartyHaus and since then never missed an opportunity to tell me we were alike.
Beside the SLT man sat Father’s woman. She had bright green hair and red-colored teeth. Through her transparent orange dress, I could see the phrase gender fatality scrawled across her breasts in what looked like dried blood.
By this time, the crowd had settled down. The people at the table said hello or sang lyrics at me, like the LETTT brothers did.
With their arms over their shoulders, they screamed, “One crusty bruise to remember her by!” Then they laughed triumphantly and got compliments from the others.
The CEO of SLT man winked, and said, “You and I… we’re heart attack twins!”
The Om Om woman got up, came around, and kissed me on the cheek. “I’ve christened him with my blood!” she exclaimed in her rasping voice. “Now, we’re blood lovers.” As if giving advice, she said, “You should cut Elle and suck her wound, like they do in Crüsh Töne.”
“No!” said Jun of BrainBrain, “Perfect Infinity Dëath by DïkCräkør! It’s romantic how they poke each other with those splinters.”
As they all began arguing which Ültra disaster my honeymoon should be like, I told myself this would all be over soon, and I wouldn’t have to see these creatures again.
Walter glanced at me fearfully as though afraid I was going to tell the world about his identity crimes. Frowning, he said, “I think something bad is going to happen.”
As I nodded at him, the house announcer began again. “Get in your last orders now. The show is about to start!” A moment later, the voice sped up. “Fine china, plumbing, and fireworks graciously provided by Oh!Teen. Slut cakes and taproot beverages and suppositories by Frix Corporation. Also, please take a moment to check your listening and viewing helmet—provided by Volvo-Sony ltd. We’ll let you know when you need to put it on.”
A waiter, with a RiverGroup logo scarred on his bare chest, stepped beside Father.
“More shrimp loops, love chips, and those salamander hotties,” Father said. “Oh, and a dozen bottles of the Frix Carrot-Chablis for the table.” Leaning toward me he said, “Watch this.” To the table, he hollered, “Ültra is the greatest of all time!”
Like lemmings, they all cheered back. Jun stood, beat his chest, and bellowed, “Deadly Ültra calamity in my brain pan!”
Right, I thought, as I grabbed one of the programs and began to flip through the shiny, unreadable ads, photos, and promises until I found a schedule. It read:
1. Hiro Bruce Rivers on Business.
2. Super-secret guests introduce new music from Alüminüm Anüs and Dark Cästle of Poünd.
3. Exciting super-upgrade announcements.
4. RiverGroup new product demonstration.
“When is the wedding?” I asked.
“Shush!” shout-whispered Father, as he leaned toward me. “It’s a damn surprise!”
“Everyone knows!”
“Yes, but if we pretend it’s a surprise, they can think they’re smarter than us.” He laughed and said, “That’s the trick! People love to think they’re smarter than you. And it worked,” he smiled. “They’re all here. Two days ago, they were threatening to give up on us, but the lousy, dumb bastards are here!”
Tan-colored foundation covered his skin. It had looked good from far away, but up close, it accentuated all the lines around his eyes and mouth, like a million, tiny, dry tributaries. Across his forehead were three deep valleys. The top two arched smoothly from side to side. The third dipped toward the bridge of his nose and came close to two vertical lines that rose asymmetrically between his brows. What occurred to me was that he looked more like a grandfather than a dad.
“But when is it?” I asked again.
“Can’t wait to get into her salmon-skin panties?” As he laughed, I could see how the alcohol was slowing his motor skills and making his eyelids heavy.
“The greatest Ültra band is Töxic Tësticle Färm!” proclaimed green-faced Jun as he held up his arms as if in victory.
“No!” scoffed Father, whipping his sleeves at him. “Alüminüm Anüs is the greatest. They’re big lard! They kill those tiny Tësticles in every way!”
“Tësticle’s Kiss the Axe Meät,” declared Jun, throwing up his hands again, “is the greatest God damned, total, super, fucking classic of all time—forever—no argument!”
“God, no!” cried Father. “It’s butt garbage! Right, my spaceship?” He looked to his girl, but she just shrugged. “My dick can fart better than that song!”
While they swore and argued about bands, costumes, and lyrics, I watched Father. The problem was, after drinking carrot all afternoon, and now with his old rage buddies, he was happy—happier than I had seen him in a long time. I didn’t like it. He had no idea what I was going through or felt, or why I was going to destroy the both of us.
“Can you feel it?” he asked them, gesturing around the PartyHaus. “A fearful anticipation is building like a pandemic! And we’re in for real, clean-your-colon Ültra.”
“We never miss Anüs,” said one of the LETTT brothers.
“Not one single performance,” agreed the other.
“I missed them only once,” said Father. “And I was unconscious!” He laughed, and then added what he thought was the final punch, “Same result, though!”
As if to derail his evening, I told him, “I saw Mother.”
Turning, he asked, “What are you talking about?”
“I saw her. I talked to her!”
“You better not!” he said, leaning in so we wouldn’t be heard. “I forbid it! I let that whore see you after the shooting, but I don’t want you talking to her or hearing any of her super-bullshit lies.”
“And now!” boomed the house voice, as the curtains parted to reveal the enormous gold, silver, chrome, ice, and black-satin decorated stage. With its three sets of curved, light-blue stairs, angular crystalline walls, and strange, intricate dark blue foliation, it resembled the collision between a glacier and a lingerie factory. On the fifteen-story-tall screen in the back spun a thousand RiverGroup logos. “It’s time to say hello to a man so visionary, he has his toilet paper laid out for next week… a man with so much brains, he has to keep most of them in his colon… a leader so strong, even his underwear stands at attention!”
As the crowd laughed and clapped, I told Father, “They’re not lies!”
“I don’t want to hear it!” He pointed one of his thick fingers in my face. “Shut up about that bitch freak of your God damned mother!” Grabbing one of the carrot bottles, he downed a thick gulp.
“She told me everything.” My words were swallowed up in the announcer’s.
“Join me in welcoming President, CEO, COO, CIO, CPO, Chief Programmer, and all-around Super Code Bastard, let’s tear down the PartyHaus for the biggest, loudest, and the lardest rager of all time… Ültra lover, silence hater, the screaming, howling master of the pelvic thrust, party critter numero uno, Hiro… Bruce… Rivers!”
After glaring at me once more, Father jogged to the stage and tripped up the five steps. Once he’d regained his balance, he cried, “Children of pain! Let’s rage on the stage! Let’s crack our spine and drink wine! Let’s grind our ass and make some gas.” The audience’s enthusiasm dimmed as if disappointed with what were the oldest and lamest Ültra shouts. Undaunted, he pumped his fists in the air and sent the floppy bags of his shirtsleeves in motion. “Be my Ültra baby of anguish!”
That got them going again.
“Come on up!” he said to his girl. “Before we begin, I’d like to introduce my newest cunt spaceship, Jenni Haska-Martin-Biochem, who used to work as a monkey trainer for Frix Corporation.” As she came to his side, he walloped her plastic-covered ass. “She’s great, but with this great crowd tonight, you never know, maybe I’ll meet someone new!” Jenni puffed out her cheeks and made an angry face. Many laughed as if she were funny or cute.
“All joking aside,” continued Father, “this has been a great year for us at RiverGroup. Yeah, we had a few days in fucktown, and hey, there are always critics.” He curled a lip in my direction. “We’re back, and let’s fuck the critics. We don’t make our SymmetryMax products for critics! RiverGroup makes our stuff for love. And our love is stronger than ever!”
I wanted to scream at him, but told myself to be patient.
“Believe me,” he continued, “we’ve got some secret and stunning surprises later, so stick around for the whole incredible show.” On the huge screen behind him appeared a series of complicated neon pie charts that zoomed in and out, broke apart, and reassembled themselves like a mad geometric ballet. As he spoke, his girl, maybe thinking this was her moment, began licking her lips and caressing her chest. As people hooted and yelled, Father would smile and wink as if he thought it was for him. “Today,” he said, “RiverGroup SymmetryMax Super-Secret-Pass 45.882 is used by forty-two percent of the market. Our SecretSuite is the standard with fifty point three percent. And our new SecretDuper Embedded CodeBitch Asymmetry-Regulator is the measure for critical applications with a whopping twenty-two percent!”
The screen was filled with numbers and graphics all flying around like gnats. I took the vial from my jacket and gazed at the flesh inside. My poor Nora. I couldn’t believe what he had done to her.
“Yeah!” said Father, who had noticed Jenni now stroking her crotch. He started doing his pelvis thrusts at her. “It’s about love, Ültra children! It’s about love and love is all about forgiveness. We’re still strong. We’re still there for you! We love you!”
Clutching the vial, I shouted, “We hate you!” and felt like I’d been possessed, like the Ültra color of the suit was contaminating or infecting me. For a moment, I wondered if I should tear it off before I lost my mind.
Walter stared at me. Across the table, though, green-faced Jun pointed and said, “That’s right!” With what looked like venom in his eyes, he added, “Sweet hate!” It was odd that Father’s biggest client and one of his oldest friends had just agreed. Or maybe he was drunk on carrot and had no idea what he was saying.
Sirens began whirring. Blinking orange lights surrounded the stage. Hospitality girls ran toward Father and Jenni with helmets.
“You know what this means!” said Father, apparently done with his boring business charts and his ridiculous dance. “Time to rage!”
The announcer said, “Attention! Attention! Please don your safety helmets and make sure they are securely over your ears and eyes.” The voice sped up again. “By attending the RiverGroup product show, you wave all rights expressed or implied, includin—without limitation—the right to sue for optic nerve, ear drum, spinal cord, or any sensory damage, and you will not hold RiverGroup, its affiliates, or subsidiaries responsible. Safety helmets provided are not endorsed or guaranteed by RiverGroup, and should they fail, are not the liability of RiverGroup. In the event that a situation arises concerning injury, our hospitality girls will assist you, but they are not medically trained personnel and cannot and will not be held accountable for further injury or negligence.” The voice returned to its normal speed. “To introduce our first song, please welcome the gigantic and super-celebrated epic star of Blood Bile and Cum 2, Erik Heimlick!”
As Father and his girl took their seats, he turned away as if he were going to ignore me the rest of the show.
From stage right, Erik came rushing out covered in nothing but his own glistening sweat. “I will shatter your nuts!” he said, as that was the dreadful catchphrase that had made him famous. “Wow!” he continued, peering all around, “This is… I don’t know… I mean… there aren’t words to describe it… gosh… it’s just so beyond words!”
“I saw Tanoshi No Wah,” I told Father.
“Shut up! Shut up!” he roared, then glanced about as if afraid what everyone would think. In a shout-whisper he added, “Don’t mention that shit. It’s all fucking lies. All of it! God damned lies! Now shut your mouth, or I’ll beat you right here.”
“Go ahead!” I dared him. In that instant, I didn’t care. I wanted him to blow us up with a stupid punch.
“Don’t ruin this for me!” he said, through clenched teeth. “I’ve got this whole thing working lardly—don’t fuck it up! Shit-face bastard licker, can’t you just shut up?”
“Excuse me!” chimed a hospitality girl covered with melted lemon ice cream, “What volume would you like, sir?” She held out my helmet and smiled.
All around the others were putting on their safety helmets. The ones right in front were given clear plastic to cover themselves. I told her, “As low as possible.”
She flicked rocker switches on the back of the helmet, handed it to me, and then moved on to Walter. Meanwhile, Father had slipped on his helmet, turned away again, and folded his arms over his chest.
As I slipped on mine, I felt my hands vibrating. But I was ready. I was just action now—a tiger, ready to make my leap.
On stage, Erik was back on script. “I’ve got something I know you’re gonna love—Alüminüm Anüs. The Ültra band of all time!” The crowd roared. He made an angry face, and then, as if taunting the audience, and like he did in his horrible channel movies, shouted, “You stupid bum cums! You plastic cunts! You spoiled brain cakes! I don’t think you’re ready!” The crowd howled. “Are you? Are you really ready?” The seventy-three thousand shouted back yes. “No!” he waved a dismissive hand. “No, you’re not ready for Ültra!” They answered again, louder. “I mean real Ültra! Not that fake crap, but real, genuine, certified Ültra. Alüminüm Anüs Ültra!” Now they were in a frenzy. Erik’s carbonate plastic smile flashed brilliant white. “Okay then! Maybe you are ready! Maybe you’re ready for a new song from their unreleased epic, Pulverized Entrails.”
As if he had disappeared without a trace, Erik was gone. The spotlight that had illuminated him ebbed away until the PartyHaus was pitch-black. For several moments, everything was still. Then the crowd began shouting.
– Give it to us!
– Bloody our ears!
– Make me pee red!
– Hiro, you lousy bastard, flatten me!
Father stood, pumped a fist in the air and said, “I’m gonna try!” as if happy for any attention other than mine.
A naked man walked to the middle of the stage. Another, dressed in black, stepped beside him. The man in black was holding something, a stick maybe. In the darkness, I couldn’t tell.
The first man’s face slowly came into focus on the giant screen behind them, where before Father’s pie charts had flown like giant insects. He was handsome with a proud nose, dark green eyes, and full lips. What struck me was how vacant, neutral, and nothing was his expression. It was the gaze of those perverted sculptures in the dungeon.
The two men just stood there, so I leaned toward Father again, and said, “I know what you did.”
With his right hand, he tried to shush me away like a housefly.
On stage, the man in black spun around and wielded a ball-peen hammer at the head of the naked man. We saw the blow in close-up on the screen and with the impact of metal against skin, came the recognizable blast of the colossal Ültra drum. The beat was hard and powerful, like a solid smack in the face.
I held still for an instant, as if any additional force would set off the nitrocellulose. Then I moved into the chair for Elle, and scooted it behind Walter, hoping his body might shield me.
When another hammer blow hit the naked man, I could see how the force rocked his head and neck and sent him wobbling. A line of blood ran from the top of his scalp. Another blow brought another enormous thud of drum and a thick spill of blood flowed across his eyes, which made him blink, as it must have stung. Gradually the hammer’s rate increased and with each hit came the same solid thud. Blood streamed over his eyes, nose, and mouth. I felt terrible for him.
Finally, a blow cracked his skull open and when it did, the head exploded and sent out a detonation of sound so loud, it made the floor bend and twist. It swatted the drinks from the table and blew the shrimp loops into the air like confetti. Had I not been behind Walter, I’m sure I would have gone up in flames.
In an instant, the stage was filled with more than a dozen drummers attacking the black and chrome munitions drums that sat before each like rocket launchers. The sound was a continuous roar, like a hurricane, a train, and a never-ending series of exploding bombs. Father and the LETTT brothers grabbed our table to keep it from buzzing away. My chair began to rotate counterclockwise and Walter’s started going in the opposite direction.
In the crowd behind us, people were standing, screaming, and waving their arms. Some were ripping off their clothes. Others began fighting—throwing punches and slamming their elbows into each other’s ribs. Amid the chaos, the only words I could make out were love, disgust, vomit, and agony.
Hospitality girls, now in safety helmets, rescued Walter and me and locked our chairs to the floor. They cleaned the broken glass and wiped up the fallen snacks.
Beneath Father’s silvery visor, I saw him mouthing along to the words as he pounded his fists on the table and thrust his hips. Jenni, beside him, held her arms in the air, where the percussive thuds shook them like twigs in a cyclone.
After a chorus of what sounded like torture in your bowels, the song crescendoed. As squealing feedback shattered lights and cracked several of the glacierlike structures on stage, I slipped off the chair and hid below the table. Around us, I saw several people grab at their ears as if in pain. Farther back, a man’s helmet cracked open and his exposed head lasted just two seconds before it imploded into a bloody mass and his limp body crumpled to the floor.
The song finished with a series of yellow and green explosions that sent one of the drummer’s arms—still clutching his percussion hammer—spinning into the seats.
Then it was over. The shaking and vibrating stopped. The smoke cleared. The crowd roared. Erik Heimlick dashed back on stage. Blood dripped from his mouth, eyes, and ears. “The beautiful dead Ültra child of your nightmares has thus spoken!” he screamed.
The crowd began chanting something that sounded like hard horn—lard corn.
Father tore off his helmet, ran up the stairs, and threw his arms around one of the singers. “Fuck,” he said, tearfully, “I needed that!”