They claim to send a meta crawler into your entire site, select words from your blog that you use, and will print it on a shirt of your choosing.
This is the preview for snapperhead:
They claim to send a meta crawler into your entire site, select words from your blog that you use, and will print it on a shirt of your choosing.
This is the preview for snapperhead:
After three seconds it stops. Just like on the pier: I have no sense of touch. Need to leave! Watching each of my movements with care, I board an empty elevator. All feeling returns as I cross the lobby. Finally! Other than a man in a blue smock approaching, there is no hubbub. He says, “Mijnheer...?” I stop. “Umm, Lorber.” He hands me a paperback-sized screen and says, “de vorm seven-aught-eight-four-two-four, double-three.” I read, declare myself a non-compensated suicide facilitator, and sign with a stylus. I hand the computer back and walk out the front doors. One-sleeve’s husk is gone. | |
Guess I should think of him as Fred Lindquist; his name, on the form. I watch two men in protective clothing with tanks on their backs rinse the pavement. I use the V-Sat, wait, and get in when the car arrives. Circling the block, I remove the pistol from under the front seat and zip it into an inside jacket pocket. The biohazard-men are gone when I pick up Holly. “Did you hear the alarm earlier?” she asks. “Yes.” “The briefer told us it’s to warn pedestrians that someone is jumping off the roof. They get a couple a day.” | |
I say, “tell me about it,” and watch her beautiful profile as she talks. Mission is, now, almost fleshed-out. …web-word spreads about ‘new-best’ everything: woman-in-red to visit, methods, places for a last meal... How to best utilize a question? …compensation for lost revenue if an establishment temporarily becomes a ‘lemming cliff’… Ohura interrupts: construction – 32-kilometer detour – or select manual.. “Manual,” I reply. “What?” Ish’s last expression (of ‘unbranded carrier’ fear)—crosses Holly’s face. “You ever control a sled?” “Yes. Dan Ryan during Chicago rush hour.” I say as the accelerator presses my foot and steering responds to my fingertips. | |
“Oh,” she says, relaxing and turning her attention to the in-dash screen. “I forget you’re American.” Maneuvering irregular roadway sections bordering a site containing several building-top cranes, I indicate with my chin, “unfamiliar with this.” “The epicenter, I think,” she replies. “I’ve got our kiosk results, but don’t read until you’re off manual.” Once available, I return to handicap automatic. Glancing toward the screen, Holly’s body posture grabs my attention. She kisses me; soft lips with a flick of tongue. I kiss back. Honeysuckle fills my nose and a left eye as green as a four-leaf clover fills my vision. | |
After reading our negative results—which reflects Joe has not been tested since arriving two years ago, all but confirming his virginity—the car stops and we escape the drizzle under an awning. “Never been to this part of town, where are we headed?” she asks. “A few blocks east of the Internationaal Instituut…ahh, over there.” I point across the street at a pedestrian walkway. We hold hands. In the afternoon, with no reflected blaze of artificial lights, the massive mirror-and-chrome block looks less imposing. Holly chooses the pizza and beer joint—Best of Both Worlds—with no coaching. | |
While selecting a table, an intoxicated, mustachioed-man—shorter than me by a few inches, lighter by a few kilos, and younger by several hundred years—bolts from the back and almost knocks us down. To prevent the collision, I hip-check him into an empty table, spilling most of my beer. As he climbs upright, I estimate the placement of a nonfatal windpipe-crushing blow. In gutter-French he stammers, “Feckin bitch-all-worthless highn’-mighty, dre-serve to die. Filth-cunt!” Spittle froths in the corners of his mouth. Silently, two waiters manhandle him away while a third apologetically brings me a fresh drink. Holly pales. | |
“Just a drunk and he is gone,” I say. With strong shock behind her eyes and over-filling her voice, she says, “we dated. Martin-something. Haven’t seen him in years. Never did anything ‘cause he always refused a joint test and, instead, showed me dodgy private print-outs.” Her coincidence not mine. Nonetheless, I nudge the pistol. After four beers and a pizza, Holly appears relaxed. We dance a few songs. During Neunundneunzig Luftballoons the lights grow blurry streamers. Maybe just the beer? Colors fade away. No such luck. Vision closes in; disappears to gray. I pull her close and slow dance. | |
I savor soft kisses through two more songs. Did I overlook a signal? A waiter or busboy? Slipping Holly my wallet, I tell her to pay and meet me out front. By memory, I work my way to the WC. Empty. I piss and wash without interruption. Through a side service door, I sidle in the direction of crowd noises. At the corner, near knee height, I hear the squeak of someone twist-molding a balloon and muttering in French: ‘fuck-cunt-fuck-cunt’. I smell honeysuckle. With the barrel in contact with a sweaty mustachioed skull, the retort is muffled to door-slam proportions. | |
My vision snaps into focus on a crimson splash of hair-brains on the silver building. I pick up my wallet and help Holly to her feet. Choking, she stumbles over Martin-something’s torso. I lead us through the crowd. LΓΆsch’s guidance about Gendarmerie abilities causes me to cross the street and, after two blocks, wait for a bus-train where Holly vomits in a trash receptacle. After fifteen minutes, we get off and she gasps through tears, “you saved me, Joe.” I shush, hold her, and stroke her hair while waiting in a turnout for the car. It begins to rain. Hard. | |
After instructing Ohura I say, “if you can, I would like to know more.” I hug her and stare through the windshield. She whispers, “he was waiting. Flying one-ought-five or something, not just drunk. I said he confused me with someone else. Then I ran. He grabbed me. I could see the shadows of people passing; none helped.” “Was he a carrier?” One down. “Wrong skin and he’d be dead already; maybe, hiding his identity? I mistakenly heard, ‘mighty oak’s never confused,’ but it was really: ‘Marty Oak’. Before—he was Ballard. I remember now.” Oak, in Spanish, is Roble. |
Turning to look me in the eye, Robert-not-Bob says, “Oh, annnnd…Wash Cabinet is de rigueur, but I understand Water Closet is still acceptable…” I smile at him and pick up the peppershaker to examine my warped reflection; how did I get that scar? He continues, “…told me about the SDU last month; you slick-frick! Playing stupid so she gains a faux mental edge means… Finally gonna ask her, aren’t ya?” I shrug. Grin. Memories of past conversations sidle into place—as if they just got caught out of their seats without permission. I envision Holly spread across the pallet. | |
Interrupted—as she shoots a bowl of frothy beverage at me with a, “figured you could use this; I’ll be back with your special…” and then gives the international waitperson ‘I’ve-got-other-customers’ gesture. “You heard it. She thinks ‘you’re special’. I’d love to sit and dis-encourage you, but I’m headed over to Barbara’s…and don’t give me that eye-thing you do when you think about me getting so much when you get so little. Can you cover the check today?” I nod, waive at his departure, and fake laugh, which grabs hold of my caffeinated lack-of-sleep and becomes a giggle. | |
“Laughing with—or at yourself?” Holly slides a plate of yellow, beige, and brown food in front of me with a garnish of red and a glass of orange; then takes a knee where Robert-not-Bob sat. Finger-clearing at the slaphappy tears I say, “I would like to go out with you.” Standing up and straightening her apron she replies, “I visit my uncle after the lunch crowd, today. He lives out by the airport in branded-housing. How about after? Tonight?” “I could take you to visit him in my loaner-car and we could go from there.” “You’ve got a sled?” | |
“The use of one.” I nod. “Boring for you, while I hand-hold Uncle Deeter.” “I can keep occupied. Besides, this new civil-soc construct is interesting. Never been inside the new housing project.” “Ohhhh, I forgot your Social Engineering minor. Well sure then. Pick me up here at fifteen?” For the next four hours I eat and drink. Pay and over-tip. Confirm and smile-waive. Ride and zone out. Undress and Nap. Wake, shower, return (in my loaner-sled) and wait in front of Ray’s as bully-clouds threaten to suffocate the sun overhead. Holly exits. Momentarily shocked by the waitress-to-supermodel transformation, I stare. | |
“I was less than honest, Joe,” she says, taking my arm as we walk. “I actually have to get a briefing at the Peste D'HΓ΄pital. I felt funny explaining when customers might overhear. See, they’re predicting a trend: several suicides a day—and not only in the WC’s; some kind of ‘last meal’ thing.” Holly’s sandy hair frames her face. “You look wonderful,” I say. “Thank you,” she smiles. Tugging me to a stop, “how about this kiosk?” she asks, leading us into a metal, empty, bus-stop-sized sidewalk-booth. Touching an indent, she looks at me and down at the console. | |
I’m expected to do something! I scan buttons and read multi-language instructions. She takes my left hand, guides my finger toward the console’s other indent, pushes buttons and retrieves a receipt. We walk. “Robert said you were inexperienced,” she says as I use the V-Sat. I roll my eyes. As the car enters traffic, Holly replies to Ohura. All the windows become dark-translucent, music thumps, sandalwood fills the air. “It’s a turn-on. Are you a virgin?” She asks. How to answer? Joe is, but not me? I shrug and look out the moonroof. “That’s cool.” She smiles and holds my hand. | |
“Do you have a handy?” I nod. She holds out her palm. Giving her LΓΆsch’s phone earns me a: “No-wonder, s’not-even-on. Men,” sigh. After a few seconds of fussing she hands it back, “Not sure how long, but I’ll call when it’s over.” The car stops. We get out. I say, “Hope you learn how to prevent people from killing themselves after eating your food.” Which earns me an explosion of full-on laughter. While laughing, Holly is stunning. I enter the elevator with a man wearing a hospital gown without one sleeve—displaying his star-shaped burn. Proud of his brand? | |
Pressing the 12 – Park button, I glance at one-sleeve. His skin looks rough and flabby. Ish’s brand must have been under a red patch of felt! Ouch! “You ‘nterested ‘n halloween candy?” One sleeve’s English is extremely nasal. I turn. He cradles a handful of black and orange capsules and says, “You know this ’s the straight One-Oh-Five.” I squeeze off the elevator, hold it for three shuffling on, and step into a grassy, roof-park with bushes, flowerbeds, and trellises. He follows. “My family’s ‘n need. Twenty-five each?” On a bench, I take out piggyback dad’s notebook and write: Explain. | |
“You can ‘nderstand, just can’t talk?” This is easier. I shrug and make the keep-going finger motion. As I learn about the Belgian assisted suicide program, I nod once in a while. Everyone is prescribed a 105 pill. Although one-sleeve steals unattended pills, the majority are purchased from in- or out-patients who do not intend to suicide by overdose. Recently he decided to sell and send his profits to his sister in Milwaukee. One-sleeve takes me to where he wants to eventually jump. We look down at the turnout. I tap the notebook. “Goin’ out messy’s the only plan left.” | |
I tap. “Wanna go ou’ big. Was gonna spike somethin' with the 105’s, like tha' Tylenol guy back in the 70’s,” 1982, “in Seattle-someplace.” Chicago. I lose my balance and sit. Tap. “Couldn’t find anything tha' wasn’t tamper-resistant seven ways from fuck-me-Fred.” Nerve endings in the inner ear go first; I keep my eyes on the horizon for balance as my fingertips and feet fall asleep. “Ya gonna buy my stash?” I stand in a rush, bracing forward; arms thrust, legs pump. One-sleeve has enough time to register a shocked grimace before he disappears over the rail. A claxon blares. |
Koontz at his best. This one rivals Odd Thomas with it's wonderful combination of: story/plot, interesting protagonist(s) and antagonist(s), building and maintaining suspense, humor, and overall je ne sais quoi. I always enjoy his down-to-earth-yet-bizarre villains who coincidentally happenstance upon unique-unsung-heroes much more than any of his far-fetched supernatural-aliens, and this one cements my favoritism in place.
This one is worth purchasing in hardback and keeping for your grandkids to enjoy in the 2020's.
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