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Books: FRANZ KAFKA CHARLES BUKOWSKI STEPHEN KING WILLIAM S. BURROUGHS SAMUEL BECKETT LOUIS-FERDINAND CELINE THOMAS PYNCHON JAMES JOYCE NIKOLAI GOGOL ANNE RICE F. SCOTT FITZGERALD ALDOUS HUXLEY WILLIAM FAULKNER KURT VONNEGUT FRANK HERBERT HENRY MILLER FYODOR DOSTOYEVSKY RAY BRADBURY CARLOS CASTANEDA WILLIAM GOLDING GABRIEL GARCIA MARQUEZ KNUT HAMSUN JACK KEROUAC JEAN GENET HERMAN MELVILLE H.P. LOVECRAFT HERMAN HESSE MIKHAIL BULGAKOV GUNTER GRASS GARY JENNINGS ALBERT CAMUS CARLOS FUENTES BOB DYLAN TRUMAN CAPOTE HUNTER S. THOMPSON ALBERT HOFMANN CLIVE BARKER HOMER EDGAR ALAN POE SYLVIA PLATH HENRY ROLLINS ALLEN GINSBERG ARTHUR RIMBAUD DYLAN THOMAS OVID WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE LAWRENCE STERN FRANCOIS RABELAIS MIGUEL CERVANTES ROALD DAHL S.E. HINTON LEWIS CARROLL (Artists) SALVADOR DALI ZDZISLAW BEKSINSKI ERNST FUCHS HIERONYMUS BOSCH PABLO PICASSO VINCENT VAN GOGH MAX ERNST MATI KLARWEIN FRANCISCO GOYA LUCIAN FREUD JEAN INGRES PAUL GAUGUIN RALPH STEADMAN BRIAN FROUD FRANCIS BACON JAN VERMEER ALEX GREY PHIL HALE EL GRECO CHET ZAR EGON SCHIELE REMBRANDT MICHELANGELO BARRON STOREY GIUSEPPE ARCIMBOLDO JOHN LENNON CHUCK CONNELLY GLEN BROWN HENRI TOULOUSE-LAUTREC EDVARD MUNCH ALBRECHT DURER EL GRECO MAXFIELD PARRISH DANIEL JOHNSTON JOAN MIRO AMADEO MODIGLIANI H.R. GIGER WILLIAM BLAKE LEONARDO DA VINCI PIETER BRUEGEL WILLIAM S. BURROUGHS DAVID LYNCH FRANK MILLER ROBERT CRUMB PAUL POPE DANIEL CLOWES SIMON BISLEY TAIYO MATSUMOTO DAVE SIM JEFF SMITH BILL SIENKIEWICZ JAE LEE SAM KIETH RICHARD CORBEN MASAMUNE SHIROW MARC HEMPEL MIKE MIGNOLA PAUL CHADWICK BASIL WOLVERTON DAVE MCKEAN MIKE ALLRED GAHAN WILSON GARY LARSON BILL WATERSON CHARLES SCHULTZ SHEL SILVERSTEIN DOCTOR SEUSSE MAURICE SENDAK QUENTIN BLAKE ARTHUR RACKHAM EDWARD GOREY JOHN TENNIEL THOMAS NAST AUBREY BEARDSLEY

Movies: (((Flaming Banjo))) A post-rehab, rehashed, solo-career sellout. My soul feels all dried up. I need to see Citizen Kane again. I'm sure there's got to be some way that I can get myself fired. Thing is, I don't even know what my job is. When I get out of Mexico I sure will fall down and kiss the sweet grey cement of the good old USA. I'll have to find another job though. On the spur of the moment, I desperately start to walk the streets in search of a whore. I find a $10 in my shoe and buy a glass of bacon-and-egg milkshake. I walk over to the train tracks and now it seems I'm in Kansas. I find a job as a trash picker but this shack where several hundred bums have excreted is no kind of home. I need to see the sea. If I could just find 50 cents it'd be a Goddamned miracle. I need to see the fucking ocean. Some bum comes shambling up, baldfacedly offering to polish my shoes with the tip of his big, greasy nose. This town is getting to be a drag. So I started walking again. It was night. The stars were atwinkle, a billion of them. But I couldn't think like I used to. Everything was now in past tense or something. I came into a city and found a house. I got busy pumping sewage for the Heroic Waste Disposal Company and one day I woke up and realized I'd been working there 12 years. I'd already become co-owner of the shit hole. Now I couldn't even speak of a "present tense"—Septic waste 24 hours—So when it comes time to clean the poop deck I says "I'm out of here". I couldn't remember any phone numbers so I just dialled "0". The lady says I've got to pick a number so I just make one up. Time for church. The priest tries to look rather like the Pope, but the gravedigger takes him for Colonel Sanders. He starts tabernackling on a tackleblock, tearing down test-pattern theorization. A third-person toilet-train touches down at the Federal Trades Union. The passengers swarm off, trampling a Turkmenistani to malformation. I'm just about to flee the scene when a talent-scout spots me and now we're talking business. He says I play a mean banjo but he don't even give me a dime. His talismanical talking-down turns me off straightaway. Tall stories, talking shop, eyes like bubbling rubber. He takes out a tape-measure and tries to find out the circumferance of my cranium. He has a tartar-sauce stain on his Tardenoisian necktie. He smells like a taxidermist's shed. He takes three teaspoonfuls of cocaine every hour. He has signed six top-10 teenybopper acts this year alone. He says I could be the next of the thick-witted, thin-skinned, telemarketed, teleprompted, testosterone-injected thingamabobs you see on TV. He thoughtfully thrashes out a three-handed contract. His thuggishness is making me nervous. His eyes are two dollar signs. The sun goes down. Thunderheads on the horizon. He grows tight-lipped, tight-fisted, tilt-hammers of cashflow working in his brain. He is getting tired of my time-wasting. Enough of this timorousness. This tiresomeness. His title-holder's titillations bore me. I need to stop at the tobacconist's. This toffee-nosed geek is getting on my nerves. I remember suddenly I need to get some toilet-paper. He is tongue-tied by my tomfooleries. His methods are tamperproof (tangentially). He starts resorting to tear-jerking tergiversations. Exhibitionistically shrieking, drawling dwarfish fealties. Threatening termination of the contract. His cheeks puff up like two tennis balls. His thought-wave is nauseating. The utter tonelessness, the reek of toothpowder. We're lost among tract-houses and towerblocks. I can't stand it another second, so I sign. He squeals with delight. He looks like he's had six transfusions of oxblood. No more translucence. I'm a little worried. Trademarking signed over to the trade unions. His track-record is perfect. His transparency is astounding. Treasonously, traitorously trampling on my rights as a free artist already. Triumphantly triplicating his tribulations. Tub-thumping on trivialities. He clearly has tuberculosis. He gives me some tuning forks and tells me to get busy practicing my banjo. He says he has to meet some Portuguese transsexuals. He is their travel-agent. He gives me 10 cents and takes off on the turbo-diesel express for God-knows-where. I start to wonder if this whole thing was all in his head. Or mine.

Music: NIRVANA R.E.M. BECK TRICKY THE BEATLES THE DOORS MILES DAVIS TOOL THE WHITE STRIPES TOM WAITS SMASHING PUMPKINS RADIOHEAD BOB DYLAN BLACK SABBATH JIMI HENDRIX EXPERIENCE NEIL YOUNG AND CRAZY HORSE THE CURE CREEDENCE CLEARWATER REVIVAL JOHN LENNON JOY DIVISION SONIC YOUTH THE FLAMING LIPS DAVID BOWIE HOWLIN' WOLF STEVIE RAY VAUGHAN AND DOUBLE TROUBLE JAMES BROWN ROY ORBISON RUSH ZZ TOP FUGAZI THE ROLLING STONES LED ZEPPELIN MORPHINE THE RAMONES MERCURY REV CREAM PINK FLOYD STEELY DAN THE WHO BOB MARLEY AND THE WAILERS THE CARS BUDDY HOLLY AND THE CRICKETS APHEX TWIN THOM YORKE LAMB OF GOD THE CLASH N.W.A. MINISTRY NINE INCH NAILS JANE'S ADDICTION ALICE IN CHAINS SYSTEM OF A DOWN CYPRESS HILL CAN PRIMUS AC/DC NEW ORDER SUBLIME SCORPIONS BEASTIE BOYS U2 GUNS 'N' ROSES SOUNDGARDEN STONE TEMPLE PILOTS HANK WILLIAMS LOUIS ARMSTRONG JOHNNY CASH BILLY CORGAN WARSAW ROBERT JOHNSON LUDWIG VON BEETHOVEN QUEEN ELTON JOHN ERIC CLAPTON CORNERSHOP HELMET CHEAP TRICK THIN LIZZY THE BLACK CROWES PEARL JAM THE ALLMAN BROTHERS BAND YEAH YEAH YEAHS WAR PAUL MCCARTNEY PORNO FOR PYROS ANGELO BADALAMENTI PETER GABRIEL THE B-52S THELONIOUS MONK WILLY NELSON MEATLOAF ISAAC HAYES PUBLIC ENEMY GEORGE HARRISON STEREOLAB THE MEAT PUPPETS JOE SATRIANI ELVIS COSTELLO AND THE ATTRACTIONS DEF LEPPARD ENNIO MORRICONE DANZIG AEROSMITH DEFTONES METALLICA OZZY OSBOURNE JUDAS PRIEST TWEAK BIRD PRINCE HENRY ROLLINS BUILT TO SPILL LITTLE RICHARD ALICE COOPER THE VELVET UNDERGROUND DIRE STRAITS WHITE ZOMBIE STONE ROSES RAY CHARLES BILLY IDOL CHARLES MINGUS PANTERA BLUES TRAVELER ALAN PARSONS PROJECT THE STROKES THE RED HOT CHILI PEPPERS DICK DALE CAPTAIN BEEFHEART AND THE MAGIC BAND THE NEW YOK DOLLS THE FALL THE GRATEFUL DEAD ENYA FRANKIE VALLI AND THE FOUR SEASONS THE CHURCH MOTLEY CRUE OASIS SANTANA TOM PETTY AND THE HEART BREAKERS MAHAVISHNU ORCHESTRA THE CRAMPS DANNY NORIEGA STEVE MILLER BAND ELECTRIC LIGHT ORCHESTRA SADE MISFITS DIO NAZARETH RESIDENTS CHRIS ISAAC BLACK FLAG JOHN MELLENCAMP PROCOL HARUM BJORK MEGADETH ORNETTE COLEMAN LIGHTNING BOLT MODEST MOUSE RUN-DMC WEEZER VAN HALEN PAUL SIMON ANNIE LENNOX SONNY ROLLINS VAN MORRISON DURAN DURAN BUFFALO SPRINGFIELD YES THE TRAVELING WILBURIES JONI MITCHELL SLY AND THE FAMILY STONE BLUE OYSTER CULT STEPPENWOLF WOODIE GUTHRIE KRAFTWERK JETHRO TULL PORTISHEAD CROSBY STILLS AND NASH DIGITAL UNDERGROUND FRANK SINATRA SNOOP DOGG MIDNIGHT OIL THE CARPENTERS OUTKAST BUZZCOCKS CAT POWER LYNYRD SKYNYRD THE BAND HANSON JOAN JETT AND THE BLACKHEARTS BOSTON TUPAC SHAKUR THE ANIMALS THE WUTANG CLAN CHUCK BERRY LINK WRAY BYRDS MARILYN MANSON LEONARD COHEN BLONDIE BAUHAUS BREEDERS LOVE AND ROCKETS DAVE BRUBECK JANIS JOPLIN JOHANN SEBASTIAN BACH VIOLENT FEMMES FILTER CECIL TAYLOR YO LA TENGO CANNED HEAT JOHN FOGERTY HUM STYX DAVE MATHEWS BAND STING RAVI SHANKAR MINUTEMEN SINEAD O'CONNOR THE HIVES DOCTOR DRE THE JACKSON FIVE BLIND MELON JOURNEY GRAND FUNK RAILROAD JAMES TAYLOR KORN BILLIE HOLIDAY LOS LOBOS B.B. KING INXS JOE STRUMMER AND THE MESCALEROS ELVIS PRESLEY THE PIXIES EAGLES CHRIS RHEA TRAFFIC NEIL DIAMOND JOHN MCLAUGHLIN SLIM HARPO BEACH BOYS DANIEL JOHNSTON MOUNTAIN DEVO SAUSAGE LUCIANO PAVAROTTI THE SEX PISTOLS JOHN COLTRANE MAX ROACH THE JEFFERSON AIRPLANE NOTORIOUS B.I.G. JIMMY SCOTT BO DIDDLEY BAD BRAINS FATS DOMINO THE CALL THE FACES BIG AUDIO DYNAMITE SCREAMIN' JAY HAWKINS OLD DIRTY BASTARD JAMES GANG STRAY CATS DONOVAN NAT KING COLE JERRY LEE LEWIS BRUCE SPRINGSTEEN AND THE E-STREET BAND FREE JOHN LEE HOOKER UB40 CURTIS MAYFIELD TEN YEARS AFTER PHIL COLLINS THE MAMAS AND THE PAPAS CHICAGO MICHAEL JACKSON TINY TIM MOGWAI FRANK ZAPPA STEVE EARLE ROMANTICS CHARLIE PARKER THE TALKING HEADS JAYHAWKS MUDDY WATERS BILLY JOEL TWISTED SISTER BEEGEES QUIET RIOT DEEP PURPLE THE KINKS MASSIVE ATTACK SCOTT JOPLIN SOCIAL DISTORTION THE CHEMICAL BROTHERS RAGE AGAINST THE MACHINE DEPECHE MODE MY BLOODY VALENTINE ICE CUBE IGGY POP AND THE STOOGES MOTORHEAD LES CLAYPOOL FOO FIGHTERS SIOUXSIE AND THE BANSHEES STEVIE WONDER WOLFGANG AMADEUS MOZART THOMAS DOLBY AUTECHRE HERBIE HANCOCK PARLIAMENT FUNKADELIC GENESIS

Hobbies: (((Canyon City))) No rain for three months. I was sitting in my office, in the heart of filth-encrusted Canyon City, watching the clock, the window, and the fly paper. This fat, ugly, noisy son of a whore was slowly circling the long, curled-up yellow strip overhead. Already a dozen of his comrades were stuck, buzzing twitching or lifeless on the various pieces of tape. But this bastard was wary. Once in awhile he'd descend and loop around my head, and I'd snatch at him, but he could get damn quick when he needed to. I was keeping an eye on things. I took a hit from my quart of bourbon and looked out the window. Things certainly weren't getting any prettier out there. The heat was making everything lazy, and stupid. Joe-Bob had just come back from McDonald's over in Canyon Center. I didn't want nothing but a Coke that day. I wasn't hungry, and I was getting a head ache. Billy-Ray and Bubba-James came over and got their burgers. Billy-Ray was pissed off they'd screwed him out of his mustard and onions, giving him pickles and ketchup instead. I looked up. The fat black fly was stuck. I took a hit of whiskey. I looked at him there awhile, buzzing, wings beating helplessly. I enjoyed it for a minute, but then I started feeling sorry for the poor little son of a bitch. It just seemed sort of sad, somehow, seeing him stuck there, little six legs wiggling, helpless. I had another sip of whiskey, and started trying to unstick him. The whiskey on my fingers burned him, and his papery little wings just peeled right off. I finally got him off the glue-paper, but now he was a fucked-up, wingless little pipsqueak, there on my desk. I had to put him out of his misery, slamming my palm down like some cheap god. I went to the lavatory and washed my hands. I had a twinge in my ass hole. Somehow I'd fucked up a muscle in my sphincter. I applied sharkliver ointment and washed my hands again. While they stuffed their faces I went out for a cigarette. I walked around the corner and found a green Chinese restaurant with a crescent-shaped dragon on the window. But when I stepped into the joint this smell hit my nose like someone just consumed an entire raw chicken with six cloves of garlic and then puked it up all over the place. I had a smoke, walked back to the office and went into my storage closet, wanting to record my thoughts on my taperecorder. But the entire closet was packed with useless stacks of paper. I examined one. Old receipts and documents and statements—Useless trash. I must've told those three numbskulls to get rid of it a month ago. I summoned them. Joe-Bob was still chewing his burger, slowly, savoring the meat, Billy-Ray and Bubba-James eyeing it greedily. I thought I told you all to clear this rubbish out of here. Joe-Bob nodded, looked down, shamed. You two, grab a stack each, and you, show them where to put it—the incinerator. The two imbecilic youths each hoisted a massive, tilting stack in their arms, completely obscuring their sight, and rushed down the stairs, tripping over eachother and tumbling, the documents and bills and letters flying everywhere. I rushed out into the hall. God damn it! You slovenly, incompetent jackasses! Clean this mess up right now or you're all FIRED! Bubba-James had smashed his nose in good, blood was dribbling all over the white papers. Billy-Ray slipped in it and went flying, smearing red blood splotches everywhere. Go get some trash sacks and pick this shit up, right now! I shrieked. I repeated my instructions once more, my voice distorting with the fury. Old Joe-Bob just stood there at the top of the stairs, watching, chewing the last bit of bun from his burger sandwich. I slammed and locked my office door, and sat back down behind my desk. The sun was going under, a violent wash of orange clouds blazing over the horizon. I stared at the dead flies.

e-mail rednightvirus99@yahoo.com (((The Machine))) Since I got the machine put in, everything's got a new kick to it. A new angle. I wake up in my civicube, feeling like toasted dogshit, my fried brains crying out in bitter protest when the alarm goes off. I lurch into the kitchen, guzzle cold coffee and smoke two salvia cigarettes. The grafted neurons in the left side of my head are buzzing by this time, and I'm ready, itching to plug in. I log on to the Net, plug the input jack in behind my left earlobe, and click SEND. My spine twitches, a mild epileptic jerk, and I fall back in my chair, my natural right eye rolling back till nothing shows but the blood-shot white. The left eye has been replaced by a highly polished steel ball with a glowing violet disk at its center. The disk dilates to a pin-point, the purple light momentarily pulsing to near white in unison with the yellow indicator light on my hard-drive. The cigarette butt falls from my fingers to the fireproof carpet. The vacuume-bot swiftly hones in and sucks it up. When you hit the ether-net it's like a fucking million stars exploding live inside your mind's eye and the entire universe lights up like carnival wheels and your neurons connect without limits to a million light-speed circuits ad-infinitum. Then the machine takes over completely and all sensation is lost except the input, the news, what is happening, all world events of the past 24 hours instantly downloads into your cerebellum, all emotion is lost as all useless interference patterns are cencelled, and you become one with the Net, a single cell in synch with all the other mech-heads on Earth, Moon and Mars. When I came back, the first time, and the medics told me they'd had to put in a cerebral clone-tissue implant to save my life, they'd had to boot me up just get me even halfway conscious, forget about cognizant. And they'd already pumped me so full of drugs by then, the fucking machine was all I really was. And I had no idea of the cold fire sizzling numb hell I'd be subjected to upon waking every morning after that. But plugging in feels damn good, I'll give them that. Fact, I don't even use as many narco-caps as I did before the attack. I'd been hooked for decades, and I gobbled them all fucking day like they was gum drops—But now, even with the intense pain I deal with, the machine gets me right through it, like a knife through warm cheese. I pop the jack out of my head, light a cigarette. I buckle on my taser gun and suction down to street level. It's still dark, but the Chicken Hut is open 24 hours, so I stop in for a snack. The multiple conflicting voices of the chip in my brain were still a bit distracting, at this point, when I stepped into the Chicken Hut. Must've been about six weeks ago. I got in line at the counter and asked for a six piece box. The clerk stared at me like a diseased calf. The neck-mouse dangling obscenely from the wire-jack coming out of my shaven skull sure looked weird, I bet. And my steely left eye was damn creepy too, blinking on stand-by like a silent alarm. I've gotten used to the citizens's dead eyed stares. Since I got the machine put in. He nuked my chicken and handed me the box. I slid my debit card through the slot and sat down at a booth. The ceaseless traffic flying past on the 603 ramp was a dizzying spectacle. I clicked my neck-mouse and tuned in on the net's infinite waves of info. I was trying to locate a Chinese pimp who'd welched on a squeal deal. The names he'd provided were bunko, and he'd skipped town when the shit head narcs let him out of his cage to carry a wire into some crummy meet. Probably a complete waste of time, but after my injury I figured I'd take it easy, complete this chicken-shit case, a piece of nonsense I wouldn't have even waved my badge at under normal circumstances. But this was my first case using the machine—Hell, needing the machine. Face it, I reminded myself, You'd be a fucking cripple without it. Drooling in some mental ward. The bullets had taken out around a fifth of my natural brain tissue. The vamp-docs sucked out the blood clots and dead grey jelly, and filled the hole with fetus brains—the freshest. The specialist who put in the machine didn't get there till the next day—He was in Tokyo, doing the fourth ever brain transplant. The vamps kept me in a deep coma, but occasionally I'd get flashes of consciousness, the clone-fetus cells in my head crying out in primeval panic as they attached themselves to my brain's axons like a million writhing parasitic worms. The pain was incredible, accompanied by flashes of red light. I'd slip in and out of strange dreams—The bald faces of the murdering skin-heads melting into the bald faces of the slaughtered fetuses I was fusing with.