I found myself remembering Tom's words about the Big Product, and how we would all escape the town once we had helped the Factory build it.
Was this the Escaping Game?
A sudden noise startled me. Something scuttled from behind a part of the machine. It was Oris, the Robot. I saw that he had only three legs left. He stood somewhat awkwardly on this tripod, watching me, expectantly. So I walked over to the counter, found the coin box. For the second time in my life, I picked the lock on it. The special coin was there, waiting, with a note. It read, 'Here you go, girl.'
There was no clear path to the Intravenus machine, I had to clamber over various pieces of apparatus. Of course, I had no need of a stool this time, the viewing aperture was exactly level with my sight. I wasn't even sure if the game was finished yet. Knowing Tom, it never quite would be. Perhaps that was my job now?
The coin slid easily into the slot. The beam of light was fired, and all around me the vast engine of the Vanishing Palace stirred into noisy, clanking life.
I set my eye to ignition.
ORGMENTATIONS
William Meta Meta III, artificial hair on hire, last night threw a sparkle party. Strictly Robots Only trumpeted the invite, but the Zoom Lens Maganauts managed an elegant gate-crash. Everybody, but everybody was there, and much sport was had by one and all. Machines both famous and flirtatious were seen in various states of undress and dismantlement. The Clan of Squeaky Clean made a frightful mess of table nine. Lady Swankish, she of the troubled Baby Metal Company, left various parts of herself in the trifle. (Dark gossip was told of DJ Pixel Juice.) Entertainment was provided, at table, by a newcomer to the scene, one Tony Tango, a magician of sorts. (Dark gossip so fast so deep.) He turned the wine into oil, which was drunk with glee. The Glee was supplied free of charge by RoboVaz International. (Let loose! Let loose!) Mucho sucking of the Vurt feathers, including a rather delightful pink, that caused an automated orgy to break out. (Hands of the DJ move around move around.) We can only guess at the cleaning bills! But quite the best part of the evening took place when Benji Spike showed off his latest 'cyborgmentation' collection. This self-styled Avant Primitive really has got the demi-mondo in thrall. (Landscapes of scratch.) Young models of stainless-steel beauty clanked up and down the catwalk, stripping off in tempo to the new Lab Test Residue album. (Hands of the DJ sonic bloom.) Oh the sight of so much naked burnished chrome fair dazzled the eyes! One shining boy of non-specific machinery had a human index finger pierced through his lower lip. (Such noise such crackle such slither!) Another, a female of the Paradroid species, had a human eye, still gazing! set dead centre in her polished brass tongue. Eyes and ears and nipples and navels, all carefully harvested from fully paid-for volunteers, were seen in gorgeous contrast against the sheen of metal skin. (Hands of the DJ wet to the traces.) We could go on, but the most impressive aspect of the collection was the advanced use of the new anti-decay fluids. (Rapid fire fingertronics.) These human parts were still alive, so well preserved were they. Benji Spike claims they will last for up to six weeks, before the stench becomes rather too unsociable. How marvellous! (Let loose! Let loose!) But we save the • best for last. Imagine our delight to see mounted stylishly upon the platinum breasts of a young she-robot - yes! - a fully extended human penis! (Dark gossip so fast so deep.) Bravo, Monsieur Spike! (Hands of the DJ move around.) Oh, dear sweet reader, you really should have been there!
\\\\\\\\\\ FRACTAL SCRATCH //////////
V
HANDS OF THE DJ
Dark gossip was told of DJ Pixel Juice, so fast, so deep, were the ranges of her landscape of scratch. They said her hands moved around at sonic bloom, making ghosts of themselves in the stage lights. She had to have more than two hands fully extended, surely, to let loose such noise, such crackle, such slither. Such expert play of the new anti-decay fluids. Vinyl went wet to the traces, held sway in time to rapid-fire fingertronics; etch-plate aesthetics, fractal scratches (really should've been there) out on the limits of the human edit. Echoes of beat that last for up to six weeks, revolving through clubland. Booked top slot at the Magnetic Field weekender, Pixel Juice drew a record crush. They say half the known universe got turned away (really, really should've been there) even the ones with tickets. Goon Guards Unlimited were on bonus alert to keep it tight on the invite, members only and strictly drug-free. Walls were high and fat around the field, and electrified. Blue sparks painted the sky as some loser got stung too good with an access-no-areas powder burn.
Deep in the night, when the music pulsed already from the warm-up; out where the walls went fizz, some kid was offering a baby goon something conducive from his shoulder bag. The babe turned him down, but the kid gave her the shot for free. Five minutes later the guard was seeing stripy penguins, and the kid was making foreplay to the wall with a spurt of hi-level Vaz. Bootleg police issue. Sure was slippy!
The kid, name of Marco, he was only sixteen. Skinny but tall, dressed to the tips in black silk, a touch of lace. He had a spark about him, something in the eyes, something in the way he moved. He found a space in the crowd to call his own. He didn't dance, not to look at anyway; but his mind was skipping to some home-made spectral beat. The night was smoked; lit with purple, hard at the edges, liquid in the middle where the music came into focus and the people moved. They moved! Pixel Juice had them down in the dazzle, up for the float. Over the field, cruising the giant relay screen, the gloved-up hands of the woman; a constant blur, magnified one thousand. Left hand cut deep bass rhythms, right hand worked the scattershot punctuation. She had all the old ones, the stuff you couldn't get any more, the voodoo grooves. Waves of colour came scudding from the decks with every hard slice of the stylus. The hands that makes the scratches that make the colours that makes the trance that make the crowd go wild in a dance that makes the colours that make the hands that dance to make the scratches. And deep within this feedback loop stands Marco; he ain't dancing, he ain't swooning. He's got some whole other kind of a thing going on. This was his time, he knew it was.
The after-gig party was a burn-out zone mainly, hogged by record company dandies, orbital candies, and the press gangers and depress gangers. The marquee was flooded with cheap lager and the sponsor's Braindeath Vodka concoction. Members of the Family Goon surrounded the tent and passed a joint around. They had dogs with them; plus some tasty concealed weapons, but no trouble was to be had; the liggers were out to business lunch on Planet Whiz. None of them cared that Pixel Juice had left the party hours ago. The thing about the DJ, she was never the one for hanging out. She didn't give interviews. Never turned up to accept awards. No known vices, which pissed the marketing boys off no end. OK, no drugs for the punters, fair enough she wants that, but stop hogging the nosebag will yer? OK, she's a lesbian, what's that supposed to mean? With the same partner for years now? Tell me about it. No fucking story! Sniff, sniff.