"I hate those fatties," said Casio. "Why would anyone want to weigh more than what's healthy, if they don't have to?"
''Why would anyone keep his stupid zits if he didn't have to?"
Casio looked hurt. "That's different, Dez. You know I just forget my cream. It's not like I wanna."
I felt bad for hurtin' Casio then. Here he was, my only proxy, keeping me company while I tried to straighten out in my head how I was gonna get trump with Turbo and his set, and I had to go and insult him.
I put an arm around his shoulders. "Sorry, molar. Listen, just wipe it like I never said it, and let's have us a good time. You got any eft?"
"A little… "
"Well, let's spend it! The fluid eft gathers no taxes, es verdad? Should we hit Club GaAs?"
Casio brightened. "Yeah! The Nerveless are playing tonight. Maybe Ginko'll let me sit in."
"Sounds trump. Let's go."
Overhead the wetworkers-both private and government dirty-harrys-cruised by on their lifters, the jetfans blowing hot on our necks, even from their high altitude. Standing in the center of their flying cages, gloved mitts gripping their joystix, with their owleyes on, they roved TeeVeeCee, alert for signs of rumble, bumble, or stumble, whereupon they would swoop down and chill the heat with tingly shockers or even flashlights, should the sitspecs dictate.
Club GaAs occupied a fraction of the million square feet of empty building that had once housed one of the old television networks that had given TeeVeeCee its name. Ever since the free networks had been absorbed into the metamedium, the building had gone begging for tenants. Technically speaking, it was still tenantless, since Club GaAs was squatting there illegally.
At the door we paid the cover to a surly anabolic hulkster and went inside.
Club GaAs had imipolex walls that writhed just like Casio's vest, dancing in random biomorphic ripples and tendrils. On the stage the Nerveless were just setting up, it being still early, only around eight. I had only met Ginko once, but I recognized him from his green skin and leafy hair. Casio went onstage to talk to him, and I sat down at a table near one wall and ordered a cheer-beer.
Casio rejoined me. "Ginko says I can handle the megabops."
The cheer-beer had me relaxing so I had almost forgotten my problems. "That's trump, proxy. Listen, have a cheer-beer-it's your eft."
Casio sat and we talked a while about the good old days, when we were still kids in highschool, taking our daily rations of mnemotropins like good little drudges.
"You remember at graduation, when somebody spiked the refreshments with funky monkey?"
"Yeah. I never seen so many adults acting like apes before or since. Miz Spencer up on the girders-! "
"Boy, we were so young then."
"I was even younger than you, Dez. I was eleven and you were already twelve, remember?"
"Yeah, but them days are wiped now, Casio. We're adults ourselves now, with big adult probs." All my troubles
flooded back to me like ocean waves on the Big-One-revised California shoreline as I said this konky bit of wisdom.
Casio was sympathetic, I could fax that much, but he didn't have the answers to my probs any more than I did. So he just stood and said, "Well, Dez, I got to go play now." He took a few steps away from the table and then was snapped back to his seat like he had a rubber band strung to his ass.
"Hold on a millie," I said. "The wall has fused with your vest." I took out my little utility flashlight and lasered the wall pseudopod that had mated with Casio's clothing.
"Thanks, proxy," he said, and then was off.
I sat there nursing the dregs of my cheer-beer while the Nerveless tuned up. When the rickracks were spinning fast and the megabops were humming and everyone had their percussion suits on, they jumped into an original comp, "Efferent Ellie."
Forty– five minutes later, after two more cheer-beers thoughtfully provided by the management to the grateful friend of the band, I was really on the downlink with Casio and the Nerveless. I felt their music surging through me like some sonic trope. Tapping my foot, wangle-dangling my head like some myelin-stripped spaz, I was so totally downloading that I didn't even see Turbo and his set slope on into Club GaAs and surround me.
When the current song ended and I looked up, there they all were: Turbo and his main sleeve, Chuckie, who had her arm around his waist; Jeeter, Hake, Pablo, Mona, Val, Ziggy, Pepper, Gates, Zane, and a bunch of others I didn't know.
"Hah– hah-hah-how's it climbing, molars?" I said.
They were all as quiet and stone-faced as the holo of a cheap Turing Level One Al with its mimesis-circuits out of whack. As for me, I could do nothing but stare.
The Body Artists were all naked save for spandex thongs, he's and she's alike, the better to insure proper extero– and interoceptor input. Their skins were maculated with a blotchy tan giraffe pattern. The definition of every muscle on their trim bods was like Gray's Anatomy come to life.
Now, to me, there were no two ways about it: the Body Artists were simply the most trump set in TeeVeeCee. The swiftest; nastiest, downloadingest pack of lobe-strobers ever to walk a wire or scale a pole. Who else were you gonna compare 'em to? The Vectors? A bunch of wussies dreaming their days away in mathspace. (I didn't buy their propagand a a bout being able to disappear along the fourth dimension either.) The Hardz 'n' Wetz? Nothing but crazy meat grinders, the negative image of their rivals, the Eunuchs. The Less' Than Zeroes? I don't call pissing your pants satori, like they do. The Thumbsuckers? Who wants to be a baby forever? The Boardmen? I can't see cutting yourself up and headbanging just to prove you feel no pain. The Annies? A horde of walking skeletons. The Naked Apes? After seeing our whole faculty under the influence of funky-monkey that day, I had never latched onto that trip. The Young Jungs? Who wants to spend his whole life diving into the racemind?
No, the only ones who might just give the Body Artists a run for their eft were the Adonises or the Sapphos, but they had some obvious kinks that blocked my receptors.
So you'll understand how I could feel-even as the center of their threatening stares-a kind of thrill at being in the presence of the assembled Body Artists. If only they had come to ask me to join them, instead of, as was so apparent, being here with the clear intention of wanting to cut my nuts off-
The Nerveless started another song. Casio was too busy to see what was happening with me. Not that he coulda done much anyhow. Turbo sat liquidly down across from me, pulling Chuckie down onto his lap.
"So, Dez," he said, cool as superwire, "I hear you are Chuckie's secret mojoman now."
"No, no way, Turbo, the parity bits got switched on that message all right. There ain't not truth to it, no sir, no way."
"Oh, I see, molar," said Turbo, deliberately twisting things around tighter'n a double-helix. "My sleeve Chuckie ain't trump enough for a molar who's as needlestrength as you."
I raised my eyes and caught Chuckie sizing me up with high indifference. Her looks made me feel like I was trying to swallow an avocado pit.
Charlotte Thach was a supertrump Cambodian-Hawaiian chica whose folks had emigrated to TeeVeeCee when the Japs kicked everyone outa the ex-state in the process of forming the Asian-Pacific Economic Cooperative. Her eyes were green as diskdrive lights, her sweet little tits had nipples the color of strong tea.
After she was done sizing me up, she held out one beautiful hand as if to admire her nails or something. Then,