Toxicology. Steve Aylett

in the grave. A black guy had had himself tattooed all over with the US flag so that police assault might result in prosecution. Couples into acting out alien abductions found common cause with the enema crowd. Buddha Gore had replaced his eyes with wadded-up memos and stuffy apologia. Ariel Hi-Blow was such an invert he stuck himself to the ceiling and put a mirror on the floor. “Molecular solvent,” he laughed, and Easy looked up, startled. “I can see up your pants.” FMJ the gunhead wore a bullet suit and had had Lady Miss construct a giant Charter Arms .44 Special to his precise specifications. “Tonight’s the night,” he said.

      “Go girl,” yelled Ariel from the ceiling.

      The Caere Twins were in the corner with a guy in a void coat—one pushed an arm in up to the elbow and brought it out dripping with ectoplasm. The man extruded an etheric valve and slathered them in blown ghost—the entire corner bulbed into a pullulating chrysalis, sickly with spinelight. Peering at the indistinct forms which wrestled within the calyx, Easy was hustled on past a series of doors. “Tug of War Room—don’t go in there. Hillary Room—private party. Mattel R Toom—slaves. Firing range—need a licence. And here’s my chamber.” Lady led him into a stable. “America kisses with its mouth closed, Easy. Want to try something?” She placed a bit between her teeth, separating her jaws, and buckled the strap behind her head.

      “We can’t do this, Lady,” stammered Easy. “It’s unnatural—we’re different species.”

      Lady shrugged off her clothes and knelt over, gleaming white. Easy felt like an airbag was being deployed in his skull. An explosion sounded over the building as FMJ reached for the sky.

      Two whole years passed. Easy became part-owner of the club. Moving in a different world, he kept clear of the mob. For a crook to become attached to his disguise was an offence without duplicity. It was rejection—growth, even. Like others at the Fist, he’d given up trying to deny the worth of worship.

      Holdup masks never went out of fashion—one afternoon Larry Crocus, Moray, Shiv, Bleaker and Barry Nosedive were due to perform a heist behind the faces of a regular menagerie. The job had reached the vault when Shiv, who had selected the face of a walrus, raised a gun at the others. “Cut it out, Shiv,” they laughed nervously.

      With a rubbery flourish, he drew off the walrus mask to reveal that of an elephant.

      “Fortezza!” gasped Larry Crocus.

      “That’s right,” said Easy. “Don’t let anyone persuade you character takes orders.”

      Nosedive pushed forward, the ears of his dog mask flapping. “Hey, we gave you the cod eye!”

      “I have different information.”

      Crocus, who wore the face of a pig, gestured to Easy with his snubgun. “Where’s the face we shut.”

      “This is who I am.” He drew a bead on Crocus. “And these beans want planting.”

      “Four guns to one, Dumbo,” honked Moray from behind a cat face. At that moment, Sam “Sam” Bleaker tore off his horse mask to reveal that of a horse.

      “Who the hell are you?” shouted Crocus as the pale horse aimed her gun. “What you do with Bleaker and Shiv?”

      “You bore me,” said Lady.

      “Tied up in a closet at the gang fort,” said Easy. “They didn’t come along on the bomb run, after all.”

      “So it’s about the old man. We don’t got any gripe with you Easy but I’ll put you on a keyboard if I have to.”

      “I don’t bluff empty armor, guys. Lemme ask you, is crime what happens when you miss the target, or hit it? I put glue in your masks.”

      The three mobsters dropped their guns and began scrabbling at their heads as Easy and Lady Miss backed out of the vault. It was Ariel Hi-Blow’s molecular glue. A scream tore out as a face came away with a fake. An elephant never forgets.

      IF ARMSTRONG WAS INTERESTING

      If Armstrong was interesting he’d take the initiative on stepdown. He’d emerge from the moon capsule wearing Mickey Mouse ears. He’d confess to a major felony. He’d land lightly and trill, “Not bad for a girl.” He’d shout “Jeez Louise I could use a bacon sandwich” or “Praise be to Satan” or “More land to pillage and despoil” or “This is nowhere” or “Lock up your daughters” or “Who farted?” or “I’ve never been so bored” or “I’ve never been so hard” or “Looky here—a million strawberries” or “Kill the white man” or “I was brought here against my will” or “I can’t live a lie anymore—I’m gay.”

      If Armstrong was interesting he’d phonetically blur his assigned lines—“That’s one small pecker, man—one tired leaker, and mine.” He’d slam from the capsule knee-walking drunk. He’d skip across the sands like a fairy. He’d pretend to meet aliens and narrate false thrills amid non-existent domes of tessellated gold. He’d plant the Chilean flag. He’d wheely and wreck that crappy car. He’d claim the whole thing was a movie set. He’d speak in seamless, uneditable profanity. He’d laugh without interruption. He’d rant bitterly against his mother. He’d scream at a pitch which blew the headphones off NASA control. He’d say everything in a thick French accent. He’d yell that his facemask was filling with snot and abruptly terminate transmission. He’d moan “Even here there’s pigeons.” He’d ask “If I’m the first man to walk here, who set up the camera to film it?” He’d pretend transmission was breaking into enigmatic fragments. He’d say “demonic” and “pants” and “fantastic” and “farewell.” He’d neigh and say “Woah, there.” He’d childishly mimic everything Houston said. He’d curse the Earth and claim the moon’s supremacy. He’d moon and decompress, exploding.

      If Armstrong was interesting he’d emerge from the capsule riding Buzz Aldrin piggyback with a horsewhip. He’d ruthlessly probe Buzz’s sexuality. He’d slap a squid over Buzz’s visor, blinding him. He’d get him in an awkward headlock. He’d try repeatedly to run him down with the buggy, mouthing laughter in the vacuum. He’d snap a thousand contrary orders, dancing sarcastically to his own contradictions. He’d ask once every minute on the return trip “Are we there yet?” He’d emerge from the space toilet sweating, pupils constricted, and threaten the co-pilots with a blender. He’d draw them into his madness so that after splashdown they’d prance out of the rescue vehicle giggling and pushing each other into the bushes.

      If Armstrong was interesting he’d attend a press conference wearing a hat made of a human pelvis fringed with the shrunken ears of his victims. He’d say the whole trip was a waste of time. He’d complain that his critical judgment had “turned to jelly.” He’d describe his own eyelashes as “a delight,” speaking at first in a stage whisper, then screaming into the mike and blowing eardrums like popcorn. He’d fall at every hurdle. He’d purse his lips to his fist and trumpet The Red Flag. He’d announce “I crave the company of morticians. You’ll be glad to hear I live in a ghastly dreamworld. And you can’t stop me.”