KURT
"You'd be a good killer. Spasme cérébral!"
"What?"
"Very bright but good at nothing. You couldn't shoot me, because you had a reason. Reasons fucks you up, give you trigger block. I bet you could do it only for the kicks. You crave the highs. You need the tingle, the fear, the adrenalin rush, because you're such a fucking blank--emotionally. That's the best killing. Causality defying. Anonymous. Incomprehensible. Untraceable in the endless ocean of probabilities You could trump Zoot. Have you ever gone plinking? Like, emptied a gun, blasted something, watch it splinter-shatter-scream just for the fun of it?"
"No."


"--like in road flare?"
"No, like in solar flare."

Not quite twenty, she stood in the open door and studied the perplexing hieroglyphic stain patterns blotching the ceiling tiles of "Jerry's Coffee Shop." As if on secret cue, she suddenly changed her pose, casually dropping her designer shades and unveiling her otherworldly face, while the spotlight of the low autumn sun backlit her long blonde hair swirling in the breeze. She was slim, somewhat petite, wearing a black leather jacket, silky lime colored tights and heels. By her feet squirmed a cocky fluff rat of a pinscher, jerking his baby blue leash.
FLARE


ZOOT
On the western side of Lake Meade's turquoise divide, high up, on the pullout of a thin dogleg of thready asphalt, shielded from the onslaught of dry-freezing killer gusts behind the protective body of his mechanical soul mate, "Love Bug," a 1965 VW camper hippie time capsule, levitated Karla's dark knight in contemplation of his short-comings. The phenome-man, spirit-snuffer, eraser-boy and soul-snatcher: the self-proclaimed incarnate manifestation of Bardo, known to his friends as Zootster, Zooty-Fruity, or simply Zoot.


Darren looked in the mirror. It was true, he looked a lot better than Zoot ever could. He had full dark hair and eyes that never failed to trigger an estrogen rush. He didn't run around like Zoot with a ponytail, overalls and hiking boots. And even if he did, he would still look good. He could roll in shit and come out clean.

He could say, "I love you," to a sixteen or a sixty year old, it didn"t matter. And he had done both, many times. For money. He could improvise ecstasy for a seventy-five-year-old and recite love poems in French over a two hundred dollar dinner. He could say it and it would always sound right. Zoot could have never sat nude in some upscale hotel room, do 6th grade homework and then declare with total innocence, "Mom, I've finished my math, can I come in your bed now?" That was worth a lot of money to a lonely old divorcee. Darren had that in him, Zoot and the others didn't. Granted, it was true: he was a whore--literally--and he appreciated very much that Zoot hadn't tried to rub it in, as he usually did.

DARREN


PINCH
It was a brown delivery truck. The driver got out. He was a pale early-twenties Zombie-Punk, greasy leather jacket, ripped jeans, dyed black hair to his shoulders, a pencil thin body tied together with enormous key chains. All his movements seemed twitchy as if he was propelled by electric shocks. He took a carton of beef jerky out of the truck, sat down in one of the old car seats and stuffed his face.


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