Читать онлайн «Slide On The Run»
Автор Мик Фаррен
Mick Farren
Episode One
Episode Two
Episode Three
Episode Four
Episode Five
Episode Six
Episode Seven
Episode Eight
Episode Nine
Episode Ten
Episode Eleven
Episode Twelve
notes
Mick Farren
Slide On The Run
Episode One
This Fucking Body's Nine Parts Shot!
The quasi-woman who undulated professionally in front of him was arrayed in a second skin of white latex, complete with a form fitting hood that totally encased her head, save for a ponytail switch of hair, teased from a vent in the back of hood, a little above the nape of her neck.
It perversely reminded Slide of the single scalp lock of the traditional tribal Cossack, or the tail of a blood-line true palomino mare. The hood completely hide her features and she was only identifiable by the form of her body, her trademark long legs, prominent hip bones, and maybe something in the way she moved. She wore white rubber cocktail gauntlets with fingers ending in fake nails that, as far as Slide could tell, were constructed from white titanium, pointed as icepicks and as sharp as razors, protracted feline claws at full extension, and with a wicked scimitar curve. The facepiece of the hood was akin to a gas mask, but mysterious as a domino. Dark, unreadable eyes looked out from behind the built-in, circular goggles of tinted glass, while a white ribbed hose projected from the center of the mask like a pachyderm nose, curving round to the left side of her waist to vanish somewhere Slide could not see but only imagine.
"Do me a favor? Please? Just get the fuck away from me. This fucking body's nine parts shot. "
Yancey Slide was on the run again.
The Howdy Hole had deposited him in a place of spheres, down in the Gantenbrink matter of the sub-atomic foam. He was confronted with identical orbs, floating in random patterns of tachyon flux, with full substance, but neither sound nor color, and stretching as far as his demon perception could perceive, each one's perfection only marred by the letterbox shadow slit of a Borkhist wormhole tag-patch.
Slide's body was shredding fast. His physical form was actually falling apart, and it was probably getting the best of the deal. Fortunately for his entirety, sub-atomic foam could be persuaded to be at least temporarily accommodating, and allow itself to gathered and molded it into a rough approximation of body tissue. Even after these makeshift repairs, to say Slide was messed up was like calling the Atlantic Ocean "damp". Mercifully his silver flask was still full of old, bad, Red Army vodka, distilled from MIG 15 antifreeze, and well spiked with tetradetoxin, the puffer fish derivative used in the traditional zombie process. It messed up humans real good, but, for a demon, it could help slow a rapid bout of borrowed-body degenerative decay. The free floating cooch joint, however, was what had really saved his ass.
The interdimension fun-mill's grab-a-rube gravity just sucked him in towards the orbiting lights and virtuals, which proved blinding up close, and came in over seven thousand cultural equivalents, of which Slide could perceive at least half, and which gave him a headache on top of everything else.
