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CHAPTER
17
selecting…
STALKER DogCam: And he's off! Winding down neon thoroughfares, past
vending-machines stocked with soft toys and cigarettes. Slowing, angling.
See now, the high definition of Stalker's 8mm micro-vidcam headset. Pulling
up to a fountain whose bubbling contents are laced with urine, excrement,
used contraceptives. Pursuing. Oh, and there she is, Cindy Smithers; onetime
debutante, weathergirl and party animal, now dipping her hand in the water,
in the piss, in the shit, to grab a few coins. Caught live on pay-per-view,
for your exclusive pleasure. Well spotted, Stalker!
selecting…
JOLLYBOY DogCam: Just look at him work! So powerful, so reckless. Roaming
the burnt out estates of the Lujo perimeter. Sniffing out those fading
celebrities we know you love to despise. Jollyboy's special nose is twitching
now, zooming in close on a young man huddled in a doorway, reading a copy
of Vogue magazine. Yes, that's him! The one and only James Bartholomew,
former International Model. Oh Jimmy, once the best dressed man around
town, now look at you. The old tatty coat, the patchwork trousers, the
piece of string holding them up. The long, matted beard. Who's your
stylist nowadays, honey? We simply adore those carrier-bag shoes.
selecting…
LIGHTFOOTE DogCam: Twisting through a chain-link fence, running across
chalk figures drawn on the concrete. It's the Zeno Corp factory.
The back-lot, where the waste disposal pipes spew forth the surplus dream
products of the Founder; all the sewage, the stinking visions that can't
be sold. A snot-green fog. Oh look. It's Lady Garland, one-time owner
of Haversham's department store, buyer and seller of the choicest
fare. Now she's down on her knees with a hose attached to one of
the pipes, filling up marmalade jars with some real sweet and nasty. Oh,
my Lady!
selecting…
FLEETWOODE DogCam: You lucky, lucky people! Only Canine Camera brings
you the very best in Reality Hounds. Here we go now, trotting down a circular
tunnel lined with ductwork and ligaments. Strands of fibre-optic hair
hang down, dripping with putrid neuro-chemical deposits. A swarm of honeybees
flying ahead. A black toad springs into view, and the tunnel opens out
into a small, overgrown garden. And there, in the blue light given off
by a TV monitor, lies Dan Mulligan. Former star of the goal mouth, the
sponsorship deal, the charity lunch circuit. His body moves now to a stranger
rhythm. Who's the little Zeeny boy, Dannio? How old is he? Oh, well scored,
trusty Fleetwoode!
selecting…
GREEDIGUTS DogCam: Coming in live from the Paradise Hotel, gone midnight.
Look at this Alsatian move, following a stench of meat from the Cabaret
Lounge bar. Running past rows of empty chairs, jumping now, up onto the
stage. Padding across wooden boards, bird shit and feathers. Scattering
doves along the way. Playing cards and coloured silks, a box of tricks.
A red felt hat, with a black tassel. Cautious now, hunched. A scorpion
crawls along nearby, some weirdo creature made from baked earth, chicken
feathers stuck in the clay shell. But see now. Hurrah for Greediguts!
There's a man lying face down on the stage. No signs of life. Old faithful
is slinking up to the corpse. That's him. Our target. Crazy Joe Smoke,
the old-time top banana comedian and gameshow host. Is this what it all
comes down to, all those nasty jokes about the refugees? A lonesome death
on a lonely stage? Oh, but now our doggie's got his nose up for some new
presence. Sparkles of green. A figure stepping out from the wings. Shimmering,
the barest glimpse. Jesus! She's…Oh no, please, no…
transmission terminated…
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