[retrieved from temporal location M:\Dec 20, 2013 at 10:15 PM]

A thirty-six-mile straightaway between two cities … what’d they used to call those? a highway.

The black, cracked concrete absorbs all one-hundred-ten degrees of heat and humidity bearing down on the time-scorched earth, exacerbating the stench of garbage and carcass discarded over the past few years.  Mounds of black trashbags filled with Gaia-knows-what (banana peels, industrial waste, limbs arrested by rigor mortis … ?) cause what few motor vehicles still in operation to swerve violently every ten feet in the manner of Elmer Fudd or some other ridiculous cartoon.

Ah! here comes one now.

A black sedan of unknown make rockets around the bend at ninety-miles-an-hour screaming as black rubber melts off its tires.  It hits several mounds of garbage, causing gallons of pink biotoxic sludge to engulf its crumpled frame.  The windshield wipers start running as the car swerves toward the shoulder of the road and pulls back just in time.  When the window is thoroughly cleared, the sunroof opens and a man of about twenty years with black mussed hair and eyes covered in large black goggles pokes his naked torso through the ceiling.  He is passed a large black garbage bag from below and hurls it behind the speeding car, impact causing the bag to explode and leave food by-products, grease, and paper flailing back in the wind.  He is passed another bag and discards it in the same manner.  A third, fourth, and fifth bag follow.  The load is large because it has been a week and a half since the neighborhoods garbage was taken out.  The man recedes back into the car; the sunroof closes.  The sedan makes a sharp left, tumbling over the depressed, dusty medium, kicking up a bellowing mushroom cloud in its wake, makes its way onto the opposite side of the road and accelerates back the way it came.

The sedan sped toward its end in the city of the Third Province of Shaolin with the fury of a runaway train destined for derailment.  Within its compartments sat the High Chief and Osiris, with his Highness as the wheel making devilish jerks of the vehicle to avoid a nasty collision with the garbage mounds which they had, most likely, lain there weeks or months in the past.  The passenger windows were rolled all the way up and smoke from a woolie lingered with apathetic regard toward the furious winds speeding past the outside of the vehicle.  High Chief bore with his foot all two-hundred-twenty pounds of his mass upon the accelerator.  He took two hits of the blunt and passed it to Osiris, the bare bodied boy.

Osiris took the roach, too small to wholly embrace, and tucked it between the edge of his thumb and index finger, raised it to his dry, black lips, and inhaled.  He let out a wheeze of a cough and his flat, untoned abdomen contracted abruptly, causing him to drop the roach.

–Fuckboy, said High Chief, in a voice that groaned.

–Fuck it, God, shit was cashed, knamsayin, no loss.  Fuck it, where we goin’, God?

–Back to the Island to go the fuck to sleep, God, a nigga chashed, knamsayin.

–Word life, God.

They were silent for a while then, until Osiris asked, –Yo, Chief, hol’ up, hol’ up, where my Killer tape at, God?  You dun had it since last fuckin’ week, where the fuck is my tape at?

–Yo, son, I ain’t got that piece, son.

–How you ain’t got my shit when I let you hold it, man?

–Yo, niggas came over to have forties and blunts, kid, the shit just came up missin’.

–Come on, man, that don’t got nothin’ to do with my shit, man, come on, man, go head with that shit, man.

–Come on, man, I’ll buy you four more fuckin’ Killer tapes, man.

–Fuck that shit, God.  Just then, a face call came in over Osiris’s stolen phone.  When he answered, an associate known as the Golden Arms appeared on the screen.  He said, out of breath, –Yo, yo, God, word is bond, yo, Shameek just got bust in his head two times, God.

–Word?

–Word life, God.  You know Shameek from fuckin’ 212, God?  The nigga just got bucked.  Nigga’s in a black Land, God, word is bond.  Came through, God, from outta nowhere, God.  Word is bond, I’m coming to get my culture-cypher, God.   And they just … word is bond, crazy shots just went the fuck off, God.  The nigga layin’ there like a fuckin’ newborn fuckin’ baby, God.

–Word?  Is he dead, asked Osiris.

–Is he fuckin’ dead?  Fuck you mean is he fuckin’ dead, God?  What the fuck kinda question is that?  Fuck you think?  The nigga layin’ there with his fuckin’ … all types of fuckin’ blood coming out his fuckin’…

–Fuck, God.

–Yo God, what’s up, God?  It’s the God, God, word is bond.  Yo, what’s up?  I’m ready to fuckin’ lay.  I’m ready to get busy, God, what’s up?

Osiris said, –Yo, go do what we gotta do.

High Chief then turned his head toward the screen in Osiris’s hand.  –We out or what, man?

–It’s the God, God, fuck that, man, said the Golden Arms.

–You sayin’ we out? asked High Chief.

–Yeah, God, let’s get the fuck, son!

The line went dead.  –You heard the God, said Osiris, –Let’s buck.

–Word, God … oh, oh, hol’ up, God, said High Chief looking out of his side window at a fixed-gear biker rocketing down the opposite side of the  highway.  The biker turned his head momentarily and then quickened his pace.

–Oh, fuck, God, hell nahh, said High Chief, –Fuckin Skeletons be fuckin up.  His Highness made a sharp left, rumbling over the median again, and drove back toward the biker.  The sedan accelerated past one-hundred-miles-per-hour and approached the biker who, as they neared him with the stark-white “W” painted on the hood of their stolen car, appeared to descend into fear and madness.

–We got this nigga, said High Chief, and he rammed into the biker who, upon impact, was hurled into the shoulder of the road, propelled backward like a ragdoll, his limp body kicking up a dust storm like a mere bag of garbage…

Naturally, no one of good character lived in cities anymore, although it was arguable that none ever did.  Five decades after this event, an inquiring mind could find the upper crust of society, not in any real-world location, but in cyberspace.

Vigilantes having been condemned to live out their remaining days on the polluted surface of the earth, all people of culture were stored underground, and the highest form of art was now executed in code.

[See D:]

…In the night, from fixed-gear bikes, the chant rang out, and was heard round the world–

“We have a body in decay;
We have a mind in disarray;
Off with the head,
The rest may stay,
So hands may mold with fresher clay,
And feet may walk a better way
Toward a new and brighter day.”

(The ramifications of this campaign naturally progressed toward a more violent state than intended…)

Machine had a row of chain links, wrenches, pliers, and such, lined up real meticulously on the small metal table to the side like he was the dentist from hell or something.  Guy on the operating table, so to speak, was a real goon of a fellow.  Went by the name of Osiris.  I didn’t like him, but I sure as shit felt sorry for him, cause Machine had few if any of what the kids call morals.  I mean, there was don’t go against the crew, don’t fall off your bike … but on a personal level, it was a free-for-all among us Skeletons.

They call us the Skeletons because of our bikes—bare bones steel.  No breaks, no gears, no grips, all rip.  Fixed gear to the death, we’re known to say.  The chain-rings of our bikes are built larger by Machine, so there can be more teeth.  It makes it hard to shove off, but with a higher ratio we can sustain sixty-seven-mile-per-hour speeds on the straightaway.  Lack of breaks makes it impossible for us to stop at speeds like that.  We like it that way.

Anyway, our friend Osiris was looking a bit pale.  Hell, if I didn’t know the effect old Machine tended to have on folk, I’d-a thought I was looking at a ghost.  Our captive had the complexion of bone.

Or location, furthermore, was not the kind of place that would have made Osiris feel at home.  We were in the basement of the old City Bike warehouse in the Southeast Quadrant.  That’s Federal City, if you don’t know.

This old place had only one light in operation.  It had started flickering a month prior.  When it goes out, we’d have to find another location for HQ—cause it’s hard to get bulbs in these times.

But for the time it was nice and perfect, about 7,500 square feet of blood-splattered concrete, with metal gates as tall as the 50-foot ceilings all rusted and whiny; they section off the rooms nicely.

All of our bikes were lined up along the far wall next to the elevator that used to service the bike warehouse when it was still in operation.  The bikes also used to belong to the warehouse, but we stripped ’em, and they’re ours now.  They’re our livelihoods.  And listen, these weren’t loud, obnoxious, growl-growl, spewing smoke, asshole bikes.  These required no oil, not that we had any.  Like I said, our bikes are why we’re called the Skeletons.  We’d take our bikes to the strip, this forty-mile stretch between  Federal City and the Third Province of Shaolin, which has been known as Baltimore, once upon a time.  We were notorious on those roads, but the 36 Chambers were notorious, too.  You know of the 36, a.k.a the Three-Six Mafia, a.k.a the Anarchists, a.k.a the Regime, a.k.a the Nine-Deuce, a.k.a the Nine Chambers, a.k.a the Shaolin Shadowboxers, a.k.a the Wu Tang Clan.  You know them.

Word on the street was that a couple of the top generals were breaking away from the order in First Province of Shaolin in Old New York to start up HQ in Federal City and Former Baltimore.  We needed answers.  Lucky for us, we saw Dirt McGirt, a.k.a Osiris, cranking his pussy carbon frame down the strip, so we picked him up.

Now we had to get him to talk.  That was Machine’s specialty—I mean besides building and welding and shit.  He had this theory—you could say it was one of his few morals.  He used to read all those Daredevil comics, you see, and he believed that if you lost one of your senses, then your other senses grew stronger.  So if the dude Osiris didn’t have much of a capacity to talk now, then maybe he’d have to lose one of his other sense to enhance that capability, knamsayin, God.  Machine always started with touch.  He had those pliers by his side ready to pull off a couple of fingernails.  After that, if the guy wouldn’t talk, he had a spoon there for sight.  But Machine didn’t even get through the first fingernail before Osiris broke:

–Aight, God, aight, aight.

Machine looked up.  I could see that he was a little disappointed.  Before he could decide if Osiris needed further instigation, the bossman Frankie the Break came out of the dark corner beside Machine.  He was called “the Break” because he was the only person in the whole crew—hell, in the whole fucking city—who could skid to an immediate stop on Machine’s chain-ring.  He was a big fellow—big, not fat—and covered in tattoos like a mosaic, head-to-toe.  His big bald head had a tattoo of a chain-ring on it, too.  He was the by-goddest hardcore guy I knew.  That’s why he was boss.

–Get away from him, Mac, said Frankie the Break.  Then he said to me, –Hey, “Fixed Gear” Charlie, crank that chair up.

Yeah, that’s what they call me: “Fixed Gear” Charlie Bones.

I uncrossed my arms and went over and cranked the lever at the bottom of the chair, lifting the back up so that Osiris could see Frankie face-to-face.  He was all tied up, so he couldn’t really do it himself.  Frankie the break had a wooden chair with him.  He spun it ’round and sat down in it reversed, resting his arms on the chair-back.  In his hand he was shaking, as if he had a nervous tick, a spare crankset.  He had the machinery gripped tightly in his hand and the chain-ring moving around like a stationary hand-saw.  After a while he said, quite casually,

–You the one they call Osiris?  He pulled out some cigarettes.

Osiris nodded, ‘fraid-like.

Frankie held out the softpack to him but Osiris shook his head.  Frankie shrugged and lit his jack with some matches he had.  After he had taken a puff, –You from the land of Shaolin, I hear.  First Province.

Osiris nodded.

Frankie took a drag and exhaled slow.  –And I hear you’re a prominent member of the group they call the Wu Tang Clan, and affiliated Killa Bee assassins.

Osiris did nothing.

–In fact, you’re one of the top dogs.  A member of … the 36 Chambers of Death.

Osiris remained still, save a twitch in his eye.

–I was just thinking that you could tell us … what the fuck y’all are doing in Federal City, Skeleton turf.  And, while you’re at it, maybe you could tell us why six of my guys are, well, six feet under.

Osiris said nothing.  His eye continued to twitch.

–You look like you’ve got something in your eye, Frankie exhaled.  –Machine can help you with that.  Machine … 

Machine came back over with his spoon and straddled Osiris as he was strapped in the chair, then Osiris started shouting like the devil was biting his ass.

–Aight, God, aight, I’ll talk.

Machine dismounted him, again disappointed.  –Good boy, said Frankie the Break.

Osiris took a deep breath.  He closed his eyes, then he started:

–Look, God, I grew up on the crime side, the Empire Times side, where stayin’ alive was no jive.  I had second-hands, my mom’s bounced on old man, so then we moved to Shaolin Land.  A young youth, rockin’ the gold tooth, ‘Lo goose; the only way I began to G-off was drug loot.  So yeah it started like this, son, rollin’ with this one, and that one, pullin’ out gats for fun.  But it was just a dream for the teen that was a fiend.  I started smokin’ woolies at sixteen.  Runnin’ up in gates and doin’ hits for high stakes, making my way on fire escapes.  No question, I would speed for cracks and weed.  The combination made my eyes bleed.  No question I would flow off to try to get the dough all, stickin’ up white boys on ball courts.  Shiiid, my life got no better.  Same damn ‘Lo sweater.  Times was rough and tough like leather.  Figured out I went the wrong route.  So I got with a sick-tight clique and went all out.  Catchin’ keys from across seas, rollin’ in MPVs, every week we made 40 Gs.  Yo, nigga, respect mine, or anger the TEC-9: Ch-chick-BLOW, move from the gate now.  

–Well what the fuck made you wanna move down here to the Fed, God? asked Frankie

–‘Cause, god, you know, cash rules everything around me.  Shit’s flowin’ in the Fed, knamsayin.  Shid, you know; you the one that fuckin made it.  Aye, don’t get salty, my nigga it’s the game, it’s the stuggle.  Niggas out’chea starvin’ and shit.  C.R.E.A.M—Get the money.

–Dollar, dollar bills, God.

–Aye, yo, Frankie, nigga, I hope you know, doe, the Clan’s watchin’ you, God.  We got eyes all across these Fifty Provinces.  The fuckin’ Chambers ’bout to rush up in yo shit, God.  Ain’t no escape, my nigga.  Kill me, my nigga, and a swarm of fuckin’ beez gone run up in this piece God, murda the whole island.

  Frankie the Break took a deep breath and flicked his jack.  He stood up.  –Well, then, he said, –If what you say is true, the Shaolin and the Wu-Tang could be dangerous … Do you think your Wu-Tang sword can defeat me?

Then Frankie the Break reared his big hand back with the chain-ring and careened all fifty metal teeth into Osiris’s head.

We all stood around in slight awe.  After some time, I said, to ease the tension, –Survey says, your dead.

No body laughed.

Machine wiped his hand down his face and said to the bossman, –You know you just started a war, right?

Frankie the Break lit another cigarette and said, –Bring the motherfucking ruckus.

(But, if there was hope to be had for the human race, it was in the Recluses, and it was in revering the only true sense of reality humanity would have known for a hundred centuries …)

[See D:]

Ninety years later, the earth did flood, and the atmosphere suffocated all the remaining organisms.  It had been written by a prophet that the waters would freeze in an ice age, and the old earth would be uncovered as rock formations made up of compressed concrete, brick, steel, rubber, PVC, glass, and other structures which would be interpreted by later scientists to have been formed as naturally as the Himalayan mountain range or the Bisti Badlands (but that would not happen for another several millennia, when the next cycle of evolution yielded the inevitable human brain.  It was essentially a fact now that the evolution of a species as superior as man would harken the end of the earth in the Coda-Gaia by building a great machine, one far beyond the logo-computational capacities of man—but without the morale—which would yield negative ecological returns on its efficient and ever-speeding progress.)  Until, then, however, the world would hibernate and life would sleep, as would love, sex, womb, mother, birth, infancy, youth, adulthood, maturity, and death, in their absence leaving infinite.  In the coda, Gaia wept herself to sleep.