BRAINPAN FALLOUT:
Part three
let us continue...

CHAPTER 16: CHURCH OF THE ALIEN PENIS

We were in front of the church on 7th Avenue and Ocotillo, a
futuristic thing, designed by Frank Lloyd Wright. Its most
prominent feature was an obelisk out front that looked like an
alien sex organ, ready to take off and launch mutagenic sperm
into any passing 747 or even the space shuttle. To the
enlightened in town it was known as the Church of the Alien Penis.

"Wow," I said, forgetting about the smoking missile I
couldn't let go of. "Vampiko would have killed us if we hurt it.

The Alien Penis had become a central part of Vampiko's
eclectic religious beliefs. She would often come here in her
all-black Volkswagen on nights of the full moon, and bare her
implant-enlarged breast to it. "It renews their power as sacred
objects," she would explain.

Finally, after they were sure both the Alien Penis and the
van were all right, Doc and Obie looked over at the missile and me.

They got these horrified looks. Doc gave out a lady-like scream.

"Flash," said Obie, "get away from that thing."

"I can't," I said, then coughed, "it won't let me!"

"It?" asked Obie.

"It!" said Doc. "Then you have it!"

"No," I said, as more of the bandages came loose from my
face, "it has me!"

The missile shook, rattling my spine, and let out more lung-
scorching smoke, then fell apart into tiny pieces. The pieces in
turn fell apart and crumbled into a flakey dust that blew away in
the evening breeze.

"Damn," said Doc, delicately stamping his foot. "I was
hoping we could get it back to my place so I could examine and
cannibalize it, could you imagine what software and hardware
would be needed to . . ."

"Yeah," said Obie, with a sneer that shifted the position of
his scarifications, "and what would you do with it? Let it sit
in your storage locker next to your virus collection?"

"It's the most comprehensive collection of self-replicating
programs on the planet!" shrieked Doc.

Meanwhile, now that the missile was junk, the chip gave me
back control of my arms and legs. I assessed the damage: The
burns on my hands, weren't too bad. The bandages were all
hanging loose about my head by now.

Then something moved next to the Alien Penis. A saguaro.

"Hey," I squeaked, "guys . . ."

The saguaro pointed a TEK-9 at us and said, "Do not move."

[The Church of the Alien Penis really exists, though its
real name isn't very colorful or memorable.
[It really was designed by Frank Lloyd Wright. Who knows
what he was thinking, with all those multicultural influences and
crazy ideas of his. In the words of Ishmael Reed, "They must
have said, what kind of white man is he?"
[Unfortunately, I'm usually up to other business on nights
of the full moon. Sometime I'll have to go there to see if
anything interesting goes on.]

CHAPTER 17: THE REPTILE CONSPIRACY

"I have you covered," the saguaro said shaking the TEK-9,
just in case we hadn't noticed it. A cellular phone then grew
out of its other arm as it said, "Send a mobile unit to . . ."

Then a huge lizard -- it looked like a monitor, but was the
size of a Doberman pincher -- leaped off the Alien Penis, onto
the saguaro.

The saguaro went, "AIIEEEEEE!" like in a comic book.

Before any of us could breathe sighs of relief, the hiss of
several more big lizards made us look around. They were coming
at us, their shadows growing longer as the sun set.

Doc, Obie and I fell over each other as we scrambled back
into the van.

"Gimme the keys," said Obie, who was in the driver's seat.

"No," said Doc,"you can't drive my van!"

A lizard clawed its way into the rear hatch. I kicked it in
the jaw and screamed, "SOMEBODY drive! Now!"

Doc pouted, swallowed a squeak, and handed the keys to Obie,
who had us jolting across the lawn in record time. The lizard
let go of the rear bumper. I grabbed a cabinet that held some
sophisticated electronics before I could be ejected.

"What's with all these oversized lizards!" I screamed as we
bounced over the curb, into the street.

"It's the reptile conspiracy," said Obie, doing his best Malcolm X.

Doc rolled his eyes.

"Like I always said," Obie went on, "it's televoodooizing
time here in the final act of the 20th century. People all over
the world are force-feeding lizards with protein-rich reptile
chow spiked with stuff like pituitary gland of pit bulls in an
attempt to get the critters to reach their as yet unrealized
maximum capacity. I've been investigating it, and it's getting
heavy. I got some video of a satellite feed from Indonesia of
these Komodo dragons that looked like Godzilla."

"What?" I said. The bandages were now all swinging loose
about my head.

"It's an experiment in chaos ecology and the revival of
reptile-friendly religions," Obie said, stopping for a red light.
"Well," Doc said with his characteristic limp-wristed hand-
swish, "if you boys think you've had a rough day . . ."

The bandages were just about ready to let go. I couldn't
wait. I took hold and ripped them off all at once. It only hurt
a little bit.

Doc and Obie looked back at me and screamed.

[The reptile conspiracy is based on friends, and friends of
friends, who have often told me about the joys of living with
reptiles, and amphibians, and raising things like pirhana for fun
and profit. Sometimes they threaten to send South American
creatures the likes of which you can read about in the Popol Vuh
through the mail. One guy is said to be willing to work for geckos.
[This just in (this writing: 13 March 1995): The fetus of
a major league baseball team called the Arizona Diamondbacks is
forming in the Valley of the Sun!
[Chaos ecology is from my observation of Arizona's ecosystem
that is brimming over with alien (to the region) life forms. In
Phoenix you can find areas that are recreations of Ohio.
Tumbleweeds are originally from Russia. Hurricanes blow
previously unseen bird species into town. Humans build freeways
and smog. A few days of warm weather triggers false springs year
round in which the air if filled with exotic pollens. The
Sonoran desert isn't dying, but adapting like crazy. Remember,
when the Spaniards first arrived Phoenix was a swamp, and the
local residents included jaguars and parrots. Nature is not a
garden. We are not caretakers, but part of the struggle.
[And of course, a planetary ecological system crash can
result in our extinction.]

CHAPTER 18: THE FACE OF THINGS TO COME

"Honest guys," I said, feeling my face, there was stubble,
and some swelling, "you'd think you'd never seen a banged-up face
before." Then I felt some scarring. "Uh-oh!"

I looked up into the rearview mirror. I almost screamed.
The puffiness would eventually go away, but those two railroad-
track-looking scars making a big "X" across my face made me
permanent low-budget horror movie material. I shed a couple of
tears that flowed along the scars when they hit them.

"Too bad." Burnout shook his head. "You were such a cutie."
"You ain't gonna be able to pass for Anglo any more, blue
eyes," said Obie as he touched the tiny "x's" scratched onto his
cheekbones. "You make me look like a timid dilettante in scarification."

"I'm doomed," I whined. "Vampiko will hate this."

"Don't be so sure, Flash." Obie smirked. "Vampiko likes
the spooky stuff." He then smiled in a way that made me want to
punch him.

Burnout leaned back and looked me over. "It does give you a
sort of ultra-butch appeal."

I groaned. "So what do we do now?"

"They still may be tracking us," said Burnout. "I can't
tell with my electronics shut down."

Obie looked out over the steering wheel. "Well, I don't see
any ambulatory saguaros or shark-faced missiles following us."

"They could still be watching us," Burnout said. "For all
we know they have spy satellites."

Obie then made a screeching, controlled-drift left-turn.

"Who the hell are 'they?'" I asked once I got a grip on a
panel full of cold hardware.

"Who knows?" Obie made a sudden stop for a red light.
"Mayan revolutionaries? Televoodooists? The reptile conspiracy?
You should see the messages my lady Califia has been sending from
Nigeria. Maybe there's just been a heavy peyote-pollen count in
Phoenix lately!"

The light turned green. Obie sent the van lurching ahead,
and me tumbling backwards.

A huge lizard was clinging to the windows on the rear hatch.
It's long tongue flicked out, then it lost its grip and fell away.

"Did you see that?" I asked.

"Hell, yes," said Obie, who made a few quick turns
brought us a screeching halt. "Let's get out of this thing --
pronto!"

[I'm not into body modification -- hell, I still have my
tonsils, appendix, and foreskin -- but a lot of my friends and
fans are. It seems to the way a lot of people have chosen to
fight the battle for identity as we approach the next millennium.
[It reminds me of what a Mayan tour guides told me in
Chichen Itza: That the Maya admired snakes (uh-oh, are we cross-
referencing with the reptile conspiracy here?) so they purposely
deformed their children's skulls, crossed their eyes, got facial
tattoos, and wore jewelry in piercings in their ears, noses, and
lips so they would resemble the creatures they saw as symbols of
intelligence and ethics. He noticed the disturbed looks on some
of the tourists, then he smiled and said, "Who knows, it could
come back."
[When I told the above to Misha, author the brilliant novel
Red Spider White Web, who has facial tattoos in keeping with a
tribal tradition, she said, "Of course, it's all coming back."
[Earlier today (this writing: 22 February 1995) while
getting some hand-made tortillas at El Bravo, the best Mexican
restaurant in Phoenix, I noticed a waitress had recently gotten
her eyebrow pierced.]

CHAPTER 19: MULTICULTURAL MALL CRAWL

Obeah X15 and Doc Burnout popped open the doors and ran for
the main entrance of Christown. I struggled in pain in slow
motion, pulled the keys out of the ignition, got out and locked
the doors, and followed.

The moon was full. According to local folklore science
fiction writers were hanging out in the corner JB's while other
strange creatures homed in on the mall like iron filings to a
magnet. If you listened carefully you might hear naked Wiccans
practicing a ritual in nearby swimming pool.

I nearly bumped into a Mayan guy who was contemplating a
spilled Slurpee between his sandaled feet. He looked at me from
under his straw cowboy hat, gave a beatific grin and said, "Hasta
luego," which means 'until we meet again.' He must have been
another urban dreamwalker. I wished him "Buena suerte."

The mall was packed. Anglos of every breed, Chicanos,
Navajos, African Americanos, suntanned Asians, Mayans, Aztecs,
Hindus, and assorted recombinations, were merrily milling about.
Overweight security guards oversaw it all like walking Buddhas.
Nobody noticed my stubbled and scarred head. Like Obie often
said, "Christown is a happy medium among malls; people with
walkie-talkies don't harass the people of color, and you don't
get gangsters signing at you."

But I still couldn't find Obie and Doc. Had they ditched
me? Then, the chip noticed a bookstore where a bespectacled
black clerk was trying to close up and sent me lurching toward it.

Suddenly, someone grabbed my arm. It was Obie.

"What took you?" he said. "We were afraid we'd have to go
back to van."

I stammered and held out the keys.

"Oh, thank goodness," Doc said as he grabbed them. "Did you lock?"

I shook my head.

"I tell you," Doc went on, "Phoenix is getting just as bad as L.A.!"

They pushed me to a table at Miracle Mile where three iced-
teas were waiting for us.

"No walking saguaros. No big lizards. No giant
cockroaches. I guess it's safe to talk here."

Maybe. There was a Nigerian at the next table looking
straight at us typing into a laptop as some Fela Anikulapo-Kuti
leaked out of his Walkman. He seemed to be taking notes on our conversation.

[Phoenix is a particularly strange place on nights of the
full moon. Maybe it's the desert air. Maybe it's people like me.

[The Mayan cowboy dreamwalker is real. Buena suerte, hermano.

[It may sound paranoid, but Emily will back me up on this,
when I go to fancy, upscale places, where most of the patrons are
traditionally white, security guards magically appear, follow me
around, and report my movements via their walkie-talkies. It
doesn't matter if I'm shaved, with a neat haircut, and wearing a
suit and tie. Must be my skin color or attitude or something.
Ismael Reed wrote that the future Orwell fantasized in 1984 is
the reality that black people have been living in America for 300
years, and whether I'm black, white, or some shade between
depends on where I am and who's looking at me. Anyway, I get
left alone at places like Christown -- and Phoenix, and the rest
of the world seems to be going that way.

[Fela Anikulapo-Kuti is one of best musicians on the planet.
He's from Nigeria. More about that later . . .]

CHAPTER 20: COCKROACHES AND BREASTS-IMPLANTS

The caffeine from the iced-tea hadn't pulled me out of my
stupor when Obeah X15 and Doc Burnout proceeded with a
simultaneous overlapping info-dump that I couldn't have followed
without the help of the Krell chip. Obie recapped his discovery
of the conspiracy to make giant lizards while Doc kept switching
from his tracking down the Kafka virus to his not being able to
find his lover at Sky Harbor Airport in the morning.

All the while the Nigerian kept his eyes on us and typed
into his laptop.

"I made a royal pest of myself, but there was no sign of
her, the plane arrived from Bogota, but she wasn't there." Doc
was getting incoherent.

"Wadiya mean 'she?'" Obie sneered.

"It what Lalaita likes to be called." I said.

"He's a guy! I don't care what kinda state-of-the-art
artificial boobs he keeps going down to South American to get.
Anyone with a weenie is he!" Obie ranted.

"So what about the Kafka virus?" I asked, trying to change
the subject. "How could it possibly change people into
cockroaches when they turn off their computers?"

The Nigerian looked concerned.

"Yeah," said Obie. "It's plain impossible."

"How should I know?" Doc took a long sip of ice-tea. "I'm
just reporting the data I've gathered."

Obie's smile got evil. "Hey, maybe Lalaita changed into a cockroach."

"You're so insensitive," said Doc.

The Krell chip shuffled some stuff and threw it into my
brain. "Maybe there's an extra high level of peyote pollen in
the desert air right now. We're all gang-hallucinating."

The Nigerian looked particularly worried about that, even
though Doc and Obie blew it off, while I spotted a saguaro moving
around the entrance to Monkey Ward in my peripheral vision.

"I've also been hearing rumors about a new drug on the
streets," said Doc.

"Yeah, me too," said Obie. "Somekinda newfangled
recombination of opium and coca -- could be bad news!"

With that the Nigerian's eyes got real big. He shut down
his laptop, and before he could close the lid, changed into a
king-sized cockroach. I got up, screamed and bolted a few
nanoseconds before the crowd went berserk. Obie and Doc followed
me through Miracle Mile to the nearest exit.

So did the saguaro.

[Lalaita is based on the archetypical South American
transvestite prostitute that is a favorite subject of Spanish-
language tabloid TV -- check 'em out even if your Spanish-
impaired, they're sleazier than an Anglo shows, and unashamed.
Hispanic macho lets a man be the aggressor in homosexual acts
without being considered homosexual, especial if the guy bending
over for him is in drag, and it's not as if they're cheating on
their wives, because these aren't even real women . . . I had
also just read Iceberg Slim's mind-blowing Mama Black Widow,
which had me experiencing brainpan fallout.
[Nigeria is interesting country. Pop music that really
kicks ass -- like the above-mentioned Fela, and King Sunny Ade --
writers like Amos Tutuola and Wole Soyinka (who recently had to
flee the country), and fantastic artists like Twins Seven-Seven.
They're also on the cutting edge of high-tech crime with global
fax and credit card scams. The government sucks, but then don't
they all? Besides, monstrous politics tends to create the most
interesting art, and life.
[Face it, utopia is a bore!]

CHAPTER 21: PARKING LOT TRAUMA

Out in the parking lot, an unmarked helicopter was hovering
over Doc Burnout's van, shining a spotlight on it, looking
cornball sci-fi as all hell.

"Stay away from it!" screamed Obeah X15. "Looks like a trap!"

It looked that way to me, too, only I wasn't the one in
control of my brain at that particular moment. The Krell chip
had detected the sweet electromagnetic signature of running
computers, and had me zeroing in on full-out attack mode.

The rear hatch was open and waiting like the horizontally-
hinged mandibles of a sacrifice-starved mechanical spider-
goddess. I dived in like a willing partner in my own oblivion.
The helicopter turned off it's spotlight, and the doors slammed
shut, leaving me in the cool, dim illumination of the monitor
screens and light-emitting diodes of Doc's onboard information system.

The chip purred with delight.

I nearly snapped my neck trying to look at all the screens
at once. So much information; so little time --- not to mention neurons.

The faint sound of Doc crying, "Stop you thieves!" was
drowned out by the roar of the van starting up. There was no
driver. The dashboard displays flickered while the wheel and
pedals worked themselves.

I didn't have time to wonder how it was possible. The
damned chip had me bouncing around trying to absorb as much of
the ambient information as possible. Between that and the
shifting g-forces of the van's random trajectory, I was expecting
to be bashed to a bloody pulp as my eyes and ears caught
scattered bytes of precious information:

Do not attempt to adjust your input -- large cockroaches
infest the White House and Congress -- all sources deny
everything -- cover-up is suspected -- Pornography and viruses on
the information highway -- organized crime to blame -- writer
researching parallels between CIA mind-control technology and
Haitian voodoo dies of drug overdose -- The Surgeon General warns
that cerebral implants may be hazardous to your health --
Extinction of the saguaro cactus no longer considered imminent --
sightings in non-desert regions and urban areas -- Virtual
reality has been found to have similar marijuana-like side-
effects -- even after short term usage -- Law enforcement has
discovered new plant-based drugs -- outlaw genetic engineering
suspected -- we are controlling transmission --

Then the light leaking in through the windshield and
portholes got a little brighter. Suddenly, there were no g-
forces. I was
floating. Weightless.

[The above parody of William Burroughs' cut-up technique was
written before Factsheet Five called me "William Burroughs on
steroids, only writing linearly." I'm rather amazed at how
linear BF turned out, considering the gonzo, on-the-run way it
was written. I guess I'm just a storyteller at heart. What the
hell, the next millennium is going to need it's pulp fiction.

I always preferred Burroughs when he was being stark, raving sci-fi
with a bad attitude than when he was experimenting with form in
attempt to wipe out the word forever.

[A bit of advice for wannabee writers: Keep it moving.

[The Arizona Republic has reported that rural survivalists
believe that the New World Order is spying on them with black
helicopters.]

CHAPTER 22: WE HAVE LIFTOFF

We have liftoff -- Houston, Houston, do you read? Floating.
Spaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaace Patrol! In the middle of Burnout's van --
You're ten thousand light years -- The light's so bright -- Seek
out new life and new civilizations -- The space -- getting
bigger, brighter. One small step for a man. All this
information -- such a happy little chip! My mind is going, Dave.
Cockroaches, Nigerians, Mayans, reptiles, saguaros, lots of
saguaros, everywhere -- one thing, monsters, monsters from the
id. Why dress like a saguaro anyway? We will control all that
you see and hear. Got to ask them about it -- Can you hear me,
Major Tom? I can't follow it all -- Your minds! This is the
Undernet. Your stupid, stupid minds! Brainpan fallout all over the place.

Fade to blinding white before I can lock into an old-
fashioned Swinging Sixties style look-Ma-I'm-blowing-my-mind-
again freeze frame scream.

Mom shakes her head and smiles as a beatifically as the
Virgin of Guadalupe. Dad hands me a still-beating human heart.
Obie and Doc argue over what to say to me. Califia sends another
message from Nigeria, "Believe it all, but trust no one."
Lalaita flashes his/her brand new, fresh-from-the-Columbian-mad-
scientist's-lab breasts. Vampiko licks her lips, bares her
fangs, and whispers, "I love you, Flash, to the year 2000 and beyond."

I got the impression that I was surrounded by saguaros, so
what the hell, I asked, "Why do you wear those stupid saguaro suits?"

They all made a twittering, inhuman noise. I eventually
recognized it as a peculiar kind of laugher.

"What's so funny?"

They conferred a while, then one said, "These are not suits.
We are naked."

I tried to scream, but the blinding light dimmed down to a
fuzzy near blackness.

I clicked my heels together three times and said, "There's
no place like home."

My eyes opened. I was on a couch that reeked of assorted
bodily excretions, in a dim, smoke-filled room.

"It worked," said a woman.

"Nothing like pure adrenalin in the carotid artery to wake a
body up," said a man.

It was the blonde and the asian/native/hispanoid from the
limo I rode in a millions of years ago this morning.

Vampiko flitted out of the smokey shadows, and said, "We're
on soon, mon amour!"

[Undernet? Y'know, like the Internet, only, like Marshall
McLuhan said in War and Peace in the Global Village, "We have
simply got to create anti-environments in order to know what we
are and what we are doing."
[For every environment there is an equal and opposite anti-
environment. You don't know where you are until you visit the anti.
[Good Ol' McLuhan. Kids, you should check out those dusty
old books of his. You just may find out why you've got this
irresistible urge to turn on, tune in, and drop out. You're
retribalizing and don't know it. And you probably thought it was
all your idea . . .]

CHAPTER 23: GLOBAL DELIGHTS FOR FUN AND PROFIT

"What?" I said reaching up for Vampiko's drum-tight implant-
enhanced breasts.

She pulled them out of my reach. "Please. We're on soon.
You'll smear my makeup."

"We're going on? Wait a minute." I looked around through
the smoke, saw figures, human, saguaro, and other -- some with
cellular phones, others with automatic weapons. "Where are we?"

She giggled, not quite hiding her fangs with her dainty,
white fingers with nails like red piranha teeth. "Don't you
recognize it? This is my work. Global Delights."

"Oh yeah, the tittie bar." Some of the human figures were
hard-bodied females, with almost nothing on.

"Why, Flash, you vulgar muchacho," a familiar voice said.
"This place is far more than a mere tittie bar."

There he/she was. Lalaita. Doc Burnout's lover boy. All
dolled up in a Kiss of the Spider Woman get-up that hid his male
genitalia and gave full view of her brand-new breasts that were
standing high and perky like fresh implants the size of bowling balls.

"My God," I found myself saying.

Lalaita purred and gave them a stereo squeeze with soft,
well-manicured hands with knuckles that were just a little too
big to pass for feminine. "Ay, you like my new chichonas?
They've already come in handy. They cop feels, but they never
dream of looking inside."

The Krell chip made some connections too fast for me to
follow. I was almost expecting Obeah X15's lady Califia Johnson
to show up. But then that would be a bit much.

A phone rang. "No, she's not here. She's still in Nigeria."

I shuddered.

Vampiko pulled me to my feet. "Come, mon cher. We have to
go on stage."

"Here? But I don't have any tits!"

She ran a delicate fingertip along the X-shaped scar on my
face. "Yes, but you have something else, dear, something that a
lot of people want."

Lalaita did a rapid-fire tongue-click. "You dos! This is
no time for the getting romantic! We have work to do."

I could barely stand. They each took an arm and practically
had to carry me, which took some doing since I'm a good head
taller than both of them.

Music started -- corny Latin jazz to the plastic beat of
Asian pop. The lights blinded me. The crowd growled like a
hungry monster.

[Chichonas means "big tits." It's from "chichi" that means
breast in Nhuatl. One of the most important words from my
formative years in Eastlos was part of my Aztec legacy.

[I always thought that breast augmentation was very sci-fi,
even though the uptight world of the science fiction
establishment, and even its supposedly freewheeling subgenre
cyberpunk have yet to exploit the concept. You'd think the
Playboy would be interested in such stories. Political
correctness in drying up America's milk, and what kind of future
can you expect in a country with deflated, sagging tits?

[There are fascinating possibilities in the subplot about
smuggling drugs in hollow boobs that I would like to exploit
someday . . .]

CHAPTER 24: SHOWTIME ON THE UNDERNET

"THE ZONE HAS BEEN SECURED," said an amplified voice full of
static and the accent of artificial intelligence. "ALL LEGAL
AUTHORITIES HAVE BEEN ENCRYPTED OUT. TEMPORARY AUTONOMY HAS BEEN
ACHIEVED -- REPEAT: TEMPORARY AUTONOMY HAS BEEN ACHIEVED."

There was applause. Strange applause. Full of static and
electronic distortion.

I squinted past the floodlights, and could barely make out
the crowd that filled Global Delights past the legal capacity
that night. It was not the usual tittie bar crowd. Mostly,
men -- but some women -- all a little overdressed for the
occasion. A lot of them were quite mechanical, looking like
awkward robots. Robots?

"And now, we present, for your actual and virtual
examination," said Vampiko, "Flash Gomez," more weird applause -
- data blasted my brain: organized crime, virtual reality
remotes . . . "human host and test vector for Project
Brainboost's fantastic Krell chip!"
televoodooists, narcotraficantes, insect trusters, reptile
conspirators, plutonium smugglers, black-market hypothalamus
dealers, genetic drug engineers, border brujos, system scammers,
hackers (and most were not the stereotypical white-nerd-from-a-
moneyed-family), freelance info & bio virus farmers, mafia,
yakuza, and triad representatives, some of which were attending
the event in cyberspace.

"Isn't he cute?" said Lalaita, pinching my stubbled cheek.

"Are there any questions for Flash?" Vampiko asked.

The crowd erupted like a salivating, multi-headed monster; a
wall of words came at me, more static than signal.

"Are there any harmful side effects?"

"Is it faster than the latest available computer systems?"

"Do you feel more than human?"

"Could it make the brain obsolete?"

The Krell chip latched onto my vocal apparatus and fired off
high-speed answers that sounded as if I was speaking in tongues,
shoving me aside into the nether reaches of my grey matter and
the cyberplace called the Undernet, where I was suddenly aware of
underworld stock market prices for hit men, genetically-
engineered drugs, electronic money-laundering systems, government
and corporate secrets . . . all kinds of stuff that people didn't
dare talk about on Internet. I was also aware of things like:
A feed off a deencrypted White House monitor: The
President, disturbed at the tiny insect images on his latest
comeback strategy speech, flicks off his maximum-security laptop,
then gasps . . .

[One of the other things running in The Red Dog Journal was
the entire text of Hakim Bey's T.A.Z. (that's Temporary
Autonomous Zone, for those of you who haven't been exposed to it
yet), which was mostly because Bey published it without copyright
because he believes that his ideas are more important than making
money -- pardon me while I wipe the cynical smirk off my face!

Most autonomous zone are temporary enough. Besides, it's so much
easier to just get your shit together so you can pay your own way.

[I think I hear it best expressed by astronomer and science
fiction writer-about-town Peter L. Manly: "Everybody whose anybody
is on the Internet." Then Rudy Rucker wrote folks were so crazy
about cyberspace because: "We want to transcend the mundane,"
like panhandlers, crowds, rednecks, isolation, and other of the
sort of things that have give me my best ideas, if you haven't
noticed. It set my diabolical mind to thinking:
[What if the underworld had it's own Internet? Where you
could exchange information on illegal activities without fear of
being tracked down by those pesky law enforcement agencies?
[This was spontaneous. I had no idea I would come up with a
concept that if I were doing things like the science fiction
establishment, would be the place to begin. It jes grew.]

CHAPTER 25: SUCKING/PENETRATING MOUTH-PARTS

A bug is a thing with sucking/penetrating mouth-parts.

The Kafka virus transforms the President a giant cockroach.
Secret service agents go into mouth-frothing, tongue-biting
convulsions, bleeding into their ear-pieces. The First Lady
rushes in, seeing her chance to indulge in insect-style mating
without violating her religious beliefs, her mouth waters in
anticipation of a life-long supply of semen from one copulation,
and the sweet taste of testosterone-soaked brain tissue. She
envies her husband's sucking/penetrating mouth-parts.

A bug is an electronic listening device.

How does a computer virus change a human into a cockroach?
I asked, from dusty corner of my brain into the Undernet.

"Simple," said a saguaro, "have the static blast from
switching off the computer trigger a programmed chain-reaction
DNA reconstruction."

A bug is a virus.

I didn't like being exiled to cyberspace like this. The
good stuff was all happening in the real world. The street can
be virtual reality for people who have lives.

"Don't bug me, man," my father often said.

A big advantage of Cope, our new, recombinant opiate/coca
drug is that it depresses the will to resist while increasing
energy and consciousness. Users become busy, productive zombies.
Things go better with Cope.

Giant insects were once popular sci-fi monsters.

FLASH! THIS IS CALIFIA. DON'T WORRY. WE'RE TRACKING YOU.
CAN'T REALLY SAY MUCH. NEVER KNOW WHO'S LISTENING ON UNDERNET.

Super-viruses are the boogiemen of the Information Age.

Those damn saguaros or whatever -- they kept fading in and
out around me. Finally I asked, "Just what are you?"

"Your brain is incapable of processing that information."

"But I've got this chip in it!"

"Sorry. Still not enough power."

"But I gotta know! It's killing me!"

"Very well. The fact is, we are the natives, and you are the aliens."

"Uh . . . uh . . ."

"See. We told you."

A message from my body: Vampiko sticks her tongue in my
ear, then says, "It won't be long now, mon amour."

Another feed from Washington: The Speaker of the House
scans the latest Wired as he eats his usual breakfast of pit-bull
pituitary glands with milk and sugar when three doberman-sized
lizards crash through a window.

[Hm. These chapters are oddly non-linear, even though, by
this time, I knew where it was all going. I'm not trying to be
avant-garde -- I jettisoned that useless pretension along with
others I picked up during my largely useless college years -- I'm
experimental, yes, but avant-garde? What I look like, a French
military officer?

[I'm just trying to be amusing. If I actually tried to be
avant-garde, your brain would explode, and your chromosomes would
fracture beyond all recognition.

[Be glad that I just want to do is entertain you. Sinister
laughter. Fade to black.]

CHAPTER 26: SOMETIMES THE STATIC IS THE SIGNAL

The oversized lizards close in on the Speaker of the House's
microwave-safe bowl of pit-bull pituitary glands. His pale,
pudgy hands suddenly grow into huge, razor-sharp claws, to go
along with five-inch, outward-curving canine teeth that he uses
to defend his precious brain-food.

There's a lot of static in these signals.

FLASH! It was Califia again, her signal was full of static,
too -- was she still in Nigeria? DON'T WORRY. RELAX. SOMETIMES
THAT STATIC IS JUST AS IMPORTANT AS THE SIGNAL. SOMETIMES THE
STATIC IS THE SIGNAL.

Just what I need, an in-your-face, online, blackwoman zen master.

I LOVE YOU TOO, FLASH, YOU CYBERGREASER, YOU!
O-DA-LAY, O- DA-LAY!

The saguaros faded in and giggled in chorus.

More from Washington: Freshman congressmen get together to
write a bill that would make masturbation a federal offense.
They all claim never to have masturbated, except for one, who
admits to trying it in college, but claims he stopped before
reaching orgasm.

Back in Global Delights, in my body: My knees buckle.

Vampiko and Lalaita hold me up. A question from the audience:
"Does the Krell chip help in avoiding unfair, restrictive laws?"

I laugh. The saguaros laugh. The Undernet laughs. With
static. Lots and lots of static.

YES, FLASH, says Califia. IT IS FUNNY. VERY FUNNY. AND IT
WILL GET FUNNIER. SOON.

Free! Self-replicating televoodoo software. Compatible
with most operating systems. Extremely destructive. Get yours
today! Fun! Fun! Fun!

"Do you feel that having more access to information has
increased your control over your own life?"

I start to laugh, but something cuts me off, and I say, "Not
yet -- but, it will soon."

Soon? But when?

DAMNEAR NOW, FLASH, said Califia. YOU HAVE THE POWER.
YOU'VE HAD IT ALL ALONG.

What, all I gotta do is click my heels together three times
and say, "There's no place like home?"

ALMOST. REMEMBER TECHNOLOGY IS JUST A TOOL.
USE IT. TAKE CONTROL.

Our new, smaller rectal nuclear devices can get past state-
of-the-art weapons detection systems, making nuclear terrorism
possible for even low-budget, independent translegal organizations.
But how? Uh . . . Oh wow!

[The problem with America in the Ninties is that we've
managed to filter out our static -- and that was a mistake.

[Even when Hollywood tries to do sleaze these days, it
suffers from lack of static, and ends up like an endless
procession of bone-dry, perfumed vaginas inches from your face,
but you can't touch. We have to import our sleaze from Asia and
Latin America. That static is important -- recover it before
it's too late.

[Also: Have you noticed that we have the three elements
considered essential by exploitation filmmakers to sell the
product to the youth market? There all over the place:
nudity/sex, authority shown in a bad light, and the ever-popular
destruction of property. Is there an adventurous movie producer
interested in this property?

[We may get that vital static back yet!]

CHAPTER 27: DEFORMITY FOLLOWS DYSFUNCTION

If only I could have seen my "X" scared face at that moment.
Judging by the looks of horror on Vampiko and Lalaita's faces and
the collective gasp from the audience, my expression must have
been something else.

Something went C*L*I*C*K in my brain, in the Krell chip . .

. For a second, the lights, and all power in Global Delights
went off.

For a second, the entire Undernet went offline.

For a second, I was in control. Wow!

CONGRATULATIONS, FLASH, YOU DID IT, said Califia.

I was aware of what was on all the computer monitors in the
building, and could affect them. The cockroaches danced to my tune.

Broadcast TV feed: A popular right-wing talk show host is
disturbed by digital insect images clogging his laptop screen,
suspecting liberal sabotage, he turns it off, and changes into a
giant cockroach. The studio audience is overcome with lust,
scar-covered, erect penises spring out of the tailored pants, and
from under modest dresses (all "female" audience members being
transvestites due to the host's unfortunate allergy to estrogen)
and soon break through the cockroach's carapace as he screams,
"It pays to sodomize!"

I accessed the p.a. system, and sounded like an electronic
god: "IT'S BETTER THAN YOU CAN IMAGINE. I MAY NEED A NEW
HYPOTHALAMUS TO HANDLE IT. YOU AIN'T SEEN NOTHING YET! WATCH THIS . . ."

I took control of the lighting system, and dazzled them with
flashing light and color.

Cable feed: A famous televangelist suddenly grows pale,
breaks out in heavy sweat, and masturbates live, and on the air.
Afterwards he wipes the semen off his pudgy face, cries, and
says, "The Lord made me do that. Send money -- lots of it, or
He'll make me do it again."

It was all getting too good to keep to myself. I patched my
Undernet scans into the p.a. system.

"What are you doing?" Vampiko looked deeply disturbed.

"Giving them what they asked for," I said.

"Dios mio!" said Lalaita.

"MAYAN REVOLUTIONARIES HOLDING AN AUCTION FOR VIRUSES BASED
ON NEWLY TRANSLATED HIEROGLYPHICS NEAR THE RUINS OF PALENQUE."

Weapons systems were fired up all over the building. I
overrode them.

Then individuals drew their sidearms -- which I couldn't control.

[Yeah, yeah, taking control. Right on, like we used to day
back in the olde daze.

[Only one thing, when it comes to BF, and many other things
in my life, I am not in control. I'm like a zombie surrealist,
smiling while I do a dance, only I don't know what the next step
will be. Like:

[Mayan revolutionaries: the later-day Zapatistas who are,
as the ancient Mayan philosophers would put it, picking up the
burden of time. I plead not guilty, your honor -- yes, I have
been to Chiapas, where hearing a Mayan dialect spoken in the
streets of Palenque (the town, not the nearby ruins) changed my
life, but then, every time I cross the border into Mexico, it
changes my life. Crossing borders is hallucinogenic, and
addictive, so passing laws against it won't do any good. I never
met Subcommandante Marcos, but yes, Federico Schaffler did
publish an enthusiastic review of my novel High Aztech in
Umbrales: Revista Mexicana de Ciencia Ficci¢n y Fantasia about
nine months before the revolution. Yes, the hero of the novel
was named Zapata, but that's probably just a coincidence.

[Or maybe I'm a Zapatista without knowing or trying -- how
should I know?]

CHAPTER 28: NEVER TURN YOUR BACK ON YOUR BRAIN

My reflexes approached the speed of light. Grabbing Vampiko
and Lalaita, I has us on the floor a few nanoseconds before the
bullets whizzed by. If it wasn't for the chip we'd all be dead.

Then the chip fed it to me: Krell. Brainboost. Monsters
from the Id. They're from an old, cornball sci-fi movie that my
parents always got a kick out of. Forbidden Planet. Oh no!
Could my parents be in on it?

"Let's get out of here!" said Vampiko, who split her lip
with a fang. Blood dribbled down her chin. Somehow, it looked right.

"Never turn your back on your brain," said my mother's
voice, " -- you never know who or what's in there with you." It
was years ago. I was in my underwear watching MTV. She was in
protective gear that looked like a spacesuit. My father was in
another room, howling like a wolf. Overhead, helicopters slashed
the night sky with their searchlights.

"This way," said Lalaita, pulling on my wrist.

A saguaro waved an AK-47, said, "Remember, your mind isn't
the only thing going on in your brain," then sprayed a pockmarked
Sicilian and a scarified Nigerian who locked in hands-on-throats
dance of death with bullets.

Suddenly, I was on my feet, Vampiko and Lalaita had me by
the arms . . . From the Undernet: Haiti-trained mind-control
technician with CIA and Hollywood experience seeks high-paying
translegal work. Can even make a famous televangelist masturbate
on the air. Yes . . . it's still ticking . . .

"Mon dieu," said Vampiko, "what a mess."

"Yes," said Lalaita, "it is a good thing that these thugs
paid up in advance, no?"

There was chaos all around, inside and out of my throbbing
head: EMERGENCY! The tattooing around the wrist of a yakuza as
he used his wakazashi to slash open the tailored suit of an
effeminate, mestizo narcotraficante all the way down to the
spleen. EMERGENCY! Several on-the-take LAPD officers
mercilessly beat an unidentified black man. REENCRYPT ALL
SYSTEMS! A cute, little Filipina with large plastic breasts
reached over and cut the penis off blue-eyed All-American boy.
CLOSE ALL COMEONS! A gang of homeboys mercilessly beat a man
with long, blonde hair. RELEASE DEFENSIVE VIRUSES! Troops in
strange, unmarked uniforms appeared out of the shadows, and
randomly opened up with automatic weapons. EMERGENCY! The
Undernet flashed me the logistics on an air battle between
several brightly painted Cruise missiles, four antique Huey Cobra
attack helicopters, and a huge cargo copter of some unknown make.
EMERGENCY! It was taking place just right over my head.

[Okay, okay, Gia. I did it. I used that "never turn your
back on your brain" line. Now, go forth and inspire others, like
a good goddess-in-progress.

[I keep mentioning Nigeria don't I? Another impressive
thing about that country is that the gods of the Yoruba tribe
(a.k.a., the loa in Haiti, the orix in Brazil, and they often
use the names and images of Catholic saints in the Caribbean and
Norteamerica) who hitched rides on slave ships, and established
themselves in las Am‚ricas via the reverse-osmosis side of
imperialism, despite campaigns by religions and governments to
wipe them out. They are the spiritual force behind voodoo. They
invented rock&roll. They are probably hanging out in your brain
right now.

[You never do know who or what is in there with you.
[Mestizo means "mix." It's used to mean people of more than
one racial background -- like me. Mestizos know that more than
one race can exist in one family, and even one person, that the
human race is a continuum. Mestizo genetics is a truth that
civilization tries to suppress.]

CHAPTER 29: CIVILIZATION IS AN UNNATURAL ACT

TRUST NO ONE! Cars parked in strategic locations around
Global Delights exploded. SHOOT TO KILL! Blood from a severed
artery splashed me in the eyes -- I wondered if I would need an
AIDS test. NO PRISONERS! The chip informed me that it wouldn't
be necessary. YOU KNEW THE JOB WAS DANGEROUS WHEN YOU TOOK IT!
Something hot brushed my ear, which became warm and wet. I ENVY
YOU! Giant cockroaches sodomized, devoured flesh, and shorted-
out virtual reality remotes. I REALLY DO! Reptiles bit of
fiber-optic cables and chewed on satellite and microwave dishes.
YOU ARE THE FUTURE! A coyote walked in carrying a laptop in its
teeth, put it down, popped the top, and started typing with its
nose. AND SUCH A BRIGHT FUTURE!

I couldn't keep up with it. "Where am I?" I screamed.

"Where would you like to be?" asked the chip.

"My body would be nice."

My consciousness then sped through the Undernet.
Occasionally, a saguaro would wave. Digital chaos danced around
the world.

DON'T WORRY, FLASH, said Califia. JUST KEEP DOING IT.

Uh . . . doing what?

My eyes opened. I was being pulled into the gaping cargo
port of a huge clunky-looking helicopter that the chip couldn't
identify for me. Vampiko and Lalaita held me up. Doc and Obie
were shooting random bursts from customized assault rifles with
infared sights and laser aimpoints.

And of course Califia was there, in a gravity-defying Carmen
Miranda-style headdress that bristled electronic devices instead
of tropical fruit -- rays shot out of her goggles, making nervous
systems and electronic circuitry overload. She was the ultimate
sci-fi televoodooistic goddess of doom -- complete with a skirt
of lion tails and coconut shell breastplates. Her hips gyrated
to some unknown polyrhythm.

Undernet blip: The revolution will not be televised. It
will not be online. It will be live. In the street. When the
street finds its own use for technology . . ."

". . . but, what happens when nature finds its own use for
technology?" said the saguaro from inside my head.

The helicopter's door thudded shut. Califia, Vampiko, Doc,
and Obie breathed sighs of relief.

Lalaita adjusted her/his implants and said, "Ay!
Civilization is an unnatural act -- look it up in the dictionary
sometime!"

The helicopter then took off.

Who's flying this thing? I wondered.

"Why, you are," said the chip.

[Funny how people go around using words without realizing
what they mean. I guess that's why Quetzalcoatl invented dictionaries.

[So you think you're civilized? Snicker-snicker!
[Some people want to get back to nature, others want to
escape it. You can't do either. We are nature.

[Just who's flying this thing, anyway?]

CHAPTER 30: STEAL THIS FADEOUT

The Krell chip must have been malfunctioning.

"What do you mean, I'm doing it?" I said out loud. "I can't
fly a helicopter! I'm not even anywhere near the controls!"

Saguaros giggled out of cyberspace.

"With the chip you can do it with half your brain tied
behind your back," Califia said as she removed the televoodoo war
helmet, her obsidian eyes flashing like supernovae.

"Your mind isn't the only thing going on in your brain,"
Obie put his arms around her, "especially with you, now."

"The technology now obeys you." Vampiko leaned into me,
flattening out her implants.

"I'm not sure where I end and the technology begins," I said
taking hold of her for comfort.

"First you get a chip in your brain," Doc said as Lalaita
discreetly swallowed and zipped up his fly for him, " then MTV
does Dead at 21, in which their kid with a chip in his brain
thinks someone's ripping off his life and making it into a comic
book," "Maybe it's the wave of the future," said Obie, "the
world filling up with kids with chips in their brains, running
for their lives."

"That new black magic's got me in its spell" Lalaita sang
as Doc gnawed on her shoulder.

"Maybe I should sue somebody." My hand was swallowed by
Vampiko's artificial paradise. The chip rattled off entities
that I could sue.

Obie took his tongue out from the hole in Califia's
stretched-out ear lobe. "Don't bother with governments -- they
aren't in control any more."

"They haven't been for a long time." Califia smiled. She
obviously had her teeth filed to points in Nigeria.

"There are more things on heaven and earth than talked about
on the Internet," Vampiko whispered, her fangs brushing my ear.
I noticed that high above us, a spy satellite was tracking
me. Reaching through the chip, I turned off its stabilizers, and
could soon see it flaming past a porthole, disintegrating high
over Phoenix. With this I didn't need virtual reality. Like my
father once told me: "The street can be cyberspace for people
who have lives."

And did I ever have a life now.

"This is serious brainpan fallout," I said.

"Just what is brainpan fallout, anyway?" asked Vampiko.

"It's what's left after you blow your mind," I said.

"A tasty world," said the chip.

Nearby, saguaros giggled.

END/BEGINNING

[Dead at 21 came out almost a year after BF went online via FaxMO. It died before I could accuse them of ripping me off. Now I have to explain it with a footnote. Maybe they forgot to feed the loas.

[END/BEGINNING? I see some possibilities . . .]

AFTERWORD: Whew! It was weird, it was fun. It still hasn't made me any money, (this writing: 7 March 1995) but I'm working on it. It has gotten my name and style out there. The writer's block and depression are history. Maybe soon I can convince those fools in Nueva York that my audience is more than a vocal minority, and is growing every day, and how can I be expected to control bomb-throwing maniacs who want to read my next novel?

We're still jumping media viral-style. As I finished the original text, The Red Dog Journal was going online on the World Wide Web. It's amazing seeing how goes. Who knows where it will end?

I'm still not connected to the Internet, but Barnes and Reddog are working on it. As it is, I'm rude on the phone, and it takes me forever to answer snailmail -- I expect that I'll be sending out a lot of e-mail announcements of my death, assassination, kidnapping, disappearance, or just plain got other things to do. Things have changed, I do spend time at place with names like Chuy's trying not to spill beer or salsa on the disks I'm handing over ("This is like one of your stories," said Barnes), but I'm still a part-time janitor to pay the rent, and I ain't got time for no jacking off into the matrix!

[Stop the presses! The Papa Legba has made it possible for Emily and I too quit the janitor gigs! This writing: 19 April 1994.]

Reading BF, I'm amazed at how coherent it all is. The writer in me, I guess. I still don't advise reading the whole damn thing in one sitting -- for your sanity's sake.

The novelist in me sees missed opportunities caused by the condensed format, great subplots, details, and nuances that I could develop into Brainpan Fallout: The Novel if someone would just give me the chance. I'm talking a fat cash advance to buy the time, and energy. Information may want to be free, but food has other ideas. And it would be so nice if people paid for me to do something other than cleaning toilets.

I also could see doing the further adventures of Flash & co. The world around me is strange and inspiring. Phoenix is becoming Boomtown USA for the turn of the century. There's a lot people doing weird and interesting things these days, and I seem to know a lot of them.

Meanwhile, what we all have to do is sit back and see how this virus travels and mutates. Yes, it's taken on a life of it's own. I'm only along for the ride.

Seems that I've become a sort of mad scientist after all . .

END

Begin again