There’s white magic, and bad rock’n’roll,
Your friend there says, he's the gatekeeper to my soul
~ Go-betweens ‘The House Jack Kerouac Built’ 1987
Your friend there says, he's the gatekeeper to my soul
~ Go-betweens ‘The House Jack Kerouac Built’ 1987
Alec drives the Sporter to the upper outskirts of Bigmark; into no-mans-land where the heat seeping up from the Bunker below dried the surface back to mesa-red.
He can’t resist taking the vehicle off-track for a brief dusty broadside, an act which elicits a bark from Daniel, back in full soldier mode.
Up and around they wind to where the semi-circular gate looms, the covering arch dug horizontally into the slope like an eyebrow on a surprised eye.
As they approach, the gate’s sentinal fires up; all Halloween blue and techno bristling.
Alec stops the Sporter at the automated entry box and Peye makes a Hollywood exit from the left wing-door.
“Peye Ellis-Winston” she says, bent 90 degrees into the protruding microphone.
She submits to visual, retinal, fingerprint and DNA scan at the interface.
The sentinal expands its bristling perimeter to include the entry box and the Sporter before removing the barrier between them and the gate. After a pausing to allow Peye back aboard, it overrides Alec and guides the vehicle towards the semi-circular gate, a slowly irising spiral of tortoiseshell in the headlights.
Once inside with gate spiralled closed behind them, the sentinal relinquishes control of the Sporter.
Alec looks back through the interior at the insides of the gate, all hollowed out and mechanically articulated where the outside had been smooth and unadorned.
Daniel’s grinding his teeth, audibly.
The boys are quiet in the back row.
Peye is doing some sort of hissing yoga breathing exercise.
Turning, with one arm arced on the wheel, he guides the Sporter down the spiral concrete tunnel, resisting the urge to gunn it; figuring adrenaline levels are high enough.
Exiting the dizzying downward spiral they pass into the Bunker’s outskirts where the servicers are housed in small blocks of concrete necessity; their security a reward for menial duty. These are the realms of the sold-out; these will not turn on the master as there is no future for them without their proximity to power.
Too soon for Peye, they enter the pristine streets of the Kulturati’s residential haven, she cannot separate her dread from her anticipation.
The quiet streets show no signs of alarm, show no signs of anything. The Tudor façade of her brother’s house is painted orange-white-orange-white by the flashing hazard lights on a security bike parked between the posed-polished cars.
He can’t resist taking the vehicle off-track for a brief dusty broadside, an act which elicits a bark from Daniel, back in full soldier mode.
Up and around they wind to where the semi-circular gate looms, the covering arch dug horizontally into the slope like an eyebrow on a surprised eye.
As they approach, the gate’s sentinal fires up; all Halloween blue and techno bristling.
Alec stops the Sporter at the automated entry box and Peye makes a Hollywood exit from the left wing-door.
“Peye Ellis-Winston” she says, bent 90 degrees into the protruding microphone.
She submits to visual, retinal, fingerprint and DNA scan at the interface.
The sentinal expands its bristling perimeter to include the entry box and the Sporter before removing the barrier between them and the gate. After a pausing to allow Peye back aboard, it overrides Alec and guides the vehicle towards the semi-circular gate, a slowly irising spiral of tortoiseshell in the headlights.
Once inside with gate spiralled closed behind them, the sentinal relinquishes control of the Sporter.
Alec looks back through the interior at the insides of the gate, all hollowed out and mechanically articulated where the outside had been smooth and unadorned.
Daniel’s grinding his teeth, audibly.
The boys are quiet in the back row.
Peye is doing some sort of hissing yoga breathing exercise.
Turning, with one arm arced on the wheel, he guides the Sporter down the spiral concrete tunnel, resisting the urge to gunn it; figuring adrenaline levels are high enough.
Exiting the dizzying downward spiral they pass into the Bunker’s outskirts where the servicers are housed in small blocks of concrete necessity; their security a reward for menial duty. These are the realms of the sold-out; these will not turn on the master as there is no future for them without their proximity to power.
Too soon for Peye, they enter the pristine streets of the Kulturati’s residential haven, she cannot separate her dread from her anticipation.
The quiet streets show no signs of alarm, show no signs of anything. The Tudor façade of her brother’s house is painted orange-white-orange-white by the flashing hazard lights on a security bike parked between the posed-polished cars.
| Go-betweens | ||
| The House Jack Kerouac Built | ||
No comments:
Post a Comment