Jim and the Flims by Rudy Rucker Page A

the pizza. “The house—or the giant snail that lives in the basement—changes the trail every so often. She’s shy. But she likes me, and I can always vibe her out. It’s like I can find her inside my head. She doesn’t like to be totally alone. She likes having a few of us parasites in her shell. And when there’s a party, Ira texts the latest directions to our friends. It’s great—the cops can never find us.” “Soon your snail’s destiny will be fulfilled,” said Weena softly.
    â€œI love these enigmatic scenarios,” said Ira. “Like we’re in an alternate reality game. We’ll move on to the next level, and—will there be a castle?”
    â€œAn enormous castle,” said Weena reassuringly. “It’s shaped like a geranium plant. My friend Charles and I are crafting some remarkable patterns of sound and shape there.”
    Ira opened the back door of the primer-patched panel van. It was rank in there, with weird symbols painted on the inner panels. Hieroglyphs. Skeeves’s van for sure.
    Weena and I squeezed in among the boards and the damp wetsuits. Droog scrambled in, and wormed around to find a comfortable spot.
    Ginnie phoned in the pizza order while Header drove. They were heading for this one particular pizza shop that the surfers liked, a place called Ratt’s. On the way Header made a point of cruising very slowly though the seaside parking lot called Lover’s Bluff.
    â€œWhy do you always go by here, Header?” Ginnie demanded. “This is such a depressing place for me. This is where the Graf got burned.”
    â€œI like to see who’s humping who,” said Header robotically. “I come here with my bro Skeeves. We’re tracking the decline of our generation’s purity. The Graf wasn’t the only one due for a hard lesson.”
    â€œAnd Skeeves lives with you guys right now?” I asked. “In the Whipped Vic? With his golden sarcophagus in your basement?”
    â€œThe mysteries of Skeeves,” said Ira, not directly answering my questions. “He hears voices in his head, and some of us pay a stiff price. Right, Weena?”
    Ira lit up a joint and passed it around, which was fine with me, although it seemed unfamiliar to Weena. I’d never gotten around to offering her any while she’d been at my house.
    â€œOne inhales this smoke?” she asked me, studying the fuming spliff. She looked fully a hundred and thirty years old.
    â€œHush,” I whispered. “Try to act cool.”
    Weena took a toke and had a spasmodic coughing fit that filled the others with glee.
    â€œCan you buy us a keg of beer?” asked Header as he let us out of the van behind Ratt’s. “As long as you’re gonna be our guest. The corner market over there has import brands. We’ll have to buy some cups, too.” He was testing how hard he could push me.
    â€œI’m easy,” I said, letting Droog out of the van too. “Let’s go over to the market and run my card. And then we’ll get the pizza. Weena, why don’t you just rest in the van.”
    For the first time, Header smiled at me. Night had fallen. We were standing in a trapezoidal puddle of light from the pizza shop’s back door, the cooks in white hats visible within. Standing in the pizza glow, I felt that everything was going to be okay. I was a mythic hero, reckless in the face of danger, joyfully abandoned to my fate, and righteously buzzed.
    We scored a keg of Czechvar beer—and Header picked up a little bag of powder from the grotty clerk too, some kind of hard drug. They charged it on my card as if it were a second keg of beer. I was past caring.
    And then we got the pies, piled into the van and drove downtown, sharing another joint. Droog was excited about the pizza—he kept sniffing the boxes and giving me imploring looks.
    When we hit Pacific Avenue, Ginnie began