the anti–Charlie Nyx activists. And Lucifer, it turns out.
Karl Grissom was not, by most accounts, the ideal Antichrist. Christian fundamentalists would have preferred someone a little more threatening, and the publisher of the Charlie Nyx books would have preferred someone with substantially less neck stubble. For his part, Karl would have preferred someone else to have been selected as well, because he felt that he had better things to do.
Karl would bristle at the suggestion, occasionally made by neighbors and his mother's canasta circle, that he was just an un-motivated loser living in his mother's attic. Karl had ambitions. Karl was a musician .
This claim would have surprised everyone who had ever met Karl (including his mother), as Karl didn't play any instruments, had never learned to read music, and didn't own any albums. He did, however, have a library of 26,923 illegally downloaded songs on his computer, and he had thus far incorporated samples from 327 of them into an epic rock opera he was writing entitled Shakkara the Dragonslayer . He had been working on it for seventeen years, although his first real breakthrough hadn't occurred until the release of Flat Pack's dance remix of "Sweet Child o' Mine."
All of this Antichrist stuff was, in Karl's opinion, a big distraction from his art. He was getting very close to calling it quits with the whole business. If it weren't for the free publicity, he'd never have agreed in the first place. His mother was thrilled with the money he had won, but Karl never paid much attention to financial matters. He had never wanted to win the contest; he had been hoping to be one of the runners-up who got ten grand and an autographed copy of the latest Charlie Nyx book.
Karl finally got the costume on, except for the helmet, and plodded downstairs to the kitchen, where his mother waited.
"People are counting on you, Karl."
"Whatever," Karl said. Like his mother gave a crap about other people. All she cared about was maintaining the steady stream of checks that Karl signed over to her. He got in his mother's Saturn and drove to the Charlie's Grill in Lodi, where the fans of Charlie Nyx waited impatiently for the Antichrist to appear.
TEN
"Natural gas explosion."
"Excuse me?"
"That's what they'll blame it on. The authorities."
Christine tried to sigh, but it came out as a series of short huffs. Her knuckles were white on the steering wheel. They were on the highway, heading east. She was vaguely aware that she was going the wrong direction; she would need to head south at her first opportunity to get on a highway that would take her back to Los Angeles. She wasn't sure what she'd do when she got back to Southern California; some small part of her was trying to pretend that she could leave all of this insanity behind her in Berkeley. That illusion would be easier to entertain, of course, if the cherubic lunatic weren't sitting next to her, fiddling with the radio. Mercury had simply gotten into the car, without even bothering to ask for permission. She had been too shaken to make an issue of it.
"You have no idea how much divine retribution is blamed on natural gas explosions," Mercury was saying. "It's criminal, really. Natural gas is quite safe, generally speaking."
"Natural gas explosion. . ." Christine mumbled, trying to air-brush the image in her mind until that caption fit. But every time she replayed the scene, the fire always started out above the house.
"Should have gotten a Mundanity Enhancement Field. A pillar of fire won't work in an MEF. Disrupts the interplanar energy channels. Of course, my card tricks wouldn't work either." He sighed. "The interplanar energy channels are a harsh mistress." He finally took his hand off the radio's tuner knob, having settled on Dishwalla's "Counting Blue Cars." "Ooh, I love this song," he said.
"You. . .blew up. . .that house. . ." sputtered Christine. It was a series of unconnected thoughts that had somehow come out as
Karl Grissom was not, by most accounts, the ideal Antichrist. Christian fundamentalists would have preferred someone a little more threatening, and the publisher of the Charlie Nyx books would have preferred someone with substantially less neck stubble. For his part, Karl would have preferred someone else to have been selected as well, because he felt that he had better things to do.
Karl would bristle at the suggestion, occasionally made by neighbors and his mother's canasta circle, that he was just an un-motivated loser living in his mother's attic. Karl had ambitions. Karl was a musician .
This claim would have surprised everyone who had ever met Karl (including his mother), as Karl didn't play any instruments, had never learned to read music, and didn't own any albums. He did, however, have a library of 26,923 illegally downloaded songs on his computer, and he had thus far incorporated samples from 327 of them into an epic rock opera he was writing entitled Shakkara the Dragonslayer . He had been working on it for seventeen years, although his first real breakthrough hadn't occurred until the release of Flat Pack's dance remix of "Sweet Child o' Mine."
All of this Antichrist stuff was, in Karl's opinion, a big distraction from his art. He was getting very close to calling it quits with the whole business. If it weren't for the free publicity, he'd never have agreed in the first place. His mother was thrilled with the money he had won, but Karl never paid much attention to financial matters. He had never wanted to win the contest; he had been hoping to be one of the runners-up who got ten grand and an autographed copy of the latest Charlie Nyx book.
Karl finally got the costume on, except for the helmet, and plodded downstairs to the kitchen, where his mother waited.
"People are counting on you, Karl."
"Whatever," Karl said. Like his mother gave a crap about other people. All she cared about was maintaining the steady stream of checks that Karl signed over to her. He got in his mother's Saturn and drove to the Charlie's Grill in Lodi, where the fans of Charlie Nyx waited impatiently for the Antichrist to appear.
TEN
"Natural gas explosion."
"Excuse me?"
"That's what they'll blame it on. The authorities."
Christine tried to sigh, but it came out as a series of short huffs. Her knuckles were white on the steering wheel. They were on the highway, heading east. She was vaguely aware that she was going the wrong direction; she would need to head south at her first opportunity to get on a highway that would take her back to Los Angeles. She wasn't sure what she'd do when she got back to Southern California; some small part of her was trying to pretend that she could leave all of this insanity behind her in Berkeley. That illusion would be easier to entertain, of course, if the cherubic lunatic weren't sitting next to her, fiddling with the radio. Mercury had simply gotten into the car, without even bothering to ask for permission. She had been too shaken to make an issue of it.
"You have no idea how much divine retribution is blamed on natural gas explosions," Mercury was saying. "It's criminal, really. Natural gas is quite safe, generally speaking."
"Natural gas explosion. . ." Christine mumbled, trying to air-brush the image in her mind until that caption fit. But every time she replayed the scene, the fire always started out above the house.
"Should have gotten a Mundanity Enhancement Field. A pillar of fire won't work in an MEF. Disrupts the interplanar energy channels. Of course, my card tricks wouldn't work either." He sighed. "The interplanar energy channels are a harsh mistress." He finally took his hand off the radio's tuner knob, having settled on Dishwalla's "Counting Blue Cars." "Ooh, I love this song," he said.
"You. . .blew up. . .that house. . ." sputtered Christine. It was a series of unconnected thoughts that had somehow come out as
Similar Books
