mouth. Oh, Daddy Cool.
I take one look at this guy and I know just who he is. My generation, you know, we never fought a war. We grew up watching disasters on TV and worrying about our clothes. This guy is sitting there and he’s holding his face so that we can see he’s got killer cheekbones. The guy’s probably eighty and he’s worried about his looks.
And of course he’s got a manifesto. He croaks it at me, in this real weird voice, until I figure out it’s been recognition-masked. No voiceprint. It makes him sound like he’s talking underwater.
“You sniff money on old people, and just because we can’t run and can’t hurt you back you strip us naked. You leave us in cold-water flats and shut us up in expensive prisons you call Homes. You don’t pay us the pensions you promised. When we get sick, you tell us our insurance that we paid for all our lives doesn’t cover the cost of care. You want us to die. So. We’ll die. And we’ll take everything from you when we go.”
You want to know the spookiest thing of all? I know where he’s coming from. I know exactly what Silhouette means.
“Age Rage,” he says and clenches a fist.
So the next day I’m back down in the bar with Gus. I got Jazzanova with me like he’s my good-luck charm. Gus has his squeeze Mandy. Mandy used to be a lap dancer. She’s still got a body, I can tell you.
She’s also got a mouth and the brains to use it. Her cover is that she used to be in property development. Well yeah maybe. A certain kind of old babe has the hardest eyes you’ll ever see.
Mandy says, “The trouble with that scum is they’ll turn the heat up on all of us.”
“Yup,” says Gus. “We’ll end up on the street.”
“I’ll take Curtis with me,” I promise. “I got evidence on the guy.”
Mandy’s not impressed. “Good! You can share the same cardboard box. Hope it makes you feel better.” We’re too old for fear. We just turn our backs on it. If we get the fear at all, it takes us over and our legs don’t work and we go little and frail and old. So we got to be like old dried leather. It used to be soft, but now it’s as hard as stone.
The Good Fairies sit listening. They are as cerebral as fuck. I mean these guys are the only people I know who can tell their genitals what to do. They got married fifty years ago and they’ve only fucked each other since. I blame AIDs.
The Good Fairies sometimes talk in unison. It’s like twins who’ve been locked up in the same closet since they were born. “We have to take out Silhouette.”
Beat, as we cogitate. True. Beat. Us? Beat.
Then we all start roaring with laughter. Mandy coughs like a dog with its vocal chords cut out. Gus squeaks. I know I sound like gravel being milled. Jazzanova stares into outer space, and doesn’t want to be left out, so he laughs at the strip lighting and then he swallows a chip off the table edge, thinking it’s a pill.
Mandy is barking. “The Neurobics Crew!”
The Good Fairies sit holding hands, sipping their cigarettes, and they don’t move a muscle.
Fairy One says, real calm, “It’ll be real funny inside that cardboard box.”
“ ’Specially when it rains,” says the other. This guy is five foot two with a dorky beard. He looks like a failed Drag King, but he calls himself Thug, which has to be some kind of joke.
“Yeah, but you guys,” says Mandy. “I can hear where you’re coming from, but what are you going to DO?”
Fairy One calls himself JoJo, but I bet he’s really called George, and he says, “We ask him to stop.”
“Oh yeah? Sure!”
“His position doesn’t make sense. He says he does it because he’s old. But it is the old he’s hurting.”
Mandy shakes her head. “He’s in it for the money.”
Thug disagrees. “He’s in it for the showbiz. Money won’t be enough.”
JoJo says, “We show him how to get on TV and say something that makes sense for a change. I’m sure that most of us have something to say on
I take one look at this guy and I know just who he is. My generation, you know, we never fought a war. We grew up watching disasters on TV and worrying about our clothes. This guy is sitting there and he’s holding his face so that we can see he’s got killer cheekbones. The guy’s probably eighty and he’s worried about his looks.
And of course he’s got a manifesto. He croaks it at me, in this real weird voice, until I figure out it’s been recognition-masked. No voiceprint. It makes him sound like he’s talking underwater.
“You sniff money on old people, and just because we can’t run and can’t hurt you back you strip us naked. You leave us in cold-water flats and shut us up in expensive prisons you call Homes. You don’t pay us the pensions you promised. When we get sick, you tell us our insurance that we paid for all our lives doesn’t cover the cost of care. You want us to die. So. We’ll die. And we’ll take everything from you when we go.”
You want to know the spookiest thing of all? I know where he’s coming from. I know exactly what Silhouette means.
“Age Rage,” he says and clenches a fist.
So the next day I’m back down in the bar with Gus. I got Jazzanova with me like he’s my good-luck charm. Gus has his squeeze Mandy. Mandy used to be a lap dancer. She’s still got a body, I can tell you.
She’s also got a mouth and the brains to use it. Her cover is that she used to be in property development. Well yeah maybe. A certain kind of old babe has the hardest eyes you’ll ever see.
Mandy says, “The trouble with that scum is they’ll turn the heat up on all of us.”
“Yup,” says Gus. “We’ll end up on the street.”
“I’ll take Curtis with me,” I promise. “I got evidence on the guy.”
Mandy’s not impressed. “Good! You can share the same cardboard box. Hope it makes you feel better.” We’re too old for fear. We just turn our backs on it. If we get the fear at all, it takes us over and our legs don’t work and we go little and frail and old. So we got to be like old dried leather. It used to be soft, but now it’s as hard as stone.
The Good Fairies sit listening. They are as cerebral as fuck. I mean these guys are the only people I know who can tell their genitals what to do. They got married fifty years ago and they’ve only fucked each other since. I blame AIDs.
The Good Fairies sometimes talk in unison. It’s like twins who’ve been locked up in the same closet since they were born. “We have to take out Silhouette.”
Beat, as we cogitate. True. Beat. Us? Beat.
Then we all start roaring with laughter. Mandy coughs like a dog with its vocal chords cut out. Gus squeaks. I know I sound like gravel being milled. Jazzanova stares into outer space, and doesn’t want to be left out, so he laughs at the strip lighting and then he swallows a chip off the table edge, thinking it’s a pill.
Mandy is barking. “The Neurobics Crew!”
The Good Fairies sit holding hands, sipping their cigarettes, and they don’t move a muscle.
Fairy One says, real calm, “It’ll be real funny inside that cardboard box.”
“ ’Specially when it rains,” says the other. This guy is five foot two with a dorky beard. He looks like a failed Drag King, but he calls himself Thug, which has to be some kind of joke.
“Yeah, but you guys,” says Mandy. “I can hear where you’re coming from, but what are you going to DO?”
Fairy One calls himself JoJo, but I bet he’s really called George, and he says, “We ask him to stop.”
“Oh yeah? Sure!”
“His position doesn’t make sense. He says he does it because he’s old. But it is the old he’s hurting.”
Mandy shakes her head. “He’s in it for the money.”
Thug disagrees. “He’s in it for the showbiz. Money won’t be enough.”
JoJo says, “We show him how to get on TV and say something that makes sense for a change. I’m sure that most of us have something to say on
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