GC Waldrep
PORK TOY PLOY, or AT THE CITY-CITY
LOUNGE
FONT DETECTIVE. or FINE CHOCOLATES OF THE
MOJAVE
ELEGY FOR THE WAKING POOR, or HOUSE TO BE LIVED IN
DURING EARTHQUAKES ONLY
THE SAN FRANCISCO MIME TROUPE DISASTER, or AS AT VICKSBURG, SO AT
TYRE
AT THE CITY-CITY
LOUNGE
Demiurge vs.
Plutobot: who would win? Plutobot isn't sure. Slouched on his master's divan he
studies the graceful titanium arches of his shins, the silicate crescents of
his toes. All thirty-six of
them. Soon the Demiurge's
entourage will arrive. Will his
master expect him to greet them?
Serve them drinks? Plutobot
picks up an expensive Manchurian figurine with one of his seven wings and
crushes it, slowly, to dust. He'll
tell his master the Demiurge stole it, or one of the Demiurge's minions. Retainers, he corrects
himself. Dogsbodies, hisses a voice inside
his head. Plutobot sags
further. He is not supposed to
hear voices inside his head. He
wonders where his master is. He
wonders when his master will return.
He likes to think of where his master lives as a house, but really it's not a
proper house at all.
FINE CHOCOLATES OF THE
MOJAVE
Metaphor casts her fleecy
net over most of Ecuador this time and captures Plutobot. Plutobot is resigned. He saw this coming. He wonders whether he is a symbol, or merely a trope. He scratches his titanium calf with one
of his seven wings. Metaphor has
been hiding in the forest lately, shaking out the dust from her surrogate
laundry with such force that the stars twinkle even when vast clouds of rowdy
angels and free-floating stigmata otherwise veil the firmament. Plutobot stands very still. It's possible Metaphor will not
recognize him for what he is. It's
possible Metaphor has other designs on Ecuador entirely. From the forest he hears a girlish
giggle. Privately Plutobot thinks
Metaphor is pretty sappy, as far as gods go. The Ecuadoreans would do better with something more
proletarian, something useful—like Nelson Algren, the patron deity of
leather wallets and new shoes.
Plutobot feels a tug on the net and begins to walk toward the forest,
slowly. He sighs. There's no use hurrying. The errand he'd been sent on has long
since vanished from his circuitry.
Perhaps Metaphor will take him dancing in the bee-loud glade, or to a
movie. Something that doesn't
involve conversation.
Something with a more predictable rate of exchange.
HOUSE TO BE LIVED IN
DURING EARTHQUAKES ONLY
Plutobot is playing
checkers with Cassandra.
Theoretically he has math on his side, but since she can predict his
moves this isn't the advantage it should be. She watches him moodily, picks at a scab on her elbow. Her hair is up and covered with mylar
netting. She hasn't been the
same since another actress played her in that feature film about warlocks. Plutobot makes a move but keeps his
wingtip on the piece, then moves it back.
Cassandra rolls her eyes.
She knew he was going to do that.
"I knew you were going to do that," she says. Plutobot shrugs. He didn't make the rules. Soon the minions of morning will be
blasting their platinum trumpets outside the parliament of disabled
expectations. Inside of which sits
Autobot. Plutobot hasn't seen
Autobot in years. Reaching forward
suddenly, Plutobot accidentally knocks most of the checkers off the board with
his wing. Cassandra groans, bends
down, begins picking up the pieces.
She had it coming, Plutobot thinks. All that nonsense about passion and charity, all that
Latin. All that thuggery at Troy.
THE SAN FRANCISCO MIME
TROUPE DISASTER, or
AS AT VICKSBURG, SO AT
TYRE
Mystery loves company
and company loves Plutobot, which in practice means Plutobot is forced to
attend many more bad dinner theater productions than the statistical
everyman. In this one, Cassandra
plays a dwarf who has stolen his master's enchanted harp. There are long, mournful soliloquies
about fate, rage, and death. At
least she doesn't have any trouble remembering her lines, Plutobot thinks,
picking at the remains of a porkchop on his golden plate. All around him, company is making
appreciative noises, drinking cognac, settling back into the upholstered
chairs. Cassandra, hunched over
and dressed in a stained green cloak that doesn't quite hide her golden hair,
wails to the gods or else the rafters, Plutobot isn't sure which. He can't make out her words. It seemed to him, a while ago, that the
dwarf's master's wife was slated for a tragic, pre-emptive demise, but here she
is now, in full costume, serving the sorbet. Plutobot looks around. The room doesn't seem to have any
external windows or doors. He
can't remember how he came to be here in the first place, much less how he is
going to leave when the production is over. A few yards away, Cassandra kneels in her cloak and beats
her fists against the dais. Maybe
it's never going to end, Plutobot thinks.
The actuarial odds are against this, but physics allows for it. All around him, company is digging
appreciatively into the sorbets.
Plutobot tests his spoon against his, watches small flames erupt, smells
brimstone. Both the diners and the
performers begin to applaud.