neuen straßen

“Invalid number, connection not established.” reported the shiny, tiny voice from the box. Should have known, never trust those streetlife buggers in the first place. On the other hand, where was I now, where could I run, where hide? Joey The Junkyard had moved, and his phone with him.

Went to the neo-gibbits later that day, looking for Fierce Franky, for the man often heard word from the old part of town. Since Joey had lived in Newton, I figured he must now reside in Oldton, since his phone hadn't responded to the Newton prefix. Changer de rues... you know the stuff. So, I hit on Franky in that ramshackle junky hideout he calls a “dancefloor emporium of the most refined tastes”. Hit him in the shoulder in fact, though not by purpose. Some cuffed up addict, pale as chalk and her irises frozen, pushed me sideways while heading for the restrooms, shoving me right into the grieving Frank, head dangling low over the bar, eyes fixed on his drink, only inches away from the brim of the cup. That was, before I hit him, of course. Right after, he was pointing his buzzing taser rifle at my frightened face. I slowly raised an eyebrow and held out my hands, “Frankyboy, you look awful, what the heck's happened?”

I knew what had happened, of course, but he dropped the nasty gun and swiveled back to the bar. “Headjob. Damn scientists left a damn screw in my brain. Hurts hell. Gotta drink.”

So I bought him a drink, praying silently that that screw was not stuck where he once kept his memories about Junkyard Joey. He spilled half the drink, gulped down the rest, then tossed the glass back over the bar, screaming. “Damn headjob, damn scientists.”

After a while he turned to face me, “Que fait?”

Said “Got word on Joey the Junkyard boy?”, because I couldn't make sense of what he had said, must be that screw.

Franky's eyes began twitching, reminding me of cogwheels springing into action, “Damn screw, damn, damn screw. Better ask... can't remember the name, you know, that lady with the skunk stole, who believes it's a mink, you know her?”

“Sally?”

“Yeah. Sally.” turning back to the barkeeper, ordering another cup.

“You take care of yourself, Franky. Go see a doctor about that screw, okay?”

He bent back his head, “A doctor? A damn doctor? Rather send me a decent mechanic, I won't ever let another of them white coats open up my brainbox, man. No damn doctor.”

Nodded. Some mechanics down beat street where actually better doctors than most of the lab folks in the body banks uptown.

It was already dark when I left Franky's den, heading further west. The Great International Shopping Mall was the place to meet Sally. The girl had no steady boyfriend, but lots of buddys, and she was said to usually lounge around the mall looking for a pal to pick her up for theatre or disco. I cruised the run-down escalators and glass-paneled elevators for some time before I spotted her sitting on the pole of a bus stop sign. The sign had been hit by a bus or truck and knocked down at a height of about two feet, and Sally sat there, legs crossed, her skunk stole proudly draped around her neck like it was a living pet.

“Hey, Sally. Frank told me... you know Frank? Frank the...”

Plugged out her earphones. I suddenly felt dumb, talking to her jukebox, and quickly glanced around if anybody had noticed.

None had, so “You know Frank The Fierce? He told me you might know where I can find Joey Junkyard... know Joey?”

With a suspicious frown, “Do I know you?”

“Not yet, probably. You know Franky? I know Franky.” and I told her the story about how Fierce Franky had become Screw-loose-Franky, hopefully not for long. Also told her about how he'd nearly burnt me with that horrid looking electro-rifle he had.

At least she giggled.

“So,” I addressed her, stepping sideways and gesturing into the air, “Sidekick Sally, meet... Me. Me, meet Sidekick Sally.”

I quickly gulped down my wide grin when she answered with a sad sigh and broken smile of hers.

“Yeah... Sidekick... Sally.”

Noticing the cell phone she used for a jukebox, I could imagine the endless list of phone numbers she had programmed, with smiley icons for her buddies and a house icon for her parents. But the first number on the list, the one she had saved the small heart icon for, remained empty. She was quite handsome, with a weird taste in clothing, but she had obviously always been one of the girls everybody liked but nobody craved.

I crouched down and looked up at her, “Wanna go to the movies?”

Her face grew bitter, her lips thin, “You don't want to go the movies. You are looking for someone. What was his name.” (Her last sentence actually sounded more like a statement than a question.)

Damn. Neither a Clown nor Romeo be. Said “Joey The Junkyard. I heard he has moved, and his phone with him. I really need to see him.”

She handed me her phone, “Don't know, see if you can find his number.”

I stood up and sat down next to her. From the reflection on the display I could tell that she was shyly watching me browse through the numbers. Maybe that was her way to communicate emotion, some strange sort of exhibitionism. She actually had Joey's number, and since it had a different prefix, I assumed that it must be either his new number, or a very old one. Anyway, I wrote it down, then programmed my own number into her list, giving the entry a question mark icon. She watched silently, chewing on her fingernails.

“Lost my phone, so that number won't be live for a day or two.” I looked up at her. “Am intending to get it back, though.”

When I gave her back the phone, I noticed she had only one single song on her jukebox, “Nea Cama - Diving Down”, a sad piece with lots of violins, drums and self-destructive vocals, at least that's my opinion. The track never ran the charts, but some people I knew liked it, all of them loners.

I stood up, and she picked her earphones.

“Sally.”

She paused, not looking up.

“Nevermind.”

As I walked down Cherub Ave, I felt her eyes following me, music on her mind.

The Big Barn was teeming with laughter when I entered, heading straight for the phone booths near the restrooms. A staggering clown with bloodshot eyes and the air of a whole liquor store about him nearly knocked me off my feet as he made his way to the stage. I finally found a booth with both a working phone and breathable air. Didn't want to have to fight with my stomach while telling Joey about the beating I had received. And the loss of my cell phone, by the way.

I dialed. It beeped.

It cracked, “Hm?”

“Joey?”

“Hm. What? No. Who? Who's there?”

“Me. Joey, are you alright? Hey? Que fait?”

Laughter on the other end of the line, “You been talking to Franky?”

I nodded, “Know a decent mechanic, Joey?”

There was a distant cough, and the rustling of money bills being counted.

“Things will be taken care of, my friend. Do not let Franky's poor luck sadden your thoughts, for soon some screws will be fastened... and some others removed by the way. How hath proceeded your business with the Happy Hippie?”

“Down the drain, man, down the drain.” I carefully touched my neck, even the memory still sending a burst of nausea through my body.

“The drain? What drain? Man, you are talking from a phone booth, aren't you? Where is your phone? Could he please tell me where his most important phone is, the one with my most important triangle code in it?”

“The Crooked Mime... took it from me. A most... unpleasant... experience, believe he me. Most.”

Joey drew his breath.

I continued. “Had one of his brownshirts hit me across the head, last thing I saw was them zapping the Hippie.”

“They made the Happy Hippie unhappy?”

I nodded, which he, by what means ever, seemed to have heard.

“That makes me pretty unhappy, too. And methinks, the Straight Mime also.”

Joey sure knew kinds of people... Anyway, “When I awoke, they had tied me to some trashed leatherette car seat, and from the pain, had also given me quite a beating while I was out. Then The Crooked Mime drew up a shot of dubious contents, and gave me an injection which I'd rather not have a second time in life. Suffice to say that the thought of that juice alone drives the tears to my eyes. And don't ask about my stomach.”

He asked about my stomach, and I doubled over. Last good phone booth gone bad. Didn't matter, people had their own phones, anyway, and the booths were only used by the clowns for business known only to them.

When I was back on the line, still wiping tears and sweat from my face, I heard Joey talking to some folks in his room, word of revenge. Then he noticed I had recovered and spoke into the phone again.

“An ambassador is being sent to the Straight Mime this very moment, and the ants will spy for The Crooked Mimes whereabouts. I have also fixed you a meeting with a doctor of sorts, head for Snookey's and tell the bartender that you are looking for A Doctor Of Sorts.”

“Okay. Will do. Joey... I'm sorry about the code, we really didn't expect that kind of ambush...”

I heard his beard rustle over the phone, not knowing whether he was frowning or grinning.

“Listen. I don't want to get mad about that now. Let's try to get the code back, then we can forget about that unlucky incident, okay? I can always get mad later...”

He hung up.

I hung up.

And went to Snookey's.

The Billiard Café was down century street, and by the time I arrived, two of Joey's ants had run into me and were now crawling about my thalamus, gathering proof.

Snookey's was what I would call a dancefloor emporium of the most refined tastes, in lack of more fitting words. In fact, it had dancing girls with real dresses and umbrellas. People wore top hats and acted polite. My costume included a set of authentic visiting-cards, which I had the Hippie print for me, before he got zapped in ambush. I wrote a message on the backside of the card and passed it to the bartender. A Scarlett came and took my overcoat and top hat, and I walked down to the rooms where they play roulette and cards over big money.

After a couple of minutes, a waiter came with a tray and gave me a cup of coffee, nodding down the hallway to a door marked “Private”, in letters so ornate I could barely read them.

Inside I was greeted by an overwhelming scent of roses, though there were none in the room. It was an old billiard salon, though the bounds had been removed from the table and the pockets filled with gruesome, shiny surgical instruments. The doctor of sorts was a friendly looking elderly man with perfectly combed gray hair.

Looking around, I was about to inquire about how he came to know Joey, but he raised a finger to his lips, then signaled me to finish my cup. Took a lamp and checked my eyes, pressed a spatula on my tongue, and out came The Joey's ants, side by side, marching proudly down the spatula like in a military parade. I had to fight laughing, though I knew pretty well that they only acted like that when they had some information available.

The doctor of sorts carefully carried them to an old gramophone and put them down near the tight end of the golden funnel. Their tiny voices bristled like static electricity, but the man obviously understood, raising an eyebrow now and then and nodding from time to time. After they were finished, a waiter came in and put the spatula on a tray, taking the ants to the lounge.

I was then given a pill and laid on the table, face down. Out of the corner of my eyes, I saw the doctor of sorts put on gloves and pull up a weird looking machine to the table, with lots of bulbs attached to it. I shuddered, but trusted him, having noticed trowel and plummet on a cabinet next to the framed diploma.

During the operation, I lost complete track of time, seconds and minutes fluttering by like moths and butterflies. For a while it felt like it was raining, and all the while tac-tac and the gurgling coughs of that frankensteinian machine. Something ran down my neck, and I kept praying that it was neither blood nor brain tissue dissolving.

When I came to my senses, I was about to enter a bus. Bad time for waking up, especially so because I didn't have the money to pay for the fare. Got out again, scolded by old ladies and their lap dogs, and looked around. A man in military uniform walked up, asking if I needed help. Didn't know whether he was just trying to enlist me, I said “No, no.” and quickly wandered down the road, the direction were most of the traffic went. The bus had gone down there, too, and when I passed the next crossroad, I recognized the street signs. Must be pretty much upstream, somewhere Mr. Toad and Mr. Mole live. Could have burroughed a car, but they were usually out seeing sights, so I didn't bother.

Anyway, some streets further down town I thumbed a ride down central. Driver was a lone young lady. The music was loud, and she was constantly talking, so in order to maintain an air of privacy, I searched my pockets and found a vintage letter. Wondering, I opened it, and a smell of roses wafted through the car, making my host go “uuuhh...” first, and “Oh!” second. She must have been about to throw me out, when I shrugged, grinned and told her that it just was a prescription from a doctor of sorts. She was too puzzled to scream, and for the rest of the ride remained in uncertain silence. I, however, read the note and with growing uneasiness found that the good man had ordered a strict musical diet of violins, the opposite of which was pounding from the radio right now. Was afraid to break her perplexity though, for the car seemed way too new, and she was driving way too fast.

I staggered out in Harlequin Sq., swear words behind me, and felt something she threw hit a mime next to me. Fought my way to a record store across the square, and entered.

Violins. Good.

The gang arrived two hours later. I had convinced the proprietor to play me the pieces the doctor of sorts had prescribed me, and to let me phone Joey. Paid with my shoes, though, so when they arrived, they found me sitting on an ersatz piano stool, head bent back, taking in violins, barefoot. I had finished my treatment half an hour ago, and the shop owner had switched to broaden my mind, regarding old man Bach.

As I lowered my head, I saw The Straight Mime doing the violin act, while one of his troupe started break-dancing to the fugue. The shop owner obviously didn't find any of this enjoyable, and threw one of my boots at the twitching mime. The crew broke out in laughter, a spooky sight, all of them pantomimes.

Outside, Joey's means of transport was waiting, the passenger door open. Back when he had to decide for a vehicle for transport and status, Joey had first opted for a limousine, a black monster of a car, with bar and stereo. But when he learned that they wouldn't install a swivel chair, he had bought an old yellow school bus. Had it painted all black, with the word “junk” like a corporate logo on the back and sides.

And, of course, had a swivel chair installed, on which he was now turning to face me. Took off his sunglasses and his eyes directly shot down to my naked feet.

“One day, you will have to tell me that dark secret of yours, of why you always sell your shoes first.”

Shook his head.

“Because you always bring a new pair when you fetch me.”, as the mimes heaved me into the brand-new neon rubber boots. “Hey, we going sub?”

Joey nodded. Could hear the mimes nodding behind me, too.

He swiveled around and thumbed behind me, “Meet The Straight Mime, man, and his troops.”

Added “And welcome to the future, man. Take off your damn top hat.”

I did, turned and shook hands.

“Konichi-wa.” I had heard of The Straight Mime, and as I faced him, I was grateful to be on his side of the story. His face meant combat. “Konichi-wa.”

Joey lit up a fake cigar and started the briefing.

“The Crooked Mime has doped you with a shot of dubious contents. I have a doctor of sorts analyzing the junk this very moment. Right now, we have to assume that the Crooked one is up to a new scale of biochemical warfare, so beware of any pointy objects you might be assaulted with. Our enemy has enlisted a division of brownshirts and blackboots, so watch out for lead pipes and Lugers, too. The ants have located the secret lab down under the public library. The location is uptown, wasp territory, so we have to be careful. No fire, there might be books. No rayguns, there might be floppy disks. We will not kill any of the brownshirts or blackboots, I don't want this to escalate into politics. You are free to harm, though. With their master race crap, I don't see why we should not hold the whole gene pool responsible for the zapping of the Happy Hippie. He, by the way, is likely to be held somewhere near the laboratory.”

I was surprised, “They didn't set the Hippie free?”

Joey paused and frowned.

“No. I can only speculate that they might be using him to test their weird new chems.”

He grew solemn again.

“Gentlemen, our first priority tonight will be to locate the lab. Two of the straight mimes have opted to accept ants for guidance, these two will lead the way. Once we acquire control of the lab, The Straight Mime will find and rescue the Hippie. Two mimes will guard him, the rest stay with us in the lab. After we take the lab, the Hippie is first priority, second is your cellphone, third is the destruction of the chemical production facilities there. After a long discussion, The Straight Mime and I have agreed not to confront The Crooked Mime this time. The destruction of the lab, and the loss of the triangle code will be sufficient vengeance for the maltreatment of Good People, and we cannot risk an open war while he is on good terms with the blackboots.”

He turned off his cigar, “Any questions?”

Gazing over to the lead coffin that served as an armory, “Weapons?”

Joey looked up in surprise.

“Fists.”

I looked at my hands. Remembering the beating the brownshirts had given me, I had trouble keeping them from shaking.

“No fire on account of books. No rays on account of disks. No projectiles on account of human losses. What's there left, man? It's fists. Best, anyway.”

He put a hand on my shoulder, fixing my gaze. “If he can get hold of a lead pipe, he would be allowed to put it to use, though.”

Shuddered.

Only minutes before sunrise the bus stopped in front of a french café, just opposite the public library. The mimes rolled up the carpet and opened a lid in the bottom of the bus. Joey pulled up the turtle-neck of his pullover, pulled down an eye-patch with a small flashlight in it, grinned self-complacent and vanished downwards. One of the mimes made a walking gesture and formed a hoop with his fingers. I grabbed the replica Kalashnikovs I had finally talked Joey into taking along and jumped. I knew there was a manhole beneath the bus, and I was not in the mood for charades.

I passed Joey his rifle and waited for the mimes to follow. Joey had turned on his eye and was making borg gestures. I didn't know whether to wet my pants in laughter or in fear, and by the time he grew serious, I was chewing my nails.

Two of the mimes stepped forward and popped their tongues out. Joey carefully placed one of his ants on each, and they made their way brainwards. Moments later, they nodded and headed down the sewer drain. Lucky the lab was uptown, the sewers were cleaner than most boarding houses downtown, but they were patrolled by trained rats with taser stingers to keep out hobos and common rats. There was a joke about a large cheese supply down there, which made the rats defend the sewers so vigilantly, but I bet the cheddar smell that sometimes crept up the offtown drains originated from some strong chemical that helped keep the pipes clean. Didn't seem to harm the rats, though, maybe made them smarter, who knows.

Anyway, we had passed a couple of tunnels and drains, and finally found a grating that led down into a storage room smelling of paper and age. We crept down and The Straight Mime peeked through the keyhole.

We stood waiting for several minutes, until, without warning, The Straight Mime silently opened the door and slipped out. Joey peeped through the keyhole and described how there was a security door out there, and a lab guy operating the electronic lock mechanism. The Straight Mime had crept up behind him, silent as a cat, and was bending left and right to avoid being seen. The door finally opened, and the Mime followed the white coat. The door closed behind them, and we were on wait again. I leafed through some of the books, confiscated material by the looks of it and wondered why the door wasn't kept locked.

Suddenly Joey stood up and ushered us out. The sec door was at the end of the corridor, and The Straight Mime was sitting on the floor, his back against one of the metal doors, his feet against the other one. The creaking told me the doors wanted to shut badly, but the mime just sat there, posing as if smoking a cigarette and blowing smoke rings. I shook my head and stepped over him. We were standing in a small elevator, and as the mime finally jumped out of the door, it took us down.

The corridor, into which the elevator spat us was empty. One of the mimes pointed to a door on the right, and Joey boldly kicked it open. The mime slapped his forehead, and I heard Joey whisper out in joy, “Whoa, machines!”

Moments later, he said “Shut your eyes.”

Did.

I noticed the lights growing dim for a moment, then there seemed to be a bright flash of light, then darkness.

“Right-o, open your eyes and start moving.”

We rushed down two more corridors, then arrived at a door with a sign on it, “Lab. Authorized personnel only.” Joey drew his breath, kicked open the door and jumped in, yelling something russian and rattling his gun. I dodged the door and slipped in. There were some folks in white there, obviously still blinded by the sudden flash of light, and cowed by Joey's threats, which, knowing him, he had probably memorized from a movie. He nodded to me, and I yelled “Everybody keep calm and lie down on the floor. This is the last train to...” Luckily, Joey interrupted in his pidgin russian, and the lab folks laid down, folding their hands over the back of their necks. They seemed to know the movies, too. Good, this made things easier, we would have to scream less.

The mimes quickly spread through the lab, The Straight Mime taking two of them with him through a door at the far end, the others beginning to club at the machines and glass tubes. I started searching for the cell phone, while Joey kept the hostages busy.

After a while I heard boots down the corridor. The lab was already smelling of damage, and I still hadn't found the phone. Joey quickly had the hostages get up and escape through one of the other lab doors. He knew the blackboots'd probably shoot anything on sight. We ducked behind the now glowing and melting tables and lab trays. As the door swung open, Joey yelled and fired. I joined him, and by the sound of it, the enemy hastily retreated behind the door. The mimes brought one of the lockers down in front of the door. It could only be seconds before they noticed our guns weren't real.

The first bullets swept the lab, bringing down a shower of powders and fluids.

“Retreat!”

“But I haven't found the phone, yet!”

Joey shook his head. “Forget the phone, we must get the Hippie, first.”

I was about to jump for the backward door, when I heard a drunken revelry through the door. The Happy Hippie crashed in, by the looks of it doped to the brim, arms spread, croaking gospels in full baritone.

Then everything happened so quickly I could only stand and watch. The goon door crashed open, and in jumped The Crooked Mime. He saw the Hippie, swaying like a preacher struck by a vision, and his mouth formed a soundless “YOU!”. Then he spun around, hands pressed to his cheeks. “My lab!”, breaking the silence, “MY LAB!”

As he finished his fourth revolution, he faced The Straight Mime, who had silently entered in the meantime. The Crooked Mime sneered, The Straight Mime put up his hands, as if drawing a knife.

The Crooked mimed a pistol.

The Straight mimed two pistols.

The Crooked mimed a rifle.

The Straight Mime mimed a machine gun and handcuffs.

The Crooked Mime hung his head in defeat. The other mimes quickly searched him and produced my cell phone from his pockets. They tossed me the phone, and I barely caught it, dropping my gun. The Crooked Mime fixed me an angry scowl, then saw my rifle on the floor. His mouth dropped open, I grinned. He slowly turned back to The Straight Mime, who was reading him his rights in sign language. The Crooked one pushed him, then escaped with a backwards flip. Tearing at his invisible handcuffs, he fled through the lab door. There seemed to be some sort of discussion behind the door, while Joey pushed us through one of the other doors. Last thing I heard was The Crooked Mimes enraged voice, “Of course I mean 'Attack!', are you deaf?” Then came the bullets.

It took about half an hour of running, ducking, sneaking and hiding, until we were finally out of that underground hell. Toughest thing was keeping the Happy Hippie silent, who insisted on having met Jesus in his cell down there, and was intent on spreading the good news.

We crept up through the manhole into the bus. Joey dealt out suits and shirts, and gave the Hippie a downer. Minutes later we emerged from the bus and entered the café next to which we were parked. Joey had chosen the location carefully, and the timing was good, too. The café was full of cops having breakfast. They gave us a short glance, but obviously took us for businessmen or mormons, from the act the Hippie was pulling off. We ordered breakfast and took a seat at the window. Joey put up his sunglasses and gave the world outside a wide smile. There were three old-fashioned limousines cruising in front of the café, filled to the brim with brownshirts. Our bus, however, was now flanked by police cars, so they couldn't do anything about it. After a while one of the officers noticed them and got out. The brownshirts quickly drove off, not returning.

I had the first decent breakfast in days, and while The Straight Mime made sure the Happy Hippie was all well and happy again, I sat with Joey and watched him download his triangle code from my phone.

“Hey man, you've got a message on your phone.”

“Changer de telephone... Is the code still ok? Has it been hacked? Are we safe?”

Joey smiled, “We are safe, we are indeed very safe, and so will be the world.”

“You already found a mainframe where you can run it?”

“I have access. Got some codes to hack, but I have access. The world will be safe indeed.”

I glanced over at the police, uneasy about him downloading that code right under their noses.

“This was good work, wasn't it, Joey?”

He reached over to the two mimes, from which his ants now fled in terror of caffeine, and put them back in the small box he used to call the “lounge of ant”.

“Yes.”

They dropped me off on Cherub. The day was still young, and the movies were cheaper on wednesdays. People smiled at me along my way to the Shopping Mall arcades, and I kept smiling back, feeling easy. I later noticed I still had my new neon rubber boots on. Along with the business suit Joey had given me. Weird taste in clothing, no wonder people were smiling. I looked up at the film posters and checked my phone for messages.