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hardwood floor was smooth and slippery. He ran the length of the shadowed hallway, burst into the daylight at the end of it, made it to the living room, bolted toward the den. She would’ve had the towel off her face by then, would now be coming after him, right behind him.
    Chase kept bolting, hit the den, veered toward the wet bar. He left the backpack, grabbed the iPod, grabbed a champagne bottle from an ice bucket, bounced off the wet bar hurtling toward the sliding doors where it was almost dark. He made it to the doors, plunged through the slot between them.
    He had the iPod on and playing. The Carpenters. The piano that opened “Close to You.” Then the vocal began. It took a moment. The strings came in. Chase’s feet left and he took off into the air, flew. The blue dragons took off after him. On the deck Her Blue Majesty held a Tec-9 automatic rifle, fired at him. The blue dragons puked blue fireballs at him.

10
    H is senses surrounded him. The smell of himself hit him in the face. The sores on his feet stung. Bushy hair beaded up to his earlobes, surrounded his mouth. He was too long unwashed for the dirt to reach any recent layers of dirt, any clothing in contact with his joints and the parts of his body that hinged long worn away. His fingernails looked like grimy plastic spoons. He wrapped his head around his head. Then unwrapped it. Then wrapped it again. It was like when he was balling in the Army. Back when he drove Army tanks in North Carolina before they discharged his ass on a medical. Years later he took a Greyhound to Brutalia to see God but he fell off the map. Sometimes you could hear God inside the sidewalks. The city was good because you could find shelters and have them to yourself almost. They all had a clear white neon cross in front. There was a lot of city too and lots of places to put down where you could have a city block to yourself, be the only bum. You could always find food anywhere, the dumpster diving was good and the food never got cold. But there were more bums coming to Brutalia trying to turn it into New York and shit.
    The city vibrated up his crumbling elephant feet. It flickered with a billion myths, cave drawings and magic. That was what God sounded like. He stopped to hear the voices. They weren’t the same voices. It wasn’t his brain doing it outside his brain, it was from way outside his brain. It was like the city was in his head.
    He looked around at the headless bodies. He had to be sure this was real and not a long-ass dream or he wasn’t tripping.
    The Motorchrists hated bums. They stomped bums. Bums stayed clear of them. He went over them now, cleaned the motherfuckers out. He picked three bikers of six hundred dollars in folding money, five stolen iPads, a pile of heroin, a pasture of weed.
    Around him more and more of the zombie bikers were working their way to their boots, their heads growing back in flesh-like sprouts. They staggered like toddlers away from the scene, into the dark streets.
    Patrol cars came, slowed down, didn’t even stop to fuck with him, kept going.
    A helicopter with
OSD
on it swept for minutes, a guy in it shooting the scene with a camcorder. It went away.
    He tossed a fourth biker, recounted the money. His brain wrapped around the numbers, held tight, squeezed them. The paper burned his fingers. It was more $$$ than a fucking game show. He could stay high for weeks and buy pussy without losing money for getting high.
    His skin crawled up and down with the smells creeping toward him. Bums were showing up. One then two then three then eleven motherfucking bums with more coming.
    He barked profanity at them to get the fuck away, this was his, but they kept coming. They went to their knees, started pawing the biker bodies with cash-seeking fingers, tossing the bodies, pulling paper money, knives, guns, weed, meth. They pulled boots off the bikers, put them on their own feet. They grabbed whole chickens from the grill, devoured them, grabbed