Jeff Noon - Vurt

"Play that Limbic Splitter, white boy!" called a voice from the dance floor. Voice came through the system like a flare-path, all of a purple sheen, just the voice of a nowhere girl caught tight in a shining moment, but in that moment she was a queen.

"Inky MC is talking to yer, live and direct, from the space between the beats, all the way to the floor. This one's for you, lone dancer! Step up lively now! Dance on it!"

She did. And they all did. And the whole house was misting over, side-swaying in step to the house fuel.

"You got them, Ink!" said the Twinkle, from over in the corner where she was eating a Bassburger from a plastic tray. "You got them going, and good!"

"Hey listen, it's early yet. Watch this!"

"Keep on doing it," she says, between mouthfuls.

A knock on the booth door then. Uh oh. Another sponger. "I'm busy," I cry.

"Come on, Mister DJ, give us a go on the bass," says the voice from behind the panel. I don't recognise it, but Twinkle opens the door anyway and I see a pale-facer standing there, that look of deep need in his eyes.

"I need some bass, man," he's saying, eyes full of glazed-up wonder. "More bass! More bass!"

"I think not," I answer. He doesn't care.

The Twinkle moves in, blocking the door gap. "The Ink man, he say no," she tells him.

"Oh come on!"

"Go fuck a sponge cake, loser!" says the Twinkle, slamming the booth door on the sucker.

That girl is growing up too fast and maybe it's all my fault.

Well I don't care any more.

I'm losing the will to care, and I find it beautiful.

Maybe I'm changing for the worst. Maybe for the better.

Because maybe the worst is the best, when you get far enough down.

I slap a Twister on the deck mat and lay the syringe on the run-in groove, lining up the ghost track on the skull-phones, then letting the whole thing kick into bloom with a Manc yell.

Tune! Tune for the brood! All the people in the block. Limbic dopers! This is from Dingo Tush, latest tune! They're calling it Sampled Under Foot. Know where that comes from! Dingo Tush later, coming on live with the Warewolves. Just for now, here comes the Rain Girl remix. Sampled Under Fuck! Tough-core, babies!!!"

"Can I come to the after-gig party, Ink?" says Twinkle.

"No you cannot. You can just go home, Karli will see you there, and I will meet you later."

"Aw, Scribb…"

"Don't call me that."

But the noise was coming on loud as I flexed the decks, right up to Ultimax. People are moving, grooving, improving, super-smoothing. From over in a dark corner Karli the robobitch was howling to the music and I plugged her in, direct to the flex, mixing her barking in with beats. Crowd were soaking in it, howling at the full moon lighting patterns. Looked like a fox clan party in the mating season. People were near to rutting, just because of my music, and I was loving it, loving the power, when there's another knock on the door.

"Tell them to get lost, Twinkle. No deals."

"Get lost!" said the Twinkle."No deals!"

"It's me, Scribble," said the voice from behind the door, and my hands slipped on the decks as I let that voice get to me. Dancers missed a beat, wrong footing, and they were complaining out loud, through the system.

Oh shit! Oh no! Not now!

"Mandy?" said Twinkle.

"Keep her away!" I demanded.

"MC Inky says no," she tried, towards the shut door.

No use.

"It's me, Scribb. The not-so-new girl."

And then a silence as I tried to ignore that strong voice. Mandy's voice.

"I've got the Beetle with me," she added, and I went a little bit weak.

"Scribble?" It was the Beetle calling, his voice so insistent, so kind.

Fuck that! That's all over.

"That's not my name, pal." I was resisting, trying to resist anyway.

"Beetle wants to see you, Scribb," Mandy pleaded. "He's missing your action."

Moments passed as the voice of Dingo Tush led the crowd towards ecstasy, and Twinkle was looking at me, with that look in her eyes, that sweet look.

"Shall I let them in, Mister Scribb… I mean Ink?"

Seven bars of music passed by before I answered.

Booth door opens and that ungodly twosome, that pair of reprobates fall in the DJ box, and I just couldn't help it, my weak heart was full of love for them. A kind of bruised love, truth be known.

"Scribble!" The Beetle drooled.

"Okay, Beetle," I said. "The name's Ink MC."

"Aye. I heard that." His eyes were triple glazed. "Long time, my man." /

"Sure."

I was holding back the feelings, on purpose, just to spite him, just to build my dreams up, just to break even.

Just to break even. Because sometimes you've got to do the best you can, in order to come out smiling, just by a little bit.

"Scribble, baby, you've got your posse with you!"

"I'm busy, Bee," I answered. And I was, working the decks like a pilgrim, searching for God. That's the god of Limbic. The god of music, hidden inside the beats.

"Twinkle and the Karli Dog," the Beetle carried on. "You've got them in tow. That's a nice one. And here's me thinking you were all alone in the world these days."

"Maybe you don't know me well enough, Bee." I looked into his eyes and saw a cracked ghost hiding there.

Beetle was like a zombie. One of those zombies you see working the all-night garages, pouring petrol and Vaz into pimpmobiles, eyes full of fumes, blood-knots, and boredom. Never seen the Bee look bored before.

"Maybe you're right all of a sudden," he replied.

I had to turn away. "How you sailing, Mandy?"

"Hanging on, Scribble," she answered. Her hair was as red as the skin of a postbox, and it sure made me tremble.

"Come on, Mandy," The Beetle slurred. "Come meet the Scribble once again. He's making a living for himself. He's… he's playing the… oh shit… nevermind…"

His voice trailed off into the distance and his vision closed on some thousand-yard stare, some far off wonder, way beyond this realm.

"What's he on, Mandy?"

"Tapewormer."

Oh dear. Tapewormer. That was a bad feather, Bee. That was a bad move.

"Shit, man!" I said, turning back to him. "What's happening to you?"

"Hey, Scribble?" he asked. "How did you manage such a landing? You got contacts?"

"Yeah sure, I got contacts."

"That's nice!"

"That's right. It's nice," I answered. "You look like fuck, Bee."

"Well I guess so. But it's a good fuck."

"Anything from the Thing, or Bridget?"

"Yeah sure, everyday…"

"What?"

"I'm with them everyday."

"You found them?"

"Sure I did. They're inside of here, babes," and he was tapping with an uncut fingernail on the side of his temple. Oh well, that's Tapewormer for you.

"What are you doing here, Mandy?" I asked.

"Said he wanted to find you. Said he wanted to get up close again…"

"Damn right, Scribb," the Beetle said.

"Said he wanted the Stash Riders back together."

"Stash Riders are dead," I said. Beetle's mouth opened and closed like a Thermo Fish chewing on some sick blood.

Just then Dingo Tush came on the stage, with his pack of players, the Warewolves. They were a ragged collection of hybrids; robodogs, shadowdogs, girl and boy dogs. They struck up a loud noise, full up on wolf howls and furry beats, and I managed a good fade on the mixer despite the anger flooding my system.

"What we doing, Dogpeople?" shouted Dingo to his crowd.

"Barking for Britain!!!" One voice, one howl.

"Will you look at that turd taster!" announced the Beetle. "Looks like he's too much Alsatian in him."

"A whole lot," I answered, watching the dogman through the glass. He was working the crowd up to a slobber, his fur swinging back and forth to the beat of his dog drummer.

Tune was called Bitch Magnet, and his rap was barking!