Tangiers Routines by Rudy Rucker

Author:Rudy Rucker [Rucker, Rudy]
Format: epub
Published: 2010-03-07T18:11:17.359000+00:00

To Jack Kerouac

Tangers, December 24, 1954

Dear Jack,

Turing fixed my typewriter, so now it’s back to the novel, if it is a novel. Maybe I just interleave the carbons of my letters with you-are-there descriptions of my innaresting daily routines. “I live my art,” says the Author, smoothing his eyebrow with buffed-nail pinkie. “Don’t you?” What I need is a television camera broadcasting me all day long. “You got an audience of like two, Boss. A hebephrenic and a blind leper.”

We find our protagonist in his louche Casbah suite...the plot as thick as the goat offal simmering on his alcohol stove. Cook it up and shoot it, hode.

Continuity slug: House-guest Alan Turing was hogging my junk to the point where I find my day’s box of Eukodal ampules empty before the Hour of Prayer. So I shave off the dying Zeno face that was paining him. Made a man of him, I did, only he look like lunch counter hamburger meat. This afternoon, while the convalescing Turing fiddle-fucks with my broken typewriter, I watch a buzzard circling the fellahin sky. I am telepathically one with the bird, taking in the fragrant cedar of the souk braziers, the kief pipes’ glad exhalations, the drying jissom on pearly bellies, the slow rotting of the black meat, and the persistent pong of the parasitic Zeno Nu-Face that I burn in the bidet yesterday. Flashback of me stirring the ashes with my double-jointed three-foot switch-blade. Clickity-clack. Happy keys on my typewriter now. I dance the alphabet while my zombie-face professor putters in at my kitchen counter. He plan to change his looks yet again, and then to obtain a fresh passport...blissfully unknowing that the Interzone Heat have close down the Tangier paperhangers last week on account of a Venusian sea slug pass himself off as the Norwegian consul and infect half of Embassy Row with Happy Cloak addiction which result in they metamorphose into scaly folders smell of lutefisk. “I am my papers.”

Turing’s company is wearing thin, he has a laugh like a starter-motor. I can’t ascertain if he has hard feelings over my emergency surgery on him, his raw-meat phiz being somewhat hard to read. He giving me the horrors with his boffin etiquette. “I say, Burroughs, could you possibly procure a pint of potassium permanganate?”

He’s sent me out to the farmacia twice today for like streptococcal infusion and bovine growth hormone, the latter come in glass tubes like icicles that Turing crack open to drip yellow glow-juice into his little reagent vat...formerly my cooking-pan and now destined, I shouldn’t wonder, for the Royal British Museum of the History of Bio-Computational Science.

Drip, stir, measure, mix, low mutter, squeak of pencil on paper...last night Turing sneak out and steal two car batteries he use to power a mad-scientist all-fluid self-generating television show...he not care about making me felony burglary accessory after the fact.

The batteries connect to pulsing color juice between two sheets of glass he cut out of my window. I watch it this morning for a few hours.

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