Buggy Fatima Metro sign spins half-angelic under matted clouds, flickering in the time-lag glow of Watchingstoned, T.V. Lola staggers up from subway into open taxi, mumbling: “Puntagain.” Meter thrown, dark Potatomac below, marble domes whiz by, cemetery stones adrift… Scrolling into backlog news, chipped surmise habituates to military grapevine, blurring down to sudden thump of rooftop pad in Charlatan, Forgiveya. Postcard feel of chugging headache, contrails drip in gloppy datelines, sentry handprint queues recede to replication’s filmed gymnastic smear of endless buried corridors. Safe within the Puntagain, she cracks new blue identity, emerging Kirov Commodore, fusion spanning milled illusion’s funneled con rotation pluck.
“Cleared to Concourse, Kirov, spree compartment beam,” eroding walls repeat in still repute’s impeded charm, flowing now to nether levels, latched to rail insertion’s horizontal lassitude. Weathered locks impress her face to ceiling wax of dummy statues, flashing subterranean, leasing selfish itch of forged velocity, clearing headway sinkers, bubbling down to continental shuffle’s mute tectonic brakepad.
Far beneath museum lawns of decomposing wartime dead, Lola briefs Joint Chefs of Stuff on Days Again encounter, mind transmission amplified by Graylien assist to lip-lock lobotic LL-1. Reliving bleed-through brainpan swap of feral Federale morning, siphoned into rehacked past of asymptotic free-for-all, disinforming free-fall boys with trained-to-tango velveteens, underpinning panned duress… Fiscal drowning tracts knead sallow autumn doughboys, splicing roses into Gila mustard gas, coalesced inertial dance offending nuance chimps with grotesque arm-bar machinations.
Tripping telepathic shades, LL-1 decision-punts a dawning ardor, officiating discontent to win ambrosial followers in wrenching elbow templates. Tertiary clam sojourners cough up two-door lung hits, covering her clone extraction, blowing dust partition foam, centrifuging monkeys into seismic irrigation dupes. Merged evasion isolates a dewdrop tray of stoney plight mache, conning the Joint Chefs into traction moths, claiming west wing ushers honed from tubal house surrender clots. Room disabled, LL-1 and Lola go translucent, Montauk wig, and tunnel straight to Terran Hoax for rendevous with Chief Jacco, circa 1824; bent on splicing him to MJ-5, saving banished Wea Tribe, or maybe just lunch at Clappy Girl Mausoleum.
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