pzb.drawingblood-第7部分

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sing　fire　hazards　in　all　New　Orleans。　Zach　figured　it　was　damp　enough　to　discourage　any　flames　that　escaped　his　notice。　In　deep　summer；　water　stains　spread　across　the　ceiling　and　the　fine　old　molding　began　to　sweat　and　seep。
　　The　paint　had　long　since　begun　to　peel；　but　this　never　bothered　Zach；　since　most　of　the　walls　were　covered　with　scraps　of　paper。　There　were　pictures　torn　from　obscure　magazines　that　had　reminded　him　of　something；　newspaper　clippings；　headlines；　or　sometimes　single　words　he　had　put　up　for　their　mnemonic　effect。　There　was　a　large　head　of　J。　R。　〃Bob〃　Dobbs；　High　Epopt　of　the　Church　of　the　Subgenius　and　one　of　Zach's　favorite　personal　saviors。　〃Bob〃　preached　the　doctrine　of　Slack；　which　（among　other　things）　meant　that　the　world　really　did　owe　you　a　living；　if　only　you　were　smart　enough　to　endorse　the　paycheck。　There　were　phone　numbers；　puter　access　codes　and　passwords　scribbled　on　yellow　Post…it　notes　whose　glue　would　not　stick　in　the　damp。　These　last　were　constantly　fluttering　down　from　the　walls；　creating　canary　drifts　among　the　debris　on　the　floor；　and　sticking　to　the　soles　of　Zach's　sneakers。
　　There　were　boxes　of　old　correspondence；　magazines；　yellowing　newspapers　from　all　over　the　world　and　in　several　languages…if　he　couldn't　read　an　item；　he　could　find　someone　to　translate　it　inside　of　an　hour…distinguished　dailies　and　raving　tabloids。　And　books　everywhere；　crammed　into　shelves　that　covered　one　wall　nearly　to　the　high　ceiling；　spread　open　or　with　pages　marked　beside　his　bed；　stacked　into　Seuss…like　towers　in　the　corners。　There　was　every　kind　of　fiction；　telephone　books；　puter　manuals；　well…thumbed　volumes　with　titles　like　The　Anarchist's　Cookbook；　High　Weirdness　by　Mail；　Principia　Discordia；　Steal　This　Book；　and　other　useful　bibles。　A　cheap　VCR　and　a　homemade　cable　box　were　rigged　up　to　a　small　TV；　the　whole　setup　was　nearly　hidden　behind　stacks　of　videocassettes。
　　Pushed　up　against　the　far　wall　was　the　heart　of　the　chaos：　a　large　metal　desk。　The　desk　was　not　visible　as　such；　though　Zach　could　find　anything　on；　in；　or　around　it　in　a　matter　of　minutes。　It　was　heaped　with　more　papers；　more　books；　shoeboxes　full　of　floppy　disks；　and　the　unmistakable　signature　of　the　ganja　connoisseur：　an　assortment　of　ashtrays　overflowing　with　ashes　and　matches；　but　no　butts。　Marijuana　smokers；　unlike　those　who　indulged　in　tobacco；　did　not　leave　spoor。
　　In　the　center　of　the　desk；　rising　above　the　ashtrays　and　drifts　of　paper　like　some　monolith　of　plastic　and　silicon；　was　a　puter。　An　Amiga　with　an　IBM　card　and　Mac　emulation　that　allowed　it　to　read　disks　from　several　different　kinds　of　puters；　a　sweet　little　machine。　It　was　equipped　with　a　large…capacity　hard　disk；　a　decent　printer；　and…most　important　for　his　purposes…a　2400…baud　modem。　This　inexpensive　scrap　of　technology；　which　allowed　his　puter　to　municate　with　others　via　any　number　of　telephone　lines；　was　his　meal　ticket；　his　umbilical　cord；　his　key　to　other　worlds　and　to　parts　of　this　world　he　had　never　been　meant　to　see。
　　The　modem　had　paid　for　itself　several　hundred　times　over；　and　he　had　only　had　this　one　for　six　months。　He　had　an　OKI　900　cellular　phone　and　a　laptop　puter　as　well；　with　a　built…in　modem　to　keep　him　mobile　in　case　of　emergencies。
　　Zach　hunched　himself　up　on　his　elbows；　stuck　the　joint　in　his　mouth；　and　raked　a　hand　through　his　thick　black　hair。　Some　French　Quarter　deathrockers　spent　hours　before　the　mirror　trying　to　achieve　the　precise　bination　of　unnatural…looking　blue…ebony　hair　and　bloomless　translucence　of　skin　that　had　been　visited　upon　Zach　by　simple　genetics。
　　It　came　from　his　mother's　side　of　the　family。　They　looked　as　though　they'd　grown　up　in　basements；　not　that　most　of　them　had　ever　been　anywhere　near　a　basement；　since　they'd　been　in　Louisiana　for　five　generations　or　more。　His　mother's　maiden　name　was　Rigaud；　and　she　hailed　from　a　muddy　little　village　down　in　the　bayou　country　where　the　most　exciting　thing　that　ever　happened　was　the　annual　Crawfish　Festival。　The　hair　and　dark　almond…shaped　eyes；　he　guessed；　came　from　her　Cajun　blood。　The　pallor　was　anyone's　guess。　Perhaps　it　came　from　all　the　time　she　had　spent　in　various　mental　hospitals；　in　gloomy　dayrooms　and　harsh　fluorescent　corridors；　as　if　such　a　thing　could　be　inherited。
　　She　was　probably　in　some　lockup　now；　if　she　was　still　alive。　His　father；　a　renegade　Bosch　who　claimed　a　lineage　back　to　Hieronymus　but　whose　visions　had　all　been　seen　through　the　bottom　of　a　whiskey　bottle；　had　long　since　disappeared　into　some　steamy　orifice　of　the　city's　night…side。　Zach　had　just　turned　nineteen；　and　though　he　had　lived　in　New　Orleans　all　his　life；　he　had　seen　neither　of　his　parents　for　nearly　five　years。
　　Which　was　fine。　All　he　wanted　of　them　was　what　he　carried　with　him：　his　mother's　weird　coloring；　his　father's　devious　intelligence；　a　tolerance　for　hard　liquor　that　exceeded　either　of　theirs。　Drinking　never　made　him　mean；　never　made　him　bitter；　never　made　him　want　to　punch　someone　young　and　small　and　defenseless；　to　bruise　tender　flesh；　to　steep　his　hands　in　blood。　He　supposed　that　was　the　main　difference　between　him　and　his　parents。
　　Zach　had　a　habit　of　pulling　his　hair　and　snarling　it　around　his　fingers　while　he　was　reading　or　staring　at　the　puter　screen　between　keystrokes。　As　a　result；　it　grew　into　a　kind　of　mutant　pompadour　that　cast　the　sharp　planes　and　hollows　of　his　face　into　shadow；　exaggerated　his　pointed　chin　and　thin　peaky　eyebrows　and　the　gray　smudges　of　puter　strain　around　his　eyes。
　　Last　year　a　ten…year…old　kid　on　Bourbon　Street　had　run　after　him　calling　Hey；　Edward　Scissorhands！　He　hadn't　known　what　it　meant　at　the　time；　but　when　Eddy　showed　him　an　ad　for　the　movie　of　that　name；　Zach　was　as　close　to　shocked　as　he　ever　got。　The　resemblance　was　scary。　He　held　the　picture　next　to　his　face　and　stared　in　the　mirror　for　a　long　time。　At　last　he　took　fort　in　the　fact　that　he　never　wore　black　lipstick　and　Edward　Scissorhands　never　wore　big；　round；　geeky　black…rimmed　glasses　like　Zach's。
　　The　movie　bothered　him；　though；　when　Eddy　took　him　to　see　it。　He　always　enjoyed　watching　Tim　Burton's　films　…　they　were　eye　candy；　for　one　thing…but　they　left　him　feeling　vaguely　pissed　off。　They　all　seemed　to　have　an　agenda　of　relentless　normalcy　hiding　behind　a　thin　veil　of　weirdness。　He'd　loved　Beetlejuice　until　the　last　scene；　which　sent　him　storming　from　the　theater　and　left　him　kicking　things　all　day。　The　sight　of　Winona　Ryder's　character；　formerly　strange　and　beautiful　in　her　ratted　hairdo　and　smudged　eyeliner；　now　bed　out　and　squeaky　clean；　clad　in　a　preppy　skirt　and　kneesocks　and　a　big　shit…eating　sickeningly　normal　grin　。。。　it　was　entirely　too　much　to　bear。
　　But　that；　Zach　supposed；　was　Hollywood。
　　He　took　one　more　drag　on　the　joint　and　snuffed　it　out　in　the　ashtray。　It　was　excellent　pot；　bright　green　and　sticky　with　resin　that　smelled　like　Christmas　trees；　quick　to　set　the　brain　buzzing　and　humming。　He　hoped　somebody　at　the　Market　would　have　more。　Zach　felt　around　on　the　floor　again；　found　his　glasses；　and　put　them　on。　The　world　stayed　blurry　at　the　edges；　but　that　was　just　the　drugs。
　　Something　nudged　his　hip　beneath　the　sheet。　The　remote　control　for　the　TV　and　VCR。　He　aimed　it　at　the　screen　and　smiled　as　he　thumbed　the　ON　button。
　　He　found　himself　watching　an　Italian　splatter　movie　called　The　Gates　of　Hell。　Good　old　Lucio　Fulci；　his　plots　were　brain…numbing　nonsense；　every　character　dumber　than　a　bag　of　rusty　nails；　but　he　gave　great　gore。　And　nothing　normal　ever　happened　in　his　movies。
　　A　girl　began　to　bleed　from　the　eyeballs…Fulci　loved　eyeballs…then　proceeded　to　vomit　out　her　entire　digestive　tract　over　the　course　of　maybe　a　minute。　She'd　been　parking　with　her　boyfriend；　such　were　the　wages　of　sin。　Zach　pressed　the　reverse　button　and　watched　the　actress　suck　up　her　intestines　like　a　plate　of　spaghetti　in　marinara　sauce。　Tasty。
　　A　moment　later　he　realized　that　the　movie　was　making　him　hungry；　which　meant　it　was　seriously　time　for　some　food。　The　remains　of　a　muffuletta　from　the　Central　Grocery　were　wrapped　up　in　his　little　dorm…style　refrigerator。　Zach　kicked　the　sheet　off；　swung　his　legs　over　the　edge　of　the　mattress；　rode　the　ensuing　headrush　for　a　minute；　then　stood　and　picked　an　expert　path　through　the　debris　to　the　fridge。
　　The　savory　smells　of　ham　and　Italian　spices；　oiled　bread　and　olive　salad　wafted　up　as　he　unwrapped　the　greasy　pink　butcher　paper。　The　big　round　sandwiches　were　expensive　but　delectable；　and　they　made　two　or　three　meals　if　you　weren't　a　big　eater；　which　Zach　was　not。
　　It　wasn't　as　if　he　couldn't　afford　a　muffuletta　anytime　he　wanted　one。　Money　was　free；　or　nearly　so；　all　he　could　need　was　at　his　fingertips　every　time　he　sat　down　at　his　desk　and　switched　his　puter　on。　But　he　had　never　quite　gotten　used　to　having　enough　to　eat。　His　parents'　kitchen　cabinets　never　had　much　in　them　but　booze。
　　The　movie　raged　on。　A　priest　had　hung　himself　in　the　town　of　Dunwich…original　name；　that…which　flung　wide　the　gates　of　hell；　or　something。　Zombies　with　bad　skin　conditions　seemed　to　be　able　to　beam　themselves　around　like　refugees　from　the　Starship　Enterprise。　Zach　thought　of　the　only　priest　he　had　ever　known；　Father　Russo；　who　said　the　masses　his　mother　used　to　drag　him　to　every　few　months　when　she　was　ing　off　a　bad　binge。　Twelve…year…old　Zach　had　gone　to　confession　alone　one　day；　ducked　into　the　booth　and　leaned　his　aching　head　against　the　screen　and　whispered；　Bless　me；　Father；　for　I　have　been　sinned　against。　Hot　tears　squeezed　out　of　his　eyes　as　his　lips　formed　the　words。
　　That　is　not　how　the　Confession　begins；　the　priest　replied；　and　some　of　Zach's　hope　ebbed。　But　he　persisted：　My　mother　kicked　me　in　the　stomach　and　made　me　throw　up。　My　father　slammed　my　head　against　the　wall。　Can't　you　help　me？
　　Bad　boy；　telling　lies　about　your　parents。　Don't　you　know　you　must　obey　them？　If　they　punish　you；　it　is　because　you　have　sinned。　The　Lord　says　honor　thy　father　and　thy　mother。
　　WHAT　ABOUT　THEM　HONORING　ME？　he　shrieked；　slamming　his　hand　against　the　flimsy　wall　of　the　confessional；　a　hot　spike　of　pain　shooting　up　his　already…sprained　arm。　Raking　the　curtain　back；　bursting　into　the　priest's　side　of　the　booth；　yan