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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； yanking his shirt up to display the technicolor bruises and belt stripes across his skinny ribs。 WHAT ABOUT THIS； MOTHERFUCKER； WHAT DOES GOD SAY TO THIS？ Staring into the priest's startled face； seeing the tracework of broken veins deepen from red to purple； the weak watery eyes flare with pious anger； and knowing sickly that there was no help here； that the priest was not really seeing him； that the priest was as drunk as his parents had been last night。
He had been hauled from the church and told not to e back； as if he ever would； he collapsed on the stone steps and sobbed there for an hour。 Then he got up； hawked an enormous goober on the steps； and left with a silent pain that went deeper than his bruises and abrasions； all the way down to the wounded soul that the Catholic church would never touch again。
It would be nice to see Father Russo hanging and burning and bleeding from the eyeballs。 Maybe the priest was dead now； maybe he had the starring role in some hellish Lucio Fulci film。 Zach hoped so。
He chewed the last bite of muffuletta； licked the grease off his lips； and went diving for clothes。 He came up with a pair of army pants cut off at the knees and a T…shirt that pictured JFK grinning toothily as his brains exploded in vivid silkscreen color。 Faded red Converse hightops without socks pleted the ensemble。
It was time to go snag his two daily stashes。 Then he could e back here and get some work done。
June； as far as Zach was concerned； was the last tolerable month in New Orleans until mid…autumn。 The days were already hot； but not as mired in sodden swelter as they would be through July； August； and most of September。 During these obscene months he slept all morning and afternoon； his dreams punctuated by the rattle and drip of his laboring air conditioner。 He spent his nights cramming his head with information； words and images and the subtle semiotics they triggered in his brain； or hacking paths through the infinite mazes of forbidden puter systems； or simply skating