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And
faces
peering
in
from
a
neon
forest
,
sailors
and
hustlers
and
whores
,
under
a
poisoned
silver
sky
.
.
.
'
Look
,
Case
,
you
tell
me
what
the
fuck
is
going
on
with
you
,
you
wig
or
something
?
’
A
steady
pulse
of
pain
,
midway
down
his
spine
-
Rain
woke
him
,
a
slow
drizzle
,
his
feet
tangled
in
coils
of
discarded
fiberoptics
.
The
arcade
’
s
sea
of
sound
washed
over
him
,
receded
,
returned
.
Rolling
over
,
he
sat
up
and
held
his
head
.
Light
from
a
service
hatch
at
the
rear
of
the
arcade
showed
him
broken
lengths
of
damp
chipboard
and
the
dripping
chassis
of
a
gutted
game
console
.
Streamlined
Japanese
was
stenciled
across
the
side
of
the
console
in
faded
pinks
and
yellows
.
He
glanced
up
and
saw
a
sooty
plastic
window
,
a
faint
glow
of
fluorescents
.
His
back
hurt
,
his
spine
.
He
got
to
his
feet
,
brushed
wet
hair
out
of
his
eyes
.
Something
had
happened
.
.
.
He
searched
his
pockets
for
money
,
found
nothing
,
and
shivered
.
Where
was
his
jacket
?
He
tried
to
find
it
,
looked
behind
the
console
,
but
gave
up
.
