missing and did Spyder want first dibs?--but he felt too shaky for two wheels today. He called a cab and waited by the curb in the warm afternoon sun.
"Do you have the time?"
Spyder was so out of it, he hadn't seen the tall man in the gray business suit approach him. The man was bald, but tanned and healthy-looking, with deep wind and -sunburn creases on his cheeks. It took Spyder a second to answer.
"Uh, no. Sorry."
"No worries," the man said with a slight Shrimp-on-the-Barbie accent. "Lovely day."
"Yeah. Great," said Spyder
"You all right, mate?"
"Just a little hungover's all."
The business man laughed. "That's how you know you had a good time," he said and clapped Spyder on his sore shoulder. "Cheers."
As the man walked away, Spyder saw something attached to his back. It was sort of ape-like, but its head was soft, like a slug's. It had its teeth sunk into the man's neck and was clinging onto his back by its twisted child-like limbs. Spyder wanted to call out to the man, but his throat was locked tight in fear and disgust. The parasite's head throbbed as it slurped something from the business man's spine.
Spyder took a step back and his shoulder touched a rough wooden pole planted in the ground through a section of shattered pavement. Pigeons and gray doves were nailed up and down the pole. Animal heads were staked around the top. An alligator. A rottweiler. A horse. Other more freakish animals Spyder couldn't identify. Each head was decorated with flower garlands and its eye sockets and mouth stuffed with incense and gold coins, like offerings.
Across the street, a griffin, its leathery wings twitching, was lazily chewing on the carcass of a fat, gray sewer rat. Emerald spiders the size of a child's hand ran around the griffin's legs, grabbing stray scraps of meat that fell from the beast's jaws. The spiders scrambled up and down the griffin's hindquarters. Gray stingray-like things flapped overhead, like a flock of knurled vultures. A coral snake lazily wrapping itself around the sacrifice pole stopped its climb long enough to call Spyder by name.
Spyder's head spun. He stepped into the street, flashing on the demon in the alley the night before. The mugging had been real. Had the monster part been real, too? He leaned his head back. Spinning in the sky overhead were angels with the wings of eagles. Higher still crawled vast airships. Their soft balloon bodies glowed in the bright sun, presenting Spyder with profiles of fierce mythological birds of prey and gigantic lotuses.
A cab turned the corner onto Harrison Street and -Spyder frantically flagged it down. "Haight and Masonic," he said to the driver, trying not to sound as deranged as he felt. Spyder slid into the backseat and as the driver pulled away, he peered out the cab's rear window. The business man was on the corner, talking to three pale men in matching black suits. Their clothes and general formality reminded Spyder of bankers in an old movie.
One of the bankers stepped forward, reached into the businessman's chest and pulled out his heart. Turning stiffly, he dropped the organ into an attach?case held up by another of the trio. That done, the third banker used a knife to carefully peel the businessman's face off. The cab turned the corner and Spyder lost sight of them.
Five
Communication Breakdown
"How you voting on Prop 18?"
Spyder looked up. The cabbie looked -exhausted, Spyder thought. One of those guys in his forties with eyes that make him look ten years older. His skin hung loosely on a gray, unshaven face.
"The companies make it sound like it'll put more cabs on the street, but really it's just going to screw up the medallion system even worse and give all the power to the big cab companies. We aren't employees, you know. All us cabbies are freelance. I owe money the moment I take my cab out. The moment I touch it. A cab driver has the job security of a crack whore. Worse than slaves, even. We're up at the big house begging the master for more cotton to pick."
"I'm sorry, said Spyder. "I don't know anything about Prop 18. I don't vote...ever."
The driver shook his head. His black hair stuck out at odd angles, as if he'd been sleeping on it just a few minutes earlier. "Voting's not a right, you know. It's not a privilege. It's your duty. My daddy died in the war so you could vote."
"Hey driver, uh," Spyder looked at the name on the man's taxi license, "Barry. Do you want to play a game?"
"I don't think so."
"There's a $20 tip in it for you. "
"Are you a cop?"
"No."
"Fag?"
"No."
"You from the cab company?"
"No, Barry."
"What kind of game?"
"Don't rush getting me to the Haight," Spyder said. He leaned
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