The Compton Nova Sicilia franchise1 is a grisly scene. It is a jamboree of Young Mafia. These youths are even duller than the ones from the all-Mormon Deseret Burbclave. The boys are wearing tedious black suits. The girls are encrusted with pointless femininity. Girls can't even be in the Young Mafia, they have to be in the Girls' Auxiliary2 and serve macaroons on silver plates. "Girls" is too fine a word for these organisms, too high up the evolutionary3 scale. They aren't even chicks.
She's going way too fast, so she kicks the board around sideways, plants pads, leans into it, skids4 to a halt, roiling5 up a wave of dust and grit6 that dulls the glossy7 shoes of several Young Mafia who are milling out front, nibbling8 dinky Italo-treats and playing grown-up. It condenses on the white lace stockings of the Young Mafia proto-chicks. She falls off the board, appearing to catch her balance at the last moment. She stomps9 on the edge of the plank10 with one foot, and it bounces four feet into the air, spinning rapidly around its long axis11, up into her armpit, where she clamps it tight under one arm. The spokes12 of the smartwheels all retract13 so that the wheels are barely larger than their hubs. She slaps the MagnaPoon into a handy socket14 on the bottom of the plank so that her gear is all in one handy package.
"Y.T.," she says. "Young, fast, and female. Where the fuck's Enzo?"
The boys decide to get all "mature" on Y.T. Males of this age are preoccupied15 with snapping each other's underwear and drinking until they are in a coma16. But around a female, they do the "mature" thing. It is hilarious17. One of them steps forward slightly, interposing himself between Y.T. and the nearest protochick. "Welcome to Nova Sicilia," he says. "Can I assist you in some way?"
Y.T. sighs deeply. She is a fully18 independent businessperson, and these people are trying to do a peer thing on her.
"Delivery for one Enzo? Y'know, I can't wait to get out of this neighborhood."
"It's a good neighborhood, now," the YoMa says. "You should stick around for a few minutes. Maybe you could learn some manners."
"You should try surfing the Ventura at rush hour. Maybe you could learn your limitations.'
The YoMa laughs like, okay, if that's how you want it. He gestures toward the door. "The man you want to talk to is in there. Whether he wants to talk to you or not, I'm not sure."
"He fucking asked for me," Y.T. says.
"He came across the country to be with us," the guy says, "and he seems pretty happy with us."
All the other YoMas mumble20 and nod supportively.
"Then why are you standing21 outside?" Y.T. asks, going inside. Inside the franchise, things are startlingly relaxed. Uncle Enzo is in there, looking just like he does in the pictures, except bigger than Y.T. expected. He is sitting at a desk playing cards with some other guys in funeral garb22. He is smoking a cigar and nursing an espresso. Can't get too much stimulation23, apparently24.
There's a whole Uncle Enzo portable support system in here. A traveling espresso machine has been set up on another desk. A cabinet sits next to it, doors open to reveal a big foil bag of Italian Roast Water-Process Decaf and a box of Havana cigars. There's also a gargoyle25 in one corner, patched into a bigger-than-normal laptop, mumbling26 to himself.
Y.T. lifts her arm, allows the plank to fall into her hand. She slaps it down on top of an empty desk and approaches Uncle Enzo, unslinging the delivery from her shoulder.
"Gino, please," Uncle Enzo says, nodding at the delivery. Gino steps forward to take it from her.
"Need your signature on that," Y.T. says. For some reason she does not refer to him as "pal27" or "bub."
She's momentarily distracted by Gino. Suddenly, Uncle Enzo has come rather close to her, caught her right hand in his left hand. Her Kourier gloves have an opening on the back of the hand just big enough for his lips. He plants a kiss on Y.T.'s hand. It's warm and wet. Not slobbery and gross, not antiseptic and dry either. Interesting. The guy has confidence going for him. Christ, he's slick. Nice lips. Sort of firm muscular lips, not gelatinous and blubbery like fifteen-year-old lips can be. Uncle Enzo has a very faint citrus-and-aged-tobacco smell to him. Fully smelling it would involve standing pretty close to him. He is towering over her, standing at a respectable distance now, glinting at her through crinkly old-guy eyes.
Seems pretty nice.
"I can't tell you how much I've been looking forward to meeting you, Y.T.," he says.
"Hi," she says. Her voice sounds chirpier than she likes it to be. So she adds, "What's in that bag that's so fucking valuable, anyway?"
"Absolutely nothing," Uncle Enzo says. His smile is not exactly smug. More embarrassed, like what an awkward way to meet someone. "It all has to do with imageering," be says, spreading one hand dismissively. "There are not many ways for a man like me to meet with a young girl that do not generate incorrect images in the media. It's stupid. But we pay attention to these things."
"So, what did you want to meet with me about? Got a delivery for me to make?"
All the guys in the room laugh.
The sound startles Y.T. a little, reminds her that she is performing in front of a crowd. Her eyes flick29 away from Uncle Enzo for a moment.
Uncle Enzo notices this. His smile gets infinitesimally narrower, and he hesitates for a moment. In that moment, all the other guys in the room stand up and head for the exit.
"You may not believe me," he says, "but I simply wanted to thank you for delivering that pizza a few weeks ago."
"Why shouldn't I believe you?" she asks. She is amazed to hear nice, sweet things coming out of her mouth.
So is Uncle Enzo. "I'm sure you of all people can come up with a reason."
"So," she says, "you having a nice day with all the Young Mafia?"
Uncle Enzo gives her a look that says, watch it, child. A second after she gets scared, she starts laughing, because it's a put-on, he's just giving her a hard time. He smiles, indicating that it's okay for her to laugh.
Y.T. can't remember when she's been so involved in a conversation. Why can't all people be like Uncle Enzo?
"Let me see," Uncle Enzo says, looking at the ceiling, scanning his memory banks. "I know a few things about you. That you are fifteen years old, you live in a Burbclave in the Valley with your mother."
"I know a few things about you, too," Y.T. hazards. Uncle Enzo laughs. "Not nearly as much as you think, I promise. Tell me, what does your mother think of your career?"
Nice of him to use the word "career." "She's not totally aware of it -- or doesn't want to know."
"You're probably wrong," Uncle Enzo says. He says it cheerfully enough, not trying to cut her down or anything. "You might be shocked at how well-informed she is. This is my experience, anyway. What does your mother do for a living?"
"She works for the Feds."
Uncle Enzo finds that richly amusing. "And her daughter is delivering pizzas for Nova Sicilia. What does she do for the Feds?"
"Some kind of thing where she can't really tell me in case I blab it. She has to take a lot of polygraph tests."
Uncle Enzo seems to understand this very well. "Yes, a lot of Fed jobs are that way."
There is an opportune30 silence. "It kind of freaks me out," Y.T. says.
"The fact that she works for the Feds?"
"The polygraph tests. They put a thing around her arm -- to measure the blood pressure."
"A sphygmomanometer," Uncle Enzo says crisply.
"It leaves a bruise31 around her arm. For some reason, that kind of bothers me."
"It should bother you."
"And the house is bugged32. So when I'm home -- no matter what I'm doing -- someone else is probably listening."
"Well, I can certainly relate to that," Uncle Enzo says. They both laugh.
"I'm going to ask you a question that I've always wanted to ask a Kourier," Uncle Enzo says. "I always watch you people through the windows of my limousine33. In fact, when a Kourier poons me, I always tell Peter, my driver, not to give them a hard time. My question is, you are covered from head to toe in protective padding. So why don't you wear a helmet?"
"The suit's got a cervical airbag that blows up when you fall off the board, so you can bounce on your head. Besides, helmets feel weird34. They say it doesn't affect your hearing, but it does."
"You use your hearing quite a bit in your line of work?"
"Definitely, yeah."
Uncle Enzo is nodding. "That's what I suspected. We felt the same way, the boys in my unit in Vietnam."
"I heard you went to Vietnam, but -- " She stops, sensing danger.
"You thought it was hype. No, I went there. Could have stayed out, if I'd wanted. But I volunteered."
"You volunteered to go to Vietnam?"
Uncle Enzo laughs. "Yes, I did. The only boy in my family to do so."
"Why?"
"I thought it would be safer than Brooklyn."
Y.T. laughs.
"A bad joke," he says. "I volunteered because my father didn't want me to. And I wanted to piss him off."
"Really?"
"Definitely. I spent years and years finding ways to piss him off. Dated black girls. Grew my hair long. Smoked marijuana. But the capstone, my ultimate achievement -- even better than having my ear pierced -- was volunteering for service in Vietnam. But I had to take extreme measures even then."
Y.T.'s eyes dart35 back and forth36 between Uncle Enzo's creased37 and leathery earlobes. In the left one she just barely sees a tiny diamond stud.
"What do you mean, extreme measures?"
"Everyone knew who I was. Word gets around, you know. If I had volunteered for the regular Army, I would have ended up stateside, filling out forms -- maybe even at Fort Hamilton, right there in Bensonhurst. To prevent that, I volunteered for Special Forces, did everything I could to get into a front-line unit." He laughs. "And it worked. Anyway, I'm rambling38 like an old man. I was trying to make a point about helmets."
"Oh, yeah."
"Our job was to go through the jungle making trouble for some slippery gentlemen carrying guns bigger than they were. Stealthy guys. And we depended on our hearing, too -- just like you do. And you know what? We never wore helmets."
"Same reason?"
"Exactly. Even though they didn't cover the ears, really, they did something to your sense of hearing. I still think I owe my life to going bareheaded."
"That's really cool. That's really interesting."
"You'd think they would have solved the problem by now."
"Yeah," Y.T. volunteers, "some things never change, I guess."
Uncle Enzo throws back his head and belly39 laughs. Usually, Y.T. finds this kind of thing pretty annoying, but Uncle Enzo just seems like he's having a good time, not putting her down.
Y.T. wants to ask him how he went from the ultimate rebellion to running the family beeswax. She doesn't. But Uncle Enzo senses that it is the next, natural subject of the conversation.
"Sometimes I wonder who'll come after me," he says. "Oh, we have plenty of excellent people in the next generation. But after that -- well, I don't know. I guess all old people feel like the world is coming to an end."
"You got millions of those Young Mafia types," Y.T. says.
"All destined40 to wear blazers and shuffle41 papers in suburbia. You don't respect those people very much, Y.T., because you're young and arrogant42. But I don't respect them much either, because I'm old and wise."
This is a fairly shocking thing for Uncle Enzo to be saying, but Y.T. doesn't feel shocked. It just seems like a reasonable statement coming from her reasonable pal, Uncle Enzo.
"None of them would ever volunteer to go get his legs shot off in the jungle, just to piss off his old man. They lack a certain fiber43. They are lifeless and beaten down."
"That's sad," Y.T. says. It feels better to say this than to trash them, which was her first inclination44.
"Well," says Uncle Enzo. It is the "well" that begins the end of a conversation. "I was going to send you some roses, but you wouldn't really be interested in that, would you?"
"Oh, I wouldn't mind," she says, sounding pathetically weak to herself.
"Here's something better, since we are comrades in arms," he says. He loosens his tie and collar, reaches down into his shirt, pulls out an amazingly cheap steel chain with a couple of stamped silver tags dangling46 from it. "These are my old dog tags," he says. "Been carrying them around for years, just for the hell of it. I would be amused if you would wear them."
Trying to keep her knees steady, she puts the dog tags on. They dangle47 down onto her coverall.
"Better put them inside," Uncle Enzo says.
She drops them down into the secret place between her breasts. They are still warm from Uncle Enzo.
"Thanks."
"It's just for fun," he says, "but if you ever get into trouble, and you show those dog tags to whoever it is that's giving you a bad time, then things will probably change very quickly."
"Thanks, Uncle Enzo."
"Take care of yourself. Be good to your mother. She loves you."
As she steps out of the Nova Sicilia franchulate, a guy is waiting for her. He smiles, not without irony48, and makes just a hint of a bow, sort of to get her attention. It's pretty ridiculous, but after being with Uncle Enzo for a while, she's definitely into it. So she doesn't laugh in his face or anything, just looks the other way and blows him off.
"Y.T. Got a job for ya," he says.
"I'm busy," she says, "got other deliveries to make."
"You lie like a mattress," he says appreciatively. "Y'know that gargoyle in there? He's patched in to the RadiKS computer even as we speak. So we all know for a fact you don't got no jobs to do."
"Well, I can't take jobs from a customer," Y.T. says. "We're centrally dispatched. You have to go through the 1-800 number."
"Jeez, what kind of a fucking dickhead do you think lam?" the guy says.
Y.T. stops walking, turns, finally looks at the guy. He's tall, lean. Black suit, black hair. And he's got a gnarly-looking glass eye.
"What happened to your eye?" she says.
"Ice pick, Bayonne, 1985," he says. "Any other questions?"
"Sorry, man, I was just asking."
"Now back to business. Because I don't have my head totally up my asshole, like you seem to assume, I am aware that all Kouriers are centrally dispatched through the 1-800 number. Now, we don't like 1-800 numbers and central dispatching. It's just a thing with us. We like to go person-to-person, the old-fashioned way. Like, on my momma's birthday, I don't pick up the phone and dial 1-800-CALL-MOM. I go there in person and give her a kiss on the cheek, okay? Now in this case, we want you in particular."
"How come?"
"Because we just love to deal with difficult little chicks who ask too many fucking questions. So our gargoyle has already patched himself in to the computer that RadiKS uses to dispatch Kouriers."
The man with the glass eye turns, rotating his head way, way around like an owl49, and nods in the direction of the gargoyle. A second later, Y.T.'s personal phone rings.
"Fucking pick it up," he says.
"What?" she says into the phone.
A computer voice tells her that she is supposed to make a pickup50 in Griffith Park and deliver it to a Reverend Wayne's Pearly Gates franchise in Van Nuys.
"If you want something delivered from point A to point B, why don't you just drive it down there yourselves?" Y.T. asks. "Put it in one of those black Lincoln Town Cars and just get it done."
"Because in this case, the something doesn't exactly belong to us, and the people at point A and point B, well, we aren't necessarily on the best of terms, mutually speaking."
"You want me to steal something," Y.T. says.
The man with the glass eye is pained, wounded. "No, no, no. Kid, listen. We're the fucking Mafia. We want to steal something, we already know how to do that, okay? We don't need a fifteen-year-old girl's help to get something stolen. What we are doing here is more of a covert51 operation."
"A spy thing." Intel.
"Yeah. A spy thing," the man says, his tone of voice suggesting that he is trying to humor someone. "And the only way to get this operation to work is if we have a Kourier who can cooperate with us a little bit."
"So all that stuff with Uncle Enzo was fake," Y.T. says. "You're just trying to get all friendly with a Kourier."
"Oh, ho, listen to this," says the man with the glass eye, genuinely amused. "Yeah, like we have to go all the way to the top to impress a fifteen-year-old. Look, kid, there's a million Kouriers out there we could bribe52 to do this. We're going with you, again, because you have a personal relationship with our outfit53."
"Well, what do you want me to do?"
"Exactly what you would normally do at this juncture," the man says. "Go to Griffith Park and make the pickup."
"That's it?"
"Yeah. Then make the delivery. But do us a favor and take I-5, okay?"
"That's not the best way to do it -- "
"Do it anyway."
"Okay."
"Now come on, we'll give you an escort out of this hellhole."
Sometimes, if the wind is going the right way, and you get into the pocket of air behind a speeding eighteen-wheeler, you don't even have to poon it. The vacuum, like a mighty54 hoover, sucks you in. You can stay there all day. But if you screw up, you suddenly find yourself alone and powerless in the left lane of a highway with a convoy55 of semis right behind you. Just as bad, if you give in to its power, it will suck you right into its mudflaps, you will become axle dressing56, and no one will ever know. This is called the Magic Hoover Poon. It reminds Y.T. of the way her life has been since the fateful night of the Hiro Protagonist57 pizza adventure.
Her poon cannot miss as she slingshots her way up the San Diego Freeway. She can get a solid yank off even the lightest, trashiest plastic-and-aluminum58 Chinese econobox. People don't fuck with her. She has established her space on the pavement.
She is going to get so much business now. She will have to sub a lot of work out to Roadkill. And sometimes, just to make important business arrangements, they will have to check into a motel somewhere -- which is exactly what real business people do. Lately, Y.T. has been trying to teach Roadkill how to give her a massage59. But Roadkill can never get past her shoulder blades before he loses it and starts being Mr.Macho. Which anyway is kind of sweet. And anyway, you take what you can get.
This is not the most direct route to Griffith Park by a longshot, but this is what the Mafia wants her to do: Take 405 all the way up into the Valley, and then approach from that direction, which is the direction she'd normally come from. They're so paranoid. So professional.
LAX goes by on her left. On her right, she gets a glimpse of the U-Stor-It where that dweeb, her partner, is probably goggled60 into his computer. She weaves through complex traffic flows around Hughes Airport, which is now a private outpost of Mr. Lee's Greater Hong Kong. Continues past the Santa Monica Airport, which just got bought out by Admiral Bob's Global Security. Cuts through the middle of Fedland, where her mother goes to work every day.
Fedland used to be the VA Hospital and a bunch of other Federal buildings; now it has condensed into a kidney-shaped lozenge that wraps around 405. It has a barrier around it, a perimeter61 fence put up by stringing chain link fabric62, concertina wire, heaps of rubble63, and Jersey64 barriers from one building to the next. All of the buildings in Fedland are big and ugly. Human beings mill around their plinths, wearing wool clothing the color of damp granite65. They are scrawny and dark underneath66 the white majesty67 of the buildings.
On the far side of the Fedland barrier, off to the right, she can see UCLA, which is now being jointly68 run by the Japanese and Mr. Lee's Greater Hong Kong and a few big American corporations.
People say that over there to the left, in Pacific Palisades, is a big building above the ocean where the Central Intelligence Corporation has its West Coast headquarters. Soon -- like maybe tomorrow -- she'll go up there, find that building, maybe just cruise past it and wave. She has great stuff to tell Hiro now. Great intel on Uncle Enzo. People would pay millions for it.
But in her heart, she's already feeling the pangs69 of conscience. She knows that she cannot kiss and tell on the Mafia. Not because she's afraid of them. Because they trust her. They were nice to her. And who knows, it might turn into something. A better career than she could get with CIC.
Not many cars are taking the off-ramp70 into Fedland. Her mother does it every morning, as do a bunch of other Feds. But all Feds go to work early and stay late. It's a loyalty71 thing with them. The Feds have a fetish for loyalty -- since they don't make a lot of money or get a lot of respect, you have to prove you're personally committed and that you don't care about those trappings.
Case in point: Y.T. has been pooned onto the same cab all the way from LAX. It's got an Arab in the back seat. His burnous flutters in the wind from the open window; the air conditioning doesn't work, an L.A. cabbie doesn't make enough money to buy Chill -- Freon -- on the underground market. This is typical: only the Feds would make a visitor take a dirty, un-air conditioned cab. Sure enough, the cab pulls onto the ramp marked UNITED STATES. Y.T. disengages and slaps her poon onto a Valley-bound delivery truck.
On top of the huge Federal Building, a bunch of Feds with walkie-talkies and dark glasses and FEDS windbreakers lurk72, aiming long lenses into the windshields of the vehicles coming up Wilshire Boulevard If this were nighttime, she'd probably see a laser scanner playing over the bar-code license73 plate of the taxi as it veers74 onto the U.S. exit.
Y.T.'s mom has told her all about these guys. They are the Executive Branch General Operational Command, EBGOC. The FBI, Federal Marshalls, Secret Service, and Special Forces all claim some separate identity still, like the Army, Navy, and Air Force used to, but they're all under the command of EBGOC, they all do the same things, and they are more or less interchangeable. Outside of Fedland, everyone just knows them as the Feds. EBGOC claims the right to go anywhere, anytime, within the original borders of the United States of America, without a warrant or even a good excuse. But they only really feel at home here, in Fedland, staring down the barrel of a telephoto lens, shotgun microphone, or sniper rifle. The longer the better.
Down below them, the taxicab with the Arab in the back slows down to sublight speed and winds its way down a twisting slalom course of Jersey barriers with .50-caliber machine gun nests strategically placed here and there. It comes to a stop in front of an STD device, straddling an open pit where EBGOC boys stand with dogs and high-powered spotlights75 to look up its skirt for bombs or NBCI (nuclear-biological-chemical-informational) agents in the undercarriage. Meanwhile, the driver gets out and pops the hood19 and trunk so that more Feds can inspect them; another Fed leans against the window next to the Arab and grills76 him through the window.
They say that in D.C., all the museums and the monuments have been concessioned out and turned into a tourist park that now generates about 10 percent of the Government's revenue.
The Feds could run the concession77 themselves and probably keep more of the gross, but that's not the point. It's a philosophical78 thing. A back-to-basics thing. Government should govern. It's not in the entertainment industry, is it? Leave entertaining to Industry weirdos -- people who majored in tap dancing. Feds aren't like that. Feds are serious people. Poli-sci majors. Student council presidents. Debate club chairpersons. The kinds of people who have the grit to wear a dark wool suit and a tightly buttoned collar even when the temperature has greenhoused up to a hundred and ten degrees and the humidity is thick enough to stall a jumbo jet. The kinds of people who feel most at home on the dark side of a one-way mirror.
Sometimes, to prove their manhood, boys of about Y.T.'s age will drive to the eastern end of the Hollywood Hills, into Griffith Park, pick the road of their choosing, and simply drive through it. Making it through there unscathed is a lot like counting coup45 on a High Plains battlefield; simply having come that close to danger makes you more of a man.
By definition, all they ever see are the through streets. If you are driving into Griffith Park for some highjinks and you see a NO OUTLET79 sign, you know that it is time to shift your dad's Accord into reverse and drive it backward all the way back home, revving80 the engine way past the end of the tachometer.
Naturally, as soon as Y.T. enters the park, following the road she was told to follow, she sees a NO OUTLET sign.
Y.T.'s not the first Kourier to take a job like this, and so she has heard about the place she is going. It is a narrow canyon81, accessed only by this one road, and down in the bottom of the canyon a new gang lives. Everyone calls them the Falabalas, because that's how they talk to each other. They have their own language and it sounds like babble82.
Right now, the important thing is not to think about how stupid this is. Making the right decision is, priority-wise, down there along with getting enough niacin and writing a thank-you letter to grandma for the nice pearl earrings83. The only important thing is not to back down.
A row of machine-gun nests marks the border of Falabala territory. It seems like overkill to Y.T. But then she's never been in a conflict with the Mafia, either. She plays it cool, idles toward the barrier at maybe ten miles an hour. This is where she'll freak out and get scared if she's going to. She is holding aloft a color-faxed RadiKS document, featuring the cybernetic radish logo, proclaiming that she really is here to pick up an important delivery, honest. It'll never work with these guys.
But it does. A big gnarled-up coil of razor ribbon is pulled out of her way, just like that, and she glides84 through without slowing down. And that's when she knows that it's going to be fine. These people are just doing business here, just like anyone else.
She doesn't have to skate far into the canyon. Thank God. She goes around a few turns, into kind of an open flat area surrounded by trees, and finds herself in what looks like an open-air insane asylum85.
Or a Moonie festival or something.
A couple of dozen people are here. None of them have been taking care of themselves at all. They are all wearing the ragged86 remains87 of what used to be pretty decent clothing. Half a dozen of them are kneeling on the pavement with their hands clenched88 tightly together, mumbling to unseen entities89.
On the trunk lid of a dead car, they've set up an old junked computer terminal, just a dark monitor screen with a big spider-web crack in it, like someone bounced a coffee mug off the glass. A fat man with red suspenders dangling around his knees is sliding his hands up and down the keyboard, whacking90 the keys randomly91, talking out loud in a meaningless babble. A couple of the others stand behind him, peeking92 over his shoulder and around his body, and sometimes they try to horn in on it, but he shoves them out of the way.
There's also a crowd of people clapping their hands, swaying their bodies, and singing "The Happy Wanderer." They're really into it, too. Y.T. hasn't seen such childlike glee on anyone's face since the first time she let Roadkill take her clothes off. But this is a different kind of childlike glee that does not look right on a bunch of thirty-something people with dirty hair.
And finally, there is a guy that Y.T. dubs93 the High Priest. He's wearing a formerly94 white lab coat, bearing the logo of some company in the Bay Area. He's sacked out in the back of a dead station wagon95, but when Y.T. enters the area he jumps up and runs toward her in a way that she can't help but find a little threatening. But compared to these others, he seems almost like a regular, healthy, fit, demented bush-dwelling psychotic.
"You're here to pick up a suitcase, right?"
"I'm here to pick up something. I don't know what it is," she says.
He goes over to one of the dead cars, unlocks the hood, pulls out an aluminum briefcase96. It looks exactly like the one that Squeaky took out of the BMW last night. "Here's your delivery," he says, striding toward her. She backs away from him instinctively97.
"I understand, I understand," he says. "I'm a scary creep."
He puts it on the ground, puts his foot on it, gives it a shove. It slides across the pavement to Y.T., bouncing off the occasional rock.
"There's no big hurry on this delivery," he says. 'Would you like to stay and have a drink? We've got Kool-Aid."
"I'd love to," Y.T. says, "but my diabetes98 is acting99 up real bad."
"Well, then you can just stay and be a guest of our community. We have a lot of wonderful things to tell you about. Things that could really change your life."
"Do you have anything in writing? Something I could take with me?"
"Gee28, I'm afraid we don't. Why don't you stay. You seem like a really nice person."
"Sorry, Jack100, but you must be confusing me with a bimbo," Y.T. says. "Thanks for the suitcase. I'm out of here."
Y.T. starts digging at the pavement with one foot, building up speed as fast as she can. On her way out, she passes by a young woman with a shaved head, dressed in the dirty and haggard remains of a Chanel knockoff. As Y.T. goes by her, she smiles vacantly, sticks out her hand, and waves. "Hi," she says. "ba ma zu na la amu pa go lu ne me a ba du."
"Yo," Y.T. says.
收听单词发音 |
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franchise
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| n.特许，特权，专营权，特许权 | |
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auxiliary
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| adj.辅助的，备用的 | |
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evolutionary
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| adj.进化的；演化的，演变的；[生]进化论的 | |
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skids
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| n.滑向一侧( skid的名词复数 )；滑道；滚道；制轮器v.（通常指车辆） 侧滑( skid的第三人称单数 )；打滑；滑行；（住在）贫民区 | |
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roiling
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| v.搅混（液体）( roil的现在分词 )；使烦恼；使不安；使生气 | |
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grit
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| n.沙粒，决心，勇气；v.下定决心，咬紧牙关 | |
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glossy
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| adj.平滑的；有光泽的 | |
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8
nibbling
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| v.啃，一点一点地咬（吃）( nibble的现在分词 )；啃出（洞），一点一点咬出（洞）；慢慢减少；小口咬 | |
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9
stomps
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| v.跺脚，践踏，重踏( stomp的第三人称单数 ) | |
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10
plank
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| n.板条，木板，政策要点，政纲条目 | |
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axis
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| n.轴，轴线，中心线；坐标轴，基准线 | |
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spokes
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| n.（车轮的）辐条( spoke的名词复数 )；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 | |
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13
retract
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| vt.缩回，撤回收回，取消 | |
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socket
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| n.窝，穴，孔，插座，插口 | |
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15
preoccupied
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| adj.全神贯注的，入神的；被抢先占有的；心事重重的v.占据（某人）思想，使对…全神贯注，使专心于( preoccupy的过去式) | |
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coma
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| n.昏迷，昏迷状态 | |
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17
hilarious
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| adj.充满笑声的，欢闹的；[反]depressed | |
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18
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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19
hood
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| n.头巾，兜帽，覆盖；v.罩上，以头巾覆盖 | |
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20
mumble
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| n./v.喃喃而语，咕哝 | |
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21
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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22
garb
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| n.服装，装束 | |
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23
stimulation
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| n.刺激，激励，鼓舞 | |
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24
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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25
gargoyle
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| n.笕嘴 | |
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mumbling
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| 含糊地说某事，叽咕，咕哝( mumble的现在分词 ) | |
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27
pal
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| n.朋友，伙伴，同志；vi.结为友 | |
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28
gee
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| n.马；int.向右！前进！，惊讶时所发声音；v.向右转 | |
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29
flick
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| n.快速的轻打，轻打声，弹开；v.轻弹，轻轻拂去，忽然摇动 | |
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30
opportune
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| adj.合适的，适当的 | |
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31
bruise
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| n.青肿，挫伤；伤痕；vt.打青；挫伤 | |
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bugged
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| vt.在…装窃听器（bug的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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limousine
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| n.豪华轿车 | |
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34
weird
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| adj.古怪的，离奇的；怪诞的，神秘而可怕的 | |
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dart
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| v.猛冲，投掷；n.飞镖，猛冲 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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creased
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| （使…）起折痕，弄皱( crease的过去式和过去分词 )； （皮肤）皱起，使起皱纹； 皱皱巴巴 | |
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38
rambling
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| adj.[建]凌乱的，杂乱的 | |
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39
belly
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| n.肚子，腹部；(像肚子一样)鼓起的部分，膛 | |
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40
destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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41
shuffle
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| n.拖著脚走，洗纸牌；v.拖曳，慢吞吞地走 | |
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42
arrogant
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| adj.傲慢的，自大的 | |
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43
fiber
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| n.纤维，纤维质 | |
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44
inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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45
coup
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| n.政变；突然而成功的行动 | |
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46
dangling
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| 悬吊着( dangle的现在分词 )； 摆动不定； 用某事物诱惑…； 吊胃口 | |
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47
dangle
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| v.(使)悬荡，(使)悬垂 | |
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48
irony
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| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
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49
owl
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| n.猫头鹰，枭 | |
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50
pickup
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| n.拾起，获得 | |
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51
covert
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| adj.隐藏的；暗地里的 | |
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52
bribe
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| n.贿赂；v.向…行贿，买通 | |
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53
outfit
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| n.（为特殊用途的）全套装备，全套服装 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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55
convoy
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| vt.护送，护卫，护航；n.护送；护送队 | |
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56
dressing
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| n.(食物)调料；包扎伤口的用品，敷料 | |
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protagonist
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| n.(思想观念的)倡导者；主角，主人公 | |
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58
aluminum
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| n.(aluminium)铝 | |
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59
massage
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| n.按摩，揉；vt.按摩，揉，美化，奉承，篡改数据 | |
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60
goggled
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| adj.戴护目镜的v.睁大眼睛瞪视， （惊讶的）转动眼珠( goggle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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61
perimeter
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| n.周边，周长，周界 | |
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62
fabric
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| n.织物，织品，布；构造，结构，组织 | |
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63
rubble
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| n.（一堆）碎石，瓦砾 | |
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64
jersey
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| n.运动衫 | |
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65
granite
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| adj.花岗岩，花岗石 | |
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66
underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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67
majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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jointly
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| ad.联合地，共同地 | |
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69
pangs
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| 突然的剧痛( pang的名词复数 )； 悲痛 | |
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ramp
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| n.暴怒，斜坡，坡道；vi.作恐吓姿势，暴怒，加速；vt.加速 | |
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71
loyalty
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| n.忠诚，忠心 | |
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72
lurk
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| n.潜伏，潜行；v.潜藏，潜伏，埋伏 | |
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73
license
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| n.执照，许可证，特许；v.许可，特许 | |
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74
veers
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| v.（尤指交通工具）改变方向或路线( veer的第三人称单数 )；（指谈话内容、人的行为或观点）突然改变；（指风） （在北半球按顺时针方向、在南半球按逆时针方向）逐渐转向；风向顺时针转 | |
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75
spotlights
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| n.聚光灯（的光）( spotlight的名词复数 )；公众注意的中心v.聚光照明( spotlight的第三人称单数 )；使公众注意，使突出醒目 | |
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76
grills
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| n.烤架( grill的名词复数 )；（一盘）烤肉；格板；烧烤餐馆v.烧烤( grill的第三人称单数 )；拷问，盘问 | |
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77
concession
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| n.让步，妥协；特许(权) | |
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78
philosophical
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| adj.哲学家的，哲学上的，达观的 | |
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79
outlet
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| n.出口/路；销路；批发商店；通风口；发泄 | |
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80
revving
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| v.（使）加速( rev的现在分词 )；（数量、活动等）激增；（使发动机）快速旋转；（使）活跃起来 | |
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81
canyon
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| n.峡谷，溪谷 | |
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82
babble
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| v.含糊不清地说，胡言乱语地说，儿语 | |
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83
earrings
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| n.耳环( earring的名词复数 )；耳坠子 | |
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84
glides
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| n.滑行( glide的名词复数 )；滑音；音渡；过渡音v.滑动( glide的第三人称单数 )；掠过；（鸟或飞机 ） 滑翔 | |
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85
asylum
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| n.避难所，庇护所，避难 | |
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86
ragged
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| adj.衣衫褴褛的，粗糙的，刺耳的 | |
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87
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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88
clenched
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| v.紧握，抓紧，咬紧( clench的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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89
entities
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| 实体对像； 实体，独立存在体，实际存在物( entity的名词复数 ) | |
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90
whacking
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| adj.（用于强调）巨大的v.重击，使劲打( whack的现在分词 ) | |
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91
randomly
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| adv.随便地，未加计划地 | |
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92
peeking
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| v.很快地看( peek的现在分词 )；偷看；窥视；微露出 | |
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93
dubs
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| v.给…起绰号( dub的第三人称单数 )；把…称为；配音；复制 | |
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94
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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95
wagon
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| n.四轮马车，手推车，面包车；无盖运货列车 | |
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96
briefcase
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| n.手提箱，公事皮包 | |
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97
instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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98
diabetes
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| n.糖尿病 | |
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99
acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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100
jack
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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