Conversation · Acele

"I... can't think of anything. There's gotta be something, right? That would be normal for a human person."

"You tell me." She breathes on her fingers again; they're red from the cold.

You don't have any fuckin' problems! Not a single one!

"I also have a problem with alcohol."

"Yeah, I got that, but what don't you have a problem with?"

Women's fencing. It's an elegant activity.

"Women's fencing. Great sport. No problem with that."

"Good for you then. Women's fencing is a pretty graceful sight."

"Agreed," the lieutenant notes.

"That's real cool. Hope you don't mind missing out on all that great homo-sexual content the world has got to offer."

"Don't get me wrong. I'm all for it. This Paliseum just sounded like their kind of place."

"Okay then. That's cool."

"Sounds interesting. Who is this Arno guy?"

"Oh, yeah. Egg's really into him. Maybe even too into him. He's a pretty intense personality."

Hey, didn't Pissf****t and Fuck the World mention van Eyck, too?

"I'm pretty intense, too."

"Does this have anything to do with Contact Mike?"

"Uh..." She's confused. "Yeah, I record stuff with it."

"No, I mean the boxer Contact Mike."

"Ah! No. This is a contact microphone, it's for recording inside solid objects. Contact Mike just beats people up."

That's not fair. And an understatement.

"No, I mean... forget it."

Yeah? Any news on my own name?

Nope.

You're welcome.

Nice. You could maybe bug someone with it? Wire tapping!

Your mangled brain would like you to know there is a boxer called Contact Mike.

"Got it."

"Recording, I guess."

"And what is it you're recording exactly?"

"I think I'm recording cracks in the ice, but there's no way to tell. Not without headphones. I think I just recorded your footsteps, too. Not sure how that will sound..." She scratches her forehead.

What happened to the old headphones?

"Wait, what happened to the headphones?"

"My boyfriend sold them."

"What for?"

"I don't know, man... things. Just stuff you need for life."

A lie. They were probably pawned off for something ssssuspicious.

Everything checks out, sire!

"And what are these recordings for -- the cracks, the footsteps?"

"The musicians in The Paliseum use them for making music. They loop the stuff, cutting the tapes together. They make music out of cracks in the ice and keys jangling... crazy sounds like that. It's hard to explain."

Just nod.

"Anyway, I thought I'd make some, too. It's supposed to be, like, a music place anyway..." She rubs her shoulders and looks around.

The girl is cold all of a sudden. Very cold.

"I don't really know what I'm doing. They use synthesizers, too. I don't have a synthesizer."

She looks at the recording device, the thing she thought would fill her hours with joy and escape. It's turning out to be an empty fantasy. She feels childish, very useless all of a sudden.

The sharp drop in endorphins is almost visible. Like a warm blanket has fallen off her shoulders -- the wave of chill, the quivering jaw. Indications of a drug high.

She is on some kind of stimulant -- amphetamine or mephedrone -- and its effects are wearing off fast. She will begin to experience more and more valleys now. And fewer peaks.

"Take this, you're cold." The lieutenant begins to take off his jacket.

"No man, fuck that, I'm cool... I'm sorry I said that. I'm sorry about the fuck."

"It's okay." The lieutenant backs up. He throws you a glance.

"Now this is where a hat would come in handy."

"Yeah... maybe you were right about the hat."

"I had some other questions." (Conclude.)

"Want my jacket?" (Start taking it off.)

"No, man. Fuck it, I'm cool... I'm sorry I said that. I'm sorry about the fuck."

Sigh.

She's shivering a bit.

"All right then."

"You said it's supposed to be a music place. What is?"

"That." She nods toward the church. "The boys think it could be a place, like The Paliseum or something. Stupid. It's really..." she pauses, "not gonna be a Paliseum, that's for sure."