"Where you living these days?" Mandy asked.

"Can't tell you that"

"Shit, you can't!" the Beetle said. "This is the Beetle talking! It was me that dragged you free of the slime. Remember your life, Scribble? Before you met me?"

"The name is MC Inky."

"You'll always be the Scribble to me. Or maybe Stevie."

"Then it's over," I said.

"What's that?"

"Between us."

"You making a living doing this, Scribb?"

"No. Not really. Just about."

"I know that story."

"Keep selling the drugs, Bee. No problems."

"Plug us in, Scribb."

"No way."

"Go on, Ink man. To the bass."

"You're not getting around me."

"I've got some Vurt."

"I don't do that any more."

"Good Vurt."

"I'm going clean."

"I've got some Tapewormer."

"I don't want to know."

Oh God, keep me strong. Don't let me be tempted.

"Plug me in, Ink baby. To the bass. Me and Mandy. We want it. Right, Mandy?"

Mandy was looking at me, that first look, like when I'd found her, stealing Bloodvurts from the market stall. "I can't control him any more, Scribb," she said. Her eyes flicked over to where the Beetle was swaying to some hidden dream, worming the tape back. "He keeps going in alone. Says I don't belong there, not where he's going. Says I don't deserve to meet the Desdemona. I would've liked to have met your sister, Scribble. She sounds like a cool girl. I don't know what to say. I really miss the group. I miss carrying aliens up the stairs. I miss you, Scribble. That's the truth."

Moments of silence. Me dumbfounded.

Broken by the Beetle; "Course you do, Mandy. I mean like, don't we all?"

"You reckon Desdemona misses the Riders?" I asked.

"You still looking for that corpse, Scribb?" the Beetle said, and the anger came through then, into my eyes, causing tears to form there.

"I think you should fuck yourself silly, Bee. And then get out of here."

"Come on, man! Plug us in. Let's taste the bass! Come on, the Scribb. Deliver. For once! Deliver it!"

Okay, the Beetle. You want it. Come get it. Hope you choke to death on it. I had the five-pin plug in my hands and I was shaking as I fed it. Straight to the gate. The Beetle was wide open at the mouth, and his gums were bleeding as I rammed the bass flex home. And then I was turning it up, turning the bass right up, way past the legal limits, and I was calling to the crowd the same time.

"Limbic brood! This is for you! Feel it! Feel it! Dingo Tush! Calling to yer! Leave some space for the bass, Dog Star!"

Brood went crazy, pumping it, as the bass kicked in and The Beetle was dancing in the air as the heavy waves pounded his system. Seemed like his body was about to burst. He was calling out my name, calling me to stop the bass from going any deeper.

Babe, it's going all the way!

Know that feeling?

I'll bet.

DAY 22

"My mind was like a stranger, a cold-hearted stranger with a gun in his hands."

SLITHY TOVE

Doorman at the Slithy Tove was a fat white rabbit. He had a blood-flecked head protruding from beer-stained neck fur and a large pocket watch in his big white mittens. The big hand was pointing to twelve, the little hand pointing to three. That's three o'clock in the morning of the night just begun.

Two door whores were trying to blag their way in without a coding symbol. Rabbit was dealing them grief. I flashed my laminated access-all-areas after-gig party passcode, formed to the shape of a small and cute puppy dog half-cut with a human baby, dappled in fur; overleaf, a photo of Dingo Tush, naked but for his (authorised) autograph. Around the edge of the pass ran the slogan -- Dingo Tush. Barking for Britain Tour. Presented by Das Uberdog Enterprises.

Rabbit bouncer scanned my pass and then looked up into my eyes. It was a hard stare. "I was the Dingo's DJ tonight, partner," I told him. He was suitably enamoured; he let me pass.

I pushed through the slithy portals, through the hole in the earth, along the shelves of jam, all the way through the corridor of hanging-on liggerettes, straight to the crush.

Must have been five hundred people in there, that small space; friends, lovers, enemies, husbands, wives, second cousins, groupies, agents, roadies, managers, fur dressers, bone-buriers, flea pickers, glitter dogs and litter men, DJ's, VJ's, SJ's, mothers, smothers, ex-lovers, record pushers. All the entourage of Dingo Tush, dancing around the handbag Vurt transmitted from the roof-beams, and then more spilling out into the Fetish Garden, under a streetlamp moon, still dancing.

I walked into the crush, and was driven up, and lost, plugged in straight off, with a whiff of Bliss. You just can't get away from it. The love is clinging. Well, when it's breathed in direct, through the air conditioning, I mean, what chance do you have? I took a deep mouthful, felt high as a paper plane. Man, that was good Bliss Wind. I took another gulp, full lungful this time, head was spinning and I loved everybody in the crush all of a sudden. Caressed my way to the bar and ordered a glass of Fetish. The dark spicy afternotes hit my palette, causing sparks, and I was floating, hot. Slithy Tove system was playing The Ace of Bones. Original pressing by Dingo Tush, but this was the hard (hard!) remix, cooked up by Acid Lassie, and it was dancing the crush to a frenzy. I turned around, leaning my back against the bar, just to view the scenes better. I was gazing into a dub mirror. That's the kind where you only get the best bits looking back at you. It was that splendid mix of Bliss and Fetish, dogmusic and crush-dancing; makes you feel like a star in your own system.

I swigged another gulp of Fetish, relished it, breathed deep of the Bliss scent, then turned on, full on, to the crowd and the crush, and just drenched myself in it. Christ, I needed release!

There was a balcony up above, and I had the sudden clear thought that I would like to be up there, looking down on the herd. So I pushed off from the bar, holding my glass tightly, and entered the maelstrom, squeezing through tight gaps between dancers. Some were dressed in black, some in purple, some in vinyl, some in feathers, some in rainbows, some in bare flesh, some in fur, some in smoke and herb, some in tatters, some in splatters. The rest in pin-stripe. All the colours were present. Sweat was dripping off me already, as I entered a small circle of feather sharers, and as I passed they gave me a quick tickle to the throat, just a little one, so I only caught a glimpse of moon-flecked meadows as I flew over them, flapping my thunderwings, chasing the prey. Gang was on Thunderwings, and its sweet feel stayed with me as I moved on, forcing a path towards the stairs. Thunderwings helped me through the crush, and up the stairs. Felt like I was flying those stairs. Up to the balcony, where the world lay waiting.

That was my first Vurt in eighteen days, since the night we took out that fat cop, and it felt like coming home, that tasty. Maybe I was weakening. It didn't seem so bad to be weakening.

Life on the balcony was quieter. Not so tight. There were chairs, and people talking to each other at tables, and food. And food! Hadn't eaten in a week! Seemed like. But first I had to look down, to see that crush from the heights. And as I looked down a last few fragments of Thunderwings made it feel like I was flying over the dancing; dogs and shadows, robo and Vurt, all getting mixed up in Bliss.

There was the Beetle, back down from his bass trip, still shaking some but playing the crowd like a robopro, taking feathers from chance acquaintances. So I looked around for Mandy. Couldn't see no Mandy. But there were Tristan and Suze, holding their mutual hair aloft, as they moved through the brood. Christ! There was that shadowgirl, what was her name? She'd tried to beat us up in Bottletown. Nimbus! And look, there was Scribble, taking a feather into his mouth. No! No way! I was here, up on the balcony, not down there! I wasn't down there! I was fighting for control, trying hard to place myself.