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Chapter 5

The Story The Authors

Janice's desperate thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of Biff, the strapping young cyberneto-physical therapist who was helping her regain the full use of her hands with their radically augmented titanium digits. She sighed and remoted cable back to MTV.
"Oh, great, Ozzy Osbourne," said Biff. "Fuckin' love that guy. Best fuckin' rock concert I've ever seen. Even better than Aerosmith."
On-screen, Ozzy gesticulated wildly. He'd changed from his leather pants to a suit of chain mail and was busy biting the head off another bat while the band roared and pounded through the instrumental break in "Symptom of the Universe." The camera panned back to show them all, stabbing and jerking at the instruments, and Janice noticed, for the first time, the odd stage setting. She wondered who AD'd these MTV guest spots. He seemed to be playing in the abandoned front lobby of a decrepit hospital; a ghost-hospital abandoned to mice and barn-owls, tumbleweeds and the ineffectual ghosts of surgeons stripped of their bone-saws and scalpels; but there was something else, and as Biff led her through the hand and finger exercises, the Windmill and the Funky Turnip and the Stone Crab, she stared hard at the screen, past the silly man dervishing in his own mock-chivalric hand-jive, trying to place the something familiar of the staging, and it was only after an hour had passed, and the band had left the stage and the camera stayed staionary on the stage while the credits rolled ("Bitsy Bootleg -- ART DIRECTOR," she noted -- what?) that she recognized the concert setting for what it was, a hopelessly old version of the very hospital where her fingers had been replaced only yesterday. And Bitsy -- when had Bitsy, her best friend, ever been an Art Director? She was a travel agent, wasn't she?
What could it all mean? Newton

The credits ended. There were several stupid commercials that tried to sell Janice flavor-bursting fruit candy, 4 years of standardized art education resulting in a B.F.A., and yet another variation on Calvin Klein jeans. Then Kurt Loder came on (and she had to admit; Ozzy was a better sight than Kurt, though Biff, now putting Janice and her mildly atrophied forearms through a truly harried bout of physical therapy, was better than Ozzy any day, incurable faux-surfer-ditz though he was). For lack of anything else to listen to, she focused her attention on his MTV World News...Van Halen Leader David Lee Roth arrested for smoking Viagra... Carole King recovering from her recent lip implants...Velvet Underground to honor recently deceased Lou Reed by staging reunion tour with sole living original member, part-time drummer Billy Yule... Ozzy Osbourne to address international congress of cybernetic surgeons...
She started up. What had he said? "What'd he just say?" she demanded of Biff.
"Hey, lady, calm down. Chillez-toi, knowwhatImean? Otherwise you'll, like, never get better..."
"C'mon, Biff, you gotta tell me, what did he just say about Ozzy Osbourne?"
"I thought you, like, hated the Ozz-man...What's up?"
"Just tell me what he said."
"Alright, alright. You know, you're a freak, lady. A real freaky deaky. But I like you. So. What the dude said was, he said Ozzy's putting on Ozz-fest again this summer. White Zombie, Engelbert Humperdinck and the Spice Girls will be the opening acts. Plus they've exhumed that big fate dude who used to sing for Canned Heat who died about 20 years ago. Fuckin' cool, huh? Especially Engelbert. That dude fuckin' rocks my world!"
So she was reading lips again. She slipped into it spontaneously sometimes, in times of distress; she'd been deaf from the ages of five to nine, on account of a pair of particularly stubborn cauliflower plants which had taken root in both of her ears, and had had to learn to lip-read. And she was lip-reading this schmuck newscaster on MTV.
"Madonna to have vagina sealed shut in protest against ex-lovers' luck and happiness," intoned Loder -- but his lips formed this: "Get out of bed, Janice. If you ever want to see your pals Demetrius and Tiki alive again, you'll get your ass down here ASAP, Janice. And no funny business. 8417 Broadway. Midnight. On the dot. Come alone."
On the TV, Kurt Loder caught her horrified stare and winked, lewdly, and extended his tongue. It was black, and forked like a lizard's. She looked at Biff and he'd noticed nothing. Newton

The Story	The Authors
Janice's desperate thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of Biff, the strapping young cyberneto-physical therapist who was helping her regain the full use of her hands with their radically augmented titanium digits. She sighed and remoted cable back to MTV. "Oh, great, Ozzy Osbourne," said Biff. "Fuckin' love that guy. Best fuckin' rock concert I've ever seen. Even better than Aerosmith." On-screen, Ozzy gesticulated wildly. He'd changed from his leather pants to a suit of chain mail and was busy biting the head off another bat while the band roared and pounded through the instrumental break in "Symptom of the Universe." The camera panned back to show them all, stabbing and jerking at the instruments, and Janice noticed, for the first time, the odd stage setting. She wondered who AD'd these MTV guest spots. He seemed to be playing in the abandoned front lobby of a decrepit hospital; a ghost-hospital abandoned to mice and barn-owls, tumbleweeds and the ineffectual ghosts of surgeons stripped of their bone-saws and scalpels; but there was something else, and as Biff led her through the hand and finger exercises, the Windmill and the Funky Turnip and the Stone Crab, she stared hard at the screen, past the silly man dervishing in his own mock-chivalric hand-jive, trying to place the something familiar of the staging, and it was only after an hour had passed, and the band had left the stage and the camera stayed staionary on the stage while the credits rolled ("Bitsy Bootleg -- ART DIRECTOR," she noted -- what?) that she recognized the concert setting for what it was, a hopelessly old version of the very hospital where her fingers had been replaced only yesterday. And Bitsy -- when had Bitsy, her best friend, ever been an Art Director? She was a travel agent, wasn't she? What could it all mean?	Newton
The credits ended. There were several stupid commercials that tried to sell Janice flavor-bursting fruit candy, 4 years of standardized art education resulting in a B.F.A., and yet another variation on Calvin Klein jeans. Then Kurt Loder came on (and she had to admit; Ozzy was a better sight than Kurt, though Biff, now putting Janice and her mildly atrophied forearms through a truly harried bout of physical therapy, was better than Ozzy any day, incurable faux-surfer-ditz though he was). For lack of anything else to listen to, she focused her attention on his MTV World News...Van Halen Leader David Lee Roth arrested for smoking Viagra... Carole King recovering from her recent lip implants...Velvet Underground to honor recently deceased Lou Reed by staging reunion tour with sole living original member, part-time drummer Billy Yule... Ozzy Osbourne to address international congress of cybernetic surgeons... She started up. What had he said? "What'd he just say?" she demanded of Biff. "Hey, lady, calm down. Chillez-toi, knowwhatImean? Otherwise you'll, like, never get better..." "C'mon, Biff, you gotta tell me, what did he just say about Ozzy Osbourne?" "I thought you, like, hated the Ozz-man...What's up?" "Just tell me what he said." "Alright, alright. You know, you're a freak, lady. A real freaky deaky. But I like you. So. What the dude said was, he said Ozzy's putting on Ozz-fest again this summer. White Zombie, Engelbert Humperdinck and the Spice Girls will be the opening acts. Plus they've exhumed that big fate dude who used to sing for Canned Heat who died about 20 years ago. Fuckin' cool, huh? Especially Engelbert. That dude fuckin' rocks my world!" So she was reading lips again. She slipped into it spontaneously sometimes, in times of distress; she'd been deaf from the ages of five to nine, on account of a pair of particularly stubborn cauliflower plants which had taken root in both of her ears, and had had to learn to lip-read. And she was lip-reading this schmuck newscaster on MTV. "Madonna to have vagina sealed shut in protest against ex-lovers' luck and happiness," intoned Loder -- but his lips formed this: "Get out of bed, Janice. If you ever want to see your pals Demetrius and Tiki alive again, you'll get your ass down here ASAP, Janice. And no funny business. 8417 Broadway. Midnight. On the dot. Come alone." On the TV, Kurt Loder caught her horrified stare and winked, lewdly, and extended his tongue. It was black, and forked like a lizard's. She looked at Biff and he'd noticed nothing.	Newton

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