#guys look its staccato and spoon

[stefisdoingthings]

they're all so fucked up

[s-horne]

1. National Loyalty Day

“What’s in the serum?”

Tony let his head loll forward and he blinked slowly, the floor swimming beneath him. “A spoonful of sugar. Milkshake to bring those boys to–”

The fist that shot out and smacked into his cheek was expected, but that didn’t mean that it didn’t hurt. Tony groaned and swallowed yet another mouthful of blood, the sharp tang disgustingly familiar.

“Just tell us what’s in it,” his kidnapper said, voice low and throaty. There was obviously some sort of disguising technology in use to hide the real voice of the man, but Tony found it hard to be impressed by his kidnapper. “We know you know. If you tell us, then it will be so much easier for us to replicate it. We won’t even have to touch the Captain.”

Tony swallowed again, this time choking down a mouthful of bile that burned his throat. The thought alone was enough to turn his stomach. No one was going to touch Steve and get away with it.

“I’ll get it one way or another,” the man continued, mouth curving into a sick grin under the half-mask he wore. “You can tell me now or I shall take it by force. You don't help us make it now and we'll just take it from the source. We know all about the Captain and how to strike.”

“Really? So you know about his love for Piña Coladas?” Tony’s eyes fell closed as his hands twisted in their binds. God, but he was tired. So dreadfully tired. All he wanted to do was give into the sleep that was pulling at him and trying to drag him under, but he couldn't do that to Steve. He had to be strong. He had to be the person that Steve thought he was. “I took him to Puerto Rico once and that was all he drank for–”

That time the slap to the side of his face caught his eye and Tony’s chair wobbled dangerously before it settled. Tears sprung into his eyes and Tony’s face throbbed.

“Shut up,” he heard from somewhere above him. “All I want to know is how to replicate the serum. You have the secret, Mr. Stark. We know you do. This way is so much easier for all of us.”

“Actually, it’s Doctor Stark. Several times over.”

The man in front of Tony snarled darkly and Tony braced himself for another hit. When he felt a kick to his leg and the jolt of pain that it brought, he lifted his head with an immense amount of strength and hissed out a long breath.

“I’m not telling you anything,” he finally spat out, trying to keep his voice as steady as he could. He held the eyes of his captor and locked his jaw. “I’d rather die.”

 /

 It certainly felt close to dying, Tony had to give them that. Whoever these guys were, they had clearly given some thought to their torture techniques and Tony was far from their first victim.

“We only want to know what’s in the serum.”

Tony blinked up at the bulky man in front of him, not really registering too much. He was deep in a daze, the wave of pain finally having succeeded in dragging him into its clutches. Each blink seemed to last a minute and there was a steady stream of blood dripping down onto the floor in a staccato echoing around his brain.

“I want the formula.”

“I don’t have it,” Tony maintained weakly. His head was spinning and it was taking a momentous effort to keep himself awake. If this was how he went, then at least he could say that he'd tried. He had done his best to keep his knowledge to himself, to protect the one he loved. “It’s not something I ever wanted. I never cared to ask. It’s too dangerous for it to be mine.”

“Bullshit.” Tony heard the flick of the switchblade before he saw it and didn't have much time to prepare himself for its cold kiss. “And now I’ll make you tell me.”

 //

 Tony had always hated hospitals, but even he could admit that opening his eyes to a sterile room with a beeping machine at his side was a lot better than the alternative. The alternative being stuck whenever the fuck he’d been trapped before, with scary men beating him up and his arms tied to a rusting chair.

He allowed himself a long minute to relax at the thought of being safe and far away from that nightmare. And it was safety; Tony would recognise the insignia on the glass doors anywhere. He was in SHIELD medical, in a soft bed with bandages wrapped around his cuts and not a single knife in sight. Someone had come for him and Tony had an inkling that he knew who that had been. With great effort, Tony turned his head to the side and a smile tugged at his lips at the sight that greeted him, warmth blossoming in his chest.

Steve was slumped in an armchair to the left of Tony’s bed, hands resting on the edge of the mattress as though he’d been strecthing out for Tony. Though Tony had gotten a few strange looks when he’d suggested installing the upgraded chairs to replace the hard and plastic ones they’d had before, he was sure that Steve was grateful for them now. The Avengers all spent so many hours at bedsides down in medical that it made sense to provide some comfort. It looked as though Steve been there for a while already and Tony's heart twisted.

Without moving, Tony let his eyes roam over what he could see of Steve. His hair looked as though it had been raked through by wandering hands several times over and, even in sleep, there were deep and dark bags below his eyes. It went without saying that Steve looked beautiful, but Tony wished that he was looking beautiful in their own bed, no medical wing in sight.

As much as Tony hated to disturb the clearly-needed sleep of the other man, he really needed his medication and he knew that Steve would be able to help him. Tony grit his teeth and lifted his hand, just managing to knock Steve’s arm. The slight touch was enough to wake Steve up and Tony watched with distracted fondness as the man blinked slowly.

As soon as Steve’s eyes focused, his face spread into a smile.

“Hey, stud.”

Tony laughed, a weak and breathless sound that jolted his bruised ribs but felt so wonderful all the same.

“Hey,” he rasped out, words barely audible. “Missed you.”

Steve reached out, the backs of his fingers stroking across Tony’s forehead briefly. “And I you.”

Without having to be asked, Steve pulled away and turned to pour Tony a glass of water, holding its straw to Tony’s lips.

“You were just given something to help you sleep,” Steve said softly. “The nurses are due on their rounds soon, so you can ask about another dose of meds when they come in. They won’t be long at all, I promise.”

Tony swallowed the small mouthful of water like it was dust, his throat as dry as a desert. He didn’t want to wait, not with his body screaming at him, but he also couldn’t bring his mind to say that. He still felt sluggish and even his thoughts seemed to cause him pain.

There was a beat of silence before Steve placed the water back on the side table and very gingerly took Tony’s hand between his. He cradled it as though Tony were something precious, like the simplest touch would crush the fragile bone. There was a sort of desperation in his eyes, almost as though Steve was the one lying broken and battered in the bed. 

“I heard you, you know,” Steve said, voice quiet and eyes locked on the vicious bruising blossoming along Tony’s exposed skin. “When we came in, I heard you.”

Tony poked his tongue out and wet his bottom lip. “Heard what?”

“You talking.” Steve’s thumb started to stroke in soothing circles and Tony could have cried at the gentle familiarity. “He had you tied up and… you were barely even conscious, but you kept murmuring that you wouldn’t give me up. That there was no way you’d ever let them get me.”

“I wouldn’t,” Tony said, hoarse and broken but firm nonetheless. “Never.”

“Don’t say that.” Steve’s eyes closed as he lifted Tony’s hand to his lips. “Don’t, Tony. It’s only the serum – it isn’t worth your life.”

“It’s more than–,” Tony cut himself off when a flare of pain shot through his stomach, eyes screwed up and mouth open in a silent scream.

Steve pressed another kiss to Tony’s fingers. “Hey, hey, calm down. It’s okay, sweetheart. I’m here and you’re safe.” Steve paused and waited until Tony let out a slow breath and settled back down into his pillow. “But you have to know that I’m not worth your life. My being here isn't worth you being in this bed, not like this. Tony, when I saw you… I don’t ever want to see that again, darlin’. It broke my heart. They can get the serum, anyone can get it a hundred times over, and we’ll stop them before they can get too far. I will hand it over if it means that I don’t ever have to watch you fight for your life again. I don’t ever want to see you hurt, Tony. I’m never worth giving up for; nothing is ever worth giving up for.”

“You are.” Tony struggled to pull his hand from Steve’s grasp and, when Steve released him, he cupped Steve’s cheek. The pain in Steve’s eyes somehow cut Tony just as deep as the crack in his ribs and Tony couldn’t stand to see it any more. Despite the physical agony it brought, Tony stroked his thumb over the apple of Steve’s cheek. “You are worth everything.”

[auskultu]

Singles Reviews: Jimi Hendrix, Four Tops, Jeff Beck

Peter Jones, Record Mirror, 25 March 1967

CAT STEVENS: 'I'm Gonna Get Me A Gun' b/w 'School Is Out' (Deram DM 118). 
For me, his best yet. Slowish opening as Cat explains how he is demoralised, then it jerks into big-sounding life. Easy to remember melody, with pulverising backing... credit Mike Hurst and Alan Tew. Song is Instant Commercialism, with the usual strong words. This is a real performance job. Cat ever improves. Flip: Another unusual song but it didn't click so forcibly.


MANFRED MANN: 'Ha! Ha! Said The Clown' b/w 'Feeling So Good' (Fontana TF 812). 
Light-toned, this, and very pacey and with some clever instrumental tricks behind. Group vocal mostly and in a different vein to the last few Mann-made epics. Must be a hit for sheer professionalism and sense of style — but maybe not a massive smash. Flip: value for money here, a good number from Hugg-Mann team.
 

JEFF BECK: 'Hi Ho Silver Lining' b/w 'Bolero' (Columbia DB 8151) 
I'm sure this is a hit song — and I'm pretty sure this is a hit treatment by the new solo figure on the scene. Curious sound effects early on, then into a commercially staccato beating number, with a catchy chorus phrase. And Jeff's guitar gets a fair amount of space, too. Flip: a virtuoso (and noisy) guitar instrumental, self-penned.
 

JIMI HENDRIX EXPERIENCE: 'Purple Haze' b/w '51st. Anniversary' (Track 604001). 
This one takes a bit of explaining. Not, to me, as instantly commercial as 'Hey Joe', but it is rather a stronger showcase for this wild-haired talent. That groaning guitar and that fury-tipped voice—nobody goes to sleep while Jimi's in full flight. Very exciting in the buildup. Flip: In some ways more restrained, which is a novelty.


FOUR TOPS: 'Bernadette’ b/w 'I Got A Feeling' (Tamla Motown TMG 601). 
A tremendous performance again that big-swelling and big-selling sound, highlighting a song that may be just a shade short on commercial melody. High peak of urgency most of the way and the arrangement is a gem. And it does represent an effort to get away from the overall sound of their last couple. Liked it, I tell you. Flip: A perky big-beater but not quite so distinctive.


PETER AND GORDON: 'Sunday For Tea' b/w 'Start Trying Someone Else' (Columbia DB 8159). 
A Carter-Lewis song, and a simple sort of thing about the boy looking forward to having Sunday tea with his girl. Nothing too ambitious—its just a pretty little tune, extracting romance somehow out of even passing the sugar-bowl! Grows on you, this one. Flip: A bit of a tear-jerking, a slower pace.

GUY DARRELL: 'Crystal Ball' b/w 'Didn't I' (CBS 202642) 
Been plagued by people telling me how good this is—and now I finally agree. Certainly it puts Guy strongly on the hit trail, in a semi-singalong and good-time style — shades of the Spoonfuls we had not long ago. A good song and a good arrangement and a good production and I know it's getting deejay support. Watch it climb. Flip: good performance but song is routine.

[jackblankhsh]

Why I Quit:  Public Relations

“Wow, that is a lot of blood.”

“Thanks.  It’s not mine.  I hit a pig on the way over.”

“Cop pig, or pig pig?”

“Cop riding a pig actually.  It’s a whole thing, I don’t really have time to get into.  Could I get a waffle cone full of mint chocolate chip?”

“No problem.”

I handed the woman her ice cream cone.  She took a lick that inspired a deep lusty bite.  The look of elation on her face – comforting cold wrapping around a burning soul – I envied that degree of satisfaction, wanted to be her.  Then a bullet whipped through the front door.  Her head exploded.  Though her body fell she did not drop the cone.  I distinctly remember a bit of brain erupting from her skull, flying over the counter, and landing in the slot full of cherries.  It sank into the maraschino pool, and I doubt anyone but me saw it vanish.  There to lurk until one day spooned onto a sundae.  

On the news that evening, a perky anchor addressed the city, “Good evening, Chicago.  This is the news.  25 people shot yesterday, all of them dead.  Cubs won their home opener, and the weather may get up into the 80s this weekend.  Isn’t that great?”

Co-anchor cocked an eyebrow, “Cubs win, and 80 degrees on the way?  Can’t get much better.”

All smiles then, leaving the grim behind.  No details.  The less known the less thought about, except I couldn’t stop wondering if office work might now be a safer profession.  In a skyscraper high above the streets full of swarms of stray bullets unintentionally murdering randomly – I decided to jump ship, but not until sight of land.  In other words, I’d stick it out at the ice cream parlor until another job came along.  I would not have to wait long.

The next day I arrived to find my manager listening to an androgynous figure in a three piece suit.  Introductions quickly ensued.

“Indigo Jackson,” turned out to be a representative of a family, whom for legal purposes will have to remain anonymous, though suffice it to say they felt yesterday’s event warranted some kind of response on their part.  To that end, without suggesting any culpability, they saw fit to replace the entire front of the store with bulletproof glass, in order to allay any concerns from patrons or employees as to the safety of our establishment; and offered to compensate me to the tune of ten thousand dollars for having witnessed the “unpleasantness;” though of course all such matters required, first, the signing of several documents Indigo summarized adroitly, escorting us through a murky swamp of legalese without ever really explaining what signing those papers meant, despite implications abounding:  here big sack ‘o’ cash, sign for it, and shut up forever.  

When at last Indigo inquired, “Do you understand?”

I said, “It must be interesting to have a job where you need to be so definitely opaque, yet somehow understood enough people do what you ask.”

Indigo nodded, “It is.”  

“I kind of want to give that a try.”

“Are you saying you want a job instead of the money?”

“Can’t I have both?  It was a very disturbing sight.”

Indigo said, “Something can be arranged.”

Clapping my hands together, “Great.  Then before I quit, how about I make you a cherry sundae?”

“Sounds good.”

#

The next day I ascended to the top of the Monadnock Building.  Once upon a time the largest skyscraper in America – circa 1893 – it still towered in its own way, evolving over the century into a marvelous amalgamation of early aesthetics and modern technological convenience.  Brick full of invisible wifi threads connecting the past, present, and future; tap a foot on red tile mosaic patterns, while listening to the lasted streaming playlist, killing time till the rush hour clog gives way.  Then up steps adorned first in ornate aluminum cast decorations then on upper floors, bronze-plated cast iron staircases, shunning the elevator for a chance to walk through history… and maybe feeling no hurry to be at work on time.  

Into the office to start a brand new –

“You the new guy?  Follow me.”  A balding man in a sweat stained shirt grabbed me by the elbow.  He pulled me into the office muttering as he poured over emails.  His phone rang.  He threw it on the floor.  I felt it crunch under foot, and before I could apologize an intern materialized from behind a file cabinet, handed him a fresh phone, and the muttering commenced once again.  Though this time I deciphered a bit, “Goddamn turkey fuckering pirates.”

The office buzzed with activity.  Hordes of hollow eyed business people in various states of decay, internal and external, paced the space examining documents, paper and electronic.  A middle aged man in a thread bare double breasted suit sniffed ketamine off a tablespoon, while his colleague, a young woman in a pencil skirt, slugged vodka the way the thirsty chug water.  I only caught a snippet of their exchange:

“We can’t apologize for lactose intolerance.”

“But we can apologize for a cheeseburger having cheese.” In another space a grey skinned wax figure waited for a nurse to change an IV bag dripping morphine.  Surrounded by an assortment of young professionals, the room seemed like a cult of silence devoted to holding a secret.  A woman in tortoise shell glasses spun the cylinder of a revolver, put it to her temple, and when she heard the click, sighed, took a shot of whiskey, and started reading a letter.  I heard the distinct clatter of keyboards being hammered, and riding crops striking bare flesh.

“Thank you Miss!  May I have another?”

Yet in all the seeming chaos the workers managed to flow between one another efficiently, an almost elegant ballet of the damned.

The person towing me through the scene remarked, “I’m Bernie.  For now.  Tomorrow, I don’t know.  It depends.  Don’t ask on what.  Point being, your job is to write back to the beggars.  Got it?”

“Okay.”

“Good.  Here’s your space.”  And with that Bernie detached his hand, leaving me adrift by a state of the art computer atop a turn of the century desk.  Stepping over a chalk outline, I took a seat at my desk.

“Don’t worry about that.”

I looked up to find a young lady in red.  

She nodded at the chalk outline, “Horace Fletcher.  Good guy.  Killed himself.”

“Does everybody here talk in staccato sentences.”

She smiled, “Force of habit, I’m afraid.  There’s a lot to do, and no time to do it in,” extending a hand, “I’m Patty.”

Thanks to Patty, I discovered the true parameters of my job.  Public relations is almost a tautology.  It’s name defines what it is:  relating to the public.  However, that covers a broad spectrum of ways to relate.  The top floor of the Monadnock Building devoted itself to public relations for the {redacted} family.  This involved everything from composing explanations, summaries, and denials regarding the family’s various scandals, philanthropies, business, and political concerns.  Each concern being the focus of different groups, or perhaps divisions is more appropriate:  mercenary artisans trying to paint realities.

As Patty put it, “We wrap the shit in gold, and draw all eyes to a drop in the bucket.”

When I said, “Bernie put me in charge of the 'beggars?’”

Patty got a bit misty, “Entry level stuff.  Enjoy your innocence.”

I wanted to inform Patty about my time as a sounding assistant, sterilizing metal rods used by a dominatrix to widen the hole in a penis so that objects such as fingers could be inserted into said dick-hole; however, I could tell she enjoyed the idea of my innocence so much that it would be wrong to rob her of it.  So I kept my penis stories to myself.  

The “beggars” turned out to be anyone writing to the {redacted} family asking for money.  This also constituted a broad spectrum.  On any given day I went through about fifty missives soliciting money in myriad ways.  Long lost cousins sought financial reconnection with relatives; for the low, low price of 20 grand, black sheep offered to keep silent about buried bodies; and any number of other unrecognized spawn demanding financial acknowledgement.  Meanwhile, inventors who swore to be on the verge of paradigm shifting breakthroughs – teleportation, antigravity, freeze rays, and orgasm pills – just needed another few thousand to revolutionize the world.  Folks from places like Telluride, Colorado, Marfa, Texas, and Stockbridge, Massachusetts sought coin to start hospitals for broken hearts, agencies devoted to finding lost pets, and the Fuck You Ashley Tillerman Institute.  Cash to stop the Martian invasion.  Funds to get the invasion going.  

Every day I dipped into a cornucopia full of the well intentioned, insane, and grifters.  After about two weeks, it got hard to tell the difference between them.  This mainly having to do with the fact my response to each, as instructed, remained forever always NO.  

Patty said, “You have to read the letters.  That way you can put in a personal touch.  Then they feel like someone actually considered giving them money, and we get less hate mail.  Believe me, you don’t want to piss off that department.  They have the best drugs.”

So I did my best to be accommodating:

“Dear madam,

We appreciate your desire to build a National Hardware Store Historical Society.  Hardware stores provide Americans with the means to build the future, and maintain the present.  However, we don’t feel that our company is the best one to get behind this endeavor.  Perhaps a major home improvement retailer might be a better fit.  

Best of luck in your pursuit.

Sincerely, {redacted}”

An intern near the coffee room enjoyed the task of rubber stamping signatures onto all correspondence.  The kid sat in a weed slack fog of delight, stamp, stamp, stamping the day away.  On more than one occasion I found myself along with others enviously eying that intern.   According to office folklore, the top floor of the Monadnock Building was purchased because a bygone patriarch of the {redacted} family said, “The city is in charge of cleaning the sidewalk.  So if they’re going to kill themselves, let them jump to their death.  Then we won’t have to pay for the mess.”  So it’s no surprise how many of us came to envy that intern’s pacific demeanor while happily assisting in the distribution of our gilded shit.  It didn’t seem to wear on the soul quite the way it did on ours.  

Having to tell a racist no we won’t be funding a School of Higher Aryan Education (and whatever hideously malignant stupidity that would lead to) does make one feel good.  However, having to deny someone asking for help with medical bills, cancer killing their bank account before it goes after them, obliterates any of that joy.  Overhearing the press release about {redacted} Junior’s latest monstrosity – “Maybe that hooker wanted to die, she didn’t say, 'Stop choking me.’” – knowing the expense of his legal defense, and ad campaign to polish the family image – we could ease a few burdens with those millions.  But no.  Cancer fighters, refugees, the infirmed, those honestly sick, dying, and in need:  fuck 'em.  

Granted, it seems like an equal fuck you, aimed at anyone asking for a penny, yet, the disparity is taxing.  

The postmark puts the letter in some part of Texas.  It’s from an elderly woman writing on behalf of her grandson.  He can’t write himself because 45% of his body is covered in burns after an oilrig catastrophe, and seeing as how [redacted} owns those oilfields, well sir, it seems right proper maybe we could help with the medical bills is all; and sure, there’s a real possibility she’s a grifter pulling some bullshit con – start thinking of everyone as full of shit – old bitch probably writes to a dozen companies a day asking for any kind of cash.  Yeah!  Suck down a fifth of bourbon writing the politest fuck you the world’s ever heard.  Don’t even wonder if it’s at all true.  Or if so, consider it sarcastically:  sorry about your extra crispy grandson, but we can’t help because there’s nothing that says we have to.

On a Wednesday, Bernie stopped into my office.  He said, “You’re doing great.  Promotion assured.  Pretty soon you’ll have my job.”

I opened my mouth to reply.  His phone rang.  He held up a finger.  In the momentary silence he answered, listened, nodded then walked to a window, and jumped out.

Few people are ever so blessed to witness their future made plain.  

Patty stuck her head in, “Did Bernie just go out a window?”

I said, “Yep, and I quit.”

[eaexu]

       COME AND TALK TO ME! It is an eerie staccato voice. The voice of cigarette advertisements, fierce sun, a two-bit bar with dead flies on the floor. They turn round to see they are standing outside a pinball arcade. CASINO! The Yankee growling voice comes from a silver and chrome machine. On its screen a square muscled man jumps up and down in a computerized urban landscape of skyscrapers and highways. Hands in raincoat pocket, jaw jerking to one side, he drawls again, COME AND TALK TO ME.          Gregory nudges J.K.’s arm. ‘Well, listen to the man, let’s take up his invitation.’ He puts ten francs in the slot. 

        HOW YA DOING? says the man TYPE SOMETHING INTO THE KEYBOARD AND I WILL RESPOND. The screen shirs as the urban cowboy crosses his arms and leans towards them.         ‘It’s in English.’         ‘Well, tell him how you are.’         Gregory turns to face the man. He puts another ten francs into the machine and spreads out his fingers. Pink and blue bulbs flash above him.

Do your lips burn up when we kissed right? Let me kiss ‘em again baby. Let me let me let me. I would like to fuck you. I would like to make you happy. How do you like to be touched? On the aeroplane over here, the air hostess demonstrated various ways of surviving an aircrash. She said we must blow on a whistle to draw attention to ourselves. Dont you think that is a little narcissistic? If everyone in the everyday of their lives who wanted to draw attention to themselves blew a whistle where would we be? What do you do to make people love you? I do cheap things to make people like me. I make them feel more important than they are and flatter them and when someone makes me a great cocktail I take a sip and shout DRAGONFLIES! In England I light my cigarettes with matches made in Yugoslavia. The picture on the box is of ‘Scenic Cornwall’ and shows a number of signposts on the edge of a cliff. One of them says THE FALKLANDS 8109 and the other says AUSTRALIA 170001. I tell you this because when I was a boy I collected stamps. It was my way of naming places and conquering the world. A stamp is a small picture. So I had lots of small pictures of the world. Madagascar, China, Mexico, Argentina, Egypt. A kind of virtual reality. 

What’s your name my sweet? Is it Johnny or Sam or Brett? I’d like to go down on you and for you to talk to me about football and religion and hamburgers and beauty and death and what it feels like to come. Were you bullied at school? When you were a teenager did you spend hours in your bedroom changing your clothes? Did you save up to the boots and shirts other kids had? What kind of Darwinian programmed you? Do you want to change yourself in anyway? Like speak in a deeper voice or have a different nose? Do you feel safe in this world? Or do you feel alone and scared? What kind of gadgets do you have in your home? Do they comfort you? Baby do you sometimes feel glum? Baby take care of yourself. Oh baby I’d like to stroke you and whisper things to make you not have fear. 

Honey, I want to tell you about a train I took to Kiev with my bit of a squeeze. We made love just as we got near Chernobyl and the loudspeakers in our carriage played a kind of lament to mark the tragedy of the nuclear accident. In some way it seemed to mark all tragedy ever. The cries of our lovemaking as we passed the infected cattle, children with shaved heads playing by the railway tracks and the eerie stillness of deformed trees were the only sound, snow falling, he and I sweating in each others arms and honey we were, in that moment, without fear. The high-rise blocks of flats we stayed in were called The Sleeping Region. I was brought up in a block like that in London. As a kid we lived on tins of beans and meatballs and hated to sleep because we were frightened. Darling, do you sleep sweet and easy and deep? Does someone sleep beside you? Breathing into the pillow next to you and you wake up first and feel them there and its just so great that they’re there and you know very soon they will wake too and you will move closer and kind of pull in the beginning of a new day together? In Kiev I opened tins of crab meat and caviar bought with hard currency and we slept easy. We slept easy and there was a famine outside. The circus played every night in Kiev -- an old man sitting next to me made a joke about eating the cats and horses after the show. Are you happy with your life, my sweet? The man said ‘You can always tell a tourist, their eyes don’t know where they’re going. Here everyone knows where they’re going.’ Do you know where you’re going baby? Is it a good place? Something to write home about? Is home a good place? Or just somewhere to return to? 

Are you pleased to open your eyes in the morning? What do you see? Do you like what you see? If you hate it do you feel you have any power to change it for something else? Oh my love, let me call you that -- My Love -- let us imagine what that means, you and I liplocked some place in the American South, perhaps where the Klan lynched our brothers? You and I in a motor on the high way making plans for the future. The radio is on and we hear the Soviet Union has come apart and then there are some ads for Pepsi and bagel chips, and back to a war in Yugoslavia, nationalisms, the internationalisms, an election in Great Britain, refugees crossing mountains looking for a country to feed them, a jingle for vitamin capsules; and all the time we are hot for each other through all this world news we just want to be in each others pants, and we pull in for gas and I’m saying, No baby don’t light a cigarette, right now, wait till we pull out and anyhow we’ll check into a motel soon. Hey Brett, Im Imagining America! It’s all from movies and magazines, I am fumbling to make you America. I am fumbling to make you and unmake you. Abe Lincoln on your dollar bills -- IN GOD WE TRUST -- pastrami and gas and tacos and beer bought with this image, he’s the guy that keeps the wheels turning. I’m stuffing chocolate into your mouth and baby ... you’re so hard, so hard honey ... you’re all fired up and I’m talkin’ dirty, Im talking physical, Im talking politics and dontcha just love it, got my fingers in your mouth and you want it bad. I want you too baby I want you too. Y’know that Springsteen song ... oh baby I’d drive all night again just to buy you a pair of shoes? Well I would. I’d drive to hell and back just to make you love me. 

How do you love? Do you keep it quiet and put it all in your fingertips or do you say words? What are your lovewords baby? What if the United States came apart? Would God come apart too and the stone pillars of the Abe Lincoln Memorial crumble and statues of George Washington be torn up from squares of green, watered by sprinklers? Torn up by crane and bulldozer? 

Now I am imagining Switzerland, Brett. I can see snow and stripped pine floors and coffee shops and cream cakes and blond people tinkling little silver spoons against their cups. I see children in nursery schools that are heated, very warm and very clean and their little snow boots lined up against the wall and gloves sewn into their coat pockets. I cant imagine you there, Brett. I am trying to see a teacher bent over your shoulder while you draw your mother and father and the house you live in and giant flowers -- but I just cant vision you in in Switzerland skiing and eating chocolate. You’d probably shoot up in your chalet, lie down in your shorts under the skylight, arms folded behind your neck looking up at the stars and dreaming of home and bourbon and cookies and having a haircut. You see how I am making you up, same as Switzerland and America? Does it feel like it fits you? Have you made me up too? Am I some kind of English faggot crazy for boys, cruising into my adult life in black leather under strobe and sonic boom of city discos? There’s such a lot to talk about baby, just you and me, man to man.

Did you hear about the man who went to a psychologist and said, Doctor I think I am a dog, and the doctor said, we’ll sort that out, now get on the couch. And the man said, but I am not allowed. Well I’m inviting you to be whatever you like sweetheart, Im listening to you, I am listening to everything you want to be and were not allowed. Brett, I am saying make yourself up for me baby, have as many goes as you like, be the man you always wanted to be, and I’ll be the man that lets you. Brett, life is long dontcha think? When you tot up the hours and days and months, its a lot of time. How much of that time have you felt precious? I want to make you feel precious, my treasure, my lovestuff.

Have you ever driven across a city you don’t know very well and you’re alone? Its night and you’re lost. Had too many beers in some bar where they look at you as if you’re an extraterrestrial immigrant and somewhere else in, in another city, there’s someone who loves you and you can imagine them looking at you in this bar now, checking you out, what shoes you’ve put on today and what you’re drinking and what kind of mood you’re in? And you want to say to the people in this bar who think you’re some kind of weirdo blown in to undo them -- I am connected to the same things as you y’know -- I have people who love me and I watch TV and I have a birthday and I brush my teeth and I am not always like this, eating crap pizza alone and lost with this look in my eyes. And then you get into the car and none of the street signs make sense, and you just cry. Brett, have you done this? And you think of all the people you’ve jilted meanly and all the people who dumped you, and your pockets are filled with old bills and tickets and you turn over all the secrets inside you? 

            SOUNDS LIKE YOU NEED SOME HELP! The handsome urban cowboy uncrosses his thick arms and takes out a gun. Suddenly he jumps on a moving car, shoots, jumps off the car and thrashes a man across the head with his gun, runs, leaps over a motorcycle, climbs a skyscraper, kicks the man chasing him off the building, holds on with one hand -- a loop of shooting and dying and dying and shooting and dying and shooting and shooting and dying and then the voice says ... COME AND TALK TO ME.....

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First Laps: Nio EP9

This May, the all-electric Nio EP9 beat its own Nurburgring Nordschleife lap record by 19.2 seconds, lowering an already exceptional mark to a blistering 6 minutes, 45.9 seconds. Peter Dumbreck drove it through the Green Hell at a pace which looks downright frightening on the video taken by the on-board cameras. Today, we’re here at the Bedford Autodrome with the very same car for an exclusive first drive. That is, if I can stuff myself into it.

Flashback to the Shanghai motor show in April, where the EP9 built for Nio chief William Li — one of seven cars completed so far — awaits me for a fitting. It does not go well. If this carbon fiber garment were a suit, the buttons would have popped: one, two, three. But after a crash diet and a visit to the barber, I just might be able to cram myself in, sardine style. I’m going to find out soon enough.

A small group of experts, engineers, and enthusiasts are forming a circle around the dark blue EP9 being prepped to attack the Bedford circuit. The seat turns out to be a naked, non-adjustable carbon-fiber bucket. Where there once was a cushion is now the same slippery pale-blue protection foil as on the sills and down in the footwell. The meat in this hard-baked composite sandwich is 6-feet, 8-inches worth of Kacher, and that’s before the towering helmet and the protruding HANS (head and neck support) system are in place. This is going to be fun.

For now I’m just a passenger. The man at the wheel introduces himself as Tommy, who turns out to be a seasoned former race car driver and a laid back, happy-go-lucky guy. While my torso is being roped with Sparco straps, my head still has enough freedom of movement to check out the lab-style dashboard. Right in front of me, a tall, full-width rectangular display has just come to life. Further to my left, three more monitors are beginning to glow — the smallest one is attached to the hub of the steering-wheel. Six green lights on top of the windscreen are signaling to the mechanics that the high-voltage system is active. There isn’t a single airbag on board.

Off we go. Bedford’s so-called grand prix circuit is a 3.8-mile cone serpent worming across what was once an army airfield. The track has zero change in altitude. I have zero track knowledge, and zero self-confidence. Thankfully, Tommy knows the track well. He gives me the spiel through the intercom: do not straddle the curbs, do not touch the buttons on the wheel or in the center stack, do not alter the battery mode. In other words, don’t screw up this priceless piece of four-wheeled e-history.

During the warm-up lap, Tommy rattles off some of the NP9’s insane performance numbers. The wide-body racer can allegedly accelerate to 60 mph in less than 2.7 seconds, to 125 mph in 7.1 seconds and onto a top speed of 194 mph. True, the Bugatti Chiron is as quick or quicker off the mark, not to mention it has a higher maximum speed and longer driving range. But for a purely electric vehicle, the Nio’s one megawatt (roughly 1,360 horsepower) max power output and the massive 1,091 lb-ft of estimated peak torque are simply sensational.

About a third into lap two, Tommy starts mumbling to himself. Late apex, late apex, and again. Brake early here. And there. Then out of the blue he slips into total attack mode. Cerebrum and cerebellum start to slug it out in a corner-by-corner boxing match as my spine fights a losing battle against the low ceiling, the shockwaves from below, and the g-force salvos. The EP9’s largest digital display is recording every single second of this assault on body and mind: 2.21 g lateral acceleration, 1.4 g deceleration, 147 mph at detection point two. Whenever a digit lights up green, it signals a new best. Needless to say, the numbers are pinging green for the remainder of this lap. And the next.

Back in pit lane, getting out of the passenger seat and into the driver’s seat are two giant gymnastic embarrassments. The seat acts like a slide, spooning the body into an embryonic driving position: bum too far forward, legs akimbo at an angle that hurts, the head fixated by HANS, the helmet compromising the field of vision. I feel like a piece of human origami art aiming for the bin. But this doesn’t stop the sadists strapping me in from pulling my four-point belt tight, then tighter still. Why don’t you push the pedal box further forward, Georg? Because it’s already about to crack the bulkhead.

Through the intercom, I can hear myself wheezing, loud and clear. Thumbs up? Thumbs Up! With a bit of luck, I should at least better my own lap time set earlier in a Skoda Octavia rental car. But first things first: Hit the big black button on the panel between the seats to select power mode one, put a hoof hard on the brake pedal, then pull the right shift paddle to engage drive. Let’s go!

Never mind the cramped cabin. What makes the mind boggle right now are a staccato of alien noises. Like intermittent driveshaft clutter, yelping transmission whine, tires drumming in all four wheelwells, and the high-pitched hissing of a brace of electric motors, two up front and two in the rear. The EP9 provides electric mobility in its purest and simplest form: on/off, forward/reverse. That’s it. No gears to select but neutral, no driving programs to choose from, no torque vectoring to worry about, no chassis-related trickeries like rear-wheel steering or active anti-roll bars. Braver men might have played with the brake balance, ABS intervention, and ESP assistance. But I’m a coward, we all know that.

Everything OK, Georg? Absolutely. No sweat at all. If it wasn’t for chafing my shin bones, a brooding cramp in the left thigh and my eyeglasses being bump-steered in different directions, everything would be fine and dandy. Since pedal modulation is both physical and delicate, you must start thinking about your brake points before ever flooring the throttle. As soon as the floodgates open, the torque tsunami flattens you in the seat like a mighty breaker. Although the pedal effort required to make the cooled-off Alcon discs perform could easily kick-start a truck engine, the deceleration is mental. Absolutely mental.

One more familiarization lap, and then you may increase the power from 362 hp to 510 hp — per axle — which still is about several hundred horsepower short of the Nio’s no-holds-barred ludicrous mode. Everything is happening faster now. Corners approach at warp speed, working the steering becomes physical, not knowing the track doesn’t help. Hold this pace, Georg, because that’s what it takes to cool the driveline, the batteries, and the cabin. Ignore the numbers on the displays. I know the maximum stopping power is 3.3 g, the maximum lateral acceleration works out at 2.5 g. According to the data recorder, I am painfully slow, so why do I feel like a hero?

The oddly sized 320/705 R19 Avon tires are made of a secret rubber compound which sticks to the pavement like fresh chewing-gum. The cornering grip is simply out of this world, but so is the bone-rattling ride. Sight lines range from okay (straight ahead) to non-existent (rear three-quarter). The adjustable downforce has a noticeable effect, the directional stability is that of a full-size slot-racer, body movements are kept in check by an adjustable damping system, and a hydraulic actuator controls ride height. You guessed it: the Nio EP9 is a hardcore race car, totally electrifying and in no way street-legal, a visitor from a different galaxy, merely passing through.

Back in the pits, a twist of the belt buckle releases the harness — what a relief. While the ECU logs out byte by byte, crackling like a dozen scrunched-up packets of chips, the steering-wheel monitor tells us that the range dropped from 295 to 167 miles after only five laps, while the state of charge fell from 100 percent to 55 percent. No big deal — replenishing the batteries is claimed to take only 45 minutes. That’s the good news. The bad news is that the energy cell containers must come out of the car before the plug-in process can start. Since they weigh almost 700 pounds each, this exercise requires two strong men, an engineer with laptop, and a pair of transport cradles.

Now that the biggest shareholders have taken delivery of their personalized trackday specials, it was decided to manufacture a second batch of 10 more cars which have allegedly already been sold. The millionaires paying for this high-voltage hypercar are reportedly forking out somewhere in the neighborhood of $1.5 million plus tax for the car, plus pocket money for incidentals like spare batteries, special toolkits, a high-voltage charger, and the qualified personnel to operate this high-tech toy.

Next on the agenda is the still highly provisional, re-engineered, road-ready EP9 evolution model, of which between 50 and 250 units would be built. If management does decide to convert the EP9 for road use, such a move would of course require a more user-friendly charge concept — ideally, inductive charging. Airbags would have to be added to meet the most basic crash protection requirements, and filling the extra-wide sills with lithium-ion batteries may cause problems as far as side impact performance is concerned. According to the EP9’s instruction leaflet, the driver must remain seated in case of a malfunction no matter what. Why? Because one leg earthed outside the car and the other leg insulated inside could cause a terminal short-circuit. That wouldn’t pass muster with safety regulators if the car were to be homologated for the street.

Although there are still a lot of ifs and buts hovering above the project, Nio wants to keep its options open as it uses the EP9 to boost image and brand-awareness. According to those in the know, producing electric vehicles is only part of Nio’s future business model. If all goes according to plan, stakeholders like Bitauto (digital services), Tencent (Internet, social networks, media), and Lenovo (laptops, smartphones) will use future Trojan horses like the almost production-ready Nio ES8 for marketing purposes, too. Wishful thinking? Well, Tencent has 830 million users who spend 95 percent of their online activities with this particular provider. Which is another way of saying that the future is now, and the Nio EP9 is doing a remarkable job promoting it.

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