"Paul Di Filippo & Bruce Sterling - The Scabs Progress" - читать интересную книгу автора (Di Filippo Paul)

plumbing. Every flick of Ribo Zombie's hand torch revealed a glimpse of some new
and unspeakable mutant wonder, half concealed in ambient support fluids: yellow
gruel, jade-colored hair gel, blue oatmeal, ruby maple syrup.тАж

"Oh, honey," said Tupper at last, "don't take it so hard."

"You were right," Fearon grumbled. His voice rose. "Is that what you want me to
say? You were right! You're always right!"

"It's just my skill with semiotic touchstones, which I've derived from years of
reading graphic novels. But look, dear, here's the part you always love, when he
finally lays his hands on the wetware. Honey, look at him stealing that weird
cantaloupe with the big throbbing arteries on it. Now he'll go back to his clottage
and clump, just like he does every episode, and sooner or later something really
uptaking and neoteric will show up on your favorite auction site."

"Like I couldn't brew up stuff twice as potent myself."

"Of course you could, dear. Especially now, since we can afford the best equipment.
With my inheritance kicking in, we can devote your dad's legacy to your hobby. All
that stock your dad left can go straight to your hardware fetish, while my money
allows us to ditch this creepy old condo and buy a new modern house. Duckback
roof, slowglass windows, olivine patioтАФ"Tupper sighed deeply and dramatically.
"Real quality, Fearon."



┬╖┬╖┬╖┬╖┬╖



Predictably, Malvern Brakhage showed up at their doorstep in the company of
disaster.
"Rogue mitosis, Fearon my man. They've shut down Mixogen and called out the
HazMat Squad."

"You're kidding? Mixogen? I thought they followed code."

"Hell no! The outbreak's all over downtown. Just thought I'd drop by for a newsy
look at your high-bandwidth feed."

Fearon gazed with no small disdain on his bullet-headed fellow scab. Malvern had
the thin fixed grin of a live medical student in a room full of cadavers. He wore his
customary black leather lab coat and baggy cargo pants, their buttoned pockets
bulging with Ziploc baggies of semi-legal jello.

"It's Malvern!" he yelled at the kitchen, where Tupper was leafing through
catalogues.

"How about some nutriceuticals?" said Malvern. "Our mental edges require