Ambient 06 - Going, Going, Gone

Zingo!!!«
    Crewy’s hundreds of arms swung consecutively forward until they suddenly stopped. Chlo caught hold of them somewhere between the wrist and elbow. His and her facial expressions riffled through my line of sight more slowly, a dealer’s casual shuffle. Chlo, Eulie shouted, Nyah. Chlo put her hands around his neck and tightened till you couldn’t tell he had a neck. I wondered what he was thinking.
    Stop her. Oh my God.
    Crewy’s head lolled in her grip like it was made of rags. I heard a crack, thunder after lightning. A black blur passed through my eyes, clouds over the sun, and then saw light glossing over Eulie’s crow-dark hair. When Chlo and Crewy emerged from eclipse she had one hand around his neck and the other clamped down on his shoulder. She roared like winter. Stop somebody said. Judging from her movements it seemed like Chlo was starting to push in two different directions. Her mouth opened, wide and then wider until I thought her head would split apart. Her back teeth were filed to, or capped with, points. Other people in the room seemed to be getting up to dance and I figured they’d be dancing to »Venus In Furs« rather than »Telstar«, since I heard both playing. Two long red whipcords shot out of Crewy Lou’s neck. Where did his head go? She took her hand from his shoulder, and there it was, in her hand. She threw it.
    Trails.
    Utmost fabulousity. I felt myself floating towards the floor. Eulie was tumbling with me. We hit the ground and I bounced up. I wondered if I could bounce higher when I landed the second time but Eulie held me down. She was saying something.
    Walter
    »Kiss the boot,« I said, »of shiny shiny leather –«
    What
    »Waffles,« I said. »Waffles, waffles, waffles –«
    Looking upwards into a dome I saw ourselves apotheosized. Chairs flew across the dome like grey metal cherubs; and then I saw Chlo hovering like a gigantic hummingbird, holding a chair under either arm, her blonde ropes loose and swinging around her head. She’d shed her muumuu and was back in rubbery lizard black. There were dancers on the stage when she landed, running back and forth. The percussion drifted in from somewhere in the wings, crazed polyphonists beating out Gold Coast rhythms as the mamas wailed.
    »Whoa daddy,« I said. Eulie began fading in again, her signal stronger this time.
    »Walter, connect! Walter –«
    Chlo flung chairs like she was dealing cards. The dancers caught them and, once partnered, leapt with them to the floor. The chandeliers overhead swung back and forth, stirred by wind, their glass chiming. Chlo snapped her dozens of right hands and things slid into them, flexible black sticks; one stick. She lifted her arms and a ten-foot long silver cord shot out. Letting the end swing free, Chlo began pirouetting like a ballerina. Eulie pressed my face against the floor, the rug burned my cheek. Managing to stare up between her fingers I glimpsed the corps de ballet removing parts of themselves and tossing them, chair-like, towards heaven. Fireworks burst red.
    »Stay down,« Eulie said, this time sounding strangely near. For a moment I imagined it was morning, and we’d just woken up.
    »Chlo’s a good dancer.«
    »She’s activated.«
    »Pixilated?«
    Eulie didn’t answer. She faded. The next thing I knew she’d hauled me to my feet and I was standing; the sudden rush of blood to my head cut the buzz down to size. This clarity wouldn’t last, no question about that, so I figured I might as well make the best of a difficult situation in the meantime. There was no one else left in the audience. Chlo whipped a large heap of clothing on the floor. I saw Burt’s orange sweater, covered with tiny red whales. The rug squished beneath my feet, sounded like we were walking in a swamp, down deep in the reeds with the two-headed men. Eulie was speaking again.
    »Disarm, Chlo. Disarm! Disarm!!«
    She reached up behind Chlo’s neck and massaged it. The big gal stopped at once, shook her arm and her stick slid back into her sleeve. She panted as if she’d just run here from Philadelphia. Drool hung from her lower lip, and her face was the colour of Harvard beets.
    »Maxed po,« Chlo gasped.
    Eulie shook her head. »Overreactive, Nonthreats, all. Level, Chlo, level.«
    »AO.« Chlo nodded, and tossed us a beatific smile; for an instant, she was her father’s little girl again. »Guide.«
    »Interior transfer nonsustainable,« Eulie said. »Outside us.«
    I felt Eulie