Bleeding Edge

She takes his card, which may come in handy someday though in ways neither can see right at the moment.

The principal, Bruce Winterslow,

There’s no uninnocent dead.” After a while, “You’re not going to explain that, or . . .” “Course not, it’s a koan.”

“You’re on. Gotta warn you, though, I’m not much into shopping for recreation.” Cornelia puzzled, “But you . . . you are Jewish?” “Oh, sure.” “Practicing?” “Nah, I know how to do it pretty good by now.”

Her feet seem to have been resting in his lap for a while, and she can’t help noticing he has this, well, hardon. Out of his trousers and between her feet, actually, and sort of moving back and forth . . . Not that this happens to her a lot, which may account for why she begins tentatively now to explore, whatever the foot equivalent of handle is,

The purpose is to get people cranked up in a certain way. Cranked up, scared, and helpless.

“Ha! Forget it. Central Park itself isn’t safe, these men of vision, they dream about CPW to Fifth Avenue solid with gracious residences. Meantime the Newspaper of Record goes around in a little pleated skirt shaking pompoms, leaping in the air with an idiot grin if so much as a cement mixer passes by. The only way to live here is not to get attach

The jocks may not know a stochastic crossover if it bites them on the ass, but they have that drive to thrive, they’re synced in to them deep market rhythms, and that’ll always beat out nerditude no matter how smart it gets.”

She has stepped out into a different night, a different town altogether, one of those first-person-shooter towns that you can drive around in seemingly forever, but never away from. The only humanity visible are virtual extras in the distance, none offering any of the help she needs.

“Great time to be finding that out!” Freud flicking cigar ash at Kugelblitz and ordering him out the door of Berggasse 19, never to return.