raising an arm to the sky. "This isn't their world, that is," he says, touching finger to temple. "Ultimate Reality—they call it that for a reason, you know. They say it's better than this, more intense. If they didn't have to come back at all they wouldn't."
"Wait, wait," Karl says, "you said something about pupating. That's a bug thing, isn't it?"
Villar smiles, frowning, lines creasing his shining brow. "You just fall off the truck from Jalisco or what?"
"Been away for a while," Karl says, feeling the need to explain. "Out of circulation."
Villar's mouth turns down, he nods. "Pupating's the next step, cocooning themselves in a jell pod. Not like these kids—they've still got to pick their scabs, eat, excrete—they keep getting jerked back. The ones that can afford it, call themselves digerati after illuminati—now that's a joke—the enlightened ones. They go into pods to lose the meat. Once they do, they spread their wings and fly away."
They pass a junk with what might be a cat or a big rat turning on a spit over a hubcap of coals set up on three bricks to keep it from melting its way through the deck. A boy, dreadlocks matted with filth, senses their approach, rises to a crouch, raises a pipe.
"Now see," Villar says, "this kid's not here, but his belly brings him back every once in a while. Not good. To them it's like death to come back. One of them, fifteen-year-old whore I know, told me it's like dreaming you're abed among rose petals, and
"Wait, wait," Karl says, "you said something about pupating. That's a bug thing, isn't it?"
Villar smiles, frowning, lines creasing his shining brow. "You just fall off the truck from Jalisco or what?"
"Been away for a while," Karl says, feeling the need to explain. "Out of circulation."
Villar's mouth turns down, he nods. "Pupating's the next step, cocooning themselves in a jell pod. Not like these kids—they've still got to pick their scabs, eat, excrete—they keep getting jerked back. The ones that can afford it, call themselves digerati after illuminati—now that's a joke—the enlightened ones. They go into pods to lose the meat. Once they do, they spread their wings and fly away."
They pass a junk with what might be a cat or a big rat turning on a spit over a hubcap of coals set up on three bricks to keep it from melting its way through the deck. A boy, dreadlocks matted with filth, senses their approach, rises to a crouch, raises a pipe.
"Now see," Villar says, "this kid's not here, but his belly brings him back every once in a while. Not good. To them it's like death to come back. One of them, fifteen-year-old whore I know, told me it's like dreaming you're abed among rose petals, and