i'm an invisible man, faceless unseen, i slip out doorways and onto the streets, lit by neon signs advertising sex, i wander through the crowds, past the bars and high heels, past the police cars and taxi's, a rat in the gutter, a dealer making deals with an assassin, a one armed midget on a skateboard, a transexual in red pvc miniskirt talking with a priest, some gay guys eating cakes from an all night cake shop. i dive into a corridor, up a flight of steps and past a room filled with mirrors.
the room is bare, empty of everything, except an old magazine that lays on the floor face down. i lock the door and gaze from the window. down below the crowds still flood the street, going about nocturnal business. no one seems to have a kind face. i skin up a joint and wait, flicking through the magazine i read an article on a pop singer from iceland, i like her, she's a singularity.
the joint feels good, i stole a big bag of grass from the scientist who was probing my brain, he didn't notice when he left me to take a phone call, i grabbed it from his desk but now i'm wishing i had taken some cash as well. stupid choice, cash or hash, my body was on auto pilot. just grabbed for need. should have used my mind. the grass is good, it's jamaican skunk, not asian. i can tell the difference. i wish there was some music but theres just the sound of traffic. i wait.
after two hours a package materialises, my instructions, my orders. there's a roll of bills, a passport, a laptop some matches and a small can of lighter fluid and a book, it's the book of enoch. i switch on the computer and see a single file on the desktop. i click on it and the word file pops open.
i read it quickly and then delete it as instructed. then pour the fluid over the laptop and strike the single match, igniting the laptop, i stuff the magazine on the flames and leave carrying the book. i have my orders. i don't know why they didn't send a phone instead it would have come in handy, i guess there are surveillance issues.
i need a face, i need a face man.
the best face man lives in a high rise apartment uptown, i jump a cab, hide the book under the seat, hijacking a ride with some drunk kids, they are talking nonsense to the driver from the back seat, i am up front, as they drive past i jump out, the driver yells as the door opens and the kids laugh.i walk along the main street and turn left into an alley way. slipping down a small street i press a security buzzer.
the face man is home, he buzzes me up.
'any idea?' he asks.
'yeah male, 40's, kinda distinguished and hip, a cross between a shaman and a beat poet.'
'i have a face for you.'
his work is good. first class a true crafts man. i like the shaved head and the facial hair. i like the dark penetrating eyes, fierce intelligence and yet something sad lurking beneath. i like the feel of this face, and the hands are a perfect match, yeah, i can live in a suit like this.
i pay him a large sum. we drink some whisky and i use his phone. i need a place to stay, i have some people find me something outside the city, a beach shack in the north. i smoke a few joints with the face man, we talk about the old days. around morning the phone rings and i am informed they found a place for me. i go check it out. it's perfect. i order some equipment. i start to write.
following my orders.