yellow sac of pulsating fluid fell out of the cut and lolled around on the floor. The new head’s tongue, which was made of brown seat leather, poked out of its grating and licked J’s hands. His body climbed up the face and into the weeping cut. The saw and pincers made a little clapping motion. The body pushed apart the jagged skull doors and slid into the claustrophobic purple and pink wormy brain matter. The train engine head rubbed up against the intestinal slime of the brain, some of it made of yellow plastic. It took some time to make its way to the centre. It encountered a large brown bullet on the way. It was lodged and un-detonated. The body entered a small circular room in the centre of J’s brain. It was entirely black. The rectangular tabs of Mono that lined it were marked with tiny decimals. One was marked ‘00000.1.’ A mixing desk that was completely black took up most of the space of the room. Empty and well-worn black leather chairs sat in front of it. The desk was topped with a musty glass pane. Behind it was a minuscule recording studio, housing mic stands and leads made out of black nerve endings. The nerve endings pointed, as if forever, to a three tiered rotisserie holding a number of black pies. The body sat in one of the seats and played with the black sliding buttons of the mixing desk. As he slid one of the buttons up, the volume of the voice inside J’s head rose. This track was the command to kill Germy. The body listened to every track with intrigued tooting. He slid every button up, one at a time, and created a massive cacophony. The layers of tracks spoke to the body:
Track Three: “Take lots of drugs.”
Track Four: “Re-form your crappy band.”
Track Eight: “Act