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Bear victims pretty much put paid to Rydell’s career as a cop in trouble.
Some of the language in this book is just weird.
In the instant of putting Gunhead through the Schonbrunn’s locked-and-armed Benedict Canyon gate, Rydell had experienced a fleeting awareness of something very high, very pure, and quite clinically empty; the doing of the thing, the not-thinking; that weird adrenal exultation and the losing of every more troublesome aspect of self.
vaguely aware that there was something wrong with his arm.
Wait, how the fuck did he break his atm?!
Chevette like a moderate hill would put him in line for a pig-valve.
Nice
The next tune’s older than she is; that black guy who turned white, and then his face fell in, she guesses.
Not a terrible guess.
A few of the jazzier items had UV-sensitive JUST BLOW ME logos that appeared on days when the ozone was in particularly shabby shape, as Rydell had discovered the last time he’d gone to the farmers market.
Separated at Birth was a police program you used in missing persons cases. You scanned a photo of the person you wanted, got back the names of half a dozen celebrities who looked vaguely like the subject, then went around asking people if they’d seen anybody lately who reminded them of A, B, C … The weird thing was, it worked better than just showing them a picture of the subject. The instructor at the Academy in Knoxville had told Rydell’s class that that was because it tapped into the part of the brain that kept track of celebrities.
This is fucking briliant and must be implimented immediately.
We are come not only past the century’s closing, he thought, the millennium’s turning, but to the end of something else. Era? Paradigm? Everywhere, the signs of closure. Modernity was ending. Here, on the bridge, it long since had.
Put ’em on, you go out walking, everything looks normal, but every plant you see, every tree, there’s this little label hanging there, what its name is, Latin under that …”
Motherfucj. Gibson predicted Google Glass
There’s only but two kinds of people. People can afford hotels like that, they’re one kind. We’re the other. Used to be, like, a middle class, people in between. But not anymore.
Chevette put her empty cup down on the counter, dug in the pockets of her jacket. Gave the girl fifteen for the two coffees and a two-dollar tip.
Another strange prediction
And Yamazaki knew, without asking, that the red dancer represented the way of Shapely’s going, like some terrible base stupidity waiting at the core of things.
