through the angel rain
through the dust and the gasolene
through the cruelty of strangers
to the neon dream

His gun-metal eyes snapped open at 6 a.m. sharp, just before the mountains gave up the sun from their jealous embrace and set it spinning across the sky.  He hadn't needed an alarm clock for years -- or a timepiece of any kind, for that matter.  The clockwork was inside his head, his brain ticking off the seconds as easily as the finest Swiss mechanism.  He was twenty years old and felt forty.   He tucked his hands behind his head, pondering the import of last night's dreams of ice and acid.  By 6:15, he had a plan.

His knees cracked as he rose and stood.  He was lithe and greasy and palely luminescent in the filthy bedroom.  He ran his fingers through dirty, unkempt black hair and decided a shower was not crucial to today's itenerary.   A pair of jeans and a black shirt plucked from the floor were all he needed to avoid being arrested and to shield his thin and fragile body from the winter outside.

The keys to his decaying Dart were in the pocket of his pants from last night and jingled invitingly as he walked to the kitchen without turning on any lights.  Halfway there, he stopped and turned towards the front door.  Though his stomach was howling in protest, food was not crucial to the plan either, and he wanted to begin as soon as he could.

pink noise, white noise,
and a violet whining sound
it burns inside this car

It took the better part of twenty minutes to get the old car to turn over in the freezing weather, at the end of which he was nearly frantic, pounding the steering wheel in frustration.  The familiar buzz filled his head and black fireworks exploded at the edges of his vision, and he slumped in the seat with his eyes screwed shut and fists clenched around knots of hair.   Did they fuck with his car, too? He sat and listened to the engine run until its asthmatic rumbling drowned out the red rage echoing through his skull.

Ah, the rage.  He had thrown the cash register to the floor last night, had missed throwing it at the offending slob in front of the counter by an increasingly narrow margin of control.   His faithful car had been the recipient of his anger at his subsequent dismissal; there were deep scratches on the seat beside him and a fine spider's-web of cracks over the speedometer.

Fuck them, he had thought, the two words echoing in his head until late in the evening.  Fuck them.  But he had begun to see that it wasn't that simple, that he couldn't just let it slide.  He could no longer ignore the way they were slowly tearing apart his life.

 No school, not after he had broken that bastard's arm in what should have been a fair fight.  No girlfriend, not after he had bloodied his fists on the wall of her bedroom.  No job.  No friends.  No family.  No hope.  No cops, no signs, no left, no right, no stops, no turning ‘round.

That was the beauty of the plan.  If you can't beat them living... exactly.  Not bad.  Not bad at all.  He pushed the tape into the car's stubborn deck, heard the hypnotic beat of The Sisters of Mercy's "Black Planet," put the car in gear, and pulled out into phase two.

The pump jockey at the Texaco on Milton Road smelled him before he saw him.  The guy had a weird funk to him, not B.O. precisely, but something animal lurking beneath a light dusting of sweat and cigarette smoke.  But, it wasn't his business what the guy's deal was.  He simply rang in the gas and avoided the man's creepy dead eyes, then went back to watching the game behind the counter and soon forgot about him.

A full tank of gas, the tape deck carefully cued, the light onto I-17 green -- he was ready.  He floored the accelerator and spun the tires, the car showing more balls than it had in months.  He almost smiled.  For twenty minutes he drove in silence, save for his own slightly labored breathing and the wind rushing through rotting weatherstripping. Then he pushed play and let the sound fill his tiny speakers.   The Sisters of Mercy.  Detonation Boulevard.

"through the angel rain
through the dust and the gasolene
through the cruelty of strangers
to the neon dream"

Exactly.  He wondered if Andrew Eldritch had been in exactly this state of mind when he wrote the song.  It was so very perfect -- what would angel rain be but the beams of the rising sun?  What cruelty of strangers was more cruel than the way they kept driving him to destructive distraction?  What more sensuous neon dream than -- but he was getting ahead of schedule.  "We must stay with the schedule," he said, and didn't realize he had spoken out loud.

He floored the accelerator, the little car protesting as the needle climbed up to a steady 75 mph.  Fast enough for now.  He would hit the long drop soon, and the needle would bury itself at the far end, and that would be fast enough for then.

"I caught something weird in Encenada
I've a brother of sorts in Torquemada
long distance information
disconnect me if you can
on Detonation Boulevard..."

"Disconnect me if you can," he repeated, and smiled.  He was on Detonation Boulevard and he was home free.  As he passed the last exit to Munds Park, he unzipped his pants.  He was already up and ready.  Right on schedule.  He began to masturbate in time with the music.  One and two and three and four, and one and two and three and four.
 

"pink noise, white noise,
and a violet whining sound
it burns inside this car"

And merciful mother of Christ almighty, it did burn inside the car.  The sun was shining mercilessly, desire was eating him alive, and the rage was lurking behind his eyes as it always did, pushing and making it seem like they would pop out.  He licked his lips, gripped the wheel tightly with his left hand as the car entered the drop down the mountain and began to accelerate.  One and two and three and four and keep the accelerator to the floor and the bastards won't get to me any more and my ex-girlfriend is a fucking whore.  So much to remember.  Closer now.  Almost there.

"no cops, no signs, no left, no right
no stops, no turning round"

He whispered along with Eldritch, his breath coming in frantic gasps, his desire close to the breaking point and the needle of the speedometer buried above 110 and one and two and three and four and one and two and three and four and when he could bear it no longer he yanked the wheel sharply to the right crossing over the slow lane and just missing the start of the guardrail and  the car was airborne for a long long time and the steep slope was crawling up to meet him and he came all over himself just as the car nosed into the dirt and flipped over and over and slammed into the ground and caught on fire and killed him.

Right on schedule.

Detonation.

You can turn but you can't ride
On Detonation Boulevard.

*This story quotes nearly the entire song "Detonation Boulevard" by The Sisters of Mercy.  The song appears on their "Vision Thing" album and on the "Slight Case of Overbombing" greatest hits collection.  I reccomend picking either one up.  And of course, the song is copyrighted by The Sisters of Mercy.