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Matthew Gagan is +Hard

In his vest and duster Jackson walks the pier where the unfortunate stink and are like ghosts.

By fanboat and skiff, seeking refuge, more and more of these have come to The Wake’s least submerged tower, this Camelot where Jackson is troubled knight.

Gaunt and of indeterminate gender, this one intrigues Jackson. Their eyes were recently put out.

“From Haaran?” Jackson questions. Most refugees are from that tower; its hardholder Dustwich is a scary fucker.

“Mmm.” affirms Tao.

At that amorphous word, Jackson is unnerved. Interesting.

Jackson’s hand gropes for his revolver and he opens his brain to the psychic maelstrom.


“You’ve blown your filthy catalpa leaves into my yard for the last time, Jackson!” screams Smythe, red-faced, and whips out an ominous black remote control. He smashes its single button with one finger.

Behind him, his brown brick split-level trembles, quakes and erupts out of the earth. Huge titanium legs turn it around as blue-hot flames jet from its windows; the front stoop unfolds into three sets of gnashing concrete teeth.

“What does your catalpa say… to Housezilla?” shouts Smythe, through the din.

Jackson’s unperturbed. He glances sideways at eight-year-old Teddy, playing in the sandbox.

And thumbs his own remote control.