Free Tick Tock by James Patterson Page B

Real Slow.”
    Already people had arrived for the event. Faces painted, holding signs, they were anticipating a fun morning of dancing and singing along with the ex–drug-dealing rapper as he performed his soulful ode to the joys of public sexual activity.
    Berger had a catchphrase for today’s young that he was waiting for the ad firms to pick up on. First, you had Generation X, then Generation Y, now welcome, ye one and sundry, I introduce De-generation 1.
    Because “Anywhere Real Slow” wasn’t a mockery of just music but of civilization, too. It didn’t glorify raunch and stupidity and low urges. It worshipped them. Anyone who didn’t see the cheerful acceptance of this gutter dirt by the general public, and especially by the young, as a sign of the coming new Dark Ages lacked a working mind or was madder than Alice’s hatter.
    Once upon a time Rome fell. Now it was our turn. The Show was here to provide the background music.
    Berger passed a group of giggling high-school girls. Enjoy the bottom-feeding, he thought as he carefully left one of his coffees on the ledge of a planter that he passed. Without looking back, he stepped out onto Sixth Avenue and hailed a taxi.

Chapter 28
    IT WAS ALMOST EIGHT A.M. by the time Berger got back to his apartment.
    Inside the high, dim alcove, he actually genuflected before Salvador Dali’s first painting, praying to the great Spaniard for help and strength.
    He remembered a quote from the Master. “At the age of six, I wanted to be a cook. At seven, I wanted to be Napoleon. And my ambition has been growing steadily ever since.”
    Berger stood, smiling. Each moment, each breath, came that much sweeter the closer he approached his death. In the beginning, he had been afraid when he thought about how things would turn out. Now he saw that it all made perfect sense. He was glad.
    In the apartment’s imposing library, Berger slowly removed all of his clothing. He lifted the remote control and stood before the massive screen of the $50,000 103-inchPanasonic plasma TV. He glanced at the butter-soft leather recliner where he’d sat to watch all his favorite movies, but he didn’t sit down. For this, he preferred to stand.
    He clicked on the set. There was a commercial for a feminine product and then Matt Lauer filled the wall of the room.
    “Without further ado,” Lauer said, “let’s cut to the Plaza and The Show.”
    A young black man in a full-out orange prison jumpsuit covered in gold chains winked from the screen.
    “Ya’ll ready to make some noise?” The Show wanted to know. Behind him, a retinue of other prison-suited young male and female backup singers and dancers of every race were standing, still as Buckingham Palace guards, waiting for the first drop of bass to start kicking it freestyle.
    Many of the young people in the crowd had cell phones in their hands and were recording the momentous occasion. Berger lifted his own phone, but it wasn’t to take a picture.
    It was to paint his own.
    He pressed the speed dial.
    “And one, two,” The Show said.
    “Show’s over,” Berger said.
    There was a flash of light. A startling blast of sound followed by a long, cracking echo. The Show stood there, microphone to his gaping mouth, as the camera panned over his shoulder onto a plume of smoke. In 1080 HD with Dolby Surround, Berger was psyched.
    He changed to Channel Two.
    CBS’s
Early Show
was on. The host, some slutty-looking bimbo, was grilling fish out on the studio’s 59th and Fifth Avenue plaza with none other than celebrity chef Wolfgang Puck.
    “Ja, you see? Ja,” Wolfgang said.
    “Ja, Volfie, I see, I see,” Berger said as he thumbed another speed-dial button for the second device he’d planted next to the corner garbage can at the chef’s back.
    Another explosion, even louder than the first, happened immediately. Someone started screaming.
    “That’s what you get,” Berger chided, clicking over to ABC.
    Diane Sawyer was interviewing a