Free A City Dreaming by Daniel Polansky

his feet against the bridge and the beating of his heart—but not, interestingly, his voice, which sounded weak and tinny but had not yet gone silent. “My vinyl collection is extremely solid, especially in terms of deep soul! I have several times made love to a woman on a beach! I am competent at the game of chess!”
    And clearly now we were at the end of M’s stock of ego, which, even to the most prideful of us, is not inexhaustible. But in the instant before being eaten by an infinite, tentacled vagina, M reached out and grabbed the lever and pulled it sharply down, and reality winked back into view.
    He spent the next few minutes vomiting up unbirthed chunks of existence, formless blobs that came out as liquid and landed on the ground as parti-colored tarantulas with bejeweled wings and snotty slicks of gasoline and three issues of Teen Beat from the summer of 1986.
    Dino ran dutifully about the room, bopping the more mobile of the creations with his baseball bat. M did not bother to help even after he had finished retching, just sat in the corner, trying to reestablish those blocks on his perception and understanding that allow a human being to maintain a semblance of sanity.
    â€œBar snacks too, Dino,” M said, after a few moments had passed. “As many as I fucking want.”
    â€œFair enough,” Dino said, splattering the brains of an anthropomorphic slinky with razored teeth. “Fair enough.”

7
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Undead Labor Restrictions
    M got a call from Andre late one Thursday afternoon. “Bonjour, my good friend! It has been far too long since last we spoke!”
    â€œToo long,” M echoed, though that might have been a question and not a statement.
    â€œWhat are you doing tonight?”
    â€œI hadn’t quite narrowed it down yet.”
    â€œFantastic! I’m heading to a charity gala, and I can sneak you as a plus one.”
    â€œWhat misfortune! Having just moved back to the city, I fear my wardrobe is not up to the task.”
    â€œNot any sort of a problem—I’d be more than happy to lend you anything you need.”
    â€œI don’t have a suit jacket.”
    â€œEasily remedied.”
    â€œOr pants, for that matter.”
    â€œI have a pair that will go perfect on you. They match the jacket, incidentally.”
    â€œIt would not be possible for me to provide a dress shirt.”
    â€œI have a cream one that I think would go best with the suit, which is black-striped, though perhaps blue would suit you better. We can try both on when you arrive.”
    â€œThe black-striped suit you describe sounds marvelous, though, alas, it would demand a black belt as well, which I’m afraid is also beyond my resources.”
    â€œI always keep an extra belt around, in case anyone wants to asphyxiate themselves autoerotically.”
    â€œForward thinking, indisputably, and while I’m sure your belt is a very fine one, it would hardly be appropriate for me to show up at this event dressed to the nines above the ankles, and wearing flip-flops below. And as the only footwear I own at this point are sandals and work boots, I fear that we have reached a firm and impassable impediment to my attendance.”
    â€œWhat size shoes do you wear?”
    â€œEleven and a half.”
    â€œTruly, we are in the midst of a rare collusion of good fortune—for eleven and a half are the exact number of inches of my own feet, for which I own many shoes, every pair at your service.”
    â€œA tie? Cumberbund? Cuff links?”
    â€œAwaiting your arrival—which if you could make as rapidly as possible would be much appreciated.”
    M wasn’t happy, but he could tell when he was fairly beaten. Andre gave him an address, and M smoked a joint and took a taxi on over.
    The last time M had seen him, Andre had been living in a penthouse apartment on the Upper East Side that Andre had described with practiced indifference as