Free The Everything Box by Richard Kadrey

machine, burning money, Leo Gorcey, and sundry body parts. The stranger didn’t turn around. He didn’t have to. He’d seen it all before and knew there wouldn’t be any survivors. It wasn’t until something thunked into the ground behind him that he turned around.
    A few feet off to his left was the charred and battered statue of Larry’s Large Lad. Its blond head was scorched, but it was still grinning. The statue had come so close to beaning him that he wasn’tentirely sure it wasn’t a coincidence. The stranger looked around but didn’t see a soul in sight, just cars passing on the freeway. Many were slowing to enjoy the unobstructed view of the burning restaurant and newly renovated river.
    As he started up again, he thought about Caroline. If only she hadn’t wanted to know where he was going. Who was she really? She could have been working for anyone. Plus, his fries had been soggy. They’d obviously been microwaved, not properly cooked. The stranger loved hubris, but he couldn’t stand bad fries.
    He walked across the freeway overpass and down again so he was back on the road headed south. In the distance, he heard sirens.

TEN
    COOP HAD SPENT THE NIGHT ON AN INFLATABLE MAT TRESS in Morty’s spare room. He didn’t like the idea of sleeping on a balloon, but after he lay down he found it was kind of comfortable. It was certainly better than the prison beds, which always seemed to be designed by aliens shaped like pretzels for other aliens that liked waking up with pudding for a backbone.
    Morty had gone out earlier and Coop was in the living room flipping through TV channels. Nothing held his interest. There was something about an earthquake up north that destroyed a restaurant and straightened part of a river. Typical disaster porn stuff, he thought.
    Everything normal people thought was funny, dramatic, poignant, or important seemed so . . . pointless? Stupid? Insane? He couldn’t find the right word for it. He wondered if the last stretch inside had wrecked him for regular life. He felt twitchy and restless. He took a sip of his ninth cup of coffee and thought about it. One of his eyelids twitched. His right foot, against his wishes, was beating out the drum solo from “In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida.” He set the coffee down. Maybe it was time to take a break. He got up to have a smoke outside when the front door opened and Morty came in with bags. They smelled good.
    â€œI was in Burbank checking out some stuff, so I got us lunch,” he said, setting down two bags from Bob’s Big Boy on the kitchen table. Coop went over to where he was laying out the food. Morty held up a paper cup. “Coffee?” he said.
    â€œI’ll pass, thanks,” said Coop, trying to keep from vibrating.
    â€œMore for me,” said Morty. He laid out burgers, fries, and fistfuls of ketchup packs. “What have you been up to while I was gone?”
    Coop glanced at the TV. He’d left it on a game show. A guy spun a wheel, shouting and shaking like if he lost the host was going to take away his heart medicine, and for a brief moment he was interested until he remembered that wasn’t how the games worked. “Nothing,” he said. “Attempting to reintegrate into society and finding myself somewhat unmotivated to do so.”
    â€œThat sounds like something a warden would say.”
    â€œThat’s who said it to me. Something like that, anyway.”
    Morty peeled the paper off his burger and took a bite, talking out the side of his mouth while he chewed. “Prison is all about routine. You don’t have a routine anymore. That’s why you need to get back to work.”
    â€œI need something,” Coop said. “Work. Or a lobotomy.”
    â€œDon’t talk like that. Did you look over those plans and things Babylon gave us?”
    Coop went to the coffee table and brought over a pile of blueprints and computer printouts.