Free Kill Baxter by Charlie Human

rhinestone-studded jumpsuits.
    I want to say something, but the Baxters are still ringing in my skull like terrible bells. ‘Say your name,’ commands the deep-voiced man. He’s wearing a peach-coloured jumpsuit, has an unimaginably huge afro, and sports a grey-streaked soul patch on his chin.
    ‘What?’ I croak, my head feeling like it’s going to split under the pressure.
    ‘Say your name,’ the man repeats, ‘quickly.’
    ‘Baxter,’ I say. The terrible noise stops instantly. There’s a silence that is better than anything I’ve ever experienced. I bask in it, gulping down the sheer lack of Baxters like milk after a hot curry.
    I look at the man and he raises an eyebrow.
    ‘What the hell was that?’ I ask.
    ‘Feedback,’ he says. ‘You’re the Conscious Self and this is your psyche. It’s like you put the microphone too close to the speaker, you dig?’
    The truth is, I don’t dig. I don’t dig one little bit. The man looks at my face and grins. ‘Welcome to your own psyche. Take a look around. Enjoy the view.’
    I look around. Jewelled trees shuffle down yellow-brick roads humming to themselves. A herd of skeletal mechanical elephants stride past, trumpeting through ornately carved pipe-organ valves that jut from their ribs. An elegant flock of white evening gloves fly overhead, each pair flapping their fingers in perfect unison. In the distance I can see mountains made of a complex of radiant interlocking symbols framed by giggling lavender clouds.
    The man walks over to a tree hung with perfectly shaped globules. He pulls one from a branch. It wobbles in his hand. ‘Breastfruit,’ he says, removing the jewel from the nipple, then putting the fruit to his mouth and sucking out the liquid. ‘Try some.’
    I shake my head. ‘No thanks.’
    ‘Don’t get too caught up in it all,’ the man says, clapping me on the back. ‘It’ll drive you crazy.’
    ‘Don’t get me wrong,’ I say carefully. ‘Your world is very beautiful and I have no desire to harm it. But is there any way that I can … leave it?’
    The man and his companions all laugh. ‘Leave it? You
are
it! But you’re understandably confused.’ He extends a large hand. ‘I’m Tyrone, your genital phase.’
    ‘Excuse me?’
    He points to the rhinestones on his jumpsuit. Up close I see they’re arranged to form a picture of a man with a beard smoking a cigar.
    ‘It’s Freud, man,’ Tyrone says.
    ‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘I really have no idea what you’re talking about.’
    I’m shaken violently from side to side. Some vast, imageless presence has me in its teeth and is going for the jugular. I fling my arms up in front of my face. ‘No,’ I say. ‘Please, let me go.’
    ‘Whoa there, tiger.’ Nom grabs my arms.
    I peek through my hands and see his concerned face bouncing up and down in front of me. I rub my eyes. ‘How long was I asleep?’
    He shrugs. ‘An hour? Maybe I should have warned you that Runeshine can be a little hallucinogenic.’
    ‘Yeah, maybe you should have,’ I say with an embarrassed smile.
    ‘Well, grab a bunk and have a proper sleep. It’s a long ride to the Poort.’
    I climb into one of the uncomfortable bunks. Sleep doesn’t come easily. I’m a bit homesick already, and whatever the hell that dream was, it has me spooked. I lie staring at the ceiling until sleep eventually gets tired of waiting and just grabs me in a headlock and pulls me under.

4
THE POORT AT THE END OF THE WORLD
    I WAKE UP with a headache and several moments of wide-eyed panic before remembering where I am. But luckily my dreams are dim and insignificant in my memory and didn’t involve people in rhinestone jumpsuits.
    Nom claps me on the shoulder and hands me a sandwich. Stevo is still asleep, Hunter and Timothy curled up and snuggled together on top of his head.
    ‘Feeling better?’ Nom asks as I climb off the bunk.
    ‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘Don’t know what happened there. Sorry.’
    Nom waves a hand.