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progeny。
As father and son faced off： each the other's worst nightmare； made flesh。
Garth Blake slouched in the doorway； angular and obtuse。 He was six…foot…three and scarecrow…thin； and his presence filled the room： a tidal wave of spiked black leather； big black hair； and attitude。 His ash…white skin and sepulchral pucker of ebony lipstick did their best to affront and unnerve； but they could not conceal the ugly truth。
Garth was the spitting image of Blake； Sr。
It was a fact that appalled both of them； but for different reasons。 Garth possessed the same riveting gray eyes； the same innately upturning Grinch smile。 His face was as yet unsullied by time； but Garth carried a premature gravity that rendered him sullen and pained。 It was tough going through life as the privileged son of such utter corruption。 His T…shirt bore a black…and…white print of JFK； waving and grinning； while hot multicolored inkblood spewed explosively from his forehead。 It was the single most offensive T…shirt Blake had ever seen； which explained； of course； why his son had purchased two。
Garth loved his exploding Kennedy T…shirts。 They spoke to him。 Moreover； they spoke on his behalf to the world at large。 Like the black dove's foot earring dangling from his ear； the buzzwords and slogos buttoneered to his lapels： THROBBING GRISTLE； SILENCE = DEATH； THE SEX WAS BETTER IN PRISON。
Or； most specifically； the one stenciled huge across his black leather…clad back： the word future in blood…red letters； blotted out by the chalky white circle with the diagonal slash through it； the universal negative symbol like a canceled stamp across it。 It summed up Garth's attitude toward life very nicely。
NO FUTURE。
That was what Garth had to look forward to； and boy was he excited。 Only just sixteen； and already it was over； or； even worse； it might drag on like this for years。 A lifetime of hypocrisy； followed by an ugly gray descent into middle…aged decrepitude and ultimate pain…filled oblivion。
Just like dear old Dad 。。。
Garth cringed involuntarily。 〃So can I use the phone now？〃 he inquired。
〃No！〃 Blake hissed the word like the first spit of poison out a gas…chamber vent。 〃Can't you see I'm busy？〃
Garth groaned； shrugging heavily。 〃Aw； c'mon。 Lydia's an hour and forty…five minutes late。 It'll only take 。。。 〃
〃Goddammit 。。。 ！〃
Outside； a car horn sounded。
〃No problem； Dad。 Thanks。 You're a real pal。〃
Disgust wadded like puke in his throat。 He split before he got some on the rug。
Leaving Blake； for a moment； in the grip of a genuine moral dilemma。
Then the front door slammed； and a car engine gunned。 The squeal of tires that followed relieved him of all responsibility。 Jesus Christ； he thought。 Maybe it's time to start fresh； after all 。。。
Then he returned to the phone； and the matters at hand。
Thirty…Three
The Scuzzbug was moving before Garth was fully seated。 He liked it that way。 It was more of a challenge。 〃HEY； DAD！〃 he hollered； loud as it got； out the still…open door。 〃SUCK MY SCROTE； YOU IMPOSTER！ YOU ALIEN SCUM！〃
〃I like that；〃 Lydia said； peeling out in a fog bank of rubber and dust。 With her deep green eyes； too…wide features and sidewalled mane of bone…white hair； she looked like a spookycute nineties version of those little troll dolls in the toy bins at Woolworth。 〃I'm sure the neighbors will； too。〃
〃ADMIT THAT YOU ARE AN IMITATION POD…MAN！〃 he continued； even louder； hanging half out the door as the car pulled a wide screeching one…eighty in the crushed stone of the drive。 〃ADMIT THAT YOU ATE MY REAL FATHER'S BRAIN！〃
They broke the circle； headed out for the street。 〃Say 'bye now；〃 she said。
〃 'BYE NOW！〃
And then they were off。
〃Feeling better？〃 Lydia asked pleasantly。
〃You bet。〃
〃I'm so pleased；〃 she deadpanned； slowing the Scuzzbug to a mild…mannered； law…abiding crawl the moment she hit the main road。 On the street； she couldn't afford to drive so crazily； the cops would pull her over in a second。 Even without provocation； cops pulled her over from time to time； just as a matter of principle。
Because the infamous Scuzzbug of Lydia Vickers was an act of visual terrorism on wheels。 Like the woman herself； it was born to raise eyebrows and frighten the natives of Paradise。 She felt quite certain that no one had ever seen its like before。 She knew she certainly hadn't。
From the inside； it was just a beat…to…shit black VW Superbeetle； pletely upholstered in leopard…skin print and festooned with weirdo stickers。 Funky…cool； but not unheard of。
The exterior； however； was something else again： covered bumper to bumper in a fetid gray…green fuzz； painful to look at and loathsome to the touch。 This experiential delight came courtesy of Lydia's day gig； where she worked on the loading docks at the Yummy Potato Chip pany in Hellam。
It seemed that the oiled soot emanating from the Yummy Potato Chip smokestacks would drift across the parking lots； dousing every car in range with a tacky； mottled goo。 Airborne panicles； dust and road dirt would quickly and permanently adhere themselves； transforming any vehicle within range into a veritable scuzz magnet。
Of course； turning her cherished Superbeetle into the ugliest car on earth certainly hadn't been her idea。 At least not at first。 For a while there； it had driven her nearly insane。 But after a brief； pitched； and losing battle； Lydia'd gradually e to admire it； the cultural statement it made。
So instead of fighting the endless uphill battle of scrubbing it down three times a week； she instead reversed and assisted the process： driving through industrial areas a lot； always leaving her car exposed to the elements； never ever washing it。 Etcetera； etcetera。
And in no time： Voila！
A legend was born。
〃So；〃 Garth said； staring out the immaculate windshield…along with the windows； lights； and mirrors； the only things Lydia ever cleaned…〃what's the deal？ When you woke me up this morning 。。。 〃
〃Afternoon；〃 she corrected。
〃 。。。 you sounded like it was pretty major。〃 His grin was huge。 〃So what's the goddam story here？〃
Lydia's poker face began to falter。 〃Oh； nothing 。。。 〃
〃e on！〃 His too…enormous smile chiseled away at her posure。 She actually cackled。 〃WHAT？〃 he bellowed。
〃Okay； okay；〃 she relented。 〃Look in the back。〃
He looked。 There was the usual pileup of Lydia…clothes and bizarroid lifestyle accessories。 They just seemed to be piled up quite a bit higher than usual。 Like they were trying to cover up something big。
Like maybe a couple of boxes of 。。。
〃Ooo；〃 Garth said； pausing just for the moment of impact。 Beside him； Lydia beamed with pride。 〃Ooo ooo ooo！〃 he elaborated； sweeping the camouflage aside。
And there they were： one thousand copies； hot off the press。 One thousand little eighty…eight…page Molotov cocktails； with his and Lydia's names all over them。 Just waiting to be fired and flung。
One thousand copies of their homemade brainchild pride 'n' joy。
NO FUTURE…The Magazine of Famous Last Words。
〃TA…DAHH！〃 Lydia trumpeted； exulting in their triumph。
〃God DAMN！〃 he echoed； pulling the first one off the stack。 〃Just look at this thing 。。。 ！〃
But Lydia was driving； so Garth had to content himself with looking alone。 And though he'd seen the original a million times； there was nothing like seeing it mass…produced； knowing it was there for the world to experience。
〃God damn；〃 he repeated； almost reverent this time。
The magazine's cover； like the contents； was a malign collaboration…artwork by Garth； layout and pasteup by Lydia。 It was a wraparound slap in the face； an unremitting motherfucker from front to back。 Garth was pleased that it had printed up so well。 They'd spent months honing the premiere issue to just the right aesthetic of blasphemy； melding Steadmanesque inkblotch and mutant photomontage in an ultimately neon…colorized assault on placency and the neutral reaction。
Beneath the schizo surf…punk masthead； the central image was simple and direct：
There was a paunchy naked white man with an ugly pinched grin； and he was raping and killing the New Year's baby for the banner year 2000。 The man held the screaming baby's head up by its hair while his crotch interlocked with its raw baby buttocks。 In his right hand； he held a power drill。 It was boring into the baby's skull。 Blood drooled from its mouth。 Its sex was indeterminate and entirely beside the point。
Behind them； a mob had assembled。 They were laughing and shouting and waving signs。 The faces belonged to George Bush； Dan Quayle； Ronald Reagan； Jerry Falwell； Ivan Boesky； Donald Trump； Jesse Helms； and a dozen others。 They all had their pants down； waiting in line。 Their signs read GO GO GO and BETTER HARDER FASTER。
That was the front cover。
The back cover was even better。
It was a mirror…image mob； representing the opposition。 They all had variations on the old sad…eyed black velvet face； modeled after hippie ikons Abbie Hoffman； Ralph Nader； Buckminster Fuller； The Beatles and the Kennedys （not to mention dozens of more contemporary hero…f