Part I: John Shade, Your Fortune's Made

The Story of Fol Chen:

Traffic was thick, thick, thick and Samuel Bing was unwell, strung out on the latest psychotropic fads: sleeplessness and feeling crummy. The Northern State was crawling like a funeral procession for Robert Moses. Above the overpasses, the clouds were lined with gristle. Even the horizon seemed to be sinking. So, it came just in time when Donna Donna transmitted her message over the open radio waves – a phantom broadcast from a station whose signal had long since dissolved into static. You could barely hear her voice between the Crazy Eddie ads, but Samuel Bing had his radio loud. She spoke backwards for security, but Samuel Bing understood each word. “Initiates in the society of Fol Chen,” Donna Donna whispered, “Let’s get to it. While you sit in traffic, John Shade is busy spreading his black mischief. Here’s the Screamer of the Week: ‘Birds Fly’ by Icicle Works.” Samuel Bing turned off his car and opened his trunk. No one was moving, so no one bothered honking. His trunk was filled with what looked like garbage, but this wasn’t just any piled crap — Every object was a module in a greater, yet-to-be-created whole. Samuel Bing fished out a cassette tape and a broken ice-scraper. He inspected the sides of each, found the hidden grooves, snapped them together. He grabbed a faded Polaroid, an old paperback romance, a polyester potholder, and a pair of drugstore sunglasses. He snapped each edge to edge.