Are You Loathsome Tonight? Read Online Free PDF

Cobb asked, and got the look again for his trouble.
    â€œActually,” Matty said, “I thought you'd be here sooner."
    â€œYou thought ?"
    â€œI suppose ... I hoped ."
    â€œWhy?"
    â€œBecause it's quite lonely,” Matty whispered, and that was all they could say for a while.

    â€œI arranged to have someone come to the house after I did it,” Matty continued later. “To transport my body to New York and make it look good, make it look like I'd died there, so no one would know about this place."
    â€œThen one person knows about it."
    "Knew."
    Cobb decided not to pursue this. His own cynicism was a point of pride, but somehow he had never wanted to know just how cold-blooded his partner could be.
    He thought of something else. “No one could have gathered up all the mess you must have made."
    â€œEver heard of a rubber sheet, genius? I didn't want the bed to reek when you got here. Although I imagine you're used to reeking beds by now."
    â€œI've seen a fair bit of the world,” Cobb conceded.
    â€œAnd some unfair bits too. I mean, Terry, Gabon ? What kept you there?"
    â€œGood weed, cheap beer, people left me alone. And really, Matty, how can you talk ... I mean, North Carolina ?"
    They laughed, and it felt better than anything had in twenty years.

    Cobb woke up alone. The sheets were twined around his body like an old lover. He looked over at the rolling tray and saw that the half-joint was gone. He experienced an instant of total mind-silence, and then tunes burst into his head like a psychedelic waterfall. Hooks, bridges, bass lines, lyrics, a clawing cascade of music, more than he could process. He scrambled for his guitars, grabbed one at random, switched on the stereo's directional mike and hit record. There was already a tape in the machine. Of course.
    Hours later, he rewound the tapes and listened to them in dismay. His guitar playing was terribly rusty, his voice out of practice, but through all that he could hear that this was easily the best music he and Matty had ever made. The only catch: they were both supposed to be dead, so what the hell was he going to do with it? Cobb addressed the problem in his habitual manner, by curling up in bed and going to sleep.
    Matty was there. “You're going to release it,” he said.
    â€œUnder what name?"
    â€œMatthew and Cobb, of course.” Matty said this patiently, as if Cobb were a slow child. God, he hated it when Matty talked to him like that. Only now ... now it felt kind of good, too.
    He even knew his next line. “Why not Cobb and Matthew?"
    â€œBecause I wrote more of it."
    'How do you figure that?'
    Matty rolled his eyes. “ You're just getting started again. I've been saving this stuff up!"
    â€œAnd the other little matter?"
    â€œWell, obviously you can prove you're you. You can tell the whole story of how you faked your death and went traveling around the world, it's a great yarn, and you can say I left these tapes behind when I died, and you've reworked them, and I know some musicians you can use, and a terrific studio—"
    â€œFuck, Matty, that's what I died to get away from."
    Matty's eyes narrowed. Cobb thought of daggers ripping through velvet. “No you didn't,” Matty said. “You died because you couldn't do it anymore. With me, you can."
    Cobb wrenched himself awake.
    Matty was still there.
    "Praise the Lord, I'll have a new body!" he sang in a passable Hank Williams voice. “Hey, Terry, look what I can do now! The longer you're here, the better I get! Oh Terry, old mate, it's so damn good to see you ..."
    He leaned over and kissed Cobb on the lips, open-mouthed, hungrily. Cobb could not make himself pull back, even when he felt a bitter liquid flowing from Matty's mouth into his own. After a while, he began to like the taste.
    The studio was top of the line, the musicians crackerjack one and all: of course. Cobb finished the album in just under a month, living in