Kicking Tomorrow Read Online Free PDF

saw these long faces, these indolent bystanders, these pseudo-hippies gone prematurely to seed, still waiting, he observed sourly, for another generation’s revolution, still playing someone else’s old romantic records.
The Lugs. The Head. The Yores
. He knew better. The CIA had defused the sixties by bombarding the hippie community with downer drugs and chemical mindfucks. If you doubt it, just look around. Like, six blocks over and a short hike up the hill Canada’s coming apart, it’s having a revolution all of its own,
and none of these turkeys even knows about it
. To Robbie, the sixties was a dirty word; he’d found out what a scam it all was – just before the fire razed his school down to several rows of seared gym lockers, he’d caught a glimpse of how it all worked – he’d been backstage. Ivy had shown him.
    Brat was here, wearing a Vietnam combat jacket with the sleeves pinned up to reveal his thalidomide hands – fins really, crab claws without a shell – which he was now using to pass on a roach, with surprising dexterity, the strange economical speed of dwarfs. He was cool as all get out; he acknowledged Robbie and Rosie’s arrival by blinking slower than normal.
    Louie Louie called out heartily.
“Ayy
, allô, white man! Taberslaque! You can see your religion in dose pant!” Big hulking Louie Louie in army surplus shit-kickers and a brown bomber jacket as buffed and battered and caked in dirt as the hide of the old bull itself. Extending a meaty fist. Yes, Louie Louie was a pepsi, the son of the janitor at Westmount High, and once assistant janitor himself, who’d been embraced by the Westmount clique by virtue of the high-quality weed he dealt; he used to store the stuff in toilet rolls, high up on a stockroom shelf where his bent old man could not reach, and open shop in the cans at lunch hour. That was before Officer Gaunt made a goodwill appearance, on tour with his lecture entitled,
Pot or Not?
and brought in his dog for an inspection of the premises. The way Louie Louie talked about it now, is papa was taken de hearly retirement, hosti.
    Joggers and mothers passing by with prams looked askance at the tribe, and Robbie felt pleased to be thought of as party to trouble. Louie Louie was such a gronker, closer to seven feet than to six, his hair short as a GI’s, his eyebrows shaved off, eyes as dull as gunpowder, neck as thick and dirty as a tire; he now worked in a poultry factory at the eastern end of the city, where it was his job to chop the little beaks off newly hatched chicks to prevent them from pecking one another to death in the overcrowded cages where they were fattened for slaughter.
    “I’m
also
reading
The Bible and Flying Saucers,”
Rosie announced, pulling yet another ragged paperback from her beach bag. She held it up for Brat to see, pointing to the photographs asif teaching a baby. “It’s like, when you read Psalm 104:3,
He makes the clouds his chariot
, what do you think that
really
means, guys?”
    Robbie passed buttons of mesc around, popping one right into Brat’s mouth.
    “No, really,” Rosie said, accepting one with her tongue stuck out and then placing Robbie’s hands on her shoulders and making his fingers massage the muscles there. “What does it mean?”
    “It means you shouldn’t believe everything you read,” said Robbie, who was reading nothing at the time. And his hands had turned to wood.
    Time passed and people sat. It was incredible how the Anglo cats there could sit and sit and sit, saying zilch in
either
of Canada’s official languages, not least Robbie himself, with his KEEF SUCKS T-shirt proclaiming the sum total of his commitment to the maintenance of intelligent life on our fair planet.
    Half an hour later he was feeling brutally nauseous, which was a welcome change in tempo, at least. By then Rosie had turned away to read the palm of some furry freak in a crushed-velvet shirt. Robbie observed them with a seasoned stoner’s