Trip would have been so proud. The Anarchist pressed his lips together at the thought, repressing a nostalgic frown. Trip, with his ratty blonde ponytail and his Doc Martens boots. Trip, who had executed Squeaky and displayed his corpse in William’s office. Trip, who had carved a ten-pound chunk off of the huge, erroneously delivered cheese brick, then had eaten it in one sitting because he couldn’t fit it in his fridge. Standing before the completed Face-Kicking Machine, the Anarchist missed Trip more than ever. This was a dream that had been so very long in coming. The progress so far at Bingham’s had been amazing, but this was a triumph of idiotic proportions. The Face-Kicking Machine had been so abstract, so far-fetched, so unbelievably stupid, a long-lost fantasy so odd that a thinking person could rest assured that it would never – nay, should never – see the light of day. The Face-Kicking Machine! he thought, still incredulous. Here! Made real! He could hardly believe it.
