They were written in the New Wave script, which was wavy, the letters drifting into each other, and done in such a way as to suggest three dimensions. Something like subway graffiti, but more intricate, harder to do just right. Of course, a lot of people tried to settle old scores by just putting names on the wall, but they couldn’t get the script right. The lame or the uncool tried, but it never looked right. You could tell they weren’t authentic.Briggs stood in front of a wall. The script looked right.Once your name was up, you could start waiting for the piss and fishy odor of a Mungo Man, who reached out for you in the hallway of your building, the cold touch of his fingers, the stink of his breath all showing that, as far as the New Wave was concerned, you had been found wanting. Were your clothes right? Your slang? Or were you out-of-date and speaking the Language of the Dead? One night you smelled the fishy odor and felt the surprising bump, just like being punched, but that’s the way the ice pick felt.
