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“What’s the name of the group?” “The Deep Fix.” “You might have to change that a bit. It’s not really—you know… The BBC’s still a power in the land, eh? They don’t like drugs. Have you thought of any other names?” “Yes,” said Jerry. “The Cocksuckers.” Sebastian Auchinek managed a small smile.
— Michael Moorcock, The Condition of Muzak ‎· full of melancholy details
“I remember the good old days,” said Sebastian Auchinek, his voice grumbling along with the twelve wing-mounted engines on either side of the cabin, “when there was still a sense of wonder in the world.” “That was before universal literacy and cheap newsprint.” Jerry spoke spitefully. Either Auchinek or the engines began to cough. They had not been getting on since Calcutta when the Russian policeman had demanded to see their documents and Jerry had shot him. ‎· full of melancholy details
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