He walked into Kwan’s to get his usual breakfast only to be greeted at the counter by his earlier benefactor.
“Hello, Mr. O’Neil.” He said with a polite bow.
“Here to buy me breakfast again?”
“If you’d like. Hot tea and a number twent please.” He said as he waved his hand across the scanner. They proceeded to a booth in the back of the restaurant.
“My clients were overjoyed to hear you had accessed the payment account.”
“I figured my time was worth something.”
“And we agree, but we figured you wouldn’t access the account unless you were…” He paused to sip his tea. “More willing to consider our offer.”
“I must admit the file you were after was more interesting than I had first assumed, but you knew I’d feel that way.”
“We had hoped you would see the importance of the file.”
“That I’m not exactly clear on.’
“I see. That is unfortunate; we thought to a man of your skills it would be clear.”
“Look, I’m just a simple detective, so sometimes I need things spelled out for me.” Their breakfast arrived and O’Neil dug greedily into his steak.
“Like for instance, why you didn’t find someone else if you were really looking for corporate espionage.” He shoved a piece of steak into his mouth. ”I know you did your homework before we met, so you knew I’d turn you down.”
He nodded his head in agreement. “That is correct.”
“So why the ruse?”
“My clients or more specifically one of them has a flair for the dramatic.”
“I’m aware, but that still doesn’t explain the deception.”
“We felt it would be better for all parties if you came to the knowledge on your own.”
“You wanted to make sure I didn’t spill it.”
“Something like that.”
“Fine enough, so now what?”
“If our secrecy would be assured, I would propose that you meet with my clients face to face.”
“You know it’s safe or you wouldn’t be here. Pay my retainer and I’ll add a privacy clause, if that would be agreeable. He slid the PDA across the table.
He read over the document. “Maybe a mere formality, but one can never be too careful.” He placed his chip print on the pad.
They both got up to leave as O’Neil asked. “By the way, why the break in?”
A look of confusion crossed his otherwise stoic face. “I’m not sure what you mean.”
“Why steal my coat? You knew I’d want to talk about the file. ”
“We had nothing to do with that unfortunate incident. I would suggest you ask Ms. Jordan.” He handed O’Neil another paper card. “Call this number later today, and we’ll meet shortly after that.”
That ruled out one suspect for the break in, but opened another door. He knew that Ms. Jordan had been less than honest with him from the beginning, but it didn’t figure that she would steal his coat. Unless there was something on the file that she wanted as well.
He stopped by Gorby’s house on his way from Kwan’s, sending him a secured tweet.
Extend your stay. Air conditioner broke. It’s hot. I’ve called the plant service. Don’t worry. –Mom-
“Ms. Jordan... Yes the beach house was lovely. From the evidence there I’d say your brother has left the country… Yes I think we could meet in person… Tomorrow I’ll call the Aero-car service.”
As his call ended the autoCab stopped in front of Jor-Tech. “the fare comes to $125.50, please use the scanner.” It beeped its acceptance, “thank you for choosing AutoCab, where the customer is our first concern.”
So far Jor-tech hadn’t given up any of its ghosts, but he hoped this trip would be the one. Murty had arranged for him to go straight to the genetics research center. He knew most of the people there wouldn’t give him anything other than the corporate line but he thought his knowledge of the b.e.r.d.a.c.h.e file might loosen a few tongues.
Geneticists were an odd lot, most people never really thought about them and if they did either penciled necks, visions of Frankenstein came to mind. I reality most of them were club kids who had taken just enough drugs to be amazingly creative, but not enough to have fried themselves. In this lab there were four kids all about twenty-five sitting around different computer screens. Playing video games and listening to sheep being mutilated with a synthesized drum beat, or so O’Neil thought.
“unh…” He cleared his throat to gain their attention; one of them flipped a button and the blaring Iraqi club music lightened to a dull roar. “Sorry if I’m interrupting. I had a few questions about human cloning.” He scanned the room looking for someone to show an interest. No one did.
“I was told you kids could help.” They all continued to look intently at the tasks they were working on when he had entered the room.
“So this is full cooperation,” he thought, “I’d hate to see them not.”
“I was told you would be able to explain a few things to me.”
A young woman with more metal in her face than a gangster on Valentine’s Day looked up. “Look we’ll answer your questions, but you won’t understand the answers.”
“I’ll do my best to keep up.” He reached in his pocket to get his PDA for recording notes. ”What are you working on?”
“Currently not much basically theoretical games, not stuff that would interest you,” said the girl.
“What kind a games?”
A quiet one towards the back answered. “We are creating new life forms, at least in the dish and Sims.”
“In the dish and Sims?”
“I’m not sure how we are supposed to help you if you don’t speak our language,” said the girl. “We can do whatever we want genetically as long as it doesn’t grow past the first hundred generations in a Petrie dish, after that we use computer simulations to see what happens next.”
“I thought there were laws against playing God?”
“Everyone plays God; the laws are just against being creative.” She huffed. “Where do you think your mock-meat comes from, we grow it in the lab. Or, what about all the pods? That was us too.”
“The laws give us just enough freedom to be useful, not enough to change anything. We could create a revolution right here in this room.” She paused to refocus her tirade.
“Have you ever wondered if pigs could fly?”
“I’ve never seen a real pig.” Answered O’Neil”
“I could grow one right here for you in the lab. In three weeks you could be holding Porky the Pegasus, but they won’t let us.”
“Certainly a shame, but in three weeks, that seems fast,” Said O’Neil.
“Nah with growth stimulants we can grow anything in about a week, the wings would take longer,” said the one with the radio.
“It is a shame, it’s a freaking crime. We could solve most of the world’s problems right here in this lab…”
“I’m sure flying pigs would make the world a better place,” said O’Neil.
“Porky the Pegasus is a running joke. We could tackle any problem, like…” She paused to find a good example.
“Like total human cloning?”
“That was six months ago,” said a young man whose full body tattoo showed through his shirt.
“I’m aware this is probably old news to you but…”
“No we completed the process six months ago.” He said.
“Well theoretically at least,” said the quiet one.
“Theoretically?” Asked O’Neil.
“Yeah, you know there’s a ban on actually doing it,” said another, feigning cool disinterest.
“Of course, but by theoretically you mean?”
“I’ll try to keep this simple,” said the metal-faced girl. “We’ve grown all of the allowable tissue in the lab and used Sims for the rest.”
“So it hasn’t actually been done?”
“Of course not that’d be illegal.” The girl smiled her tongue rings dancing in the florescent light.
“I think I understand.” He could see the quiet one in at the back table sigh slightly at this. He looked down at his PDA as if he was looking for something. “Ah, here it is any of you know what a bird ache might be?” He hoped the term would get a response.
They all looked puzzled, accept the quiet one: he looked worried.
The tattooed one spoke up. “Do you mean ‘Berdache’?”
“So that’s how you say it. Some sort of genetic term, is it?”
“No French,” said the girl-immediately looking back down at her monitor. The rest giggled.
“French.”
“Yeah, it’s an anthro term,” said the tattooed one. O’Neil looked confused.
“I got a anthropology degree when I was fourteen, it’s an Indian custom. Sioux if I remember correct. If a man can’t hack it he gives up and lives like a woman.”
“A transvestite?”
“Not exactly, everyone else treats him like a woman.”
The quiet one decided to join the discussion. “Why’d you think it was a genetic term?”
“Someone told me it might be important.” He couldn’t tell but the kid may be buying it.
“I think they were playing you.”
“I guess I should have known, they told me to ask for it at Fred’s.” Everyone laughed. “What did the Sims show as far as human cloning?”
“We can do it…” She said.
“It’s not very useful,” said the quiet one.
“Not like flying pigs,” quipped O’Neil.
“About the same, who needs a clone?” He asked.
“I’m not sure, maybe someone who wants to be in two places at once.”
“A total clone would be genetically identical to the donor, but they wouldn’t be the same,” said the girl. “It’s a novice mistake, who you are isn’t just DNA it’s how you were raised.”
“It’s a nature versus nurture argument,” the tattooed one said.
“You see you’d look the same, but more than likely you’d be completely different people, wouldn’t fool anyone. Besides, the chips would give you away,” said the quiet one.
“Theoretically what if the chips weren’t a problem?”
“Theoretically, of course…”
“Of course,” said O’Neil.
“You could fool the computers, and the scanners. But you’d still be a completely different person, psychologically.” The quiet one was beginning to look extremely nervous.
“Because you wouldn’t have the same experience or learning?”
“No you could imprint most of that, at least the major stuff. It would be the links your brain made to the information that would be different.” She twisted her nose ring knowing O’Neil didn’t understand.”
He looked confused again. “What do you mean?”
“We could make a copy of the donor’s memories, at least most, it’s not as accurate as the cloning itself is.”
“Wouldn’t these memories be the same?”
“Yeah but a lot would be missing.” She said.
“Like you might remember who was at your 8th birthday, but not what kinda of cake you had,” Tattoo continued.
“And this makes a huge difference?”
“All the difference in the world. It might determine, whether your sane or not.”
“What about sexual orientation?”
“Maybe, although we think it’s mostly genetic.”
O’Neil wrinkled his brow.
“Like we said its nature verses nurture, not a clear answer,” said the girl.
“I think I’m beginning to understand,” said O’Neil watching the quiet one intently try to not make eye contact.
“So theoretically if I wanted to clone myself, say to be seen here while I was elsewhere cheating on my lover that could be done?”
“Yeah if you just wanted to be seen,” said the girl.
“But you couldn’t be anywhere public without the chip.” The quiet one wasn’t so quiet now he was getting panicked.
“Assuming the chip wasn’t an issue…” O’Neil said waving the kid down. “How many people would it take to do it?”
“Any one of us could do it if you were a willing donor.” She sat back in her chair twirling a pencil across her tongue ring. “But rabbit’s right.” She pointing towards the quiet one, “it’s a moot point, because you can’t duplicate the chip.”
“I guess we have more in common than you thought.” He said
“How do you figure?” She asked.
“You guys get paid to design creature that can’t be made, and I make my living solving crimes that can’t happen.” He placed his PDA back in his pocket. “I guess I have everything I need.” He started to walk towards the door.
“Oh yeah I almost forgot, can you actually grow a human clone here, or would you need different equipment?”
“Lab six is all set up if they ever change the laws.” Tattoo said.
“Seems like a lot of trouble, for something that can’t be done.” It was clear he had out thought the wiz kids. “They went to a lot of trouble to build a whole lab for something you can’t even do legally.”
“Mr. Jordan wanted it built.”
“Chandler?”
“No his father, had it build several years ago, when he was dying: trying to cheat death I guess.” The girl said.
Sunday, February 28, 2010
Friday, February 26, 2010
A Real Bed
Before kids I never thought about having a real job. There wasn't really any need. I always managed to have money in the bank, pay my rent and put food on the table, while having a social life and buying expensive beer. My life, I thought, was great. I stayed up as late as I wanted playing Nintendo till the wee hours, writing, or throwing darts, or bar hoping -- and I worked only when I had to.
I turned thirty and things changed. One month after my birthday Breydon was born, my first kid. The first thing to change was going to bars, babysitters are expensive when you're a graduate student. Next went the expensive beer, diapers, baby food et al are expensive. I still stayed up all night, now rocking a baby to sleep, and I still wrote, but now trying to get published rather than entertaining myself. I thought my life was great! I was a teaching assistant, making enough money, working very few hours, and loving teaching.
A few years later Breydon turned three and Jude, my second son, was fast approaching one. I was adjuncting at a university; we still had money in the bank, were still putting food on the table, and I was still writing - I had almost finished a novel. Life wasn't great though. Our savings were dwindling and Breydon wanted a bed.
A bed I couldn't afford to get him. Currently his crib mattress was set up in a pup tent in his bedroom. Cool, Right? What little boy wouldn't want to sleep in a tent every night?
Breydon, that's who.
We were visiting my uncle at his condo at Geneva on the lake. Lake Erie impressed Breydon, when he saw it, in a hushed voiced all he could muster, in total awe, was "Bath." He didn't have a word for lake; he'd never seen one. Bath was his default; he used it to describe hot tubs, bathtubs, swimming pools, and now the mother of all bathtubs, Lake Erie. Even though the lake impressed him and he thrilled at the rides and devoured hot dogs at Eddie's, what impressed him the most was the twin bed in my uncle's condo. He wanted a "real bed." He was excited to sleep in a "real bed," and he even knew Jude would want one too. Like I said my life wasn't great, I couldn't even afford to get my son a real bed, not on an adjunct's wages.
I quit narrating in my head, and my dad took over, then his dad took over his narrating. My internal dialogue had become puppet strings pulled by generations of Sicilian men. Men who talked about hard work and responsibility, and taxes, and paying bills, and retirement, mixed in to the Italian English shouting match even little Breydon had started narrating for me. "I want a real bed," was all he kept saying. Like I said my life was no longer great. I needed a real job and a twin bed.
Teaching high school was my only choice; it silenced the Dago chorus of JOB SECURITY SAFETY, JOB SECURITY SAFETY, and would buy Breydon his bed. There was a problem; I had a BA in Anthropology, and graduate hours in Anthropology, rhetoric, communications, and creative writing. Not a big demand on the secondary level for anthropologist who could teach creative writing.
Looking back there were a lot of choices besides the real job, keep adjuncting, get a graduate degree that would allow me to teach, get a graduate degree that would help me write. I couldn't see any of them, blinded by Sicilian yelling. PATRIARCHY, PATRIARCHY, PATRIARCHY!
I loved teaching high school, and after several years of classroom teaching, Breydon had a bed, but the three boys would rather sleep in tents, and we were putting food on the table, there was money in the bank, and I was tired. Strike that. I was exhausted and hadn't seen much of my family.
Sicilian's value family more than life itself, but when the puppet voices scream in your head family is never one of the chants. My dad was gone a lot for work with the Air force; his dad was a railroader and frequently gone. They were great providers, probably silencing their own puppet voices. Puppet voices yelling patriarchy, patriarchy, familia; but they were rarely around.
Exhaustion drove me to the brink, like it does so many; it drove me to the brink of madness. I did the unthinkable, I killed the puppet voices. One by one I strangled them, thrashing them like Muppets through a blender. It was self-defense I tell you. It was me or the puppet voices.
My life is great again. Apparently killing puppet voices is the best thing you can do. The boys all have beds, we put food on the table, and we have money in the bank. I teach virtually now, all online and I see my wife and kids. And I have plenty of time to write.
I turned thirty and things changed. One month after my birthday Breydon was born, my first kid. The first thing to change was going to bars, babysitters are expensive when you're a graduate student. Next went the expensive beer, diapers, baby food et al are expensive. I still stayed up all night, now rocking a baby to sleep, and I still wrote, but now trying to get published rather than entertaining myself. I thought my life was great! I was a teaching assistant, making enough money, working very few hours, and loving teaching.
A few years later Breydon turned three and Jude, my second son, was fast approaching one. I was adjuncting at a university; we still had money in the bank, were still putting food on the table, and I was still writing - I had almost finished a novel. Life wasn't great though. Our savings were dwindling and Breydon wanted a bed.
A bed I couldn't afford to get him. Currently his crib mattress was set up in a pup tent in his bedroom. Cool, Right? What little boy wouldn't want to sleep in a tent every night?
Breydon, that's who.
We were visiting my uncle at his condo at Geneva on the lake. Lake Erie impressed Breydon, when he saw it, in a hushed voiced all he could muster, in total awe, was "Bath." He didn't have a word for lake; he'd never seen one. Bath was his default; he used it to describe hot tubs, bathtubs, swimming pools, and now the mother of all bathtubs, Lake Erie. Even though the lake impressed him and he thrilled at the rides and devoured hot dogs at Eddie's, what impressed him the most was the twin bed in my uncle's condo. He wanted a "real bed." He was excited to sleep in a "real bed," and he even knew Jude would want one too. Like I said my life wasn't great, I couldn't even afford to get my son a real bed, not on an adjunct's wages.
I quit narrating in my head, and my dad took over, then his dad took over his narrating. My internal dialogue had become puppet strings pulled by generations of Sicilian men. Men who talked about hard work and responsibility, and taxes, and paying bills, and retirement, mixed in to the Italian English shouting match even little Breydon had started narrating for me. "I want a real bed," was all he kept saying. Like I said my life was no longer great. I needed a real job and a twin bed.
Teaching high school was my only choice; it silenced the Dago chorus of JOB SECURITY SAFETY, JOB SECURITY SAFETY, and would buy Breydon his bed. There was a problem; I had a BA in Anthropology, and graduate hours in Anthropology, rhetoric, communications, and creative writing. Not a big demand on the secondary level for anthropologist who could teach creative writing.
Looking back there were a lot of choices besides the real job, keep adjuncting, get a graduate degree that would allow me to teach, get a graduate degree that would help me write. I couldn't see any of them, blinded by Sicilian yelling. PATRIARCHY, PATRIARCHY, PATRIARCHY!
I loved teaching high school, and after several years of classroom teaching, Breydon had a bed, but the three boys would rather sleep in tents, and we were putting food on the table, there was money in the bank, and I was tired. Strike that. I was exhausted and hadn't seen much of my family.
Sicilian's value family more than life itself, but when the puppet voices scream in your head family is never one of the chants. My dad was gone a lot for work with the Air force; his dad was a railroader and frequently gone. They were great providers, probably silencing their own puppet voices. Puppet voices yelling patriarchy, patriarchy, familia; but they were rarely around.
Exhaustion drove me to the brink, like it does so many; it drove me to the brink of madness. I did the unthinkable, I killed the puppet voices. One by one I strangled them, thrashing them like Muppets through a blender. It was self-defense I tell you. It was me or the puppet voices.
My life is great again. Apparently killing puppet voices is the best thing you can do. The boys all have beds, we put food on the table, and we have money in the bank. I teach virtually now, all online and I see my wife and kids. And I have plenty of time to write.
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
Moon Dog Went Surfing
http://flashesinthedark.com/2010/02/22/moon-dog-went-surfing-by-scott-maiorca/
Pipeline danced through the air from a distant transistor radio and the salt breeze wisped through the sparse dune grass. There were a-framed waves to be had, and his pack was taking them, in the moment: one last ride at this beach, before they moved on.
Cashed, he lay back basking in the warmth of the sun, its rays warming his toned body. To nap or maybe look for a Betty — so much daylight, so little time. His greatest concern for the day was to have one like last night. He could still smell her scent, could still taste her. She was still all over him. She was boss. Girls like that only came along every so often, but they were worth trying to get again.
“What a night,” he thought. He couldn’t even remember her name, if he ever had known it. He’d spent most of the day looking for her, or someone like her. A nondescript Betty, there were a lot of femmes at this beach, but it couldn’t be just anyone, he had his type, she had to have some curves. Skinny girls didn’t have enough meat on their bones, and if she was too big, she didn’t feel right.
He knew it was time to move down the coast. He thought the youngsters might howl a bit — for two of them this had been their first beach since they joined — but he was the Alpha. Being Alpha meant it was his choice and no one would question that, or else they’d have to deal with the big dog. And none of his bros wanted that. He thought he’d lay back and enjoy the sun for a while then have the boys pack the woody up. Right now all he had to do was dream until dusk. He drifted off into a self-satisfied sleep.
“Yo Bra, the loces are starting a bonfire.” He has roused from his dreams by Slim, perhaps the fattest surfer ever. “There should be plenty uh action in a bit.”
“Toss me a beer, and I may forget you’re blocking my sun.” Slim grabbed a can from the cooler, throwing it to Moon Dog.
“Your Sun. The fat bastard’s blocking the whole sun,” shouted Dutch as he climbed the dune towards the group.
“It’s ok. I’ll go on a diet. Starting tomorrow I won’t really eat for a month.” They all laughed at Slim’s joke.
“You say that every month, Slim, and yet,” Dutch said rubbing Slim’s belly. “Nothing ever changes. Hell, Slim, I’m beginning to wonder if you’re not fat – just pregnant.”
“Dude, I just woke up,” Moon Dog barked, “and I’d like to keep my appetite.” He stood up. “Have the youngsters load the wagon. I’d like to hit the road right after the bonfire.”
“Already done, Dog,” Dutch said, gesturing towards the loaded cars.
“We sent them down to scout for Betties already,” added Slim.
Dog looked down the dunes at the bonfire, it was a shame to leave, he thought, but they’d been hunting this spot for a month now, and pretty soon their welcome would be worn. Besides, there were other beaches down the coast, where the femmes weren’t worried, and the waves were just as gnarly.
“Let’s hit the fire before the kids scare all the femmes away.” He said as he started down the dune. Dutch and Slim followed dutifully.
Then pinkish hues of sunset began to chase the daylight away while the flames from the fire reached out to kiss the coming night. The local guys had bailed on the bonfire, once the three of them showed. They knew the girls weren’t interested in anyone they saw every day. Traveling surfers seemed so exotic to small town girls — girls with stars in their eyes, who wanted to see the world, and find their prince. Girls who dreamt big dreams but knew they’d marry the local boys they had just chased away, the boys they called friend. Girls who knew their lives would never change.
Two more hours of small talk and then the real fun would begin, thought Moon Dog. The youngsters had already broken from the pack, they weren’t very particular, and would wander off with any girl that would go. Dutch was working it, chatting up a particularly tasty looking Betty. Moon Dog almost pulled rank, but decided to let Dutch have his fun. Slim was dancing wildly with a group, planning to grab whoever was closest when the time was right.
He hadn’t found his type, but had found two that would do. They walked back towards his car. The youngster had taken the woody, so he’d take the Chevy. A short drive to some place secluded and then he could really sink his teeth into things.
The Chevy growled as they tore away from the beach, he knew a little place higher up the dunes, a private place, where the full moon would be bitchin’. A few miles up the dunes, a bottle of cheap wine, a few lies and they were there.
The winds were starting to pick up as the as the full moon climbed into the night sky. He could see the distant waves crashing on the beach, greedily grabbing sand and pulling it, screaming, back to the sea. He knew the Betties were ready, their scents were so thick in the car he could taste them. Their panting and petting was fogging over the windows, he was breathless, as the moon reached its peak. And then the fun, the change began, his panting turned into ecstatic screaming, which turned into howls as he morphed. Their panting turned into terror as they realized that their lives would change, that they would end.
Pipeline danced through the air from a distant transistor radio and the salt breeze wisped through the sparse dune grass. There were a-framed waves to be had, and his pack was taking them, in the moment: one last ride at this beach, before they moved on.
Cashed, he lay back basking in the warmth of the sun, its rays warming his toned body. To nap or maybe look for a Betty — so much daylight, so little time. His greatest concern for the day was to have one like last night. He could still smell her scent, could still taste her. She was still all over him. She was boss. Girls like that only came along every so often, but they were worth trying to get again.
“What a night,” he thought. He couldn’t even remember her name, if he ever had known it. He’d spent most of the day looking for her, or someone like her. A nondescript Betty, there were a lot of femmes at this beach, but it couldn’t be just anyone, he had his type, she had to have some curves. Skinny girls didn’t have enough meat on their bones, and if she was too big, she didn’t feel right.
He knew it was time to move down the coast. He thought the youngsters might howl a bit — for two of them this had been their first beach since they joined — but he was the Alpha. Being Alpha meant it was his choice and no one would question that, or else they’d have to deal with the big dog. And none of his bros wanted that. He thought he’d lay back and enjoy the sun for a while then have the boys pack the woody up. Right now all he had to do was dream until dusk. He drifted off into a self-satisfied sleep.
“Yo Bra, the loces are starting a bonfire.” He has roused from his dreams by Slim, perhaps the fattest surfer ever. “There should be plenty uh action in a bit.”
“Toss me a beer, and I may forget you’re blocking my sun.” Slim grabbed a can from the cooler, throwing it to Moon Dog.
“Your Sun. The fat bastard’s blocking the whole sun,” shouted Dutch as he climbed the dune towards the group.
“It’s ok. I’ll go on a diet. Starting tomorrow I won’t really eat for a month.” They all laughed at Slim’s joke.
“You say that every month, Slim, and yet,” Dutch said rubbing Slim’s belly. “Nothing ever changes. Hell, Slim, I’m beginning to wonder if you’re not fat – just pregnant.”
“Dude, I just woke up,” Moon Dog barked, “and I’d like to keep my appetite.” He stood up. “Have the youngsters load the wagon. I’d like to hit the road right after the bonfire.”
“Already done, Dog,” Dutch said, gesturing towards the loaded cars.
“We sent them down to scout for Betties already,” added Slim.
Dog looked down the dunes at the bonfire, it was a shame to leave, he thought, but they’d been hunting this spot for a month now, and pretty soon their welcome would be worn. Besides, there were other beaches down the coast, where the femmes weren’t worried, and the waves were just as gnarly.
“Let’s hit the fire before the kids scare all the femmes away.” He said as he started down the dune. Dutch and Slim followed dutifully.
Then pinkish hues of sunset began to chase the daylight away while the flames from the fire reached out to kiss the coming night. The local guys had bailed on the bonfire, once the three of them showed. They knew the girls weren’t interested in anyone they saw every day. Traveling surfers seemed so exotic to small town girls — girls with stars in their eyes, who wanted to see the world, and find their prince. Girls who dreamt big dreams but knew they’d marry the local boys they had just chased away, the boys they called friend. Girls who knew their lives would never change.
Two more hours of small talk and then the real fun would begin, thought Moon Dog. The youngsters had already broken from the pack, they weren’t very particular, and would wander off with any girl that would go. Dutch was working it, chatting up a particularly tasty looking Betty. Moon Dog almost pulled rank, but decided to let Dutch have his fun. Slim was dancing wildly with a group, planning to grab whoever was closest when the time was right.
He hadn’t found his type, but had found two that would do. They walked back towards his car. The youngster had taken the woody, so he’d take the Chevy. A short drive to some place secluded and then he could really sink his teeth into things.
The Chevy growled as they tore away from the beach, he knew a little place higher up the dunes, a private place, where the full moon would be bitchin’. A few miles up the dunes, a bottle of cheap wine, a few lies and they were there.
The winds were starting to pick up as the as the full moon climbed into the night sky. He could see the distant waves crashing on the beach, greedily grabbing sand and pulling it, screaming, back to the sea. He knew the Betties were ready, their scents were so thick in the car he could taste them. Their panting and petting was fogging over the windows, he was breathless, as the moon reached its peak. And then the fun, the change began, his panting turned into ecstatic screaming, which turned into howls as he morphed. Their panting turned into terror as they realized that their lives would change, that they would end.
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Reader Appreciation Post
I wanted to say thanks to everyone, either here or on Face Book, who took the time to Read Moon Dog Went Surfing @ http://flashesinthedark.com/. I also wanted to mention a fellow writer/ blogger @ http://pulpprimer.blogspot.com/ Graham writes detective flash fiction, as well as other genres. If you like noir his stuff is really worth checking out. If you're a writer Graham's stories are really good examples of how much you can say with very few words.
Again thanks for reading Moon Dog.
Again thanks for reading Moon Dog.
Sunday, February 21, 2010
A little bit of Self promotion
JUST GOT A NEW ACCEPTANCE LETTER FROM FLASHES IN THE DARK. It will go live February 22, 2010. WWW.flashesinthedark.com
I wanted to post this today since the twenty-second is coming Monday. I haven't posted Moon Dog Went surfing on the blog, so if you want to read it you need to go to WWW.flashesinthedark.com. It's a horror ezine and worth the read, if you like horror flash, even when they aren't publishing mystuff. Go ahead and check flashes out. I would love to have some feedback, even if you just want to tell me my writing is total shit. Honestly, I've heard worse.
And if you're an aspiring writer flashes is a really good place to submit. The editor, Lori Titus, is gentle on her rejections and straight to the point on an acceptances. I've had her send me both. So If you're brave enough write that horror story kicking around in your head go ahead and submit it to her. The worse she'll do is say no thanks.
Who knows maybe she'll even say yes.
On a side note I'm going to delay posting the new chapter of Justice and Genetics are Blind. It seems like Monday needs to be about the new publication. I'll continue posting the Novel next week. Still at least a chapter in reserve, and the new stuff is coming.
I wanted to post this today since the twenty-second is coming Monday. I haven't posted Moon Dog Went surfing on the blog, so if you want to read it you need to go to WWW.flashesinthedark.com. It's a horror ezine and worth the read, if you like horror flash, even when they aren't publishing mystuff. Go ahead and check flashes out. I would love to have some feedback, even if you just want to tell me my writing is total shit. Honestly, I've heard worse.
And if you're an aspiring writer flashes is a really good place to submit. The editor, Lori Titus, is gentle on her rejections and straight to the point on an acceptances. I've had her send me both. So If you're brave enough write that horror story kicking around in your head go ahead and submit it to her. The worse she'll do is say no thanks.
Who knows maybe she'll even say yes.
On a side note I'm going to delay posting the new chapter of Justice and Genetics are Blind. It seems like Monday needs to be about the new publication. I'll continue posting the Novel next week. Still at least a chapter in reserve, and the new stuff is coming.
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
Just got an acceptance email
JUST GOT A NEW ACCEPTANCE LETTER FROM FLASHES IN THE DARK. It will go live February 22, 2010. WWW.flashesinthedark.com
Before kids, and before teaching high school. I was writing / submitting on a regular basis. This is what I have done. With a little luck I’ll be adding what I am doing to the list. So I really should change the paste tense since I just added a new story to the publications.
“A Letter To My Sons.” Cirque. Chipmunk Press, June 2010. A pop culture inspired essay about our world, and the world I would wish for.
"A Modest Proposal.Com." Inklings. UAA Press, May 2000. A satirical essay which examines the affects of jobs on American teen culture.
"Close Encounters of the Human Kind: An Exploratory Look at the Alien Abduction Narrative." NWCA Annual Conference 2002. April 2002.
"How Much is That Pizza in the Window?." Anchorage Press. Anchorage Press, December 1999. Guest editorial for the Anchorage Press, a weekly art and entertainment newspaper, which was a humorous look at the negative effects of globalization and how corporate mergers directly, affected consumers' lives in Anchorage, Alaska.
"Mad House." Prism. OSU Press, May 2002. A Beat Poet influenced look at the perceived affects of media overload on individuals' lives.
"Moon Dog Went Surfing." Flashes in the Dark. Flashesinthedark.com, February 2010. A flash story dealing with surf music, teen angst, and werewolves.
"They're Coming to Get You, Barbara: The Changing Role of Women in George Romero's Night of the Living Dead." VISCOM Conference. June 2001
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
Henrietta and the Flying Car
I was fourteen and we were on our annual trek to Huntsville, Alabama to space camp. Loaded in our two-tone, gray and blue, GMC crew-cab with camper, were my mother, two little sisters, little brother, and best friend Mark Taylor.
My mom decided we should stop in Henrietta, Oklahoma to visit her aunt Wanda. Henrietta is an unremarkable town, its only claim to fame Troy Aikman, a former Cowboys quarterback. It is a small town of small houses with peeling paint and cracked sidewalks and unmanaged lawns, a town of potholes, of worn-away blacktop and exposed cobblestone roads.
I didn't want to see my mother's aunt. I thought that this town offered me nothing; Wanda didn't have cable or even a VCR so I couldn't escape into a science fiction movie. What could possibly interest me in the middle of a small Oklahoma town? After all, I was on my way to space camp. I was preparing to go to the Moon, to go to Mars, to enter the Brave new World I had seen in countless science fiction movies or read about in books. There could be nothing in this little town for me. Nothing.
We passed one dreary little street after another as my mother tried to remember where her aunt's house was: streets named Maple, and Birch, and Elm, and Spruce, ticky-tacky tiny streets that made the truck rumble as we hit the cobblestones.
As we passed yet another street undoubtedly named for a tree, I saw it, my dream, what I'd been waiting my whole life to see a flying car. The first flying car should not have been in Oklahoma... what could "Oakies" possibly have to do with flying cars, and yet, there it was in Henrietta. For the rest of the time my mother spent looking for her Aunt's house, I could talk of nothing else. I knew I had seen the flying car.
Mark confirmed he had seen it. Ever the skeptic, "undoubtedly a gag," he said. My brother and sisters were asleep, and my mother's eyes were fixed to road, dodging potholes, so she had missed it.
We found Wanda's house and my mother, meaning well, but none-the-less Marquis De Sade like, made me sit at the dining room table, politely talking with my relatives. They asked me about soccer and baseball and school and girls. Who the hell had time for any of these? There was a flying car three blocks away. I answered their questions as politely and quickly as possible, not wanting to strike up a conversation. I had to leave. I had to go see who had invented this, who was building this, who was dreaming, who was the visionary.
After a daylong half hour, my mother finally let Mark and I go. We ran as quickly as possible to the place; the place we had seen the car. It seemed like it took forever, but we were there, and it was beautiful: twelve feet around, like a giant Frisbee, smooth as glass and white as porcelain.
Behind the car was an unassuming building. It could have been a handyman's shop, or a place where they fix lawnmowers or a junk store, but it was the corporate headquarters for the inventor of the flying car. Stenciled on the front windows of the building were the words "want to know what this is? Come on in and ask." We did.
The man inside wasn't a mad scientist, an engineer, or even a nerd. He had been a diesel mechanic and good at fixing things, and now he was a dreamer " his dream to build the flying car. He couldn't tell me how it worked, but he said no one could explain how the Frisbee worked either, so that was okay. Knowing that you had a dream, and knowing that you had faith was all that was important in life. Faith was a lever you see, and you could use it to achieve anything.
I was hooked. I had to have one of the cars. I needed to know how much they cost and when they would be ready. He handed me a mimeographed timetable time table and explanation of cost. Right there is blue ink still smelling of ditto fluid, it said his first prototype would be available in two years, after my sixteenth birthday. The car would only cost seventy-five hundred dollars.
Never mind how a fourteen- year-old was going to come up with seventy-five-hundred dollars, never mind he hadn't actually built one yet, never mind the flying car in front of his shop was made of plaster and chicken wire... the important thing was, they were finally here.
The flying car was finally here, and it hadn't taken science or math, or even space camp. The dream was coming to life and all it took was faith. I spent the next two years of my life dreaming of owning the flying car, and planning how to buy it. Buying it would be the easy part.
When I was seven my father bought a brand new 1977 Fiat Spider turbo convertible. I was in love, the day we drove it home from the dealer I asked if I could have the Fiat when I turned sixteen. He laughed, and assured me that we wouldn't have it then, even though he thought everyone should earn their own car, if by chance the car was still around when I turned sixteen, I could have it.
At seven, I became a maintenance Nazi, continually reminding my dad to have his oil changed, to check the fluids when we gassed, and on almost every sunny day I washed and waxed the car.
Now that I was approaching sixteen, by chance we still had the car. On my birthday my father would give me the keys to my seven"year"old dream and I knew I would sell this old dream for my new one. I would give up my convertible for my flying car.
The flying car of Henrietta, Oklahoma, never got off the ground; well at least it never flew into production or off the assembly line. And when I turned sixteen, there was no flying car for me to buy.
That didn't discourage me though I enjoyed driving my little blue convertible, but even more I enjoyed dreaming of my flying car. I enjoyed dreaming of letting my earthbound tires fall away, and of escaping another day, flying over roads, over roads and fields, effortlessly, freely away from Oklahoma, away from people, away from anyplace at all.
My mom decided we should stop in Henrietta, Oklahoma to visit her aunt Wanda. Henrietta is an unremarkable town, its only claim to fame Troy Aikman, a former Cowboys quarterback. It is a small town of small houses with peeling paint and cracked sidewalks and unmanaged lawns, a town of potholes, of worn-away blacktop and exposed cobblestone roads.
I didn't want to see my mother's aunt. I thought that this town offered me nothing; Wanda didn't have cable or even a VCR so I couldn't escape into a science fiction movie. What could possibly interest me in the middle of a small Oklahoma town? After all, I was on my way to space camp. I was preparing to go to the Moon, to go to Mars, to enter the Brave new World I had seen in countless science fiction movies or read about in books. There could be nothing in this little town for me. Nothing.
We passed one dreary little street after another as my mother tried to remember where her aunt's house was: streets named Maple, and Birch, and Elm, and Spruce, ticky-tacky tiny streets that made the truck rumble as we hit the cobblestones.
As we passed yet another street undoubtedly named for a tree, I saw it, my dream, what I'd been waiting my whole life to see a flying car. The first flying car should not have been in Oklahoma... what could "Oakies" possibly have to do with flying cars, and yet, there it was in Henrietta. For the rest of the time my mother spent looking for her Aunt's house, I could talk of nothing else. I knew I had seen the flying car.
Mark confirmed he had seen it. Ever the skeptic, "undoubtedly a gag," he said. My brother and sisters were asleep, and my mother's eyes were fixed to road, dodging potholes, so she had missed it.
We found Wanda's house and my mother, meaning well, but none-the-less Marquis De Sade like, made me sit at the dining room table, politely talking with my relatives. They asked me about soccer and baseball and school and girls. Who the hell had time for any of these? There was a flying car three blocks away. I answered their questions as politely and quickly as possible, not wanting to strike up a conversation. I had to leave. I had to go see who had invented this, who was building this, who was dreaming, who was the visionary.
After a daylong half hour, my mother finally let Mark and I go. We ran as quickly as possible to the place; the place we had seen the car. It seemed like it took forever, but we were there, and it was beautiful: twelve feet around, like a giant Frisbee, smooth as glass and white as porcelain.
Behind the car was an unassuming building. It could have been a handyman's shop, or a place where they fix lawnmowers or a junk store, but it was the corporate headquarters for the inventor of the flying car. Stenciled on the front windows of the building were the words "want to know what this is? Come on in and ask." We did.
The man inside wasn't a mad scientist, an engineer, or even a nerd. He had been a diesel mechanic and good at fixing things, and now he was a dreamer " his dream to build the flying car. He couldn't tell me how it worked, but he said no one could explain how the Frisbee worked either, so that was okay. Knowing that you had a dream, and knowing that you had faith was all that was important in life. Faith was a lever you see, and you could use it to achieve anything.
I was hooked. I had to have one of the cars. I needed to know how much they cost and when they would be ready. He handed me a mimeographed timetable time table and explanation of cost. Right there is blue ink still smelling of ditto fluid, it said his first prototype would be available in two years, after my sixteenth birthday. The car would only cost seventy-five hundred dollars.
Never mind how a fourteen- year-old was going to come up with seventy-five-hundred dollars, never mind he hadn't actually built one yet, never mind the flying car in front of his shop was made of plaster and chicken wire... the important thing was, they were finally here.
The flying car was finally here, and it hadn't taken science or math, or even space camp. The dream was coming to life and all it took was faith. I spent the next two years of my life dreaming of owning the flying car, and planning how to buy it. Buying it would be the easy part.
When I was seven my father bought a brand new 1977 Fiat Spider turbo convertible. I was in love, the day we drove it home from the dealer I asked if I could have the Fiat when I turned sixteen. He laughed, and assured me that we wouldn't have it then, even though he thought everyone should earn their own car, if by chance the car was still around when I turned sixteen, I could have it.
At seven, I became a maintenance Nazi, continually reminding my dad to have his oil changed, to check the fluids when we gassed, and on almost every sunny day I washed and waxed the car.
Now that I was approaching sixteen, by chance we still had the car. On my birthday my father would give me the keys to my seven"year"old dream and I knew I would sell this old dream for my new one. I would give up my convertible for my flying car.
The flying car of Henrietta, Oklahoma, never got off the ground; well at least it never flew into production or off the assembly line. And when I turned sixteen, there was no flying car for me to buy.
That didn't discourage me though I enjoyed driving my little blue convertible, but even more I enjoyed dreaming of my flying car. I enjoyed dreaming of letting my earthbound tires fall away, and of escaping another day, flying over roads, over roads and fields, effortlessly, freely away from Oklahoma, away from people, away from anyplace at all.
Monday, February 15, 2010
Haiku
There is a haiku contest going on. It actually pays the winners. I'll try to come up with something. http://www.thehaikufoundation.org/contest/haiku-now-contest-2010/haikunow-traditional-haiku/
Well in truth I just wrote a haiku before I posted this and there was no way I was leaving it as the home page to my blog. Haiku can be pretty interesting and at least a challenge, but it has such a bad rap as a poetic form I just couldn't leave up.
Well in truth I just wrote a haiku before I posted this and there was no way I was leaving it as the home page to my blog. Haiku can be pretty interesting and at least a challenge, but it has such a bad rap as a poetic form I just couldn't leave up.
Sunday, February 14, 2010
Not sure how I feel about flashing.
So maybe I'm old, or maybe it's just new to me, but I've been thinking about flash fiction lately. For anyone who doesn't know ( I didn't until a few weeks ago) Flash fiction is an extremely short story: a thousand words or less. I can spew out a thousand words in my sleep. I once wrote a 100 word sentence, and the Earth moved, but that’s a different story.
An entire story in a thousand words or less: it’s a challenge to craft an entire story in so few words, and yet there are some really good ones out there. It’s not just about cutting out extra words, useful for any writer; it’s about making every word count. Every description has to be essential to the story; every name needs to convey a meaning.
It’s a lot like trying to be Hammett writing the Maltese Falcon using names like Spade, Cairo, and Gutman to convey added description the characters. Every one of those names tells you about who the character is. Spade is hardened and digging for the truth, Gutman is opulent used to satisfying his needs, and Cairo is exotic. Joel Smith just wouldn’t have the mystery about him and Joel Jones would never be involved with Wilmer.
A good analogy turned into a tangent. And this is why Flash fiction is so challenging to me. The trains of thought and tangents are what I enjoy about writing. I enjoy being lost in my own translations of my subconscious.
I also enjoy seeing my ideas in print, even if it’s just html. So I’m trying my hand at flashing. Right now everything seems to have a sudden twist at the end, and when I was a kid everything I wrote involved Luke Skywalker and Dr. Zaius, so I’m sure the twisted flashing will go away just like Luke did.
In the meantime every time I flash it’s a chance to look closely at the words, to find the double meanings, to keep digging until I reach a Gutman.
An entire story in a thousand words or less: it’s a challenge to craft an entire story in so few words, and yet there are some really good ones out there. It’s not just about cutting out extra words, useful for any writer; it’s about making every word count. Every description has to be essential to the story; every name needs to convey a meaning.
It’s a lot like trying to be Hammett writing the Maltese Falcon using names like Spade, Cairo, and Gutman to convey added description the characters. Every one of those names tells you about who the character is. Spade is hardened and digging for the truth, Gutman is opulent used to satisfying his needs, and Cairo is exotic. Joel Smith just wouldn’t have the mystery about him and Joel Jones would never be involved with Wilmer.
A good analogy turned into a tangent. And this is why Flash fiction is so challenging to me. The trains of thought and tangents are what I enjoy about writing. I enjoy being lost in my own translations of my subconscious.
I also enjoy seeing my ideas in print, even if it’s just html. So I’m trying my hand at flashing. Right now everything seems to have a sudden twist at the end, and when I was a kid everything I wrote involved Luke Skywalker and Dr. Zaius, so I’m sure the twisted flashing will go away just like Luke did.
In the meantime every time I flash it’s a chance to look closely at the words, to find the double meanings, to keep digging until I reach a Gutman.
Chapter 6 It's Been A While
He didn’t think anyone had followed their cab, hopefully the blast kept them out long enough for the trail to run cold. The cab stopped in front of Jewels’ building O’Neil stepped out first scanning the road to make sure everything was clear, while Jewels swiped her hand across the credit machine.
Ralph greeted them at the door, “Good evening Miss Devonshire,” seeing the dried blood on O’Neil he continued. “What happened to your friend? Looks like your friend could use some medical.” Her entire building was owned by Star Corp., who gave apartments to its employees as part of the benefits package, so O’Neil’s appearance should really draw much attention.
“I cut myself shaving.”
Ralph smiled, “who was holding the razor?”
O’Neil looked Ralph directly in the eyes, “haven’t they put you out to pasture yet?”
“Mr. O’Neil, it’s been a long time since we’ve seen you around here.” His large grin nearly swallowed his head. “It’s nice to see you two back together, I always thought you made a great couple.
“It’s good to see you too Ralph.” He extended his non-chipped hand. Jewels swiped her hand over the scanner, and tugged at Ren’s sleeve edging him towards the door.
“Come on Hon it’s been a long night we should head upstairs.” He followed the ruse and headed towards the door.
“Mr. O'Neil, you forgot to scan in.” Ralph moved to block the door.
“Oh yeah I guess I did, you see Jewels was hoping that… Well you know when I left the company it wasn’t very pretty.” He looked down sheepishly at the ground. “You see Miss Devonshire is up for a promotion and the company might not like it if she was hanging around the likes of me.”
“You two know what you’re asking?”
Jewels jumped in bore he could continue. “Yeah Ralph, but it’s only a felony if they catch you. Besides you know Ren’s not a terrorist.”
“Move to your left a little,” he gestured them together so that they'd block the atm camera across the street. He tugged quickly at a cord hanging from the door scanner.
“Looks like the scanners down again.” He winked a Jewels. “Mr. O’Neil I guess I’ll have to take your thumb print to follow security protocol.”
O’Neil placed his left thumb on the pad, wishing more people followed the spirit of the law rather than the letter.
Her apartment hadn’t changed much in the three years they had been apart. She was still immaculate, and she had a brown thumb, as her dead ferns would attest. “Have a seat,” she said nodding towards the couch.
He thought he could hear his bones ache as he sank into the mock leather couch. He glanced around the flat, “nothing ever changes does it.” He looked around for a moment longer. “You still don’t even have a T.V.”
Yelling from the back room she answered, “I don’t have the time. Star keeps me really busy and I spend the rest of the time reading tech manuals.” She reappeared in the living room. “I know you don’t believe in a lot of the gadgets but you’d be surprised how quickly these things change.” She sat an oblong device on the coffee table. “Let me see your hand Ren?”
He flopped his hand into hers automatically. “This may hurt, you’re the first breather I’ve tried this on.
“What,” he flinched back a little.
“If you still worked for star you’d know this but chip jacking is the latest in crime.” She forced his hand open inserting the probe into his flesh.
“The Feds have wanted to keep it pretty hushed, and of course we’ve obliged, but there have been a lot of chip jacks lately.” She rotated the probe into the next layer of skin. ”You don’t fit the normal victim though.” She made contact with something deep in his tissue.
“What rich?” He flinched hard as she tugged and something.
“No a genner.” She pressed a button and an ultra purple light lit up the probe. “They only go for genners, the word at the corp. is some Gov is looking for a bio weapon, and they need the IDS to find it,”
“I hadn’t left Jor-Tech more than an hour before they grabbed me.”
“That’s great!” she exclaimed.
“What?”
“Sorry, not Jor-Tech, your chip’s still there, they only stunned it.” She pressed a few buttons on the probe, “this is going to hurt like hell Ren.” Bright orange energy shot directly from the probe into his hand. His entire nervous system felt like a thousand ants bit him at once. The room spun black as he wondered if Jewels was trying to kill him.
When he came to he found himself in a familiar place, her bed. “What the…” He said groggily, “What happened?”
She handed him a glass and two pills. “I had to recharge your chip. Take a few minutes and these will make you feel better.” She sat down in the chair beside her bed.
“Ren, what happened to us? I mean we were more than just partners, seeing you again has made me think.”
He had been thinking from the moment he saw her at the inferno. Despite all the craziness he’d been through all he needed was to see her eyes sparkle like her name and nothing else seemed to matter. He reached his bandaged hand out to touch her knee. “Yeah I know what you mean. But maybe we should think about this after things settle down.” He retracted his hand. “CabCo, God knows how many bounties are out looking for me right now.” He shut his eyes; too many people were willing to settle for the kill bounty to take the time to see his chip worked.
“I fixed that Ren.” She ran her hand along his brow. “Like I told you chip jacking is the latest thing. I filed a report with star and transferred your data there, all charges have been dropped.” She reached into the nightstand. “In fact star is willing to pay if you will file a report about the chip jack, they only know of one other person who has survived.” She handed him a pad to file the report on.
“Who was the other one?” He asked as he began filing the report.
“I don’t know. I can call in and ask if you’d like.”
“Yeah, it might be interesting.” He tossed the pad down and grabbed her, pulling her towards him. “Now that I’m not a wanted man, maybe we can have that talk.”
She ran her hand over his body. “I think you want to do more than talk.”
“Always the detective Jewels.” He started to unfasten the buttons her shirt.
She pulled back momentarily. “It’s been a while Ren do you mind?” She handed him a vira-scan.
“Ladies first,” he said handing the device back to her. She gently inserted her finger into it and moments later a digitized woman’s voice said “clean.”
He could feel the slight sting of the needle as he inserted his finger. “Clean,” was all it took and then it was like they had never parted in the first place.
The orange haze of daylight crept in threw her window.” Blinds,” she moaned. The automated blinds closed locking the daylight out of their cocoon. Darien notice the flashing led across the room first.
“Jewels, you got a silent alarm?”
She buried her face into his chest. “Yeah, every unit in this building does.” She rolled onto her pillow snuggling into her comforter.
“Then we got company.” He said slipping out of bed and into the clothes she had folded over the bedroom chair. Jewels got up as quickly grabbing a Taser from her nightstand. She pressed a button on the alarm unit and a hologram here her living room projected from the center of it.
“Fancy.” Darien whispered.
“Shhh.” Her living room had been clearly ransacked. “Well someone has been here.”
Darien pointed to the room door as it pulled slight open. Before the person on the other side could see they were awake Darien yanked them through the door knocking them in the back of the skull. Ralph fell to the floor stunned.
“Shit,” thought Darien. They cleared the rest of the apartment while moving Ralph to the couch. The place was all clear, and from what they could tell nothing was missing. Jewels filled to reports over the vidphone, O’Neil’s and about the break in. Twenty minutes after that Ralph came too.
“Did you hit me Jewels?” Ralph asked
“No.” She said.
“Then you hit like a girl, O’Neil.” He smiled.
“Knocked you out.”
“Yeah, and I’m an old man.”
“I know this may look like a locker room, but it’s still my apartment and I’d appreciate if you turned the testosterone down.” She sparked her Taser to punctuate her point.
“What happened Ralph?” O’Neil asked.
“I should have seen it coming. Someone was beserking in front of the building and I went out to zap em. While I was out there they turned off the roof censor.”
Jewels handed him some water. “They came in through the roof, whose place they get.”
“No ones, just yours. They were in and out before I even noticed the censor was down.” He sipped his water. “I figured when I saw the place you two was dead.” He looked at them closely. “Glad to see you sleep like the dead.”
Ralph left after gather his wits, and they started talking about the Jordan case. “It was an easy close, Ren. He was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Simple pod-jacking, that’s it.”
“What about the body how was the DNA scan.”
She shook her head, “I don’t remember the exact figures but it was enough to get the conviction.”
“You mean the perp's DNA?”
“No Jordan’s, the body was burned pretty badly. You know there was one thing, the burns were chemical, the lab thought. A new kind of dissolving agent they thought.” She sat down next to him, “none of the evidenced really mattered one of the jackers confessed, for immunity.”
“So you didn’t need much of a DNA match, because they told you who he was.”
“Yeah something like that.” She put her head on his shoulder, “I can think of better things for us to do today than talk shop.” So could he.
When he got up to leave she was a sleep on the couch, he laid a blanket cross her and reached for his coat where he had hung it the night before. It wasn’t there. “Must have been moved in the fray.” He thought looking around the room. “Oh well I have a chip so I won’t need to barter, I’ll get it later.” He shut the door quietly as he made his exit.
Ralph greeted them at the door, “Good evening Miss Devonshire,” seeing the dried blood on O’Neil he continued. “What happened to your friend? Looks like your friend could use some medical.” Her entire building was owned by Star Corp., who gave apartments to its employees as part of the benefits package, so O’Neil’s appearance should really draw much attention.
“I cut myself shaving.”
Ralph smiled, “who was holding the razor?”
O’Neil looked Ralph directly in the eyes, “haven’t they put you out to pasture yet?”
“Mr. O’Neil, it’s been a long time since we’ve seen you around here.” His large grin nearly swallowed his head. “It’s nice to see you two back together, I always thought you made a great couple.
“It’s good to see you too Ralph.” He extended his non-chipped hand. Jewels swiped her hand over the scanner, and tugged at Ren’s sleeve edging him towards the door.
“Come on Hon it’s been a long night we should head upstairs.” He followed the ruse and headed towards the door.
“Mr. O'Neil, you forgot to scan in.” Ralph moved to block the door.
“Oh yeah I guess I did, you see Jewels was hoping that… Well you know when I left the company it wasn’t very pretty.” He looked down sheepishly at the ground. “You see Miss Devonshire is up for a promotion and the company might not like it if she was hanging around the likes of me.”
“You two know what you’re asking?”
Jewels jumped in bore he could continue. “Yeah Ralph, but it’s only a felony if they catch you. Besides you know Ren’s not a terrorist.”
“Move to your left a little,” he gestured them together so that they'd block the atm camera across the street. He tugged quickly at a cord hanging from the door scanner.
“Looks like the scanners down again.” He winked a Jewels. “Mr. O’Neil I guess I’ll have to take your thumb print to follow security protocol.”
O’Neil placed his left thumb on the pad, wishing more people followed the spirit of the law rather than the letter.
Her apartment hadn’t changed much in the three years they had been apart. She was still immaculate, and she had a brown thumb, as her dead ferns would attest. “Have a seat,” she said nodding towards the couch.
He thought he could hear his bones ache as he sank into the mock leather couch. He glanced around the flat, “nothing ever changes does it.” He looked around for a moment longer. “You still don’t even have a T.V.”
Yelling from the back room she answered, “I don’t have the time. Star keeps me really busy and I spend the rest of the time reading tech manuals.” She reappeared in the living room. “I know you don’t believe in a lot of the gadgets but you’d be surprised how quickly these things change.” She sat an oblong device on the coffee table. “Let me see your hand Ren?”
He flopped his hand into hers automatically. “This may hurt, you’re the first breather I’ve tried this on.
“What,” he flinched back a little.
“If you still worked for star you’d know this but chip jacking is the latest in crime.” She forced his hand open inserting the probe into his flesh.
“The Feds have wanted to keep it pretty hushed, and of course we’ve obliged, but there have been a lot of chip jacks lately.” She rotated the probe into the next layer of skin. ”You don’t fit the normal victim though.” She made contact with something deep in his tissue.
“What rich?” He flinched hard as she tugged and something.
“No a genner.” She pressed a button and an ultra purple light lit up the probe. “They only go for genners, the word at the corp. is some Gov is looking for a bio weapon, and they need the IDS to find it,”
“I hadn’t left Jor-Tech more than an hour before they grabbed me.”
“That’s great!” she exclaimed.
“What?”
“Sorry, not Jor-Tech, your chip’s still there, they only stunned it.” She pressed a few buttons on the probe, “this is going to hurt like hell Ren.” Bright orange energy shot directly from the probe into his hand. His entire nervous system felt like a thousand ants bit him at once. The room spun black as he wondered if Jewels was trying to kill him.
When he came to he found himself in a familiar place, her bed. “What the…” He said groggily, “What happened?”
She handed him a glass and two pills. “I had to recharge your chip. Take a few minutes and these will make you feel better.” She sat down in the chair beside her bed.
“Ren, what happened to us? I mean we were more than just partners, seeing you again has made me think.”
He had been thinking from the moment he saw her at the inferno. Despite all the craziness he’d been through all he needed was to see her eyes sparkle like her name and nothing else seemed to matter. He reached his bandaged hand out to touch her knee. “Yeah I know what you mean. But maybe we should think about this after things settle down.” He retracted his hand. “CabCo, God knows how many bounties are out looking for me right now.” He shut his eyes; too many people were willing to settle for the kill bounty to take the time to see his chip worked.
“I fixed that Ren.” She ran her hand along his brow. “Like I told you chip jacking is the latest thing. I filed a report with star and transferred your data there, all charges have been dropped.” She reached into the nightstand. “In fact star is willing to pay if you will file a report about the chip jack, they only know of one other person who has survived.” She handed him a pad to file the report on.
“Who was the other one?” He asked as he began filing the report.
“I don’t know. I can call in and ask if you’d like.”
“Yeah, it might be interesting.” He tossed the pad down and grabbed her, pulling her towards him. “Now that I’m not a wanted man, maybe we can have that talk.”
She ran her hand over his body. “I think you want to do more than talk.”
“Always the detective Jewels.” He started to unfasten the buttons her shirt.
She pulled back momentarily. “It’s been a while Ren do you mind?” She handed him a vira-scan.
“Ladies first,” he said handing the device back to her. She gently inserted her finger into it and moments later a digitized woman’s voice said “clean.”
He could feel the slight sting of the needle as he inserted his finger. “Clean,” was all it took and then it was like they had never parted in the first place.
The orange haze of daylight crept in threw her window.” Blinds,” she moaned. The automated blinds closed locking the daylight out of their cocoon. Darien notice the flashing led across the room first.
“Jewels, you got a silent alarm?”
She buried her face into his chest. “Yeah, every unit in this building does.” She rolled onto her pillow snuggling into her comforter.
“Then we got company.” He said slipping out of bed and into the clothes she had folded over the bedroom chair. Jewels got up as quickly grabbing a Taser from her nightstand. She pressed a button on the alarm unit and a hologram here her living room projected from the center of it.
“Fancy.” Darien whispered.
“Shhh.” Her living room had been clearly ransacked. “Well someone has been here.”
Darien pointed to the room door as it pulled slight open. Before the person on the other side could see they were awake Darien yanked them through the door knocking them in the back of the skull. Ralph fell to the floor stunned.
“Shit,” thought Darien. They cleared the rest of the apartment while moving Ralph to the couch. The place was all clear, and from what they could tell nothing was missing. Jewels filled to reports over the vidphone, O’Neil’s and about the break in. Twenty minutes after that Ralph came too.
“Did you hit me Jewels?” Ralph asked
“No.” She said.
“Then you hit like a girl, O’Neil.” He smiled.
“Knocked you out.”
“Yeah, and I’m an old man.”
“I know this may look like a locker room, but it’s still my apartment and I’d appreciate if you turned the testosterone down.” She sparked her Taser to punctuate her point.
“What happened Ralph?” O’Neil asked.
“I should have seen it coming. Someone was beserking in front of the building and I went out to zap em. While I was out there they turned off the roof censor.”
Jewels handed him some water. “They came in through the roof, whose place they get.”
“No ones, just yours. They were in and out before I even noticed the censor was down.” He sipped his water. “I figured when I saw the place you two was dead.” He looked at them closely. “Glad to see you sleep like the dead.”
Ralph left after gather his wits, and they started talking about the Jordan case. “It was an easy close, Ren. He was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Simple pod-jacking, that’s it.”
“What about the body how was the DNA scan.”
She shook her head, “I don’t remember the exact figures but it was enough to get the conviction.”
“You mean the perp's DNA?”
“No Jordan’s, the body was burned pretty badly. You know there was one thing, the burns were chemical, the lab thought. A new kind of dissolving agent they thought.” She sat down next to him, “none of the evidenced really mattered one of the jackers confessed, for immunity.”
“So you didn’t need much of a DNA match, because they told you who he was.”
“Yeah something like that.” She put her head on his shoulder, “I can think of better things for us to do today than talk shop.” So could he.
When he got up to leave she was a sleep on the couch, he laid a blanket cross her and reached for his coat where he had hung it the night before. It wasn’t there. “Must have been moved in the fray.” He thought looking around the room. “Oh well I have a chip so I won’t need to barter, I’ll get it later.” He shut the door quietly as he made his exit.
Sunday, February 7, 2010
Chapter 5 I didn’t think you corporate types cared
The Pod-jackers had really worked him over, he was lucky to have gotten out of it with his hands intact and he knew it. Still that didn’t make his ribs hurt any less or things to add up. Their usual mo. was to attack someone with money or an identity that was worth something not a barely employed detective who couldn't afford his gas bill. The auto-cab pulled to an abrupt stop at its destination. “That’ll be forty-five fifty,” the computer said.
He swiped his hand across the credit reader as he reached for the door.
“Please wave your hand across the automatic reader.” The doors locked tight to keep its presumed fare jumper from leaving. Darien swiped his hand across the reader again and reached for the door. This time he was greeted with a mild zap to his nervous system.
“What the fuck?’ He said jumping back away from the door.
“Please pay the credit reader before exiting the vehicle.” O’Neil ran his hand across the scanner very slowly this time.
“Every attempt to illegally exit the vehicle will cause the theft deterrent to increase its voltage.” He had heard the same stories as everyone else about the guy who’s ex-wife had cleared his accounts who tried to leave an auto-cab so many time that it fried him, and he wasn’t about to make that mistake. He gently touched the door handle with the rubberized end of the jacker’s knife. Blue sparks licked his hand as they shot across the handle of the knife; He swiped over the scanner again.
“Failure to poses proper identification may result in immediate deportation for non-citizens and a thirty year prison term in the Alaska penal colony for citizens.”
“What I have ID you fucking machine.” He frantically swiped his hand across the scanner when he noticed something he hadn’t seen before, a faint trail of blood being smeared across the scanner. “They took my id chip, holy fuck they took my chip.” Everyone was implanted with an id chip promptly at birth, not possessing it meant to the arbitrators that you weren’t a citizen at all but more likely terrorist, and the penalty for that was a quick execution.”
“Please wait calmly as the star corporation has been notified of your crime and a warrant is being issued.” Darien started kicking at the window of the cab in vain.
“Please remain calm as destruction of CabCo property will only result in an increased criminal prosecution.”
“They can’t kill me twice you dumb fuck.” Darien reached into the liner pocket of his coat and pulled out a Taser.
“This has got to work.” Darien rammed the blade of the jacker’s knife into the firing screen of his Taser and twisted it until it was firmly lodged. Then holding onto the rubberized end he slid it underneath the door handle. The blue sparks seared his hand as he worked the knife so that the metal of the blade touched the metal of the door. The sparks shot up his wrist causing his watch to smoke; he let go relived as the blade finally was wedged where he wanted it. Now all he had to do was turn on the Taser. He flipped the Taser to full power with his pen and curled himself up into a ball on the other side of the cab not sure how big the explosion would be, if it even worked.
The cab continued to increase its shock to the would be escapee as the Taser began to audibly hum as it over loaded. ‘That’s it,” Darien thought as the cab powered down having been complete shorted out by the Taser. The door locks popped open and he limped from the cab grabbing the knife and Taser, no evidence was always the best evidence.
“Shit I can’t believe this is happening,” he muttered like a vagrant with a signboard proclaiming the end is near. It might have been near for him as well if he hadn’t known exactly where to go. The star corp. would be arriving in just a few minutes depending on whether CabCo had paid for a regular warrant, for a fare jumper, or expedited it for a terrorist. If it was the later the aero-cars would be swooping down on him like vultures any minute ready to split their large bounty with CabCo.
He stumbled down the desolate alley hoping that no one had seen the cab self-destruct; all he needed was a hungry cit to be looking for a CabCo award to just make his night perfect. He could see to men at the end of the alley. An average cit might be wary of the shadowed figured mulling in a dark alley, but they were exactly who Darien was looking for.
“Bishop” He called out wanting to warn them he was approaching.
A large figure who cast a shadow more befitting a water buffalo than a man stepped slightly foreword.” You picked the wrong alley cit.” He bellowed as he let the end of a heavy chain uncurl from his hand.
“I know I did but here is where I needed…” He paused wondering if somehow the news of the bounty had beaten him to the door.
“Needed what?” his shadow grew more ominous under the flickering neon signs as he stepped in front of his hooded companion.
“Some company and maybe a drink.” He knew the booze was watered down, and well you enjoyed the women at your own risk but he hoped the profit motive would get him through the door the way he needed it to.
The shadow seemed to relax a little bit as his voice still remained tense. “You may have come to the right place if you know where the scanner is, if not I guess it don’t matter.” O’Neil could feel several men sneaking up behind him.
“You see I have a problem with the scanner.” He was trying to not give a way his missing chip, when a bright light flashed in his face.
Bishop bellowed. “Back off boys I know this one he wants to barter.” He continued, “Business been bad O’Neil?”
“Yeah it’s been terrible, if I hear another damn scanner reject my print I may have to shoot someone.”
“So what ya got this time?”
“A quarter of tobacco, European stuff.” He knew that’d be enough to get him through the door, and leave him plenty to get by with until he got a chip.
Bishop moved close enough to take the bag from O’Neil’s hand and pushed the hooded figure towards the well-hidden scanner. O’Neil could just make out the ashen complexion of the pod that was opening the door for him. It put its hand over the scanner and an antiquated voice replied, “Thank you Mr. Bushnell, your ID was confirmed.” O’Neil shuddered because every time you heard and ID confirmed with a Pod it meant you were hearing the name of the recently murdered.
The industrial door on the left of the alley rolled open about three feet. He could see the faint red orange flicker from the Inferno sign hanging on the back wall. “God I hope she came.” He thought. They hadn’t left the last time on the best terms, in fact if he remembered correctly he swore he’d never never speak to her again except for business. This had all started as business now more than anything he needed a friend. He had wandered into the center of the Inferno, not noticing much around him.
“The cops at the back bar,” said a voice from the floor. He looked down to see a group huddled around a water pipe half stone and half mad. “The other cop’s at the back bar.” This time he could make out the shell of a girl who was talking to him. She inhaled deeply on the stem of the pipe, as she passed it to the next one.
“What makes you think I’m a cop?” Darien asked, as he looked towards the back bar.
“You all smell the same,” Said one of her companions as he tried to stand up. O’Neil pushed him down hard,
“I’ve been through a lot of shit tonight kid and I don’t want to add killing a junkie to the list.” The girl giggled as the drugs took their effect.
“Maybe when you’re done with the cop you’ll come party with us?” She ran her hand across her neck enjoying the sense of touch.
“Yeah, maybe,” Darien said as he pushed his way towards the back bar. He stepped over a few more clusters of people until he finally reached the back bar. Seated with her back to the wall was a stunning red head. Jewels had come after all.
“You look worse than some of the kids in here Ren.” She gestured for him to take a seat.
“Thanks, Jewels it’s been a night.’ He slumped into the chair, “Funny,” he thought “you don’t realize how much it hurts until you stop moving.”
She waved at the bar tender. ”Two more.” He quickly returned with two plastic bottles of gin, scanned both of them and sat them on the table along with two cigars. “Please scan here.” He pushed a credit pad towards Jewels who waved her hand across it.
‘Paying by scan aren’t you afraid, star won’t like the digs?” Darien said as he opened a bottle.
“Hey they don’t care where I go when I’m on a case, and drinking isn’t illegal yet.” She lit her cigar, “besides, the cigars came with the gin and it’s getting harder to find barter.” She exhaled blue smoke into the air enjoying her contraband.
“I know a guy who has a line on Euro tobacco, if you need some barter.” The gin burned as it rolled over the cuts in his mouth.
“Ren, I haven’t seen you in three years, and you call asking me about a case.” She sipped her gin. “So I came like you asked, and from the looks of things your case has you now. Why the hell are we talking about barter?” She had always been straight to the point that was one of her good qualities.
“You’re right Jewels; I guess I just needed to catch my breath. I wanted to know about the Jordan case.” She looked puzzled.
“You still following cold warrants Ren?” She asked.
“No this time I got a client who wants more than quick justice.” He fiddled with the cigar debating if he should smoke it or save it for barter.
“It wasn’t like that Ren and you know it.” He decided to save it for barter.
“Look Jewels, you know and I know some else paid the kid to do it. All I wanted was to find who set the hit up.” He took a slug from his gin.
“Our warrant only covered the killer, and there’s one less because of us.” She passed her cigar to him sharing the smoke.
“Thanks,” he inhaled deeply,” I don’t want to fight, when I called I wanted to know everything about the Jordan case.” He paused slipping her back the cigar. “Now Jewels I just need a friend. He flipped his palm up showing her the wound where he thought his ID chip used to be.
Looking down with amazement she gasped, “holy shit Ren what have you done.”
“I didn’t know you corporate types cared.” He feigned a bloody smile at her.
“We have to get you someplace safe before anyone notices.” She stubbed out her cigar “do you have any idea what kinda of fed bounty they’ll issue for you if someone realizes.’
“Yeah CabCo may have already turned me in.”
“Then we have to go now. I don’t even think Bishop could keep the bounties out.” She downed the last of her gin. O’Neil was already standing when he saw the E in the Inferno sign blink twice that meant Bishop couldn’t keep them out.
“Quick, Jewels I know the back door.” He pushed her past the employee’s only door into what had been a kitchen, but now was a place for the hard drugs. She reached into her coat pulling out a small projectile. “How long will Bishop buy?”
“I don’t know Jewels maybe a few minutes from the blink.” He kept trying to pull her towards the back door. She clicked a few buttons on the projectile.
“Alright in five, this place is going to see a flash like a nova; I hope this door is close.” The door opened to a drain tunnel, which if O’Neil remembered correctly would take them right under a cab port. They ran until they could see the brilliant flash behind them.
“Every computer is fried.” Jewels said with a weary smile.
“More importantly, when everyone wakes up they’ll be lucky if they know what hit them.” He said while jimmying the lock on the gate at the end of the tunnel.
He swiped his hand across the credit reader as he reached for the door.
“Please wave your hand across the automatic reader.” The doors locked tight to keep its presumed fare jumper from leaving. Darien swiped his hand across the reader again and reached for the door. This time he was greeted with a mild zap to his nervous system.
“What the fuck?’ He said jumping back away from the door.
“Please pay the credit reader before exiting the vehicle.” O’Neil ran his hand across the scanner very slowly this time.
“Every attempt to illegally exit the vehicle will cause the theft deterrent to increase its voltage.” He had heard the same stories as everyone else about the guy who’s ex-wife had cleared his accounts who tried to leave an auto-cab so many time that it fried him, and he wasn’t about to make that mistake. He gently touched the door handle with the rubberized end of the jacker’s knife. Blue sparks licked his hand as they shot across the handle of the knife; He swiped over the scanner again.
“Failure to poses proper identification may result in immediate deportation for non-citizens and a thirty year prison term in the Alaska penal colony for citizens.”
“What I have ID you fucking machine.” He frantically swiped his hand across the scanner when he noticed something he hadn’t seen before, a faint trail of blood being smeared across the scanner. “They took my id chip, holy fuck they took my chip.” Everyone was implanted with an id chip promptly at birth, not possessing it meant to the arbitrators that you weren’t a citizen at all but more likely terrorist, and the penalty for that was a quick execution.”
“Please wait calmly as the star corporation has been notified of your crime and a warrant is being issued.” Darien started kicking at the window of the cab in vain.
“Please remain calm as destruction of CabCo property will only result in an increased criminal prosecution.”
“They can’t kill me twice you dumb fuck.” Darien reached into the liner pocket of his coat and pulled out a Taser.
“This has got to work.” Darien rammed the blade of the jacker’s knife into the firing screen of his Taser and twisted it until it was firmly lodged. Then holding onto the rubberized end he slid it underneath the door handle. The blue sparks seared his hand as he worked the knife so that the metal of the blade touched the metal of the door. The sparks shot up his wrist causing his watch to smoke; he let go relived as the blade finally was wedged where he wanted it. Now all he had to do was turn on the Taser. He flipped the Taser to full power with his pen and curled himself up into a ball on the other side of the cab not sure how big the explosion would be, if it even worked.
The cab continued to increase its shock to the would be escapee as the Taser began to audibly hum as it over loaded. ‘That’s it,” Darien thought as the cab powered down having been complete shorted out by the Taser. The door locks popped open and he limped from the cab grabbing the knife and Taser, no evidence was always the best evidence.
“Shit I can’t believe this is happening,” he muttered like a vagrant with a signboard proclaiming the end is near. It might have been near for him as well if he hadn’t known exactly where to go. The star corp. would be arriving in just a few minutes depending on whether CabCo had paid for a regular warrant, for a fare jumper, or expedited it for a terrorist. If it was the later the aero-cars would be swooping down on him like vultures any minute ready to split their large bounty with CabCo.
He stumbled down the desolate alley hoping that no one had seen the cab self-destruct; all he needed was a hungry cit to be looking for a CabCo award to just make his night perfect. He could see to men at the end of the alley. An average cit might be wary of the shadowed figured mulling in a dark alley, but they were exactly who Darien was looking for.
“Bishop” He called out wanting to warn them he was approaching.
A large figure who cast a shadow more befitting a water buffalo than a man stepped slightly foreword.” You picked the wrong alley cit.” He bellowed as he let the end of a heavy chain uncurl from his hand.
“I know I did but here is where I needed…” He paused wondering if somehow the news of the bounty had beaten him to the door.
“Needed what?” his shadow grew more ominous under the flickering neon signs as he stepped in front of his hooded companion.
“Some company and maybe a drink.” He knew the booze was watered down, and well you enjoyed the women at your own risk but he hoped the profit motive would get him through the door the way he needed it to.
The shadow seemed to relax a little bit as his voice still remained tense. “You may have come to the right place if you know where the scanner is, if not I guess it don’t matter.” O’Neil could feel several men sneaking up behind him.
“You see I have a problem with the scanner.” He was trying to not give a way his missing chip, when a bright light flashed in his face.
Bishop bellowed. “Back off boys I know this one he wants to barter.” He continued, “Business been bad O’Neil?”
“Yeah it’s been terrible, if I hear another damn scanner reject my print I may have to shoot someone.”
“So what ya got this time?”
“A quarter of tobacco, European stuff.” He knew that’d be enough to get him through the door, and leave him plenty to get by with until he got a chip.
Bishop moved close enough to take the bag from O’Neil’s hand and pushed the hooded figure towards the well-hidden scanner. O’Neil could just make out the ashen complexion of the pod that was opening the door for him. It put its hand over the scanner and an antiquated voice replied, “Thank you Mr. Bushnell, your ID was confirmed.” O’Neil shuddered because every time you heard and ID confirmed with a Pod it meant you were hearing the name of the recently murdered.
The industrial door on the left of the alley rolled open about three feet. He could see the faint red orange flicker from the Inferno sign hanging on the back wall. “God I hope she came.” He thought. They hadn’t left the last time on the best terms, in fact if he remembered correctly he swore he’d never never speak to her again except for business. This had all started as business now more than anything he needed a friend. He had wandered into the center of the Inferno, not noticing much around him.
“The cops at the back bar,” said a voice from the floor. He looked down to see a group huddled around a water pipe half stone and half mad. “The other cop’s at the back bar.” This time he could make out the shell of a girl who was talking to him. She inhaled deeply on the stem of the pipe, as she passed it to the next one.
“What makes you think I’m a cop?” Darien asked, as he looked towards the back bar.
“You all smell the same,” Said one of her companions as he tried to stand up. O’Neil pushed him down hard,
“I’ve been through a lot of shit tonight kid and I don’t want to add killing a junkie to the list.” The girl giggled as the drugs took their effect.
“Maybe when you’re done with the cop you’ll come party with us?” She ran her hand across her neck enjoying the sense of touch.
“Yeah, maybe,” Darien said as he pushed his way towards the back bar. He stepped over a few more clusters of people until he finally reached the back bar. Seated with her back to the wall was a stunning red head. Jewels had come after all.
“You look worse than some of the kids in here Ren.” She gestured for him to take a seat.
“Thanks, Jewels it’s been a night.’ He slumped into the chair, “Funny,” he thought “you don’t realize how much it hurts until you stop moving.”
She waved at the bar tender. ”Two more.” He quickly returned with two plastic bottles of gin, scanned both of them and sat them on the table along with two cigars. “Please scan here.” He pushed a credit pad towards Jewels who waved her hand across it.
‘Paying by scan aren’t you afraid, star won’t like the digs?” Darien said as he opened a bottle.
“Hey they don’t care where I go when I’m on a case, and drinking isn’t illegal yet.” She lit her cigar, “besides, the cigars came with the gin and it’s getting harder to find barter.” She exhaled blue smoke into the air enjoying her contraband.
“I know a guy who has a line on Euro tobacco, if you need some barter.” The gin burned as it rolled over the cuts in his mouth.
“Ren, I haven’t seen you in three years, and you call asking me about a case.” She sipped her gin. “So I came like you asked, and from the looks of things your case has you now. Why the hell are we talking about barter?” She had always been straight to the point that was one of her good qualities.
“You’re right Jewels; I guess I just needed to catch my breath. I wanted to know about the Jordan case.” She looked puzzled.
“You still following cold warrants Ren?” She asked.
“No this time I got a client who wants more than quick justice.” He fiddled with the cigar debating if he should smoke it or save it for barter.
“It wasn’t like that Ren and you know it.” He decided to save it for barter.
“Look Jewels, you know and I know some else paid the kid to do it. All I wanted was to find who set the hit up.” He took a slug from his gin.
“Our warrant only covered the killer, and there’s one less because of us.” She passed her cigar to him sharing the smoke.
“Thanks,” he inhaled deeply,” I don’t want to fight, when I called I wanted to know everything about the Jordan case.” He paused slipping her back the cigar. “Now Jewels I just need a friend. He flipped his palm up showing her the wound where he thought his ID chip used to be.
Looking down with amazement she gasped, “holy shit Ren what have you done.”
“I didn’t know you corporate types cared.” He feigned a bloody smile at her.
“We have to get you someplace safe before anyone notices.” She stubbed out her cigar “do you have any idea what kinda of fed bounty they’ll issue for you if someone realizes.’
“Yeah CabCo may have already turned me in.”
“Then we have to go now. I don’t even think Bishop could keep the bounties out.” She downed the last of her gin. O’Neil was already standing when he saw the E in the Inferno sign blink twice that meant Bishop couldn’t keep them out.
“Quick, Jewels I know the back door.” He pushed her past the employee’s only door into what had been a kitchen, but now was a place for the hard drugs. She reached into her coat pulling out a small projectile. “How long will Bishop buy?”
“I don’t know Jewels maybe a few minutes from the blink.” He kept trying to pull her towards the back door. She clicked a few buttons on the projectile.
“Alright in five, this place is going to see a flash like a nova; I hope this door is close.” The door opened to a drain tunnel, which if O’Neil remembered correctly would take them right under a cab port. They ran until they could see the brilliant flash behind them.
“Every computer is fried.” Jewels said with a weary smile.
“More importantly, when everyone wakes up they’ll be lucky if they know what hit them.” He said while jimmying the lock on the gate at the end of the tunnel.
Saturday, February 6, 2010
A Letter to My Sons
[caption id="" align="alignright" width="300" caption="Image via Wikipedia"]
[/caption]I would like to promise my sons that they will grow up with a sense of their future and of flying cars and of Logan’s Run, would like to promise them Dr. Zaius won’t destroy the truth with dynamite and guns, would like to give them hope for technology, but this is 2010 and our world is still the same.
When I was young, I knew someday we would have robots and flying cars and great domed cities throughout the solar system. I knew that we’d inherit the stars and our destiny. I knew that technology would save us, that those few who were driven to create, the scientists, the artists, the poets, the philosophers, would give us the world the dreamers had promised.
When I was a teenager I knew my childhood beliefs were wrong. Our hope couldn’t lie in the hands of the few: the scientists, the artists, the poets, the philosophers, they couldn’t give us what the dreamers had promised. Our hope and our truth and our future had to be controlled by the ones who didn’t think they had any control.
When I was in my twenties; having gotten to know the masses, having lived with them, and worked with them, and made love with them and cried with them, I knew that they couldn’t be our hope and our truth and our future, there was room for the dreamers and the robots and the flying cars and the domed cities, there had to be more than paying bills and getting high and running through the maze of the race simply to get by.
Now I’m in my thirties I don’t know what I know anymore. I don’t know if there is hope for humanity, but I’m not certain there isn’t. There are no robots and no flying cars and no domed cities throughout the solar system, and I’m not sure there should be. I’m not sure we shouldn’t simply stay home and tend our gardens and leave everyone else alone.
I would like to promise my sons that they will grow up with a sense of their future and of flying cars and of Logan’s Run, would like to promise them Dr. Zaius won’t destroy the truth with dynamite and guns, would like to give them hope for technology, but these are not mine to give. They, like me, will have to find their own paths: their own way. All I can give them is the time.
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Friday, February 5, 2010
THE NURSEMAID
“Cable monkey! Get out!” He shouted across the crowded bar.
Rick knew the voice all too well. It was Jude Riot, raodie extreme, and his boss. He turned and nodded faking a surprised look hoping to pretend not to hear him. After all she was hot, really hot.
Jude was practically on top of him. "Cable monkey, I said get out!” He said as he pushed his way towards Rick.
“Look, Mr. Riot, I had no idea this was your place.” He said pulling back a little. “As soon as she gets here we’ll leave.”
“Who?”
“The Goth chick in the front row, wanted to meet me here.” He said smiling, god was she hot.
“We have more of a problem than I thought kid. I’m here for her too.”
“What, isn’t she a little young for you?”
“You’d be surprised kid. She’s a lot older then you think.”
He thought she was maybe twenty, and god she was hot. “You’re what, at least forty – old enough to be her father.”
“I lost count at a thousand. So yeah I’m at least forty.” He smiled a toothy grin. Rick laughed although it didn’t feel like Jude was joking. Jude set a wad of cash on the bar he was now facing. “I’ll have scotch straight, and get the kid what he wants.”
“I’ll have another beer.” Rick hand only been a roadie for a few months and was still trying to get feel for it, but this really confused him. “I thought you wanted me out?”
“I’m not your nursemaid. You don’t want to go, you don’t go.” He slugged his scotch down, and grabbed the bottle before the bar tender could take it and poured another one. “Leave it.”
Risk started talking to fill up the dead space. “Is it true what they say about you?”
Jude slugged another Scotch. “I’m not your nursemaid, but that doesn’t make us friends. Drink your beer, but don’t talk.” He pulled a cigar a mirrored case and proceeded to chew on it. “You know kid over a hundred thousand people go missing in the United States a year. Most of them followed Goth girls to dive bars.”
‘Funny.”
“No, I’m being serious. Why do you think she wanted to meet you here instead of go to the party with the band?”
“So we could get to know each other a little first.” He said sipping his rolling rock.
“Are you daft or just a Romantic? No groupie wants to get to know you. You are just the, second string, a stepping stone to get at the band. But groupies always want to go to the parties.”
Insulted he said. “So then she’s not a groupie. She didn’t want to go to the party.” He set his beer down hard causing a carbonated eruption. He knew he hadn’t been out of college that long, but he knew women. What the hell could this fossil know?
“So she’s really into you. A glance at the concert and a conversation in between numbers and that’s all you need to know.” He lit his cigar. “You cable monkey are a lamb to the slaughter. Girls like her will eat you for lunch and serve your heart up on a silver platter.”
“I know more than you think.” He said slamming his beer down on the counter, breaking the bottle this time; cutting his hand. The bar tender quickly handed him a towel to clean the blood.
“Look kid, I didn’t mean to upset you. Go back to the bus and have the doc check your hand.
“You know what Jude, Fuck you.” He said wrapping the towel tightly around his hand. “I’m going to stand by the door, so I can leave when she gets here.”
“Your call kid. Take a good look at yourself in the mirror first, and decide if your man enough.”
She walked in the door of the club. Red hair flowing past her breasts and blue eyes to pierce the soul, she was magnificent. The behemoth of a bouncer silently slid the bolt locking the door behind her.
“Kid,” he said throwing his cigar case to him, “take an honest look in the mirror.”
Rick fumbled with it as he caught it; “all the drugs must a fried Jude’s brains ,”he thought. God she was hot. She ran her hand under his shirt and started kissing his neck.
“I’m glad you came.” She whispered.
“So am I,” he said glancing down at the cigar case in his hand. He saw himself in ecstasy, but no one else. “What.” He thought as she tore into his neck. He felt the life drained from him as quickly as the blood, and everything went black.
“Ahhh,” he screamed. “What the fuck.” He flailed about wildly trying to stop the pain.
“Relax kid.” Jude said as he worked a sliver dagger into Rick’s neck. A swollen river of blood ran off of Jude’s face.
“Kid, I may have just saved your life. Now do exactly what I tell you and I won’t have to kill you myself.”
The room started to go black again and as it did Rick could clearly see the headless body of the Goth chic. God she was hot he thought as he blacked out.
Rick knew the voice all too well. It was Jude Riot, raodie extreme, and his boss. He turned and nodded faking a surprised look hoping to pretend not to hear him. After all she was hot, really hot.
Jude was practically on top of him. "Cable monkey, I said get out!” He said as he pushed his way towards Rick.
“Look, Mr. Riot, I had no idea this was your place.” He said pulling back a little. “As soon as she gets here we’ll leave.”
“Who?”
“The Goth chick in the front row, wanted to meet me here.” He said smiling, god was she hot.
“We have more of a problem than I thought kid. I’m here for her too.”
“What, isn’t she a little young for you?”
“You’d be surprised kid. She’s a lot older then you think.”
He thought she was maybe twenty, and god she was hot. “You’re what, at least forty – old enough to be her father.”
“I lost count at a thousand. So yeah I’m at least forty.” He smiled a toothy grin. Rick laughed although it didn’t feel like Jude was joking. Jude set a wad of cash on the bar he was now facing. “I’ll have scotch straight, and get the kid what he wants.”
“I’ll have another beer.” Rick hand only been a roadie for a few months and was still trying to get feel for it, but this really confused him. “I thought you wanted me out?”
“I’m not your nursemaid. You don’t want to go, you don’t go.” He slugged his scotch down, and grabbed the bottle before the bar tender could take it and poured another one. “Leave it.”
Risk started talking to fill up the dead space. “Is it true what they say about you?”
Jude slugged another Scotch. “I’m not your nursemaid, but that doesn’t make us friends. Drink your beer, but don’t talk.” He pulled a cigar a mirrored case and proceeded to chew on it. “You know kid over a hundred thousand people go missing in the United States a year. Most of them followed Goth girls to dive bars.”
‘Funny.”
“No, I’m being serious. Why do you think she wanted to meet you here instead of go to the party with the band?”
“So we could get to know each other a little first.” He said sipping his rolling rock.
“Are you daft or just a Romantic? No groupie wants to get to know you. You are just the, second string, a stepping stone to get at the band. But groupies always want to go to the parties.”
Insulted he said. “So then she’s not a groupie. She didn’t want to go to the party.” He set his beer down hard causing a carbonated eruption. He knew he hadn’t been out of college that long, but he knew women. What the hell could this fossil know?
“So she’s really into you. A glance at the concert and a conversation in between numbers and that’s all you need to know.” He lit his cigar. “You cable monkey are a lamb to the slaughter. Girls like her will eat you for lunch and serve your heart up on a silver platter.”
“I know more than you think.” He said slamming his beer down on the counter, breaking the bottle this time; cutting his hand. The bar tender quickly handed him a towel to clean the blood.
“Look kid, I didn’t mean to upset you. Go back to the bus and have the doc check your hand.
“You know what Jude, Fuck you.” He said wrapping the towel tightly around his hand. “I’m going to stand by the door, so I can leave when she gets here.”
“Your call kid. Take a good look at yourself in the mirror first, and decide if your man enough.”
She walked in the door of the club. Red hair flowing past her breasts and blue eyes to pierce the soul, she was magnificent. The behemoth of a bouncer silently slid the bolt locking the door behind her.
“Kid,” he said throwing his cigar case to him, “take an honest look in the mirror.”
Rick fumbled with it as he caught it; “all the drugs must a fried Jude’s brains ,”he thought. God she was hot. She ran her hand under his shirt and started kissing his neck.
“I’m glad you came.” She whispered.
“So am I,” he said glancing down at the cigar case in his hand. He saw himself in ecstasy, but no one else. “What.” He thought as she tore into his neck. He felt the life drained from him as quickly as the blood, and everything went black.
“Ahhh,” he screamed. “What the fuck.” He flailed about wildly trying to stop the pain.
“Relax kid.” Jude said as he worked a sliver dagger into Rick’s neck. A swollen river of blood ran off of Jude’s face.
“Kid, I may have just saved your life. Now do exactly what I tell you and I won’t have to kill you myself.”
The room started to go black again and as it did Rick could clearly see the headless body of the Goth chic. God she was hot he thought as he blacked out.
Thursday, February 4, 2010
Publications
JUST GOT A NEW ACCEPTANCE LETTER FROM FLASHES IN THE DARK. It will go live February 22, 2010. WWW.flashesinthedark.com
Before kids, and before teaching high school. I was writing submitting on a regular basis. This is what I have done. With a little luck I'll be adding what I am doing to the list. So I really should change the paste tense since I just added a new story to the publications.
"A Modest Proposal.Com." Inklings. UAA Press, May 2000. A satirical essay which examines the affects of jobs on American teen culture.
"Close Encounters of the Human Kind: An Exploratory Look at the Alien Abduction Narrative." NWCA Annual Conference 2002. April 2002
"How Much is That Pizza in the Window?." Anchorage Press. Anchorage Press, December 1999. Guest editorial for the Anchorage Press, a weekly art and entertainment newspaper, which was a humorous look at the negative affects of globalization and how corporate mergers directly, affected consumers' lives in Anchorage, Alaska.
"Mad House." Prism. OSU Press, May 2002. A Beat Poet influenced look at the perceived affects of media overload on individuals' lives.
"Moon Dog Went Surfing."Flashes in the dark, horror flash fiction in daily doses. flashesinthedark.com, February 2010. A flash story dealing with surf music, teen angst, and werewolves.
"They're Coming to Get You, Barbara: The Changing Role of Women in George Romero's Night of the Living Dead."
Before kids, and before teaching high school. I was writing submitting on a regular basis. This is what I have done. With a little luck I'll be adding what I am doing to the list. So I really should change the paste tense since I just added a new story to the publications.
"A Modest Proposal.Com." Inklings. UAA Press, May 2000. A satirical essay which examines the affects of jobs on American teen culture.
"Close Encounters of the Human Kind: An Exploratory Look at the Alien Abduction Narrative." NWCA Annual Conference 2002. April 2002
"How Much is That Pizza in the Window?." Anchorage Press. Anchorage Press, December 1999. Guest editorial for the Anchorage Press, a weekly art and entertainment newspaper, which was a humorous look at the negative affects of globalization and how corporate mergers directly, affected consumers' lives in Anchorage, Alaska.
"Mad House." Prism. OSU Press, May 2002. A Beat Poet influenced look at the perceived affects of media overload on individuals' lives.
"Moon Dog Went Surfing."Flashes in the dark, horror flash fiction in daily doses. flashesinthedark.com, February 2010. A flash story dealing with surf music, teen angst, and werewolves.
"They're Coming to Get You, Barbara: The Changing Role of Women in George Romero's Night of the Living Dead."
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