From: lowk@nucleus.cuc.ab.ca (Karl Low)
Subject: WARNINGS: First attempt, language.
Date: 30 Sep 92 18:09:57 GMT
Lines: 145


     A pleasing whirl of sound.
     A cascade of colors off the body.
  Descending
    Dropping
      Coming down.
        Too hard. Always too hard.
  But that's the risks on Fizz, eh?
                             ---

     Spinner groaned miserably. His head felt like it was an
asylum for the criminally insane when all the guards went on
holiday. Too much bottled up inside. Too much trying to get
out. He looked at the flattened derm on his arm and noticed
his tears falling onto it. Running down, along his arms,
over his legs, to mix with the pool of urine and sperm he was
sitting in. He wretched in disgust. More of the bad side. It
made him wonder why he craved it so.
     Pulling himself up with the help of the curtain, he
turned on the water to the tub and lifted the valve for the
shower. His only answer was a muted banging on the pipes for
several minutes and then a dribble of rusty water fell from
the shower head. He waited as it built up pressure and the
stream of water spurted out in haphazard jerks much akin to
his earlier vomiting in the toilet. Finally it came on. A
steady pounding on his pale, almost ghostly skin. The stale
water washing away the last traces of his Fizz high and
leaving the thin film of grime he was becoming so used to.
     He avoided putting his head into the cloudy rain for as
long as possible, and then, with a deep breath, moved
directly under it. Going through the motions of washing his
matted blonde hair. It wouldn't do much, but at least it'd
take out the clumps for a while.
     A second banging on the pipes warned him. He reached out
to smack the valve down again, feeling the water turn to ice
even as it fell away and started to pool around his feet from
the main faucet. A shiver, the taps turned off, and he
stepped out.
     Glancing in the cracked mirror despite himself, he
couldn't help but notice his bloodshot eyes. Their deep pink
contrasting with the heavy shadows underneath them.
     "Gerald my friend, you look like shit," he laughed
hollowly to himself. "Grade-A, good-for-nothing shit."
     He shook his head quickly, drying his hair somewhat and
giving himself a minor headache. Nothing new. Just another
one of the problems to live with. He smiled into the mirror.
Perfect teeth. One thing he was very proud of. He'd seen
people go to hell, even seen people who looked like they'd
been thrown out of it, and you could always tell the ones
who wouldn't make it by their teeth. If you didn't have a
smile, you couldn't pull a con. Not a big con. Not a good
one. Once your teeth were gone, you might as well give up,
because people just wouldn't look at you.
     Absently scratching, he slowly looked himself over. The
ribcage looking more like a bird cage, his heartbeat a
lethargic sparrow trapped inside. Long and narrow. His entire
body almost a tall walking skeleton. He pulled his lips far
back and lifted his nose to the mirror to complete the skull-
like visage. The resemblance was too close. He let go and
closed his eyes suddenly, the sink becoming his balance
point. He felt the hunger pangs shoot through him again. His
stomach had long since given up on trying to rumble. It did
no good, and just used up precious energy.
     Looking into the mirror he noticed the wetness running
down his cheeks was from more than just his dripping hair.
Already he could feel the cravings start again. Not strong.
Not for at least a day, three at the most. He'd be okay for a
while. Would have to find some more money though. He needed
nuyen. Nuyen for Fizz. Fizz to keep the craving away.
     He slipped on his jeans and stepped out into the
apartment. Although only a person with an extremely good
imagination and extremely poor eyesight would be able to call
it one and mean it.
     A voice from his left called out, "Back to the living,
finally, hm?"
     He turned slowly. No point in panic. Whoever it was
could have killed him while he was in the tub, so they must
not want to.
     The owner of the voice sat on the worn mattress, the
only piece of furniture that hadn't already been sold. He was
looking into the barrel of a small, silvery gun carefully
cradled in a polish cloth in his hand.
     Spinner nodded, "As much as I get. You are?"
     "A potential ally."
     "Deadly enemy too, I suppose."
     "Cliched, but I can be. But not yet," the stranger
looked up at him, "You're Spinner."
     "Yah. You believe me?"
     "I have to. Nobody else would admit to it. Your name is
shit on the streets."
     "These days."
     "Flaming faggot, they say."
     "My business."
     The stranger nodded. "Suppose it is, at that. You used
to be nightrunner supreme. Give Spinner a message, it'll get
where it's going, no questions asked, no answers given.
Untracable, untappable, unbreakable."
     "Was."
     "Still up to it?"
     "No."
     The stranger looked momentarily surprised. "No? You
don't have the hardware any more?"
     Spinner tapped his head, "Still there. What I don't have
is the ability, the contacts, or the time to do the job
without getting killed. I have two days, maybe three before
everything gets pushed out of my head for the next Fizz kick,
then I'm useless for three hours after that. You should know.
You're in here, you could have killed me and I would never
have even known about it. I can't be trusted to get the
message through anymore. I'd love to help you, but I can't.
     The stranger stood up, holstering his gun inside his
immaculate grey jacket. "Spinner. Gerald, if I may, you just
got yourself a job. Get dressed, get packed. Our ride will be
here in twenty minutes."
     "Did you hear a thing I said? I CAN'T DO IT! Now get the
hell out!" This time he was ashamed of his tears.
     "Shut up and get dressed. I know damn well you couldn't
do it.  I wanted to see if you're really like they said you
were.  Honest men are hard to find in this world.  Luckily
for you, you are. Now put on a shirt and follow me, my
employers have a proposition for you that you will be able to
do and that might be your last chance out of this hole. You
have much stuff?"
     Spinner looked around the small room, his tears slowing
as he thought.  "Ah, what the hell," he said, "It's your
ball.  Two thousand nuyen to come listen." Two thousand. Four
doses of Fizz. A week. If he was careful, two weeks. Two
weeks of life.
     "The name is Thomas. And for a Fizzhead you do have
gall," Thomas said as he pulled two credsticks from inside
his jacket. "Two thousand," he said handing them to Spinner.
Spinner checked them and quickly slipped them into his
dufflebag along with his few other meager possessions. "Not
enough though," continuued Thomas, "I was authorized for
three," And he grinned.

     Perfect teeth, noted Spinner.

                             ---

    Comments, Criticisms, Questions?
    C'mon..

lowk@nucleus.cuc.ab.ca |  Look, _I_ don't want responsibility for my actions,
-----------------------+  so what makes you think anybody _else_ does?