>From: erikred@ocf.berkeley.edu (Erik Nielsen)
Subject: Too Much Blood in My Drug-stream....
Date: 25 Jan 92 07:38:34 GMT
Lines: 118

We walk in and she flashes us a smile, a smile with teeth, says beware says
that smile, not buying, not here.  She's a shark and she knows it, fins up,
always on the move or her gills don't work, rows on rows of teeth, cut one
row out she'll gut you with another, she says with that smile, without
speaking.
     I smile back, just to piss her off, just to show that I don't care
about her petty little wading pool with oh so many obese fish, just to show
I can.  I don't want her fish, don't want her pond, just want My drink and
My corner, and to hell with the rest, I say in that smile in those silent
teeth.
     She takes her eyes away, those perfectly sculpted eyes, gives them to
the fish who's just pulled into reach of her teeth, her perfectly sculpted
teeth.  "You gonna buy me a drink?"  I can almost hear her words float
through the crowd, and I turn away.  I was never one for the sight of blood.
     I turn instead for that corner, My corner, with its back to the wall
and its beautiful view of the front and back doors.  No one's there, but
that doesn't surprise me, the upholstery's shot and the management is too
cheap to replace it.  I slide in, slipping into the comfort of familiarity,
the illusion of safety generated by a flimsy piece of foam and plastic with
which I've shared some time, the warm and cozy feeling that kills you if you
aren't paranoid like I am.  My hands start to shake just thinking about it.
     I reward my hands with a coffin nail.  They're good hands, they've
pulled their weight, they deserve a treat.  I'm down to two nails, now,
mostly by choice.  Trying to quit, I'm always telling myself.  Yeah, but
quitting's easy.  Staying off them, now there's the trick.  It's not the
money, no, just made some of that, it's not the health, no, not in my line
of work, it's just the weakness that tees me off.  I don't like the
dependance, had that with others, don't need that again.
     But I light up fifteen minutes of my life anyway.  To reward my hands,
I say.  I take a long drag, hold it for a moment, think about the nails.
Packet says FDA Approved, makes me wonder who got how much.  Doesn't
matter.  I breathe it out and shut my eyes as the adrenaline, nicotine,
amphetamine rush climbs up from my lungs.  Hurts so good, baby, so good.  I
open my eyes.  Hands stop shaking, but the guy across from me and the rest
of the room won't stand still.  To hell with balance.  This is as close as I
try.
     "So, Phil," I say to Mr. Shaky, wishing he'd just stay still a bit,
"you called me."  Yeah, buddy, can't argue with a fact like that.
     Phil frowns, scowls briefly at my nail.  I'd offer him one, but I know
he doesn't smoke, besides which I only have one left.  "Found that bit you
asked me to dig up," he says, his eyes making a circuit of the room before
meeting mine.
     "C'mon, Phil, that was two weeks ago.  They already buried that guy,
and I already buried his folder."
     "Yeah, well, you better dig it right back up again."
     The nail's making me high as a kite, and I can't keep some of the
cockiness out of my voice.  "Why, Phil?  He Lazarus or something?"
     "Not him, gimp.  But the info on his back might make him worse than the
Monkey's Paw."
     I laugh, and the nail shines a bit in my eyes.  "So what's the big
secret?  Last resting place of the Holy Grail?"
     Phil's fed up with my amphetamine grin.  "Listen here, Johnny Cameron,
you two-bit punk, it's bigger than your friggin' habit or your confidence
through modern chemistry," he barks, getting up in my face.  "Laughing boy
worked for Gumby-Tech, boyscout."
     The nail makes me want to cram his nose down his throat, he's too damn
close, but Gumby-Tech overrides the drugs.  Gumby-Tech is short for
Truegenics, or, more colloquially, mean, green, cloning machine, the
forerunners in genetic tech these days.  Every newscrystal screams
Gumby-Tech when anything new comes to light, and the competition, Genes'r'Us
and Asexual, Inc., are primitive by comparison.  If Elvis is alive today, he
lives in a vat in a Gumby-Tech vault.
     I cover my shock with a smirk.  "I was never a boyscout.  Alright, so,
what you're saying is that whoever hired me to sand him knew he was with
Gumby-Tech.  So what?  Was he a researcher?  A janitor?"  Whichever, I think
it's time to raise my prices.
     "Head of Cloning, R&D," Phil whispers with a smile, smug as hell,
leaning back away from me.
     Nail paints an oh so ugly picture then and there.  I sanded a
Gumby-Tech egghead for a damn-near anonymous contractor.  And got paid less
than combat wages for the effort.  Then again, this is not something one
puts on one's resume unless one wants Gumby-Tech all over one.  I'm the
perfect patsy, because no one knows me and no one would believe me.  Nail
wants me to shoot something, I think, I hope, because if it isn't the nail,
then maybe I have gone over the edge.  I keep my hands above table, away
from any concealed weapons, in plain view where I can watch them.  Hands do
the strangest things when you're not paying attention.
     I try to keep the nail out of my voice as my left foot starts making
jerking motions towards the front door.  "Alright, Phil," really calmly, as
calmly as I can, but from the way Phil's looking at me, I must be striking
out big time on the inner peace chart, "this is precisely what I want you to
do:  meet me in the Fifth Avenue Quonset Hut lobby, where I will be buying
tomorrow's news-sheet; bring a copy of the pertinents, and drop it in my
pocket as I bump into you on the way out.  I'll check my messages from a
secure line, but I'm not going home for quite a while.  If someone calls for
Pierce Brosnan, meet me here immediately.  Got that?"  Dear God, I hope so,
because I sure as hell couldn't say it again, not without all my words
running together.
     Phil gets up from the table.  "Yeah, I got you.  This kind of info
costs extra, though, so remember to bring twice the usual amount.  See you
on the dark side."  I nod at him and he disappears.  I watch him vanish in
slow motion, which would be more fun if I wasn't scared to death.
     I wave at a waitress, who moves through the water to get to me.  She
says something really slowly, and two people from opposite sides of the room
stare straight at me, even though I try not to notice.  "Pastor's Own," I
say as slowly and as clearly as my jittery lips will move.  She nods, a sort
of slowmo whiplash, and three people enter the bar leering at me, only I
know they're not even looking at me.  The people at the next table are
whispering, and I'd swear I can hear them saying my name, but I can't let
them know, can't let anyone know that I'm on to them, I know the game
they're playing, they won't fool me.
     I'm about to cry for the untold centuries that have passed, when the
waitress brings me my drink.  I pay cash, not like a place like this would
process credit anyway, but I pay cash and tip a bit heavy.  Maybe this'll
sway her to my side, maybe she'll like me and not tell them about me.  I
drink my drink, and the bitter detox starts to kick in with the first
swallow.  I down the rest quickly, too quickly, I know I'm going to hate
this later, and I get up from the table and start to head for the door.  The
detox works fast, and I'm crying for my lost strength as I walk out into the
night.


Copyright 1992, Erik Nielsen, All rights reserved...

--
     "All those moments will be lost in time, like tears in rain."
			Roy, _Blade Runner_
Erik Nielsen					erikred@ocf.berkeley.edu