Subject: Re: Newsgroup alt.cyberpunk.chatsubo,  Articles 2805-2814
From: krapfb@gusun.georgetown.edu
Date: 6 Nov 95 18:03:31 -0500
Lines: 40

"Pain" was the name of Herzel's cat. Her had gotten her in Chiba during 
an expedition back in '18. Her Siamese face was muddied by the back-
alley tomcats fucking over the last twenty years. Christ, there were almost as many
ctas in Chiba as there were people. Before the natives found that curing 
cat flesh in a vicious mixture of AV fuel and Hong Kong whiskey made 
for a nice dinner.
Herzel reclined in his black leather sedan chair, the one he got when his old 
landlord in the States got iced by a Booster mugging. All the shades were 
drawn, casting faded light across the yellow tile floor in neat diagonal
lines. He had poured himself a shot of old brandy, the kind that they 
drink only in holovids nowadays. He had no intention of actually wasting the
brandy by drinking it; it was the smell that he loved. It reminded him that 
he would always have a home -- he just hadn't found it yet. 

Herzel was the kind of man that posergangs try to imitate: all style, 
movie-star looks, classic combat skills. Looking at him reminds me of 
someone like James Cagney, that sort of character. Character, that's 
something that he never lacked. Me, I'm Tam Pockets. A friend. I'm notlike
Herzel; I've still got a life before me, a road ahead. Fuck if I know where
I'm going, but I'm pretty sure of where I've been. 
I was born in Night City back in '16. My parents were Corps, rich safe.
My mother had the most assuring blue eyes. I never saw my dad. Life sucked,
though, so here I am. I met Herzel when we were laid up next to each other
in the old Infirm at 37th and O. He was there for a maint job on the old arm,
the one he lost in Panama in '10. An old Russian model, plastic and worn,
but working (barely). He was having new rippers installed, too, which I
thought was really killer. The light there was blinding, sterile with just
a hint of police-station interrogation. Then I though that the end all and
be all of life was doing C-jobs (courier work). I had a smartboard that held
the road like some downtown slut on a goldenboy's balls, but that one got 
wormed when I hitched to a fucking Iranian taxi driven by the Devil 
incarnate. He threw me into a fucking lamppost, the dick. I lost my board
and my knees, which was why I was in the Infirm. So there we were, a 
streetbrat and a retired soldier. And we started to talk, because all 
that the night nurse wanted to watch was some talk show about women
who were carrying the babies of cyberpsychos. 
.... write me at  "krapfb@gusun.georgetown.edu" if you are interested
in writing cyberpunk fiction, if you like the shit I just wrote, or if you just
want to shoot the shit and talk shop. Ciao, choombatta.