>From: carl@robot.nuceng.ufl.edu (Drifter...) Subject: Bacteriaphage Date: 9 Jan 91 22:59:12 GMT Lines: 173 wander wander w Endless stream a of Consciousne n rts sseldnE ss d ?he ...rednaw re Oh, here al READY. Short figure with black, greasy hear, laying in flat waves on the head and shoulders. Pale, mottled skin over a angular, swollen form. No shoulders to speak of, a thick chest over a bloated stomach. Carefully arranged slacks of synthetic fabric, dyed with cheap chemicals into an even shade of blue, like the color of a glaciers heart. Shirtless, just an unclosed jacket of lined, pale leather. Murky brown eyes glaze about. Biz tonight. Biz zy. Loud. Stay clEAn. Don't worry, be clEAn-- It's a busy night at the Chatsubo. Wintertime forces even some of the toughest from the streets. A winter of nature, and another winter of human making. With a whiffing noise, the figure moves into the Chatsubo, in almost a stupor. Patrons ignore him. Wannabes, street samauri scope out the new arrival, dismiss him as not even a player, never mind a minor. As he shuffles into the bar, almost everyone he passes unconciously recoils slightly from possible accidental contact. No one likes to touch filth. New faces and old places. How long? No one no one noone n o o n e no o n en eno.o nno ne.n o oo o.o n e n . . . .... Rats, no Ratz! "Hey Ratz." A few, very few, recognize the person. They shudder and make a point of leaving their tables, moving as far as they possibly can from the scruffy, greasy bum. Several of the waitresses look at their customers in baffled annoyance. Ratz looks up from a bar customer, someone ordering hot chocolate. Noticing the potential new source of income, he moves slowly down the bar with his carefully balanced bulk. He recognizes the customer. "Hey Ratz." A faint rasp of speech buried in a voice of noise, the bum is loud, but only the closest can hear what is said. "Shit," Ratz says flatly. "Haven't died yet, Pestilance?" Ratz is decayed, got bad teethies. No arm. Not as clEAn as me. "Haven't died yet, Pestilance?" Died? I'm clEAn. I can't die. I'm Pestilance. That's who I do. I remember now, thanks "Ratsssszz, still alive. Kind of disorganized, y'know? Time ran out and, uh... y'know? Uh, you got any OJ?" Ratz sighs quickly. He looks at Pestilance for a moment, considering. Pestilance sips the bright, tangy juice carefully. He licks out the glass once he's drained it. Ratz will destroy the glass when this particular customer is done with it. A pink and healthy tongue swabs the curved inner surface of the glass. Wonderful bright clear OJ. Vitamins and niacin and potasium and vibrations-- Makes my head clearer. Being clEAn means being fucked out a lot, kind of fuzzy, like the OJ pulp feel in your mouth. Juice gives something for the clEAn to work with, I get smoother and work better. Ratz makes sure none of the waitresses get close to Pestilance. He is sweating, with only the small distance of the bar seperating him from this strange person. But he can't make the bum leave. Not without touching him, and that is something even old and decaying Ratz can't bring himself to do. "Thanks Ratz," Pestilance says. "I um needed that. I'm uh... better now." "You leaving, my unwelcome guest?" "No. Not later." "If not later, than how about now?" "Sorry Ratz. Sorry man, gotta work. Need some money man." Ratz studies the pale and disgusting looking man. Ten years ago, he came in and killed twenty-three people. None of them died until a week after he had left the Chatsubo. "Far most corner table. Do not talk to my girls or Lonny's." "Ok man." "If you don't get work by tomorrow, I want you out of my place." "Ok man. Thanks Ratz." Pestilance begins to walk to the table far in back. Ratz signals and a way is made clear, a buffer between Pestilance and the customers. Those that had moved to the distant end of the room curse quietly and move again, several of them out the door. The Chat vetrans start cycling out the old story and it spreads around a bit. Neos don't believe the shit, it's just the vets spinning their mouths again, man. Got a table of my own. Ratz you son of a bitch. It isn't my fault. I walk clEAnly through the people to the table. Sit down. Wait for someone to ask me the question. Wish I had some good clothes... A wannabe, some razorboy, slinks darkly up to the bar. Ratz ignores him, picking up the used glass with an old rag. "Who's the meat?" the razorboy hisses. His mouth is full of new teeth, an amature surgery job that has left his fuzzy jaw to swollen to move more than slightly. Ratz looks bemusedly at the wannabe and doesn't say anything. "You serving filth now? Huh?" Ratz carefully wraps the rag around the glass. He leaves the wannabe to place the rag into the incinerator. He returns in a few minutes, the impatient razorboy just about to walk over to Pestilance's table. "You are too young," Ratz says, not looking at the boy but at Pestilance in his far, isolated corner. "You weren't even in the Spawl back then. You were a child with no dream." "Fuck you man," the boy hissed with annoyance. "That Pestilance, he is clean. Not dirtless clean, but clean inside. He was a microbiologist Mozart. He made himself immune to everything, even his own little friends." The razorboy wannabe looks at the table now, the urge to go over to the table quickly leaving him with Ratz's slow, neutral words. "He was a corporate treasure. Maas wanted to marry him. A little company, Fradin Labs, they got him. Gave him his own lab and almost as much equipment as he asked for. He made all kinds of things." Ratz looks down at his smudged pink plastic arm. "Then they go belly up, Fradin. The Mozart had burned out on his own creations. He got something into himself, it made him bad." Ratz's robotic arm whirrs as he picks up a small shot glass. He pours a shot of something pale amber, the bottle clinking as he replaces it. "What happened?" the razorboy hisses, reaching for the glass. An arm, a flesh one, stops the boy. "He lost himself. Or maybe his little friends, they lose him, eh?" Ratz smiles, his teeth gleaming brownly at the boy. The arm pulls away. "Bad shit. You shouldn't let him in here," the razorboy says. He holds the shot glass carefully, watching Pestilance, who sits and fidgets slightly, staring at Lonny's girls. The boy turns back to Ratz as he speaks. "No." Ratz frowns, shrugs. "He is dangerous. He carries many nasty little bugs in him, only he knows how to control them." "Bullshit. He's punched out." Sips the liquid, coughs slightly. Ratz does not smile. "That one, he is strange. Difficult. But not insane. When he was in here last time, some of my customers, they did not like his looks. They made him leave." Ratz starts polishing the bar with his regular cleaning rag, the old Russian arm whirring vaguely. Several minutes pass. "So?" the boy says impatiently. "They all died," Ratz says after a moment, still polishing. "Unexpected, unexplainable, sudden illness. Only them, no one else." He looks up at the distant table, squinting slightly. "That's when they started calling him Pestilance." I sit, waiting. Place seems bizzy bizzy bizzy, something going down. (Maybe it means work.) Sometimes I wish I wasn't clEAn, so I didn't have to be so lonely. I watch the pretty girls and make myself stay still. Warm bodies. Exciting. (No one for Pestilance.) I wait for someone to ask the question. //\\//\\//\\//\\//\\//\\//\\//\\//\\//\\//\\//\\//\\//\\//\\//\\//\\//\\//\\// "Pestilance" character is copyright (C) 1991 by Drifter (CARL@robot.nuceng.ufl.edu) Please ask or at least warn before using character in any significant story lines. Cameos are fine. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ CARL@ROBOT.NUCENG.UFL.EDU or CARL%NUCENG.DECNET@PINE.CIRCA.UFL.EDU "I am immune to all such things, my friend. As a youth, a certain amount of head-bangin' and metal-bashin' left my synapses so callous, no mind-alterin' substances are in charge." -- Blank Reg [*DISCLAIMER* - Contents is not connected with UF or NucEng department.]