From: tony@jim.csc.ncsu.edu (Jaeger)
Subject: View from a Bar, 1/1
Date: 23 Nov 92 22:31:20 GMT


	I get up. My arm hurts. Musta forgot to clean off the silver stuff
after the party. Can't remember what I did at the party. Got drunk, I think.
Yeah. Got drunk. Puked, met a babe called Patti in a hot tub in the
ninety-ninth floor of the Jackson Inn. We went and boinkered on the floor.
then I caught the subway. I think Patti was good. Fuck. I can't remember.
	Took a taxi to the Chat. All the tables were full up. Damn, I'll
have to take a booth. I hate booths. I hate cigarette smoke, guys with
jagged scars, and shady deals. I'm also claustrophobic.
	No newbies to scare today. Oh well. I initiate a bar brawl by
throwing some girl's output halfway across the room into a suit private
party. Someone pulls a gun and I dive behind the counter. Ratz pulls his
shotgun off the rack, lets loose a solid slug (size of my fist). It hits
the obligatory wagon-wheel chandelier. Man, some people are going to have
headaches when they wake up.
	I get hit in the crossfire between the Second Hitler Corps and the
United Christian Front. Dammit, I'm going to need a stapler for _that_
one. Just for kicks, I grab a cleaner-than-thou UCF asshole and wipe my
arm off on his suit. Poor guy's going to need Korporal Kleen.
	Ah, well. Pretty ho-hum. Still these new guys seem to think being
a `cyberpunk' is going to be high-rolling adventure. The biggest
high-rolling adventure I ever had was when I got pair-a-sixes in a game of
Unca Scrooge.
	Speakning of newbies, just as I'm phoning for the Tearup Team to
cart away the spare parts, couple of girls step daintily over the carnage
and walk up to the bar. Looks like the gang-rape crowd is going to have a
field day. One of 'em's even wearing cutoffs.
	"Hi ladies," Ratz says, throwing his shotgun into a back room.
Ooh. Bad move, Ratz. "What can I get for you."
	"I'll pay," Sleazo the Pimp says, putting the slicks on the girls.
He wakls up and hangs an arm around their necks. "Heya pretties."
	I get tired of Sleazo doing this. "Sleazo," I say, "go fuck a
randy piglet." That's the vogue expression these days."
	"Why?" Sleazo insists. God, the man's a born loser.
	I point at the girl's slammer, who's being carted away in six pieces.
"That's why."
	Sleazo doesn't give in. Guy thinks he's shielded by the feminine
felines. I grab his tux collar and wrench him back. He stops fondling the
babes after I get a firm grip and break Ratz's plate glass windows.
	There's a crash. "Oh, sorry, Ratz man," I say, almost like I mean it.
	"No big deal," the barkeep says sorrowfully, wiping his hands on a
beer-soaked dishtowel, "they needed cleaning anyhow."


From: tony@jim.csc.ncsu.edu (Jaeger)
Subject: View from a Bar, 2/1
Date: 23 Nov 92 22:37:13 GMT


	So I numbered it wrong.
	*BLAM*BLAM*BLAM*
	Man, you guys _are_ vindictive.

	When I got to the Chat, Kat was already throwing some babe's 'put
through the room. He hit a bunch of corpers throwing a nomi-nication
party. Most of them hit the road. A big guy pulled a gun as long as my
forearm and let of a shot. It bounced off the decor (usual
steel-and-leather stuff---you know), hit a plated samurai between the
shoulderblades. Serious wound. It took him down.
	I shut myself off and tried to read a book. It wasn't very good,
but you can't expect much from a society with a forty percent literacy
rate. I mean, Kat can't even read if you cut off his index finger
(something that, in his line of trade, happens fairly often).
	I finished the book, set fire to it and threw it into the fray
erupting between the Hitler Korps and the prissy Christian militants.
There was a boom as it hit some misplaced firearms. My 'quipment took a
couple of hits---but Fugues can take being thrown off a cliff.
	Kat saw me. "Hey, Wilson."
	"Hi Kat," I said. He came and sat down. "I hear you're going into
marketing."
	"Quite true," he said, and got a drink. "I'm out of squeeze. Seen
any job floating?"
	I shook my head. "None." Then, "Pretty good brawl you shook up there."
	"Thanks," he said. Kat is sensitive about his ability to cause
riots.
	He stalked off over to the bar. Man of few words, much action, is
our Kat. He's seen a lot of action; he believes that talking takes off the
edge. Sure, Kat. Yu-huh?
	Contrary to popular and glamorous opinion, what deckers do most of
the time is sit on their butts looking for fun. Most people think the Net
moves fast. Subjective opinion. Maybe your first two runs, you think it's
fast. By the time you've gone anywhere interesting---somewhere like the
Highway, or the Coast---you go up a level of magnitude speedwise. And fun is
hard to find in virtuality. Most people don't understand that virtual fun
comes a poor second to the kind of action you're getting in the middle of a
bar brawl being fought with automatic weapons.
	It was getting to lunchtime, and way past my `productive period'
(when I can get anything done), when a froshie walked in. You can tell
froshies at a glance when you're of note. Things to look for: how they
move. How they talk. Whether or not they look scared smegless.
	This guy looked, talked and quacked like a mega-froshie. He was
packing a serious punch, both virtual and otherwise (holstered Sanguchi, a
Fugue Excalibur that puts my Lancelot to dying shame)---but no way could
he ever use it.
	He sat at the bar. I winked at Kat.
	"Hi," the newcomer said. He was seriously shaky.
	Ratz polished a glass. "Hi, yourself," he replied.
	"I'd like a drink."
	"Stupid thing to say," Kat pointed out. "What do you think this
is, a bar? Somewhere you get drinks? Je-sus."
	I stifled a laugh.
	"What?" The kid was incredulous. "Isn't this the Chat?" He put
down his deck and searched through his wallet (chained to a rib---popular
among those serious about keeping their money). "Thirteen English Street?"
	"Hell no," I shouted. "That's up the road," and I gave him the
address of The Putrid Fish Mercs-Only Bar (somewhere so tough that Kat
gets scared there).
	"Oh shit. Where am I?"
	I grinned. "Kat, tell the poor guy."
	"The Putrid Fish. Mercs Bar. Got an ID, friend?"
	You shoulda seen the kid run. He was a yellow streak, making
instant connection between his seat and the door.
	Kat laughed. "Poor guy."
	I took the vacant seat and picked up a small mouse-sized black
object I could fit comfortably in my palm. "Know what the saddest thing is?"
	"No," Kat said, "what?"
	"He forgot his Excalibur." I stowed it in my bag and ordered a
drink.