From: GAYNOR@agvax2.ag.ohio-state.edu (Jim Gaynor)
Subject: Fish 'n Chips...
Date: 7 Jul 92 01:18:28 GMT

* * *

her eyes were cobalt red
her voice was cobalt blue
I see no purple light
crashing out of you
so just walk on in
(flowers on the razor wire)
(walk on in)

her lovers queued up in the hallway
I heard them scratching at the door
I tried to tell her
about Marx and Engels, God and Angels
I don't really know what for
but she looked good in ribbons
so just walk on in

* * *

For what had to be the hundredth time that evening, Blackjack swore
that he'd never eat seafood again.

He had come from the abandoned wharves north of here and walked into
the fishing docks, where the seaman still brought in the day's catch.
A century ago this would have been a bustling market, with persons
scurrying here and there to buy fish fresh from the ocean to cook for
that evening's dinner.

Today, most people didn't see their food fresh from the ocean, still
gasping for air. They saw it sliced and processed and packaged and
frozen into neat little portions. Aunt Emma's Cod Kibble. Maury's
Fillet O' Flounder. Squid Chips. Blackjack had wolfed down his
share, thinking like everyone else of perfect, healthy fish being
artfully transformed into the evening's Nuke-N- Serve dinner portion.
The reality, of course, was something entirely different.

The creatures that Blackjack saw piled in stinking heaps bore little
resemblance to Charlie the Tuna. Blind, eyeless creatures with
grotesque features and rotting sores filled the nets of every ship he
passed. The castoffs, thrown into a pile at the stern, were even
more horrible.

The next dock over, a few men leapt from the deck of their boat to the
marred steel of the dockside. Unlike the other fishermen that
Blackjack had seen, these men seemed to be happy with their days
work. They laughed at some joke, good-naturedly smacking each other
on the back as they walked down the dock towards a bar that appeared
to be the gathering place for the men who worked these docks.

Looking over, Blackjack moved towards the boat that they left, almost
eager to see what kind of catch could inspire actual happiness.
Their catch was of the same deformed creatures as the other boats, if
nothing else a smaller haul. There was something else on the deck of
the boat, though. A large bulky object. Blackjack moved closer for
a better look, then suddenly stopped as he recognized it.

It was a door. An aircraft bulkhead, with one side blown out into a
standard emergency raft. Although salt-encrusted, the identification
was still clearly visible. It was from an ARES aircraft.

Blackjack turned from the boat and looked over towards the bar. The
three men were just entering, the open door of the bar allowing the
ruddy interior light to shine out into the hazy night. They passed
through, the doorway closing behind them to abruptly cut off the
reddish light.

Fingering the vial in his longcoat pocket, Blackjack strode towards
the bar. The knob turned easily in his hand and he opened the door,
stepping into the hazy light and noise. The door closed behind him,
and the docks were quiet again, the lapping of water against rotten
wooden pilings the only sound.

* * *

Blackjack's mine, copyright 1990,91,92, and all that stuff.  Feel free
to play in and around him and his world - just be sure to tell me
before you do much more than a cameo, eh?

Coming Soon: "Who is Sib, and why should you buy her a drink?"


---
Jim Gaynor - Man-of-many-things | Internet: gaynor@agvax2.ag.ohio-state.edu
Ohio State University - ACS/FMS | Phone: Voice 614/292-4338 - FAX 614/292-7443
ObDiscl:  Everything stated here and above is _my_ opinion.  Mine mine mine!
ObQuote: "I won't bow, I won't bend, I won't break, I'll tough it out." -Wilder