From: gil@smtc21.engr.scarolina.edu (Gil Young)
Subject: Flanagan Entrance
Date: 6 Aug 92 21:59:40 GMT


     From the corner booth, two unwashed techno-geeks, previously
jacked in to their decks and tapping in unison, scream and quickly
yank the datacords from their skulls hard enough to make your
teeth ache.  They frantically begin cramming their decks and
peripherals into dirty grey satchels, handling insanely expensive
electronics like the guys down at the dock do fish.  They've been
traced, and that means corporate security is on its way, and they
know it.
     One drops drops a few banknotes on the table while the other
jerks cords from the wall and stuffs them in his bag, and then
they sprint toward the door, leaving a smell of stale sweat and fear
in their wake.  They get to the door, and to their horror, it opens,
and in walks the biggest vatjob either of them has ever seen.  He
screams danger, from his blonde buzz to his unnatural looking skin,
the hallmark of dermal reinforcement, to his street predator's
bearing.  The techno-geeks screech to a halt, their tension radiating
out to every other muscle in the room.  It's clear these console
cowboys haven't the cool to make it in the world of flesh and
ferrocrete, as they freeze, rabbit-like, before the wall of muscle.
     The vatjob lowers his prominent brows and looks at them.
He notices their stares, and leans toward them.  "Buzz."
     They do.
     Now that the tension is over, everyone has a chance to look
at this newcomer, from his denim-and-chain jacket and black gi
pants to his running shoes and "Chiba Gym: We'll make a man out
of you" tee shirt.  He doesn't seem as big as he did before,
although he's definitely over the 2 meter, 100 kilo mark.  It's
just.... there's something.... familiar about him.  He moves to
the bar and orders a screwdriver and Ratz complies with the drink
and a question: "I know you?"
     "Patrick Flanagan."
     "Ratz lowers his eyebrows, raises them.  Fighter."
     Flanagan looks down at the grimy, sticky bar and takes a sip
of his drink.  "Yeah."
     At this point the details click.  Pat Flanagan was a premeire
fighter in what became of kickboxing, the brutal, no-holds-barred
anything goes betting game of filthy and filthy rich alike.  In his
10 months of competition, he never lost a match, fighting under
the title: Patrick "The Last Farmboy" Flanagan, going into matches
with cutoff jeans and a red flannel shirt, and *no sponsor*.  Ah,
that must have been why he disappeared 2 years ago, right before
his championship fight.  Wonder what he's doing here.

=============================end===========================
Well, there it is.  I took someone's advice and just wrote.
Hope you like it.  I don't really have serious plans for
Patrick, but let me know if you plan to muck about with him
seriously.  As always, he is a character in the Chatsubo
environment and you may feel free to use him.

Gil Young
gil@smtc21.engr.scarolina.edu
     soon to be
gil@aahz.math.scarolina.edu