From: tracker@wpi.WPI.EDU (The Renegade Ranger)
Subject: Games for two or more...
Date: 3 Apr 91 20:02:54 GMT


(Wheee.. new story type thing, comments/critcisms/cordite more than
welcome..)



 Consciousness, like a dull knife. The edge glides over without a
mark unless pressed hard, and viciously.

 Slicing silently it passed. The grating chairs gave it a strength,
the smell of hot tea gave it a will. With a wrenching twist it preyed
upon the failed flesh lying below, driving deep within. Agonized
shards of tortured dreams scattered at the blow, and the mind
flickered. The moths of sleep were drawn inexorably close to the
burning synapses, dying in the heat of their passionate quest for
light.

 "Friggn' head is on fire ag'in.." Two bleary ovals coalesced into an
indistinct brown mass with gleaming shapes. A morning smell was
emanating from somewhere in the mass, and distant appendages slopped
themselves onto the table in questing lurches, eagerly seeking the
source, but lacking in coordination. Five tan fingers triumphantly
brushed their goal, only to be rewarded for their efforts by a stream
of boiling Herbal Tea spilling from the same.

 "F'ow! sonuvadamncorpslave.." Brought to bear by the pain, the ovals
snapped twice to reveal the surroundings in transluscent vision.
Spread out across the low synth-wood table were a few bagels, several
half-eaten doughnuts, the SeattleFax News, a plastic mug and a pot of
boiling tea. Tracker looked up from his chin-on-table observation into
the apparently amused countenance of Donovan.

 "Well," Donovan chuckled, "a good morning indeed, is it not?"

 Tracker's mind stumbled for only a second over why his fence was
here, then he remembered that neither one of them were at home, and
the business at hand. "Think I'll wait on that," He drawled, "'til I
see what price I'm gettin' fer what I brought."

 Donovan grinned. "Well, it's not the whole list," he fingered off a
fax printout, "but it's pretty damn close; Both books, the log file,
the main surveillance tape." He sighed once. "Too bad you didn't get
the floorplan, would've made the pay real nice."

 "Nah, really?" Tracker smirked. "Well maybe if I'da been real nice and
asked the head foreman, he would'a let me walk off with it from his
hands 'n never remember seeing it. Yah. Uh-huh. Not."

 "True enough. Renovations weren't supposed to require the plan until
next week. I certainly never thought there would be a cleanup crew
there on a weekend."

 The memory of showing up at the mall late Saturday, only to discover
every light on, grated in Tracker's head. "I bet. Dat's over 'n done
with tho, 'cept for payment. So, how much?"

 "6k."

 "Deal."


A few minutes later, with the certified credchip in his hand, Tracker
watched with easy satisfaction as Donovan left. They'd been friends
for years, although neither would offer that information. It was a
loose bond, a gossamer strand which could endure hard yanks and harder
times. It was the kind of bond Tracker liked to form with his business
associates. It didn't let him get too close, but it let him know he
could count on people, sort of like..

 The digital screams of the phone yanked his mind out of
neverneverland. At 8:00 in the morning, somebody better have a damn
good reason for calling.

 "'Lo?"

 "Carter."

 Friggin' leach. "S'morning Carter, go sun yer ass."

 "My, cheery one, aren't you?"

 "Not by a mile. G'bye Carter.."

 "Nono.. wait. I've got a message for you. Worth some serious money,
and it's not one of mine."

 "Not one of yers? Shit, best news I've heard yet today... 'course
it's still early... Spill it boyo, ya got 30 seconds."

 The cough on the line betrayed some of the weasel's glee, but he
started talking before Tracker could think of an appropriate comment.
"This morning, at the Harbor Northside, the boat 'Mythos'. 9:30am.
Details then, 100 just for showing up and listening."

 "'Mythos'? Ia, Ia, shurub-nagarath Cthulu?"

 Silence. "Ummm," Carter hesitated, "huh??"

 "Never mind, it's a Miskatonic thing, you just wouldn't understand."

 "Guess not."

 "Bye Carter."

 "Ummm, yeah... sure.. bye.."

 Tracker laughed once or twice and considered changing the name tags
on each of Carter's dogs to 'Hastur', then stepped off to whistle in
the shower.

- - -

 The Boat rocked back and forth on cats' tails waves, each yowling
with breaking surf on golden sand. 'Mythos' tossed and turned with no
argonauts at the helm, merely an anchor to hold it to this world of
man. On the deck four figures conversed.

 "..this is as good a spot as any, turn on the white noise generator."

The slim black man spoke his words with authority, each syllable as
crisp as the ocean salt breeze. Shifting an incredible bulk, the white
mountain set down his sporting rifle, walked to the main cabin and
punched a while at a keypad.

 "Now, Mr.." The thin man paused to have his blanks filled in.

 "It's Tracker. Just Tracker. Just like you bein' named Jones, it's
all the names we need to talk."

 "Quite correct.. Tracker. The reason I'd like to talk to you is to
arrange an agreement." Slipping out a small disk, he tossed it
gracefully to the returning bulk, who inserted it wordlessly into a
digital recorder. "We'd like to retain your services for some aquatic
work."

 "Try wet work."

 Thin Mr. Jones smiled slyly. "Ah, perhaps that would be a better
term."

 Tracker shook his head ruefully. "Sorry. I'm staying dry."

 "What if we were to offer you a 25,000Y towel?"

 Tracker blinked, then smiled. "Where's the pool?"


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 1/3ish..

	-Tracker