From: tracker@wpi.WPI.EDU (The Renegade Ranger)
Subject: Hamlet's Query, 1
Date: 19 Sep 91 17:13:39 GMT


 Light played off the wet concrete, like children in chrome clothes.
Each sparkling dance an echo of more than it appeared. Puddles played
catch with iradescent globes, holding their own selves to, and in, the
form of the vision. Cascading showers added more company to the
entourage, yielding little to passing shapes, and passing thoughts.

--

 There wasn't much to be thankful for, days when it rained. Just gloom
and the smell of wet hydrocarbons. "Might 'swell stick my face in my
toilet for a while... smells like 'nuff shit here..." The lone figure
sat in the rain, perched on a slight ledge, backed against a
plasticrete wall. 14 stories up.

 "Surveillance is s'posed to be fun.. not some shit job in a
downpour.. weasel better cm'out soon.." Tracker muttered a while
longer under his breath, not really sure what good it was doing, but
doing it nonetheless. Just like eating oat bran.

 The dual-phase amplifier rendered some of what the people in the shop
were saying audible, but barely intelligible. "Friggin' white noise
generators.. hope it runs on a pattern.."

 He pulled a carefully wrapped package out of the kevlar duffle,
unwrapping the outer layers of cushioning. The small object gleamed
nicely, and let out a happy whirr as its power was switched on. "Fer
every action, there is 'n equal 'n op'site reaction... ain't that
right now.." The portable noise generator was a bit modified from
normal, reading in the sampled amplitudes, then countering the rapid
frequency variations with counter fluxes of its own. While it didn't
stop the first white noise generator from working, it created a sound
wave disturbance that made the speech a tad more intelligible.

 ".. two of them, at 750 each.. more if you want them quicker."
 " That wasn't par..*zhwsaszqw*..deal, and you know it."
 "Hey, if you wanted them made cheap, you go see someone else,
I'..*qwwwzsxh*.. est you'll find, and you know they'll work."
 "Yeah, like the last ones?"
 "That was a fluke, Randy, and you know it."
 "..*drzzzwqrzz*.. *tzzzzshwq*..when it went off"
 "Fucking right. So, you going to pay?"
 "Like I have a choice? It's either buy them, or have them used on
me."
 "You catch on quick."

 It was all he needed to hear. Tracker knew the two people inside..
not personally, though he'd seen the pictures and bios enough to think
he did. All he needed now was contact.

--

 Sheldon Parsons wasn't much to look at. He wasn't much to talk to
either. Somehow, the people he dealt with never minded. Or at least if
they did, they were smart enough not to mention it. They had their
reasons, or just their reason; Sheldon Parsons made bombs.

 Not just your common boom-booms, he specialized in limited-trace
possibility arson packages, vehicle bombs, and door keys. Keys
normally came in different sizes, ranging from .5kg for a small door,
to as much as you needed, all in conveniently packaged units that even
the dumbest thug could operate. Some even came with an owner's manual.

 As Randy, a local who needed a key for a rather large door, left for
the evening, Sheldon counted his profits mentally. 750 gotten, only
54 in materials and time to make it, business was, he groaned to think
it, 'booming'. There were always people looking for the right things
for the wrong kind of activity. He liked it that way.

 The door creaked open and shut in quick succession, and he
absent-mindedly called out. "I told you, they'll work fine, no
problems. Now g'wan, I've got some other orders to fill.. sheesh, buy
one set, and think you can walk in without knocking.."

--

 "Oh, I ain't bought anything..." Tracker grinned as he walked in the
room, shotgun leveled at Sheldon's chest.

 "Wh-what do want?" Sheldon looked around for the trigger switch.. why
did he never have the remote on him when he needed it?

 "Not much.. just 'ta talk with ya for a sec..." He grinned and took a
seat, reversing it.

 "What about?"

 A slow smile replaced a feral grin. "Ooooohhhh, lessee.. how about
little kids, and old movies?"

 "Come again?"

 "Oh, you know, little kids. Tykes what play with the little explosive
toys you give 'em.. maybe like a jump rope, made of of Det Cord?" The
grin had faded into a hard stare, and behind the eyes there was an
image.

 --
  Three inner-city kids playing jump rope. Using tattered strips of
cloth tied together caringly to make possibly the only toy they could
afford. A middle aged man walks by, gives the kids a shiny jumprope,
two big handles, and a rope with thin little metal tubes jangling as
they slide back and forth along the rope. Smiles of happiness. Tears
of thanks. A smiling man walks away. The rope spins to the tune of
laughing children, playing in contentment.

 The rope explodes, in a firey blast. Scored metal tubes, the jangling
bells of happy play, fragment into shrapnel by the explosive they
surround. A red froth covers a large area, leaving not enough of what
used to be three children scattered along the way.
--

  The smaller man, nervous before, becomes solidly petrified. He
hadn't known that could be traced. He had thought no one would pay it
much attention. The Kevlar-woven det-cord was his newest toy, making
rope that would hold weight, then explode when desired. Quite a few
people had expressed interest in such an item.. at a high price.

 "Listen, listen." He swallowed back a few minutes of persperation.
"We can deal this out.. I dunno who hired you, but I can give you some
cash, do a few favors.. make you a few items. I'm a master craftsman,
people respect my work. I'll put in a good word for you with some good
people."

 "You don't *know* any 'good' people, shithead. But we won't consider
that for a moment. Let's talk old movies. Seen any?"

 The switch of topic wasn't doing much good, but Sheldon decided to
play along, hoping he could figure out an idea real soon. "Ummm, yeah,
I've seen a few.. from what year?"

 "Oh, 1980's, sometime in there,, got one you'd like... you know the
movie 'Tango & Cash'?" The feral grin returned.

 "Ummm, no..."

 "Damn. Ah well, I'll explain soon enough. But back to your proposal.
No one hired me. I hired myself. And I'm a fuckload more expensive to
buy off than anyone I know. Besides, I get along fine with what I
have.. like this grenade." Slowly, menacingly, Tracker drew out a
large anti-personnel frag grenade, government issue. "And these." He
set the shotgun down, and pulled out two throwing knives.

 "Umm, well, yeah, I'm sure that a few more contacts would be useful
tho.. I can..."

 "You can what?" In a swift motion, two knives buried themselves in
Sheldon's chair, pinning a fold of flesh to the simu-wood with each
one. The scream ended as the shotgun nozzle filled Sheldon's mouth,
roughly.

 Tracker leaned forward with the gun, placing a child's jump rope,
made out of cloth strips, on the table near Sheldon. "I'll tell you
what you can do, and when you can do it, you child-killing bastard.
You can die, painfully, and you can do it now." Removing the shotgun,
Sheldon's mouth became filled with the jumprope instead.

 Darkly, and without humor, Tracker hummed a tune used by children
when skipping rope, and propped open the front door. Removing the pin
from the frag grenade, he patted Sheldon on the head, and stuffed it
in the craftsman's pants.

 "FUBAR," He whispered menacingly at Sheldon, who watched with
terrified eyes. "FUBAR, Big Time." And dove out the door, into a roll,
and out of range.

--

 The Seattle Banner had little to say regarding the death of Sheldon
Parsons. His body was identified by his dental records, preserved well
due to a cotton rope stuffed in his mouth. Police found explosives and
the facilities to make more in a small room in the basement, and are
considering the case a crime-violence related killing, for which they
have no leads. Case was closed on the following day, due to lack of
prosecution intent.

--

 On a side street, a small boy played jacks, with a friend. The large
smiling man who gave him the jacks sat next to him, chuckling happily
in the memories of childhood, and praying that this one, too, would
grow older, and remember.

 To be, or not to be, Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer the
slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, or to take up arms against a
sea of troubles, and by opposing, end them.

 'Ay, there's the rub.

----

 -Tracker
Quote from Shakespeare's 'Hamlet' used with permission.. really.. He
and Elvis called me up the other day...
For the clueless: FUBAR - Fucked Up Beyond All Recognition.
(Tango & Cash refrences/similarities used because I felt like it.. :)