From: ratner@owlnet.rice.edu (Logan Joshua Ratner)
Subject: "Ira's Back" part 1
Date: 6 Oct 92 19:31:53 GMT


	The bar door makes no noice, but all the patrons hear it.
Without looking up they all check out the newcomer.  Such are the
reflexes of the street-smart.

	The yellow-mercury street light spilling through the door
frames a man. A casual glanze would reveal a man slightly too old
for the `combat neighborhoods;' curly gray hair topped by a hat that
was already going out of style when Phillip Marlow wore one, an old
army trench coat, and a slight limp offset by a walking cane.  But no
one in the bar uses casual glanzes.

	Their trained assesments note eyes hard but somehow weary,
good muscle tone under the coat, a fluid motion that defies the limp,
and a slightly too heavy click as the metal-tipped cane taps the floor.
Oldtimers in the 'zone at night are either passed masters or old fools,
and this one does not look the fool.  Yet he goes unrecognized.

	His hat flies over to a coat rack that hasn't seen user in years,
and his shoes start moving towards an empty bar stool.  The regulars
tense sligtly, knowing what may come next.

	The unwritten rules of the Chat state that no customers are
off'ed in the bar. The owner takes care of his customers in that respect.
Newcommers arn't customers, however.  They are either employers or initiates,
and this guy doesn't look like he's hiring.

	Any regular has the right to challenge an initiate.  The confrontations
are usually fast and often painful.  Death is unusual but permissible.
This is a croud that only accepts people who can take care of themselves.

	Respect gives first shot to the biggest rep, but usually a challenge,
if any, comes from a youngster with something to prove.  This time it comes from
a Joe-girl named Nance.

	Nance is one of the basic leather and lace types, good at acting tough,
who's been hanging around one of the groups more experienced street Ronin.
Her survival skills are fair, but not worth her mentor's time.  Speculation
in the bar is that her other skills must be superb.

	Nance steps in front of the stranger and starts the ritual. "Hey, old man,"
she starts, "This bar is for the young and the quick.  Why don't you go back to
your retirement home?"  Challenge, austicize, insult. The classic formula.

	Without a word or gesture he sidesteps Nance and continues towards the bar.
Nance is used to playing rough, but she is not used to being ignored.  This guy is
cool and Nance is quickly loosing it.

	With a sort of hissing cry, she makes a lunge at the strangers backside.
Quick as lightning, he ducks and rolls out of harms way. Fast and efficient, he still
loses style points from those who don't believe in ducking a fight.  Before anyone
realizes it, however, he has done more than duck.  The handle of his cane is suddenly
in the same point in space as the back of Nance's left knee. The knee buckles and Nance
starts to fall.  Before she even hits the ground he is standing over her with the tip
of his cane aimed at her neck.  When she does hit the floor, the back of her head
makes a rather sick sounding landing and a bit of blood flows onto the barroom floor.

	Making sure she's not interested in playing any more, he goes the rest of
the way to the bar where Ratz greets him. "Hello, Ira, it been a long time.  You
still get stoned with the old fashioned stuff?"

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The style is still rather rough.  But I'm working on it.  Both Ira and Nance are
mine, but I'd probably happily give away Nance.  Implicitly, this should be
Copyright Logan Ratner, 1992, but I don't know if its all that important to me.
All critique welcome, but I've got plans for Ira so maybe a couple more installments
first.  Neh?


From: ratner@owlnet.rice.edu (Logan Joshua Ratner)
Subject: Ira's back p.2
Date: 14 Oct 92 22:03:32 GMT


	"Hello, Ira, it been a long time.  You still get stoned with
the old fashioned stuff?"  Ratz greets the stranger who was appearantly
not completely unrecognized after all.  But then, Ratz is almost a part
of the furniture and in a way doesn't count.

	"Yeah, whiskey. Double straight.  And don't call me Ira."
	"Jake always called you Ira."
	"Jake isn't here."
	"What, you want to use that same old handle?  You know it doesn't
suit you much any more.  Besides, isn't he retired."

	Normally, Ratz doesn't argue with handles. Identities are fluid
on the street and usually this bartender calls people what they want.
However, some names carry old baggage; bad connotations. So this time
Ratz complains. That makes this little arguement a bit unusual in the Chat,
and once again Ira has the attention of some of the patrons.

	"That name will do.  Given my history it suits me pretty well.
And I am retired.  Now, can I get my drink?"
	"Ok, Vipor it is," Ratz says shaking his head. "Or you sure about
your drink order?"
	"Yes." It's almost a whisper from Ira/Vipor's mouth.

	Ratz stumps down to the far end of the bar.  Pausing at the end
he calls back over his one real shoulder. "I've got some new phamecuticals.
Totally non-addictive."
	"No," Vipor answers.

	Ratz prides himself on his selection.  House rules; nothing
experimental.  Nothing addictive.  Easy these days.  He still has
alcohol, which technically breaks rule two, but some things are traditional.
Tradition keeps him serving booze, but he's got to have something to complain
about. This time the gripe is normal and the rest of the bar ignores it.

	He poors the drink into a shot glass and uses his well maintained, old
prostetic arm to slide it down the bar.  Vipor's hand intersects the shot-glass
in a well timed motion, and he raises it to his lips.  Ratz gives what passes
for a smile in response.  Under his breath he mumbles something about old
training dying hard and gets back to work.  Vipor drinks in silence.

	Most of the bar drinks in silence, for that matter.  The loudest sound
is a lecture Malachi, a street-samuri, is giving to Nance.
	"First, you need to pick your fights better.  No one that age just
happens to be on these streets after dark."
	"But..." starts Nance, but Malachi cuts her off.
	"And second, learn to fall better.  Those stitches could have been a
broken skull.  With practice they wouldn't have even happened.  Not that you
would have won anyway.  Something tells me this Ira is Somebody."

	Eventually, Vipor gestures for a second drink.  As Ratz serves, bringing
it over this time, Vipor starts to speak up again.
	"Was that really necessary?" he asks, gesturing towards the door that
Nance has just exited.
	"You know the rules 'bout newcomers," is Ratz's reply.
	"But I'm not a newcomer.  Hell, I remember when you opened this place.
I remember when you were working in that other location, until our crowd
starting taking up all the room, and the asked you to find a separate address.
I am not a newcomer.  If anything I'm a returning oldtimer."
	"Ah, oldtimer, but no one ever RETURNS to the Chatsubo.  These people,"
has says gesturing to the room in general, "couldn't know if you had what it
takes.  And besides, I wanted to see if you still had it myself."

	"Well, I guess I still have it. But I'm getting too old for such
bullshit."

	"Oh, by the way," say Ratz, more nervously than is his want, "If you
are still Vipor, then I'm holding a letter for you."

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Ira, aka Vipor, is mine and no relation to the Ira that answers to
IRAC@yang.earlham.edu.  They do share a cool name (even if Vipor
doesn't always like it.)

Implicitly, copyright Logan Ratner, 1992.  If you want to use my characters,
ask.  Other stuff (setting, atmosphere, etc.) is more hazy. In general,
feel free.

ratner