From: cffitzge@IASTATE.EDU (Charles F Fitzgerald)
Subject: jazz, part 1.
Date: 23 Nov 92 07:18:51 GMT
Name is Jazz. This is my story.
Story starts at the Chat'. Good place as any to start a story, so why
not? My band was up to play that night, on the little stage to the
side of the bar. I'd known Ratz since the war, and when he heard I
was gettin' a band together, he was always harpin', "Why do you not
come and play for me? Hm?" And I'd always say "'Cuz we ain't that
good yet." And that was that.
It had taken awhile for it all to come together, though. I hadn't
picked up an axe in maybe twenty years when I fell in with Sandra.
Man, what an ass. It just kind a'...well never mind, you get the
picture, don't ya? But like they say, all things got to end, and she
was just a kid, anyway. Full of ideas, dreams, and shit, and me, I'm
just a crusty old son-of-a-bitch who's seen to much death to care
about life. Well, maybe not _that_ old.
Anyway, I hooked up with Sandra, and it somehow got mentioned that I
used to do a little rockin' now and then, and she said how it was
always her dream to be a big star, the next Madonna, or somethin'.
She was a doll, at any rate, and had a bod that made a guy cream his
jeans, well, almost cream 'em, and she could carry a tune well enough,
so I thought, what the hell? my life ain't goin' nowhere, and it might
be a few laughs. Or maybe it was relivin' my childhood or somethin'.
I don't know.
We picked up a keyboard junky called Crazy Eddie who was hangin'
around the Chat' a lot, and Sandra knew this guy, Bloody, who played
bass, which left only a drummer to find. Ol' Man Rhythm was about
half my age when he joined our band, but he was good, and so what if
Sandra jumped his bed as soon as we split; they were both kids, and
kids should play together. Leave us old guys alone.
Bein' so much more experienced than the rest, and havin' twice the
connections around town, I nat'rally got drafted in as leader and
spokesman for the group, and that's how it all sat...that night...
backstage...at the Chat'.
I was tuning my stick, and Sandy leans down to give Rhythm somethin'
to remember on stage, and her skirt was way too short for her to be
leanin' like that. But then, I didn't mind--that's what God gave
little boys eyes for, ain't it?
"Ya know we have a gig sometime this _year_, don't ya guys?" Bloody
jokes, and she straightens up. "Why'd ya have to go ruin the view," I
yell at Blood, and we all laugh. Sandy comes and gives me a peck on
the cheek, and I pinch hers. She squeals a little, and runs back to
Ol' Man Rhythm, giggling. You can see the Blue Magic at work in her
attitude and cheeks. Whatever gets you through the day, I figure.
Me, I pull out cig, and stick it my mouth. "Anyone got a light," I
ask, and Crazy Eddie brings me one. "Thanks," I say. "Want one?"
"Na," he says, "I'm not into that tobbacco shit. Fucks
up your lungs they say." "What don't," I answer, but I don't press
it. I knew they were bad when I started thirty years ago, and it
hasn't stopped me yet. Maybe, they're my ticket out of here.
We get the go light and start towards the stage. I get that giddy
feeling I used to get back when both my arms were flesh and bone, and
me and my buddies were lyin' and waiting for it all to start again,
and I wonder if we're really any good, do we really have what it takes
to survive tonight.
When I got on stage that night, and Ol' Man Rhythm started to lay it
down, slow and steady, and then Bloody joined in, and Eddie, and me,
and finally, Sandy started to pour her soul out to the poor shmucks
lined up at the bar and in the booths along the back, I no longer had
any question about our ability; I wondered what had taken us so long
to get here.
---
Copyright 1992 Charles F. FitzGerald. Jazz and the Band be mine.
Keep away from them, there's a good net.head, at least for now.
Comments, criticisms, accepted and encouraged.
--
Charles F. Fitzgerald | '....Life's but a walking shadow,
Iowa State University | a poor player, that struts, and frets
cffitzge@iastate.edu | his hour upon the stage,
| and then is heard from no more....'
| _MacBeth_, by W. Shakespeare.
From: cffitzge@IASTATE.EDU (Charles F Fitzgerald)
Subject: jazz, part 2
Date: 23 Nov 92 09:01:37 GMT
The way I figure, there's two ways to keep me from seein' a nice piece
of ass. You can either poke my eyes out or kill me. So far nobody's
been able to do either, so there was no way I was gonna miss the lady
who walked in about mid-way through the second set. I say lady
'cause, although she was dressed like the usual street-slime, you
could tell she was from about 80 stories higher up. Corporate from the
way she held her head to the way her ass jiggled.
She walked over to the bar and a penny-ante merc' stepped up and
approached her. He led her to a booth to the right of the door and
they began to talk. "Business or pleasure," I wondered, and then
forgot about them for a minute and concentrated on the solo I was
supposed to be playing.
Sandy was floating on a Blue Magic cloud when we started into her
theme song. It was an oldie (but aren't all the good ones nowadays)
made in the late eighties, but it was her dream, her future life, set
to music. She sang it that night like never before.
Shootin' up junk in the bathroom,
Makin' with punks on the floor.
Livin' the scene out of her limosine,
Little Miss S in a mini-dress
Livin' it up to die
The old reflexes kicked in. It's kinda refreshing to know after all
these years, I still got 'em; they were a bitch to get, though. I was
on the floor, my axe thrown away, reaching to the back of my pants
where the Desert Eagle always stays, before the first shower of
bullets from their SMG's danced across the stage.
I threw a amp in front of me and surveyed the vicinity.
I saw Crazy twitching behind his keys, using his amps to lean against.
Bloody I couldn't see on the stage. Figure he must of jumped off and
is hiding behind the bar.
I could see more blood around the drum set then I could see of the Ol'
Man who was the source of the blood. Not good.
There was nowhere for her to go. She lay in a puddle in middle of
the stage, twitching a little. It shouldn't have been like this. You
deserved better.
I hear the sound of the Uzis again and look up to see the backs of two
big men tearing into the booth to the right of the door. Another
stands in his London trench (armoured I note) by the door, his
mirrored eyes slowly panning the Chat'.
His colleagues finish their clips and turn towards the door. Ratz
pops up from behind the bar, his jar set, his nostrils flaring, the
shotgun steady in his hands. Good ol' Ratz.
All three looked the same--the same haircut, the same trenches, even
the same, Goddam glasses, probably covering the same, Goddam
eyes--except one of 'em was maybe an inch shorter. And this one looks
at Ratz, and kinda half smiles, and nods a little. He walks up to the
bar, picks up a book of matches, lights a cigarette, takes a puff,
turns on his heel, and walks out the door. The other two follow
cautiously, their leader's exit.
---
I don't think I had ever seen Ratz that pissed. He insisted on paying
for the band's medical fees, so they actually got to go to the
hospital. Well, three of 'em did anyway. There was only one place
for Sandy now, and that just wasn't right.
I saw the rest of the guys to the hospital. Bloody wasn't hit, but he
was suffering from a little shock. Crazy took a shot in shoulder and
lost a lot of blood, but the docs said he'd live. Ol' Man Rhythm was
shot three times in the chest and once in the head. It didn't take an
Einstein to figure his fate, but the doctors gave it a go. I left
Bloody to look after him as soon as he got over it all. I went back
to the Chat'.
---
I got back just as the cops were pulling away. Inside, Ratz was
surveying the rubble. A guy in a brown leather jacket and camos was
busy scribbling in a notebook.
"I thought I saw the cops pull out a second ago," I said, walking up
to Ratz. "Who's he?" I jerked a thumb over at Mr. Notebook.
He got up and offered me a mitt. "Archangel," he said. "And you
are...?"
"A very good friend of mine," Ratz said. "Call me Jazz," I added. I
sized him up. Six two, well built, probably knows Tai, seen some
action probably in the gulf. No 'ware visible, but who can tell,
these days. Twenty six or so, with a flat top and a ponytail.
"I hired Mr. Archangel to help me get to the bottom of this mess,"
Ratz explained. "Good," I said, "I may need some help."
"You do not have to do this, my friend," Ratz said. "This is not your
business." "No," I said, and I looked over to the stage. Her blood
was a dark pond in the middle of the stage. "But she was my
business."
Ratz turned his head and followed my eyes and slowly nodded his head.
"Alright, I understand." He didn't have to say any more.
"What did the cops have to say?" I asked after a moment. "Not much,"
Archangel said. "They think it was a coporate hit. If that's the
case, there's a snowball's chance they could ever find who did it, and
if they did find them, there's no chance they'd ever stand trial."
"That sounds like experience talking," I said, and look at my new
associate a little more closely. Yea, could be an ex-cop instead.
Wonder what put the X out front. "Anyway," I say after another short
pause, "I really don't care if they can't do anything; I was just
curious if they knew who the dame was."
"No id on the body," Archangel said, as he flipped through his notes.
"Ratz says the guy was called Switchblade on the street. New, just
back from someplace down south," he read. "I believe he was involved
in the MicroTech incident," said Ratz. "He had state-of-the-art
cyber-enhancements, from what I could tell," he added.
"Fat lot of good they did him," I said. "Then I suppose there's not a
whole hell of a lot a guy can do when two goons go at him with
full-auto. Any idea who he's been working for?"
"No, he is new, as I said." Ratz again. "I believe one of the small
bosses on the East Side hired him for a job several weeks, or maybe a
month, ago, but I have not heard of him doing anything since. He used
to come in fairly often and ask if I had heard of anything."
"Well, it looks like we're shit out of luck," I said. "Maybe not,"
Archangel said. "I have a friend who, for the right inducement, might
be able to scrounge up a lead. You're welcome to tag along if you
like."
"Lead away, Amigo."
---
Lyrics from "Little Miss S" by Edie Brickel and the New Bohemians,
used without permission or knowledge. Copyright by I'm not sure
whom or when.
Copyright 1992, by Charles F. FitzGerald. Jazz and the Band, and
Archangel are mine. Please confer with me before using. Criticisms
welcome and encouraged.
--
Charles F. Fitzgerald | '....Life's but a walking shadow,
Iowa State University | a poor player, that struts, and frets
cffitzge@iastate.edu | his hour upon the stage,
| and then is heard from no more....'
| _MacBeth_, by W. Shakespeare.
From: cffitzge@IASTATE.EDU (Charles F Fitzgerald)
Subject: jazz, part 3.
Date: 24 Nov 92 09:40:25 GMT
He gave me the low down on our way over...or his version of it,
anyway. He said everybody was sayin' how the broad was definately
corp, and the merc was noticibly trash. So what were they doin'
together? The heat was definately corp as well, so they was prob'ly
icing the dame. I say it might have to do with whatever the gun
monkey was doin' down south, and he said, "No, I don't think so. Call
it a hunch." Regular Sherlock fuckin' Holmes.
Anyway, the way he figured, the dame was out for fun or profit. If
she was just slummin', it don't lead anywhere. So, he figured, why
not suppose she's down here on business...that way maybe there's a
trail. Now, there's two ways she would have known about some bum-fuck
penny-ante street merc with the rep of a two year old: one, they
worked for the same corp some time, or two, she advertised in a scream
and he answered the ad. I put in that they didn't seem like old pals
when I saw 'em. He said, "Yeah, that's pretty much what Ratz said,"
and he continued.
"It doesn't matter much which way, really, for my purposes," he said.
"Either way she leaves a trail. If they worked together, there will
be records of it. Personnel files, discharge papers, the rest. If he
was answering an ad, there'll be the ad and someone had to be a laison
between him and her."
"You're talkin' datajock," I said, rather obviously. "You got it," he
answered. "So this friend of yours, he's a keyboard cowboy?" I asked.
"You could call her that," he said with a grin.
---
We reached the apartment building a short while later. It was one of
those old sixties types, 'bout ten floors, all function, no glitz.
"She's on the ninth," Archangel said, as we entered the building, him
through the doorway, me through the door. It was like about
ninety-five percent of the buildings in the city--windows broken,
grafitti everywhere for about the first two or three floors. After
that comes the two or three floors of transients. The bosses let 'em
stay 'cause they keep the gangs from goin' much higher. This leaves
the last few floors free to rent to the few poor shmucks who still got
a workable income--shmucks like me.
There's this heavily armored box by the elevators, and after a sec' it
dawns on me that it must be some security system. I peered in an saw
my face distorted by a camera lens and smiled so whoever's on the other
end would know we're not hostile. Archangel pushed me aside and gazed
into the box. "Cynthia, it's me. I brought," he glaced over
towards me and paused a second, "a friend with me. Is it ok for us to
come up?"
"Hm...what...," I heard issuing from a brassy, little speaker hidden
somewhere behind the concrete. "...who...Oh," the voice brightened
considerably, "of course! I'll send the lift right down!"
--
The 'vader took its own sweet time comin' down and then goin' back up.
Gave me plenty of time to think that this broad must be doin' alright,
if she's got her own 'vader and a security port on ground level. Hope
that's a sign of her ability as a 'jock, not just a sign of who's
she's fuckin'. I seen too many dames who start in with some two-bit
boss, get set up in some nice spread, think they're ready for
anything. Get themselves a set up, maybe even get jacked, think they
can take on the whole Goddam Net single handed. End up mind blind or
full of more holes than swiss cheese.
Just like Sandy.
Only she didn't do anythin' to deserve it.
--
The 'vader stops and the doors slide open. Next thing I see is this
chick, dressed in some silky night-type thing, hangin' on 'Angel
acting like the only way he was gonna live was if she kept pumpin' air
in his mouth. I watched the show for maybe a minute, then I walked
out and took a look around. It appeared as if the broad had the
entire floor; not uncommon for a datajock...at least not for a _good_
datajock.
I stuck a cig in my mouth. "Hate to disturb you, but do you got a
light?" I asked. The dame unattaches and turns to look at me. Ya
know, I don't think she knew I existed until that moment. She was
lookin' at me as if she still wished I didn't.
"Does it look like I have a light?" she asked back, and I took the
opportunity to examine the merchandise in a little more detail. She
continued to glare, as I examined her figure. The nighttie didn't
cover much, and what it did cover could be seen or surmised pretty
effectively through the thin material. After admiring the view for a
couple minutes, she said "Maybe you'd like me to turn around so you
can make sure I'm not hiding one back here."
"Yeah, that'd help a lot," I said. She looked up at Archangel and
said "Who is this creep?"
"He's an associate of mine, he's called Jazz," he said. "Jazz isn't a
name," she said, "it's a really old form of music. African Americans
used to play it."
"Yeah, right, whatever," I said, and turned and walked away. Prob'ly
never heard a bar, I thought. I found the kitchen, and her stove was
gas, so I lit the cig at a burner. "Ahhh," I said after a puff,
"that's better. Now we can get started," I said as I walked back to
the 'vader. They were connected by the mouth again. It's gonna be a
_long_ night, I thought.
--
Copyright 1992 by Charles F. Fitzgerald. Jazz, the Band, Archangel,
and Cynthia are mine. Story's goin' places, so please consult with me
if you want in. Comments, criticisms welcome at the address below.
--
Charles F. Fitzgerald | '....Life's but a walking shadow,
Iowa State University | a poor player, that struts, and frets
cffitzge@iastate.edu | his hour upon the stage,
| and then is heard from no more....'
| _MacBeth_, by W. Shakespeare.
From: cffitzge@IASTATE.EDU (Charles F Fitzgerald)
Subject: jazz, part 4
Date: 29 Nov 92 05:33:16 GMT
Thanks to everyone who has written to me about Jazz. Here's
the next chapter in his story.
--
"So where do you expect me to start?" the chick was not takin' it
well. Seems Archangel hadn't been payin' her the attention she
thought she deserved, and him showin' up only on business tended to
make her a little less cooperative. Plus, since it seemed she had
never set foot on the street, everything had to be explained to her,
and most had to be explained twice. We had moved off the landing and
into a big room with a huge couch in the middle. One wall was covered
with a big ass tube.
I got up off the couch and went into the kitchen to peer into her
'fridge. No beer. "You're the big 'jock. You tell us," I said as I
searched through the cupboards. She turned to face me. "What are you
looking for?" she said. "Found it," I said as I came back with a
bottle of rot gut. "Want some?" I asked as I ran a rag through a
glass that was sitting on the counter. "I didn't say you could have
any of that," she retorted. "So?" I said as I poured three fingers of
the light orange liquid into the glass. She shook her head and turned
back to face 'Angel.
"I thought you might be able to contact some other datajocks and see
if any of them had worked with Switchblade recently, maybe set a
meeting or something," Archangel said with an imploring look at the
dame. "Oh, yeah, and maybe you want me to have them divert a couple
thousand euro into some Swiss bank accounts for us while I'm at it,"
she replied. "Couldn't hurt," I suggested as I downed the whisky and
started back to the couch. They both glared at me.
"Isn't there some way you could get them to talk? I thought you
'jocks were always trading secrets," Archangel said. "Trading is the
operative word in that sentence," she replied. "If I don't offer
something, nobody's going to tell me anything. And it better be
something good, or I shouldn't even try." We sat in silence for a
minute, and I was able to enjoy another shot in peace.
"What kind of thing do you need?" I asked, popping another cig in my
mouth. I lit up using a match I found with the whisky, and the broad
answered my question. "Oh, lots of things would work. Cash or credit
are usually the best, though passwords or programs do fine, normally.
Sometimes we trade favors, but lots of guys are wary of them, so they
don't work as well." 'Angel looked a little puzzled. "Favors?" he
questioned. "Yeah," she replied, "you know. I owe you a favor if you
can give me a door into the Water Works west facility or something.
Doesn't always work, but I've used it before."
"Then I've got it," I said taking another gulp of the lubricant.
"Tell 'em Ratz owes 'em one if they can give us a lead on the
Switchblade dude." Her mug was a study in bewilderment. "Who owes
them one?" she asked. "Ratz," I provide.
"Who's Ratz?"
Kid was hopeless, that's all there was to it.
--
She got both the street wash and the uptown shit on her tube. Musta'
had some special feed on the roof or somethin'. Anyway, we were
watchin' an old sci-flick I rememered watchin' in the theatre when it
came out, starring that old-guy, Harrison Ford, as some police kind a'
guy. Goes around chasin' down and shootin' up these renegade 'borgs,
or somethin'. Really takes a beatin'. Not too much skin, but a
pretty decent movie, over all.
It was just gettin' to the good part, when the psycho 'borg leader
starts huntin' 'im down, when this little window opens in the bottom
of the screen, and there's the chick, lookin' more puzzled than ever.
"Just who is this Ratz guy?" the little picture asked, muting the
movie for a second. "Friend o' mine," I answered. "Why you want to
know? Won't anyone fork the 'fo?"
"No, it's just like everyone wants to take me up on my offer, though
most have no information to give me. I've never had this kind of
response before," she explained. "Just got to know the right people,"
I said. "I guess," she said, impressed.
"Anyway," she continued, "it looks like Ratz owes Nightmare a favor.
Nightmare says Switchblade approached him a week ago to help
Switchblade get in touch with someone from an ad in some newspaper
called _Mercenary Nights_. I've been able to trace the number in the
ad back to an employee of Maas Biotech Labs by the name of Jaqueline
Frondt, and I should have a complete bio in a couple of seconds."
There was a moments pause, so I had time to watch the 'borg stick an
old, rusty nail through its palm. Then, another window opened in the
screen to reveal a picture of the dame who walked into the Chat' last
night. I poured another three fingers into the glass. "That's her,"
I said and swallowed the glass's contents.
"Gentlemen, meet Jaqueline Frondt, lately of Mass Biotech Labs,
Austria. Assitant director of the genetic enhancement division. My
only question is, 'What's she doing here?'" the little, blonde head
said. "The world may never know," I said. The quote was lost the
kids.
--
After giving us the lowdown, she felt it was time for her payment, and
as I wasn't in the mood for sittin' on my duff listenin' to moans and
groans for a couple of hours, I got Cynthia to let me out. She also
gave me a password I could use to get back in--that way I wouldn't
have to disturb 'em when I came back.
I first went to the Chat' and told Ratz how it stood. He had the
place lookin' okay, and he said he thought he could open that night or
the next mornin' at the latest. I called Bloody at the hospital and
he said that Eddie was lookin' lots better and had regained
conciousness once for a minute. Ol' Man Rhythm was still in ICU, but
the docs said he'd pull through. Yeah right, I thought, but I didn't
have the heart to blow Bloody's hopes away.
I told Ratz good-bye and headed out into the street. The chick only
had some health food shit in her pad, so I stopped for a bite. I
picked up a street scream and read about the shoot-up. No new news.
I bought a bottle of Jack and headed towards my digs.
I climbed the sixteen flights of stairs that lead to my place, weaving
my way through the various bodies as I go. I gave old Betty what was
left from my lunch, and she smiled her toothless smile and nodded her
head like always. I got to the eighth floor and walked to my door.
I looked down at the broken lock. "Goddam bosses," I said to myself.
"I don't see what I pay 'em for if they can't keep the riff-raff from
gettin' at my shit!"
I swung the door open and walked in. The light by the big chair in
the corner was on, and a large head rose above the chair's back. The
door behind me swung close and I turned to see two large men emerge
from the shadows, their eyes covered by sunglasses, their hands
holding holding very substantial firearms.
"Come in Herr Jazz. We must talk."
--
Copyright 1992 by Charles F. Fitzgerald. Jazz, his band, Archangel,
and Cynthia are mine. Comments, criticisms welcome.
--
Charles F. Fitzgerald | '....Life's but a walking shadow,
Iowa State University | a poor player, that struts, and frets
cffitzge@iastate.edu | his hour upon the stage,
| and then is heard from no more....'
| _MacBeth_, by W. Shakespeare.
From: cffitzge@IASTATE.EDU (Charles F Fitzgerald)
Subject: jazz, part 5.
Date: 1 Dec 92 08:02:15 GMT
If there's one thing that pisses me off, its bein' told what to do in
my own place. I mean, a guy's home is his castle, right?, even when
that home is a shithole like mine. So when that guy sittin' in _my_
chair tells _me_ to come and sit down I was pretty riled.
Then I remembered the heat his friends were packin' and decided to
take a chill. Besides, I wasn't dead yet, and that's always a plus.
So, I took a pull from the bottle and proceeded to take a seat on my
couch, across from the asshole.
"I vas beginning to tink you may not be coming home tonight, yes? I
am glad you did. I tink you will be glad that you be coming home
tonight as well after we talk," he said with this big, shit-eating
grin. "We'll see," I said as I got out a cig. "Gotta light?" He
reaches into the pocket of his tailor-made pin-stripe and pulls out a
gold lighter and a cigarette case. He pops a cig between his lips and
lights us both up.
"So, you worked with Jaqueline?" I asked, and he gives a small start.
It must of caught him off guard, 'cause he swallowed some smoke wrong
and began a little coughing fit. I sat back and took a few drags.
"How did you...," he started after he regained his composure, but then
he changed his mind. "No matter," he said, and a small smile crept
across his ugly mug. "I did not think you vould have found zhat out.
I underestimated you; I vill not do so again." He looked me over, a
little more closely this time.
"I have come to offer you a proposition," he said after a moment's
pause. "I understand you vere involved in a small incident at a
night-club nearby, no?, and that you vere attempting to find zhose who
vere responsible, yes?"
"Well, I'm not sure I'd call the Chat' a night-club; it's more like a
bar. But, yeah, that's pretty much how it stands," I said.
"I too am interested in finding zose who vere responsible for zhe
incident, and am villing to pay for any information you may find." He
lifted a briefcase from the floor by his leg. "I have brought zhis
for a retainer." He handed me the 'case. "Look, look inside," he
said, gesturing with his hands. I lifted the lid to see all the nice,
neat rows of crisp, clean euro lined up pretty as you please.
--
The way I figured it, if I had refused, they'd have probably iced me
on the spot, or tortured me to find out everything I knew, then killed
me. Either way, I end up dead, so why not take the money? I was
gonna do the job anyway, and 50,000 euro never hurts...well, almost
never hurts.
I unloaded the cash for some durable goods--some diamonds, a little
gold, some machine grade poly-carb--at a good rate, which I then
stashed in a duffelbag, locked in a lockbox down at the 'Trak. I then
decided it was about time to see if the love-birds were done with
their mating rituals, so I proceeded across town to their roost.
--
"'Bout time," Archangel said, as I walked into the living room. He
was sprawled upon the couch watching the tube, eatin' somethin' that
looked like little, white worms. "Where've you been?" he asked,
between mouthfuls. "Out," I answered. I found a light and sat down
to watch the tube. He was watching one of the wash stations news
broadcasts.
"You missed the report on the Chat'," he said after another mouthfull.
"It's recorded if you're interested. Nothing new on it, though." He
resumed his eating, and I took a thoughtful drag.
"Word on the street says Maas is looking for those responsible," I
said after careful consideration. No point in telling anyone too
much, these days. He perked up. "Oh, they say it's _Maas_?" he asked,
getting a little excited. "Naw," I answered, "just some corp. I say
it's Maas. Call it a hunch," I added with a little grin.
He sat up, pulled his notebook out of his pocket, and began to look
over what he had written so far. I started to watch the news again.
After a couple minutes I remembered what was missing. "Where's
Cynthia," I asked. "She's trying to find out more about our friend
Ms. Frondt," 'Angel answered. "Any progress so far?" I asked. "Why
don't you ask her?" he said, impatiently, and flicked a button on the
big screen's controller. The dame appeared in the little window
again.
"Oh, so you're back," she started in. "What do you want? I'm busy."
"Just wanted to see you're shining, smiling face, that's all," I
answered. No point bein' rude, after all. "Gosh, what a sight for
sore eyes." Archangel loked at me and shook his head.
"Have you found anything out yet?" Archangel asked, after a little
sigh. "Well," she began, "I'm not sure how to answer. I've found
lots out about our little Miss Frondt, but I'm not sure how much of it
is useful. She was five six, blue eyes, brown hair, weight
one-thirtyfive. Single. Born in Rotterdam in the Netherlands to
Earnest and Julie Frondt, the second of July, 1998. Went to school,
haven't tracked down her early education, finished at Harvard in 2018
with a degree in MIS and went to work for Maas. Based originally with
the Chiba branch, she was transferred to Austria two years, five
months ago. There's more, do you want me to continue?"
"No, I think that will do for now," Archangel answered. "What about
her colleagues? Have you found out anything about possible friends,
associates, lovers?"
"Not much, so far," she answered. "That could take a while to dig up.
Any other ideas?"
"Hmmm," 'Angel mused, and flipped through the notebook. "What about
the 'genetic enhancement division' of Maas. Any info on that?"
"Ice around that is _real_ thick," she said. "The bio-corps hide
their data really jealously. I've only been able to get a few names.
Head researcher is named Dr. Julius Rhymer, one of the foremost names
in bio-engineering. I heard him talk once, kinda spacey, all and
all." (He's not the only one, I thought.) "Her immediate supervisor
was a guy named Karl Von Bierlein, director of genetic enhancement.
That's about it so far."
"What do you know about the Rhymer guy?" Archangel asked. I decided
I should find that whiskey again, about this time. "Not much
locally," she said, "but I should be able to access quite a bit fairly
easily. Do you want me to concentrate my efforts on him for a while?"
"Why not," he said, "we don't seem to be getting anywhere on the
lady." "Okay," she said, "give me a couple hours, and I'll see what I
can find." I threw my feet unto the coffee table and leaned back.
"Wake me when she's ready," I said, and I proceeded to take a trip
into la-la land.
--
Copyright 1992, Charles F. FitzGerald. Jazz, his band Archangel,
Cynthia are mine. Comments, criticisms welcome.
--
Charles F. Fitzgerald | '....Life's but a walking shadow,
Iowa State University | a poor player, that struts, and frets
cffitzge@iastate.edu | his hour upon the stage,
| and then is heard from no more....'
| _MacBeth_, by W. Shakespeare.
From: cffitzge@IASTATE.EDU (Charles F Fitzgerald)
Subject: jazz, part 6
Date: 14 Jan 93 07:29:54 GMT
I can hardly believe this is part six already. It's kinda short,
but I wanted to post something, so here it is.
--
I hate sleepin' in chairs--always wake up with a little crick in the
neck and a feeling like I missed something while I was snoozing. I
had missed somethin' when I finally woke up in the dame's flat.
'Angel was nice enough to fill me in, though.
Seems like the Rhymer angle had paid off in spades. The broad had
been able to find out that the good doctor had an account at the Cal
Tech CompuNet for the last twenty years which he accessed at least
once per day, but for the previous three months no access had been
recorded. She had also found that an Innsbruck deli had delivered a
pastrami and swiss on rye to the front desk of Maas BioTech for a Dr.
Rhymer every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday in the previous year up
until the week after the last recorded access to the Cal Tech
computers.
"My hunch is," Archangel said, "that one of Maas' rivals abducted
Rhymer and has him holed up somewhere in the City. Frondt knows her
ass is grass if the VP's find out she lost the baby, so she starts a
quiet investigation. Somehow, she finds a trail that leads to Low
Town. Perfect place to hide him--plenty of access to the latest tech
with little civil authority and almost complete anarchy. Like losing
a needle in a hay stack.
"So, she comes to the City and realizes that there is no way in hell
that she'll be able to find him down here. All her connections are
in Up Town, and they don't do shit for her down here. So she puts the
ad in the scream and Switchblade answers. She meets with him, and
somehow the guys who are holding Rhymer find out. (Maybe they've got
a mole in Maas or their following Frondt, I don't know.) They decide
she's too close, and the rest, as they say, is history. What do you
think?"
"Makes sense," I answered, "but how do we find out for sure? I mean,
it sounds reasonable, but the evidence is all pretty circumstantial."
"I know, but it's the best we've got so far. I figure, we play this
hand as far as it goes and see what it leaves us with. Right now
Cynthia is trying to locate the possible location of Rhymer, assuming
my hunch is valid."
"How's she doin' that?" I asked.
"From all accounts, Rhymer is a workaholic. It seems unlikely that he
could be kept from his work for a long period of time, nor would his
new employers want to. Thus, we reasoned, they have probably set up a
laboratory for his use while he resides here. Cynthia thinks that
such a laboratory would need quite a bit of power to run, so she is
attempting to find any large power users that suddenly appeared within
the last three months."
"Actually," the chick said from the TV again, "I expanded the search
to the last six months. I thought the abductors may have set the
laboratory up in advance in order to avoid notice."
"So, did you find anything?" Archangel asked, anxiously.
"I've found about a dozen locations that fit the bill, but I have not
been able to narrow the list any further. I'll show you what I got."
The screen was filled with a bunch of green lines that intersected
each other against a black background, so that a map of the City was
shown in 3-D. "The section of the map that we're interested in is
about three years old, so I'm not sure how accurate my placement of
the power sources will be," she explained. Several red dots appeared
at different locations across grid.
Between Archangel and I, we managed to eliminate five of the power
source locations that the skirt had selected. That left about a half
dozen as possible hide-aways for a scientist who may not even be in
the City. Archangel and I decided we would go look and see what was
currently at the different points of interest while Cynthia tried to
see what else she could find out on the Net.
---
The third place we checked was on the lower south side. It was an old
brick warehouse, about three stories tall. The outside was covered
with gang symbols and other grafitti, and the bottom windows were all
boarded up.
Next door, there was a souvenier of the roaring eighties--a parking
garage. It was full of abandoned cars, stripped of anything that
might be considered in anyway useful, and burned or rusted into piles
of rotten junk. Archangel thought we might get a look in the upper
windows or the roof from the top, so we started to climb the ramp.
Our climb ended abruptly on what was left of the second level. There,
lying on the their backs, their mirrored eyes reflecting the girders
of the next level, lay the bodies of two very large men.
---
Copyright 1993, by Charles F. FitzGerald. Jazz, Archangel, Cynthia,
and the band are all mine. Comments, criticisms welcome at below
address.
--
Charles F. Fitzgerald | '...it's a tale, told by an idiot,
Iowa State University | full of sound and fury,
cffitzge@iastate.edu | signifying nothing.'
| _MacBeth_, by W. Shakespeare.
From: cffitzge@IASTATE.EDU (Charles F Fitzgerald)
Subject: jazz, part eight
Date: 6 Mar 93 03:18:41 GMT
Here's the next bit of Jazz. I hope one, or maybe two, more
installments will finish this series. I appreciate everyone's
interest and am thinking about a sequel when this is finally
brought to a close.
---
I wasn't expecting a brass band when we brought the kid back to
Cynthia's place, but she did overdo the theatricals a bit. Seemed
like she had never seen anyone under the age of eighteen before the
she carried on. I admit the kid was nothin' to look at, but the way
the babe acted, you might have thought I was carryin' the Anti-Christ
or some shit.
She starts in with the regular third degree, "What's that? Where'd
that come from? Why'd you have to bring it here?" I began to think
I'd been run downtown with some of Archangel's old buddies.
"It's a kid, alright!" I yelled, and her face froze in an expression
of defiance. "It ain't gonna hurt ya to share you're livin' space for
a coupla' days, until this shit blows over."
"She sure is ugly," the broad said, with a look of disgust. "Look at
this hair, 'Angel! It's all stringy, and limp, and _white_! I would
hate to be her mother!"
"She'd prob'ly hate it too," I said, disliking the dame more than
usual. Cynthia tossed her head back to send her full-bodied golden
hair cascading over her shoulders, turned on her heel, and stalked out
of the room. Archangel looked sheepishly at me and the kid and
followed her through the open door. "Good riddance," I thought as I
tucked the kid in on the large couch, her tiny frame getting swallowed
by the folds of lush fabric.
---
After I got the kid a glass of water and saw her big, pale blue eyes
shut and her breathing relax, I went for a walk. It had been awhile
since I had checked on the Band, and I was anxious for news. I wasn't
surprised when I got it though; Ol' Man Rhythm hadn't made it through
the night.
---
I stopped into the Chat' on my way back to Cynthia's place. Ratz was
extremely curious for news on our progress, though he thoughtfully
managed to only ask a couple of questions; he had got the news from
the hospital earlier that day, along with the bill.
I told him we had made progress, but I didn't know when we would bring
the caper to its conclusion. I didn't want to tell him too much,
'cause if there's one thing the Chat has plenty of its idle ears.
Christ, there was some word that even the bugs got ears now.
---
I drank to Ol' Man Rhythm. I drank to Sandy. I drank to the kid on
Cynthia's couch. I drank to all the other miserable wretches in this
hell-pit of a world. I drank to Ol' Man Rhythm, again. And again.
And again.
---
The crowd started clear about two, and I asked Ratz if I could have a
word with him in private. He told his big, Asian assistant to watch
the bar for a minute and took off his apron. I followed him through
the dirty, wooden door behind the bar, into the small office Ratz used
to store his ledgers and his safe.
"What is it, my friend?" he asked, as I put the battered duffle-bag I
had retrieved from its lockbox on his desk, the papers crumpling under
its weight.
"This job is starting to look a little dangerous. I'm thinkin' that
after it all comes down, I might want to make myself scarce for a
little while," I explained, with a knowing look. He nodded in sad
agreement as I opened the bag. "I need a coupla' things, done before
I can go, though. I was hopin' you would help," I said as I slid the
bag over to him.
"Of course whatev..." he began, and his chin hit the floor. "Mein
Gott!" he exclaimed, drawing out one of the bars of poly-carb, "there
is a fortune in here!"
"It should bring between 43 and 51 K," I said, distractedly. "I want
it to go to Crazy Eddie and Bloody. But first, I need transport out
of town for two; can you manage it?"
"How long?" he asked, his eyebrow lifting at the number of passengers.
"Tomorrow, maybe the next day," I answered, ignoring the unasked
question.
"It will not be pleasant accomodations, but I think I can find you
something," he said, after a short moment's consideration.
"One last thing," I said, "we're going to need more firepower; can you
recommend anybody?"
"Can I recommend anyone?" he asked with a rhetorical smile. "My
friend Jazz, certainly you know me well enough to make such a question
ridiculous."
---
Jazz recommended a guy who called himself Blood-Axe. He lived on the
third floor of a rattrap on the lower east side; a decapitated rat
hung from the bracket that once housed a polite, little
knocker--sometime, maybe a million years ago. The throng of rag-clad
wretches came to an abrupt end about 20 feet from his door and began
again, 20' down the hall on the other side.
I decided the knocker just wasn't my style, and so employed a hearty
thump, instead. Scarcely a second later the door flew open and a six
foot five, two-thirtyfive, cammo-clad figure with a black beret on one
side of his crew-cut head was framed in the door, blocking most the
light from the bare bulb sticking out of a lamp on a table behind him.
He had a regulation, USA issue, M-16D--smart rigged--aimed at my gut.
Not the best way to start a friendship, I thought.
---
Copyright 1993 by Charles F. FitzGerald. All characters, Jazz,
Archangel, Cynthia, Blood-Axe, Ratz ... OOPS, sorry, got a little
carried away there :-) ... are mine. Drop me a line before using them,
please (or drop me a line before not using them; I'm easy). I'd
appreciate comments on this, so please respond.
--
Charles F. Fitzgerald | '...it's a tale, told by an idiot,
Iowa State University | full of sound and fury,
cffitzge@iastate.edu | signifying nothing.'
| _MacBeth_, by W. Shakespeare.
From: cffitzge@IASTATE.EDU (Charles F Fitzgerald)
Subject: jazz, part nine
Date: 10 Apr 93 05:48:39 GMT
It's been awhile since I've posted anything, so I thought I'd get
this out as soon as possible. It may be a little rough, therefore,
and there might be some small errors in it. Oh well.
---
I pulled a pack of cigs from pocket and popped one in my mouth.
"Gotta light?" I asked. This puzzled him a second, and he adjusted
his stance and squinted at me. He didn't move the entirely to large
muzzle from its bead on my gut.
"Look," I said, starting to get a little annoyed, "Ratz sent me; told
me, maybe you were lookin' for a job."
"Ratz sent you," he kinda growled at me.
"Yeah," I said, "you gonna let me in, or are you gonna fill me full of
holes. Make up your mind; I don't got all day."
He looked at me a second and then made a kinda gurgling sound, which I
figured must be some type of laughter, and raised the gun. He then
moved to one side of the doorway and said "Get in." While I entered,
he gave a furtive look down both sides of the corridor and then heaved
the door to.
"Speak your peice," he said as I surveyed the premises. The room was
covered with old pizza boxes, papers, and beer cans. On the wall was
mounted two submachineguns, at least five different handguns, a
grenade launcher, and a string of pineapple hand-grenades.
"Ya gotta light anywhere," I said, and quick as a wink a disposable
Bic came flyin' through the air at me. I managed to catch it with
only a little fumbling and lit up. I noticed as I threw the lighter
back the jerky motions of a guy who's had his spine torn out and
replaced with fiber-optic cables in my new companion.
"It all started at the Chat," I said as I cleared myself a place on
the couch.
---
I brought Blood Axe back to Cynthia's place and introduced him all
around. It was clear that the dame didn't approve of his presence,
but I wasn't lookin' for her seal of approval, anyway. She promptly
left the room with a toss of her head which was just as well with me.
The kid was suckin' soda through a straw, her big eyes fixed on the
large screen in front of her. I squatted in front of her and looked
up at 'Angel. "She done anything while I was out?" She stopped
lookin' at the tube and fixed her soulful eyes on me.
"Just sit and watch TV," Archangel replied. "When I got up this
morning, she was just sitting there. We've given her something to eat
and drink, but after a couple of tries at communication, we decided
she must be deaf or dumb or somethin'."
"Why do you speak in the English language?" the kid said in a
disturbing monotone. Archangel started a little, and the big merc
chuckled a little. I smiled a little myself.
"I don't know as I have ever considered that question," I replied, and
she began to look a little puzzled. "I guess it's just what I've
always used. Tell me, what's you're name?"
"Meena," she replied, in her strange way.
"Meena, huh? I'm called Jazz," I said, extending a palm. "Nice ta
meet ya, Meena." She looked puzzled, like she wasn't sure what the
gesture meant. Eventually, she grabbed ahold of it and began to
examine it, turning over once and running her fingers over the seams.
She then studied her hand for a second, and then resumed her gaze into
my face.
"Your hand is abnormal," she said, conclusively. "It resembles a
mechanic construct as opposed to a living organ." I smiled a little
at her description of my prosthesis.
"Can't hide anything from you," I said. "Where ya from, kid? What
happened to your parents?"
"The two questions will be answered in the order asked," she replied,
to clear misconceptions we might have been harboring. "I was most
recently in the Bioengineering Laboratory Division Facility number
3975. I do not have any parents."
Archangel had moved closer and was now squatting on the other side of
Meena. "What you mean you don't have any parents?" he asked,
increduously. "Everyone's got parents." She looked over at him, and
then up at the screen above our heads.
We waited, our eyes fixed on the ragged waif. I decided to sit on the
floor, and pulled out a cigarette. Blood Axe sat on the couch with a
thump, and started to watch the tube as well. 'Angel turned away with
an exasperated look and went into the room Cynthia had gone into. I
started searching my pockets for a light, when suddenly a lighter fell
in my lap. "Thanks," I said, looking up at BA and he nodded and kinda
growled in acknowledgement. I lit the cig and inhaled deeply.
The kid looked at me curiously. "Why do inhale the smoke of a lit,
straight cylindar of small radial dimension in comparison to its
length dimension?" she asked, making it sound almost like a statement
rather than a question.
I shook my head and chuckled a little. "You sure got a funny way of
expressin' yourself, kid," I said. "Why don't ya have any parents,
kid?"
"You have not answered my question," she stated and looked at me with
expectant eyes.
"Okay, it's a cigarette, and that's what they're for," I replied,
curtly. "Now you answer my question, okay?"
"Your answer is not sufficiently informative," she replied, but then
with a slightly superior air she added, "but I have been informed
about the abuse of the plant named tobacco by the creation of items
known as cigarettes. The abuse was carried out extensively in the
preceeding century even after great evidence to their harmful effects
to the human organism was discovered. Cigarette smoking is not
regarded as an intelligent course of action," she finished,
definitively.
"Look, I don't need a lecture about the evils of smoking," I said, a
little crossly. Immediately she dropped her eyes, and her face
clouded up. "Great, just go and yell at the kid, why don't you," I
thought, and then added aloud, "Look, don't feel bad. Why don't you
tell me a little more about yourself." I put the cig out under the
coffee-table and said, "Why don't you have any parents? and Where the
hell is Bioengineering place number whatever it was?"
She perked up a little and said, "I do not have any parents because my
conception was completed within the Bioengineering Division Laboratory
Facility number 0118 and the incubation was completed in the
Bioengineering Division Laboratory Facility number 0195. I am not
aware of the location of Bioengineering Division Laboratory Facility
number 3975 in relation to any other standard site. Bioengineering
Division Laboratory Facilities numbers 0118, 0195, 0171, 0172, 0173,
and 0174 were all located within the site standardly referred to as
Innsbruk which is located within the site standardly referred to as
Austria which is located ...."
"Okay, okay, I get the idea," I said. "Was this facility number, um,
3975 very close to where we found you?"
"The Facility number 3975 was approximately 0.35 kilometers from the
structure in which ..." her normal fluid speech stopped short. She
looked at me with wide, frightened eyes, and she backed up a little.
"You will not take me back." I wasn't sure if it was a question or a
statement of defiance.
"Calm down, kid," I said, as soothingly as I could. "I won't take you
anywhere you don't want to go. Promise." She calmed down and after a
second, she seemed downright chipper again.
---
"The kid pretty much confirms all our suspicions," I told Archangel
later. "That old warehouse seems to be some kind of lab facility, and
the kid was some kinda guinea-pig. She managed to escape a little
while before we came along."
"So what's are next move," the merc asked.
I pulled the Desert Eagle out from the back of my pants. "Now," I
said, slapping a cartridge in with a satisfying click, "we take the
action to them."
I made a little, wry smile. Blood Axe started to chuckle a little, and
then a little more, then a little more, and finally burst out
laughing. Archangel shook his head and looked down at the floor.
Behind him I saw Meena, still staring at the tube.
---
Copyright 1993 by Charles F. FitzGerald, all rights reserved. The
characters are mine, so how about you get permission before using
them, okay choomba. Comments, questions, as usual, welcome at the
address below. See ya in the funny papers.
--
Charles F. Fitzgerald | '...it's a tale, told by an idiot,
Iowa State University | full of sound and fury,
cffitzge@iastate.edu | signifying nothing.'
| _MacBeth_, by W. Shakespeare.
From: cffitzge@IASTATE.EDU (Charles F. Fitzgerald)
Subject: jazz, part 10
Date: 24 Apr 93 04:18:33 GMT
I took my place on the right side of the steel door while Blood Axe
stood directly in front of it with his two sub-mgs plugged and loaded.
Archangel, meanwhile, busied himself with the door's controls on the
left. "Bingo," 'Angel said as I heard the gears behind the wall start
to move the steel frame from its resting place.
A stab of white, fluorescent light pierced into the city's brown and
yellow gloom, illuminating the body of the big mercenary in front of
me.
His face broke into a big smile.
The submachineguns sounded in unison.
There was a thud and a crash somewhere inside.
I peeked around the door.
A desk with a TV monitor all shot to shit. Wall behind spattered with
blood.
Alarms started ringing.
I moved in, crouching, towards the desk.
A hallway to the left of the desk.
Blood Axe behind me.
Footsteps coming down the hall.
Door to the right of the entrance flies open.
Drop and roll.
Bullets flying from the direction of the door.
Three suits coming down the hall.
Axe's subs going.
Pain! Blood! Don't think...Shoot!
--Blam--Blam--Blam--
One suit's head explodes. Hit to the chest of the other--falls
against the wall.
Thump from the right.
Where's 'Angel?
Clips extracted and reloaded behind.
--Blam--Blam--
Six shots left.
Three shots. Two high, one wide. Roll.
One shot missed, one hit in leg. Blood.
Suit recovering. Gun shaky. Must have armour under suits. Shoot for
heads.
--Blam--
Between the eyes.
SMG behind opens up.
Blood everywhere.
Get up.
Check arm.
"You okay," I heard Blood Axe say as he gave me a little glance and
headed towards the hallway. Archangel headed towards the desk and
started to fiddle with some shit underneath. The bullet had torn a
pretty good chunk of flesh off the top of arm, but I figured I'd live.
I ripped the end off my shirt and wrapped it around the spot.
"C'mon, let's see where this leads," I said and walked towards the
hall.
Drop and fire.
Bullets hitting the walls.
'Angel takes one in the back.
"unngh," Blood Axe slams against the wall.
--Blam--Blam--Blam--
Suit down at the end of the hall. Turns tail and runs into a door on
the right.
Run.
Door locked.
--Crash--
Flight of stairs. Steps ahead.
Up.
Too old.
Door slam.
Top. Door closed. Feet below starting to climb.
One, two, three ... Crash.
Door open fallen back against the wall. Light streaming out. Hum of
machinery, computers.
Blood Axe beside me.
I swivelled around to the open doorway, gun first, holding my fire.
Before me was a large laboratory complex. Computers, desks, lab
tables, the works. On the far side was the suit; in front of him, he
held a guy with glasses and a lab coat.
On the left, there were little rooms, some kind of plexiglass
providing a window into each. Inside, little faces stared out--faces
like Meena.
"Come any nearer and the good doctor gets it!" threatened the suit.
"Your bosses wouldn't like that would they?" he added, a wicked smile
growing beneath his dark glasses.
"Got it all wrong," I said and raised my gun to peer down its sights.
"I don't give a shit about that old fucker." The suit's calm was
shaken. I pulled the trigger.
--Blam--
The suit's head flew backwards, a trail of red arced from his forhead
and splattered against the pristine white. His Uzi sputtered bullets
in wild abandon. The doctor somehow managed to avoid getting hit.
I went over to a phone sitting on one of the benches and dialed the
number the Maas asshole had given me. "Maas Biotech, Security
Division," the voice on the other side said gruffly.
"Let me talk to your boss," I replied.
"Who's calling," the security guy said.
"Someone with important information for your boss," I said curtly.
"He's too busy to talk to some asshole on the phone. Why don't you
just tell me and I'll make sure he gets it."
"Suit yourself," I resigned, tired of all this shit. "Tell the Kraut
if he wants his scientist he can have him; all the opposition has been
taken care of for him so he needn't worry about getting his suit
dirty." I told the flunky the address of the building and hung up. I
turned to Blood Axe. "The owners of all this shit are coming to
collect it," I said. "If your here, they might be inclined to add a
little to whatever Ratz is payin' you. 'Course they might kill ya,
instead. Stay or go, take your pick." I saw 'Angel come through the
door, rubbing his lower back. "I thought they iced you down there," I
said.
"The wonders of Kevlar," he quipped back and then asked "What's all
this shit?"
The little grey-haired shit in the lab coat picked that moment to
establish his presence. "What is going on here! Who are you people?
What are you doing here! Where is your identification!"
I turned to the miserable worm. "Shut the _fuck_ up," I said and showed
him the muzzle of the Desert Eagle for reinforcement. I turned back
to Archangel and said "I was just telling BA that the cavalry's on its
way and they might be willing to boost you're compensation if you're
going to stay. Me, I'm takin' off."
I didn't wait for an answer. I wasn't sure how long I could keep my
finger from pulling the trigger back to send a slug into the little
round face three feet away. The vision of a piece of fast moving lead
burrowing deeper into that twisted skull was too persuasive. I
stuffed the gun into my pocket and walked out with my head down and
the faces echoing in my mind.
---
Copyright 1993 by Charles F. FitzGerald. All rights reserved. This
means, of course, that I want you to ask permission before using Jazz,
Meena, Archangel, _et. al._ like always. Comments and critisms are
also welcome, like always. Check the .sig for where to send 'em.
--
Charles F. Fitzgerald | '...it's a tale, told by an idiot,
Iowa State University | full of sound and fury,
cffitzge@iastate.edu | signifying nothing.'
| _MacBeth_, by W. Shakespeare.
From: cffitzge@IASTATE.EDU (Charles F. Fitzgerald)
Subject: jazz, epilogue
Keywords: Jazz
Date: 24 Apr 93 04:38:53 GMT
Well that's about the end of my story. What happened after? Well,
I figured sooner or later Maas would find out about Meena one way or
another, so we left. Went out west. Where? I'm not sure I want to
say. Corps tend to have a rather long memory all and all.
Ratz got us hooked up with a guy driving a big rig cross-country who
wasn't too picky when it came to earning a couple extra bucks on the
side. It was cramped, and smelled, but it got us away, and that's all
I cared about. I don't think the kid liked it though. She still has
dreams about it sometimes.
It's a wonder what plastic surgeons are capable of these days. The
kid got a lot looks at first, but after she was old enough and the
docs thought her appearance wasn't likely to change as much, I took
her to one of the best on the coast. She won't ever be Miss Euro, but
she don't stand out in a crowd anymore, either. She seems to get
along with others better now too.
Me? Well, I've got my axe and there are plenty of bands up and down
the coast who aren't really nosy about a guy's background so long as
he can wail when the chips are down. So me and the kid get by.
Now, if you don't mind, I think I better be going. That suit that
just walked in reminds me that I've been around here about as long as
is safe. Maybe we'll meet again. Maybe we won't. Who can say?
--
Copyright 1993 by Charles F. FitzGerald. All rights researved.
All characters (Jazz, Meena, Archangel, etc.) contained to be used
only with the permission of the author.
This story is dedicated to my brother, Padraic, the original Jazz.
I wish to thank all those on the newsgroup alt.cyberpunk.chatsubo who
commented or criticised the story while I was writing it. It meant a
lot to me to hear from others while developing this story.
--
Charles F. Fitzgerald | '...it's a tale, told by an idiot,
Iowa State University | full of sound and fury,
cffitzge@iastate.edu | signifying nothing.'
| _MacBeth_, by W. Shakespeare.
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