From: tagg@hg.uleth.ca (Nathaniel Tagg)
Subject: Home again, home again, jiggidy-jig
Date: 12 Aug 92 21:08:59 GMT



    Hello there, chatsubo patrons.  Besides 'a new participant emerges' and
'looking for Mr. Goodwrench', I have not tried to post anything serious yet.
Ignore those posts;  everyone else did.  I'm going to re-introduce my favorite
character one more time (this time with plans for the future).  For those of
you who find this sort of deux ex machina asthetically unpleasing, I provide
this well-used cyberpunk literary
transition:


(Hiatus.)



Tales from the OSD
---------------------------

    Drax was glad to be home.  He walked in the doors of the Other Service
Department, unconsciously taking a deep breath of air smelling of smoke,
coffee, alcohol, and lubricant.  He walked through the bar, making small nods,
waving to aquantances. No one he knew to talk to here, just the familiar faces
that lends one security.  Keeping himself visible.   A tech has to keep himself
visible, he was fond of telling people.  They don't survive on guile, or muscle,
or even brains, but experience and reputation.  A secretive tech gets no work.

    He shook the perpetual October rain out of his
spiked orange hair, and hung his trechcoat on a convinient hatstand next to a
table, careful not to cover the price tag.  Eugene hated it when people did
that, and Eugene was not a person one wished to piss off.  Everything in the
OSD had a price.  Tables, cutlary, dishes, jukebox, light bulbs, hatracks.
Everything.  Including, it was common to say, the inhabitants.  The OSD was
unique, consisting of one part bar, one part cafe, two parts black market,
ten parts warehouse and surplus goods store.

    Just what Drax needed right now.  He had just gotten back from Chiba,
spending way too much time lounging around in some godforsaken place called the
Chatsubo, ordering poorly made drinks, listening to god-awful punk music,
shooing whores.  And looking for buisness.  He had gotten lucky in his
second week, landing himself a deal with an insurance company agent, testing
some arcology's security.  The agent took most of the cash, and Drax did most
of the crawling around in service ducts.  It was enough to get him home to
Toronto, though, and that was what mattered.

   But he was here now.  He sat down at a glass table for two near the
almost-translucent window.  The OSD was currently decked out in some ancient
early 80's resturant decor.  Drax didn't care for it too much;  not enough
metal, not enough scorch marks for his taste.  Reflective.  Cold, but without
style.  The great thing about the OSD was, though, that inventory tended to
turn over quickly, always leaving the place looking brand-old every couple
of weeks.

    Drax waved over a waitress.  She was one he hadn't seen before.  She was
short, just far enough on the heavy side to give her interesting curves, and
tastefully dressed in black with black hair.  The latter was unusual; Symphony
turf was a ways east of here, the OSD residing in a gang no-man's land, partly
due to Eugene.  She came over and stared at him. He realized with a start of
embarassment that she was waiting for him to order.  "Green" he mumbled.  She
rolled her eyes slightly and left.  A better reaction that most, he thought
hopefully, watching her leave.  Maybe he would try to get her to say a word
to him later on.

    In the meantime, the local talent was just warming up.  Drax had been
looking forward to this for some time.  He had seen these five before a few
months ago.  The accordian player was a wirehead, playing by jack instead of
hands.  The rest were old-fashioned types, relying on little augmentation.
The singer/harmonica player gave a quiet count, and they all kicked in together
on the off beat.  Drax felt the tension in his shoulders relax for the first
time in weeks.  A good old dose of CyberPolka.   They were playing an old
classic Drax remembered from somewhere.

"	I can think of forty reasons
	Why I am where I am today
	All the things I didn't do
	And all the things I did.
	I don't have a lot of regrets
	Because I'm still to young to say I'll never do this or that.

	But I'll never be an American.
	And I'll never be a mother.
	I'll never take my vacations in Hawii
	I am too smart to do that."

    The band was just starting to get it together. Punks were starting to mill
around, moving to the strange ohm-pa beat with the enthusiam of those who
know they are rebelling against their own culture. God he had missed this.
He raised his good hand to summon another drink, but suddenly felt a hand
on his shoulder.

"	What does it mean when you gotta go to work
	And what does it mean when you gotta work hard
	What does it mean when it doesn't mean a thing
				  doesn't mean a thing
				  doesn't mean a thing
	Go go go go!"

    "Excuse me," said the owner of the hand, "but my associate here and I would
like to talk to you."  Drax spun his head around, half expecting to see some
dumb joeboys, or even cops. But the person at the other end of the arm was
neither.  In fact, he was strikingly plain....

--------------------------------------------------
(Okay, okay, cut me some slack, I'm new to this.  _Constructive_ critisism
always appreciated.)

Drax is mine, and he even has a future.  Borrow this stuff at your own risk of
sanity.  Copyright blah blah blah blah blah.  Disclaimer blah blah blah.

Lyrics to "Forty Reasons" by The Polka Dogs, a self-proclaimed Canadian
Cyber Polka group.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
          Nathaniel Tagg               The U of Hell,  Lethbridge, AB
    "It's just a matter of putting one point seven nine five three seven two
and two point two oh four six two eight together."     --The Doctor
___The opinions expressed by the author of the preceding message are not
nessesarily representative of the opinions of the author of the
preceding message.____
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