From: jth122@curtiss.cac.psu.edu (Lone Wolf)
Subject: STORY: mikiD's
Date: 7 Mar 1994 23:46:23 GMT

Here is some new cyberpunk I just cooked up. Howyousay in academic-speak, a
`short-short'? Well, this is my version. Very eager to hear comments /
whatever about cpunk fiction. And for the record, I *do* eat a balanced diet
;-) ..... enjoy.                                                -LW


miki-D's
*******

     It smells like burning french fries, of course. Even though the place
is around the corner, just outside the Zone, but before Jaffee's place.
Well, Jaffee's old place.

     His hand pressed against the carbon-hardened door handle below the
SHIRTS AND SHOES MUST BE WORN AT ALL TIMES placard. Trembling.

     Luckily, a throng had gathered in front of the counter -- "Can I help
you/do you want fries with that/nine twenty-seven please." His crumpled
clothes were dark enough to seem like streettrash, baggy enough to conceal
his shivers.

     "Can I help you?" A small boy repeated from behind the translucent
armor bulkheads between his job and the outside scum. The wall's polish
tried to hide the long scratches of desperates trying to get at the pungent
food behind it.

     "Uh, yes. I'd like a, uh..." This was hard under normal circumstances.
Steady. "...uh..a big mac, and uh..." hmmmm something normal, nonconspicuous
-- enough of that! "uh..and two large prawns and a thing of bread sticks.
For here."

      "Do you want anything to drink with that?" Geez, forgot that too.

     "uh, yeah. A coke."

     "Small, medium, large."

     "Medium." More shaking, confined to the knees where the kid wouldn't
notice.

     "Big mac, two prawns, bread stick. That's $22.35." He fished a single
fifty out of a cargo pocket. Nearly dropped it.

     Upon which, the clamshell door of chipped amber plastic hissed open and
morbidly pushed his food forward to the sound of a host of servo motors and
actuators.

     He took the food and started hunting for a place to eat. Table filled
with gothic horror juveniles. No. Table with two musty seniors and TV. No.
Table, guarded by two solos, crammed with young execs, definitely not. He
turned away with a start, uneager to attract the solos' attention.

     Finally, a table with its back to the wall. Invisible from the street.
Better. He sidled into the gaudy plastic chair and drew the MAC-10 out of
his jacket. It had dark stains on the handgrip. No wonder it was jammed, he
mused. He started eating the prawns, one by one, and cleaning the gun.

     Funny how everybody eats at miki-D's.