From: jawdirk@ucscb.ucsc.edu (J. Andrew Wheeler)
Subject: Story: Mono  Part 1 of ?
Date: Fri, 22 Jul 1994 19:47:43 GMT

      Here is the first part of a story (the rest isn't written yet).
Please comment.  You can e-mail me at (jawdirk@ucscb.ucsc.edu) or just
post....
Of course the story is mine, and you can distribute it as long as it
keeps my
name on it.      - J. Andrew Wheeler

                                     Mono

   "I can walk down the street, there's no one there, Though the
pavements are one huge crowd."                          - Cream (I Feel
Free)

       The rhythm is everywhere on the monorail.  It jolts through the
chairs, through their plasti-foam cushions.  You can feel it in the
alloy hand poles, and through the rubberized floor pads.  It flashes by
in the midnight street lamps, and flickers in the mirrored windows of
over- dead scrapers.
      And Johny feels it pulsing through his bones.  He feels it long
after he gets off the beast.  It just gets older and older, but it
never gets old.
      It is the night, and lightning crashes like a cymbal.
      Funny how the scrapers die at night, and are reborn when the sun
back-lights the permanent haze.  The city sleeps.  But the dirty crust
that festers between street corners has a million eyes that never
close.  Deep below the dormant towers, something is always decaying,
writhing, unchecked.
      Johny breaths and eats the city.  He lets the poisoned waters
flow through his veins.  He pushes the cluttered allies through his
mangled brain; He builds the labyrinth and watches it fall.  The
asphalt painfully merges with his skin, like lichen, while the choking
industrial infernos burn him down.
      He smoothes the treated wool overcoat behind him as he weaves
between the stacks of trash.  Some of them are people.  The red PEPSI
CO. signs seem to glare from every surface.  An old hag stands
completely nude in a brightly lit fourth story window.  Johny can feel
the eyes of the city like pinpricks. He turns up the short flight of
steps, and into roomer block 29*874.  Luckily, that's his.

       Johny run's his O.I.D. through the reinforced slot. With a
grating whine, the door pushes open to Zeni spread- eagle on the bed,
wearing a t-shirt.
      "Zeni," Johny pushes him against the back wall, then rolls him
off the bed.  His stringy arms flail lazily; that bony wrist of his
bounces off Johny's lip.  "Wake up you piece of shit."
      "Shit, wuthu fuck."  Zeni hits the snooze button on the alarm
clock.  It suddenly blares into action while Johny pulls it out of the
wall.
      "Get up, you piece of shit.  Get up before I throw your ass out
the fucking hall."
      Zeni wordlessly rolls out of bed, pulls his pants on, and limps
out the door with his backpack and trench coat.
      Johny takes one boot off and throws it nervously, too forcefully,
into the door of the mini-fridge.  He slams the front door.  He reaches
for the other boot and grabs the sheets instead.  In three seconds,
Johny is lights out.  It's been a long night.

        Johny wakes up hurting.  Franz, his other roomer (Franz is rich
and pays for twelve hours a day) is tapping his forehead with the butt
of an auto-mag.  It is cool and greasy.
      "Rise and shine, Johny boy.  It's time for you to start pissing
your life away again."
      "Fuck you.  Why don't you go... fff..."  Johny rubs eyes as Franz
starts pulling the sheet out from under him.
      "Eh, aren't these Zeni's sheets?  You two been combining hours
again?"
      "Fuck you." Johny gets up and starts packing his pack. "Fuck
you."
      Johny hears a sliding click behind him.  It's a clip. "So you
going to get out of here or what," says Franz, and Johny feels a cold
steel cylinder against his neck.
      "That's real good, Franz."
      One hand whistles.  It pulls through the air from out of the
pack, and for a split second two guns clash.  While Franz's auto drifts
serenely through the air with a wobbling speck of blood, Johny pushes
his barrel to Franz's head.  The back of his head bumps lightly against
the back wall.
      While Franz speaks quickly, "Jesus, Johny, I was just joking, the
pistol wasn't even loaded and even if it was," Johny screws the barrel
into his left nostril.  Franz scrunches up his eyes, painfully:
"Ehhhhhhh...?"
      Johny is through the door, swinging his backpack.  The door shuts
cleanly.

      The street is alive during the "daylight" hours.  It's thick rain
again, and the umbrellas make two tears, because there's just no room.
Johny never carries one, because there are always plenty around.  The
crowd is like the sea during rush hour.  It ebbs and flows.  It washes
back, away from the spray of passing cars.  It moves steadily, and
Johny darts like a fish.  All the people are dead; their faces are like
chipped stone.
      You've got to be lucky or strong to get on the mono at this hour,
and today, Johny is neither.  He sits in Papa-Coffee's, sipping black
death.  It's good to the last drop.  There is more black death in the
newspaper, and Johny slurps that up too.  "Terrorist muto-virus kills
30,000."  That was in Hong Kong.  Johny buys another coffee and wraps
the newspaper around it.  Johny has to harass Mr. Papa-Coffee to get a
few packs of sweetener.  He steals a few packs of catsup.
      Outside, the factory drift has come in, and it's suddenly humid.
As Johny coughs, the rain pounds into his coffee, and bounces off the
waxed lip.  The newspaper soaks in a few seconds.  "3 Tons of plastic
explosive ceased at B of A."  Johny flops the pages together, then
drops the mess flat on the sidewalk.  He's got places to be.
      Johny makes it onto the mono in one piece.

      The rain has stopped.  He's getting paid three hundred to sit up
on this building, staring down the barrel of his auto.  Jacky got him
this job, and so she's looking better than good:  useful.  He's
pointing for a man by the name of Mr. Johnson (It's a common name these
days?) and Johny can see, on the building across from him, some other
punk doing the same thing.  Yeah, just as long as they don't get their
Mr. Johnsons mixed up, it's all right.  The deal seems to be going down
smoothly, and then the other Johnson snaps his finger above his head.
      Johny never expected the pointer to shoot.  So there is his
Johnson, lying face (?) up in the parking lot, while his blood rolls
between the little pebbles in the asphalt.  Fuck Jacky.  And the other
Johnson is rifling through his man's jacket looking for the goods.
Suddenly it clicks.  Johny puts down the Hero Sandwich, and gets behind
the wall on top of his building.  The bullets start pounding into the
concrete on the other side.  Johny is supposed to be doing a job here.

      Johny looks at his pistol like a drunk might look at his bottle.
Another flurry pounds into the wall, and a thin dust starts to settle
across his shoulders.  Johny starts crawling towards the corner of the
building.  When he gets there, he pops up, with just enough time to see
the living Johnson opening a car door.
      Johny has always sort of liked the sound of the recoil
compensator.  It's a real nice, solid sound, full of the rhythm, like,
"Kerchnkerchnkerchnk."  So while Johny slides down the corner, the
Johnson slides with the broken-off car door, on what is left of his
back.  There is, of course, the customary flurry of bullets and
concrete chips.
      "Hey,"  shouts Johny.  More bullets, but this time it was (good)
a shorter burst.  "Hey, stop shooting; maybe we can work something out
here."

      Johny rolls the yellow pills in the baggy between his fingers.
His hands are slick with blood up to his wrists because his Johnson got
really soaked.  The other pointer is still trying to get a streak of
his own vomit out of his T-shirt.  "These guys were real amateurs, huh.
 So he told you to shoot?"
      The pointer is pretty young, "Yeah, he said, when he snapped his
fingers, to start shooting."
      "You should of hit me first, kid.  Then you could of had the
pills too."
      "Yeah, next time."
      "You know who your Johnson was?"
      "What?"
      "What was his name, kid?"
      "Oh, yeah, I think it was like Philips or something.  Started
with a "T."
      "You sure, kid?"
       As the kid started to nod, the punch came very quickly.  Johny
watched the kid's eyes roll back as his cheek slid through the
pavement.  Johny ran back three cars, to where the kid made him set his
pistol.  He killed him.
      Johny knew it was cold.  The kid was just starting out and all,
but that was precisely why he did it.  He was dead anyway: /Tony
Philips/, and if the kid couldn't use the cash, Johny sure as hell
could.  Johny sure as hell could.
      Johny looked towards the upcoming long days and nights.  It was
like two mirrors put together.  But what the fuck was Tony Philips
doing with a
shit pointer like the one Johny just iced?



Well there it is.  Depending on the response (as long as it's not
universally
rotten)  I'll try to follow it up....


From: jawdirk@ucscb.ucsc.edu (J. Andrew Wheeler)
Subject: Story: Mono - part 2
Date: Sat, 30 Jul 1994 00:38:21 GMT

  Here is the second part of Mono.  Once again, I like comments, so
please do.  Thanks for the ones I got last time (you know who you are).
 Is everyone o.k. with these sort of short pieces?  I tried to fix the
line length (tried) so tell me if that worked.  Someone
complained about spelling.  I spellcheck, and after that, too bad!
Thanks again for the comments (even the spelling one) and please
enjoy:  Once again, distribute freely, as long as it has my name on
it:



Part 2:

	Johny Morgan just sits there, in the parking lot, next to the corpse
of Tony Philips, and the broken-off car door.  He holds his scalp
firmly; he digs his fingernails in.  The stench is unpleasant.
	There is a wedge of sponge-like flesh sitting about three inches from
Johny's left boot.  It is covered with streaked clots.  It quivers in
the wind.
	"Johny, you've got to move." he whispers, "You just killed a kid....
and, and a...."  Johny has already decided that Tony Philips was not
human.  There was nothing human about him.  He was just too damn rich.
No amount of anatomy could ever change that.
	The kid has some ammunition on him, which Johny takes.  If there is
one thing that Johny knows, it is that time has run out.  He has to
stop thinking.  It is wasted time, because They can think faster.
	"Jacky..." he mumbles.  "I've got to..."  Johny looks at Tony's clean
face.  "They'll identify them too quickly.  How can I...?"
	Johny stands up.  His gray eyes look intently at nothing.  He smoothes
his overcoat behind him, careful not to touch it to the dried blood on
his hands.  Three shot up corpses within thirty yards:  it was not his
doing; it was out of his hands.  Johny moves over to the kid's body and
pries  the car keys out of the stiff hand.  As he gets behind the
wheel, Johny's eyes clench, and his mouth twists downwards.  He starts
the engine, and lets it idle for a few seconds.  Johny flinches, as he
backs over the kid's head.  The car hesitates as Johny shifts into
drive.  Tony is next.  The sound of breaking ribs, and the large crunch
of the skull isn't muffled, through the open driver's door.  He swerves
to the right to avoid it.  The grinding pop of his Johnson's head is
too much.  He gags and swallows.
	Johny gets out of the car, and walks away.

	This afternoon, the mono seems unhealthy and, somehow, perverse.
Johny's car is half filled with silent dirty children.  They sleep,
swing their legs back and forth, and play with lighters and small
blades.  They look sick and unkempt.  One of the little rats is carving
deep gouges through the seat, with a tiny razor.  An old man stares at
the blood on Johny's hand, but turns away when Johny looks at him.
	The rhythm is still there.  The chain on the spent fire extinguisher
swings back and forth, lazily.  The rail vibrates through the floor.
Johny feels agitated, or annoyed; Johny feels crazy.  The scrapers
stream by.  Reflections of choppers bounce across their windows.  There
are more ads; they seem to surround, to actively attack.  The children
are getting uglier.  Their hair seems to combine with their clothing.
The blades seem to spring from their fingers.  The old man nods
violently as the mono slows.  His eyes clench in fatigue.

	At Green Station, Johny gets off, and washes his hands in the
bathroom.  The water pressure seems to vibrate and pulse.  Once the
blood is off, he leaves the station, and steps out into the pale
afternoon lighting.  Johny hardly remembers what the sun looks like.
It's just a general direction in the overcast sky.
	Jacky's apartment is about seven blocks away.  A thin drizzle
materializes as Johny starts walking.  There are small shops up and
down the street, all on the first floor, of six to ten story buildings.
 Well-dressed people walk in an out occasionally.  Johny spots a squad
car down a side street;  three pigs in heavy black uniforms are
shooting the shit.  They are smug, and over-fed.  One of them removes a
radio from his belt and his eyes squint with pleasure as he speaks into
it.  So a helicopter takes off from the building above.  The rotors
rumble, coldly, as it tilts to one side an then accelerates away,
smoothly.
	Johny walks faster.  When he reaches Jacky's building, he spits on the
sidewalk.  He tries to wipe his teeth off with his finger, then spits
again.
The lobby is just a ten by ten room with an elevator and an intercom at
the far end.
	"Jacky, its me, Johny.  We need to talk."
	"Oh, hi Johny; how'd the job go?"
	"We need to talk."
	There is a short pause.  "Yeah, o.k."  The elevator buzzes, and the
doors slide open.  Johny steps in, and the doors close behind him.  It
takes the familiar path:  Up, left, backwards.  The doors slide open,
and three feet away, Jacky's door opens.  The room is bright with
lamplight, and white walls and plastic chairs.
	"Have They been here yet?"
	"What are you talking about, Johny?"
	Johny squints, and takes the auto out of his inside pocket.  "Do you
have any idea what shit you got me into?  Fucking Bitch?"
	"Look Johny, calm down."
	"Fuck you."
	"What is all this about?  Johny, put the gun away; you're scaring me."
	Johny points the gun at her head.  He places his finger on the
trigger, and steadies the barrel.  "Johny?..."  He takes a deep breath,
and his lips tense.  "Don't do it Johny.  Please, I can help..."  Johny
straightens his finger and places it again.  He sees her arms drop,
helplessly to her sides.  His finger tenses, once, twice.  The barrel
starts shaking.  Then it's his whole arm.
	Johny has buried his head into his arm.  "You fucking whore. I -- I
have to shoot you."    The gun moves mechanically to his side.
	Tears well up in Jacky's eyes.  "Johny, what happened?  Why... why do
you want to kill m..."
	Johny clenches his fist.  The overcoat stands up like quills.  "Jacky,
They're going to find you; and after that, They'll find me.  Jacky, do
you know who the other Johnson was?"
	"Did something go wrong?  Johny, you didn't shoot anybody, did you?"
	Johny just smiles.  "Jacky.  You dumb... Do you want to know who the
other Johnson was?"
	Jacky is grim.  "You killed him, didn't you.  Who was he?"
	"Yes, yes I did kill him, and he was Tony Philips."
	"Is Mr. Johnson safe?"
	"Nope, he's dead.  The other pointer shot him, and I killed them
both."
	"You killed Tony Philips' pointer?"
	"I don't know -- he was just a kid.  I don't have time for this Jacky.
	"Are you sure it was Tony Philips?"
	"Yes.  No.  It looked like him.  The kid said it was him.  Jesus, I
should have checked.  I couldn't.  I just didn't have time."
	Jacky sighs.  "Do you want to stay here?"
	"Are you fucking mad?"  Johny begins pacing.  It's too weird.

	The intercom buzzes.  Johny bites his upper lip.
	"You have files on your computer, Jacky?"  She nods.  "Delete them
now."
	Johny answers the intercom, "Hello."
	"This is Mr. George Carver; is Jacky Benson there?"
	As Jacky taps at the keyboard, Johny whispers fiercely, "Jacky, you
know this guy?"
	"No." she whispers.
	"Ahh..."  Johny doesn't know what to say.  "She's busy right now.  Can
you come back tomorrow?
	The voice is practiced, "Sir, this is important.  It concerns her job
security."
	"Mr. Carver, Jacky is privately employed."  Johny rolls the yellow
pills in his jacket pocket.
	"Mr. John Morgan, no one is privately employed."  The intercom taps
off.


Part 3 for sure.  And I think next time I'll try to write the whole
story out fist.  I don't like being bound by what I've already
written... what do you think?

J. Andrew Wheeler
(jawdirk@ucscb.ucsc.edu)