From: cs92jgo@brunel.ac.uk (Justin G Otto)
Subject: [Short] Wanna Bet?
Date: Fri, 14 Jan 1994 09:00:04 GMT

Here's a short piece which I've been itching to write.

Please feel free to comment. I appreciate every critique I receive.


Wanna bet?
----------

I can't explain it to someone who has never felt it. It isn't like colour.
It isn't like sound. It's just there. I'm sorry if this description lacks
a little depth, but describing a very old memory is never easy.

There was a time, up until about the age of five, when I couldn't feel
what people were thinking. It seems almost scary now, that I survived
without begin able to know what someone would do. I'm told that many
millions of people live perfectly happily without my sense.

Better than that. I can feel it's true.

I assume there are others, but realistically I won't know until I meet
one. I haven't so far, in the twenty or so years I have been able to tell.

When I was little, my grandmother gave me some advice I've never forgotten.
It was the long summer I spent on the farm aged ten. I can picture the
scene, and her saying it. Grandma was getting old, almost too old to take
care of the animals. Still, she had me for that. The old metal framed bed
squeaked as she shifted her position. The warm golden sunlight streamed
through the dust motes, and painted the floor boards the colour of olive oil.

"Girl", she said, "You get by in life with what you're dealt."

In moments of insecurity, I consider those words. What am I? I'm the wild
card you don't want to bet against, a one-eyed jack in the deck. Looking
at it that way, I guess I'm a little special.

Ah, there he is.

Sorry, I'm busy at the moment. Tracing someone. Hmm, in some kind of bar.
I can almost see the sign. It gets difficult to find someone when they're
in a familiar place. They just don't think about where they are. I have to
do it the hard way... Watch through their eyes.

'Special', now there's a word with a stigma.

Come on, come on. Look around you, asshole. Gotcha. A sign outside the door,
hmm, Japanese script. A large cup depicted in flickering pink neon. I guess
that's as good as a lead, as I'm going to get.

Tea-cup. Not a great deal, but hopefully worth the money.

The telephone number floats effortlessly back into mind, even though I
only glanced at it once. I suppose that's another of my gifts, photographic
memory with total recall. It's harder for you to imagine having that skill
than for me not to have it. I can see their simple, slow minds, struggling
to find information that's no longer there. It scares me to think that one
day, I too might be like them.

One ring. Two rings. Three rings.

"Yes?" The voice was curt. Tense. It was also my contact, Terry.

"You were right, Terry. He's in Japan. I couldn't get a fix on which part of
the country, so you'll have to guess that yourself. I did get a picture of a
downtown bar. Name of the pink tea-cup or something."

I can feel the information flood into his mind. Chatsubo. Who?

"That's the Chatsubo. Here in Chiba. I don't suppose you know who he's
waiting for do you?"

"I'm sorry", I lie. "I'm tired now. I wish I could help."

He believes me. He will pay, and go to the bar himself. He will use humour
to maintain good relations. He knows that I have no allegence to him and
would equally work for my last target. He thinks that by seeming friendly
he will prevent me from telephoning my last target and selling my services
to him. How little he knows of me. That's the way I like it. That's why my
several million dollar service is unique.

"Ok, thanks for your help. I guess you want paid huh?"

He pretends to laugh, but rolls his eyes over to an assistant signalling
that the transaction should now occur. He hears the silence on my end, and
takes it to mean that I am greedy and eager for money. I allow him to feel
superior, self-delusion is always useful.

"Right", he coughs. "It's gone through now. Bye."

Glee fills his mind. The thrill of a chase won. Closing in for a kill.

I gently push the handset into it's cradle. I prefer the older styles of
communication, only because mine is better. I have the edge when I see them
and they can't see me. No-one knows what I look like, or who I really am.

No-one knows the extent of my power, or it's true value. If I really tired
so easily then I would not be around today. My first employer had tried to
have me killed. Stupid man. It's always the men that have to be aggressive.

The man in the bar, fingers his gun nervously. He knows that the police will
find him again soon, they have been too close to his tail for too long. The
informer must die if he is to escape. In his paranoid mind, he picks through
the suspects, and selects the man he awaits. Tonight he will disappear,
never to be found again.

No one will be able to trace him. Almost fifty percent of his last haul went
straight to a cowboy who destroyed all links with the past.

With the death of his old partner, he would be safe.

No one could touch him now.


--

_Jus T. Ego

"Some people just won't listen to reason, until an elephant comes calling"