From: cbarilleaux@miavx1.acs.muohio.edu (Cyberpreppie)
Subject: The Interigation of Bobby Zack (1/?)
Date: 29 Sep 92 00:26:44 GMT


	O.K. I've been reading this for a while: I just decided to try my hand
at writing. If I forgot to do any stuff like register something-or-other let me
know. Please comment on this. This is my first go at this.
	These are all my characters (save for Ratz) so don't use 'em.
	Also this is copyright by charles barilleaux in '92 and all that fun
legal stuff.
	I'm new at this, I hope you like it. There is more, if the public likes
it.
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	The Interigation of Jacky Zack

     A man walked into the Catsubu. Not the kind of man you normally
see there. Wearing a pair of Khaki pants and a button down shirt with
the sleeves rolled up, he looked much like one off the neoyuppie
corporate types. A clothe satchel was slung over his back. However, as
he approached the bar, people smiled at him in familiarity, and Ratz had
a whiskey sour waiting for him when he reached the bar.
     His name was Fred "the Shrink" Jackson. He was a bit older than
the average cowboy. He had gone to college, and gotten a degree in
political science and psychology. However, he found himself drawn to
the Matrix, learning of it in school. After he graduated, he tried to be a
cowboy, and had moderate success. However, his greatest success came
after he started to use his degrees and knowledge of the Matrix in
concert. He wasn't a fence per say, but he termed himself and
"introduction broker." He knew who to put into contact with whom. Need
to sell something, the Shrink usually knew who would be the one to talk
to. He still did cowboy work, did some investing, and made a better-
than-average income for a cowboy.
     The cowboys at the Chat liked him. If someone thought they were
going nuts, thought they needed someone to talk things out, they found
his psychology degree most useful. After he helped them out, made sure
that the crisis of the moment was worked out, they would buy him a
whiskey sour and pat him on the back. But Fred usually checked up on
them. The cowboys liked him, and threw business his way. If only he
could dress...
     He propped himself up on the stool, and joked with the people at
the bar. After a point he noticed a pair came in. One was dressed in a
very nice suit. Another had on the fatigues of the Karabakian Liberation
Front. They walked over to a table, introduced themselves, then sat. He
noticed they were talking to Red Zinger.
     Red, Jackson knew, was a cowboy. She was decidedly in the upper
echelon. Her reputation was enhanced by her ability to work hardware.
He met her once, but she never talked to him. She was about his height
(five-ten), but had a luxurious stock of red hair that reached down to
her bottom.  She had a shapely figure, accented by the jumpsuits she
took to.
     They spoke for fifteen minutes. They seemed to come to some sort
of agreement, then got up. He noticed the man in the suit was about six-
three, and had a scar across his forehead. They walked up to him. The
man in the fatigues led.
     "Are you Fred Jackson?" a voice came from a bearded face.
     "Yeah. Who wants to know?"
     The man in fatigues ignored his question, glanced at the man in
the suit, then continued. "They call you the shrink?"
     "Yes." Jackson glanced back to Ratz. Ratz gave a comforting nod
to Jackson, and scratched his hand with the mechanical arm. Jackson
looked behind the men and noticed that One of Ratz's people had a
shotgun pointed at the trio in front of him. Part of him hoped that Red
Zinger was not in the man's sights. "I'm Shrink Jackson. Who the hell
are you?"
The people who sat at the bar laughed at the allusion.
     The man in the suit stepped in front of the man in fatigues. A low,
deep voice spoke to him. "We understand you are a sort of psychologist
computer joke. We represent interests that are interested in that
combination of skills."
     Jackson was feeling especially flippant this afternoon. "Yeah,
someone at a job fair back at school said that to me." The bar roared.
Even Ratz was making the grunting sound he used in place of a laugh.
"Now, why don't you tell me just who the hell you are, who the hell you
represent, where the hell you're from, so I can send them a card when
you go to hell." More laughter. Even Red and the man in fatigues was
laughing.
     "I am Jacob Fuast. With me is Packard Columbia and Red Zinger.
We represent a multinational corporation who, at this time, wishes to
remain anonymous. We wish to hire your services. Would a million do for
a retainer?"
     "You just hired yourself a Shrink."
     "We will contact you later." With that, Fuast and Columbia left.
Ratz's man lowered his weapon. Jackson stood, grabbed his sack and
whiskey sour, and took Red Zinger by the had. He led her to a table,
where they sat.
     "I know of you, Shrink," she said. "Though about talking to you
about a dozen times. Now it looks like we're partners."
     "Just what do they want us to do? Do you know?"
     "This is the second time they've talked to me. I recommended you.
Someone did something very sneaky to them. He kept something in his
head, then died, leaving a ROM construct. the information is still in
there, but so is the personality. He's not the most stable fellow in the
world, either."
     "So I take it you and I are to get the info from him?"
Yep." And she rested her hand on his fore-arm, which cluchted his
whiskey sour.