by Synne Christian
Part One: Billy's Boy
The woman was dead. Killed to be precise---murdered, exterminated, removed. "Good job," said Billy, once the smoke had begun to clear.
Yeah, the woman was aced all right, there was no doubt about that. Deader'n dead. They'd be cleaning this one up for a while. "Explain it to me again, Billy," I said.
"Again?" asked Billy, that tinny, tiny little voice in my head. "Don't you ever get tir---" Just then the telephone rang and before I even had time to think about it my boinker was cocked and pointed, my finger, a steady pulse of pressure that measured the hammer of my heart in its throb, just a micron from the big trigger-squeeze.
"Nice reflexes," said Billy, "But it's just the phone." I stayed fixed on the telephone, pointing. Never drop until Billy says so.
For what seemed like an eternity, I staked the phone. I held fast and noticed, in the peripheral of vision that I was trained not to dismiss, that my knuckles were becoming a tight, bony whitish-pink. I swallowed a dry click, and felt the sweat break out and run down the sides of my face. The silence became a roar, closing in around me. An almost imperceptible tremble worked its way down my arms and into the gun. I hoped that Billy wouldn't notice.
"Steady," Billy reprimanded me as the phone again shattered the silence, beginning its second ring. My boinker remained fixed, my arms unstable concrete. "Ah, let it ring," said Billy.
I dropped the gun quick into my vest, like I'd been trained, and fell back into my usual slouch. The phone continued to ring. "What was I saying?" mumbled Billy, deep inside my head as I fumbled with the buttons of my coat---tuck this there, just so, cover that, and presto. Good to go. "I was saying something..." Billy muttered.
I looked back over at the body, and focused on it so's Billy could record the mental picture. 'Cheese,' I thought standing motionless and staring, waiting to feel the small pop deep in my left ear that would let me know that Billy was all set.
"Her name was Susan," Billy said, "Not that that means anything to you."
It didn't. "You were gonna explain it to me again..." I prompted.
"Oh yes, that's right," said Billy. "Don't you ever get tired of hear---"
"Hello?" A voice behind me.
My boinker was cocked and pointed at the little boy who had answered the telephone. No trembling this time, steady as ever. My fingers, a tightening vice. "What do I do, Billy?" I muttered.
The kid dropped the phone. In the peripheral my vision, I watched it snake a slow circle at the end of its cord, unbalanced on the linoleum of the kitchen floor. "Hello?" the telephone barked, "Hello? Kenny?"
"What do I do, Billy?"
The kid staggered backwards, tripping himself on the cord and falling on top of the receiver.
"What do I do, Billy?"
On the floor, the kid began to cry and pull at the cord, unable in his terror to free the tangled receiver from beneath him. The voice on the phone took on a more demanding, concerned edge. "Kenny? What's the matter, Kenny? Put you mother on the phone."
At this, the kid looked up, and through his tears must have seen the body in the living room.
"What do I do, Billy?"
The kid began to scream. Billy was never this indecisive. "What do I do, Billy?"
"Mommy!" Hollered the boy, between hysterical, mucusey sobs. "Mommy!"
"Oh my god, Kenny!" barked the telephone.
"What do I do, Billy?" There was a pause, the boy was between sobs, the telephone was quiet.
"Blast him," said Billy.
Same night. Busy, but not the busiest. I was eating hot dogs at Gray's Papaya, when Billy tells me I gotta go downtown.
A nice apartment in a bad section of town. It's late, so I can stand in the middle of the street and not worry about getting hit. It's just starting to rain, and I hear an explosion in the distance that doesn't quite sound like thunder. A little extra luck never hurt, I smile, busy night all around. Someone else's bad shit to keep the zoo-keepers out of my hair for a little while. I never rely on luck, but I don't spit at it, neither.
The lady's just standing there, back up against the window, all relaxed and whatnot. "How much easier could it get?" I mutter, so only Billy can hear.
Perfect shot, all in silhouette. I squint, and focus so Billy can make the call. The woman lights up a cigarette.
"That's her," says Billy.
I take the shot with video game accuracy, blasting at the fifth floor of a high-rise building at night. Boinkin' at a silhouette with her back to me.
First shot, a miss. Hits the side of the building. She turns around.
Second shot breaks some glass. Her hands fly to her face, and she starts to scream.
Third shot. Right fuckin' dead-ass on. Smack in the head and she goes down. Right in the mouth, I think.
"Good shot!" says Billy, while I button up my coat. Sirens in the distance. "Her name was Rebecca, in case you were wondering." I wasn't.
And then, after a moment's consideration, "Say, Billy. That's two women, tonight."
"You know, you're right," says Billy, "I wouldn't worry about it, though. Sometimes it just works out that way."
"Yeah," I say. And then, "Two women and a kid."
"Yeah, well," says Billy, "The kid's are the thing. You know that. We would've been back for him sooner or later. You know that."
"Yeah," I say, "Fucking baby-boomers."
Drinking coffee in Freddy Brown's. It's dark and a little smoky, the coffee and the hole. This hole's one of my favorites, running with a slightly more well-to-do crowd than most of the others in this neighborhood. Not so much trash off the streets, if you know what I mean. A little out of my league, maybe, but no one bothers me, and I don't bother them. As long as I just sit here with my coffee, everything's just peaches and roses.
Baudelaire's up on the Vid, all chaotic-eclectic neon and whatnot.
The universe can sate their appetite.
How vast the world is by light of lamps,
But in the eyes of memory how slight!"
---he says in a jangly, French-accented stereo-speech, accompanied by an orchestra of synth-metal guitars. "Yeah!" screams a guy at a table near mine, waving a fist in the air. A baldy, all muscles and sporting a thin leather vest and a hipster-chick, both looking a pretty penny. "Right on!" he cheers, raising his bottle to the neon. The chick smiles. I like the way the neon reflects in her eyes.
She sees me staring and Baldy looks over.
I turn back down to my coffee, and watch them in the peripheral, until I'm sure that they've lost interest. When Baldy starts yelling at Baudelaire again, I get up to go. I leave a ten-spot and some change on the table, and slink towards the door.
"Hey, fucker," says Baldy, behind my back. I don't turn around, just keep for the door. "Hey fucker! I'm talkin' to you!" I stop.
"Lookin' at my chickey," says Baldy, while a marching band joins Baudelaire on the Vid-screen, "I fuck you up."
"I'm sorry," I say. "I apologize. I don't want no trouble."
He's up out of his chair, and hipster-chick is laughing. I back up towards the door. "Please..." I beg him.
The first one gets me right in the gut. He's got knuckles, the metal kind. Then his left breaks two ribs and takes the wind out of my chest. In the silence that falls over the room, I can almost hear the hydraulics working in his shoulder, and I can just make out the steroid scars in the crook of his arm. A muscle-junkie, to be sure.
Only Baudelaire is speaking---
But tell me if any torture is left to dread,"
Then I take one in the face, and my head snaps back, all the way back. I feel a pop deep in my ear as I fly backwards through the door and out onto the sidewalk. Sprawling in the rain, Baldy is right behind.
He's all grins and sparkling eyes, and it's obvious that hipster-chick is all turned on and whatnot. Her arms are all wrapped all around him, hands up under his vest, caressing the washboard-contoured implants. Pushing up behind him and licking his neck.
"For this old soulless body, dead as the dead?" says Baudelaire. Baldy goes back inside, and the rain becomes a downpour. I feel another pop deep in my head as I slither and try to crawl away.
"You've gotta get downtown, pronto," says Billy. I stagger to my feet, all disheveled and soaking wet. "Come on. Get yourself together, you're a mess and we're running out of time."
I flip my collar up to the rain. Tuck that, there. Cover this. Boinker's showing above vest, can't have that. Quick check, everything's loaded. I hop into a cab and take off downtown.
"Over there," says Billy. "Down that alley."
"That bum?" I ask. "He don't look so hard." Peeking around the corner of the alley, I could just make out the sleeping form of a whino. I pull my head back quick, and review the mental picture: A small light at the end of the alley, lots of trash, and a door set into the far wall leading into the tenement building, rusted and barely hanging on its hinges. All that's visible of the hobo, other than the slight movement of the garbage covering him, is one dirty shoe, and a bare, filthy foot, poking out from beneath a blanket of newspaper, toes pointing up into the starless sky. He's all snores and heavy breathing, smelling vaguely of bourbon and dreamland. "Shit, Billy. I mean, he's sound asleep."
"He's just the lookout," says Billy, "Thing is, you've got to get inside."
"Hell," I whisper, in my head, so only Billy can hear, "Piece-o-cake."
I sneak right up to Mr. Sleepy-Head, no problem, and so lightly that he can't even feel it, place the sole of my left boot gingerly on the up-pointed toes of his one scuffed shoe.
Then, carefully extending the barrel of my boinker to just under four feet, I use it to gently brush the newspaper away from his face. His eyes pop open.
With all my weight, I bear down, snapping his ankle. And as he opens his mouth to scream, in goes the business end of my boinker. I push down hard, and I don't even have to fire a shot. Very professional, very quiet.
Inside the tenement is disgusting. The stench of dead animals, mostly pigeons and squirrels, fills the place. Rotting food and stagnant garbage cover the floor.
"Upstairs," says Billy. "Can you hear them?"
I stop to listen, and sure enough, I can. A churning, watery sound. Vaguely familiar, like the noise a washing machine would make, only not so mechanical, or a waterfall, only not so natural. I find the stairs and head on up.
The plaster of the walls is rotting and alive with insects. The enormous industrial loft smells of the grave. As I proceed deeper into the dank apartment house the skin on the back of my neck begins to crawl.
It's dark, so I switch on my infras, and the first thing I notice is a decrepit pile of human skeletons set against the far wall. At least a dozen of them, all picked clean and glowing in infrared.
"Holy shit," I mutter. "Billy, this is a bughouse!" Only the pain in my gut, where Baldy had slugged me, keeps me from retching.
I stagger to the left and right into them. I freeze in my tracks, almost directly on top of them.
"There's three of 'em here, Billy-boy," I whisper. They were tossing and turning in their cocoons. Squirming amidst the garbage, they looked like three giant man-sized croissants, lying in the shadows of the damp, filthy corner.
"You know what to do," says Billy. No shit, I think.
I pause and squint and stare, while Billy clicks a picture, and then I let 'em have a taste of the old bug juice.
"Careful," says Billy, "Keep your eyes opened. Mommy and Daddy oughta be around here, somewhere. Not to mention, tomorrow's main course."
And sure enough, just as the last echoes of my gunfire are leaving the building, three haggard figures lurch out of the shadows. Sunken, dilated eyes, shallow, hissing breath, and all stench, they stagger toward me, arms outstretched and reaching for my throat.
Startled, I back off, and I'm reprimanded by Billy. I fall to my knees, almost dropping my boinker for all the red hot pain coursing through my temples, but knowing that I could never let that happen. Never lose your grip on your gun. Never lose your grip.
Stupid, Johnny, never panic, I tell myself.
I shake the pain from my behind my eyes and take aim. Three old men---breakfast, lunch and dinner, most likely.
Boom, one down.
Two.
And baby makes three.
I relax as the echoes of gunfire wander through the tenement halls. Then I turn around, and they grab me. Daddy, hands all over my face, groping and clawing, while Mommy, snarling, goes for my gun. Sneaking up behind me while I blasted the old men. I fall backwards, kicking, with Daddy on top of me, as Mommy wrenches my boinker from my hands.
I roll like I was trained, and the rest comes naturally.
Daddy's claws scratch the back of my neck, and I snap his. I kick the woman in the gut, and she shrieks. She drops the gun, and I dive for it, jab her in the chest, and pull the trigger.
Poom! She goes goes down, a gaping, filthy hole in her flower patterned dress.
Then the lights come on, and my infras switch off. The far door flies open and a man runs in, followed by more than a dozen unsuspecting tenants, from upstairs.
"What the hell---" he yells, and then they drop on him.
The ceiling erupts, and a hundred tiny, pale white, football shaped cocoons drop from the rafters, breaking open on the floor, and splattering on the shoulders and heads of the tenants. Fist-sized, clawed, semi-human fetus creatures, embryonic in appearance, hissing and snarling, begin to claw and bite, climbing up legs, under clothes, and burrowing into the hair of the helpless tenants.
I take another step back, gagging. I flip off the safety on my boinker, light the pilot, and squeeze the trigger. The rapid burst of metal is followed by a slick stream of nappy. Sticks like glue, and burns right through, I grin.
"Good work, Johnny-boy," says Billy, when it's all over.
I smile, "Yeah, well, a massacre by any other name..."
"Oh, get over yourself," says Billy. And then soberly, "That was a close one."
"Too close," I agree. "Shit, Billy. I thought we emptied the last bughouse five years ago."
"So did I," says Billy, "So did I."
Fire was still dripping from the walls and ceiling when we left.
So that's basically what I do. I walk around and I do stuff. Then I jerk around for a while, maybe I talk to some people. I twiddle my thumbs, and I wait. I wait until Billy tells me what to do. And when he tells me what do, I go do it.
Like now, for instance.
Billy says that there's a dozen Sighties, about to get on a plane in Newark.
Now, airports aren't the safest places---or rather, they are very safe places, which makes my job all that much harder.
So, wasting no time, I jack some wheels and hightail it to Jersey.
"They cannot be allowed to board that plane," says Billy.
No shit, I think, and push the throttle as far up as it was made to go, and then some.
I lose some rubber on a curb, and then I'm in the Tunnel. A steady one-seventy and smack into the ass of a woman in a Honda. I take off her bumper and slam her into the wall. The Honda flips over, and I think that she's still alive when I pass her. There's a truck behind me in the distance, and I hope for her sake, that he sees her in time.
I fly into the no passing lane, and cut off some old jerk who has the nerve to flash me.
I lose sight of Honda-woman in the rearview as the tunnel makes a slight turn, but I can still see the strobe of her headlights and she continues to spin on her roof, in the fast lane. Then there's a scream of brakes, and the horrendous sound of smashing, ripping metal. The truck driver doesn't stop in time. A blinding flash of light, and the tunnel fills with fire. And then I'm out.
I get some air blasting through the tollbooth, and then I'm on the Skyway. One minute to the airport, and I'm in luck, there's no traffic.
General Pulaski looms, in statue, over the Skyway, as if to say, 'There are more things in Heaven and in Hell, Johnny...' or, to say, 'There's a bigger picture here, Johnny...' or, 'You have nothing to fear, Johnny, but fear itself...', or even, 'I held up rush hour for you, Johnny.'
Or maybe it was someone else who said all those things.
One last look in the rear-view and I imagine that the General smiles. 'You've done a man's work, Johnny...'
"Hurry up, Johnny," says Billy.
The airport is as crowded as the freeway had been empty.
"Come on," says Billy, "Terminal C."
"That's the other side of the port," I mutter, and break into a run. Holding my jacket closed at the collar with one hand, and swinging my briefcase in the other, I maneuver my way through the crowd.
My battering ram-attaché thrust forward, I plow through the tidal flow of bodies, trying not to veer too far off course. "They should be close," says Billy, "Keep your eyes peeled." The tremendous sign looms in the distance, wavering above the ocean of bodies, TERMINAL C. I press on.
I look around, maniacally, trying to scout them.
"Now boarding- Sigma flight 219-ZX," comes the automated announcement. "Repeat, Sigma Airlines flight 219-ZX, now boarding in Terminal C."
"That's them!" says Billy. "Go!"
I knock down a Toga, and break for the gate, but I still don't see them. I notice that a couple of port authority zoo-keepers are beginning to notice me. One leans into the other's ear and whispers. Then the other one nods and says something into his wrist radio. I'm quickly running out of time, and there's still no sign of the Sighties.
"Okay," says Billy, "Good news. Jackson's on the case, too. He should be on the scene any second now."
A suit gives me a sharp poke to the ribs with his elbow, but so intent am I, that I let pass a perfect opportunity to break his arm, and merely push on past. Then I see him.
Jackson. A good nixon. One of the best. He flashes me a curt nod that communicates a mutual respect, an acknowledgement of professionalism, and an understanding of cooperation. But more importantly, it communicates the rudiments of a plan. I've got the terminal covered, announces Jackson's stony countenance, You go find them. I nod, and in a heartbeat I'm off.
"Two nixon's?" I mutter, "Holy shit, Billy."
"Yeah," agrees Billy, "There's something big going down for sure."
"Last time---" I start, just as I spot them. Too late, one is pulling a machine-pistol on Jackson, and three more are pulling 'em on me. A fifth is opening up on the crowd, and the rest are falling back, heading for the terminal.
Obviously Sighties, even if the boinkers hadn't given them away. They are dressed in the traditional scarlet robes, and even the black turbans can't hide their oversized, bulbous heads. Puffy-pink insomniac eyes are exposed behind their tiny, round Lennon-shades. Swinging my briefcase in front of me, I set for a flying tackle at the leader.
The only way to get the drop on a Sightie, is to surprise him. And the only way to do that, is to be three and a half steps ahead of the game. Any Sightie worth his salt knows what you're going to do at the exact instant that you do, and sometimes even before.
Sighties aren't really telepathic, though they often brag that they are. And they're not really empathic, either. Not in the truest sense. At least not with anyone other than other Sighties. They sort of exist in a larger place in time. A little bit in the future, and a little bit in the past, at least, that's how Billy explained it to me.
"They don't exist, in time, the way that you or I do," explained Billy, all those years ago, preparing me for my first Sightie-cult bust-up. "Consciously speaking, I mean. Physically, they're just the same as you or I. But consciously, whereas we exist only as a single point travelling along the timeline, they exist as an indeterminate period of time moving along the time continuum. For them, the present is a much larger concept. They actually think a little bit in the future, and a little bit in the past."
Sounded pretty good at the time, but what it all boils down to, is one golden rule: Be Careful.
"Yeah, well..." says Billy, setting me up for the punchline of a joke that I had made, all those years ago---a joke that Billy, an otherwise humorless omnipresent sentience, had at the time, found hilarious. A joke that he repeated at every opportunity, at every reunion with the Sighties.
"Yeah, well," says Billy, "I'm a little bit country..."
"And I'm a little bit rock 'n roll!" I finish, tackling the lead Sightie, and dropping a micro-grenade into the fold of his robes.
That's micro, as in tiny, and micro, as in microwave.
The explosion takes out three, cooking them from the inside out. I've got a buffer in my briefcase, so I'm okay.
There are only two working defenses, when dealing with Sighties. The first is spontaneity. You've got to act before you think. Keep 'em on their toes.
The second defense is to have your strategy well planned and laid out, long before the actual encounter. You must know the routine so well that you don't even need to think about it when the time comes. "Sure they're a little ahead, and a little behind," Billy always says, "But just by a few minutes."
Jackson has got one with its arms broken, up behind its back, and he's using him to shield himself from the auto-fire of the three that are now trained on him. I take the opportunity to quickly scan the area---five Sighties with their backs to me, are heading through the gate at Terminal C.
I go for my boinker, but just as I do there is a quick blur of crimson in the peripheral of my vision, and I see that one of them is holding a machine pistol less than a foot from the side of my head. He pulls the trigger as I swing up my briefcase. The rapid burst of fire takes out three innocents, as the gun goes spinning off into the air. There is an explosion of sparks and falling glass as the bullets strafe the ceiling, and the airport is instantly transformed into a screaming hysterical mob.
I bring my briefcase down hard, shattering the glasses and face of the Sightie whose gun I'd just knocked away. He goes down, but just as he does, I'm grabbed from behind and a third one is turning on me, boinker primed and ready.
I try to flip the one behind me over my back, between me and Sightie number two, but before I can, I feel an electric surge, and every muscle in my body goes limp and tingly. Nerve-gloves, no doubt. Never let them get that close to you, Johnny. I should know better.
Then there is a thunder of gunfire behind me, and the Sightie loses his grip. Thank god for Jackson, at least one of us is on his toes. I slump to the ground just as sightie number two opens fire. He hits the sightie who nerved me, but he's already dead when the bullets find their mark.
There's an intense, almost painful, rush of feeling as the dead sightie's gloves diengage. All of my muscles are suddenly back on line. I tuck and roll, a strictly by the book move, all reflex, and go for the legs, taking down sightie number two. I break his neck with the strap of his own rifle.
Then I'm up and running. Five Sighties are already through the gate, and possibly even on the plane by now. Jackson can handle the rest.
I'm through the walkway-connecter and on the plane---I can see that the Sighties are routinely picking hostages and executing the extra passengers. One of them is waiting for me at the airlock, boinker trained on the open hatch.
He opens fire, and I duck and fall left, rolling into the cockpit. The pilot doesn't even notice.
I draw and squeeze and kill Mr. Sightie before he even has time to turn from the open door. Then the hatch glides shut with a hiss of pressure, and the engines of the plane purr into life.
The other four turn and start boinkin' at me.
I slam the cockpit door closed, just in time to hear the muffled, popcorn rattle of a thousand bullets ricocheting from the other side. The pilot doesn't even notice.
Trapped in the cockpit, with the Sighties outside killing just about everyone in sight, there's really only one thing I can do.
I turn toward the front window just as the plane blasts off, and thanks to the grav-inhibitors, I'm not thrown back against the door. The takeoff is smooth, so smooth that if you weren't looking out the window, you wouldn't even know. For a moment, I'm hypnotized, watching the airport fall away beneath us. Smaller and smaller, the airport shrinks until it becomes just a tiny constellation of lights, lost in the endless glow of Newark. I glance at the pilot.
He's strapped into his seat, his hands folded comfortably in his lap. He is wearing the standard short sleeved airline uniform, wings on the sleeve, thin black tie, and his head is entirely hidden inside the V-Helmet that dangles from a bundle of wires in the ceiling. A bulky mass of metal and plastic, inside of which he is flying the plane with little more than eye movements and a bit of CAE-telepathy. I get a good look at his works, so Billy can figure out the specs, and then I take a second to get my bearings. Outside, I can hear the muffled pow!, pow! of the Sighties killing the passengers.
I stare at the pilot until I feel a click deep in my ear.
"Hook'im up," says Billy.
I place my briefcase gingerly on the empty co-pilot's seat, and carefully flip open the latches. First the left one. Count to three. Close it. Open the right. And then the left again. Any variation from this simple routine, and it's fireworks.
I've got a hybrid Computer Aided and Enhanced telepathy drive with a slave system built in for emergencies, and I pull it out now. A long wire with a plunger at one end, the other end connected to the computer in my briefcase. I fasten the plunger to the pilot's helmet, and flip a switch in my case. There's a double click and a flash from inside, and everything is set.
"Okay, Johnny-boy," says Billy. "We've got to turn this baby around."
I set in and tear a handful of wires from the navigation console. In the window, the sky lurches and rolls. A particularly vital looking instrument begins to flash and display an alarmingly quick recession of numbers.
I carefully tug and pull at the wires, biting and threading until I find the hot one. Then, a quick and careful splice, and the sky steadies itself in the window, numbers all over the control board even out, and I'm flying the plane.
Thanks to my slave drive, the pilot doesn't even notice.
"It's worse than we thought," says Billy, "Jackson's down. Hold on..."
I steady the plane, leveling it off before we break the atmosphere. I disconnect the radio, knowing that it would only be matter of seconds, a minute at the most, before Ground Control would send someone up to see what's up. "C'mon Billy, what's the call?" I switch into a circling pattern a mile above the port, while Billy remains silent.
"How are we gonna play this one, Billy?" I ask, after a few more seconds.
"Okay," says Billy finally. "We've got one shot at this. The Sighties on the ground are heading for another jet. Turn us around, and strap in. Correct to mark three point twelve, lock in, and prepare for auto-eject."
"Then Jackson's... dead?" I ask, knowing that could be the only reason that Billy would order me to set a collision course for the airport.
There's a long pause. "Yeah..." says Billy, "Jackson's dead. Now hurry up and lock in the coordinates."
Quick as lightning I strap myself into the empty co-pilot's seat, set the coordinates, turn the plane around, and point it at Terminal C. Holding my briefcase tightly in my lap with one hand, I punch the flashing red EMERGENCY button with the other.
There is a scream of grinding metal, and the shriek of wind. All the air is sucked out of the cockpit and out of my lungs as the pilot and I are ejected into the sky above New Jersey. The plane continues along beneath us barely an arm's length away. The metal hull tracks slowly forward, much larger than imaginable, its nose angling increasingly downward. The very tip of the tail fin brushes the bottoms of my dangling feet. The pilot doesn't even notice.
Then it passes and we fall behind it, caught in the jet stream. As we begin to violently tumble and fall our seats separate. The wire from my briefcase is stretched tight, and the plunger pulls free. The pilot instantly panics, screaming and flailing about. He tears the helmet from his head and looks over at me in utter disbelief, and then the sky catches fire.
It is almost a minute before I can see again through the inferno below us. All that I can hear is the shrill whine of my hammered eardrums. I look down and there is only a glowing crater where the airport used to be. I look up and watch the reflections of the flames dancing on the inside of my parachute.
The next day was business as usual. Blasting two guys in an alley, and then taking off in a cab. Headed uptown, bust into an apartment, and waited, setting up to boink a woman named Stephanie, but she's not home.
After a while, I'm starting to get edgy. I open her fridge, but nothing appeals to me.
"She should be home, by now," says Billy. "Something isn't right."
I turn off all the lights and step over to the window. Thirty six floors down, I can see that the street is crawling with cops. My stomach lurches. "Shit Billy," I mutter, "We gotta get outta here. They got the whole fucking zoo-patrol down there... Oh shit Billy, we gotta---"
"Calm down," says Billy, "Head for the roof and---"
There is a knock at the door.
I freeze, boinker cocked and pointed, waiting for Billy to give the word. Waiting. Waiting for Billy.
"Ask who it is," says Billy.
"Who is it?" I say, and the door explodes inward, under a steady tidal wave of gunfire and neural stun-beams.
| "Synne Christian believes that editors hate him--or at the very least, that they hate The 1,000-Year Nixon. "I've sent this story everywhere," he tells us. "To everyone. No one would publish it. One editor, after reading it, even went so far as to suggest that I burn my television... God, I wish that there was a show like Nixon on TV! I'd like to see Kevin Bacon play him..."" |
