Off Topic
Travelblog of Thom S. Hunter
Editor’s Note: Dammit. Far as I can tell this idiot idea of a beat reporter is going to stick. Guess he’s got low friends in high places. Or at least high friends. And I like to eat, and I got a wife and three kids (that I know of) who need clothes and sneakers. So I got nothing to do but to let the guy write whatever he writes. Good luck reading it. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.
- - -
“Are you goddamned kidding me?” I said as I sat bolt upright. The three-holer ZippyTram ride service pod had stuttered to something I guess I’ll call a landing, but really was nothing short of a controlled crash. At least I remembered to slap the seat restraints on before I … um … fell asleep. Right now my head is pounding from maybe a bit too much wine last night, and I’m wobbling to catch my balance after the ZippyTram engaged its ejector seat and confirmed its cashectomy on my account. I’ll worry about both of those things in a minute though. First things first. “I said Lime City, you moron! Not Lime Street!”
The Goon stood beside me in the early summer heat, dressed in his best yellow pullover jumpsuit and taking up two of the three holes. I’m sure neither one of us smelled rosy, but let me tell you that the Goon likes his Limberger cheese, and that the stuff does murder to his large intestines. Dude’s gonna need colonoscopies ever other year when he get older. But that’s not my problem right here. My problem here is I’m assigned to take a look at the Lime City Lime later tonight, and instead I’m sitting here on some desolate street corner with a rusted-out sign that says “Lime Street” one way and “You’re Shit Outta Luck Avenue” the other.
Being a BBA insider, I know what that means. We’re in Long Beach. Goddamned, fucking Long Beach. I took a scan both ways and relaxed when I didn’t see any of Descartes’ people around. That was good. But the guy has people and tech everywhere. You can’t be too careful. Last time I was in town three of the Philosopher’s thugs nearly separated me from all my fillings, and warned me that my blood’s iron had a buyer.
“I’m sorry, Boss,” the Goon says, crinkling all three layers of fat the bead up over his brow and grimacing his lips up until his bald head looks more like a basketball-sized peach than a face. “I’ll get the beers when we get to the park.”
“Jeebus,” I said, shaking my head. After all this time I’m finding it harder and harder to stay angry at the guy. The guy knows my soft spot, and given his size and lack of fashion sense, he’s killer at parties. Wingman extraordinaire. “It’s all right,” I finally say. “But we gotta get a fast shot to Lime City or I’m gonna be out a paycheck, and that means no beer for either of us.”
“I’m on it,” the Goon said, straightening, and finding a target where he can make a few calls.
It’s a small Grade D hotel called Greenleaf. Great. Just my luck it’s a place I know Descartes’ girl hangs out. Or at least one of them. Don’t ask me how I know that. It’s a long story and it has something to do with both my fillings and the Fe in my blood. How the hell was I supposed to know she was just trying to make him jealous? And how was I supposed to know that a jealous Descartes is a Descartes out for vengeance? Life sucks.
Still, the girl was hot as a pure tip at the Downs. Totally worth a little hundred-yard dash and a game of hide the Thom. Who knows, maybe with the Goon around, I’ll stand a little head start? Or maybe she’d come to Lime City for a quickie. That would be best of all, I thought, suddenly pondering if that was true, whether maybe Descartes had eyes everywhere.
Regardless, the hulking mass of meat was already half-way to the Greenleaf when I decided to follow him.
I’m catching up when I hear a familiar voice. “Jesus H. Christ, Fogman. Hurry the Fuck up.” I draw up short. It’s L-Pain. I’d know that sniveling whine anywhere. L-Pain and Fogman. Two flunkies from the Sacramento franchise. L-Pain is a flying mass of silliness. Fogman likes to keep L-Pain around because the low bar of L-Pain’s cognitive nature makes him feel intellectually superior. Dude said he had a degree in something like Chemistry, but I later found out he just took all the labs and then dropped out.
Regardless, I stop and realize the voices are coming from the cracked window of their ground floor room. I take a quick scan of my mental calendar and realize that the Mad Popes are not in town now, so I see no reason these two floozies ought to be here. That makes me curious. And when I get curious, things start to slow down and get really clear. I step up to the window and listen in. Maybe Westy will cut me some slack if I can get some good oppo on the dolts from Sac City.
“Just go without me,” Fogman replies with a tone sharp enough it oughtta cut glass. “I need to get this shit done for the doc.”
That gets my ears buzzing. “The doc,” I know is the mysterious Green-Eyed Woman, who I know about because I sat down one night with the woman Collins used to employ who went by the name Hellscape. I can confirm that she fits the bill. Shut me down the minute I put my hand on her knee, and told me the only reason the wrist wasn’t broken is that Collins would be mad if she didn’t give me one offense. A guy’s gotta try, though. I figured nothin’ woulda been better than bagging a lady 007. Regardless, I’m listening and I get the idea down pretty good.
Foggy is digging into the water in Long Beach. Something about being worried that it’s draining players of whatever they got that makes them players. When I peek into the window I see all sorts of beakers and droppers and papers that do the litmus and the titmus or whatever. After a bit, they run off to eat.
The Goon is still doing whatever the Goon’s doing, but I can’t help myself, and with a glance around I slip slide into the window that, while it’s only open a crack, it’s big enough for a cockroach like me. I ain’t got lots of time. That much I know. But what time I had I used for the best. I see formulas and documents reporting all sorts of neural and physical properties of this chemical and that. For a moment, I wonder if it’s got anything to say about Fe and blood types, but I figure I don’t wanna know.
There it is, though. The big old bottle oof water in a jug that carried the Surfer logo. Probably stolen straight out from under security. If there’s anything I admire L-Pain for, it’s his sense of proprietary concerns. My mind is already grinning with images of him rolling that container along the ground and slipping through the authorities. Foggy is the brains of the outfit. L-Doggy is the audacity.
Anyway, I get my cam chip out and I take my pictures.
Westy is going to want to know about this.
Then I sneak out.
- - -
Later that night, in the Greenleaf room I hastily arranged for, I explain to the Goon how he’s going to go on to Lime City for me tomorrow. I tell him how to watch the game, and ask him to take notes. It’s not going to work, but I know Westy’s not going to care.
Tomorrow I’m going to follow Foggy and L-Pain as they head back to Sacramento. I know their vehicle, and if there’s anything I’m capable of it’s slipping a trunk cipher. I’ll be riding a long with them on the down low. Waiting to see what happens, and ready to let my Bikini Krill contacts know what’s up.
And that’s a job that I need to be alone for.
So the Goon’s going to the far north, and I’m going for a ride. I’m actually intrigued now. Curious to the point that the world is super clear. There’s only me and that trunk. When the morning comes I’m going to be in it.
I’m so curious that I go to bed early. And even skip the beer.
@Lane @shoeless.db
- - -
The Goon stood beside me in the early summer heat, dressed in his best yellow pullover jumpsuit and taking up two of the three holes. I’m sure neither one of us smelled rosy, but let me tell you that the Goon likes his Limberger cheese, and that the stuff does murder to his large intestines. Dude’s gonna need colonoscopies ever other year when he get older. But that’s not my problem right here. My problem here is I’m assigned to take a look at the Lime City Lime later tonight, and instead I’m sitting here on some desolate street corner with a rusted-out sign that says “Lime Street” one way and “You’re Shit Outta Luck Avenue” the other.
Being a BBA insider, I know what that means. We’re in Long Beach. Goddamned, fucking Long Beach. I took a scan both ways and relaxed when I didn’t see any of Descartes’ people around. That was good. But the guy has people and tech everywhere. You can’t be too careful. Last time I was in town three of the Philosopher’s thugs nearly separated me from all my fillings, and warned me that my blood’s iron had a buyer.
“I’m sorry, Boss,” the Goon says, crinkling all three layers of fat the bead up over his brow and grimacing his lips up until his bald head looks more like a basketball-sized peach than a face. “I’ll get the beers when we get to the park.”
“Jeebus,” I said, shaking my head. After all this time I’m finding it harder and harder to stay angry at the guy. The guy knows my soft spot, and given his size and lack of fashion sense, he’s killer at parties. Wingman extraordinaire. “It’s all right,” I finally say. “But we gotta get a fast shot to Lime City or I’m gonna be out a paycheck, and that means no beer for either of us.”
“I’m on it,” the Goon said, straightening, and finding a target where he can make a few calls.
It’s a small Grade D hotel called Greenleaf. Great. Just my luck it’s a place I know Descartes’ girl hangs out. Or at least one of them. Don’t ask me how I know that. It’s a long story and it has something to do with both my fillings and the Fe in my blood. How the hell was I supposed to know she was just trying to make him jealous? And how was I supposed to know that a jealous Descartes is a Descartes out for vengeance? Life sucks.
Still, the girl was hot as a pure tip at the Downs. Totally worth a little hundred-yard dash and a game of hide the Thom. Who knows, maybe with the Goon around, I’ll stand a little head start? Or maybe she’d come to Lime City for a quickie. That would be best of all, I thought, suddenly pondering if that was true, whether maybe Descartes had eyes everywhere.
Regardless, the hulking mass of meat was already half-way to the Greenleaf when I decided to follow him.
I’m catching up when I hear a familiar voice. “Jesus H. Christ, Fogman. Hurry the Fuck up.” I draw up short. It’s L-Pain. I’d know that sniveling whine anywhere. L-Pain and Fogman. Two flunkies from the Sacramento franchise. L-Pain is a flying mass of silliness. Fogman likes to keep L-Pain around because the low bar of L-Pain’s cognitive nature makes him feel intellectually superior. Dude said he had a degree in something like Chemistry, but I later found out he just took all the labs and then dropped out.
Regardless, I stop and realize the voices are coming from the cracked window of their ground floor room. I take a quick scan of my mental calendar and realize that the Mad Popes are not in town now, so I see no reason these two floozies ought to be here. That makes me curious. And when I get curious, things start to slow down and get really clear. I step up to the window and listen in. Maybe Westy will cut me some slack if I can get some good oppo on the dolts from Sac City.
“Just go without me,” Fogman replies with a tone sharp enough it oughtta cut glass. “I need to get this shit done for the doc.”
That gets my ears buzzing. “The doc,” I know is the mysterious Green-Eyed Woman, who I know about because I sat down one night with the woman Collins used to employ who went by the name Hellscape. I can confirm that she fits the bill. Shut me down the minute I put my hand on her knee, and told me the only reason the wrist wasn’t broken is that Collins would be mad if she didn’t give me one offense. A guy’s gotta try, though. I figured nothin’ woulda been better than bagging a lady 007. Regardless, I’m listening and I get the idea down pretty good.
Foggy is digging into the water in Long Beach. Something about being worried that it’s draining players of whatever they got that makes them players. When I peek into the window I see all sorts of beakers and droppers and papers that do the litmus and the titmus or whatever. After a bit, they run off to eat.
The Goon is still doing whatever the Goon’s doing, but I can’t help myself, and with a glance around I slip slide into the window that, while it’s only open a crack, it’s big enough for a cockroach like me. I ain’t got lots of time. That much I know. But what time I had I used for the best. I see formulas and documents reporting all sorts of neural and physical properties of this chemical and that. For a moment, I wonder if it’s got anything to say about Fe and blood types, but I figure I don’t wanna know.
There it is, though. The big old bottle oof water in a jug that carried the Surfer logo. Probably stolen straight out from under security. If there’s anything I admire L-Pain for, it’s his sense of proprietary concerns. My mind is already grinning with images of him rolling that container along the ground and slipping through the authorities. Foggy is the brains of the outfit. L-Doggy is the audacity.
Anyway, I get my cam chip out and I take my pictures.
Westy is going to want to know about this.
Then I sneak out.
- - -
Later that night, in the Greenleaf room I hastily arranged for, I explain to the Goon how he’s going to go on to Lime City for me tomorrow. I tell him how to watch the game, and ask him to take notes. It’s not going to work, but I know Westy’s not going to care.
Tomorrow I’m going to follow Foggy and L-Pain as they head back to Sacramento. I know their vehicle, and if there’s anything I’m capable of it’s slipping a trunk cipher. I’ll be riding a long with them on the down low. Waiting to see what happens, and ready to let my Bikini Krill contacts know what’s up.
And that’s a job that I need to be alone for.
So the Goon’s going to the far north, and I’m going for a ride. I’m actually intrigued now. Curious to the point that the world is super clear. There’s only me and that trunk. When the morning comes I’m going to be in it.
I’m so curious that I go to bed early. And even skip the beer.
@Lane @shoeless.db