Read Online In Hero Years... I'm Dead Delux Edition by Michael Stackpole - Free Book Online
Authors: Michael Stackpole
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minutes I’d be born again. I’d heard the Vatican had agreed to such things because Jesus had given Peter his own secret identity, thus establishing precedent. Heck, the Popes changed their names, too. It made us all clubby.
I don’t know who services the villains. Sinisterion had tried to take over the Church of Scientology. Didn’t succeed. Then again, who’d know if he had?
The priest returned with the documents, money and an ID card in the name of Harrison Bing. He said a quick prayer for me. I crossed myself, despite having long since decided that if God did exist, my life wasn’t significant enough for Him to care. I headed back out, pausing only to snap a picture of myself with the uTiliPod, then use it to pump the shot into the ID card’s digital memory.
I returned to the FCCSL branch. A throng packed the lobby, though very few of them seemed to be in line. Most were just sightseeing. A few were on hands-and-knees looking for bits of window glass or other souvenirs. Gawkers at the crime scene. I’d seen it before, but usually only when things had been awash in blood.
I found Penny at her desk behind a phalanx of flowers. She barely recognized me, but let her boss know I’d returned. Mr. Baker was overjoyed to see me. I deposited the cash with him and we loaded three grand onto a cashflash chip. With his guarantee of a solid financial reference, Harrison Bing could begin shopping for a place to live.
I’d never really found building an identity that tough. The trick was to avoid looking like you were hiding. When I found a place I’d introduce myself to the neighbors, ask about local restaurants and generally present myself as someone who would impose a little bit on their lives, but not much beyond borrowing a cup of sugar or inviting them over to see movies of my day at the beach. Most folks shy from aggressive friendliness. Those who don’t are generally people who desperately need a friend. That can be a problem, but usually they just wait by the phone and that keeps them out of trouble.
And they usually can be counted on for a great alibi.
Scandal also helps. Most folks love learning intimate details of their neighbors’ lives. Bring different women home two nights in one week, or two in one night, make the right amount of noise, and folks will watch for you. Share a confidence, let them assume you’re two-timing someone, and some will alibi you, others will condemn you. If you’re being investigated, making investigators track down those ersatz leads buys you time to disappear.
I downloaded a couple apartment guides from a street kiosk and retreated to the Bluebell. Bennie wasn’t at the desk. The drone taking his place never even looked up. In retrospect that should have sent a flag up.
Likewise the empty lobby.
I missed both clues. Secure in my room, I studied the guides and bookmarked a number of promising leads. Tomorrow I’d clean out room, burn Rick Murphy, and get down to some serious work.
The only thing I’d miss was my peanut butter connection.
I finally dropped off to sleep just before midnight. They were watching somehow. They were smart enough to wait for me to be deep into a REM cycle before they hit. I’ve got no memory of it–a concussion will do that to you. I reconstructed it, however, and dreams filled in all the details.
Technically those would be nightmares.
Four Zomboyz burst through the door. That woke me up. I tossed back the sheets, which tangled one of them up, but that was purely by accident. A boot to my gut doubled me over. A knee to the face missed breaking my nose, but swelled an eye shut.
I stumbled back, caught my heels on the shrouded Zomboy. I went down. They piled on, beating the hell out of me. They might not have had much combat experience, but they were happy to practice.
Somehow I threw them off and got to my feet.
That’s when their patron walked through the door. Tall, with a flaming jack o’lantern for a head, wearing vintage duds
I don’t know who services the villains. Sinisterion had tried to take over the Church of Scientology. Didn’t succeed. Then again, who’d know if he had?
The priest returned with the documents, money and an ID card in the name of Harrison Bing. He said a quick prayer for me. I crossed myself, despite having long since decided that if God did exist, my life wasn’t significant enough for Him to care. I headed back out, pausing only to snap a picture of myself with the uTiliPod, then use it to pump the shot into the ID card’s digital memory.
I returned to the FCCSL branch. A throng packed the lobby, though very few of them seemed to be in line. Most were just sightseeing. A few were on hands-and-knees looking for bits of window glass or other souvenirs. Gawkers at the crime scene. I’d seen it before, but usually only when things had been awash in blood.
I found Penny at her desk behind a phalanx of flowers. She barely recognized me, but let her boss know I’d returned. Mr. Baker was overjoyed to see me. I deposited the cash with him and we loaded three grand onto a cashflash chip. With his guarantee of a solid financial reference, Harrison Bing could begin shopping for a place to live.
I’d never really found building an identity that tough. The trick was to avoid looking like you were hiding. When I found a place I’d introduce myself to the neighbors, ask about local restaurants and generally present myself as someone who would impose a little bit on their lives, but not much beyond borrowing a cup of sugar or inviting them over to see movies of my day at the beach. Most folks shy from aggressive friendliness. Those who don’t are generally people who desperately need a friend. That can be a problem, but usually they just wait by the phone and that keeps them out of trouble.
And they usually can be counted on for a great alibi.
Scandal also helps. Most folks love learning intimate details of their neighbors’ lives. Bring different women home two nights in one week, or two in one night, make the right amount of noise, and folks will watch for you. Share a confidence, let them assume you’re two-timing someone, and some will alibi you, others will condemn you. If you’re being investigated, making investigators track down those ersatz leads buys you time to disappear.
I downloaded a couple apartment guides from a street kiosk and retreated to the Bluebell. Bennie wasn’t at the desk. The drone taking his place never even looked up. In retrospect that should have sent a flag up.
Likewise the empty lobby.
I missed both clues. Secure in my room, I studied the guides and bookmarked a number of promising leads. Tomorrow I’d clean out room, burn Rick Murphy, and get down to some serious work.
The only thing I’d miss was my peanut butter connection.
I finally dropped off to sleep just before midnight. They were watching somehow. They were smart enough to wait for me to be deep into a REM cycle before they hit. I’ve got no memory of it–a concussion will do that to you. I reconstructed it, however, and dreams filled in all the details.
Technically those would be nightmares.
Four Zomboyz burst through the door. That woke me up. I tossed back the sheets, which tangled one of them up, but that was purely by accident. A boot to my gut doubled me over. A knee to the face missed breaking my nose, but swelled an eye shut.
I stumbled back, caught my heels on the shrouded Zomboy. I went down. They piled on, beating the hell out of me. They might not have had much combat experience, but they were happy to practice.
Somehow I threw them off and got to my feet.
That’s when their patron walked through the door. Tall, with a flaming jack o’lantern for a head, wearing vintage duds
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