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Authors: Paul di Filippo
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blood.
“Now,” said Diaz, “I will keep my promise.”
His voice told me where he stood. With the last of my energy, I pulled a mule.
Goin’ into what amounted to a handstand, I hooked both my spurs into his gut. And ripped down, draggin’ Diaz to the sand and spillin’ his innards onto the bloody sand.
“Any farmboy knows not to fuck with a mule, asshole,” I managed to say, then blacked out, wonderin’ as I did what kind of medical attention two losers would get.
I musta been out only thirty seconds or so when the dirty-harrys showed up.
(I later learned that Diaz had diplomatic immunity, and the authorities were worried about him comin’ up zero-sign and causin’ a scandal. That was the only reason they’d crashed the usual Saturday night frolics, admittedly a little late.)
Well, they blew down the doors and dispersed a cover of Fear-o-Moan and Whammer Jammer to handle any resistance. The folks in the crowd who wasn’t pukin’ were shriekin’ and clamorin’ like a buncha Girl Scouts who had wandered into a nudist camp, while me ’n’ Diaz lay bleedin’ to death. (Flat on the floor, I escaped most of the aerosols.)
Then I blacked out again.
Next time I came to, my head was in Geraldine’s lap.
Geraldine was cryin’. Musta been the cop-gas, I guess. Through her tears, she said, “Don’t worry, don’t worry, don’t worry, Lew, I had a medikit, I brought it with me just for you, I patched you up.”
I tried to lift my hand up to feel my thighs, but couldn’t. Geraldine grabbed my paw and brought it up to her face. Then, unconsciously or not, she started rubbin’ my scented wrist up and down the side of her neck.
“You’ll be all right, Lew, I’ll post your bail and visit you in the hospital. You’ll see.”
I found my voice deep down in some lonesome cavern of myself. “I—I ain’t listenin’ to you, Geraldine,” I croaked like a bullfrog flattened by a semi.
“Yes you are, Lew. Oh yes you are.”
BIG EATER
This is the story of how I saved Chicago from a Second Flood, stopped my sister from going totally Buggy, and earned a promotion right out of the lite-servo class to alpha-symbland, all in the same day.
With a little help from Big Eater, of course.
That fateful morning started like any other.
The wordbird woke me at seven out of my heaven. Not at all synthetic, just the old deltawave-syncretic. Rem-memories hazed my gaze. Just like a screamcurse, I seemed stuck in my dreamverse. Though it wasn’t so bad, maybe even triple-gonad. Something about drifting forever down a river of feathers. On my back, I was catching up on my slack. Coasting along just humming a song. Mighty nice change from my strife-life brain-drain. Which the nerdbird was still harp-harp-hopping on.
“Time to get up, time to get up! Now seven-oh-one-oh- three! You’ll be late for work, Corby! Time to get up!”
The sweet dream had fled, so shaking my head, I climbed out of bed. It reverted to a couch almost before I could uncrouch.
“Okay, okay! Shut your trap, I’m done with my nap.”
The wordbird closed its beak right in midsqueak.
I could tell from the rhymes that ran through my skull that it was way past time for me to get well. So the first bore-chore I attended to was to rip-strip my old KabiPharm latch-patch off and slap a fresh one on behind my ear. The sensitive sensor, so as not to offend, changed to rich cocoa brown, my own skin-blend.
As the tropes perfused, I asked for the news.
The TogaiMagic endoplants in the wordbird reacted to my voice-choice. The big bright parrot on its perch, interrupted in midpreen, began to recite the CNN audio feed coming through the multiplex tether that also fixed it to its perch.
“Yesterday Mayor Jordan launched a week-long celebration of his eightieth birthday by officially opening the new Joliet station on the extension of the Chi-Mon DASA magnatrain line. Attending the ceremonies were the North American prime minister, the
“Now,” said Diaz, “I will keep my promise.”
His voice told me where he stood. With the last of my energy, I pulled a mule.
Goin’ into what amounted to a handstand, I hooked both my spurs into his gut. And ripped down, draggin’ Diaz to the sand and spillin’ his innards onto the bloody sand.
“Any farmboy knows not to fuck with a mule, asshole,” I managed to say, then blacked out, wonderin’ as I did what kind of medical attention two losers would get.
I musta been out only thirty seconds or so when the dirty-harrys showed up.
(I later learned that Diaz had diplomatic immunity, and the authorities were worried about him comin’ up zero-sign and causin’ a scandal. That was the only reason they’d crashed the usual Saturday night frolics, admittedly a little late.)
Well, they blew down the doors and dispersed a cover of Fear-o-Moan and Whammer Jammer to handle any resistance. The folks in the crowd who wasn’t pukin’ were shriekin’ and clamorin’ like a buncha Girl Scouts who had wandered into a nudist camp, while me ’n’ Diaz lay bleedin’ to death. (Flat on the floor, I escaped most of the aerosols.)
Then I blacked out again.
Next time I came to, my head was in Geraldine’s lap.
Geraldine was cryin’. Musta been the cop-gas, I guess. Through her tears, she said, “Don’t worry, don’t worry, don’t worry, Lew, I had a medikit, I brought it with me just for you, I patched you up.”
I tried to lift my hand up to feel my thighs, but couldn’t. Geraldine grabbed my paw and brought it up to her face. Then, unconsciously or not, she started rubbin’ my scented wrist up and down the side of her neck.
“You’ll be all right, Lew, I’ll post your bail and visit you in the hospital. You’ll see.”
I found my voice deep down in some lonesome cavern of myself. “I—I ain’t listenin’ to you, Geraldine,” I croaked like a bullfrog flattened by a semi.
“Yes you are, Lew. Oh yes you are.”
BIG EATER
This is the story of how I saved Chicago from a Second Flood, stopped my sister from going totally Buggy, and earned a promotion right out of the lite-servo class to alpha-symbland, all in the same day.
With a little help from Big Eater, of course.
That fateful morning started like any other.
The wordbird woke me at seven out of my heaven. Not at all synthetic, just the old deltawave-syncretic. Rem-memories hazed my gaze. Just like a screamcurse, I seemed stuck in my dreamverse. Though it wasn’t so bad, maybe even triple-gonad. Something about drifting forever down a river of feathers. On my back, I was catching up on my slack. Coasting along just humming a song. Mighty nice change from my strife-life brain-drain. Which the nerdbird was still harp-harp-hopping on.
“Time to get up, time to get up! Now seven-oh-one-oh- three! You’ll be late for work, Corby! Time to get up!”
The sweet dream had fled, so shaking my head, I climbed out of bed. It reverted to a couch almost before I could uncrouch.
“Okay, okay! Shut your trap, I’m done with my nap.”
The wordbird closed its beak right in midsqueak.
I could tell from the rhymes that ran through my skull that it was way past time for me to get well. So the first bore-chore I attended to was to rip-strip my old KabiPharm latch-patch off and slap a fresh one on behind my ear. The sensitive sensor, so as not to offend, changed to rich cocoa brown, my own skin-blend.
As the tropes perfused, I asked for the news.
The TogaiMagic endoplants in the wordbird reacted to my voice-choice. The big bright parrot on its perch, interrupted in midpreen, began to recite the CNN audio feed coming through the multiplex tether that also fixed it to its perch.
“Yesterday Mayor Jordan launched a week-long celebration of his eightieth birthday by officially opening the new Joliet station on the extension of the Chi-Mon DASA magnatrain line. Attending the ceremonies were the North American prime minister, the
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