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Authors: Paul di Filippo
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Leather.
“Sorry, Rory!”
From his right, a paraphrastic echo from Studs: “Yeah, sorry, Honeyman.”
“That’s okay, girls,” replied Honeyman, immediately bending low and executing some broken-field running to avoid the expected barrage of pebbles and verbal abuse, which indeed quickly materialized.
“You jerk!”
“Don’t call us that!”
Attaining the shelter of a doorway, Honeyman straightened up. He dug his fingers thoughtfully into his rufous beard. Now why had he gone and annoyed Leather ’n’ Studs like that? He normally went out of his way to be nice to them, harboring no ill will toward anyone of any sexual stripe whatsoever. But here he was starting the night off by deliberately—sorta deliberately, anyway — insulting people. He supposed it stemmed from his own unhappiness, as the bad attitudes of most folks did.
During the past week, Honeyman had created and spent spondulix with a wild abandon bordering on inebriation. Erlkonig’s devil-may-care attitude had infected him—Honeyman had allowed it to infect him—and he had dived blindly into the deep end of the algae-topped pool of monetary irresponsibility. As a result, all his debts had been extinguished. The local merchants reacted at first with doubt and caution, but in the end mostly agreed to accept this novel kind of payment, in lieu of anything better. With the U.S. currency thus saved, Honeyman paid off those institutions such as the regional electric company which would never, he was sure, recognize spondulix.
And, as Erlkonig had maintained, fewer spondulix returned than went out, thereby creating a positive cash flow. Honeyman had no idea where the missing spondulix were. Perhaps they had all gone through a wash cycle or two, forgotten in pants pockets, and been rendered into fibrous lumps. He fervently hoped so.
The lifting of his fiscal obligations should have lightened Honeyman’s spirits. He should have been feeling on top of the world right now. Instead, he was plunged into an ever-deepening gloom.
Despite his actions at the Olympics two decades ago, Honeyman had never considered himself a rebel. All he had ever wanted was a little niche in society, a moderate income, a few of the simpler pleasures. True, he had once dreamed of exhibiting his diving skills for the admiration and pleasure of the public—either solo or horsed—but even that modest ambition had been twice by fate denied. All he wanted now was a quiet, contemplative existence.
Instead, though, he found himself flouting the Constitution, the Bill of Rights, and God knew what else, all by creating and putting into circulation a kind of mock currency in direct competition with the almighty United States dollar. He was hard pressed to put a name to his crime—he knew it wasn’t counterfeiting—but he was certain it was a crime, and a heinous one at that. You might spit in the eye of the U.S. Olympic team and expect nothing more deadly than a draft notice as response. But to steal money, in effect, out of Uncle Sam’s Treasury, to set yourself up as some kind of sovereign on a par with the government— Honeyman couldn’t imagine what kind of punishment would be deemed draconian enough by an incensed bureaucracy.
Looking out over the verdant, path-slashed campus, which was filling up with the throngs anticipating an evening of Outlaw revelry, Honeyman sighed deeply. A couple walked by, hand in hand. Honeyman was too wounded even to sigh.
What about someone to share his hoped-for simple existence? Was that asking too much? He had thought Netsuke was the one. Had thought she felt the same. Then she had thrown him over for Erlkonig. Perhaps the age difference had been too great. And now he would have to confront her tonight, as she hung all moony-eyed over Erlkonig.…
Mustn’t become bitter. Get a grip on yourself, Honeyman! Look on the bright side: a single man, relatively good-looking, under forty, resident in a metropolitan area where such specimens
“Sorry, Rory!”
From his right, a paraphrastic echo from Studs: “Yeah, sorry, Honeyman.”
“That’s okay, girls,” replied Honeyman, immediately bending low and executing some broken-field running to avoid the expected barrage of pebbles and verbal abuse, which indeed quickly materialized.
“You jerk!”
“Don’t call us that!”
Attaining the shelter of a doorway, Honeyman straightened up. He dug his fingers thoughtfully into his rufous beard. Now why had he gone and annoyed Leather ’n’ Studs like that? He normally went out of his way to be nice to them, harboring no ill will toward anyone of any sexual stripe whatsoever. But here he was starting the night off by deliberately—sorta deliberately, anyway — insulting people. He supposed it stemmed from his own unhappiness, as the bad attitudes of most folks did.
During the past week, Honeyman had created and spent spondulix with a wild abandon bordering on inebriation. Erlkonig’s devil-may-care attitude had infected him—Honeyman had allowed it to infect him—and he had dived blindly into the deep end of the algae-topped pool of monetary irresponsibility. As a result, all his debts had been extinguished. The local merchants reacted at first with doubt and caution, but in the end mostly agreed to accept this novel kind of payment, in lieu of anything better. With the U.S. currency thus saved, Honeyman paid off those institutions such as the regional electric company which would never, he was sure, recognize spondulix.
And, as Erlkonig had maintained, fewer spondulix returned than went out, thereby creating a positive cash flow. Honeyman had no idea where the missing spondulix were. Perhaps they had all gone through a wash cycle or two, forgotten in pants pockets, and been rendered into fibrous lumps. He fervently hoped so.
The lifting of his fiscal obligations should have lightened Honeyman’s spirits. He should have been feeling on top of the world right now. Instead, he was plunged into an ever-deepening gloom.
Despite his actions at the Olympics two decades ago, Honeyman had never considered himself a rebel. All he had ever wanted was a little niche in society, a moderate income, a few of the simpler pleasures. True, he had once dreamed of exhibiting his diving skills for the admiration and pleasure of the public—either solo or horsed—but even that modest ambition had been twice by fate denied. All he wanted now was a quiet, contemplative existence.
Instead, though, he found himself flouting the Constitution, the Bill of Rights, and God knew what else, all by creating and putting into circulation a kind of mock currency in direct competition with the almighty United States dollar. He was hard pressed to put a name to his crime—he knew it wasn’t counterfeiting—but he was certain it was a crime, and a heinous one at that. You might spit in the eye of the U.S. Olympic team and expect nothing more deadly than a draft notice as response. But to steal money, in effect, out of Uncle Sam’s Treasury, to set yourself up as some kind of sovereign on a par with the government— Honeyman couldn’t imagine what kind of punishment would be deemed draconian enough by an incensed bureaucracy.
Looking out over the verdant, path-slashed campus, which was filling up with the throngs anticipating an evening of Outlaw revelry, Honeyman sighed deeply. A couple walked by, hand in hand. Honeyman was too wounded even to sigh.
What about someone to share his hoped-for simple existence? Was that asking too much? He had thought Netsuke was the one. Had thought she felt the same. Then she had thrown him over for Erlkonig. Perhaps the age difference had been too great. And now he would have to confront her tonight, as she hung all moony-eyed over Erlkonig.…
Mustn’t become bitter. Get a grip on yourself, Honeyman! Look on the bright side: a single man, relatively good-looking, under forty, resident in a metropolitan area where such specimens
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