So this week was one full of uplift, upheaval, realignment of goals, and a shot in the arm for creativity. I'd rather not weigh in on the heavier aspects of it, because, well, this isn't a private blog for me to boo-hoo and say casually offensive things about what makes me angry. This is for the hypothetical future fan to stumble upon, and have enough time to kill and read back entries, and think, "Oh, cool, so this is where that part came from."
Or, I don't know, something like that. That's what I do when I look at people's websites. I creep. But that's the type of guy I am, a creeping voyeur who thankfully has an internet connection and doesn't have to stare into people's windows. I'm simply fascinated how varied people live, and have a generally curious nature. At least I have the good sense to people watch in a way where they don't know I'm staring at them. You know, like a polite creep.
There, I avoided telling you something personal with something else personal. I hope you're satiated hypothetical reader.
Anywho, this week was full of getting writing done, both for school and for rewrites. I'm trying to pick up the pace and make up for lost time a few months back. I've been watching Batman: The Animated Series and Superman Adventures concurrently on Amazon Prime. I've watched Seasons 1, 2 and half of 3 of Batman so far, and the first for Superman. I'm normally not much of a Superman fan, and find it difficult to find him interesting, but the Animated Series version works for me so far. It was a pretty solid first season, not amazing, but good. I do enjoy a little more depowered Supes, since I feel everyone just goes right to invincible and can punch a planet type power level, and that stuff doesn't excite me. I did quite enjoy the Lobo episodes. I recall enjoying them when they aired as well. But Lobo is the main fraggin' man, so there is that.
And let me confirm your suspicions, I did get the idea of substituting fuck for frag partly because of Lobo. Also from the old term for deathmatch kills and fragmentation grenades. Skag is '70s slang for heroin, which I've never done, but I think it makes a great defecation word too. Now that I think about it, I think I heard skag used in some show I watched recently. Can't recall which one, but it'll come to me.
I also just started playing Rock Band 4 again, now that the songs from 1-3 are available. I have so many songs already, and there's even more that I still want to download. Rock Band really is one of my favorite game franchises. I've had so many magical moments playing that game with friends, and moments in the middle of parties getting everyone singing along and having a grand ole time. And even playing solo, it's just a fun damn game. It combines two of my loves of music and videogames, and it's one of the few games where I haven't gotten worse at it with age.
So after all of that, here's your dog picture and chunk of story. Chapter 11 is very close to being done as well and may get sandwiched into this post. Later skaters.
C:\>10_Trippin_on_a_Hole_in_a_Paper_Plan
Loglow from Ocean City below reflected an
indirect light through open window shades. Lights out was called forty minutes
ago sending lab partners back to their home units and Trip to his room. Each with
project guards posted outside. He jammed his fists into his sockets, grinding
out the thought of his latest escape plans.
'No, it'd be stupid, stupid, stupid. I
don't know the layout of the apartment complex I live in or the guard routines.
How am I supposed to incapacitate a fragging guard? They have machine pistols.
What the hell do I have?'
Trip took a break from internal monologue,
propped up on an elbow and did a weak scan of the area, "Nothing."
Shiny forest green lit in a splash of urine
yellow light caught Trip’s eye. Inside the center one with no lid was a
collection of kids’ stuff, chemicals of a neophyte pharmacist. Before Trip
could tell himself how stupid it would be to jack around after lights out, his
body was up and dragging the chemkit into the bathroom.
Four hours later Trip nodded himself awake
with the evidence of what he'd been up to splayed in front of him. Examining
his work, the gears in his head meshed and got his brain chugging along. He'd
put together a good tester for a non-lethal neurotoxin. Gathering his compounds
and jamming them into the vanity drawer was all he could do with a sleep heavy
head. The rest of his kit went back in its case.
'Tomorrow, find some stim inhalers. Noted.'
Trip's brain blacked into sleep state.
"Hey, hey," A door guard poked Trip
with the butt of his MP-5.0UC. "Get up. Work's in an hour," a couple
rough jabs snapped Trip’s eyes open. "Outta bed, now."
Trip groaned and slid his body almost
upright. According to the bedside display the guard exited at 7:03AM EDT,
leaving Trip with a few minutes to collect himself. He autopiloted out of his
sleeping clothes, brushed his teeth and hopped in the shower. Wiping away
gritty sleep, Trip remembered something important about the sink.
Trying harder to think about the sink in a
mechanical, industrial or semiotic sense failed to drudge up anything of
importance. Trip could hear his mother shrieking about a need for beauty sleep
through the apartment vents over the rushing water. ‘Why did they have to keep
her here?’ He thought as air jets blasted him from all sides, leaving his hair
wet enough for styling.
Leaning on the sink he dug about the
drawers for his Royal Crown pomade, coming across vials of noxious compounds he
wouldn't keep in accessible places. NSTX, stabilizers, bronchodilators,
Propofol, and Lidocane made a bizarre combination compared to the usual slag he
kept in the vanity drawer.
Then it all clicked.
Trip dressed in a hurry, slipping on casual
street clothes. His mother was smoking in the kitchen over an MR frittata with
créme fraîche and ham. She double fisted a mimosa with an apple juice and scotch.
Or, as she called it, wake up juice. She didn't bother to look up until Trip
tried to enter Decker's old room.
"Where are you going dressed like
that?"
He was a tween all over again, "I need
to grab something."
"What do you need to grab?" Mom slid
off the barstool as she stubbed out her cigarette and waved off her smoke
cloud.
Trip tried to disappear before she got too
close, "I need to see if it's there first." The door slid open,
revealing the graveyard shift guard on the other side.
"Can I help you with anything?"
Both the guard and Trip's mother grabbed him by opposite shoulders.
"Uh, can't find my Mentarts™.
My old roommate might have borrowed them," Trip said, craning his neck
past the low wall of an armed guard.
"Stay right here, please." The
guard released Trip into the grip of his mother.
"Trevor, you look awful. Why don't you
have some bacon?" His mom sat him at the island counter and pulled out a block
of ham. "I had them deliver it this morning, but the guards wouldn't bring
back my ketadderall. Pft, some drug company."
"Mom," Trip palmed his face,
"we have real bacon in the freezer."
"Peameal is real bacon, Trevor. Don't
disagree with me." She ignited a cigarette and heated the counter griddle.
Trip drug his hand through his hair
with an exasperated sigh. A slap of pills rattled in plastic next to him on the
marble counter.
"There.
Mentarts™. Pull yourself together man," The guard’s voice hinted sympathy
in its gruffness.
"Hey, were there any empty inhalers in
there?" The guard shot Trip a cockeyed look from the doorway. "For
the project." The door slid shut between them.
Canadian bacon slices sizzled behind his
back. Trip moved towards his workstation, away from the smells of grilling pig,
a couple mauve L-shaped casings rolled to a stop next to his feet.
Yesterday was a crash course in approached
and failed ideas from years of research and corporate espionage regarding
Biodroid genetics. With each bit of data, Trip's gut felt he was falling
further into territory that was going to get him killed. All the more reason
for him to get the jump on his captors before they have a chance to pull the
trigger.
He had half an hour before the unit would
be teeming with straight laced laborers. Trip opened his personal email to find
a surprise message from Decker sharing files from his cloudspace. The one he
clicked on was a link to genetic sequencing for a modified clone chip.
"Trevor, get your ass off the computer
and get over here to eat yer breakfast, dammit," said Trip's Mom, already
under the effects of her wake up juice.
Ignoring
his broodwitch, Trip got up from the workstation and headed towards his room,
"House, serve me."
Chased
by insults, the breakfast carrying servebot caught up at the bedside. Trip
popped a Mentart™, washing it down with citrus that clashed with toothpaste
remains.
Trip’s mom filled the door with perfume and
second hand smoke, "What are you doing in here, all by yourself? Why can't
you ever eat breakfast at the table like a normal person?"
"Mom, if you don’t mind, I'd like a
moment to myself,” Trip picked at his food. “Before my captors force me into
genetic research at gunpoint aoll day." He looked up from his sad meal,
"Don't you have something else to drink?"
"I’ll drink when I need to. Why don't
you want to ever spend time with me you little skag? I raised you, I loved you,
and you treat me like I'm a monster.” Her face turned sour colored, “Ugh, those
eggs smell awful, how did I cook those?" She stumbled into the room on
eight cm wedges, "Excuse me, son, Mommy needs to powder her stomach."
The bathroom door slid behind her, soundproofing came into effect at the start
of the first retch.
Appetite lost and supplies held hostage,
Trip dove for his chemkit. He rifled through its displaced contents, hoping to
come across anything useful. Trip cursed his inability to put things back when
it could have been helpful for a change.
He
worked out an organization system to keep from backtracking as the House VI
announced visitors. A 'thud-thud-thud' came from the other side of the wall. Yelling
about losing both targets followed. He grabbed a component from each pile and loaded
it into a loose compression case.
Rushing water faded up behind Trip's back. His
mom was done with her first purge of the morning. She caught him priming an
inhaler pod, with his shirt acting as a makeshift breathing mask. Before she
could finish smearing her lipstick and ask her son what he was doing, he fast
walked out of the room.
He opened the door on security homing in on
Trip’s position. One spoke into their earpiece. They cut around the couch to
the work station as Trip lateral passed an inhaler to the nearest guard.
"Last guy said you'd want this,” Trip
said, “asked if I could whip some up for you buds."
Trip's mother barged into the room. She scorched
her waggy tipped cigarette with a shaky flame. The guard turned the other way,
slipping the Designer Molecule into a bandolier pocket, waving his partner off
the attack. Trip sat at his work station, cruise missile mother zeroing in.
The straight-man guard snatched Trip’s
attention, "What're the side effects on this thing?" His smooth skin
and bald head gave the appearance of a newborn, making it hard to lie to such
an innocent looking face.
"Light headiness. Increased perception
acuity can be jarring at first. It'll make you think like a panther frags, or
something. But, yeah, you might feel a bit dizzy at–"
"–Hey bud, don't tell me how to have a good time," The
first guard snatched the inhaler from his partner’s pouch and puffed twice.
His baby faced partner snatched the
inhaler, "Johnson, what the 'F'? Be professional for once in your
career," Babyface took his recommended two doses.
In the presence of mind altering substances,
Trip's mom changed course, "You boys want to share some of that perceptual
acuity?"
"Mom, you don't want that.” Trip
copied his files to his mobile, “Just trust me."
"And why not?" Trip's mom didn't
stop moving towards the inhaler.
"Yeah, why not?" Babyface's eyes
each focused on a distant object.
Trip rechecked his pocket contents and
headed for the door. His mom already grabbed the inhaler from Babyface's paws.
With a lungful of dissociative, Trip’s Mom
said, "Why are there two of you?"
Trip was impressed with the janky DeMo
combo’s efficacy, yet his hesitation allowed the third shift guards to catch
his departure. “Get back here,” barked from the apartment doorway.
Trip cursed luck under his breath, hurrying
through the arrival of his co-workers, ready to begin their day. No one made it
easy. Everyone was right in the fragging way, and a couple even reached out to drag
Trip back into the fold. But height and squirrelyness played to his advantage,
swimming free against the current like a gangly salmon.
Gaining good ground on the guards, Trip got
to the lift tubes with enough time to redirect the empty 2 towards different
floors. He caught the bloodshot whites of the night guard's eye. It lined up behind
iron sights of an Urban Combat submachine gun as the lift doors closed. He
ducked and covered like a '50s nuclear attack PSA. A five round burst
splintered the safety glass above his head as Trip zoomed scot-free to the
ground level.
Alarms rang as Trip exited the lift into
the lobby. The Doorwatch and Desk Clerk each made noises in his direction. The
Clerk went so far as to jump over his station devolving into an awkward show of
athleticism by all three parties.
Trip dodged The Doorwatch's flying tackle
to be caught around the waist by The Clerk, who didn't seem to plan that move
very far in advance. The Clerk tried to drag Trip towards the nearest wall but
stumbled over him onto the floor. Trip got himself untangled from The Clerk in
time to let The Doorwatch blow past him into a fake potted plant. He made a mad
dash out through the doors and into the city.
White noise from OCPD sirens flared from
the closest precinct on the winds. Yesterday's lingering clouds kept the skies
over Tea Party Harbor a damp gray. Trip slunk through the alleys between high
rises, abandoned in thanks to a rapid onset of rain. Trip's zip-up hoodie did a
poor job of anything but getting wet. Getting new clothes was an imperative
directive next to getting away from peace officers. He moved through the
clutter and light-free passage unsure of where he was heading.
Each workable scenario Trip played out
ended in Clonetown. He couldn’t head any further east, and west meant
continuing onto the bridgeovers to their conclusion. Getting there was going to
be all the fun.
Stepping onto the street, the world slept
through the waking hours with trusted street lighting absent or flickering in
the rain. Not about to turn down good fortune, Trip plowed through the quiet
streets hoping it a sign his luck was improving.
*
Trip was forced off the train at Connection
Station due to unscheduled maintenance. He blended into the exiting crowd as
the pocs flooded in behind to set up security checkpoints. Emergency lighting
lit the underbridge terminal, let Trip slip into the shadows when he ended up
in conspicuous patches. He wasn’t that self-absorbed to think the checkpoints
were solely for himself, but whatever was going on had spread everywhere around
Ocean City.
On top of the plate, his shoes squashed
along sidewalks, rain painted the concrete in dark hues. Squad cruisers blared
along with bigger fish to fry than some bum playing hooky from work. People filtered
into the gloom, snatching up self-drive cabs and rideshares from under a
menagerie of rain shields. Energy flow remained sporadic or altered on every
edifice and road. Traffic congestion made Ocean City's streets look more like
the frenetic chaos of Hollywood's roads than the structured commutes Oceaners
expected. Horns boomed beneath heavy hands on all sides.
Trip ducked into the Connection-Foundation underbridge
walkway from one type of white noise to another. Vendors and hagglers raised
voices shouted about business. Foot traffic bustled Trip into the wave of movement
while shouting at him to “Shut up and move along”. Grimy bodies pressed against
Trip. His sweat mingled with the evaporating rain on his wet hoodie.
"Fine cloned leather goods, all types
of hides. Trust me folks, they're exactly like the real thing.” A hand with a
jacket gripped in it shot above the crowd.
Trip slipped aside and pushed back to the
short, round, merchant. “Hey, you, yeah you, you look wetter than a pair of
lips.” His eyes seemed to bulge from their sockets as they scanned Trip’s body.
The gaze made him want to buy a jacket just to cover up even further.
“Want a jacket? Gator, bison, townie; you
name the skin, we've got some to wrap you in. Real cheap, creds or slips,
whatever you've got, it's all good." The Merchant turned back to his boxes
and clothing racks. Trip fished in his wallet and slapped his creds on the table
point of sale.
The Merchant, cigarette flaming between his
pursed lips, regarded Trip's offering with a, "What the skag is
this?"
"My credcard. I need a jacket, and
that bowler's pretty sweet."
Blowing a snot rocket from a stuffy pug
nose, The Merchant's buggy eyes narrowed, "Oh yeah? What's up with the
card?" He jabbed a grubby stub of a finger at the billfold. Trip hesitated
for a fraction too long. "I ain't got no time fer jacked cards, buddy.
Amscray." The Merchant returned to hocking his wares at the rushing crowd,
actively ignoring Trip’s protests.
Trip
fiddled through his soggy pockets, pulling out the second inhaler and packet of
Mentarts™.
"DeMos?"
He said to The Merchant's ear, trying really hard not to get close enough to
smell him.
He grabbed Trip and pinned him against the
side of the underbridge, "What the hell you doing, bud? You stupid or
something? What no-brain 'burb did you crawl out of?"
"I make on the side.” Trip struggled
against a “You want some engineered mindfragmenting or what?" Trip shook
the mauve L of an inhalant dispenser between his index and thumb.
"What'cha holding?"
"K, flipped with MP-909."
"You think I got time for that
slag?"
"Toss in the Mentarts™ for the
hat too?"
"You fragging with me, man?" The
Merchant crushed his cigarette under a worn heel.
"Nope, all yours," Trip flashed a
guileless smile, rattling the pack.
Exhaling
the last drag, "No, I mean you think a pack of Mentarts™ is worth a hat.
You've already popped five." He flicked the used foil pack.
"Do you want them or not?" Trip's
hoodie was a swamp on his shoulders, dragging him further into discomfort. He
hid his stash and hands deep inside his pockets.
"Wait, wait, wait. I thought we were
haggling, bud? You can't just take your toys and go home. Look, I got all sorts
of coats. What kind you need?" Trip pointed to a hastily folded black
cloned calf jacket on top of a cardboard box. "Not that one," The
Merchant shook his greasy nest of gray/black hair. "You’ll look razorwire
sharp in something… like… this."
*
Wrapped in a coral dyed, bumpy scaled,
gator jacket and topped with an Oz brimmed Stetson, Trip waved for anyone who'd
give him a ride. His mobile was on the fritz, not connecting to Johnny Cab or Lüft.
He was stuck banking on the kindness of strange motorists. His cloneleather
ensemble kept the top of him dryer than before, with the hoodie becoming more
soaked around his waist. He'd walked a straight shot across the turnpikes,
thumb extended, getting honked at and splashed with rain water.
Crowds thinned and moved indoors at the end
of the workday. Trip's feet were crippled with cold and wear from the day's march.
None of the city's lights sprung up where the overcast black of night needed
them to. Loglow flashed distorted alien messages through the heart of the city
in arching patterns. Tipping his goofy hat forward to pour rainwater off its
brim, Trip dry coughed into his hands. Huddled under a construction
scaffolding, rubbing his shoulders for warmth, Trip backed against a quilt of
replicated adverts and handbills. He looked to four corners of flooded streets,
each revealing nothing more than cars disappearing into the night. Tail lights
left impressions something was actually there on an empty street.
A street sign said this was the corner of
Hope and Union. None of the night crowd bothered to make an appearance. Buds shy
away from hair-wrecking rain. Especially in hip degentrified borough’s. Most
people elected instead to bunker down inside despite their consumer products only
working in sporadic bursts. Trip felt ridiculous in the synthetic reptile
jacket, wandering the wet streets with no clear goal but Clonetown of all
places, since that’s probably where Decker went. "At least no one's around
to harsh my get-up." He laughed in his throat, coughed and spat.
A poc car flashed lights at the sidewalk,
whiting out the gloom around Trip, killing his laughter. Trip covered his face
with his hat brim as the passenger peace officer shined towards his spot.
A Johnny cab was coming from the opposite direction.
Trip pushed away from the wall, making a break for the cab. His worn sneaks
slipped on the rain slick street as he dashed into the street.
Tires squealed from the cruiser spinning in
reverse. Trip rebounded off the trunk, trying to keep his hat on as he rolled
onto the pavement. At impact the cops hit the brakes with a jerk.
Trip struggled to get upright in the road.
High beams flashed in his wide eyes freezing him in place. Red and blue lights
swirled from the side. Trip sprang at the cab, tucking his legs away from
oncoming traffic, and forcing the cab to stop for unsafe conditions. Behind,
the squad car's parking lights went on. Trip popped open the passenger side
door.
“Thanks for choosing Johnny Cab. Where can
I take you?” The pocs stepped out of their cruiser.
"Foundation-Destiny Bridgeover C."
Cars pass to keep the officers from crossing the narrow street.
The VI replied, "I’m sorry, that route
has been blocked by the corporate government due to terrorist activity. Please
choose an alternate route."
Trip didn’t imagine he’d be fighting with a
program when he got up this morning, “Then take me to The Pit or I’ll activate manual drive and I’ll do it myself.”
"I’m sorry to have displeased you, but
there is no need for yelling," The cab kicked into gear, the peace
officers left scrambling back to their cruiser.
The Johnny Cab said, “Estimated time of
arrival: five AM. Would you like a fare projection based on current traffic
trends and checkpoint clearance times?"
Trip turned around from staring at the pocs
getting back into their wheels, “No thanks, but is there any way we can speed
that up?”
“I’m sorry, not without breaking city
vehicle parameters.”
Sirens and lights filled the back window as
the pocs wove through commuters to catch Trip’s cab.
“We must pull over. Please comply with any
and all requests by your conducting peace officers.”
“Oh frag this,” Trip hopped over the center
console into the driver’s cockpit. “Activate manual drive.”
The VI let out a chortling, “HO-HO-HO. You
are not authorized to do that. Trevor Daniel Dawson, you are wanted for questioning
by the OCPD and Roplaxive Pharmaceuticals.” The windshield became a holodisplay
of Trip’s growing rap sheet, complete with images of him fleeing his complex.
Trip went for the doors to find them locked. There were no window controls.
“I’m sorry, but Johnny Cab cannot allow
ourselves to compromise our superior service by aiding and abetting criminals.
Please refrain from escaping peace officer custody.”
Trip braced himself and kicked out at the
passenger window with all his might. Five solid kicks and the glass smashed
away in small pellets. Trip pulled his hands into his sleeves to shield from
window remnants. Whatever Johnny Cab had to say, Trip didn’t hear as he flung
himself, face-first, into a parked car.
Trip lay on the hood for a moment, letting
the ringing in his head subside until it turned into OCPD sirens in his ears.
He rolled off the car, Johnny Cab nowhere in sight. Something wet was on his
face, stickier than the rain, and everything looked fuzzy. Trip thanked his
lucky stars behind the cloud layer for the alley in front of him. Trip heard
the opening of car doors with indistinct mumblings. Sliding along the walls, he
found an alcove that lead to a basement hallway. Standing with a lean, Trip
tumbled into an unlocked industrial door.
With his back against the door, the low
rumble of criminal investigation echoed down the hallway. No lights shined
besides the popping and bursting stars that appeared behind Trip’s closed
eyelids. It had been almost twenty-four hours since he slept and he was so
tired. So very tir-
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