Pie Box 1

by George Saoulidis

  Canvas adjusted the enormous machine gun hanging on his shoulder and sighed. “When people are this much polite with me, I know they ain’t got the scratch.”

  “Times have been tough,” Hector said, his head bobbing up and down. “But I got some, four-k.”

  Canvas glanced back at Angelo and shook his head. “Four-k is something I can show my superiors, for today.”

  “No, there’s no need-”

  Angelo kicked one of the displays over and smashed it on the floor. That little blond bitch. Hector flinched but ignored the damage. “And I have something I know you’ll like. Let’s call it a gift.”

  Canvas raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

  “Follow me round the back, it’s in my workshop.”

  Hector darted at the back and the titan followed.

  “Now, this, is a work of art. Absolutely unique in the world, no one else has this.”

  Canvas frowned. “It’s weird. What is it, a half-armour?”

  “It’s sexy armour, my sexy man. Check it out. Please, I took the liberty of fitting it to your size, try it on.”

  Canvas glanced back at Angelo and the fuckboy lifted his rifle a few degrees, casually covering his boss. He undressed right on the spot, his current armour slapping the floor in falling parts.

  “There’s a changing room right- Oh, right, with that physique, you’ve got nothing be ashamed of.” Hector looked away.

  Canvas looked down, fussing with it. “How do I-”

  Hector adjusted the straps.

  “Now, imagine walking around with this, with your chest and your six pack painted, just the way you like it. You can show it off, you can be the Canvas!”

  Canvas looked at his reflection in the mirror.

  Angelo stepped close, his expression lustful.

  Yes! Hector contained his excitement. But he made a tiny punch in the air.

  “How do I look?” Canvas asked.

  “Badass and sexy,” Angelo whistled. “I love it. In fact, I wanna do you right here.”

  “Nice. And this stops bullets?”

  Hector went into full selling-mode. “High quality metamaterial, transforms upon impact into better than Kevlar, impervious to knives. Shows off your body and protects it at the same time. Bitchin’ cost-per-centimetre, only celebrities and corporate bigshots can afford it.” Then he turned away and said casually, “Viko wears it.”

  At the mention of the celebrity’s name Canvas perked up. “Viko? Seriously?”

  “Doesn’t leave home without it. Custom-job, with these hands right here.” Hector wiggled his fingers. “You know I don’t tell on my clients but I know I can trust you.”

  Canvas eyed himself in the mirror some more. He looked real good, Hector had to admit. A muscled titan, intelligent, trained, armoured to the teeth but with transparent parts interwoven at strategic places. Badass and sexy indeed.

  Hector felt kinda proud.

  Now if he could live to enjoy the feeling.

  Canvas stepped close and Hector started. He slapped him on the shoulder and showed his perfect teeth. “I like it.”

  Hector took his first truly deep breath in hours.

  DROP FIVE

  Timbo heard the voice of god.

  His naked feet slapping on the cold marble, he spun around the metro station.

  “Get out,” the voice of god said.

  Timbo looked up, checked every corner. The ceiling was so high and he turned his head so much that he fell on his butt.

  “I said, get out!” the voice of god boomed from everywhere.

  Timbo darted away and ran a few paces, then hid behind a corner. Surely god couldn’t see him now.

  “I can still see you,” god said, his voice clear, coming from all over. It crackled like bad radio, like the one grandma always listened to.

  Timbo needed to get some coins for the day. He didn’t really know how much he had, but he could hold them in his palm and feel the weight. He was definitely light and phuro would smack the shit out of him if he returned like this. Timbo found out that the best place to hang out was next to the recharging booths. People put their metro passes in the machine, tapped a few things, then either swiped another card or put in coins. The ones counting coins while approaching the machine were the ones who Timbo could swindle. He’d go up to them, dig his nose for a booger, show them his filthy legs and look up at them with his big eyes.

  That’s what the familia said, anyway. That he had big eyes. Timbo couldn’t see his eyes to see how big they were, but if everyone insisted so, it must be true. And Timbo was good at it, he’d go up to people and plead and they’d give him some of the coins the machine spat out. They came out of the slot with the plastic you could see through at the bottom, and Timbo had tried to reach in and grab some more coins but none fell. And the machine scratched his arm and it hurt and Timbo said ‘Owie.’

  That’s why god was yelling at him, for kicking the machine that dropped coins.

  Timbo looked around. It happened that the metro station was empty at this time. Well lit, everything worked but there was no one else around except poor-little-Timbo. He hid behind the corner and held the coins in his hand. They were too light. He knew phuro would be mad.

  Timbo needed to bring something back. All his brothers and sisters and cousins brought something back every night. Else they got a beating and didn’t eat and slept outside. Sometimes people looked at Timbo’s dirty hands and feet and gave him things to eat, telling him about begging and how he was being used.

  Timbo nodded and smiled and kept his palm up but he knew he wasn’t being used. Familia was familia. You just provided for the familia, and the kumpania as a whole. Didn’t these gadjes know that?

  And when you were old enough to have your own kids, you got part of the day’s loot at the lovoro. Timbo had a cousin that was already old enough to have two kids of his own, which his wife carried around all over southern Athens. Timbo saw them some times because he rode the metro all day and went up and down and up and down. They were nice to him and checked how light he was and sometimes gave him a couple of coins to bring back to phuro.

  His cousin knew first-hand how tough some days were.

  “Get the fuck out, you shitty, disgusting little gypsy!” god said from everywhere.

  Timbo started and ran like hell.

  He ran against the flow of the escalators, panting while they dragged him back down. In his hurry, he forgot that this way was harder. Timbo only went against the flow when he was bored and wanted to play. In his hurry, he went this way and pushed on all fours to get higher.

  He got outside. His eyes quickly adjusted to the dark street. The metro was so bright and with reflective marble that it might as well be daylight down there. He walked a few blocks, looking around, waiting to see if the god could still see him.

  Thankfully, he couldn’t.

  Timbo curled his toes. The marble was nice and smooth, but the street was a different sort. Timbo would have liked to have shoes but phuro always said he’d grow bigger anyway and what was the point? Plus he looked more pathetic that way and people gave him coins.

  But now it was cold and Timbo walked alone. He wasn’t lost, he knew the way back to phuro’s corner, and even if it got too late, he knew the way back home. He wasn’t lost. But he didn’t dare go back with just these coins.

  So, he’d find something to bring home. Stealing, the gadjes called it. His familia didn’t call it that, but the gadjes got really angry when they caught you doing it. If they didn’t catch you, then it was fine.

  So, Timbo just needed to find something to bring home. Something... like a balloon? No. Like... a chocolate bar?

  No, not that either.

  Something... like that man’s bag? He’d left it propped up against a streetlight. He was sitting in the dark, waiting. He kept scratching his arm and couldn’t sit still. He made Timbo scared but did he really have a choice?

  Also, the man didn’t seem all there. He looked like other gadjes l
ooked like when they spoke to someone on the phone, but he had no phone, Timbo was certain he was speaking to himself. But his mind was away, definitely.

  Timbo was small. It was easy to walk silently, hug the wall, stay in the shadow.

  He extended his little hand towards the bag.

  The man turned towards him and Timbo hid back, sure he was caught and was going to get a beating, and then he’d get a beating from phuro too for not bringing anything back.

  But the man just twitched like before and mumbled on.

  When he looked away, Timbo decided to just go for it. He reached out and grabbed the bag. It was full of something that Timbo couldn’t see and it was much heavier than Timbo thought. He grunted and he was certain the man would hear but he didn’t.

  Timbo carried the bag away, feeling the weight, smiling wide.

  He’d bring something home today.

  DROP SIX

  Diego scratched the scabs on his arms. He could almost hear his mother’s voice telling him to stop that, but he carried on, making them bleed.

  He couldn’t help it when jonesing like that.

  Swinging on the balls of his feet, he waited in the alley. It was dark and he couldn’t see shit. He searched his pockets for he trusty flashlight. It took him far too long to realise that he’d sold it the day before. Traded it for a single line of coke. He needed that line.

  He scratched his scabs through his sleeve.

  Where was that damn Ukrainian? The dude was shady as fuck and didn’t treat Diego well, but he was always on time. Punctuality was a weird positive characteristic of all good mafiosos. If you didn’t come on time, people got anxious and pulled their piece out.

  Itchy trigger fingers always got someone killed. Always.

  Diego licked his lips, biting down on the dried wounds. He looked up and down the dark street, it was way too fucking dark, man! Who in their right mind would make a rendezvous in this shithole? Athens was a basin of a shithole but you could find some illuminated part of it to conduct business, man! And somewhere where the wind didn’t blow and freeze you down to the bone.

  He gripped his coat tight. It barely did anything, lame-ass Turkish knock-off. It just looked cool and Diego liked feeling cool. He needed good threads for his business, man. How else was he going to get his own team? He had Patty Roo, and it was a good start. Not too shabby, not too expensive. A good mid-lister athlete. Jeez, was he lucky on that bet or what? That fucking Apostolis needed cash like stat and Diego was there to bet on it? Lucky, lucky, fucking lucky. Apostolis, the ignorant twat lost of course and handed over the key to Diego’s woman.

  By Demeter’s ginormous boobs, what a blessing had she bestowed on him that day!

  Diego scratched his scabs. They hurt but it felt good to have some sensation in this chilly night. If only he had his flashlight, man.

  He checked the merchandise. Four state-of-the-art HPP vests. Gorgeous, simply gorgeous, like always. That fucker Hector was an artist with this shit, man. Diego always told him so, fucking glad he was his friend, man. So proud. So fucking proud.

  Diego scratched his arm again. He looked down at the bag. Where was the short Ukrainian bast-

  Finally.

  Car lights. Diego raised his arm, couldn’t see. Someone got out. Short and thick, like the Ukrainian. “Fucking finally, man, I’ve been freezing my balls off here!”

  The man said nothing and stepped closer. Diego couldn’t see his face.

  “Got your shit right here. Top-shelf shit, best in town. You won’t be disappointed.” He shrugged. “Had to really dig into the stock for these, wasn’t easy. But for you, and for the right price...” he trailed off, his voice sounding proud.

  The Ukrainian’s face was ugly and scarred as always. “Come on, Diego. Show me the stuff.”

  “Sure, let me-” Diego froze and looked at the place where the bag was a minute ago. “Um...” He scratched his head, shuffling his feet in the dark. Maybe he kicked it away without noticing? Maybe left it a streetlamp over?

  “Stop this nonsense, do you have it or not? Don’t waste my time.”

  “It was right there, I swear! Just a minute ago, just before you pulled over-”

  “Malaka prezoni,” the Ukrainian spoke in Greek profanity, and pulled something out of his jacket.

  A flash, and for a single moment, Diego could see everything. The dirty street, the broken lights, the closed shutters, the car ahead.

  A little angel, dashing away on bare tiny feet.

  He put his hand on his belly and it came back bloody.

  Diego gurgled a profanity back at the Ukrainian. The man ignored him and simply left him there.

  The junkie laid there in the middle of the street, a puddle of blood forming around him.

  It wasn’t that cold now. Even the shivers went away.

  Diego had just enough time to send a final message.

  DROP SEVEN

  Diego sent him a weird text. ‘Look in the cupboard. Take care of her.’

  Hector tried calling him back but his phone never connected. He was far too tired and shaken up to deal with a junkie’s incoherent thoughts right now, so he ignored it and went upstairs for a nap. As soon as he hit the bed, he felt sleep hugging him all over like a blanket.

  A few hours later he felt better. Hardly refreshed, but it would have to do for now. He narrowly avoided stepping on Armadillo. His pet eyed him angrily since he had forgotten to feed it. It was trained to press the autofeeder for dry food so it never actually risked starvation due to negligence, but the posh bastard liked the canned stuff better.

  Hector checked the cupboard. “Yeah, sorry, Armadillo,” he said, yawning, “make do with the dry stuff. I didn’t buy any food for me either, I was too busy making sure we weren’t murdered.”

  The Armadillo perked up and wiggled its front legs.

  “I know you’d survive. But what about squishy old-me?” Hector waved it away. “Ah... I’ll go for groceries, we’re empty anyway.”

  The day felt nice. The city was still shitty, but having a new lease on life made everything seem over-saturated, the colours, the smells, the life around him. He would normally get the truck, even for a drive this short, but today he wanted to feel the air you know, suck in the carbon monoxide. He crossed Syggrou avenue, ignoring the prostitutes at their corners. He went two streets out of his way to Diego’s usual joints, which was behind a bookie’s place.

  Hector wasn’t a sports guy. For the first time in his life, he took note of the various posters and stats running for soccer and basket and Formula 1 racing, both classic and electric, but his eyes fell on the Cyberpink tournament. It was kinda hard not to. The whole thing was designed to attract the male gaze while it robbed you of your savings.

  He stepped inside the betting place. Screens upon screens with stats, replays, matches, all AR controlled and all with directional holosound that meant everyone could hear just the game he wanted, making the place have a weird echoing effect as if it was haunted. Men and women bet on teams, on outcomes, on players, MVPs, and to Hector’s shock, on player injuries.

  He realised he knew nothing about Cyberpink. There were some women, in teams? And something about a skull? A dog skull, for some reason? And points?

  That was the full extent of his knowledge. His implant helpfully popped up a search result in his AR but he swiped it away. He felt too tired to learn new things right now.

  Where was Diego? This was his usual joint. He asked the shopkeeper.

  “Oh, man, he owed you money too?”

  Hector took note of the past tense. “Yeah, but that’s not why I’m asking. I actually know the bastard for years now.”

  “Oh, maaan, so sorry then. My condolences.”

  Hector took a step back. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

  “He got rolled just this morning, man, two blocks from here. He was frail from all the drugs and bled out before anyone could help him out. I’m sorry, I really am. And you’re not getting that money
back, Diego had no bank accounts or nothing. He owed me too, I had a hacker run a check.”

  Hector forced a smile at the man. “How business-wise of you,” he deadpanned.

  The man shrugged. “It is what it is, man. If you knew how often I need to do this, you wouldn’t be so judgemental. Anyway, care to place a bet? The Beasties are looking good for the cup this year.” He raised an ARO in his palm, an Augmented Reality Object that could be seen by anyone on the veil, which meant pretty much everyone on the planet. An armoured woman, sexy as hell, with her ass perked up and seductive lips. “That’s Siren, my favorit. Gorgeous, ain’t she? Which one do you like?”

  The man looked up and seemed like he really wanted to know.

  “Uh. I’m not a sports guy. Where did you say Diego got rolled?”

  The shopkeeper tapped a street number and shared the map with Hector.

  “Thanks.”

  “No problem. Come bet on Siren, yeah? Guaranteed money!” he shouted after him.

  DROP EIGHT

  Nobody had bothered to wash the blood.

  Hector stood there with his hands in his jacket pockets. The blood was red on the fringes, dried up, looking blackish-brown now. It wasn’t pink. This wasn’t a sports game. This wasn’t a show on the veil, or on the net, or on VR.

  He had known Diego for more than 10 years, and that’s a lot of time when you’re only 30. Practically your entire adult life. He wasn’t a real friend, but he knew the bastard well enough.

  They had gotten drunk a few times together, had a few laughs. Less when he became an addict, since then it was all about the next score with Diego. He never was the best of customers but he always paid back his debts with intel from the street and various opportunities. Most of that was shooting the shit, but some of his tips had actually panned out.

  And now, what was left of him was a stain on the side of the road. A discarded food wrapper stuck on the dried up blood.