11 - Striper Assassin
Page 4
She’s got herself a real killer here.
A real killer chiller. Yeah…
8
: : : North Central Metroplex
05-19-54/10:17:03
Switch on, plug in, engage…
This must be his lucky day!
Natch, he’s got all the standard gads, and today everything seems to be working—scum damn fragging incredible as it may be, and is—to him at least.
His Seretech Evening Shade cybereyes with FlareGuard and the thermographic-enhancement option provide a crisp, direct-vision image of the crumbling tenements and decaying sidewalks along Erie Avenue, not far from the Frankford Creek toxic waste dump. His Eyecrafter opticam package provides a complete diagnostic readout in the form of a direct-vision overlay right in front of his eyes. With a touch of the Bionome tridlink controller strapped to his right forearm, he enhances the overlay to include data on all the rest of his hardware, both implants and strap-ons. The datajacked Sony CB-5000 camera in the steady-mount atop his helmet comes on-line with a flood of snow that blinds him before clearing to crystal-linked clarity. Even the AZT Micro25 minicam strapped to his right wrist gives him a picture-perfect image.
Utterly damn fragging amazed, he swings his arm up and around, panning right, optics cued to the Micro25, only to close-frame on a lovely thermographic image of Sidewipe, the scrod-frakkin’ nit holding the Fuchi short-range transmitter, smiling at him and looking stupid, taking a pause from adjusting his crotch.
Dweezle dirtbrain ignoramus…
“Skeeter! Skeeter, come on!” J.B. calls impatiently.
The hell with it.
Main lens: pan left, zoom, up-focus, close-face. The so very trid-o-genic Asian features of J.B. come clearly through the datajacked Sony mounted atop his helmet and the optical receptors inside his skull: onyx A-sym hair, bangs across the brow, one long tuft curving down over right cheek; one pointed elven ear showing; coal-black eyes; powder-white skin; crimson lips; red serpent tattoo on left cheek.
If she ever gets a direct network feed, she’ll be deadly. She’s bad enough as it is. A real pain in the back-door trumpet, excuse my scum fraggin’ francais!
“Am I on?”
Skeeter jabs a finger at her—YOU’RE ON!
“This is Joi Bang of WHAM! Independent News coming to you direct from North Central Philadelphia where yet another victim in a series of cannibalistic mutilation killings has just been discovered.”
Yea, team.
Then of course she’s running, running right out of the frame, only looking back to wave frantically—come on! come on! The very trid-o-genic biff never stands still for very long. Damn blast her anyway. Skeeter hustles forward, feeling a tug from the right of his belt. That’s because the dirtbrain with the Fuchi transmit dish can’t stop picking his nose long enough to wake up and smell the poop.
Just another twerkin’ newsday chasing J.B. around.
Fraggin’ scrod-damn bull-hooey…
’Scuse my mutha muckin’ French!
05-19-54/10:19:44
Establishing shot: J.B. and Minuteman cop standing on the sidewalk inside a ring of shabby slummers. Zoom in, split-view, close-focus, and hold. Main lens on cop, direct-view cybereyes on J.B. Roll cams.
“You were the first officer on the scene?” J.B. prompts.
“Yeah,” the cop replies.
This is sum-biff news?
“What did you find?” she inquires.
“Talk to the sergeant.”
Great.
Eat my sokkin’ mutha chip.
J.B. smiles, glances back toward Skeeter. That’s the usual signal. Skeeter realizes what’s coming. Stop cam, close eyes. He briefly shuts down the Sony atop his helmet, too. When he re-engages, a faint cloud of some damn golden particulate stuff, glinting with tiny motes of light, is drifting around the cop’s face. The cop is now smiling. J.B. lifts her mike.
“Is it true the victim was cannibalized?” she asks.
“What a mess,” the cop says, now grinning. “I mean, there wasn’t hardly nothing left. You shoulda seen it!”
“Was the victim male or female?”
“Who could tell?”
“Which way to the body?”
“Right in there.” The cop points. “Have a look. But don’t say I didn’t warn ya.”
Then of course J.B.’s running up the steps and into the tenement. Skeeter hustles forward. Another tug from his belt. Dammit to all fraggin’ hell, Sidewipe.
Get your finger outta your nose!
05-19-54/10:20:07
Close-frame, close-focus: dingy tenement hall. A sprawl rat peers out from around the frame of a doorway. They call ’em devil rats. More like rodents from hell. Red glowin’ eyes, wrinkly mutant skin, shiny little black claws.
J.B. pulls up abruptly, cutting short a shriek.
Heh.
05-19-54/10:22:18
“Fraggin’ hell! Get the hell back! All of you! Get the hell back!”
Main lens: low-light, zoom in. J.B. heading down a dark, decrepit stairway into some blackened, garbage-strewn junkyard hell of a basement. Minuteman cop with stripes coming into the stairwell waving his arms around. J.B.’s already blabbing into her mike, “This is Joi Bang for WHAM! Independent News. Is it true, Sergeant, that you’ve found yet another victim in the series of mutilation cannibal killings that Minuteman Security Services seems unable to crack?”
“Get the hell outta here!” the sergeant shouts.
Another damn cloud of glinting gold blossoms into the air. No warning this time.
Reverse and purge.
05-19-54/10:22:57
“Well, heck,” the sergeant says. “It ain’t that bad. I mean, there’s only been three so far. Three bodies. And we’re workin’ on it. The detectives—”
“Can we see the body?”
“Yeah, it’s right over there.”
05-19-54/10:23:46
Establishing shot, slow pan. Garbage-strewn basement, ancient pipes crossing the ceiling, graffiti and unsanitary-looking moisture covering walls. What’s left of the body is bloated and kinda greenish. Main lens: pull back and hold. Direct-view: close in and scan maggot-covered skull. Exposed bones. Quick thermographic sequence from the AZT microcam on his wrist.
J.B. provides voiceover.
Blah blah blah…
“What you’re looking at is the third victim in a series of cannibal-mutilation style killings occurring within the Philly metroplex within the last month. So little of the body remains it’s hard to tell if the victim was male or female, or even human. Some of the bones look gnawed. Large portions of the cadaver seem to be missing—limbs, internal organs… at least they don’t seem to be anywhere nearby…”
New voice, demanding, “What’s happening here! Who are these people! Sergeant! Sergeant!”
Someone grabs Skeeter’s shoulder and tugs. He hears a whimpery exclamation from Sidewipe while staggering around in a half circle. The line to the damn Fuchi dish is wrapping around his ankles. Fraggin’ wackweed Sidewipe.
Main lens: up-angle, broad view, sharp focus. Some big slag in plainclothes with a brass detective’s shield hanging out of his jacket pocket. Face mottled red with anger. J.B. steps up from his right, mike uplifted. Zoom in, split-screen.
“I’m Joi Bang from WHAM! Independent News. Do you have any comment, Detective, on this latest in a series—”
“This is a crime scene, dammit!”
“Can you explain why Helter-Shutt Inc., Minuteman’s parent corporation, has called upon renowned metazoologist Doctor Marion Liss of the University City Science Center?”
“How the heck should I know that?”
“Isn’t it true that numerous sightings of the metabeings called ghouls have been reported to Minuteman police within just the last week?”
“What! Who—?”
“Do the police intend to send out death squads in order to neutralize the threat posed by these creatures?”
“Who says it’s gh
ouls, dammit!”
“Are you suggesting, Detective, that some other metacreature is responsible for this series of cannibalistic mutilations?”
“I didn’t say that!”
“Then what are you saying. Detective?”
“Slot it outta here! And now!”
J.B. looks back toward the camera view.
Dust the fraggin’ badge and be done with it.
Damn scragging nithead biff.
9
At six minutes past the hour of seven a.m., Enoshi Ken steps from the elevator and makes his way briskly down Teak Row, as the corridor is known, toward the suite reserved for his immediate superior, Bernard X. Ohara, member of the board of Kono-Furata-Ko Corporation and Chief Executive Officer of the KFK subsidiary, Exotech Entertainment.
The day is hardly begun and already Enoshi is in a position he dislikes intensely, that of being behind schedule. Too well, he knows how swiftly small delays and other minor problems can mount and mount, till serious disruptions result. His job as Executive Chief of Staff to the CEO of Exotech Entertainment is to see that, among other things, such disruptions do not occur. It is a job for which he considers himself well-suited. It is his firm belief that the quality executive must find ways to circumvent trouble, regardless of circumstance, even before it occurs, and where necessary, make silver purses from sows’ ears. Enoshi is not so naive as to believe that it is always possible to attain such miracles, but neither is he so self-indulgent as to imagine that fate or bad luck should ever be blamed for personal failures.
Probably, there are those who do not share Enoshi’s determination, and may therefore consider him intolerant or perhaps excessively devoted. It can be difficult to know what others think. Despite this, he does his best to maintain good relations with his own subordinates, those members of Ohara-san’s staff who are under his supervision.
Enoshi turns a corner and strides briskly into the reception area of Ohara-san’s suite. Remarkably, the receptionist is not at her desk. Shocked, Enoshi checks his watch, if only to confirm that he is not dreaming, that it is in fact just past seven a.m. on a day when a full complement of staff persons should be at their posts. He then moves quickly through the door to the right of the reception counter and into the staff office. Here he finds his explanation. The desks running up both sides of the room are all empty. The entire staff of eight, including one receptionist, one office lady, two secretary-transcribers, a data aide, a computer aide, a statistical aide, and an assistant manager are standing in a group midway up the center aisle.
With them is Nigao Yorito from personnel.
Apparently, the whole group has banded together to keep Nigao occupied, covering for Enoshi’s absence.
Enoshi walks rapidly up the center aisle, apologizes for the delay. His failure to arrive at the usual time has upset the entire office and disrupted the usual morning routine. He should have been here almost thirty minutes ago. He must hasten to regain lost time. “Ms. Harrington,” he says briskly, “would you please show Mister Nigao into the inner office? Thank you.”
That much done, he turns to the others.
“I will be with you in just one more moment.”
At the front of the room, he moves quickly behind his own desk, sets down his briefcase, and removes his pocket secretary bound in dark red synthleather. With that in hand, he steps through the connecting door leading into Ohara-san’s office, the “inner” office. An expansive wall of windows arcs gently around to the rear of the imposing onyx desk situated on a low dais. Enoshi pauses to exchange brief bows with the man from personnel, then also shakes hands.
Ms. Harrington goes out to summon the rest of the office staff. Enoshi takes his position in front of the onyx desk, and invites Nigao to stand beside him.
The group comes in, a mixture of Asians and occidentals of various ages, three males, five females. All are meticulously groomed and attired. All wear plastic-laminated badges identifying them as employees of Exotech Entertainment, Inc. The only one not wearing such a badge is Nigao Yorito. His badge of course identifies him as an employee of the parent corporation, KFK.
To begin, Enoshi gives a brief nod of his head and says, “Good morning.”
The group responds in kind, most nodding in a casual manner or smiling in addition to saying good morning. That is quite acceptable. The only reply that really stands out is that of the statistical aide, who bows and says, “Ohayo, Enoshi-san.”
Enoshi suppresses a wince. Many of the ethnic Japanese on the staff make the error of overusing familiar habits acquired in Japan or elsewhere in their youth. It is the policy of Exotech Entertainment, and its parent, Kono-Furata-Ko, to mitigate wherever possible the differences between East and West, to take the best of each and blend them together. Though Enoshi is originally from Kyoto, Japan, where traditions are greatly respected, he has made every effort to appear westernized. He expects no less of his subordinates. He must have another private meeting sometime soon with the Japanese on his staff and encourage them to “loosen up”.
As he takes a moment looking from one to the next, he realizes that something more is wrong. Several of the group look distressed. Two of the women seem emotionally upset. One wipes briefly at her eyes. Enoshi opens his mouth to ask what is going on when abruptly it strikes him, hard enough to shock him.
How could he be so insensitive!
Here again, one problem threatens to compound another. In his haste to regain lost time, he has nearly missed what should have been obvious. He composes his features, striving to seem solemn, but also sympathetic.
Though of course he knows English well, he struggles to find the proper words.
“By now, I’m sure you have all heard of the tragic death of Mister Robert Neiman of Special Projects. Please be assured that Mister Neiman’s family is being looked after and that the police are investigating. Unfortunately, little is known at this time of the circumstances surrounding Mister Neiman’s death, other than what you may have seen on the news. However, I will keep you informed as new information becomes available, and possibly we will have some official announcement later in the day.”
Several of the group smile or nod as if to thank him, and by this Enoshi perceives that what little he has said, what little he could say, is sufficient.
“For the moment, I believe our best course would be to continue per usual.” He says this carefully, so as not to seem cold or unfeeling, and the group seems inclined to go along with his suggestion. He offers a tentative smile—his wife is always reminding him to smile—then turns slightly to indicate the man standing beside him.
“This morning. Mister Nigao of the Kono-Furata-Ko Personnel Department has some things to tell us.” With a brief nod and a subtle bow, he invites Nigao-san to begin. Nigao nods to Enoshi, and also bows, subtly, then smiles and turns to the group.
“Good morning,” he says, with another slight bow of the head. The group responds in kind with a few nods and a few awkward bows. Nigao begins by saying that with Enoshi’s permission, they might offer a moment of silence in memory of Robert Neiman. Enoshi consents to this, of course, and silently chastises himself for not having thought of it himself. How loudly the words of his father echo inside his head throughout the quiet few moments that follow. There is always room for improvement! Next time he will do better. Next time he will think twice!
Nigao goes on to make his announcements, all quite routine. It is the express policy of Kono-Furata-Ko Incorporated to maintain close relations with all its employees, including those of subsidiary corporations. This is to ensure, among other things, that the employees of subsidiary corporations, such as Exotech Entertainment, remain informed about the policies and general strategies of the parent corporation. It is also desired that all employees remain informed as to their rights, obligations, and benefits.
Nigao concludes by speaking briefly of some new benefits available under the corporate health insurance plan, then hands out brochures and invites any who have questio
ns to contact him at his office.
“Thank you, Mister Nigao.”
Enoshi leads the group in a brief bow, then smiles and shakes Nigao-san’s hand in thanks. Hand-shaking, of course, is an essential part of daily business within the bounds of the United Canadian and American States, however extraneous the gesture may otherwise seem. Nigao departs. Enoshi consults his red synthleather-bound pocket secretary and turns to face the group.
The dark cloud conjured by Robert Neiman’s death seems to have diminished, if not faded altogether, at least for the moment, and now a few smiles come out, reminding Enoshi to smile as well.
“It is my pleasure to announce,” he then says, looking from one member of the group to the next, “that for the third month in a row the clerical support group assigned to Mister Bernard Ohara has achieved a significant increase in productivity. Congratulations.”
Enoshi makes a point of showing appreciation by answering a few quick, somewhat awkward bows with a bow of his own, and then by going down the line shaking hands and again offering congratulations. Several of the group seem quite delighted, and this pleases Enoshi as well. People should be happy with their own superior performance, and that performance deserves to be recognized. When everyone performs beyond expectations, the corporation excels. He does not even really mind when a few of the women, rather impulsively, given him quick hugs.
Back in front of the desk again, he says, “Now I believe it is time to hear a few words from Ms. Stevenson.”
Enoshi leads the group in a brief round of applause, merely to encourage this morning’s speaker. Laura Stevenson, the receptionist, by far the most attractive woman in the group, is always a bit a nervous about giving the morning address, though she has done it many times before. Enoshi is encouraged by such nervousness. It is rewarding to see that a woman of obvious European ancestry should be so concerned about her words that she actually gets nervous.