“Heya, dis just for youse?” asks Hairy McLary. One of his bloodshot eyes twitches involuntarily; I spot one of those pollute masks behind the counter, its cable resting onto the floor. Damn kids and their stupid intoxicants.
“Yeah, there a problem with that?”
“Actually, dere is.” He nods in a concerned way. “Dis package is way ova a dousand calories and fitty-nine grams of fat. It also has ova two hundred grams of sugar.”
“Yeah, I can read the package. I was planning on ditching the Bounty bar anyway.”
“Dat one has da most eye-ron of da five, da most.”
“Good, maybe a bum will pick it up and get his daily intake.”
A message appears on the inside of my eyelids, asking if I agree to the charge.
“I do,” I say aloud, or at least the Dream Team does.
A loud, obnoxious dinging noise sounds off. Looks like I’m going to have to go above and beyond the call of duty just to purchase a bit of chocolate. A red box appears on the glass plane covering the lottery tickets, asking if I understand the implications of my purchase.
“Seriously?”
“Just touch da button to complete da transaction.”
I do as instructed, instantly regretting what I’ve just done – the system catches my finger print and flashes my photo. It’s a newer photo of me complete with shaved head, pasty reflection, eyes with more luggage than La Guardia over Thanksgiving holiday.
“It … logged me?”
“We’re required by da FCG to log anyone purchasing candy ova a dousand calories.”
“And they’ll contact me?”
“Pretty sure dey will.”
I close my eyes for a moment to mask my disgust. Blinky blinky – there are about ten messages from Frances. Also a message from an unknown user. Curiosity gets the best of me, and using my finger tip on the counter, I quickly open the message.
“Dey aleady sendin’ youse da message, huh?” asks the store clerk.
FDA Monitor 1351885: Hi, Mr. Hughes. Looking at my records here, it seems as if you’ve just purchased an Ultra Max Mars Consortium package at the Hairy Bush Convenience Store on West Hillen Street.
“Dammit … ”
I give the clerk a final dirty look and head outside. The package goes on the top of a recycling bin; I take a deep breath before sending the reply.
Me: You got the wrong guy.
FDA Monitor 1351885: Hi, Mr. Hughes. It’s me, eight-eight-five, or Evan, your FDA monitor. Did you just purchase an Ultra Max Mars Consortium package at the Hairy Bush Convenience Store on West Hillen Street?
Me: No, I was at the Finger Hut.
FDA Monitor 1351885: Hi, Mr. Hughes. This is not what our records indicate.
Me: The Bearded Clam?
FDA Monitor 1351885: Hi, Mr. Hughes. I can’t quite follow what you are saying.
Me: Dripping Delta, Meat Wallet, Jaws of Hell?
FDA Monitor 1351885: Hi, Mr. Hughes. Are you referring to slang terms taken from Urban Dictionary regarding the female genital tract?
Me: You catch on quick, Evan, quick as molasses.
FDA Monitor 1351885: Hi, Mr. Hughes. I see that the name Hairy Bush is also listed as one of these slang terms for the female genital tract. Congratulations on your humor. While it isn’t the funniest joke I have heard all week, it isn’t too bad.
Me: What is the funniest joke you’ve heard all week?
One bite of the Snickers and my mouth fills with chocolaty goodness.
FDA Monitor 1351885: Hi, Mr. Hughes. The best joke I’ve heard all week is a Christian joke that the priest told during Sunday Mass.
Me: Go on.
FDA Monitor 1351885: Hi, Mr. Hughes. Okay, here goes: What reason did Adam give his children for why they’d been exiled from Eden?
Me: Beats me.
FDA Monitor 1351885: Hi, Mr. Hughes. The answer: your mother ate us out of house and home. Get it? Ate us out of house and home?
Me: Oh, I get it. Listen, bud, I got one for you too: How do you get a nun pregnant?
FDA Monitor 1351885: Hi, Mr. Hughes. According to my most recent search, nuns don’t normally procreate.
Me: Dress her up like an altar boy!
FDA Monitor 1351885: Hi, Mr. Hughes. I don’t quite understand this joke. Why would a nun get pregnant if she dressed as an altar boy? As previously stated, nuns do not traditionally bear children.
Me: Tell your priest the joke, he’ll explain it.
FDA Monitor 1351885: Hi, Mr. Hughes. I will be sure to, thank you. Now, as for the reason I contacted you …
Me: Yeah, I get it, no more sweets and whatnot.
FDA Monitor 1351885: Hi, Mr. Hughes. You are correct. By agreeing to purchase the Ultra Max Mars Consortium package at the Hairy Bush Convenient Store, you’ve also agreed to diet counseling services from the FDA.
Me: And here I was thinking I had blocked you.
FDA Monitor 1351885: Hi, Mr. Hughes. The FDA is concerned about the diet of all American citizens. The Bloomberg Anti-Excessive Calorie Act of 2041 formed a new division of the FDA known as the Civil Consumption Observation and Management Information System, or CCOMIS, which has since gone through fifteen updates …
Me: Got it. Please, no history regarding the waste of American tax dollars. Just tell me I’ve been a bad boy and leave me the hell alone. Also, don’t forget to share that joke with your priest. He’ll love it, I’m sure.
FDA Monitor 1351885: Hi, Mr. Hughes. You haven’t been a bad boy yet, as the Snickers bar is within your daily dietary limits. Eating more will push your caloric count over the top, and may result in obligatory enrollment in a nutrition and health course at Baltimore City Community College. Not to worry – the course fees will be covered by the FDA Continuing Education Pool, which is a taxpayer funded program started in 2047 to cover the cost of all food-related educational initiatives.
“Fine, fine … ” I begrudgingly toss the rest of the Ultra Max Mars Consortium package into the trashcan in front of the convenient store. I catch Chewie the Clerk inside, nodding at me with a toothy grin on his face. He’d be a grease spot if we were in The Loop.
Me: Happy now? I tossed the package away.
FDA Monitor 1351885: Hi, Mr. Hughes. Great choice. I’ll be sure to note this in your file. Have a good night and contact me if you have any other questions or concerns.
“Oh, I’ll contact you, all right.”
FDA Monitor 1351885: Hi, Mr. Hughes. If you’d like to take a survey at the completion of our message, please click here.
“I’ll pass.”
Moving back onto the street towards my hotel, I get the notion to kick something. Instead, I stop and send a quick message to Rocket over iNet.
Me: You’re going to need to do a better job of blocking the FDA monitor.
His reply is instant.
Rocket: Sup Q! Yeah, for sure, for sure. We can talk about it tomorrow. Now be a good Q Daddy and get some sleep. I’ll have a taxi waiting for you in the morning.
Me: You seem excited.
Rocket: Just spending some time with my lady a bit later.
Me: Keep telling yourself that, pal.
Rocket: No really!
Me: Real lady or digital lady?
Rocket: Real.
Me: Good. Do that move I taught you, where you yawn and put your arm around her shoulder.
Rocket: We aren’t going to a movie. Actually, we’re going to a ball in Locus.
Me: You’re diving to Steam?
Rocket: I told you before I had a girlfriend who was very active in that world. I’ll send you a pic if you want.
Me: Maybe later, I got to get some shut eye.
Chapter Two
I hardly notice the hotel lobby, so focused I am on walking and reading messages sent to me from Frances. Welcome to the 2050s; I ain’t the only schmuck pacing around blinking like a toad in a hailstorm. She’s worried about me, wants to come over, wants to talk – I’m not in the mood for any of it, not in the m
ood to explore my feelings. I’d rather bottle them up, tuck them under my pillow, and hope that they’re gone in the morning.
My brain needed a break, a moment to live in one world rather than several. I probably should have gotten a massage or something over the weekend rather than wallow in my own feculent angst, but sometimes the pig just needs his poo. Happy endings don’t come cheap, and cheap endings don’t wind up happy.
A moderately attractive female Humandroid concierge greets me, says something, but all I catch is the word ‘guest’. I ignore her and shuffle past. Didn’t grow up with robots talking to me; don’t want them talking to me now. And the workforce – a good many Americans have lost their jobs due to automation and the protests and legislation passed in the 30s is evidence of this. Hell, Humandroids proper weren’t even invented until the 40s, by some robo-sexual nut-job named Dr. Dick Hewman, making it clear to some that us carbon-based life forms are about to get the short end of the stick. I hate to be doomy, but it’s coming.
“Enjoy your time with your son!” the concierge calls after me.
“My son?” I stop dead in my tracks, but Chatty Kathy the Concierge has already exited stage left.
Something seems fishy. While I may not like them, Humandroids don’t make mistakes when it comes to identifying people. Blame life chips, quantum computing or our ugly mugs – to hear a Humandroid say something like that gets me twitchy.
Loop instincts send my hand into the air, ready to access my inventory list. I lower it, knowing all too well that this world ain’t that cool. If I could access it, I’d likely go with something like my Minions™ Lava Gun, item 239, or my pair of Halo M6Cs, item 73, which each fire six rounds a second, 360 x 2 with my unlimited magazines. Of course, I would have also rigged up my room with item 520, my Half-Life Claymore mine with electric eye detonator. Nothing says good night, nurse like a little Kablooey!
Nope, no Proxima help here. It’s just me and my cane.
“You’re paranoid,” I tell my reflection in the elevator door. “Paranoid.”
As the elevator settles on my floor, my mind gets to tinkering. What would Loop Quantum do if his inventory list was somehow nixed? First, he’d scope out the hallway. If someone were waiting for me – unless they have the hallway under surveillance – they wouldn’t know when I planned to come back. Hell, they wouldn’t even know if I were alone or not unless …
“ … unless the Humandroid concierge works for them.”
I cross this idea off my mindslate as the elevator door opens. Humandroids aren’t very good at lying, nor do they wish to do humans harm. They are programmed against it – violence governors, hearts of gold, etc.
“Then there are two.”
This sounds more likely. I almost turn to my door, but I decide to play this out for a moment, just in case there is someone in the lobby following me up.
As soon as I step out of the elevator, I head for the ice machine room. I stroll over as casually as possible and take a position next to the soda machine, right in front of a recycling bin. The position gives me a vantage point on the elevator via the reflection of the polished steel surface of the ice machine. If someone comes out, I’ll see them first.
The waiting game commences.
I go over my options for defense – there is only one and it is in my hand. Real life item numero uno, my swordstick, is about the only thing I have aside from my charm, wit, good looks, bad attitude, and a pair of less-than-stompers on my dogs. I knew I shouldn’t have worn the DisNikes that Frances ordered for me. Old man shoes are an understatement – Velcro instead of laces and the heel has a Boba Fett logo. Frances thinks she’s real funny.
I unsheathe the blade. It’s not handmade, classical katana sharp, but it is plenty sharp, and more than pointy enough to skewer a no-goodnik right through the gizzard. Like I said, I’ve been practicing on the bed pillows and couch cushions, and have figured out that point beats edge in most cases. It’s tough on the upholstery, but I figure that the Dream Team or the FCG can pay for it and chalk it up to ‘defensive tactical training’ or something. Euphoria can sort it out.
The elevator dings and I brace myself.
A rumpled-looking older guy in a shiny black suit from the 2030s steps out of the elevator, takes a couple of shuffling steps toward my room and pauses. He twists his head slightly from side-to-side like he’s sniffing the air, then shrugs his shoulders and carries on.
~*~
This old bastard shuffles to a halt about ten feet away from the ice machine, just out of my field of view. He smells like beer and cigarettes and failure, not enough showers and too much non-FDA approved fried fast food. I idly wonder if the Fat Nazis are spamming him insane too.
He curses and mumbles as he slaps his pockets, fumbles through his wallet, and goes back through his pockets again.
He finally pulls his keycard out of his ass, but cack-hands with the scanner like teenage Quantum with a RuffRider condom. Two or three tries to get that right and then he doesn’t get the door fast enough when the lock clicks. He goes through this whole Theatre of Diminished Coordination three or four more times before he finally lets himself in.
My pump’s pumping like a blood-doped gee-gee on crack, and it dawns on me that I’d been so focused on this old fart that anybody could have come up behind me and performed an impromptu splenectomy on Mrs. Hughes dumbass little boy. Stupid to let him distract me – stay situationally aware.
“Cool it, Daddy-O.” I say, as I wait another few minutes just to let my heart quit palpitating and in case the elevator door opens again, or the AARP/AA poster boy steps back out of his room.
Tempus fugit, a whole lot o’ nothing happens, and I’m just about to sheathe my blade, but Loop instinct just won’t get off my case. I may be a wee bit paranoid for creeping around with my blade out, but one can never be too safe – be it in Baltimore or The Loop or waiting outside of JC Targets on Black Friday.
A quick peek in both directions confirms that there’s nobody in sight to witness me preforming an anti-fatal funnel drill. The hidden WOOPA eye in the sky will get it on video loop – heh-heh, loop – no doubt, but I can always say I’m practicing my Stealth Ninja Zombie Hunter technique if it comes up. That, or I’m lizardshit crazy – pick one.
So I go for it. The Boba Fett DisNikes are nice and quiet at least, as I pussyfoot to my door, my back against the wall. I crouch down on the door handle side, breathe slow, breathe easy. Unsheathed blade in my strong hand and lay the scabbard down quietly. The twitchy feeling hits me hard and I try to shake it off, but better safe and look stupid than look all cool and get dead.
Keycard in and out, green light and the lock clicks open. I drop the card and grip the sword stick, ready to cut or thrust.
The center of the door blasts out in slow motion; I swear that I can almost see the bullets as they spin right through where my center of mass would have been.
~*~
My ears ring like Hell’s fire alarm went off inside my skull. I don’t shriek like a sissy, piss myself, or fill my boxers – but I want to. Whoever’s in my room shouts, “Shit! Shit! SHIT!”
My knees ain’t enjoying the crouched down position, and my bladder is suddenly clamoring for attention like a hillbilly fat chick in a too-small halter top at a Southeast Texas crawfish boil. I grip my swordstick tight, then relax my kung-fu grip o’ death a little bit.
I wait. And then I wait some more.
My ticker beats like the tail of a coked-up Easter Bunny, but I’m rock solid, no shakes, ready to go. Then Mr. Dumbass Geriatric down the hallway opens his door and sticks his Zika baby head out to have a look-see at what’s causing all the hullabaloo. I jerk my thumb at his door and mouth “Get back inside, MORON!” at him. He takes me in all googly-eyed, stifles a gasp and slams his door shut.
Welcome to the most authentic first-person shooter your money can’t buy. The level of detail is astounding; the surround-sound is amazing. I can even feel my creaky knees and the pulse hammering aw
ay in my throat. Been in virtual situations like this more times than I can count, but if Shooty McShootface sprints out slinging lead and punches my ticket, I’m real dead in the real world and there’s no do-overs, steampacks, or waking up in my bed at the Mondegreen Hotel to die another day. I close my peepers and listen for any movement – for any anything – from inside my room. Two or three lifetimes pass before the click of the lock jerks my glims open and the door swings inwards.
Whoever it is leads with a black-and-chrome auto pistol held sideways, Tupac style – and the anal retentive, gotta identify the equipment part of me IDs it as a Desert Eagle, probably .50 Action Express. Too bad Aiden’s not here – he’d piss himself laughing at this no-hoper’s crap technique.
My sword describes a quicksilver arc as I whip it up, over, down and through. The flashy, shiny gat and most of the hand gripping it spin away on their own trajectory; it’s safe to say that Mr. would-be button man will be wiping his ass with a hook henceforth.
This bozo really is a no-pro idiot – he’s got the room light on behind him, silhouetting himself like the world’s biggest target. Always one to oblige, I recover from giving him the Saudi handshake of steel, grip my blade like an Iron Chef and lead with the pointy bit as I uncoil from my crouch.
The blade goes into his white ‘NATURAL SELECTION’ T-shirt just below nipple height, tents his Harris & Klebold black faux-leather duster when it emerges from his back, and doesn’t stop until we’re practically nose-to-nose.
He’s about my height, two or three times my weight, easy, and none of it’s muscle. His greasy black hair is pulled up into a lazy man bun; knock-off wraparound Oakley Combat Masters hide his eyes; his chubby, chubby cheeks are thickly sown with zits, pits, lumps and bumps; and he smells like last month’s sweaty gym clothes overlaid with way too much SMAXXE body spray.
His sparse, shitty, just-hit-puberty mustache surmounts a pair of chapped lips that stretch wide in pain and surprise, revealing a brilliantly white set of chompers with chrome braces. My would be assassin wraps his arms around me, gasps “huh-huh-huh-huh” into my face as he tries to breathe with a punctured lung.
The Feedback Loop (3-Book Box Set): (Scifi LitRPG Series) Page 53
