Over the Adrenaline Edge Volume 29: Short Stories
Page 2
The man got back in the line at the Government Terminal Office. He thought he recognized some of the others in the line. Every few minutes he'd shuffle forward a few steps.
Finally he reached the front of the line. A new clerk waited, stared at him with dead eyes. "Yes," she said dully, raised a fleshy hand and took the papers. She scratched her head, reached down and pulled out a heavy book, blew off the dust, opened it, turned the pages while running her fingers down the columns. "The statute is clear. You need a release from the Mayor's Office."
"A release? What for? I've got everything there. Police reports, evidence of no criminal record. Birth certificates. Fingerprints. I've got everything." He stamped his fist on the counter. "Everything! Everything!"
"Do you want me to call a guard?" said the woman wearily.
"All right, all right. Just tell me what I need to do."
"You've got to go to the Mayor's Office and get them to acknowledge that you're not a spy."
"Spy?!"
"It's in the book. Without that acknowledgement I can't approve your application." She shut the book.
"All right," said the man.
*
"I think that you're in the wrong line," said the clerk at the Mayor's Office.
"No," said the man, shaking his head. "This is the right line because I've been in every other line--I've been here for days."
"I never heard of this acknowledgement. We have nothing to do with espionage. That's a federal government activity. Talk to the F.B.I."
"Let me talk to your supervisor."
She called over a short, white-haired man. "This man wants some form showing that he's not a spy."
"Taxes?" said the white-haired man. "A form showing that you paid your taxes?"
"No."
Another clerk passed, stopped. "Hey, weren't you here yesterday, and the day before."
"That's right," said the man. His eyes bulged. "I'm going to go crazy, right here, right now."
"I'm sorry," said the white-haired man. "But you can't do that here."
*
The man waited in the corner of the Government Terminal Office, waited until the woman with the dusty books left for lunch, then he got in line, moved slowly forward, until finally he reached the clerk's window. The clerk shut the window, pointed to the next one. The man walked over to that window, held his breath as it opened.
A new clerk. He let out a sigh, and pushed forward his stack of papers. Said nothing about the espionage form that he didn't' have.
"O.K.," she said. "Looks like everything's in order. Poison, firearms, automobile?"
"I don't know. Maybe by automobile."
"You just need to pay your fee."
"Fee?"
She began adding and talking to herself, writing numbers on the top form. "Six hundred and forty," she said.
"But I don't have that much money," said the man.
"That's not my problem," said the clerk. "Next."
The man walked slowly off. Suddenly, he turned. "Aw to hell with the permit! I'm just going to go kill myself without one." He rushed out.
The man caught a bus to the financial district. "I believe," he said to the woman sitting next to him, "there are many ways to kill yourself, but that the only truly committed suicide is the person who steps off the top of a sixty-story building. Then you don't have to worry about changing your mind at the last minute; moving the gun away from your head; calling a doctor." The woman looked away. "Of course, it is rather messy," said the man. "Perhaps if they had special fenced off places with firehoses and drains, and maybe if you were really lucky you could land on a garbage truck."
*
The observation deck had high Plexiglas panels and a suspicious guard. The man took the elevator down two floors, walked past the receptionist and into the conference room.
"Excuse me," she said, "can I help you?"
He ignored her, picked up a chair and heaved it through the window. Then he jumped out.
*
The man woke up, looked out at the bright morning walls, sat up in bed.
"My god," he thought, "what a dream. I've been thinking too much lately about killing myself." He turned the clock, saw a white envelope, opened it, pulled out a white invoice, stapled to a pink copy. 'Fine for unauthorized suicide--$1277. Sidewalk repair and cleanup--$2326. Body replacement--$813' Wow, thought the man, the sidewalk is worth more than my body. The list ended in a total figure of $6,722. Bold letters at the bottom read, 'No suicide permit will be issued until this amount is paid and a completed and stamped suicide tax release form obtained from the hall of records, etc., etc."
THE END
Careful (289 D4 7/28/91)
By William L. Ramseyer
I'm careful all the time. Careful about time. Careful with my time. Careful who I spend my time with. They're out there you know. Of course you know. Maybe you're one of them. Time stealers. The other day I walked down the street. Three of them jumped me. Abandoned me to an early end. They took my years, divided them up, ran off. Left me only ten years old.
Fortunately, I ran across an old man about eighty--yakyaking, blahblah about this and that, his story and her dog.
I couldn't get away. But finally, when each of us had reached about forty years each, I made my escape. As I ran I yelled back,
"Thanks for your time. Ha. Ha."
Sampling (290 D6 7/30/91)
By William L. Ramseyer
"Not true. Cool. Cruel. I am. Fool. One, two, three, four, five. Cruel. I am. Fool. Cruel. Cruel. I am. Not true, fool. Cruel. I am. Cruel. Not true. Fool."
The people moving down the sidewalk made a wide arc around the man sitting on the low stone wall. He flipped a screwdriver in the air, chanted. A robot came down the street, pushing a shopping cart. The man stopped chanting, sat up.
"You're not looking too good," said the man. He stood up and smiled a jagged thing across his face. "You need some--repair work."
The robot started to back up. The man leaned forward, waved his screwdriver. "There's nothing to worry about. Everything is clear." He jumped forward. "Jack of All Trades--your repairman--is here."
"Stay away," said the robot as the man stepped forward. "I have the right to defend myself."
"But I'm not attacking you," said the man arcing the screwdriver blade through the air. "I'm just here--to repair." He shook his head from side to side. The blade flicked out, touched the robot's neck.
"Zssttsstzzzzz."
One robot arm shot upwards, another fell limp. Its legs twisted around themselves, and it fell over. The man leaned down, whistling as he pried off a shoulder panel.
"Help," said the robot weakly.
"That's what I'm doing," said the man. "Just be patient."
*
"Charley, is that you?"
"Yeah Mom. It's me. "
The woman looked out of the kitchen window, waved to the man.
"What's all that junk metal you have in the shopping cart?--looks like robot parts."
*
"Let's see," said one of the boys on the bench to Jack. The other two kids, a girl and a boy, one on each side, played with their tools. The girl snapped her electric pliers--open and shut, open, shut. The boy twisted his Phillips head screwdriver into the park bench. "Let's take a look."
Jack rolled the shopping cart closer. The others nodded their heads.
"Where'd you get this?" asked a kid.
"I took it out over on Third Street," said Jack.
"Last night?"
"This morning."
"In broad daylight?!" said the girl with the screwdriver.
"Yeah," said Jack. "I hate robots."
*
The mob of kids lurched through the mall, spewed forward like hot grease, grabbing robots, beating them with bats, ripping them apart with portable power tools, throwing the parts at terrified shoppers.
"No bots." They chanted. "No bots."
Sirens flared in the evening sky, strobes lit up each en
d of the mall. Cops poured from their vans like black beetles out of rotten metal watermelons. They piled up in lines, robots first. A phalange protecting a second row of human cops.
"This is an illegal assembly," blared the loudspeaker. "Put down your weapons. Hands in the air."
"Blahzzzittzittblah. Bazummmm."
Orange flashed inside a department store window, a flower of glass and flame, reached out. A robot cop burst into blue light, fell over. Tear gas arched over the crowd. Screams. Thumps of clubs. Running. Falling. Jack looked around. Behind him, the others tried to escape.
"Come on," yelled Jack. "They're just bots. Let's get them."
A black club arced across the neon horizon. Swung down. Jack lifted an arm to meet it. The arm shattered. Then the shoulder. The chest opened. A burst piñata of plastic and wire, foil, and cables of light. Gears, wheels, strings, pulleys, and connectors.
THE END