Search for a Newness

2.

Sent:  June 12th

Caught a few hours of shut, the magic number, short enough that you’re not all groggs and no legs, long enough to store up the wind. I’d gone through five or six winds, I had. I’m still lacking a few but at least I’ve a count for all my hours. Not missing any in this place, no sir, they know now to stay where they’re meant.

Graffiti behind the toilet says the mechastore is for sure run by the mob, meaning it’s as secure as I can get without digging a hole and jumping in. There’s even a bit of nosh, not the best fare but better than the shit you get at drinkeries. I think it’s where most of the grease comes from, though — I lost a fullspoon of it down the front of me, but I figure it helps me fit in. Can’t be too spic in a place like this.

You did good not replying, friend of mine, good that you didn’t take that chance. I wish I were home with my own mech, then I could be sure you’d read it, but they’ve got it in custody now. That’s what they call it, in custody like they’re babysitting it. I managed to shut it down before I started the run, and I hope-to-fuck one of the ol’ Lawdogs tried to prise it open to get his fingers in the guts. You’d be amazed how much Ceefer you can cram in a mech tower, right? All those microchips taking up no space at all, and what’s a few more wires tied to the hard drive — naught a thing they’d be suspicious of, until they yanked on the board and BAM! There’s a Bow-Wow got no paws for putting in such things, and most likely missing a nose as well.

This is what I dream of, friend of mine, when I curl up on a stinking loo and pretend for a second that it’s just for a day, just one more day. But it’s not, is it? The rest of m’life will be like this, running and running and knowing there’s no stopping. Remember the old days, when crime-cats would try to make it out? Run for the border, they used to say, and maybe you’d make it and you could stop running because of some invisible line drawn in the sand. Those were the old days, the good days, the days when it was feasible to be my kind of person. Now there’s no line and not even any sand. Nowhere to run except away, and how long can a person run with only that as a goal?

I could run out to the Wilderness, of course. Everyone says that like there’s sense to it, oh yeah, go out to the Wilderness and be sure Lawdog’ll never follow you. I’m not so dulled that sounds like a good idea. There’s a place Lawdog don’t go, I guarantee there’s a good damned reason for it, and that’s a reason I got not need to cozy.

What I need is a newness, for surelike. Don’t nobody in this town know me, though, leaving me with the necessity of either making nice with the locals (which could get me sold out lickety-split) or hiring out and hoping-to-fuck I pick a real baddie instead of a wool Bow-Wow. Newness won’t fool the Finders, but there’s places without ‘em, especially in the Downtown. Only Uptown places can afford to keep the big bastards, seeing’s how they’re always getting jammed with the shit they’re sucking in. If I had money, lots and lots of money, I could find a stoogey-doo to delete my file, and then there’d be no more Lawdog looking for yours. Or maybe that’s just a myth too, maybe there’s no stoogey-doo with a password would delete a person like me. Maybe my kind’s only for the big Lawdogs, prime steak for the hungry guts of the high-and-mightys, too good for the sullying of some clerk with a powerful need for cash. It would figure, friend of mine. Finally wanted by only the best of men, that’s me.

A newness will do for the here and now. We’ll see if I can manage it without making a mess of the whole place.

Did you find the oranges in the fridge? I left them for you, fresh and soft. Eat one while you wait for me, friend of mine.

1.

Sent:  June 12th

I’ve been awake for three days now, running for hours and hours and hours and I’ve lost track of some of the hours, but I know they’re there, hiding somewhere. Yesterday a few of them peeked out from behind the Papaya King and laughed at me, laughed at these dark circles and the way my lips pull back from my teeth. I wanted to chase them, to snatch them and force them down to the ground and rub them against the cold, cold asphalt, wanted to watch them bleed against the black. Too dangerous. It would have given my pursuers time to catch up to me, wasted precious seconds and there you are, lickety-split, with the Lawdogs breathing down your neck and their sweaty hands around your wrists.

I shouldn’t have stopped here, but it’s the only one of these damn mechastores that seemed safe enough. You can tell by the dirt and the grease; you know by how long it’s been since someone cleaned the windows. These looked like they were done by the Windex Hobos, dirty men with even dirtier rags, not cleaning so much as rearranging the filth. But even then, sometimes, you can go inside and the place will be spic, a farce to bring you in and then you figure you might as well, and then they’ve got you. All those shiny surfaces are just places that’ll pick up a fingerprint.

Not here, though. Reliable old 8th Ave, always the heart of the dirtys. You walk in past the window with its Picasso-film of grease (all sworls and thick, creamy peaks) and you see that everything inside is just as brown and mucky, and you know it’s safe. Finders don’t work in this much dust — gunks up the motors and the motherboards, keeps them from sucking you in the vents. And you can buy smokes here, real honest-to-fuck smokes, which means they’re definitely not on the up-and-up with the ol’ Bow-Wow. Can’t get smokes nowhere except prison and the mob-holes, and the folks from one never make nice with t’other.

I’ve learned enough in my flight to pick up the signs — numbers on the register outlined in green, bathrooms marked by high heel and cowboy boot, scent on the lintel is thick of cloves. Three ways to tell who runs a mechastore, or a drinkerie or even a bed-and-bang if you’re lucky enough to find one of those. This one’s run by… well, I shouldn’t put that out there, not yet. I’m only a day ahead, and what if the ol’ Bow-Wow finds this before you do? Four and score is not long enough in my mind, though it’s the longest I’ve been ahead of them yet. I figure I’m safe enough here, safe enough to let you know I’m still kicking, friend of mine. I’ll bring a few smokes into the bathroom and try to catch a bit of shut, which I should so long as I don’t fall of the toilet. First sleep in three days. I can taste the exhaustion even behind the menthol.

I’ll send again when I’ve had some shut. Wait for me.