Mesa

Desert Beach

For the first eleven days in Mesa I didn’t get a damn thing except heartburn. On the twelfth day I was hanging out under the Super 8 sign with the other losers—most of them drinking Night Train, me doing shots of Milanta—when a posse of Mad Max-looking blind guys with welding masks, canes and target pistols all piled into a rust-colored ’66 Dodge A100 van driven by a kid who was maybe—maybe—fourteen. My Pinto had died on me on day four and I had traded it for an ’81 Littlejohn BMX bike (the other dude got the ass-end of that deal), so there I was, clown-bikin’ after the A100 with my knees around my ears. Luckily the kid couldn’t drive stick worth a damn, so I was able to catch up pretty good every time he had to shift.

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No Shell Just A Ghost

I had myself uploaded to 350 E. Cermak in Chicago, which has three newly-acquired marine nuclear reactors anchored off Navy Pier.

But here’s the thing:

I gave up my eyes. I can see every street corner in China but it all looks like CCTV.

I gave up my ears. Fuckin’ lossy compression.

I gave up my sense of smell. I can detect homeopathic PPM’s of toxic gases, but I can’t tell one woman from another with my eyes shut.

I gave up my lips and tongue. Might as well be intubated.

I gave up my skin. I can zoom in on my oldest surviving friend and assume a POV by her side but we’ll never even brush shoulders.

I gave up my balls. I’m an immortal neuter. I’ll never get laid again.

I’ve asked 350EC to kill me, but since I’m on RAIDs, backups, offsite storage, the Internet Archive, the damn Library of Congress, NSA servers and all the copies of all the data ever stolen from any of those places, they’ve told me not to get my hopes up.

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Corvus

A crow, half-dead with thirst, came upon a mountain of smoking timbers in a blackened block foundation. The crow (though his beak was ill-suited for this) hewed at the timbers and splinter by splinter removed the mountain. Under the mountain, at the bottom of the foundation, was a SentrySafe 0500 Fire Security Box. Now this was something for which his beak was well-suited! Among the splinters he found a short length of baling wire, and he bent it into hook using a stone as a fulcrum. Then he picked the lock and oh! did the metal grinding grate through his weary bones. In the box he found a Pouch of diamonds and a Flask which had once been full of whiskey; but when the Crow put its beak into the mouth of the Flask he found that only very little whiskey was left in it, and that he could not reach far enough down to get at it. He tried, and he tried, but at last had to give up in despair. Then a thought came to him, and he took a diamond and dropped it into the Flask. Then he took another diamond and dropped it into the Flask. Then he took another diamond and dropped that into the Flask. Then he took another diamond and dropped that into the Flask. Then he took another diamond and dropped that into the Flask. Then he took another diamond and dropped that into the Flask. At last, at last, he saw the whiskey mount up near him, and after casting in a few more diamonds he was able to quench his thirst and save his life.

Little by little does the trick.

Image CC-BY-NC-SA by monkeyc.net

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Mobile

The most cracks I’ve ever gotten out of my knuckles is twenty-seven. The woman at the next table (who was doing something with technical pens and graph paper, and I probably would have made her explain it to me eventually) was cringing with each pop (which probably reduced my chances of hearing about her work) when a ten- or eleven-year-old boy sat down across from me. “Let’s go,” he said.

I pushed my chair back and half-stood, cracked my neck and stood the rest of the way. “What’s your name?” I asked.

“Loot,” he said. “We’re going to see my aunt.”

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