Interlude 1

Interlude 1

 

            She looked out the large bay window and noticed that it had stopped raining.  There was just a hint of the sun trying to pick through the otherwise overcast sky.  Reaching down, she selected another Crayon and continued to work on her coloring book.  Just a flourish of red and she smiled widely with pleasure at her completed artwork.  Picking up her coloring book, she stood and ran towards the center of the room where her mother and the doctor were talking.

            “Look at what I made for you, mommy,” she said with exuberance.

            Gasping her mother took the lingerie catalog from her daughter, “This is not appropriate for you to be looking at!”  Her mother exclaimed.

            “Don’t admonish her,” the doctor said calmly, “it is a healthy release for someone with her condition.”  Looking at her, he smiled and said, “That was a very good choice of color.  Why don’t you go color us another one?”

            “Ok!  Thank you!”  She said and turned to go back to the table.

            The doctor continued to talk to her mother.  “You have to understand that while she may have the mind of a young child; her body is that of a young adult.  But regardless, even with the medication helping to curb her behavioral problems, raising a girl with Down’s syndrome is never going to be easy.”

            She liked the doctor but she hated taking her medication.  She was always so tired.  Sitting back at her table in the large bay window, she folded her arms on the small desk and lay her head down.  Perhaps just a small nap while the sun poked through the clouds would make feel a little more energetic.

 

 

 

            Widow woke with a start and looked at the dimly lit clock on the night stand next to her bed.  It read 4:30am.  ‘What the fuck was that dream all about,’ she thought.  “That’s what I get for eating Mexican food so late at night,” she mumbled to herself.  Reaching into the drawer of her night stand, Widow pulled out a bottle of liquid antacid.  Her stomach felt like a pot of boiling hot sauce mixed with broken glass; yet another side effect of eating so late at night.  Sitting up, she grabbed her SmartTab off the night stand and pulled up the map of the water treatment plant.

            Getting in looked fairly easy but Widow knew better.  Water treatment facilities always had more security than they let on to casual outside observation.  She fully expected cameras, motion detectors, and a multitude of guards once she got inside.  Christian Hallard would meet her on the east side of the fence and they would continue their infiltration from there.  She frowned at the thought of having to do this with him at her side.  It was quite obvious that he was not really cut out for clandestine work of any kind.  He would definitely be a hindrance to her getting in undetected but he had insisted that he come along and he had refused to give up the data chip with the antidote.  She would just have to make do with 98.6 degree chain around her neck.

            Feeling the antacid finally start to take effect, she set the SmartTab back down and curled back up in bed.  Yawning, she pulled the covers up around her shoulders.  ‘No more ridiculous dreams tonight,” she thought.

Chapter 3: The Shitty Apartment

Chapter 3: The shitty Apartment

 

            The sound of the rain continued to pound down outside.  Always the fucking rain.  As constant as the migraine in Widow’s forehead.  She vaguely scratched at the implant at the corner of her eye socket.  Warm carbon fiber met her fingers where the mirror shades slid back into their sockets.  Looking down, she could see the riff-raff entering the MAX train and others wandering around the mall area of the Gresham Metroplex Sprawl.

            In 2020 the Walmart/Sam’s Club Corporation made a deal with the city of Gresham, Troutdale, and Fairview.  Gresham had already annexed other outlying areas in some kind of failed effort to suck dick to the city of Portland.  They ended up with a completely lawless region, known as Rockwood.  Nobody wanted to go there as far back at 1990.  The place is an absolute butthole of humanity.  In steps Walmart and makes everything better.  Kind of.  The Gresham sprawl is actually kind of nice, if you’re a corporate stooge.  Apartment complexes run from about 181^st Ave all the way up Division street and end about 260^th.  Most of these are given over to corporate or student housing.  In 2015 the Mount Hood Community College became the University of Mount Hood College Of Learning with a lot of day time TV ads during court room dramas.  Nobody seemed to find the language, if not grammatical, errors in their new name to be offensive.  Neither did the faculty and thousands are signed up every day as new students.  Like Texas, nobody gave a shit.  The end result was that from about 242^nd to 257^th it became a college town area of the overall sprawl.  This kept businesses in operation.  Then from 242^nd to Eastman was the “mall” area.  Walmart had placed a partial dome cover over everything, so you didn’t have to worry about the rain.  In theory.  The reality was that the rain was always present and that half-assed dome never stopped it from coming down.  The Gresham Metroplex area hadn’t seen actual snow around Christmas since 2013.  It was just a wet and humid Christmas, every fucking year.  The summer was worse, where temperatures in June had hit a high of 103 and maintained until November 1^st.  This was the standard.  But people just kept on enduring.  Like fucking cockroaches.  But even still, the politicians debated global warming.

            Widow stepped back inside, from her porch, to go refill her whiskey and coke.  The metallic voice filled her apartment, “Excuse me ma’am.  You’re running low on certain items,” it said.

            “Yes, I know.  There’s more than enough cash.  Order them and stock the fridge.  Money’s there now,” Widow said.

            “Very good ma’am.  Placing all grocery orders.  Estimated restock delivery will be tomorrow between noon and 3:00pm, as instructed.”

            Widow dropped her robe and walked naked to her bedroom.  “Activate shower with personal massage level alpha one,” she said.

            The shower instantly started and steam could be seen pouring from the master bath.  “Shower massage level Alpha One, active,” said the metallic feminine voice.

            Slotting the chip into her desk, Widow said, “Open, decrypt, and analyze.”

            “Please state password.”  Responded the feminine voice.

            “The creeper tracks the queen on The Chan.”

            “Password accepted.  Decrypting.”

            Stepping into the shower was always a mix of thrill and vertigo, all at the same time.  The three walls, floor, and ceiling were mimetic glass.  In other words, you were standing stark naked, three stories over the mall, looking down on people that could only see a set of darkened glass windows when they looked up at you.  For some reason, Widow always got a thrill of touching herself while doing this and, inevitably, some shopper would look up at her as if they could actually see what she was doing.  The first few times that this happened, Widow actually stopped and looked on the hapless person looking up at her mirrored glass.  Then she got to slowly get back into it and enjoyed the idea of someone looking at her.

            “Decrypting complete.  Analysis starting.”  Came the feminine voice.

            Widow finished her current action and blew a kiss to the unknowing teen boy carrying an arm full of Christmas packages.  Work was important but it never came before she did.  Stepping from the shower, Widow tripped the air dryers and she held her arms high as she was buffeted by heated air.  “Off,” she said.  She hated the fact that the dryers left her looking like a hair band from the 1980s.

            “Dryers off.  Analysis complete.”  Said the voice.

            Leaving the bathroom and heading to the Kitchen, Widow frowned.  She never liked being interrupted and she didn’t like having to ignore her afterglow. Opening the refrigerator she immediately noticed her lack of food.  “Jesus, when was the last time I was even here?”  She said.

            “Four months and three days.”

            “Piece of shit isn’t even smart enough to have the food refreshed when I’m not here!”  Widow exclaimed as she rummaged around the refrigerator.

            “Command not understood.  Do you wish to order a cleaning lady?”

            “Fuckin’ A I want a cleaning lady!  This is disgusting!”  She said closing the refrigerator door.  “Do that tomorrow.  I’m hungry now.  Call La Caretta and order my usual.”

            “Dialing.  Placing order.  Order placed.  Estimated time of arrival is 20 minutes.  Dialing.  Placing order.  Cleaning service will arrive at 3pm pacific standard time tomorrow.”

            “Perfect,” Widow said.  Taking two pills and chasing it with the last of her whiskey, she could hear the sound of a Gresham Police VTOL siren slide past her apartment.  The Doppler Effect always gave her a case of vertigo when she wasn’t on the ground level.  “Somebody’s night just go worse,” Widow said.

            “Affirmative.  News reports that there are multiple gang related shootings at the Monte Villa Apartments.”  Replied the metallic feminine voice.

            “Ouch.  Shit. Hole.  But not important.  Set Affinity | All 20 cores to current analysis task.”  Widow said.

            “Affinity…….switching…..cores……at….100…..percent….”

            “Good.  Get on it you worthless bitch.”  Said Widow as she poured another whiskey and coke.  “This is what I get for not upgrading,” she said as a knock came to her door.  Leaving her robe open, Widow opened the door.

            “Uhmm…oh…uhmm…your food order is here ma’am,” said the pimply faced kid dropping off her enchilada.

            “Look me in the eye and tell me you never dreamed of this,” Widow said.

            “Well, uhmm…that’s kind of true…”

            “Jesus Christ.  It’s just never like it is in porn, is it?  How is $100 for a tip?  At least you looked, right?  You paid attention.  Right?”

            “Oh!  Yes ma’am!”  The awkward teen quickly replied.

            “Goddamn right you paid attention,” she said lifting her breasts, “The bitches cost me plenty.  Be sure to tell your friends.”  She said as she shut the door.  ‘Poor kid will have a hard on for a week,’ she thought as she lifted her breasts again with one hand and carrying her food to the dining table.  ‘I paid a metric fuck ton for these tits and they are really nice,’ she thought.

            “Analysis complete.  All cores free.”  Said the voice.

            “Christ on a crutch, it’s about time.  Playback.”  Widow said as she opened her dinner and shoveled in a mouth full of food.

            A 3D image of the molecular make up sprung out from her TV.  “Diothalene Monoxochloride Diathalate.  Category: Designer hallucinogenic.  Government Class: [Unknown].  Intake: Olfactory, touch.  Known Effects: Subjects will enter a full hallucinogenic state within three to six hours of ingestion.  If continued ingestion, subject will permanently reside in hallucinogenic world of their own design.  Immediate psychiatric care is recommended.  No known counter agent.”

            “Fuck me running.  That’s in the goddamned water?  Where’d these ice cubes come from?”  Widow said.

            “Walmart.”  Came the voice.

            “Fuck that.  Call Sears.”

Chapter 2: Christian Hallard

Chapter 2: Christian Hallard

 

            As usual for a Friday night, the Lotus had a line to get in.  This didn’t really matter since Widow had an inside guy that would let her past the throngs of morons.  With purpose she shouldered her way past the plebeians to yells of protest.  Pulling her SmartTab from her purse she walked up to the bouncer.  “Hey Flex, I need to get in.  Meeting someone,” she said with a flashy grin of perma capped perfect white teeth.

            Daddy couldn’t have his plaything looking like trash and braces weren’t his thing.  Instead, at the age of 14 he took Widow in to have all her teeth pulled and replaced with perfect implants.  She remembers how they felt plastic and unnatural in her mouth as she ran her tongue over them for the first time.  “Don’t let those perfect new teeth drag any,” he would tell her.  Incidentally, this made it a lot easier on her to have the switch put in for her HTC/Google mirror shades.  Unfortunately, she still got migraines from time to time where they fucked up the implant in the bone structure around her eyes.  Or maybe she was just a whiney bitch.  She hadn’t decided on one or the other.

            “Hey Widow.  Hmm…I dunno if $50 is gonna to get you in, this is a pretty long line tonight.”  Flex said with a nearly toothless grin.  He looked like a drooling troll next to her perfect white smile.

            “Don’t fuck with me Flex, just get me in the fucking door, ok?  I’ve been fucked with enough tonight.”  She said, cocking her hips.

            “Give me a drag off that nasty shit you cook up,” Flex said again with a big grin.  Widow rolled her eyes and handed over her eCig.  Taking a big drag, Flex held it for a moment and then let out a big sigh and he exhaled.  He was ugly as a wrecked truck but he could handle his drugs.  “Alright, alright.  $50 will cut it for sure.  You lookin’ for some suit tonight?”

            Snapping back her eCig and wiping the tip on her jacket to get Flex’s spit off the end, she looked at Flex with some finality.  “You big dumb fucker.  You know my business is my own.”

            “You’re gonna bang him, aren’t you?”  Flex said with a stupid laugh that sounded exactly as intelligent as he looked.

            “Maybe, but he’ll never be as cute as you,” Widow said as she tugged once on Flex’s cauliflower ear and then sauntered into the Lotus.

            To put it honestly, the Lotus was a shit hole that had paraded itself as avante garde for the last 60 years.  And for some reason, the mentally deficient populace allowed them to continue their charade by showing up every weekend.  The floors were dirty right after a stiff cleaning, the bathrooms perpetually smelled of urinal cakes and shit, the drinks were watered down and overpriced, and the DJs spun mediocrity like it was a fucking web made by a gigantic Disney Corp spider.  The whole place made Widow’s skin crawl but this is where her contact had insisted on meeting her.  The eyes of at least 20 semi flaccid cocks followed her as she strode into the bar as if she had a couple of high caliber pistols strapped to her legs.

            Widow waited for several moments as the bartender muddled through his previous orders.  A Vodka Cran here, a whiskey and coke there, a generic shitty beer called a “domestic draft” that really came from a town on the other side of the country while Portland itself was the world capital of microbrew beers…the mediocrity of the plebes made Widow want to vomit.  “Hey, asshole!  Is your name Judge Crater, or what?  I’m fucking dry down here.”

            “You’ll shut your cock holster or you won’t get served at all.  Ya read me?”  Yelled the bartender.  Twenty more customers and five waitress orders later, the bartender came over to Widow.  With a face full of smiles and perfect chin length hair with far too much product he said, “Alright, what can I get you?”

            Widow looked him up and down.  She turned her lips up in an I Love Lucy kind of way at his toothy grin and crispy hair.  “You’re a fucking homo, aren’t you?  Never mind, doesn’t matter.  Absinthe Motivation made with real Monster and don’t give me that fake crap.  And throw in a shot of N2O for some bubbles and fun.”

            Mixing the drink, the bartender looked up at Widow, “Wow!  You’re kind of a bitch aren’t you?”  He said.

            “Don’t get cute, you cock gobbler.  Mix the fucking drink, graciously accept your TIP, and stop looking at me like I’m a piece of veal to share with your boyfriend.”

            “Whoa!  Yes ma’am!”  The bartender said with a laugh.  Finishing her drink he spit in it and mixed it in with the straw.  “That’s going to cost you a dollar extra.”

            Stirring her drink and taking a sip, Widow looked him in the eye, “Tastes like cum.  Stop blowing your boyfriend before you come to work.  But there is enough alcohol in here to kill even your faggot germs.”  She said as she tapped her SmartTab against the payment kiosk and keyed in a $20 gratuity.  “For that much, I expect another and you better fucking spit in it again or I’m going to be pissed,” she said as she turned and walked towards the dance floor.

            The dance floor was crowded with the usual group from the University of Portland.  A bunch of white kids that danced like they were having a seizure while doing too much meth and acting important because they were part of a fraternity from a school that nobody literally gave two shits about unless the stop light on Broadway turned red.  Widow resisted the urge to pull out her SmartTab and video a couple of morons grinding on a girl that had obviously hacked her ident to be in here and had no clue what she was doing.  It wasn’t that the girl was under aged that stopped her, it was that YouTube and FaceBook was inundated with whores doing exactly the same thing and the news was choked every day with the same girls claiming rape.  It was an absolute joke.

            Striding through the crowd of assholes, Widow walked up to the girl and grabbed her arm with one hand while holding her drink in the other.  “Have some goddamned respect for yourself, you little whore.”  She said, as she then turned and continued to the back corner tables of the dance floor.  “Goddamnit its darker than a stack of black cats back here.  Lowlight.”  She whispered.

Her sub auditory implant whispered in her ears with a light feminine voice and in perfect surround sound, “Enhancing.”

            The dark blobs turned into light green and she could see a grey figure in the corner wearing an obviously bad suit.  “Open | Bio: Christian Hallard,” Widow whispered.

            “Accessing.  Please wait,” said the metallic feminine voice in her ear.  “Thank you for using Suise Linux Penguin Search.  Christan Paul Hallard.  Son of Nethanial Johnathen Hallard of the Hallard Pharmaceuticals Corporation based in Beaverton, Oregon.  Age 40 years old, but appears 28 due to gene therapy.”  A readout and full color picture filled Widow’s HTC/Google mirror shades.  “Status: Living.  Tax Status: Single.  Do you require further information?”

            “No, that’s him.  Close browser.”  Widow said.

            “Closing.  Again, thank you for using Penguin Search, would you like us to update your SmartTab to Penguin Search 12.0 today?”

            “No goddamnit.  And quit spamming me with that shit.”

            “Upgrade cancelled.  If you would like to upgrade in the future, just say ‘Upgrade’ into your voice activated augmented reality browser.  Good day.”

            “Fuck I hate spam,” Widow said under her breath as she attempted to curb some of her confidence.  Placing her drink on the table, she looked at Christian Hallard and said, “’sup.”

            Squinting his eyes in a vain effort to see in the darkness, Christian looked up at Widow.  “Uhmm….can I help you?”

            “You better fucking be able to help me!”  Widow said with a laugh.  Then in a little girls voice with a pouty lip she said, “Or daddy-kins is going to be in deep motherfucking shit.”

            “SHHHH!  Be quiet!  Sit down!”  Christian said as he pulled Widow into the booth.

            “Oh Jeebus tits, chillax.  These drunken fucktards couldn’t understand what we’re talking about, let alone hear us over the tripe that the dipshit is spinning at speaker splitting levels.”  Widow said with a wave of her hand as she sipped on her straw.

            “Did you get it, like you said?”  Christian asked her nervously as he sipped on a soft drink and half nibbled on a cold plate of shitty French fries.

            “Of course I got it, n00b.  Right out of a recycle file and backed up with a good old fashioned dumpster dive to the Walmart/Gresham Metroplex Sprawl.  Fucking 2058 and the retards in corporate management still allow people like me to come in through a digital FAX line and then they print it out and shred it.  Who said print is dead?”  Widow asked as she sucked garbly air around her straw.  “Fucking shit.”  Grabbing a passing waitress by the arm she said, “Bring us two more Absinthe motivations, real Monster, shot of N2O.  Bring them fast and there’s a $20 spot for you personally.”

            Nodding, the waitress sauntered off.  Christian looked at Widow, “But I don’t drink,” he said.

            “Shut the fuck up with that shit.  You ARE drinking tonight.  You need one.  For fuck’s sake, look at you.  What’s with the Macy’s off the rack suit?  You’re a wreck man.”  Widow said as she pulled out her eCig pack.  She started to offer the other battery to Christian but remembered that she had given it up to the piggly cop.  ‘I hope he’s fucking high as shit and clawing his eyes out.”  She said under her breath.

            “Excuse me, what did you say?”  Christian said to her.

            “Nothing.  Nothing at all.  Take a hit of this and fucking relax, will you?”  Widow said as she passed her eCig to the visibly shaking Christian.  As if by magic, the waitress appeared with drinks as Christian started to cough.  “It’s not real smoke, stupid.  How much do I owe you?”  The waitress pulled a SmartTab from her pocket and showed the amount.  Widow keyed in an additional $20 and tapped her ‘Tab to hers to pay the amount.  Smiling, the waitress thanked her and walked off.

            “Ok, let’s get down to business, Mr. Hallard.  It seems Daddy’s company has produced an anti anxiety drug that the Gresham Metroplex has been adding to their water supply and has now caused twenty five people to go monkey shit insane.  The Metroplex is attempting to cover it up and daddy wants it to stay that way.  That’s why you contacted me when I put it online and you’re paying me to shut up.  Well, the amount isn’t cheap.”  Widow said as she ritualistically tipped a non-existent ash from her eCig.

            “No Miss Walker, you misunderstand.  I have the chemical code for a cure for that madness.”

Chapter 1: Patrice Walker

Chapter 1: Patrice Walker

 

            The streets were slick with rain to the point that everything reflected off of the ferrocrete in an obscene impressionist vision.  Widow reached up and wiped a soaking wet blond strand from her forehead as she rummaged through her metal lunchbox purse for her eCig.  ‘It’s always fucking rain.  We’re two weeks from Christmas and its fucking rain,’ she thought.

            Taking a drag on her eCig and letting out a puff of vapor, she sighed.  The sight of the Christmas tree in Pioneer Courthouse Square was beautiful, even if the whole thing was surrounded by a chain link fence topped with razor wire.  ‘Fucking assholes.  You’re even trying to keep Santa away from your goddamned tree,” she laughed.  Looking back down she went to put her eCig pack back in her purse when she felt a pressure on her chest that knocked her back three steps.

            “What the motherfucking shit….?”  Widow asked, as her purse tumbled to the ground and spilled its contents.  Looking up, as she reached up to press the switch on her Sony sub auditory implant to mute the music blaring in her head, she saw a Portland police officer.

            “…Your Ident right now or I’m going to haul your ass in, little miss.”  The fat cop was talking with an obvious overconfidence in his authority.

            “Why don’t you just scan me?”  Widow said with the smirk of a well practiced asshole.

            “The rain is messing with our equipment,” he said with a smile that screamed of bullshit.  Widow smirked again and leaned down to find her SmartTab.

            In 2020, all state and local governments figured it would be a good idea to just chip their citizens with RFID tags on the back of their left hand.  The chips contained all pertinent drivers’ license information, arrest history, Social Security Number, medical records, blood type, names of your parents, and literally every other piece of information they could possibly want.  Most of it was information you didn’t even know they had on you.  In addition to this, you were required to keep a SmartTab app that would save the data, as well.  This was supposed to be in case of an equipment malfunction and the politicians told everyone that it would help to protect them.  In reality, the app seldom functioned properly, was slow, and was an excuse for the local police to give you shit for no reason.

            Finding her SmartTab, Widow pulled the app up.  Luckily, it worked and connected on the first try.  “Here you are officer,” she said with a smart ass smile of victory.

            “Let’s see what we have here.  Walker, Patrice.  25 years old, four foot and eleven inches tall at 92lbs.  Wow!  You’re a little shit, aren’t you?”  The cop said with a chuckle.

            “You needed my ident to see that?  You’re looking right at me idiot,” Widow said as she pressed her tongue against the capped tooth in her mouth, causing her HTC/Google mirror shades to snap back into the recessed housings at the creases of her eyes.

            “What the fuck did you just call me, you little slut?”  The cop snapped her a teeth baring frown.

            “Nothing officer, you’re just doing your duty.  Is there anything else I can help you with?”

            “It says here your street name is ‘Widow.’  Come on; show me the ink so I can document it.”  The cop said with a grin while looking at the information on her SmartTab showing where her tattoo was.

            Widow sighed, “Jesus H Christ.  Fine,” she said as she took off her jacket and tossed it on the ground with contents of her purse.  Lowering the waist of her low-rise faux leather pants with one hand, she lifted her black wife-beater tank top with the other.  A 3D black widow spider, legs extended down to either ass cheek, leapt out from the small of her back.

            “Holy shit!  That is some damned sexy ink!”  Exclaimed the cop as he licked his lips and Widow felt the least bit of a blush come to her porcelain features.

            At the age of 13, Widow’s father took and unseemly liking to her posterior.  He decided that it would be “hot” if she got a tramp stamp.  Mimetic reflective ink was just turning all the rage, which allowed for a full one and a half foot deep three dimensional image to be tattooed to the human body.  Why a black widow was hot, Widow would never know.  But then again, daddy drank a lot.  Ever since the early days of middle school, her classmates had called her Widow, along with a multitude of other names.

            “It says here that you did 15 months of supervised probation for not turning in your father for owning a firearm,” the piggly cop continued.

            “Yeah, when I was 17.  You read it yourself.  I’m 25 now.”  Widow said, as she picked up her faux leather hipster jacket and swung it on.

            In 2015 the federal government repealed the second amendment and made it illegal for civilians to own personal firearms.  This didn’t stop most people but the penalty and punishment was carried out to all family members, friends, and acquaintances of anyone owning a firearm that didn’t turn them in.  When this law was passed, there were a few uprisings by rebel militant types in Montana, but for the most part everyone just laid over and took it in the ass.  Ironically, a drug czar from Mexico hired his own private merc army in 2018 and took over the state of Texas.  The local state police forces were quickly overrun and the National Guard was too underfunded to do anything about it.  Nobody in what was left of the United States seemed to give a shit about Texas as FEMA was supposedly sending all additional money to the states of California, Oregon, and Washington after being hit with five separate hurricanes in less than five months.  Oddly, six years later, most of the west coast was left ass raped with nary a dollar spent towards repairing the infrastructure and the government once again complaining about needing and influx of tax revenues to fix it all.  ‘Global warming is a myth, they said,” thought Widow.

            Handing the SmartTab back to Widow, the cop said, “Here’s your ‘Tab.  Seems that everything is in order.”

            “Well, fanfuckingtastic,” Widow said as she leaned down to start picking up the contents of her spilled purse.

            “Wait, wait.  What’s this?”  The cop said suddenly as he leaned over and picked up her Hitachi/Reynolds eCig pack.  “It’s illegal to smoke these in a public space, you know.”

            Widow sighed and rolled her eyes, “Fucking seriously?  You want to bust me for vegetable glycol and water vapor?  You’re standing in the fucking rain and you want to tell me that water vapor is bad for you?  Really?”  A group of skateboarders clickety-clacked down the Courthouse Square sidewalk behind the cop.  “Why are you fucking harassing me?  What about those punks on the skateboards?”

            “Don’t change the subject.  Besides, they’re white and they paid the toll fee.  You’re looking like your part Hispanic.  You don’t get a toll; you just get the shit end of the stick.  Deal with it.”

            “Fine.  You caught me.  I’m busted for smoking in a non-smoking area.  What’s the fine for that?”  Widow said throwing her hands up.

            “Don’t be so hasty.  Give me one of your batteries and a new cartridge.  I’ll let you slide.  This time,” said the cop.

            Gathering up her belongings, Widow then screwed a new cartridge onto her eCig.  “Deal.  Can I go now,” she asked as she handed it over.

            Taking a drag off the eCig the cop said, “Who the fuck are you and why are you wasting my time?  Do I look like an information kiosk?  Move along you fucking tourist.”

            Pulling her jacket collar closer, Widow smiled.  Piggly cop didn’t know that she had modded her eCig and filled it with her own special mix.  When going out to a club, she liked a hit of Ecstasy, THC, Tobacco, and Vanilla flavoring.  Mister police man was going to be tripping balls in about ten minutes.  Pulling her other battery from the eCig pack, she took a drag as the heels of her knee-high boots could be heard clacking on the brick walking away from the grinning cop looking at her ass.

This Blog

Generally, this is going to be my rambling notebook.  I don't *just* tech/build computers, write gaming and hardware reviews, or post non-budging comments to idiotic political posts on FaceBook.  Before all of that, I was a musician, semi-half-assed-comicbook artist, painter of lead/pewter mini figurines (of which, I was quite good, if I do say so myself), and a fiction writer.

Given the ridiculous events of our current political climate, and the events of yestereday specifically, coupled with some good industrial music by the likes of Kidney Thieves, Nine Inch Nails, Stabbing Westward, Billy Idol (Cyberpunk), and Information Society (it is a great big Disco world, after all), I've created a tough, young woman that will ultimately be an anti-hero.  You don't have to like her.  She's kind of a bitch.  And that's why I like her.  She's not the typical menstruating heroine you might find, such as Kit in the Dragonlance series, and yet she's human and she's real, and she has issues that she needs to deal with.  She won't always do good and she won't always do bad.  But she will do it with style, I promise that.  And she'll curse like a sailor and at certain points, the body count could get high.  And then I'm throwing in some horror and mystery.

If I throw in a cybernetic sparkly vampire, I've instructed my friends to kill me by fucking my ass with a rusty chainsaw.

With that, I give you chapter one in the following blog.  And welcome to Portland Oregon in the Confederate States of California in the year 2058.