Place: Vancouver
Time: 27 Nov. 1995, 1700-2100

First Posted:

At a small noise at my office door I glance up, motioning Stephanie to come in. "Right, then," I say to Roger. "Thanks again. You going to beat the club tomorrow, usual time? How 'bout dinner after? Excellent. See you then Roger."

Very carefully I replace the phone receiver in its cradle. (I've broken one already in a fit of disgust over bureaucratic foul ups. I'd rather not smash one when receiving good news.)

"So?" asks Stephanie, coming over to perch on my desk. "Don't keep me in suspense!"

"It's a go. The committee approved the project this afternoon. They go to planning tomorrow. The call for tenders will go out the day after."

"Yes!" exclaims Stephanie. Then, "But, why do you know now?"

"Ah, young thing, you have a thing or two to learn yet about netwrokin'."

Steph snorts. "Uh huh...justifying your expense account, don't you mean."

"Nothing of the sort, girl!" I exclaim in mock sterness, getting up from my chair and going around the desk. "Ev'ry penny spent's well worth it. Important business connections, I'll have you know. Like Roger there." Motioning Stephanie out of the office we head towards the main work area. "Nice enough bloke, for a drone. And willing to give me advanced notice of the Highway 101 upgrade. Take my advice, lass, cultivate a good contact when you find one."

Another snort.

"But seriously, now, ye have to play within the confines of the game. And that means knowin' who's your friend." Heads look up as we enter the main work space of the small engineering firm. "'Course, you've also got to know when to cheat."

"All right, people, time to apologize to your foresightful boss, now," I announce, receiving a few groans and one piece of crumpled paper tossed in my direction (which I casually pluck out of the air and toss back the way it came without looking). "The Highway 101 project is going forward and tenders will open on Wednesday. There'll be only three weeks for bids to go in."

I pause for a moment to let the deadline sink in.

"Now, are you not all glad that I made you work overtime for the last month and a half to get the work done on our bid in advance o' the official notice?"

"We aren't going to hear the end of this, are we?" asks Brad, opening his desk drawer to pull out a bottle of Bushmills malt.

"Aye, well, apologize nice to me for all the hard grumbles you've given ol' Jonathan and maybe I'll let you off the hook easy like. And none o' that there, now," I command, pointing at the Bushmills. At Brad's surprised look (I've never been one to say nay to Irish Whisky before) I add, "It's criminal to be drinking such fine whisky from a stained coffee mug like I know you're going to. Come on, y'all. Close it down. I'm rewarding the lot of you for your back breakin' work and takin' you all to the pub."

A small chorus of happy noises greets this announcements as people turn back to their computers and desks, shutting things down for the night.

"Keep in mind, though, that you're to be back here regular like tomorrow mornin'! We've still got to pound the contracting bid into final order, don't forget."

"Ok, ok, maybe you've got a point with your networking, expense account padding, business dinner ways," Stephanie says with a grin as we head back to our offices to pick up our jackets.

Chuckling, I take my sports jacket off its hanger before going to shut down my computer for the evening. I quickly scan my daytimer for tomorrow, type in a quick note about dinner with Roger and, glancing at the icon I see that no new e-mail has come through, so I cue the shut-down command. Arnie's authoritative "I'll be back", sounds out before the screen goes blank. As I put my jacket on I glance around the office, checking to see if there's anything I've forgotten to do. Ahhhh...nope. Nothing that can't wait. I get tonight off as well. On my way out the door I pick up my waterproofed duster and my rather battered architectural plans tube. True, at nearly four feet long the heavy plastic tube might seem rather a cumbersome load to carry around, but after all these years I'm used to it. Besides, the padded handles and adjustable shoulder strap helps.

Heading back to the main office I see that Tracey has herded the lot of the staff into the lift. Just before joining them I punch the activation key on the security system. A minute later we're exiting the renovated warehouse and the security system is live.

Since it's not raining (a pleasant surprise, although the leaden clouds threaten sullen weather to come) we elect to leave our vehicles in the garage portion of the warehouse and walk the six blocks or so to the pub.

"Hey, what's with the tube, big guy?" asks Darcey as we head off.

"Oh, do ye not see the load I suffer under," I reply with mock severity. "Be most glad that you're nae the leader of this scruffy company, for then you'd have to do some real work!"

"What do you mean, "scruffy"?" Darcey demands.

"Darc," interjects Linda, flicking his fraying, brown, turtleneck sweater, "you're a superlative engineer and an excellent programmer, but GQ you ain't"

"Humph. I'll have you know that women find my particular style most appealing."

"Uh-huh. They take pity on the poor ragamuffin and take you home to nurse you back to health," Linda laughs back.

The banter keeps up until we round the corner and head through the door of the Fallen Crown, a rambling, old, field stone and brick two story structure with architectural (to use the term loosely) add-ons from half a dozen different owners over at least as many decades. The six of us file in and head for the main floor bar, a long hardwood affair, well scarred with decades of use. Jim's behind the bar, pulling a Guinness for another customer. I see Mandy disappearing upstairs with a tray of whiskey and a couple pints of bitters (there is an upstairs bar, but they only open it up later in the evening when it really gets busy).

As we approach the bar I hear Steph answering a question from Brad. "...Phoned from work, but Jay's got some sort of University function thing." She pronounces "thing" nasally so it comes out as "thaang" while rolling her eyes. "So it's just going to be me tonight." As soon as Jim's done with the Guinness she wastes no time flagging him down for a black and tan. As expected, Brad orders the most expensive Irish whiskey he can find. ("For making us work so bloody hard for the last month and not letting on that you knew about the project in advance," he tells me as he picks up the crystal glass with the blessed amber liquid. "Aye, well, tonight you get to fill up your glasses; whatever it costs I will pay. You've all done capital work for me and I know you will again. Despite the grumblin' I receive...") The rest quickly place their orders. I decide to start with a Glenkinchie, neat. I also order a couple plates of dry ribs, wings, and a cheese and vegetable platter for Tracey (which earns me a "Thanks for remembering," with a shy smile.)

Linda has already secured the large table near the fieldstone fireplace that has the padded bench on one side and a mishmash of chairs on the other. I notice she's also secured the most comfortable chair for herself ("My name may be Standing Rock, but it doesn't mean I want to stand or sit on something rock hard," she says, toying with her long braid, woven through with a white deer leather thong.) Steph and Tracey slide onto the bench. After wedging my case along the top of the bench's back I sit next to them. Brad and Darcey take the chairs on either side of Linda. Discussion and spirits flow freely and by the time the house band is about to begin we're all a long way towards feeling immensely...relaxed. Mandy has already come by a couple of times to bring the food and refill drinks. (More than a couple of times for some of us. Darcey and Linda seem to have gotten into some sort of drinking contest. Heh...poor Darcey.

The Sons of Skye are a decent enough pub band with a good selection of songs from the Old Country. Maudlin' of me, I suppose, but I guess no matter where you travel to, or for how long, you never get your land of birth completely out of your veins. Beginning with Black Velvet Band the Sons progress through a half a dozen more (including Streets of London, and Barrette's Privateers, a Stan Rogers song) before launching into a tune made moderately popular relatively recently by the Pogues, reinforcing, in a non-threatening way, that coincidence is a funny thing in this world in which we live.

          "Oh my name is John Stewart,
          I'm a canny young man,
          And a roving young fellow I have been.
          So be easy and free when you're drinkin' with me,
          I'm a man you don't meet every day.
          I have acres of land,
          I have men I command,
          And I've always a shilling to spare.
          So be easy and free when you're drinkin' with me,
          I'm a man you don't meet every day.
          So come fill up your glasses with brandy and wine,
          Whatever it cost I will pay.
          So be easy and free when you're drinkin' with me,
          I'm a man you don't meet every day.
          Oh I took out my dog and him I did shoot,
          Oh down in the county Killdeer.
          So be easy and free when you're drinking with me,
          I'm a man you don't meet every day.
          So come fill up your glasses with brandy and wine,
          Whatever it cost I will pay.
          So be easy and free when you're drinkin' with me,
          I'm a man you don't meet every day.
          So be easy and free when you're drinkin' with me,
          I'm a man you don't meet every day."

Oh, aye, I chuckle to myself, tossing back the remainder of me drink and calling for another round. Ye don't know th' half o' it...

Place: Vancouver
Time: 11 December 1995, 2100 hrs

First Posted: 11 December 1995

Hope ta bloody hell we get the contract. Oh, aye, the money'd be good. But that's only part o' it. Highway 101 needs a serious overhaul. The province has to re-fit it. The Sunshine (and let's just be putting Sunshine in quotes for the moment, shall we, Johnie me boy) Coast is gettin' a fair bit of traffic these days. Cor...i spend what time i can away from this sprawl meself. Guess other folks aren't any different there. Still...the ferry prices are sure jackin' it up. Ah well... But if the road doesn't get overhauled some bloody RV's going to be dropping inta the drink when a bank gives way. And i've got a bloody good idea which banks they're going to be.

Taking my eyes away from the map of the west coast pinned to my wall i search around for my coffee mug, a giant ceramic affair with the company's logo on it. Actually, i've got several of them. I always seem to be leaving them someplace or other and walking off to someplace else in the building. By having multiple mugs i always seem to have a coffee near at hand, although it does usually tend to be cold. Not that i haven't drunk enough cold coffee out in the field...There's been times i'd have gleefully throttled someone for a cold coffee. Ah...there we go. Sitting on the floor next to my chair. Wonder how it got down there? Actually, Tracey tends to wonder about these things more than i, as she's the one who often goes around collecting my mugs after me....even though it's not in her job description.

Turning back to my computer i call up Linda's most recent environmental draft for the project's application as i take a big slug of coffee. Uhrm...cold.

The computer's HD whirs for a couple seconds and then coughs Linda's work up on the monitor for me. Good work, that. Once again i'm glad i hired her. Hell, the whole team's top o' the line. Young, smart, dedicated...hungry. No; not hungry. More like...driven. I don't know fer sure where they got it. Whether it was there to th' same degree before i met them, or whether 'tis me that's rubbin' off on the lot o' them. Nae, they had to 'ave 'ad it or i'd never a hired 'em in the first place. The lot of them see what's been happenin' to the planet. Goin' ta hell in a handbag, ya might say. An' sitting on yer arse hopin' some other bloody git's gonna fix it ain't the way to go. If ye want somethin' done right ya better bloody well do it yerself... (Ah, the words of a true engineer. Reminds me of a joke about the aristocrat, the baker, and the engineer who are about to be guillotined in the French Revolution (nasty piece of work, that).)

Like Highway 101. It needs the upgrade. Badly. But it needs, i hate to use the phrase, an "eco-friendly" approach to the re-fit. Proper drainage culverts to prevent erosion. Filtration points to catch oil laden run-off from the roadway before dumpin' the crap down into the ocean. Bridge points fer the animals to cross the highway safely. Hell, the so-called toad tunnels would be a big improvement over the current situation! And we might as well be using an environmental roadway to push the message on the public. Environmental information at the rest stops. Target the kids, that's the way to go. If you can catch the young...hell...if you can catch the young you only have to wait twenty or thirty years before they can do anything about it.

Wonder if there's th' time to wait? Well, John, you'll never know lest ye start it now, neh?

I tunelessly murmur a few bars of a Tom Waits song. 'And the Earth died screaming, while i lay dreaming. And the Earth died screaming...' Yeah, well...

Gods...i'm exhausted.

Well, back to it, boy-o. You know all the rest o' them are out in the main office workin' just as hard as you. Right. Now, let's see if Linda's got some better figures on ungulate deaths on Highway 101... Don't expect the drones in government to get all bent over some dead deer, but they may take notice at the capital loss due to insurance claims and loss of wildlife for which huntin' licenses could be sold. Or am i just gettin' cynical in me old age?

Place: Greater Vancouver
Time: 30 December 1995, 1100-1400

First posted: 30 December 1995

"'Lo?"

"Hi John, it's Steph."

"Hey there! What're ye doin' back? Thought you'd still be at Whistler's."

"Yeah, well, you know. With the ski lift collapsing and killing all those people Jay and i just didn't really feel all that comfortable on the hill. Rumours were flying about eco-terrorists being responsible and the security was giving everyone the big once over every time they wanted to use a lift or even a tow rope."

"Ahh...well, sorry that you're trip was a bust. I know how you were lookin' forwar' to it."

"Yeah, well it wasn't a total loss." Steph replies. "Jay felt guilty for me and all and has been treating me royally...hasn't even gone into the U at all."

I chuckle at that. Although, thinkin' 'bout it, Jay could have been havin' equal complaints about seein' so little o' Stephanie for the last month or so. Joys of bein' a couple wi' dual jobs in tha ninties.

"Anyway," Steph resumes, "Jay and i were wondering, since we're back in town and all, that is, if you aren't doing anything, if you'd like to join us for New Years Eve?"

Before i can reply Stephanie rushes on.

"We know you don't have any family hereabouts and actually, we don't have any family around this year either. Jay's folks are out in Toronto this year visiting Sylvia, Jay's sister. And...well, my family hasn't been real talkative to me since Jay and i moved in together. And we really didn't plan to be in town over New Years, so we don't have anything else planned."

I open my mouth to say i'd be pleased to come when Steph jumps in again with another rush of words.

"But, you know, if you've already got plans we understand and..."

"Yes!" i practically shout into th' receiver. "Yes! I'd be pleas'd ta come. I haven't much in the way o' plans meself. What time should i come by and what shall i bring?"

"Oh...ah..." Steph mumbles as she shifts mental gears. "Well, why don't you come by around eight? And you don't have to bring anything. Just yourself. Unless, of course, you're seeing someone. If you want you could bring a guest, i mean."

"Superb. Well, i canna think of anyone right off th' top o' me head that i'm seeing, so i don't expect i'll be comin' along w' a guest. But should i turn one up in the next day, i'll let ye know. It shall be a grand evening, Steph. Thank you for the invite."

Good-byes wrap up and i place the receiver back in its cradle and head for the door before another call catches me. I toss my great cloak over my arm and pick my old shiladin out of the umbrella stand by the door. A quick tap-tap on the security panel and i'm out the door and down to the garage.

***

Ye know, Johnnie, me lad, there's a lot o' things i like 'bout Vancouver. Th' traffic 'tis nae one o' them. Gods and martyrs! A bloody hour and a quarter to get 'cross town! Why, John, ole boy, did ye not set yerself up in Victoria? Silly question, and you know it...

The sky stays leaden and gray as i turn the wheel of the old Landrover sharply and pull into the Native Heritage Museum parking lot. Promises rain. Not many cars in the lot today. Hunh... I drive down as close to the main doors of the Museum as i can, find a vacant spot, and kill the engine. The museum guards eye me suspiciously as i lock the door of the Rover.

Taking my shiladin with me i head for the main doors of the museum. One of the guards holds his arm out to bar my way. The other loosens his baton in its holder. "With stick no go," he grumbles in pidgin.

"Get museum ticket so park," i reply in the same garbled English. Pidgin is...well, bastardized English. Simplified. Collapsed. Articles and pronouns re-ordered or dropped entirely. Tis a street language. A gutter dialect. Much as English was a bastard o' courtly French an' German an' Anglo a thousan' years ago. Pidgin's a street tongue. Just as English was. "You hold," i add. "Maybe you special attention give truck, a? Maybe like make worth you and you while?" I pull a couple twenties from my pocket and hand them to the guard with my shiladin.

A happy look comes to th' guard's eyes. "Huh. Finestkind watch buy."

I go through the doors of the museum an' get an admission ticket, then head back outside, reflecting that the Rover will be watch'd careful like by the guards. Takin' bribes for this sort o' thing is frown'd on by the Museum administration. Th' guards won't be wantin' an irrate "customer" complainin' to management. No they won't be wantin' that. So the Rover gets looked after and the guards pocket a bit o' post-Christmas cheer. Besides, it's early afternoon. Don't expect much trouble this time o' day here. Museum's pretty well guarded, wi' more security inside and on th' grounds. 'Course, night's another matter all together.

I show the guards my admission ticket and get my shiladin back before headin' round the side of the museum, thinkin' 'bout nightfall and the odd position of the Museum then. Tricky. The Museum's located just off UBC campus an', therefore, not under UBC security juristiction. An' Museum security won't leave the Museum buildin's themselves at night. Lost a few guards tha' way in the past, as i understand.

As i round the back o' the Museum i pause and gaze 'round me. Huh. Been awhile. Totem's loom all around me. Mythic beasts and spirits. Each havin' a soul. Each tellin' a story. Bear. Killer whale. Raven. Alway Raven. Old trickster.

Lost in thought i wander through the totems, heading roughly towards th' beach. As i clear a stand o' blasted trees the wind suddenly gusts up, bringing salt and damp to me. The grey rolling mass of white capped sea taunts me and beacons me on. Like a faithless lover. That's the sea. Takin' an' givin' in th' same breath. An' always i love her.

Fool. I pick out the overgrown path, making use of my shiladin on the rocky descent to the beach. I've had it for a goodly long while. Sturdy Irish oak walkin' stick with a gnarled lump o' bole for the handle. A solid weight. Comfortin', like. An old friend.

I finally reach the beach and start walkin' down the sandy way, leavin' me boots' prints as a testimonial. I'm headin' toward Wreak Beach. Been long time since i been there. Lot o' memories. Gods...the beach has sure gone to hell. Debris and rubble about. I understand there used to be some sort of nudist code along the beach. But that was years back. 'Fore the weather shifted and even summer days were shrouded in cloud and wet. Drifters and derilicts move in. Took it over. Druggies and dealers.

But mostly at night. By day it's just a dirty streak of sand along a mat grey stretch of ocean.

It used to be beautiful.

My great cloak swirls around me like a live thing in the wind. I clutch it to meself one handed and break it's will. Laughing at the wild thing that fights me. Tries to wrap tangle my limbs and consume me. It bends to my desires; my demands. But it keeps it's pride, it does. An' i leave it that. Co-dependents on a lonely stretch of broken beach. Where Gaia weeps tears of salt and quartz and splintered wood, shattered by the angry force of the sea.

Been a long time since i've been here. Last time i came in by boat. Landed here. Long time since. Staring out over th' ocean i remember. And think about all the yesterdays. Lulled by the gentle crashing of waves.

***

There's something behind me.

I shift me right foot behind and well across my left leg and pivot sharply, shiftin' me grip on the shiladin to a two hand staff hold. Me great cloak billows an' streams. A black smog engulfin' me. Hidin' me.

Three o' them. Toughs. But young. Always are, seems.

"Yo, mammyjammer, you gonna be giving us yer scorecard," says the one to my left, whipcord thin an' full o' bravado. They've arranged themselves triangular fashion, backin' me at the sea. "We dance your bones elsewize."

"Slow-like," grunts the large one to me right. A two metre length of heavy chain dangles in his monster fists. Bruiser, this one.

They're wearin' leathers and abused denim, oiled to be waterproofed. The right sides of their heads are shaven and tattooed. Gang colours. Don't know which one, but do recognize the pattern from the time i spend down at the inner city school i do some volunteer teachin' at.

"Sod off, ya gits," i tell them. "Got better things ta do than be bashin' you 'bout. Don' be messin' me day more than ye already hav' or Dog i'll take ya down."

The middle tough, wearin' mirror shades, glances left an' right at his partners. "Ya talk funny, grump. Guess we'll figure your port when we cut yer shingle out of your Vi's and lift your scorecard."

While he's still talkin' (good technique; distract th' prey) Whipcord, on me left, moves. Fast. He pulls a knife from his belt and lunges toward me. Bruiser, o'er on me right, starts ta bring the chain up an' 'bout, in a swirlin' pattern.

Fool.

The bully boys must not o' seen me shiladin hidden in the coils of me great cloak. With a cross step i snap left inside Whipcord's guard an' bring the knarled end of th' shiladin up an' round in a short arc. Wi' a whack it connects wi' the side o' his head, slewin' him oceanwards as he drops. Chain clanks as i cross my left leg behind me' right and pivot in place, bringin' the shiladin up and across me body, left hand high, right low, the oak staff forming a vertical shield. The chain comes swingin' toward me then, wrappin' itself 'round the shiladin, between me hands. Bruiser grins, as he sets his feet ta pull me toward him. Shades drops a length o' rusty pipe from his sleeve an' closes th' distance. I shift me hands slightly so's tha' the shiladin points slightly toward Bruiser, who's pullin' on his chain, ta yank me in. I let go with me left hand and give a jerk with me right and the shiladin comes apart, Bruiser stumblin' backwards now that there's no mass resistin' his pull. Two feet of silk edged steel sings through the air as i step toward Shades. My left arm goes up, blocking the downward blow from the pipe he's swingin'. The cloak helps cushion the blow an' no bones break. Shades screeches as the wagazashi blade concealed in the shiladin slices across his chest, cleaving muscle and bone. As he staggers back i press forwards, taking a two handed grip on th' shiladin's handle, an' bring the blade down through his neck an' shoulder.

The blade lodges in a mess o' bone an' contractin' muscles. Damn!

Rather than fight it i drop it to fall with Shades' corpse. Tearing at the great cloak's ties at my throat i hurl meself towards Bruiser. I vaguely make out the chain swinging back toward me an' throw up me right arm t' block. The chain whips around me arm an' i'm jerked forward. Not botherin' to fight it i lunge toward the tough, hurling meself against him, arms outstretched, fingers curlin' toward 'is throat. Laughin'.

We go down in the surf with me on top.

Behind the great cloak settles to the sand, a black amoeba, covering Shades' body, consuming him.

Half a dozen meters away Whipcord staggers to his hands and knees, dizzy and confused. Not known how it has gone so wrong.

Always know your prey, lads. Take th' old an' th' weak. Not him as in 'is prime. This Dog's got 'is teeth.

Bruiser gets his arms around my back and crushes me against him, pinning me left arm between us. I grunt in pain as my floating ribs are bent out of shape. If Whipcord gets it together i'm goin' ta be in a bloody mess o' trouble with me back exposed. Assumin' Bruiser don't crush me 'fore then. But me right arm's still free. I reach it up and grab his greasy hair, yanking his thick neck back, exposing his throat. His carotids pulse with teeming life. Opening me mouth and baring me teeth i drive forward, tearing through the soft skin o' his throat. Forcing me jaw shut and yankin' back with all the force i can manage, pullin' from the back and not just the neck, Bruiser's throat rips out in a crimson spray of hot brine. His limbs convulsively thrash as he tries to push me away.

Indecisive. Fickle. Like the sea. Crush me to ye, then throw me away. Nae. I think not.

I pull his head back further. Bruiser sprays me with his life. A wave, the seventh wave, i think, that one that is largest, pulses over us in foam and cold and dark. I laugh, spraying blood and water and flesh from me mouth.

Blood coats me muzzle as i leave my fickle partner to the sea. Let him take another, more jealous partner if he will. Bruiser's life drips from me goatee and mustache. It coats me chest an' arms. An' still there is Whipcord. Darlin' Whipcord. Oh, my precious. Starin' in horror, he is, at the apparation rises 'fore him. Death's own servator.

Laughing, i drag him from the water.

"No! No! Lemmee go! It was his idea! His!"

I pull Whipcord close. Nose to nose. "Quiet," say i, softly. So softly. Tis a wonder he hears 'bove the waves, th' waves tha' drown out th' final rattle of Bruiser. "Quiet and tell me what you've seen here."

"Jus...just lemme go. Promise i'll be good. Please...!"

Huh. He doesn't understand. So sad, when they fail to grasp th' obvious.

"Social evolution," i explain, patiently. Tenderly. "Survival. Those who survive are th' strong. Strong beget the strong. I am strong. Your friends, they be dead. They don't be passin' on their code. Gaia's sufferin' under the load. So she makes me an' mine. Me an' others. We be the predators. The protectors. The stewards o' hu-man-ity, neh? Do you understand, boy?"

Whipcord drools and stares wildly about.

I spin us 'round, keeping a tight grip on 'im, showin' him Shades' leg from below me great cloak and Bruiser, rockin' in th' surf.

"You an' yours, ye kill indiscriminately. You nae care. Ye give nae thought. I be the Dog: the Protector. He who walks at the right hand o' man and shelters at the hearth durin' the long night. Guardian. Watcher. I keep the herd."

"You, you ripped his throat out! You killed Jimbe! You...God..." Whipcord vomits. Puking his heart into the surf that tugs greedily at our legs. I keep his head out of the water as he drops to his knees. I won't let him drown. I'm nae cruel. Th' lion tha' pulls down the antelope ain't cruel. 'Tis just the way. An' he has ta learn. Someone has ta learn the lesson of our sufferin' planet.

"Sometimes th' herd needs cullin'," i explain. "You an' yours be loose cannon. Mavericks. Do nae get me wrong. Some o' what ye do is for th' good. Ye be the social predators like me. Fullfil a similar role. Wi'out ye and yer ilk, the herd get's weak. Complacient. Soft. That edge o' fear is a grand motivator. Those who trustin'ly walk th' dark stretches need t' be pulled down, now an' then. But, likewise, the predator can't be allowed ta go soft. Ye pegged me for an easy mark. Like th' wolf tha' tries to pull down th' young buck instead o' th' old an' weak. That wolf he no live long. Best he not mate. Least, not if he doesn't learn. If he learn from a mistake, bears the scar t' remind him on future hunts, then maybe th' ecosystem benefits."

Cradled against me, there in th' surf, Whipcord rocks himself gentle side-ta-side.

"You domed, grump. Effed out," Whipcord curses, but without any bravado.

"Shh...no, you think on what i say to ye, little predator. Ye just been scarred by that buck in its prime. Ye and yer pack didn't choose the prey well. Think on it. Consider all this an object lesson."

Gently, so gently, for Whipcord is a most prized vessel, a precious shell holding me wisdom, a single pirana who may teach his school. I stand us up an' push him off up th' beach.

"Ye get. Think on what i said to ye. " Staggering, Whipcord heads off.

I stagger meself, as the adrenalin high i've run begins to crash. Me limbs go all stiff and i limp gait it over t' Shades, ta drag the shroud off 'im. Kickin' him over i wrench the blade from his chest. It makes a sucking sound as it leaves. Hardly no blood, though. Seems it's all been sucked into the sand. Vampiric like. Life returning from whence it came.

A snap o' the wrist clears the wagazashi o' what few drops o' blood there be. I find th' rest o' the shiladin in the sand and slide th' blade home, snuggin' it tight. Huh. Good work. Did it meself, some time ago. Cut the old shiladin lengthwise wi' a fine bladed bandsaw, carved out th' space for th' blade , fixed th' blade (a mid nineteenth century piece) into th' handle, an' epoxied an' lacqured the shiladin back together. Nice bit o' protection. Usually the Irish oak itself's enough.

Suddenly i'm tired. I lick Bruiser's life from me lips an' sigh. So tired. Stabbin' me shiladin' into th' sand by me great cloak, now a contrite dark blot on th' sand satiated and quiescent, i walk out into the ocean as th' promised rain starts ta fall from the gray streaks others might call clouds, but that passes for th' near permanent sky in Vancouver.

Fat drops fall on me upturned face. Mother washin' the blood from me. I stand waist deep in th' sea. Me legs in salt water, me head an' body in fresh.

'Cept for the salt water that drizzles from me eyes, only to be swept away into th' sea.

Place: Downtown Vancouver
Time: 16 January 1996, 1400-1410

First Posted: 16 January 1996

The heavy musk of incense muffles the light and increases the senses.

"Huhg," i snort softly. "A fine lass ye are to speak o' bein' young. Ye've nay aged a wink in the time i've known ye."

"Oh, yes, my fine, blond love. And why do you think this is?"

"Regular constitutionals?" i ask in deadpan.

A throaty chuckle from her.

"Because i am never bored. Boredom, banality...these are truly the things that kill. Oh, yes, death comes in...so many forms. A rumor reaching the wrong ear, an accidental fall in a riot in the market, an explosion on some battlefield or other." Her hand withdraws from my neck and her arm slides down across my chest. Delicate teeth nip my earlobe. "But, really, it is the boredom with life that makes you careless. That makes you tired of the whole thing. To live, to truly live, such as it were, you must embrace the new, the unusual. Never forsake a new experience."

I chuckle as i turn in her arms to face her. "Oh, aye, had i been one to forgo 'new experiences', as ye say, i'd never ha met you, Rhapundee."

"Very true, sir. And had you not been otherwise i would surely have tired of you long before now."

Flickering candles cast shadows across us. Ever so beautiful she is. Eternal. A damp breeze blows through the terrace doors. Silk gauze billows. Tiny flames dance, temporarily bringing her face fully to view. She is so beautiful. My angel. My devil. Her dark eyes drink the candles' glow, returning her to the shadows. Red silk cascades as Rhapundee stretches, lithe and hard and soft in my arms.

"My...bretheren wonder what i see in you," she muses (having switched to her native tongue), lazily tracing a finger through the blond curls on my chest. "You are so unlike them in so many ways. And yet, you and they, and we, share certain...attitudes. In many ways we are very similar, despite our differences."

"Hmm...but your people do not find me an...appropriate companion for a lady of your...caliber," i reply in Hindi. "Your 'caste', as is it were. To dally with me would be one thing. But this long relationship we share must be...unsettling to them."

"Mmm, well, you will allow me to tend to my own affairs. What my bretheren think is my concern, not yours."

"At least until one of them decides to come to settle accounts," i say, tangling my fingers in black silk of her hair.

"That shall not happen." The barest taste of steel in her voice. The promise of what she is. Oh, no, never underestimate my Rhapundee. Of course i love her. How could i not. And how could i? Ah. Always that question... "Besides," she continues, playful now that the coals which glowed briefly in her eyes have faded away, "you keep me young. You and your English ways. Shall you make a lady of me? Like your Queen?"

"Oh, nay," i reply lightly, but with all seriousness, having switched back to English. "Lady you be already. The Dark Lady o' my dreams. An' more a queen than any that sits upon a throne." Surely the finest, the truest survivor. The purest. Claiming me for her own.

Pulling me towards her i feel her lips, her tiny, sharp teeth, graze across my cheek, my neck, as her hands slip within my shirt. "Remember, do as the young do, and you shall never grow old."

***

The clatter of the girl dropping the telephone receiver back on its cradle jars me back to th' present. Hunh...how long has it been since i ha' last seen Rhapundee? Wonder where she is now. And what latest fad she has embraced.

"Hi there!" says the perky, young, brunette voice, "Sorry to keep you, but things have been soooo wiz with biz!"

"Not a probl'm, luv. Do ye still have tickets for the show on Friday?"

"Mmm maybe. Who wants to know?"

"Me." Saucy wench.

"Just you? Or are you purchasing as...a gift?"

"Two, if ye please," i say, taking my wallet out. "Who's openin' for the Headstones."

"We've got two openers, both local talent. Actually," the girl continues as she takes me money and counts the change, "Pure and Mystery Machine both tour around the country, but they started out here in V-town, and do play a fair number of gigs here."

"Hmm, yeah, well, i've got a CD by Mystery Machine. Pretty good. Liked the ROM track at the start of it."

The girl gives me a quick once over, perhaps considering that th' old "Nev'r trust no git over thirty" may not apply to me. Ta be fair, i suppose me suit and poster tube dinna fit th' image one'd expect for a Mystery Machine-Headstones listener.

"Don't ye worry," i say with a wink, "These just be me day-clothes. I'll be lookin' raz Friday."

"Pretty spiff," she says, looking me over again, re-evaluatin'. Licks her lower lip slowly.

"Oh, nae near," i reply, indicating her hair. "Yer coif is tres."

"Hmm...mutual, like," she says, leaning forward on the counter.

Showing cleavage. Playing with a curl of hair that falls forward over her left eye.

Makes me smile. For more than th' obvious. Flirtation 'twas near dead for so long. Refreshin' ta see it comin' back in style.

"Deadly," i sigh, putting a hand over me heart. And wink.

She laughs. And then gives a wink of her own. "You really like the Headstones? Or are just predacious for some young gothic?"

"Twer it so, you'd be tops o' my list," i reply, as i take the tickets and my change from her, makin' her smile, though i be sure she's heard it all before. Still, there be rules in flirtation. But as i'm turnin' to go i glance back and add, "But, yah, i like the Headstones. They keep me young."

Place: Downtown Vancouver
Time: 16 February 1996, 1900-1920

First posted: 16 February 1996

"Ah, pretty well," i say as i set my own coffee mug down before sitting across from him. "Got th' contract for th' planning an' development of Highway 101."

"Way to go!" Dan exclaims holding out his hand. "Don't take this the wrong way, but why do you think your company got the bid? You're pretty small, aren't you?"

"Yeah, we are. But they're good people, all. Personally like, i think it has to do wi' th' Niska land deal that Harcourt's just gotten through. I figure with the Indian land settlement their lookin' for a environmentally minded group to do th' planning. 'Course, don't know what'll happen next election, but we'll be cashin' the cheques while we can. Actually, I got th' same feelin' 'bout the Niska deal playin' a role when i was talkin' to Roger Sherington." Take a sip of coffee. "He's over in Roads and Transport. You two met?"

"Nah. Not much call for a cop to be mixing with government bureaucrats."

"Well, 'tis not like you be a beat cop," i say good humoured like and sip at the Kenya AA. "You've been a lieutenant for a while, yah?"

"Five years next month," says Dan, looking beyond me and out the window. "Not the easiest five years, either."

"Hey...responsibility sits well wi' you."

"Ah, how would you know? You only met me, what, ten months back? Are engineers psychic, too?"

"Nah, not at all, at all. But i've me sources," i say with a wink.

"Ah huh. I've always suspected you read tea leaves or something, for all the time you spend over in the Japanese section."

"That would be European or Chinese. Japanese just drink their tea. No, i have me a far better source. A 'snitch on the inside' i believe you police would call it."

With mock severity Dan fires back, "Yeah! Tell me his name. If one of my cops has been welching on me i'll have his badge!"

"Heh. I think ye might find it a little hard to get that from Susan."

"My wife!" Dan shouts at me, shaking his head. "You sneaky British bastard. You've gotten me own wife to fink on me!"

"Oh, nay, not at all...i didn't have to do anythin'," i explain with a chuckle, "She was more an willin' ta tell me tha sordid details all on her own!"

Shaking his head again Dan mutters good naturedly, "Oh, i bet... Next my dog will be telling you stories. Sigh. Just can't win, can i John."

"Guess it all depends how ye class winnin', now, don't it?"

"Well, that's the truth," he agrees and tosses down the rest of his coffee. "Sorry, but i've got to get going. If i was a captain i'd mix with the government bureaucrats. As a lieutenant i have to go talk to the Metropolitan Citizen's Action Committee on the Prevention of Gang Related Activities. Can't even make a decent acronym out of it."

"Have fun. I'd best be gettin' on me way as well. Good ta see ye. Get together for a drink next week?"

"Sure, could do. Give me a call. I think Susan and i have to go to some school play that Jenny's in. She's playing a lemon, or an orange, or something. Some citrus fruit."

"Ah...30 kids in fruit costumes forgetting their lines. Not ta be missed..." i comment wickedly.

Dan groans. "Don't remind me."

As we leave Starbucks i slap Dan on the back. "Say 'hi' to Susan for me, now."

"Will do. Talk to you soon."

Hmm... Back home i guess.

Place: Greater Vancouver
Time: 26 February 1996, 1700-2200

First posted: 26 February 1996

Not e'en a wind to break the debilitated indifference o' th' sky.

Gods o' all me ancestors. Remind me again why i moved to this city? 'Tis not th' place o' my memories. So much has changed...

Old fool...

Damn.

Not even the ocean can be bothered today, it seems. Waves to tired t' crest. They merely bump apathetically 'gainst th' rocks near the warf.

Come on, old Girl... Show me ye still got th' juice. Give th' rage ye got bottled up. Just one white cap. 'Tis not much t' ask o' ye.

Damn.

Old fool...

I should know better, i should. Been through enough o' these "aniversaries". Various friends have given me their slant on how t' deal wi' th' situation. Ne'er fall in love, said one. Embrace life even though ye know it's not t' last, said another. Take what ye can an' be first out th' door, was the phlegmatic advice o' a third. Right bastard, he was. Is, maybe. Dunno... Dammit, old Dog. Life's a bitch. Can't even keep track o' yer friends. Such as they are...

Must 'ave been one awful mother fucker in a past life t' win this prize, i reflect wi' a bleak chuckle.

Ah well, so it goes. Jus' like i always knew She would, barrin' any unfortunate, an' final, mis-stroke on me own part. Still... It hurts.

Not getting anythin' from the ocean i start walkin' back toward the concrete canyons. Maybe the inside o' a bottle will do th' trick. Have a drink or two to remember.

Been a few years now. One would think it would get easier. Well, be fair, John, old boy, it has. Now yer only moribund one day o' th' year rather than th' whole fraggin' lot o' em. Fair 'nough trade, i suppose.

Damn.

***

Nothin' like th' back, nameless streets o' a giant, annonymous city t' help ye stay in just th' right miserable frame of shitty existence that yer lookin' for when all yer thinkin' 'bout is th' day ye burried Her.

Where th' fuck am i? I rhetorically ask meself, lookin' round for a street sigh. Ah well. First, i really don't care, second, looks like some enterprisin' soul or another has ripped them off. Gods only know if there be a market for used street signs. Heh. Trust th' weirdest things t' give th' small amusements.

Like those shadows o'er there that 'ave been followin' along behind me now for the last couple blocks, or so. Oh, come on, an' try somethin'. Please. A little distraction. A quick dance, yes? Wonder who's turf i'm on? Haven't learned all th' gangs yet. Quite a few o' them. Doesn't help not known where i am, either. But ask me if i care.

'Nother block. Pity. Shadow seems t' have taken himself away. What, don't i look good enough for a quick, easy muggin'? Maybe i'm tryin' to hard? Yeah, tha' must be it. Whacked in th' head. Sould know better than t' go out this o' all days...

Gettin' dark, to. Well, all th' better, t' be miserable in. Right? Oh, yeah, you be right there, Johnny me boy. Some times yer jus' to fuckin' smart fer yer own good.

Interesting how sarcasm is still relatively effective when ye use it on yerself. 'Course, carryin' on a conversation wi' yerself can't be a really healthy sign, neither. Hmmm...

***

Right. Charmin' neighborhood. Ripe for urban renewal. Like wi' a wreckin' ball.

Surely.

Nameless suburbia. The unknow sprawl. Yeah, people live here. After a fashion, i think, lookin' round more critical, like. Once a geer, always a geer. Give me a beer... Heh...

'Tis th' sort o' place where a person gets themselves murder'd on th' front steps o' their walk-up, in a loud an' unmistakable manner, an Danny Harmon's boys wouldn't be able t' find a single witness, nor a person who knew the oh so recently deceased.

Good place t' get lost.

In a sick, twisted way, i like it.

Old fool.

Somewhere down th' alley up ahead comes th' sound o' a breakin' board. I keep walkin'. Trash can goin' over. None o' yer business, Johnny. Come on, get into th' spirit o' th' neighborhood. Ignore it all... Hear a few catcalls and shouts. When Dan asks, John, did you see anything, i can say, "Didn't see nothin', Lieutenant Dan." Fuck...sound like Forest fuckin' Gump. Hated that movie... Feet slappin' pavement now. Lot o' them. Sounds like a right ol' chase. Social predation.

Guess i'll lean against this here post an' find out what gang or th' other's huntin' what prey or th' other on this dead-sky night. I wrap th' cloak tightly 'round me and make like a shadow. Not hard.

A single figure comes stumblin' out from 'round a buildin' an crosses th' alley. Long brown hair. Ripped jacket. Calf high boots. Woman. Not doin' too well, by th' sound o' things. Wrong place. Wrong time, looks like.

She stops for a momment. Heaves in a couple gasps o' stagnant air. Tries to assess her options. She's got three directions to chose from. She looks my way.

Oh. Shit.

Annie...

No. No. No. Not Annie. Too young. Too fuckin' young, Johnny. Get a grip. Ye burried Her. Ye got her killed, then ye burried Her. But...this girl's got th' same eyes.

A male voice shouts out. Primal call. Th' pack's closin' fast.

Th' girl moans once, then runs straight cross th' alley. Between another couple buildings.

Of all th' nights... Old Dog, yer a fool. Should ha' learned by now just t' stay indoors on this o' all days.

Get it together. Dammit.

Th' first o' th' gangers, as it would seem, jumps into th' alley. Four more follow him. Somethin' metal crashes across th' way an' they snap t' attention.

"Got her! Dance her bones now!" chortles one o' them, swingin' what looks to be a tire iron 'round his 'ead.

"Big time wriggly! She dead ended. Lit!"

"Shut holes, 'poles," snaps one of them who's wearin' newish lookin' leather. He cuffs another o' th' gangers in th' back o' th' head an pushes him after th' girl. Got some Amerind in him. Looks like a couple o' th' others, too."First jive to catch her. Then we get skoodles predacious."

Lean an' mean. That's th' way th' street breeds 'em. Tough little bastards, "lit", as th' one o' them said.

I uncurl from against th' post. Well. That's life in th' city... Some live, some die.

I head off in th' opposite direction, back th' way i came, actually.

Behind me glass breaks and a high pitched voice screams.

Nobody ever said evolution was fair t' th' individual.

But she looks so much like Annie...

Fuck it...

***

"Hey, Sugarpop... Outta flyway," says Gink.

"Take an extra toll for makin' me tear treads so hard," growls Jammer in agreement, slapping the tire iron against the palm of his left hand.

"No. No," begs Leena, backed up against the wall, her eyes darting frantically around the dead end that she ran into. "Look, i, i didn't know i was in your area, ok, ok." Oh shitshitshit. Why me God? Leena wants to shout. "I'll give you my money and cards. You just let me go, ok?"

"Oh, we'll take your shingle, Twin Peaks Sweet Meats," drawls Spear as he pushes past Gink and Jammer to stand in front of the girl, cowering away from him. She's clutching some keys in her hand, he notices. Heh. Spunky slot. Fix her good... Spear shakes his head, making his friz coif dance around. His new leathers creak. Sounds spiff, he thinks. Like a leaderman should, neh? "But your shingle just isn't going to be enough, oh no." Oh man, i'm enjoying this, thinks Spear. My turn. Old Short Time always used to be center stage. Yeah. My turn now. Now that i'm in charge. Should have done Short Time in long time before i did, he muses briefly, as he drinks in the girl's terror. "I'm thinking you've got some tres pink in your Vi's."

"No..." moans Leena, moving sideways, feeling along the wall. Looking for anything to use as a weapon. Maybe i can get in at least one good hit with the keys. Get Leathers there and make it by the others...

"Oh, yeah, Twin Meets Sweet Peaks. I'm going to peel you good and make you like it. Leave you begging for more. And," exclaims Spear brightly, "you'll be in luck, because there's four more of the Paths to peel you after i'm through with you."

"Heh. I don't think so," says a strange voice from behind.

***

"I think you're all goin' walk out o' here an' find some dark pit t' jack your own flags," i say as i walk into the dead end courtyard formed by a weirdly shaped tenament building an' some sort of corrugated metal storage garage.

"Hey, Grump, you just made a big mistake messing with the Pathologists," shouts a ganger who has "Whitefish" scrawled across the front of his denim jacket in black marker. His voice is a high pitched drone.

"Yeah," snarls the ganger who first spoke earlier, moving to the side to flank me. "Dance your bones first, then little miss Peelbait gets hers."

Looks like th' evenin' isn't going to be a complete loss after all... You see, when you stop trying so hard it all works out... Sick, old Dog, sick...

"That wha' you say, too, Leaderman," i ask Leathers, the amerindian with th' friz haircut, as i step closer towards them. My greatcloak unfolds itself from around me. Ripples, tentatively, outwards. Hungry-like.

Leathers looks at me shrewdly for a couple momments. Huh. Some potential in this one. Maybe.

"Yeah, that's what i say."

"Uh...hey, Spear, you sure, man?" whines the littlest of the gangers off to the right. "I mean, he's pretty big...and he seems into it."

"Shut hole, Weed!" shouts Spear. "Don't know why Short Time didn't fuckin' spike you out long time ago..."

The one with th' tire iron suddenly launches himself at me. Huh!

Step towards him...
Interesting.
Left arm snaps up...
Was that tactic or accident, the argument
Me forearm connects wi' th' ganger's wrist, rather than th' tire iron...
between Weed an' Spear. If planned as a
Cloak snaps around the ganger's arm, tangles with th' iron...
diversion it suggests these pups are better social predators
Pivot in closer to get me right leg behind th' ganger's...
Than i would have
I slam into him wi' me right 'and an' he goes backwards, across me leg...
expected. I may have t' re-evaluate me opinion o' th' level o' development these
I drop down o'er th' ganger, me great cloak spreadin' out around us like great, black wings, hidin' us from sight...
gutter snipes have achieved.
I grip, then twist in opposite directions with my hands...
Interestin'.
Muffled as it is by th' cloak, an audible SNAP is clearly discernable...
"Ahhhghhhhhhh!"

Elapsed time, one and a quarter seconds...thereabouts.

Planting me right boot i thrust up, launching meself towards th' girl, leaving the ganger writhin' on th' ground behind me. A nice distraction, i do say so.

Spear swings backhand at me, an' i grunt in pain as he catch me a good one on th' right shoulder as i leap past 'im.

So i don't complete the move very gracefully an' stagger upright. Sue me...

"Try t' stay behind me, lass," I say to the girl. Don't look at her. Don't think o' Her.

Leena, says Dog. Her name is Leena.

Not now, old Hound. Don't distract me...

"I might have t' move sudden-like, so don't be crowdin' me, either," i add still not looking at...Leena, surveying th' four upright Paths instead. Not very good odds, really, considerin' that i've got someone t' guard besides meself.

Leena just makes a funny sound, sort of from th' back o' her throat, sounds like.

The one ganger's still rollin' around, clutching his right arm in his left hand. Jagged bone projects between his red fingers.

"Now," i say to Spear, "Why don't we be tryin' this again. I think ye should be leavin'. Don't you?"

Spear glances back at th' git on th' ground and at the rest of his mates. "Grump, you just won yourself a world of scuz," he growls as he reaches into the side pocket o' his jacket an' pulls out a snub nosed pistol.

Oh.
          Fuckin'.
                    Shit.

I left th' fuckin' U.S. of A. t' get away from this sort o' crap. Well, an' for a few other reasons...

He's ten feet away. This is definitely not good.

I sweep behind me with my left leg, knocking Leena to the ground as Spear shouts, "Suck this, mammyjammer!"

The three shots are snapped so close together that they sound practically like one.

The first two hit me square in th' chest, knockin' me back against th' wall. I manage t' stay up, over Leena, tryin' to shield her at least. The recoil of th' gun throws Spear's aim off slightly an' th' third shot smashes brick t' fragments next to me head."

Damn, that hurts!

I grunt in pain as i double over, trying to brace meself on me right arm, me left arm clutched across me chest. I concentrate on the pain. Ah...good. No, not really, but it serves as a focus...

Damn.

Old fool...

Slow, says Dog. You too slow. Too old?

Fuck off Mutt...

"Man, Spear gone berzerker, Gink," i hear Whitefish exclaim in admiration.

"Tres deadly," Gink agrees.

"Ahhh..." grunt as i exhale, leaning on my arm.

A few drops of blood trickle past my sleeve to the pavement.

Am i getting too old for this?

Ah! Feel the power! I burn!

Am i getting too old for this? Heh...not yet...

As i straighten up from me crouch me cloak slides across the ground. The drops of blood are sucked away, absorbed.

Spear's back is turned to me. He's basking in the admiration of his peers, no doubt.

"Hey!"

"What tha!"

Ah, looks like someone's noticed i'm not flatlined after all. Sorry, young Spear...have t' wait on all th' glory 'til ye actually do something successfully.

"How...?" i hear from behind me, from Leena.

I pull me left hand out from within me shirt and flip a little pebble o' lead towards th' gangers. It's still warmish. Save th' second one for later.

"Believe this belongs t' you." Never miss an opportunity t' leave th' opposition in confusion. Plus, th' looks on their faces are worth it.

General confusion reigns for a couple of momments.

"Chill, 'poles, Grump's just wearin' a vest!" Spear announces.

Great. Just what i need... Spear decidin' t' take th' next shot at me head. That would be...messy.

"Ah, right," i say mockin'ly. "How many people do ye know that wear high impact kevlar vests that'll stop a .38 slug from less than five meters?"

"Cops..."

"Do i look like a cop? Noooo...

"Let's burn, Spear," whines Weed.

"Chill, mammypanzy! I'll just plug him in the head. No vest there." Sometimes i just hate smart kids...

"Yeah, sure. Be goin' right ahead, lad," i drawl out. "Wont make no difference. I'll jus' dig those bullets out o' me skull like i pulled tha' one out o' me chest. Actually, i lied...there will be just one difference. I'll be pissed off at tha' point. Then i'll kill every one o' ye nice an' slow, just fer th' hell o' it!"

Whitesnake takes a couple steps back, makin' some sort o' weird hand passes in front o' him. Religious ganger?

Time for th' follow-up.

"Here...let me return th' second bullet to ye," i say quietly taking a step closer to th' gangers. Spear snaps his gun up. Lookin' threatenin' for me, or for his gang? Losin' face is bad ju-ju...

I clear my throat loudly, as if dredging up a load o' crap from me lungs. I hack somethin' up, then spit at the ground infront o' Spear. The second flattened bullet goes "splotch" in a blob of spittle an' blood.

Yech...

Th' Paths just stare at it for a moment, then look back at me, grinnin' evil-like at 'em all.

"Amazin' what you can do when ye sell yer soul off to a deamon lord," i say softly, staring hard at Whitefish.

That does it. Whitefish breaks and runs. Weed is close on his heels. Gink jerks the ganger whose arm i broke to his feet and starts edgin' backwards.

"Yeah...ok, ok, Grump. Fine. You take the skirt. Not worth nothing to me anyway," mutters Spear, as he too backs away. Trying to keep a little of that bravado. Not easy t' do in a situation like this.

"Tres, Spear," i say sarcasticly. "Been wriggly."

Spear steps out of the courtyard and vanishes back down the alley.

I drag meself back to where Leena is at the wall. She's up and standing now.

"Damn old fool," i mutter to myself as, with a grunt and a wince of pain i drop down to the ground and lean back against th' wall.

I open me eyes to find Leena crouched next to me with a rather worried expression on her face. Annie's face. Sort of. Seeing it up close like this i can tell it's not Her. But the eyes...and the hair. Easy to see how Leena reminded me of Annie.

'Course, on today th' Lock Ness Monster probably would 'ave looked like Annie...

Old fool...

Did good, says Dog.

Yeah, yeah...damn subconscious...

"Allow me to introduce meself, miss. Me name is John Stewart. At your service."

"I...I... Thank you doesn't really seem to cover it, does it?" Leena says with a funny little smile.

"Oh, i don't know," i say with a bit of a grimace of pain, "actually i think it does. Just tell me one thing. Why by all th' gods were ye wanderin' around out here?"

"My car broke down. I was trying to find a phone and then..." Leena stiffles back a sniffle.

"Ah, there, there, lass, 'tis all right now," i say, puttin' a hand on her shoulder. "Nothin' me tailor can't fix, i joke, indicating th' new holes in me shirt in an attempt to elicit a smile.

Actually, i get a puzzled expression.

"How *did* you do that? Oh my God! You didn't actually dig that bullet out of yourself, did you? We've got to get you to a hospital, or something!"

"Calm down. Of course i didn't. I've known marines' who've done some pretty nasty battlefield self-surgery, but i'm an engineer by profession. Internal self-exploratory surgery isn't me bag at all."

"So...how did you..."

"Kevlar vest."

"But you said..."

"Yeah, i know. And, generally speakin', you won't find people in Vancouver wearin' bullet proof vests around town. But i recently moved up here from California, where bullets fly around pretty much like rain does here. Also, i had a contract as a civilian consultant with the UN mission in Bosnia. Nasty. Let's just say i haven't yet quite adjusted to th' idea that people i don't know aren't going to shoot at me in a spontaneous act of agression."

"Fortunately for you, apparently."

"Yeah. Here, give me a hand up," i ask Leena. "Me adrenalin high is crashin', and even with th' vest, i'm goin' to have some wicked blunt impact trauma t' deal with. Ah, thank you, lass," i say as she helps me upright. "Let's get you out of here and back to where ever it is you belong," i add as we leave the courtyard.

"But...if you were wearing a bullet proof vest, how did you cough up that bullet?"

"What, ye want me t' give away all me secrets? Oh, all right. Got th' idea from some film or other i saw 'bout vampires. Ah, yes, called "Near Dark". One o' them gets shot in th' chest an coughs up th' bullet. Put th' scare into th' good guys. When i was doubled o'er i peeled both bullets off th' vest an put one in me mouth. Nice trick. 'Course, if it hadn't worked...well, no sense thinkin' 'bout that. Where's yer car?"

"Uhm...i don't really know, now."

"Ok, ne'er mind. Worry 'bout that later," i say as i reach into a pouch on me belt and pull out me cell phone. "First thing is to get us a taxi. I've got a friend on th' metro police force. I'll see if i can get him t' do something about your car."

What a night...

Place: Vancouver
Time: 17 March 1996, 1345-1350

First posted: 17 March 1996

I regain my balance, block a second kick and counter with a double punch to head an' chest.

Both are easily blocked, but he gives back a step. Small wonder...

I try a kick o' me own. He kills it easily, knockin' me sidewise. I keep spinnin', pivotin' around in a roundhouse kick. He steps back, avoidin' the kick. No surprise, but it gives me room. I backpeddle.

He gives me a couple momments. I suck at throbbin' lip. Careless, careless, old dog. Walked right into that one...

Oh, shit...

He's just a blur. Just feet an' hands lashin' out o' nothingness.

I only manage to block every second blow. I throw meself sidewise, takin' a solid fist to th' side o' me head, graying me vision.

Don't black out...

Don't black...

A fist screams towards me. Half blind i hurl me right hand into its path. His fist smacks into me palm, me fingers closin' around it. He grunts in surprise.

Ha...few tricks left in me.

Me hand closes vice-like around th' hand as i yank him towards me. I move me right leg behind his, then suddenly slam me left forearm across his chest.

Like hittin' a fuckin' brick wall. Damn! That hurt!

He grunts an' does somethin' with his own feet... Uh. Expected that. I let go of his right hand an' hit him again, drivin' him backwards. He goes down, but not in an uncontrolled heap, worse luck. Turns it into a graceful backwards roll, his arms slappin' ground to break his fall. Then he's back up and comin' at me again.

How do i get meself into these things?

A foot swings towards me knee, tryin' to take it out. Slow though. Ah. First mistake he's made. Gonna make it his last. I block down savagely with me left arm and prepare to follow up with a punch to his solar plexus. That should teach him...

A white pain explodes in me gut.

Distraction! Th' kick was just a distraction.

Damn.

Me feet go out from under me an' i hit th' ground hard.

Ow...

"Are you all right, Johnathan?" Sensei asks, as he bends over me.

"Ah...ah...ah..." i manage, gasping for breath.

"Here, let me help you," he says, helping me up.

We face each other and bow. Sensei's bow is noticeably more crisp than my own. "You fought well today."

"Ah... Thank you, Sensei," i manage. Don't fall over, now, i remind meself.

"Hai, yes, i think you should try for your brown belt."

"Not...now...please, Sensei," i say as walk slowly to the side of the dojo, starting to get me breath back. Ohh, that hurt.

"Oh, no, surely not now. At the next grading, of course," Sensei says, deadpan. "Here, take some water." He hands me a bamboo ladel, filled from a small pool at the end of the dojo. A soft, afternoon light filters through the overhead windows.

"Thank you, Sensei." Yes, good, water is good...

"Tell me, if you would, have you had military or police training?"

"Uhm, yes, Sensei. Spent some time in th' service," i say, cautiously. Honest enough answer. Still...

"I do not mean to pry, Johnathon, but suspected as much. The hand block you used is not anything i have taught you. I've told you not to open your hands when fighting. You will break fingers."

"Yes, Sensei," i say, eyes downcast. "I'm sorry, Sensei. It is...hard...to break old habits."

"Huh," grunts Sensei Ito. "Hai, that is so. But while i instruct you in karate it is my job to keep you from bad habits. There is a time when you will learn to fight open hand, but not now. Patience, Johnathan. All things in there proper time."

"Yes, Sensei," i reply dutifully. "All things in their time."

Place: Vancouver
Time: 18 March 1996, 0930-0945

First posted: 318 March 1996

"Just finishin' up a tad o' de-buggin' on the interface program," i explain as i hit the "save" hot keys.

"Debugging literally or virtually?"

"Ah, literally, Tracers me girl. Think i've fixed the external video feed problem. Thought it was a screen re-fresh difficulty for awhile, but looks like there was actually a fault in th' export code."

I pull a desk drawer open and pull out the VR rig. Tracey perches herself on th' edge o' me desk as i slip th' helmet on and fix th' chin strap.

"Going to use the glove, too?"

"No, not this time. Just keyboard commands. I'll send th' frames off on a data search. Mainly i just wanna see if the frame images port to th' screen there proper like. Do me a favour an' tell me if th' images are flowin' smoothly."

"Errr...ok, but you owe me. Why couldn't you make the frames look better?"

"Eh? What's wrong wi' 'em?" i ask as i slide the mike down in-line with me mouth.

Tracey shudders a little. "I think puppies would have worked as well, you know."

"Nae, nae... Not up to dogs yet. Give it a couple more years. Mind you, Maes at MIT doesn't think we'll do dogs for a decade or so. I think she's a touch pessimistic, meself."

I jack the cables for the VR helmet into the desktop 'puter.

"Right, here we go," i say as i bring the frames' environment program up via the keyboard. "No overlay," i say into the mike. The HUD display of the helmet goes opaque, blocking the office from view. Then it darkens and a cave-like image forms on the display.

"Cave looks ok," says Tracey.

"Ok, now let's see how th' frames do. Remember, check for jerkiness."

I key in the command to activate the frames. After a moment a number of "ants" appear in the helmet's display. I turn me head and the display pans around, showin' me more o' th' beasties.

"Oh, yuck!"

"Now, now," i gently chastise.

As i begin to type in th' search parameters one o' th' ants approaches me, openin' its mandibles. In th' display it appears that th' ant is approachin' for a "kiss".

"Ghaa! That's disgusting!"

"No, no, they communicate largely via chemical signals," i explain to Tracey who is makin' gagging sounds.

"If yer gonna hurl, make sure t' use a waste basket or somethin' disposable," i add.

"Oh, fine... If you're not going to be sympathetic to my obvious distress I just wont bother," mutters Tracey in a pouty voice.

"Well, ok, then. Here, if ye don't like this here's another way to communicate wi' th' frames."

"Antenna," i command into the mike as i keep typing. The ant backs off and in the display two antenna appear, as if growin' from me own head. Th' antenna begin beatin' on the ant's head, in time wi' me typing.

"Hmm...well, ok, i guess that's ok," Tracey concedes. "Do ants actually communicate this way?"

"Yes. Some species more than others, o' course. We don't really know what the patterns of taps mean, so i've just rigged the environmental program to tie the antenna taps into me typing speed. Still, it carries the illusion pretty well. How's this showin' up on the monitor?"

"Pretty good, actually." Then, "All things considered, that is..." Tracey mutters. "Hey! What's that?"

"Hmm...what? I can't see where yer pointin'," i remind her.

"That big...thing...over by the back wall."

I turn my head slight to bring that part of the image into the middle of the display. "Oh, that! Like it?"

"Not really, to be honest. Looks even scarier than the regular ants."

"That's sort o' th' idea," i explain. "It's new. A warrior."

"Scuse me?"

"It's part o' th' computer defence system Darcey an me've got set up here recently. Mainly it looks for viruses an' stuff that might get brought back in with a data search or an ftp download. I've been gradually encorporatin' most o' our computer resources into the frame's environment. Actually, warrior can do a few more things. If someone tries to hack us, gods know why, warrior will sound alarms. Might even be able to slow an intruder down."

Might do a damn-sight more, i think, but don't say. Even good Darcey isn't knowning everythin' i've programed in here. Good as Darcey is, i'm better. Years o' experience...

"Just by running around and looking gross?"

"Oh, well, no. To anyone not runnin' our frame's environment program it won't look like anything. It's just a program. The frame program gives it a form. Just like it gives form to everythin' else in our system. It'll even try t' give form to programs in other computer systems, 'tho i suspect it wont be entirely successful at that."

I finish typing the search parameters an' th' ant in front of me goes scurryin' away. It pauses beside another ant, exchanges fluids and taps on its head, then is off again with th' second ant joinin' it. Th' warrior takes brief interest in the activity, then returns to its spot by th' wall. Basically, the protection programs determined that a data base search routine had been sent out from our systems. A non-threatening event.

Satisfied i shut down the VR helmet and put the gear away. The monitor on me desk continues to show the inside of the ant tunnel. Ants continue to pass across th' monitor. One's carryin' something food-like in its mandibles. Data transfer?

"Ok, i understand the bit about making our computers' programs look like bugs, but i don't understand why you'd bother. I mean, why not just keep it in the factory icons and stuff?"

"Ah...good question. Ok, you see, th' frame program does more than make a bunch o' programs look like bugs. Th' frames are actually semi-autonomous. This program is loosely derived from work that's been goin' on at MIT for a number o' years. I did some work wi' them a few years back on autonomous programs an' have been modifyin' th' code ever since. Semi-autonomous programs require parameters to be set initially. So, you saw me type in search commands just now. The ants, or data base search programs, go off an' execute their search. However, they have a certain latitude built into them so that they can follow up promisin' leads or make decisions to try to access databases that i didn't specify if what they have already found suggests it would be worthwhile. Also, th' frames learn as they go. There's a series o' neural nets encorporated into their programin'. Admittedly, the frames are still pretty limited," i add as i get up to pick up one o' th' mugs Tracey brought back into me office.

As we leave th' office an' head toward th' coffee i continue, "That's why i made 'em look like ants rather than dogs. Dogs would be able to do a lot more."

"Like play fetch," suggests Tracey with a grin.

"Oh, yah, an' piddle on yer carpet too," i reply.

Place: Vancouver
Time: 23 March 1996

First Posted:

Soon enough it's just me and a bored custodian in the cavernous auditorium. I look down at the stage from the back row, taking in the meticulous stagecraft engineered mainly by Laurel Fleming--stage manager, costume designer, director, carpenter, gaffer, dialogue coach...and my twin sister. She's settled for nothing less than perfection, as usual, to bring the vision of the artist to life. It's the first time, however, that she's done it for me. If the rest of the show's run goes as well as tonight, it won't be the last.

Ah, nepotism. Laurel broke into the theatre first, being the practical one, the agressive one, the one who knew how to work people. While I slaved over the word processor, churning out hackwork that eventually grew into something more, she was making herself indispensable to the Vancouver arts community...and that was how, by the time I'd finished "The Metronome", she had enough clout to force a prominent producer to read the play.

The handbills scattered on the floor and left on the seats are proof that he liked it well enough. "Will Fleming's The Metronome". In black and white...and on the marquee outside...and in the papers.

I actually whistle a little as I trump down the aisle, towards the stage. The custodian gives me a blank, disinterested stare for a moment and then returns to his work, collecting those handbills with my name on them and throwing them into a plastic recycling bin. Well, you can't please all the critics.

A moment later and I'm on the stage, in Rachel's living room, standing on the spot where she gives the Inspector the fateful letter. Two steps carry me to the piano and the titular metronome on top of it.

The custodian has vanished. I look out into the glare of the spotlights, across the rows of empty seats, my left hand reaching out to idly flick the arm of the metronome, setting it to work, back and forth, click-click-click-click-click-click-...

* * *

The party is a blast. I have a little too much to drink and I get a little cocky, a little arrogant. Laurel leaves early, giving me a dirty look before she goes. Well, the hell with her. This is my night.

A striking beauty cuts through the crowd, a woman in her early thirties with long black hair and pale skin. She's voluptuous, alive, wild-looking. Arousal flares up through the alchohol, and when she says "My name is Anja. I enjoyed your play," I reply, "I'm Will. Do you have a place?"

We walk out, arm in arm, into the night. There are numerous glares and sniffs behind me. If Laurel were here, she would tell me what a stupid thing it is to walk out of a party being held in my honour. Try telling a man's privates what's stupid and what's not.

* * *

In bed, she's everything that I'd hoped for. She's a tigress, a wild thing, all claws and teeth and hot skin and wetness, she's hard in the right places and soft where she should be, and I give myself over to this stranger because tonight I'm King of Earth, invulnerable, immortal, forever young, forever brilliant, forever unstoppable.

And then her fangs sink into my throat and she makes it all true, and on that faraway stage, the metronome winds down with a final

click

click

click

Place: Vancouver
Time: 23 March, 1996

First Posted:

Then I see the envelope on the night table, with my name written across it in large, flowing letters. "Shit," I think, "guess I'm not getting off easy after all." I pull a letter opener out of the drawer and slash the envelope open. There's a card inside with a message in the same beautiful script:

"Darling Will--
          Do not leave this apartment until I return this evening. I am sorry to have left you alone at this time, but a matter of the utmost urgency required my attention. Help yourself to whatever refreshments are in the refrigerator--after last night, I have no doubt that you might be somewhat thirsty.
          Once more--do not venture into the city until I come home. There are things we must discuss.
                                        Yours,
                                        Anja"

Hmph. I toss the letter aside and resolve to stay only long enough to shower, dress, and shave. Great. Class-A psycho bitch. Just what I needed. She'll be hell to ditch now that I'm a celebrity, too. Shit. I shake my head and find the bathroom, remembering that I can't shave because I don't have any toiletries with me. Terrific. On the bright side, I can still have a shower, and hey--no hangover! That's got to be some kind of miracle, since I'm sure I had enough hard liquor to stun a rhino last night.

Not being one to look gift horses in the mouth, I luxuriate under the hot spray in Anja's opulent shower. It's big enough for four or five people, I'm sure--whatever the crazy bitch does, she makes a lot of money doing it.

After a good half-hour in the steam, I reluctantly step out and grab for a towel. As I'm drying myself off, I notice something REALLY wierd: there's no mirror. The door to the medicine cabinet is just plain oak with some kind of funky engraving carved into it. How can she make herself presentable in the morning without a mirror? Not only that--the windows in here are covered with black curtains, making the room--like the others in the apartment, I realize--pretty damn gloomy. I shrug and dress myself, intending to head straight for the door, when I pass the kitchen. A powerful thirst stops me in my tracks, and my mouth feels like I've been chewing on sandpaper. Well, she said to help myself...

An examination of the contents of the fridge uncovers only several unmarked bottles of wine--and, naturally, condiments. Time for a little hair of the dog, I think. I grab a glass from a cupboard above the sink and pour myself a generous portion of the dark red fluid that slurps from the bottle. The smell of it hits my nostrils and I find myself gulping it down like a man who's found a can of Coke in the desert.

"Wow!" I gasp. This is GOOD shit! Kind of sharp, metallic, even. I pour another glass and chug it back. It kicks like a mule, making me exhale loudly even as I feel a burst of energy surge through me. I feel like I could kick over a tree! Two more glasses and I'm sated. "Anja, you may be a little strange, but your taste in wine is superb," I tell the empty room. The silence, as they say, is deafening. Time to leave.

The hallway is as dark as the apartment--strange, because this is an upscale building. Are all tenants vampires or something? I ask myself, laughing. I don't encounter a single soul on my way down to the ground level, even though it's almost 9 am.

What a wierd night. Almost over, though. The doors to the outside world, the sane, reasonable world, are right in front of me. I push through them into the bright Vancouver sun--

--and I scream. Suddenly it feels like my entire body is on fire. Smoke is issuing from me, like I'm a cartoon character, and the pain has me shrieking like a madman. Howling, I dive back into the building, and after my panic fades, I realize that the pain is gone as quickly as it came. Hallucination?

No. Even looking at the ray of sunlight coming into the lobby causes me to shrink back into the shadows. It will kill me, some new instinct screams, and I am helpless to argue. Numb, I make my way back to Anja's apartment--lucky for me I forgot to lock it behind me when I left. I flop down on the unmade bed, shivering.

"What do I do? What's happened to me?" I actually say it out loud, like one of my own characters. I stand up again and begin to pace, wringing my hands, pulling at my hair--in short, I'm in panic. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Anja's telephone, hanging in a hutch in the hallway. I dive for it like it's a life preserver and dial the only number I can...

"Hello?" Laurel answers on the fourth ring, sounding mildly annoyed.

"It's me. Laurel...Laurel, something bad has happened..."

"Good. You acted like a real asshole last night, Will--"

"Will you listen to me?" I scream into the phone, "I need you! I--I think I'm sick or something--I think the woman I left with last night gave me AIDS or something--"

"Will, calm down. Where are you?"

I give her the address. She arrives a half hour later, dressed casually in jeans and a t-shirt, her long brown curls tied back in a ponytail. I tell her everything about what happened, and her dark eyes stare back into mine, not doubting, not questioning, just absorbing every detail. When the tale is told, she frowns and rubs her chin thoughtfully.

"You said you had something to drink..." she begins. I take her to the kitchen and offer her the half-empty bottle of wine. She pops the cork, sniffs it, and even as I feel a sudden surge of thirst, Laurel winces and stuffs the cork back into the neck of the bottle.

"God, that can't be what I think it is," she says, clearly horrified.

"What?" I say, spreading my hands. "It's good stuff--I only mentioned it at all because it cut my thirst like nothing else ever has."

Laurel gives me a doubtful look, but unstoppers the bottle again and pours a little sample into a tumbler. Another sniff...and then she dips her finger into the liquid and brings it to her tongue, tasting gingerly. She instantly recoils, staring at me like I'm a serial killer.

"Will, that's blood."

"What? That's crazy..."

"It's blood, Will. You're right, you did get some kind of disease. We should go to the hospital right now."

"I can't. I tried to leave and the sunlight...burned me."

"Oh, come on," Laurel replies in a near-whisper.

"It's true...I..."

Everything comes together for us at the same time. We look at each other in shock.

"No, that's ridiculous. It's some kind of virus..."

Suddenly, I don't want Laurel to be here. A terrible sense of dread arrives, overpowering, overwhelming. "Laurel, you have to leave."

"I know," she says, surprising me, her eyes wide with terror. "Oh God Will, what's happening?"

I lead her to the door and walk her back down into the lobby. "She's coming back tonight. I'll call you...I don't think you should say anything about this to anyone. Tell anyone who asks that I'm sick or something."

"I've got a bad feeling about this," Laurel said, her voice shaking even as she attempted to use the old Star Wars quote that we bandied about whenever we tried to make light of a difficult situation.

"I'll call you," I said again, and she sobbed once before she turned and crashed through the doors into the light.

Once more into the apartment, and I waited...

Place: Vancouver
Time: 9 April 1996, 1600-1610

First posted: 9 April 1996

"Yo," she greets me, meeting me half way. "What's up?"

"I've been thinkin' it's about time you and i took a trip up-coast, to be talkin' to the Bands about the highway contract."

"Yeah, sounds like a plan," Linda agrees. "What with the Niska land deal pushing through it would be an especially good political move to give the appearance of consulting with the Band councils."

I study Linda momentarily with a bit of a frown. Never quite sure when she's testin' me or not. "'Tis not an "appearance" i'm goin' for. I be serious about the Band councils' input. True as it is that we may nae be able to incorporate everythin' they'll be wanting, i really do think it important to hear what they have to say."

Re-evaluation, or rather, continued data correlation shows in Linda's eyes. She's a Plains Cree, moved to th' coast, but now that she's here she treats the land as if it were that which her ancestors traditionally held.

"Huh. Sure you aren't just worried about some of the more radical Native groups committing a few choice acts of sabotage and vandalism during construction?"

"Truth be told, i am worried about that. The radical splinter groups have caused problems in the past on big construction projects and i want to be keepin' th' problems down to a minimum. I be sympathetic to their concerns for th' land. But an attack like th' one on the Shantana Bay Harbour Project that left six construction workers and one Wolf Pack Warrior dead, not to mention the wounded, isn't th' way to be goin' about it. The highway must be upgraded. Tis an environmental hazard as it is, and with the growing move toward Native self-rule th' Bands will be needin' the roads as much as anyone else. Me aim here is to seek th' elder's advice and counsel. Be open. Answer questions."

"Mmhhh. Ok," Linda smiles. "You've played fair so far. Better than my last boss. He really had the proverbial "forked-tongue". You actually mean what you say, John. Who do you want to talk with first."

"I be in your hands on that one. I...used to have a good friend up in the Queen Charlotte Islands. Haida. But that was a long time ago. Not even sure where he is now. You've spent far more time than i up coast with the ecological survey. Why don't you an' i take about a week or so and work our way through the communities that will be along th' highway. You pick the schedule."

"Ok. Sounds good. When do you want to go?"

"How long will it take you to set it up?"

"Two weeks. Maybe three," Linda says as i nod approval. "You speak, what, i can't remember?"

"Salish. Learned it a while back. I may be a bit rusty, though. I've been workin' on it lately downtown with some of the kids at Andrea's centre. Although," i clear me throat and look a bit sheepish at this, "i'm afraid th' kids have been havin' a spot o' fun wi' me. I think i'm pickin' up a touch o', ah, impolite slang in me vocabulary under their watchful guidance."

"Heh. Well, kids, eh?" grins Linda. "It'll do. Like i said, you do mean what you say. Not many white engineers bother to take the time to learn to talk to the Bands properly. By the way, when did you learn Salish, originally, i mean."

Ah. Yeah. When indeed... "Long time ago. Long story, too. Maybe i'll tell ye on th' trip."

"Fair enough. Ok. Let me see what i can set up."

Place: Vancouver
Date: 8 May 1996, 1130-1140

First Posted: 8 May 1996

               I know somewhere we could go
               Better than you could ever know

"So, you've had a couple days to look at it. What do ye think?"

"Nice code," says Darcey from the couch, his notebook humming on the table next to him. "Tight."

               Helllloooo
               Go shove yourself

"Has to be in a frame. Ye can't be carryin' baggage around when yer semi-autonomous. When the frame touches base again, whenever that might be, it can dump its data an' encorporate any upgrades to its primary structure."

               I know someone we could be
               Out in disguise a tree

"Next generation, huh? Yeah, makes sense. Hmm...or maybe more of the next evolutionary step, depending on how much of the code has been re-written."

               Helllloooo

Darcey's a clever one. Don't hire 'em dumb, though...

"Yeah, that's somethin' that's got the domes at MIT and Santa Fe twistin' over; that evolutionary step issue. But right now we're a little less concerned wi' the philosophical implications of what we're makin' and more busy with gettin' it to do what we want." I pause to drink more of the Kenya AA.

               Go show yourself goal I know
               You and me

"So," i continue, "will it work?"

Darcey figits a wee bit. "Uhm, look John, i'm not really up on all this autonomous frame stuff. Truth is, you're just better at programming than i am. You've got some complicated code hanging all this together. Like i said, tight..."

Ah, poor Darcey...feelin' inadequate. An' at his age...

               I am the worst one yet
               I am deliciousweat

"Look, i know i code better than you. I've been doin' it a lot longer." Wouldn't you just *love* to know how much longer... "What i want from you is your opinion of the encryption and security protocols. I know ye have made some modifications along those lines."

               Hellllloooo

"Oh, well, yeah, ok, that i am good at," smiles Darcey. I know, kiddo, cryptography, electronics, math, an' security... Wouldn't 'ave let ye wire the security system into the office otherwise... Ah, youth...

"Ok, let's cut t' th' chase," i begin. "'Bout two weeks ago someone hitched a ride on one of our frames. Said frame came draggin' ass back home in one sorry shape. We dinnae know who hit th' frame, why, or for how long he was on it."

"Right," agrees Darcey, calling up part of the frame's program on 'is notebook, slaved to me desk comp. Code scrolls by on th' screen. "I made a few additions to your code there so that if it happens again we can get an idea how long the frame was being ridden. Hopefully we can also tell where the frame was when it gets hit, too. That might give us an idea of who it was that hit it."

               Go shove youreself show
               We care lot about a big situation
               When we were young

"Ok, good, nice addition."

"Thanks. The encryption routines you wrote were pretty good, actually. I just tweeked them up here and there." Huh...modest he is. On the other 'and, Darcey helped me write that part of th' frames a few months ago anyway. May not have had to change that much after all... "But, i'm not sure i see where you're going with this part of the frame's program."

"Hmm." I quickly scan th' line's Darcey's pointing out.

"It looks like an intrusion package," mutters Darcey, shakin' 'is head.

"Yup," i announce, "that's what it looks like all right." I drink more coffee as Darcey looks at me, expectantly, wonderin', i suppose, when i'll let the shoe drop an' tell 'im what it really is. Poor boy...

"What ye lookin' at me like that for?" I ask. "Ye got it in one."

Darcey blinks rapidly a few times. "But...that's illegal!"

Sigh... Youth will have its day, providing if survives its infancy.

"It's only illegal if ye get caught, Darcey, me-lad," i explain patiently with a big grin. "Oh, besides, this is only a data retrieval frames. I mean, it's not like i'm actually planning to go breaking into Pentex or somethin' wi' them."

"Oh, well, that's a relief! You had me going there."

"Nope," i continue happily, "for major penetration, i wrote this!" With a flourish i call up another batch of code. "This," i add, chorttling, "this is a real beaut!"

Darcey's eyes bug out as he frantically scrolls through the code on his screen. "You've stripped out the data retrieval specs!" Ah, he noticed.

"Well, not entirely," i add softly, pointing out a section of the program. "It's just not very elegant any more."

"Gurk!"

Oh dear, he's really not takin' this very well at all, at all.

"Ah...try thinkin' o' it as an intellectual excersise. I mean, i'm not actively planning on using this," i add tryin' to calm Darcey down some.

"Ah...so this is just, uhm, ah, a...thought experiment?" asks Darcey, hopefully.

I am mean, i admit it. I can nae help meself. It's just so damn easy...

"I'm certainly not planning on using this...at least until i have a defined target! Then it's rape and pillage time!" I shout with glee.

Oh, the expression on his face! Priceless.

"Wait, wait!" i exclaim, fumbling through me desk drawer for the disposable camera.

               FLASH!

"Ah, perfect," i laugh, aiming th' camera for a second pic.

               FLASH!

"Yer expression is brilliant! An now ye'll actually get t' see it!"

"This isn't funny!" shouts Darcey, a red flush starting up 'is cheeks.

I drop the camera back in the drawer.

"Yeah, ye be right, Darcey-lad. It ain't funny," i say soberly, all trace o' laughter gone from me voice. "Someone out there tried to crack one of me frames. Next time they might go after our systems directly. It's a big cyber ocean an' wi' this government contract we're startin' t' swim in dangerous waters."

Darcey eyes me warily. Huh. Good.

"I'm sending th' frames back out. I'm hopin' that our mysterious rider tags one an tries to hitch. Th' way i've re-written th' data collecting frames they'll latch onto, or "tar", th' rider. He can try t' bash his way loose, metaphorically speakin', or he can take th' easy way out an read th' message th' frame's going to give him, invitin' him to a little chat, he an' me. Once 'e reads it th' frame lets 'im go. No muss, no fuss. But..." i pause again to scroll through a directory, callin' up a picture file.

A insectoid monster graces th' screens, red an' black. Sharp angles an' heavy armour. Both savage an' elegant. A true survivor, predatory. A killing machine.

Even th' code itself is lean. Angry. Stripped to a few simple functions. Penetrate. Destroy. Infect. Seize. Extract. I'll admit it, i had fun putting this together. An' while i know th' visuals are only for our home systems, there's something...satisfyin' about th' killin' purity o' it all.

"But, should he choose to hit our systems, or t' keep ridin' our frames wi'out talkin' to me, then i'll hit his system. Hard. Ye noticed th' reduced data retrieval specs on this frame. I had to free up space. It has less, an more, autonomy than th' data retrieval frames. If it hits a system it smashes what it can. It has a hierarchical priority system built in, although, with repeated experience it can learn an' develop its own hierarchy. If it is working in tandem with other frames it will coordinate its activities to do th' most damage. It can retrieve data, but it wont do it graceful-like. Any data it grabs is on an opportunistic basis, an it'll more likely than not strip th' data clean from th' home system. After it's made th' maximum flash it tries to make it back out, back t' our systems wi' whatever it's carryin'."

I come 'round th' desk and lean in close t' Darcey.

"An here's a few other things for ye to know, since ye handle our security. I'm settin' these frames up as computer sentries. The existin' "warriors" will still handle our basic security protocols, handshakes, passwords, an' th' like. But their will be some o' these...these "hunter-killers" lurkin' about. They're set to respond if th' warrior or data collection systems trigger a warning. They'll seek out th' problem an' attempt to deal wi' it. They have th' autonomy t' try t' track an intruder back to his own system. If need be, th' hunter-killers will crash our own system, preferentially an' carefully, to prevent an intruder from sackin' our files."

Darcey considers this carefully. Ye can always tell when he's thinkin': th' eyes narrow an' th' lips purse a bit...

"Don't you think you're over-reacting a bit?"

"Darcey, i'll tell you. I surely hope i am. But our little company pulled in a contract that companies ten times our size were bidding on. 'Ave ye stopped to consider why we got it?"

"Well, we made the best bid, obviously, they liked our proposals and," "Yeah, maybe, an' maybe there's politics involved. Admittedly, Provincial politics 'round here isn't that sticky, but there's always the underside o' game. Believe me, there's players that ye don't know about, an' are best not knowin' about."

Oh, indeed, Old Dog, i think, rememberin' a face on the evenin' news. A face i didn't expect t' see again. Though, really, it didn't come to me as no suprise. Why wouldn't he still be here. After all, he did build this city up. No reason t' leave it all behind. Still, if he's around, then so may be others...

"An' it may not just be Provincial an' local politics involved. Ever noticed how little influence some o' th' big mega corps 'ave in an' 'round Vancouver? Ever think somethin's tryin' t' keep them out? Wouldn't a corp like Seral Industries just love th' contract we got? Direct access to northern B.C. New loggin', new biologicals, coastal access, excuses to up security 'gainst radical native factions. Th' possibilities are endless."

"You think a Seral decker hit our frame?" Darcey asks skeptically.

Uhg. What do i think?

"I don't know, kiddo. I be tellin' you true. I'm worried. Could jus' be kids havin' fun. Or it could be a pro. Who's behind it i don't know. But i want t' find out." I run me hand back through me hair wi' a sigh. This is all so exhaustin'. An' i got th' feelin' worse is on its way.

"Just get these new frames up and loaded, Darcey," i add, motioning him out o' th' office.

He doesn't look happy.

I know how he feels.

Place: Downtown Vancouver
Date: 10 May 1996, 2027-2049

First Posted: 10 May 1996

An electronic banshee cries her woe over and around and through the drum's bloodstream. Red and blue lights wash the stage, the crowd. It surges, flows, slams together. Packed, compressed, fighting for space, struggling to be pushed together. Primal. Our genes remember. Stuff it into our subconsious so the sanitized world of nine to five is safe. But we can't forget. Not ever. It is life, this. Conflicting desires and drives. Confusion and chaos. Birth and death. Blood and dust. And power. It is all power. Eternal. Forever. Never.

To be young...

I slam meself into the bruisers next t' me. The hundreds of others, seeking release and absolution in the Temple do likewise. The musician-priests play to an adoring throng of suplicants. Absolution is to be had for all. In the mosh pit all find release, burning bright in a screaming mass of noise and teeth and tissue.

'Course, the Temple ain't really holy ground, just th' latest Dante-hot site in V-town. Haven for th' young. Halfway house for gen-X-ers. A place of safety where th' likes 'o Ward an' June Cleaver will ne'er set foot. It's the place. The site. Ground zero. The stratosphere. Heaven and hell. All in one. Crazy collections of catwalks snake across the upper levels in a maze of platforms, cages, tables, and bars. Steel and plastic, cables an' conduits, pipes an' girders. Chrome and chaotic splaters from a madman's paintsprayer. Puddles o' darkness, flickerin' fluorescents, strobin' spots. Seizure inducin'. Pockets o' ambient solitude behind a pillar. Separate rooms. Stages for live acts an' DJs. Th' main dance floor is a multi-leveled excursion, full of sunken pits and raised stages for th' spiff to show their steps, flash their Vi's. Who's got style, who's got grace? Th' moves? It's armour. It's predation and prey. A huntin' ground. Courtship. Who's lookin', who's available, sexual preference, personal kink...all can be seen in th' style an' carriage.

So what am i set for? Ye tell me. Black silk parachute pants blouse into high-top, calf grippin' combat boots. Three inch wide belt wi' a couple o' small leather pouches. Body fittin' water smooth grey crew-neck bodysuit definines me chest. Sleeveless, high collar, fine-weave cotton duster jacket finishes it off. Th' duster's of th' deepest indigo, brushin' into infinity, dancing with th' black silk of th' pants. Twilight and night. Geometric lines an' patterns snake their way up me bare arms, disappearin' under me duster. The tattoos continue, hidden, across me back, down the left side of me chest. Still bright after all th' years. I've done me face to match. A careful set of geometrics descends from me right brown, around my eye, to end at the jawline. Blue an' green an' black. One line o' red. Been years since i've worn th' face paint. Feels right.

It's style and exoticism i convey. Unique without bein' grotesque, as some o' the goths or heads choose to be. Which is fine. 'Tis all personal choice on display. Embeddin' three rows o' Philips head surgical screws into me forehead isn't my taste, but th' Razboy over there by th' speaker carries it well wi' his tattered leather. Or th' debutante look of that brunnett, casually leanin' on th' rail of that catwalk three over. By th' second level bar there's half a dozen zoot-suit wearin' clones, radiatin' unity, drinkin' th' same drink, wearin' th' same cobalt lens shades. Enough goths to populate a small nation. Not as identical as th' zoot-brothers, but still a recognizable uniform, a statement to th' world at large. Philips-head and deb-girl (an' me, i should hope) stand out in their individuality, tellin' th' world something else.

Tracey's doin' a pretty good job o bein' an individual herself. I spotted her when i first dropped into th' mosh pit. She's a beacon, a twirlin' dervish, over on th' look-at-me dance platform. Her cheap, transparent plastic raincoat flies around her, cracklin' an' snappin', buildin' a static charge in an almost noticable nimbus. St. Elmo's fire. The folds o' th' plastic just highten th' black striping of her zebra body suit. She's done her hair into a raised mane, paintin' in bands of black to alternate wi' her near platinum hair. Quite th' effect. Hell o' a dancer, too. Incredible sense of th' rhythm an' she flows like gossamere.

She looks down into th' pit an' sees me; smiles an' waves. Shouts something at me that i can't hear. I just wave back, bouncin' between the mass o' humanity. She gets a wicked grin, clutches her raincoat around her, shouts somethin' else, then launches herself off th' platform an' onto the heads of the moshers. Whatever she shouted must have been a warning, as dozens of hands reach up, spinning her about, surfin' her across the pit. Weighing all of maybe ninety five pounds probably helps. Tracey gyroscopes across th' pit before loopin' back towards me. As i reach up to help pass her on she curls into a ball and, without th' support from th' other hands, drops down onto me. I manage to shift me grip so that i catch th' lithe bundle, her arms an' legs wrappin' themselves around me as she comes face to face wi' me. Hmmm...nice little bundle she is, too.

"Hi! I thought that was you down in the pit!"

"Yeah," i shout back, "Nice o' ye t' drop in. Didn't expect t' see ye here. Great moves," i add, gesturing wi' me head back at th' raised platform, now occupied by two androgynous forms who are either wrestling or fuckin' above the pit.

"Thanks! Not bad yourself."

The crowd surges and i brace me arms in a ring around Tracey, to keep her from gettin' crushed. Bein' small may be an advantage when body surfing, but down on the mosh floor it's libel to get you compressed to a technocolour paste.

"Hey! Let's take a break, ok?" Tracey shouts in my ear as the mosh pit surges the other way.

"Right," i shout back. I slide me hands down under her arms. "Know what a star lift is?" I feel her nod. "If i lift you, can you hold one?" This time i hear an affirmative shout along with the nod. "Ok, let go," i instruct. As Tracey unwraps herself i shove backwards to create some room, then lift her up. I shift me left hand around and drop me right down to her left hip as i bring her back across me right shoulder. Still lifting her i slide me left hand down her side, and cross me hands over so that she's now suspended above me, balanced on me straightened arms. Tracey points her legs behind us an' spreads her arms out in front, strikin' a pose. Graceful. As i propel us off th' dancefloor, Tracey glidin' above, some o' the people on the near catwalks notice and shout their approval o' th' exit.

When we reach open space Tracey reaches down to grasp me wrists, then tucks forwards in a somersault dismount. As her feet touch floor she bounces around, jumpin' up to fling her arms around me neck in a loose hug.

"That was great!" she laughs, her skin flushed with pleasure, with the warmth of life.

I laugh as well, revellin' in her delight.

Ah...to be young.

Still laughing Tracey hugs me tighter, hanging her full weight on me. Not a lot of weight, really, but i put an arm around her to support her. Fallin' over after that exit would be so un-tres.

I also notice that she's warm and soft and firm.

Her heartbeat thumps painfully against me. Her right hand slides up my neck into my hair. I put my other arm about her. Hot breath. Moisture. The peripheral world slams shut, vision contracting. Platinum silk brushes me cheek. Her back is slick, slippery, in the raincoat. Her left leg curls behind my right high. Breasts and stomach mold against me. From my youth, long lost, the word "tantric" springs unbidden. My right hand opens to cup her ass. My fingers squeeze. A plastic seam gives way. Teeth graze along my jaw. My head is pulled down. No resistance. Angles aline. Lips meet. Heat.

I hear th' screamin' wind of nineteen thousand feet over France in an open plane.
I smell smothered violets.

Four dimensions of space-time reassert their presence with harsh indiscretion. Reality bites hard, shaking it's mangy head furiously as if to kill the experience snatched between its teeth. Tracey freezes, rabbit-still. I experience respiratory difficulty and neglect to breathe. Our hearts try to synchronize. Her breasts are warm and full against me chest.

Aw, hell... How do ye do this to yourself, John old boy? Clutching th' (admittedly, very clutchable) ass of your research assistant?

Behind her grey eyes i can practically see Tracey's brain registering th' same...alarm: kissin' th' boss is not good office protocol.

Desert conditions assert themselves as all fluid flees me mouth, mummifying me tongue into an unarticulatable lump of cinder.

A small animal sound comes from Tracey. Her eyes are very distant.

Very carefully i loosen me grip on her. She lowers herself down from tip-toes, looking up at me, but doesn't pull any further away. We're a sequestered island of mental chaos in the vehemence of the Temple's maelstorm.

Carbon dioxide builds up in me bloodstream; forces me to draw in a deep breath. Oxygen floods neurons nearly dead from unaticipated confusion, forcing lower brain functions to re-establish themselves.

Cautiously, i smile down at Tracey.

Good choice, i think, with a profound mental sigh, as she gives me a small smile back.

"That was nice," she adds quietly.

"Mmhmm," i agree, "very. Uhmm, want to try it again?"

In for a penny...

"Mmhmm," she murmures, raising herself back up towards me.

It is very good to be young, i think, as i bend down to meet her.

Place: Downtown Vancouver
Date: 10 May 1996, 2056-2102

First Posted:

"Hmmm?" she enquires, sipping her drink.

I reach around her and slip me hand through a tear in the coat and rub the small of her back. Warm an' soft. Flesh, blood, life. Muscles and bone.

"Seems i, ah, split this back there," i explain.

"Oh! Nevermind," she laughs, craning her neck around to look back over her shoulder. "It's supposed to get wrecked. That's part of the point."

"Ah, i see," i say after a moment, "Yes, destroying your clothin' makes perfect sense...what am i missing?"

"Well, its ephemeral, transient, metamorphic. I come in wearing one thing and over the course of the night it changes to something else. It's sort of like performance art, but not exactly. You will notice," she adds, reaching an arm around me waist and tugging on me sleeveless duster, "that i'm not trashing anything that's expensive or irreplacable."

"Ah, so art does have its price," i chuckle.

"Yeah, about six seventy-five. Plus tax."

"Heh... Nice to see you're not pretentious about it," i reply, bending to kiss her on th' forehead.

"Being pretentious costs to much. Can't afford it," she says wi' a smile i'm rapidly losing meself in. Red lips, white teeth. Full an' soft. Liquid gloss. "Ah, speaking of which, ah, should i be coming in to work on Monday?"

"Huh?" Oh, good reply, John...very intelligent.

"Well, i mean," Tracey continues, putting her glass on the bar and both arms around me, "i want to peel you skoodles later and that could put a bit of a, ah, crimp in my working for you."

She's a clever one, she is.

Do right by her, Man, says Dog, unbidden. And an odd feelin' at th' base o' me spine. Insight brushes at my consciousness, tantalizing. Feathers flutter wi' half-awareness. A glimpse o' what is an' isn't. She has a strength to her, Dog adds.

Yeah yeah, shut up Mutt. I know, i know. I felt it. Feel it. Need it.

I move back slightly from Tracey, shifting me hands to her shoulders. I could become seriously attatched t' th' girl. It always hurts so much in th' end...

"You've a better head on yer shoulders than i got on mine," i say softly. "I'll nae be turnin' you out for that which i be an equal partner in th' startin' of. You're one o' th' best research assistants i've ever had an' th' office just wouldn't be th' same wi'out you. I give you me pledge to treat you no different," i promise, lookin' deep in her eyes. In a lighter voice i add, "I'll nae be draggin' you into me office to shag you on th' desk over lunch, but i'll also still expect ye to work to th' high level you always have. You want t' give it a go?" Plead, beg, offer. Fool. Say yes yes yes... Time is eternal, an' th' momment stretches into infinity, waiting, waiting, waiting.

Her eyes close briefly, then open, bright an' clear. I get a different smile, soft an' shy. "Yeah, i want to try." Joy! Spiral high, blood sugar rush and adrenalin surge. Th' world opens before me with her eyes. "But just one question."

"Hmmm?"

One brow arches up as she ask, "What happens if i want to peel you on your desk over lunch?"

"Then we close th' blinds an' dump th' papers on th' floor," i laugh, huggin' her to me.

Place: Vancouver
Date: 25 October 1996, 2245-2253

First Posted: 22 March 1997

"Oh," i say to Susan, snuggling closer to her warmth. "John said to say 'hi'."

Susan finishes the sentence she's reading, carefully marks her place with her thumb, then closes the cover on the book. "Dialectic Excercises in Classroom Sythesism." Ah. Light reading... "Hmm, oh, that's nice. Seen him? How's Johnny doing, anyway?" She asks, turning towards me.

"Saw him today. Had coffee. I was just thinking it must be nice to have his job and be able to take time off like that all the time."

"Now, now. I don't think that's quite fair. He's worked like a dog all the time we've known him. He's really slaved to build his business up."

"Aw, build, eh, build, eh, and him an engineer. A funny one, there, know what i mean, know what i mean," i kid, lightly jostling Susan in the ribs (oops, that's not a rib...hmm, take it anyway, though) with my elbow while doing my best Monty Python imitation.

"Gawd..." Susan moans, "I can't take you anywhere, can i?" She rolls her eyes in mock despair, but's smiling.

"Yeah, well. Anyway, John seems to be doing pretty well. And, yeah, i know he works hard at his business. All i meant was that he doesn't have to put up with all the shit cops have to. Sometimes...!" I trail off, my body tensing up thinking about the blood on 37th and Hillcrest, about Donnovan, about the gangs, the dope, the...

"Hey, hey, hey," Susan murmmer softly, sliding against me, holding me. "S'okay. That's out there, hmm. Leave it that way and just hold onto me instead, ok, hero."

Always good to follow your wife's advice. That was pretty much my wedding vow to her. Not to bring my work home. And i've tried. God help me, i've tried. But sometimes... The clean scent of her washes it all away. Warm and soft in my arms.

"Sorry, hon. Actually, it's funny. I was telling John just the opposite today. I was telling him how good my job can make me feel sometimes. Man, am i glad i was in on the Bennet bust."

It's Susan's turn to tense up some.

"That man sickens me!" she mutters. "To abuse his position as an educator... To prey on the children like that. Whatever the courts give him won't possibly be enough!"

"Shhh, yeah, i know. But, damn! It was good to nail the bastard. It's why i do what i do. I never became a cop to deal with committee meetings."

We just hold onto each other for a few minutes. Susan's breasts pressing against my chest. Thinking.

"Actually, John had a, ah, similar reaction as you."

"Hmm? How?"

"I told him what i told you. About Bennet. He hadn't heard. Said he'd just gotten back into town from a trip up the coast, checking out the highway his firm's working on. So i told him about the case. He just got...colder. Distant. He, uhm, changed."

"Sorry?" asks Susan. "What'd ya mean? Grew horns or something?"

"Ah, no, not horns. No. But, well, you know Johnny. Pretty much always smiling. That was the first thing to go. And his eyes. They just sort of, i don't know. It was like a shadow suddenly fell, just over his eyes." I shudder a little at the memory. "Spooky, you know. Like he wasn't really there at all. I mean, he was listening to me, but it's like he was seeing something else."

Yeah, like me a few minutes ago i realize. Thinking about the blood on 37th and Hillcrest. A bunch of tourists in the wrong place and too dumb, no, too innocent, to know better. But i'm not telling Susan that.

"I mean," i continue, "You know John's actually a pretty tough guy. He spent time in Bosnia as a consultant to the UN forces. Some of the stories he's told me... Well, anyway, i know he's an engineer, but sometimes he reminds me of my first Sergeant. Man named Leary. He'd been a Korean vet. Sometimes he'd just look at you, and you knew he was seeing something else. Toughest cop i ever met. Worked the homicide desk. You know, in all the years i worked with him, i never knew him to not go to the funeral of whatever case crossed his desk. Even the John Does. He cried at every one. Like the problems of the world were all his to take up, to carry. A good man."

Yeah. Good cop, good man. Old Benjammin Leary. Died five years back. Heart attack. Hell...

"Anyway, that look of John's, just sort of reminded me of the same kind of look Ben got sometimes."

Susan and i just cuddle for a few minutes in silence.

"Hmm. Well, we should have Johnny over. I haven't seen him in ages. You men get to do coffee. We women have to do real work."

"Ha!" oops! Gets me a jab in the ribs. I throw an arm around Susan, trying to pin her down. She responds by tickling me mercilessly. Then one of her hands drops a bit lower. Mmm...hello. "Ah, actually, John mentioned he's seeing a girl. Named Tracey."

That get's Susan's attention. She sits up but she doesn't move her hand away.

"Really!" she exclaims, interested. "Hmmm...Now i just know we have to have them over. I've got to meet her. I'll phone him tomorrow."

"But for right now..." she trails off, sliding down into my arms.

God. I love my wife.

Place: the Dreamtime
Date: 3 November 1996

First Posted: 3 April 1997

Yawning, I get up from the comfortable patch of clover I'd smashed down with a few quick turns, and stroll up to the top of the hill. Rabbit sees me, nose twitching.

"Morning Rabbit."

"Morning, Dog," he replies. "One of yours is coming. I smell him."

So do I. It is an old, familiar scent. "Uhm. Yeah. He's overdue," I explain. "Expected him a long time since."

"No time like the present," Rabbit chuckles. A small joke. Time here is...well, it just is. The Dreamtime that never goes away. Day or night. Don't mean nothing. Day can go to night and back to day again, but it doesn't have to be a new day. If you don't want it to be. Why not use one that's already happened? Saves on the wear and tear, I guess.

"Yeah. No time like the now," I smile, my tongue lolling out as I glance around. Now where is he. Ah. Over there. "Sorry, Rabbit. Can't stay and chat. I see him over there." I gesture towards the edge of a small grove of oaks. "Maybe I can chase you later, yeah?"

"Sure, Dog. Later," agrees Rabbit, hopping over to nibble delicately on the clover I'd tramped down earlier.

After another yawn and a stretch I head down the hill towards the trees. No sense rushing. He certainly didn't. He spies me as I approach. Walks to meet me.

"Hello, Man," I greet him. "Took your sweet time coming around to see me, didn't you?"

"Old Mutt," he mutters, shaking his head. "You're just a dream. This is all just a dream."

I let out a barking laugh, dropping down on my haunches to stare up at him in mirth. "Well of course it's a dream, you fool! But then, so's all of reality. This just happens to be a rather permanent, ongoing Dream that you've finally found your way back into. You've been here before. You'll be here again. Sometimes you come when you're awake, sometimes when asleep. Don't matter. Here is always here. Just like you're always where you are."

Getting up I wander behind him to his left side. He smells confused. Well.

"No matter where you go, there you are," I say, explaining it to him.

"Huh. Now why would a manifestation o' Power quote Bukaroo Bonzai? Further proof that you're just me subconscious."

"Yeah, well, whatever you say, Man," I agree, beginning to walk along the edge of the trees. The leaves turn from spring green to autumn gold in a matter of seconds, then settle happily into a winter fuscia for a couple minutes. He comes with me, walking on my left. Well heeled, he is. "Guess you'd know best. Me, I'm just Dog. The Dog. The Platonic ideal, if you will. So, sure, I'm in your subconscious, but that don't mean I'm not real. I am. So are you. Always have been. Always will be."

"Huh. Not me. I wasn't always, and sooner or later I'll be meetin' someone better than me, an' it'll be game o'er."

Yeah. Right. Engineer. Linear thinkers. Well, not always. But...

"Look, this is kind of hard to explain. If you were like that Maori shaman who did all that fancy tattooing on you, who first brought you over to Me, this would be easier. He's still around someplace. Part of him at least. Somewhere. I could find him, or at least the parts of him that want to be found, but really I'm not in the mood for it right now. Suffice it to say, part of you has always been, just as some of you always will. A morphic resonance, if you will."

"Rupert Sheldrake," he acknowledges. "He around here, too."

"Yeah, sure. He's Snake's, though. Probably basking on some hot rock or other. Tell you the truth, Man, he doesn't grasp all this," I gesture across the meadow, fields, and woods with a paw, "much better than you. He's gotten a glimps. Just like you. But he's Snake's, so he deals with it different like."

"Gotta stop eatin' pizza before bed."

Huhg. This is going nowhere fast. Stopping I look up at him again.

"Look, rationalize it all you want, but the fact is, you do know all this is real. As real as anything, that is. Which makes it fully real. If you follow me. And you know you are mine. Maybe not in the bright light of your days, but in the dark, in the night, when you wake for no reason, when you call out with an empty mind for all that's gone to dust, you Know. I am. And you are mine. You always will be. You always have been. Even before you Knew. Then you were too. You walk my Path. You can't deny this any more than you could live without your head. You've said the words often enough. Admitted it often enough. You just don't like being confronted with it, is all."

He sighs. Long and sad. "Yeah. Yeah. I know." Squatting down next to me he rests a hand on the back of my neck, behind the ears. "It's too real," he adds, looking into my eyes. His old eyes to my ageless ones, timeless. Behind him the trees of the forest get up, one by one, on their roots and walk away.

"Yeah. I know. Life's a bitch. Then you die. But until then, you follow my Path. Albeit, not very clearly sometimes. You're not like that shaman. You don't see the Dreaming clearly. But sometimes you come to me. Sometimes I come to you. And over the years, you've learned what it is to be Dog. Come on. Let's run. You need the practice."

"For what?" he grunts as he begins loping along side me. The grass squirms out of our way, not wanting to be tromped on. Across the way, on the horizon, some god or other eats a volcano and belches thunder and shits fire.

I snort. "You'll know soon enough. In fact, you already know. You've been a lot of Dog over the years. A Dog of War, for a lot of it. Which is not to say you're one of Wolf's. Wolf fights 'cause he's gotta. It's in Wolf's blood." As I'm talking, a shadow, that of Wolf, veres off from where ever he was going and runs parallel to us. "You fight for a different reason. You fight 'cause you're Dog, the Protector." Wolf's shadow loses interest and heads off after Stag, cresting the top of a hill on the hunt. "Dog is the Protector and Guardian. He walks at the left hand of Man and sleeps by the coals of the fire, keeping watch. Don't forget that."

We run silently for a short while longer. Then stop at the top of a high cliff, overlooking a great sea, a hundred thousand feet below us.

Looking out over the crystal blue sky and the turquoise of the water. Clouds below and above. The gentle sound of the powerful waves turning the cliff face to sand. A mountain floats through the sky, trailing a black and gold Rainbow.

"Protector and Guardian, huh?" he murmers, but to himself. "Yeah, well, you're right ol' Hound. Life is truly one right bitch. So. Damn. An' I was gettin' comfortable. Wha' wi' Tracey an' all. Think Annie'd like her."

"Yeah," I agree, sadly, remembering his Annie. "I think she'd would at that. I'm sorry 'bout that Man," I add. "For what it's worth."

"Not your fault, Dog. My fault." He stares off at the flying sharks for a few eons. "Hell. Like you said. It just is, is all." Then, "Pretty place you got here."

"Hmm. Yeah. Not bad. But you're stalling. You didn't come to see me just to watch the view. You know what you've got to do."

He closes his eyes and with a long sigh gets smaller. Shrunken in. Then he draws in breath and grows again. Larger than before. Opens his eyes, stares out at the floating mountain, the eternal sea, the flying sharks.

"Aye. I know wha' I 'ave to do. Known since Dan told me. Just took awhile, is all, for me to admit it. Got too comfortable. Let meself forget."

So. Good. He does know. I heave a small sigh of relief of my own.

"Well, think of it as a vacation of sorts," I tell him. "But it's time to get back to work, neh?"

"Right. Well, see you, you old Mutt," he says, reaching down to scratch my ears. Ah, yes, right there. "If I hurry, I can just catch that mountain for a connecting flight."

The cliff face extends itself a bit as he runs forward, giving him a chance to build momentum before he hurls himself over the edge towards the mountain. A shark turns towards him as he lands on the fiord at the mountain's base, but loses interest and flies off in search of easier prey.

Hugh. Well. He may turn out all right after all. Hmm...Think it's about time for a mid-morning nap. Turning around three times I settle down and watch the mountain drift away, trailing the black and gold Rainbow behind.

Place: Cyberspace
Time: 15 December 1996

First Posted: 3 April 1997

{begin
     {load: &0253411
          {start: system search
          {target sys: eregon.transk.com
          {target usr: mrhyde}}}}
     {load: &243885
          {start: mission parameters
               {search
                    {identify: load: &239; &4981}}

                    ***ref code &239 = graphics***
|status: upload: &239 @ autonomous|
|status: &239 integrated|

                    ***ref code &4981 = text***
|status: upload: &4981 @ autonomous|
|status: &4981 integrated|
                    {retrieve
                         {begin store: register #000AE9}}
                    {execution
                         {load: &53028; &912; &3302}}}}

                    ***ref code &53028 = hack code***
                    ***ref code &1001 = load and storage code***
|status: upload: &53028 @ worker|
|status: &53028 integrated|
|status: upload: &1001 @ worker|
|status: &1001 integrated|

                    ***ref code &912 = autonomous defense code***
|status: upload: &912 @ warrior|
|status: &912 integrated|

                    ***ref code &3302 = crashburn code***
|status: upload: &3302 @ hunterkiller|
|status: &3302 integrated|

     {load: &7629
          {start: autonomous agents
               {autonomous test: load: & 7795}}}

|status: worker: autonomous confirmed|
|status: warrior: autonomous confirmed|
|status: hunterkiller: autonomous confirmed|

     {load: &225
          {start: integrate agents
               {link test: load: &306}}}

|status: worker: communication confirmed|
|status: warrior: communication confirmed|
|status: hunterkiller: communication confirmed|

     {load: &00010
          {start: system check}}

|status: system ready|

>GO

     {load: &74920
          {start: select target destination
               {target: eregon.transk.com}}}

|status: route|
     {load: &49251
          {start: select route
               {nest.quickening.com.ca! nntp.portal.ca! newsfeed.direct.ca! mr.net! news.idt.net! cam-news-hub1.bbnplanet.com! news.bbnplanet.com! howland.erols.net! van-bc! n1van.istar! van.istar! west.istar! news-w.ans.net! newsfeeds.ans.net! feeder.chicago.cic.net! cs.utexas.edu! sxfer.itd.mich.com! uunet! in1.uu.net! 199.232.240.7! kayrad.ziplink.net! eregon.transk.com}}}

|status: route check|

*..*.....*.*...*..*........*..*...*.......*.*.*.*.....*...*....*.*.....*.*.. .*

|status: destination achieved|

                    ***ref code &53028 = intrusion code***
|status: worker activate &53028|
     {load: &53028
          {     01101010
               11101001
               11111101
               01001001
               10100010
               01010110
               00100100
               00100000
               11010101
               11111111
               01000101
               11000010
                00111010
               ********}}
|status: defences breached|
|status: intrusion in progress|
|status: worker: in|
|status: warrior: in|
|status: hunterkiller: in|

                    ***ref code &AE093 = load search protocols***
|status: worker activate &AE093|
     {load: &AE093}

                    ***ref code &8431 = load comparison file***
     {load: &8431
TITLE: PEDOSUK
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C���Y6"�i�N���m�M�X��E�p�I���t��KO�-u9��J���7!K�=j��*���� ��{^�Ư��~-�|�>-���Y��?R�M��8I�9�y*NW�Z�N�"�G�<��,Sɥ�đ3�Yñ��3Q� �Ղ�Ɏ���@��a�O,D�0SUce^�g�V�����sB�W'�*�}�"��r����3�N��O�ݝ�� 4U��pq�*'8���5��ڧ�
�;f�G�KHbt*A��"�i���� 
�™S*q-zv*�C����E#|����7r� ��]Nŷ��h��= �v����a:�L�'{����w6~o"~�ݞ�jՂ�E'w"'��V׈-��<��U NMS-����� �����s�n�w * ���q�h�]-$�-�[��$s#���*7�W+^�H�N��h�Of�q��c��e��s��j�h��p��ߙ�^ *4|�rv��� �����YV'%G���}��*"O�'�o��� ��U鼏��"4� M�r��8����\]�i"�ve�q�j�_��i�Ԝ�X�Ƽ��MN�� [\��:}��p3�3�A���]��4��R ����7��WF�ҝ�u�R�qz })�P�B��p2v�&�k�W*0������X������k�1��Y*��wiv���@/3�A��[�-�Pք�d n���[؇V"�(>��/�Ԝ{'���VWE�.�S"ю7gΘ"Xk2D�ew���P՗_�?*Q��/םf�cb.� v� �"��9�-~\�����s$9�s۰'r�Ue����>�v�S���'- ���|Y�[��� ���Q����Gc����ނ�F����[������w�� ������V��rq�-��j-�����"�W�,�l.v�k� 4�۸+����ܝr��BQ��ݣ6���u6������g��*>KqD�Ӥ�x�Ci��׸*�����f��� i��1����H�J����=��! ������O�"}k�'㜼��) �aАLx�ۊ��GT� �p{�Ev����~�"�k���5�A��f2�H�-�'�����v#��+^ U�98#�+N����%mG���܏����m������� (��hyO�ͩ���?�Z5�6ri���}

                     ***ref code &003A8 = search***
|status: worker searching|
     {load: &003A8
          {files\\graphics\\picture\\pedophilia\\posted:
               {tag: set: parameter met
               {     AA001
                    AA03
                    BROBLO
                    CUMLICK
                    CUMSIS
                    DICKIN
                    FULLPEN
                    LILSIS
                    MOMSON
                    PEDO1
                    PEDO2
                    PEDO3
                    PEDOANAL
                    PEDODRIP
                    PEDOSIS
                    PEDOSUK
                         {tag: set: parameter met
                              {download sample:

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Q�@�}sN��=��Bi7����SrrGZ�6”��UX�9<�I��Ty�Θ�"LV',LX
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�}k&�Y[���g�x��ZM]�%-ER��d\n�}�q+q$W+*6NA���Q���N[jj��5���#,:U3� ��m>0]��⇿�TP7�.!�U|�����R�;-B��(�)US�����M�[�|Ƣ<�$"FFJ���T��=�@�صo ��Jhu5x�Cpwl^�q�aBwF Tٞ�["���9�fU��c�"��v���1��-

                              {compare:
|status: worker analysing|
                              {comparison: met

                    ***ref code &00005A3 = interface warrior***
                              {load: &00005A3}}}}

|status: warrior interface|

                    ***ref code &EEA352 = data exchange: worker-warrior***
     {load: &EEA352}
|status: transfer complete|

                    ***ref code &FF002 = analyze target defenses***      {load: &FF002}

|status: warrior attack planned|

     {load: FFA342}

|status: warrior engaged|

|status: first defence grid reached: system down|

|status: second defence grid reached: system engaged: working: ICE triggered: defence grid live: engaging anti-virus protocols: anti-viral protocols defeated: system down|
|status: central data store reached|

                    ***ref code &AD3410 = worker downloading information***
|status: worker downloading|
     {load: &AD3410
          {files archived: BBS LIST
               USERS
               FILES ARCHIVED
               DATA LINKS
               MAIL LIST
               ADDRESSES
                    {warning: intrusion countermeasures encountered
                    {warning: intrusion countermeasures sterilizing worker code}}}

|status: warrior engaging|
     {load: &BB0932}
|status: warrior target selected: engaged: code integrated: code destroyed: searching: searching: target identified: engaging: code integrated: code destroyed: objective achieved: worker protected: searching: active datalink identified: analyzing:|

                    ***ref code &DD5532 = engage hunterkiller***
     {load: &DD5532}
|status: hunterkiller engaged|
|status: hunterkiller analyzing: datalink analyzed: analyzing options: analysis complete: decision tree branch 0042|

                    ***ref code &553CC0 = code mitosis***
     {load: &553CC0}
|status: hunter killer mitosis activated|
|status: hunter killer mitosis complete|

                    ***ref code &415211 = instructions***      
{load: &415211}
|status: active datalink confirmed: hunterkiller daughter entering datalink| instructions: primary - search and destroy/secondary - crash and burn/tertiary - encapsulate and sleep|
|status: hunterkiller daughter away|
|status: worker download complete|
|status: warrior engaging intrusion countermeasures: code integrated: code destroyed: identify human operator online: additional intrusion countermeasures activated: engaging: warrior code damaged: re-integrating primary code: damage repaired: mutating warrior code: engaging intrusion countermeasures: human operator begining systems purge|

                    ***ref code &53A4DE = data exchange: warrior-hunterkiller***
     {load: &53A4DE}
|status: warrior-hunterkiller decision achieved|
|status: hunterkiller searching: target identified: household computer interface: engaging code: code integrated: testing: control achieved: attack vector anlayzed: decision reached: activating kitchen appliance code: power surge initiated: accessing household computer interface thermal sensors: engaging code: code integrated: temperature increase 5 degrees indicated: temerature increase 11 degrees indicated: temperature increase 37 degrees indicated: thermal sensors off-line: unit destroyed: analyzing: objective completed: interpretation: fire initiated: tactics projection: site compromised: decision: crash and burn CPU: extract frames|

                    ***ref code &4CA2E9 = extraction order***
     {load: &4CA2E9}

     {load: &74920
          {start: select target destination
               {target: nest.quickening.com.ca}}}

|status: route|
     {load: &49251
          {start: select route
               {kayrad.ziplink.net! 199.232.240.7.net.gov! in1.uu.net! cs.utexas.edu! feeder.chicago.cic.net! mronac.turbo.net! galahad.camelot.harvard.edu! relay.satlink.32042.gov! lemon.grove.cs.ca! nest.quickening.com.ca!}}}

|status: worker removed|
|status: warrior removed|
|status: hunterkiller removed|

|status: route check|

     *...*...*..*...*..............*.......*..*...*....*

|status: destination achieved|

     {load: &7530DA}
|status: worker downloading data|
|status: worker download complete|

     {load:&35DDA0}
|status: worker shutdown|
|status: warrior shutdown|
|status: hunterkiller shutdown|

{end}}

Place: Vancouver
Date: 12 January 1997

First Posted: 3 April 1997

"Yeah? Why don't we dance his bones?" suggests Thousand Watts.

I stare at them both for a few seconds, thinkin' of Jimbe. I rub my hand across the right side of my head, where the hair has grown back in. Then finger the scar under the long hair on the left side.

"Chill, tools," I command. "That was the Dog. You don't be mammyjamming messing with him. He's prime life buck. 16 point rack, you grok?"

"Fuck me, mammyjammer!" Playback mutters looking after the dark figure turnin' the corner at th' end of the street. "Wha'd the grinder want wi' you, Whipcord?"

Whirling around I hardball Playback across the side of the face with the back of my hand. "Don't ever call me that, tadpole!" i snarl at him as he lay on the ground beneath my feet. "Not no more! I'm the Alpha! I'm the leader!"

Thousand Watts slides forward a pace. Moves his hands out away from his body. Huh. Good. Respect. Like showing his throat. "Yeah, yeah, ok, Alpha. Playback jus' forgot is all. Ok? No harm meant? Right Playback?"

"Yeah, yeah, sure Alpha. Kowtow, man, kowtow. Jus' forgot. You th' leader."

Yeah, i'm the leader. After a while i started thinking about what the Dog told me. Hey. I read good enough. Make th' system work for me for a change. Yeah! An' what a mirth seeing those old bitty-bop librarians freakin' over me in their crib, touching pre-video. Reading about wolves and packs.

"So ok," i say to Playback who also's got his arms out. "So don't forget next time."

"Yeah, ok, man. I won't. But, hey, what'd the Dog want?"

"Just some names, pack-boy. And places." What he's gonna do wi' them I can't grok at all. I think back to Jimbe again. Blood in the surf. Thinkin' about it that way, I don't want to know why Dog wanted the info. I'm better off not being around the Dog.

"Right!" i command the Pack, heading them down the street the opposite way the Dog left. "Time to cull the herd and jack some scorecards!"

Place: Vancouver
Date: 15 January 1997, 1320-1325

First Posted: 3 April 1997

"Hmm? Oh, yeah, I guess. What's up?" asks Stephanie, dropping another spoon of sugar into her coffee, then coming over to my desk as I'm getting my coat on.

"John's got some old and not-so-old property records he wants me to trace down. I have to pop down to Archives at City Hall."

"Blech!" interjects Darcey. "That's a rotten way to kill an afternoon."

"Yeah, tell me about it," I agree, stomping my feet into my Docs.

"What's John need the stuff for?" Stephanie asks, making a face as she sips her coffee. "Uhg! To bitter. Needs more sugar." She wanders back to the coffee island.

Shaking my head I mutter to Darcey, "I have no idea how the girl stays so thin..." Then, louder, "Oh, I don't know, isn't a one-to-one ratio of coffee to sugar normal?"

Stephanie sticks her tongue out at him as she rejoins us.

"Actually," I say, picking up the conversation again, "I don't know why he wants the stuff. Figure he'll tell us if he wants us to know. Being the trusted and dependable Research Officer, mine is not to question why, just to dig up the dirt."

"Ah, yes. I forgot you worked at one of those tabloids," adds Stephanie, sipping her coffee again. "Mm, better."

"Ghaa! Please, don't remind me!" I groan, holding my head in mock pain. "Besides. It was only for six months or so. And I'm never going back. The stories I could tell..."

"Hmm...yeah, you've told a few of them," interjects Darcey. "Well, whatever. You going to be gone long?"

"Dunno," I say truthfully. "Depends. Some of this stuff might be on microfiche, which will be quicker than paging through musty hardcopy...but not much faster. Hopefully I'll be back before we lock up, but..."

"Yeah, yeah. Go," orders Stephanie with a smile. "I figure me and Darcey-boy can manage to keep things from falling apart for the afternoon."

"Thanks guys!" I call out as I head for the stairs.

Sure is nice working in a friendly office for a change. And the work is interesting. Nice to use the research skills I've got rather than just answering phones. Or serving as a decorative piece of ass for the boss. Heh. Not that I don't have a great ass. As the boss well knows.

Now, now, Tracey, wouldn't do to say that out loud, I chastise myself, smiling wickedly.

Place: Vancouver
Time: 18 March, 1997, 21:30 hrs

First Posted: 18 March, 1997

Well at least it isn't snow like Christmas time.

Yeah and maybe if I think pleaseant thoughts it won't cause any flooding. Ah well the joys of living in lotus land during the winter and fall months. I casually toggle the voice memo minder.

"Memo for Stuart, make sure you check the sump pumps if you haven't already. Last thing we need is some more flooding."

The sound of my voice adds to the background sounds of the office. The dull whirr of the heater fan, the soft gurgle of a water pump, muted music from the speakers, and the patter of rain against the glass pane. I tilt my chair back and look out the rain streaked window to the night beyond. Rain closes the night in so that you can barely see across the street below. If you forget for the moment that there is a city of around 2 million out there you can imagine there is a whole seperate world out there with no pain, greed, or the rest of those nasty little human emotions.

---Car horn blares twice---

I straighten my chair back up as the world comes rushing back into the void it left for just a moment.

Couldn't leave us well alone for another minute could you? Ah well. One last bit look before I call it a night.

Lifting up the photos I look again at another senseless bit of a world teetering on the edge. LostA kids. Runaways whose parents either care enough to pay or have money enough that they have others do the caring for them. Either way they want me to look. You get results they tell me. Two of them this time; girl and a boy.

I grunt softly to myself.

Good looking kids, both of them. Girl that looks like that could easily pass for more then 16 if she wanted to or play little girl lost. God help her if the wrong person got there paws on her. The could turn a pretty penny off her street or screen value. Boy is younger by about a year, reminds me of that kid from the family sit com ... Home something or other. Translation, another piece of fresh meat for the grinder

"Not this time", I whisper.

Its the litany of the hunt. Reassuring, familiar, a bulwark against what is sometimes enevitable and hope for the possible. I intone that same phrase each time, for each face. A prayer for the children.

I pray it never becomes lip service.

Place: Vancouver
Time: 22 March, 1997, 2015-2030

First Posted: 19 March 1997

"Look T-bone," i say (be calm, be calm) "this wasn't my fault, ok? Like, i'm just trying to tell you is all, ok?"

With a visible pause T-bone seems to draw in on himself, his death-pale skin, those piss-holes-in-the-snow black eyes burning with that freaking intensity he has. His buckles jingle as a little shudder passes through him and he smiles. Oh, shit, i hate that smile...

"S'ok, we're cool," he tells me. "Just tell it to me so i know who's moving in on our operations."

I take a trembling breath, remembering. fuck fuck fuck fuck. "Ok, yeah, right. This all went down a few hours ago. About six-thirty, right, just before sunset. Perfect lighting for the shoot, right, coming in through those bay windows. Sorry, but i had to like, change, then find you. But i got here quick as i could, right? So we were well into the shoot, yah? Ok, so Long John is plowing the kid hard from behind. Good scene, right? I've got Jim-Jim and Nick doing double camera shots, 'cause i don't want to waste anything on this babe, right? Hot little blonde number. I mean, fuck, only maybe fourteen and already had fuckin' breasts you'd kill for, right?"

"I don't have all night, Turbo," says T-bone sharply. "Get to the fuckin' point, mutherfucker!"

"Yeah, yeah, ok, i'm just trying to tell you what was what is all," i mutter hastily. I fumble for a Marlboro. Flick my Zippo. Get it lit on the second try. Ah, better, yeah, better. "Ok, so besides Long John, Jim-Jim, Nick, and me there was Meat and the Hawk."

"You let Hawk in on the shoot?" T-bone demands angrily. "What kind of fucking idiot are you?" he shouts. His hand, snake fast whips out and grabs me by the throat. I frantically grab his wrists, pleading, pleading.

"No, no, T-bone, i had it planned, right, right? That's what Meat was there for, see? Like, Hawk was getting pushy. Said he'd brought in the girl, said he was, like, her manager and shit. So, like, he was making threats and i just figured, sure, fine, let him come along this time. After the shoot i'd have Meat take care of Hawk, right, you know?"

T-bone glares at me, then relaxes. "Yeah, ok. Smart boy. That's why i put you in charge, Turbo. So you were going to get Meat to whack Hawk after and take the girl, right?"

"Yeah, yeah, right!" i agree enthusiastically. Then the memory hits, the spray of blood, the thwack of entrails hitting the wall. "'Cept, that's not, like, our problem any more. Hawk's not going to be giving us any shit in the future." Yeah, and neither will Meat, or Nick, Jim-Jim... fuck fuck fuck!

I pick up my cigarette from where it fell and drag on it. Yeah, yeah, better. "Ok, so, like, we're doing the shoot. I've shot the girl up with some tranq, right. Take a bit of the edge off, give her that dreamin' look, so she's into it, right? That's what this shoot was for. Young cunt that wants it. Not a rape scene. Did that before, right? So, yeah, Long John's pounding the kid's slit, doggie wise, see, and she's bleedin', whimpering some. Great fucking shoot. Yeah. So We're all watching, right, right, getting good video, when the mutherfucking door just fucking exploded out of the fucking shit wall!" Fire and smoke, wood flying, deafening noise. fuck fuck fuck.

T-bone just stares at me. Pours me a shot from the bottle on the table. Nodding thanks i grab the glass and take the hit down. Pull on my Marlboro again. Yeah, better, better.

"You were telling me about the door," T-bone prompts. His leathers are dark. Not black. Like dried blood. Funny. I never noticed before. Why wouldn't i have noticed that before?

"Yeah, the door. So the door explodes in. And in comes this huge motherfucking shit stomper. Came out of the fire like black smoke from Hell! Something long flashed and tore Hawk apart. Practically cut the fucker in half... Blood, blood everywhere. Never seen so much blood. Not even when i plugged Harry-hart. His blood just puddled. Hawk... fuck fuck fuck. Hawk, like, vaporized, spraying blood everywhere..."

Fuck! I look at T-bone and jerk back in my seat! His eyes areglowing, his mouth open, staring at me, with this weird, fucked up smile. His tongue snakes out, licking his lips. Then his face blanks again, back to just his normal fucking Goth-boy spookiness and he leans back telling me, "Continue," in a hoarse, heavy voice.

"Yeah, right, right, ok. So, it turns out this guy's wearing some kind of fucking huge cape that's swirling around him. He kicks Meat on his way by then hurls himself into Nick. Nick screamed once, you know, then there was this cracking, ripping sound. I'm going for my thirty eight, right? Meat's getting up with that axe he likes to carry around in his fucking gym bag. Long John's freaking', right, stumbling back from the little bitch. She's just staring wide-eyed. Had to be the tranq, right, right, watching the shit hit the fan. Jim-Jim's dropping his camera and running for the shotgun when the guy comes up, blood dripping off him, looking crazy insane. He swings, like, this huge fucking sword of all the goddamned things, over the girl's back. Long John goes down coughing and gasping. I've got my thirty eight out now and i'm going to drop him. So i pump off a couple shots, but... Shit. I dunno, i'd of sworn i hit him, but maybe with that fucking cape thing of his, moving around like it was, maybe i didn't."

"What kind of cape?" T-bone asks.

"What kind of fucking question is that?" i snap back, lost in memory. Then, remembering who i'm talking with, i backtrack. "I mean, hey, sorry, man. I'm frazzed over this is all. Uhh...the cape, right, right. Black, i think, but the lights were down low, right. So maybe, you know what's that deep blue, indigo? Yeah. So maybe that. And huge. Like a giant shroud, hiding most of him from view. It had this sort of hood thing, too, covering his head. Oh, yah! And it was weird, i mean, it moved."

"What?"

"I'm telling you, T-bone, the fucking thing moved, right, right? I mean, like, what, we don't have any fucking windows open, right, and it's, like, moving around, like in a wind, pulling and tugging. And, and," the memory comes rushing back, Nick lying there, his chest gaping open, blood everywhere, "and, when the guy came off Nick it was like, like the cape didn't want to go with him. Like it was stuck on Nick, or something. And a bit later, when, like, he was down, i looked at Nick again..." My voice trail off. fuck fuck fuck...yellow bones cracked through, sticking jagged-like out... I swallow and continue. "When i looked at Nick again, the blood, it was gone. Like, wiped clean. Weird. Yeah, weird..." I reach over for the bottle, pouring myself another shot.

"You said he went down," T-bone says. "Did you drop him after all?"

"No, no man, i didn't drop him. Like i said, i shot at him, but then Meat goes wading into the picture, right? Swinging that big fucking fireman's axe. The guy just blocks it casually-like, with that sword of his. Meat tried to slice him again, and again the guy stopped the stroke. Then his left arm lashed out. And these, like, claws or something, slash across Meat. Swear to god! It was, like, claws, black and gleaming, instead of fingers!" Fast. Fast. He moved really, fucking fast! I slam back another shot of the whiskey. "So, like, i'm thinking, this is no fucking good, right, right? I mean, what, fifteen seconds and this guy's waxed Hawk, Nick, probably Meat, and, oh yeah, Long John. Not that Long John'd be good for fucking anything but fucking! So, like, Meat or no Meat, i just empty my thirty eight into them. And this time i'm sure i hit him. He jerked, right, right? Jim-Jim gets the same idea. He pumps the whole fucking load from his shotgun into them. Meat's head explodes in a shower of gore, blood mists in the air. The next shot turns Meat's shoulder to hamburger, not that he'd care now, but the force drove him out of the way. The last two shots slam dead into the guy, slamming him back, back against the wall. Blood dripping down onto the floor before he dropped down, that big sword falling from his hand. That weird fucking cape, though... It just seemed to wrap itself in around him. Then, then..." i trail off.

T-bone stares at me. I don't say anything, thinking. Thinking about the blood. Thinking about how fucked up things are. Thinking i want another cigarette. Yeah, yeah, right. So i light one up as T-bone says, "Ok, so. You killed the bastard, then. Well, this isn't good, Turbo, but it could have been worse. You were going to ice Hawk anyway, and Meat, well, fuck, he was always just meat anyway. And Long John was just road shit at that. We can find some other shit to replace him. Too bad about Nick, though. He was good with the camera." T-bone stands up. "So, you've still got the girl. You and Jim-Jim put the crew back together and use her till she drops. Business as usual."

I look up at him slowly. "No, man, that's just what i'm trying to tell you. It's not business as fucking usual!"

T-bone stares at me. Fucking cold as the Montana winters i left years ago, he stares at me. Bites out the words, "What do you mean."

I drag on my cigarette. "Jim-Jim and i looked at each other, looked at the mess. The girl was huddled up now. I don't know, tranq wearing off or something. Staring around at the fucking mess with this weird little smile on her face, like she knows something that we don't. But whatever, right? So we, Jim-Jim and i, go over to take a look at this guy, right? I mean, he is looking very stone cold, and i'm thinking we'd better cut before some Goody-shoes calls Mr. Blue, right? But we're also thinking we'd better find out who this shit is first. So Jim-Jim kicks him in the leg a couple times, just to make sure, right? Then he kneels down to pull the cape away so we can take a look at him. Weird shit... I mean, the guy's wearing this black shirt, right, and it's shredded from the two shotgun loads, right, and there's all the blood, right. So he's a stiff, for sure. Then, Jim-Jim's pulling back that hood thing on the cape so we can see his

face. Then, then, fuck! As Jim-Jim pulled the hood back, the fucker's fucking eyes fucking opened, his hand shot up and grabbed Jim-Jim by the fucking throat! And he just laughs this fucking laugh!" A chill sweeps over me and i hear it again. Low and harsh. Like stones grinding together. "Then, he's up, right? I mean, he's just fucking up and moving. Jim-Jim's screaming as the fucking dead guy's snapped upright, gripping him by the throat. He barrels past me, kicking me aside, slamming Jim-Jim into the far wall. Jim-Jim screams, then, then, then the scream becomes this gurgle. The guy's hunched over him, with that fucking cape spread out and around them both. And he's laughing that weird fucking laugh. And the girl. She's started laughing too. Not like him, the guy, but this weird sort of giggle, but like satisfied sounding. And then i hear this sound like, like slurping noises, like when you finish a shake with a straw. Fuck! That noise, and his laugh! That's going to haunt me," i say, shuddering at the thought.

I look over at T-bone. He's just sitting there. Perfectly still. Still as death, just staring at me. Fuck fuck fuck... "The, the guy, he slowly gets up, right, that cape gathering around him. His hood's fallen back and i see him for the first, like, time, right?"

"You saw his face?" murmurs T-bone.

"Yeah. Yeah, i saw his face," i agree. "Or, well, part of his face, sort of, i mean. I saw his eyes, boring into me. Sizing me up as he stalked over to where i lay. And, and i saw his mouth. His lips were pulled back from his teeth. He was grinning this fucking huge snarling grin. And blood! Blood was running dripping off his chin, running down his cheeks. Jim-Jim's blood. It was smeared all over, across his chest and... Fuck!" i shout. Then, with a sudden calm i didn't think i'd ever feel again, i explain, "I suddenly realized: he'd ripped out Jim-Jim's throat to drink his blood."

T-bone glares at me when i say this. He's not freaking like i'd thought he would. He's not shouting at me. He just asks, calm-like, "Are you sure? Absolutely sure." Like it's the most important thing in everything i've been telling him.

"Yeah, man, I'm sure." Then, "Hey! Like, don't take this personal like, or nothing, T-bone, but, like, i know you're into the Goth scene, man, and, hey, don't bother me, but like, i know some of you're buddies are kind of weird on that Anne Rice kind of shit. Like, you know, maybe man, this guy was weird on this stuff, too. Or something. I mean, he was wearing black, right, and there was that cape thing. Didn't have a white face or nothing, though. So, fuck, I don't know. But yeah, i'm sure about it. He tore out Jim-Jim's throat and was drinking his blood before he came for me."

"But you got away, Turbo," says T-bone, suddenly cold again. His eyes narrow as he stares at me. His voice drops. "Why did you get away?"

"Hey, T-bone, like, i didn't think i would, man. I mean, the guy, he gets up from Jim-Jim, right? And he's walking towards me, glaring at me like, you know, like a hungry dog staring at a roast sitting on the table. I'm crawling backwards, trying to reload my thirty eight. But, but my hands, you know, they're shaking, right? I mean, this fucking dead guy just got fucking up and fucking killed Jim-Jim! I back into the wall and he just stands over me, staring. Watching as i try to reload. Like it's this fucking game or something. Then he takes the edge of his cape, and, and this is fucking weird man, I mean, really fucking weird! He wipes the cape down over his face, across his throat, down his chest. Wherever the cape touches the blood it, you know, just, like, vanishes. Like it's wiped up, or something. Just...wiped away. Gone. Like it wasn't there. He looks over at the girl and he smiles. Not like he was smiling before, but, like, this soft smile. And i've been thinking about this since then. And it fits with what he told me. He was there for the girl, man. At first i thought, you know, like he was working for somebody else, like maybe one of the Seattle teams, you know? Get rid of the competition. But no, he was just there for the girl, like he told me to tell you."

Suddenly T-bone's leaning forward again, in my face, glaring at me. "He spoke to you? What the fuck did he say? You piece of shit! You've been wasting my time with all this other crap when he'd something to say to me?"

I don't fucking care any more. The calm i felt a couple minutes ago is still with me. T-bone's madder than i've ever seen him, but i just don't fucking care. It don't mean nothing. "Not you, specifically, T-bone," i say, patiently, softly. "The guy, he turned back and looked at me, scowling, like. He just reached down and took my thirty eight from me. Looked at it and laughed, like it was all funny. He tossed the gun aside, into the far corner, then grabbed me, pulling me up, hauling me off the ground. I knew i was going to die, so i guess i just didn't give a fuck. I asked, 'Who are you?' He smiled again, his lips pulling back from his teeth and he moved close to me. His eyes were, you know, far away. My old man, he'd been a marine in Viet Nam. Only part of him came home. They said he had the thousand yard stare. When i looked at my old man, yeah, i saw it. He would just stand there, you know, focused on infinity. Like this guy. The thousand yard stare. It's like, he wasn't talking to me, but to someone, something, else. He said, 'I am Mask of Dog. The Protector. The Guardian. I walk at the left hand of Man and sit, watching, by the coals of his fire.' Then his eyes sort of, uh, cleared and he saw me again. 'Tell your master the kitlings have a defender,' he said. 'Tell him this will all end. By me hand.' I remember that, because of the last part, saying "me" instead of "my"."

I take a look at the bottle on the table. But for some reason, i don't want another drink. Damn. Makes you think. "Anyway," i continue, "he let go of me, just dropped me, like he'd forgotten about me or something. He turned his back on me, picked up that sword next to Meat, and went over to the girl. That huge fucking cape of his twitched around him, then flared open as he reached for her. I saw her face, then. She didn't look scared or nothing. Like, you know, like she knew something. Not about him, per se, but just...something. Whatever. I don't know. He picked her up, then, holding her to his chest. She started crying then, softly, just gasping, sort of, as he cradled her against him, her head buried tightly against his shoulder. He kissed her forehead, said something to her i couldn't hear, but she stopped crying. That cape just seemed to wrap tighter around them. Huge and black. Then, then he looked at me again and grinned, that predatory grin. 'Remember,' he said. 'Tell your keeper.' He paused to spit on Long John, then he walked out the door with the girl. Just before he left he paused and said, 'Know you, Man, that we will never meet again.'" Thank god for that! "Then he was gone."

"That's it? He just left?" T-bone asks, incredulous. "Yeah, man, that's it. I mean, i looked around, decided i'd better cut before Mr. Blue showed. I dumped some gas around the room to torch it, right? It'll take the domes longer to root through and figure out what went down. Then I took off too. I stopped long enough to shower and change, to get the, you know, blood off, right? You know, being covered in blood is kind of suspicious, ok? Then i started looking for you." I sigh, exhausted. I'm tapped out. Need to just chill for awhile. Maybe re-think things. Like getting out of the business. T-bone's not going to be thrilled about my walking out, though. Well... "So, like, we cool, T-bone?" i ask, wondering, but still not caring.

T-bone just stares at me.

"I mean, i did what i could, right? I mean, like, what else was i going to do, right? The fucker ate fucking buckshot, man. I mean, you just don't fuck with that. I mean, i do video, right? You handle the other mutherfucking shit, right?"

T-bone just stares at me some more. Then, "Yeah, Turbo, we're cool. I'm on the mutherfucking problem. Not your concern no more. Come on," he says, rising from his seat, his leather jacket creaking, the chains on it glinting in the dim light. Gestures for me to follow. He leads me out the back way. As we pass Rocky Horror, one of T-bones, uh, enforcers, at the back door and step out into the alley he puts his arm around my shoulder and says, real quiet-like, "Won't be none of your concern no more."

Place: Vancouver
Time: 22 March, 1997, 2335-2350

First Posted: 19 March, 1997

"Just what, exactly, do you want, little Anarchist?"

T-bone glares, black eyes set in a too white face, even for us.

""I want what you are supposed to provide!" he grates out. "Your oh so important peace in the city."

With a sigh I close my eyes briefly. "You are the one who supposedly thrives on chaos. Pull down the system from within, yes? Now something happens and you come running to me. I tolerate your presence in the city. Barely. You show me less than the minimum of respect, and now you want me to solve your little problem?"

"Look, Prince," the word comes out bitter, twisted, "You tolerate me because you need me and my kind."

I snort in contempt. "Do not flatter yourself, little Brujah."

T-bone continues, ignoring me. How rude the young are to their elders. "You're the one who's supposed to keep the peace. You demand it, right? So now I'm telling you that you've got to do something about this!"

"As far as I can tell this is no matter of mine." I explain, sitting upright and leaning forward, resting my elbows on the desk. "One of your sordid little businesses was hit. A rival, some vigilante, whatever. Explain to me why, exactly, this is my problem."

"Weren't you fuckin' listening to me?" T-bone screeches.

"Never," I begin, my eyes hardening, my voice dropping to a whisper, "Never raise your voice to me. You are no match at all for me, you would be best to remember. Now. Sit down and explain it to me. Calmly. With respect."

T-bone must suddenly realize just how much danger he is in here. While he scoffs my position, he does recognize my power. Although young, he is not a complete idiot. Worse luck.

"Uhm, yeah, OK," he mutters, sitting in the heavy oak and leather chair in front of my desk. "So I told you how all but one of my guys were killed, right? The way I see it, the freak that did it has to be either one of Us or one of Them."

"You base this conclusion on the claws, blood drinking, and apparent survival of mortal wounds, I presume?"

"Yeah, don't need to be no dome surgeon to figure that," T-bone mutters, rolling his eyes.

"All right. Let us analyze what we have then, shall we. Surviving seemingly mortal wounds proves very little. Both the Kindred and the Garou have enormous recuperative powers. Neither does this prove that this individual was either Kindred or Garou."

As T-bone opens his mouth I raise my hand to forestall protest. "I have known mere mortals to survive wounds of this nature. The berserk of the North. Without fear or armor these men hurled themselves forward, fighting always in the front ranks. They cared nothing for their own safety. All they needed to do was kill. I myself have witnessed these men cut down to the bone, yet their wounds did not bleed and they did not die as they should have. I know, you scoff at this. The stories of the Old. But I tell you they are true. More recently various pharmacological agents, coupled with modern kevlars and ceramics, could have produced the same results."

"Fine," mutters T-bone after a pause. "What about the claws?"

"Yes. That too is an inconclusive bit of evidence. While the Garou are the most likely to utilize claws in physical combat, some Kindred are not without this power. Clan Gangrel, in particular. If, indeed, they were claws at all."

"Hey, Turbo said they were claws. He had an eye for detail like that."

"Had?"

"What? You don't think I'd be letting him wander around after this, do you?" Then he grins and pronounces with the best, which is to say, very little, flair he can manage, "Besides, I was hungry."

You are so pathetic, T-bone. And the sad thing is that you have no idea why.

"Fine. As long as your meal does not show up in the gutters come morning," I warn him. "Now, as I was saying, the claws, too prove nothing. There are weapons, predominant in places where the great cats hunt, that act like claws."

"Then what about drinking Jim-Jim's blood? He did that just after he'd been shot up. He would have needed blood to heal." T-bone demands, glowering with pride, as if he has suddenly proven everything. Whatever it might be he is trying to prove.

"Again, this indicates nothing conclusively. Both Kindred and Garou will drink mortal blood. For different reasons, obviously. If, and I stress 'if', he were of the Kindred, yes, he might have needed to replenish his body's store of blood to heal his wounds. If he were a Garou there would be no need of this, of course. Still, a Garou might drink of a man's blood for his own reasons. The Rage could have been upon him, or it could have been symbolic of his victory over an opponent, or even to make it look as though he were one of us."

Ah. That makes T-bone uncomfortable. I have always suspected T-bone has felt the Garou are nothing but beasts that can take the shape of men. He has never believed them capable of more than animal cunning. Now this.

"Besides," I continue. "Some humans drink the blood of their own kind. There are numerous documented cases of serial who eat their victims. Admittedly, that does not appear to be the case here, but there is precedence."

Some of the fire seems to have left T-bone.

"What about that cape? And it was right around dusk, too."

"Dusk. Yes. That could tip the balance towards this attacker being a Garou," I admit. T-bone's eyes glint, suddenly sensing affirmation of his suspicions. "However," I continue, "it is not conclusive."

"Look, even you'll admit that we don't go moving around 'til the sun's down!"

"I would suggest you think carefully on this, T-bone, and listen more to the lore your elders pass on. I have heard of a few, a very few, of our kind who can move at dusk. Some have said that they can move even in the light of a cloudy day."

"Get out of here! There ain't no way no one of us can do that!" T-bone laughs. Then, suddenly, he stops laughing. "Hey. Wait. You don't mean..."

"Yes. One of the earliest generations could do such a thing. And if you have managed to anger one of the Ancients then you are in, shall we say, a world of trouble." The expression on his face is priceless. Fortunately, the security cameras here will have captured it. Maybe I will have the film made into a print. Hmm... It is so easy to bait the young. Especially the Brujah. They want to be strong and independent, but at base level, they are always afraid of some dark thing reaching out to pull them down. Let the Methuselahs be the boogey man to scare little Brujahs. Of course, there is no way an Ancient is involved in this. They are...so few, and so powerful. They would not bother with something like this directly. Besides, I would know if the Sleeper had awoken. But T-bone does not know this.

"Ah, you don't actually think that it's a Methuselah, do you?"

Oh, the temptation to string this out is so overwhelming. Still, you do not become Prince without some sense of decorum. On the other hand...

"Well, I highly doubt it, T-bone," I begin, watching him gratefully relax. "I mean, why would an Ancient possibly bother with something as insignificant as you?"

Ha! Another expression to be remembered: T-bone struggles between relief and offense. Finally decides to give up and press on.

"How do you explain the cape?"

"The cape is, peculiar, I will grant you. But, while I can not explain it, the cape neither proves nor disproves involvement of a Kindred or Garou in this matter."

"And the bit about being the dog mask, or something?"

I stand and go around my desk to T-bone's side. "Probably just the deranged fantasies of some human vigilante. I would not pay any attention to it if I were you. None of the Garou want to be associated with dogs, hmm? They are the noble wolves. Besides, there are quite a number of Garou tribes that would like nothing better than to wipe humans from the face of the Earth."

"So you're not going to do nothing, are you?" mutters T-bone, disconcerted, but trying to rally his scorn and disdain for me.

"I will tell you what I will do," I say as I walk him to the door. "I will contact my liaisons within the Garou and put the question to them. I will also have some of my human servants and ghouls investigate the matter. If this is the work of either one of the Kindred or the Garou severe action will be taken."

"Really?" T-bone ejects in surprise. Ah...he had worked himself up for a dismissal. "You'll really do that for me?"

Oh, the young are so, so easy. It almost is not even sporting to play them like this.

"Of course. After all, as you so astutely pointed out, I am the Prince, and my peace must rule here in the city. It would be ill seeming if I ignored the proper request of one within my domain."

"Oh. Uhm, well, right. Good," T-bone flusters. "So, I'll be going then. Got business to conduct, you know."

"Yes. I am sure. But do me a favour, will you? Stop by Andre's office on the way out. I have a business proposal to make you. It involves clearing a little gangland. They are decreasing property values."

"Really?" asks T-bone, surprised. Then, trying to recover, "What's in it for me?"

"Andre has the details. There is an illegal body shop the gang controls. Eliminate the gang, you get the shop, hmm?"

He is pleased. I can tell. He wants to do this. Thinks it raises him in my favour. Does not realize he is still just a pawn. An expendable one at that.

"Well, maybe," he mutters, trying to play hard to get. "I'll go by the office. See what Andre has. Think about it."

"Good, good," I say as I usher T-bone into the hall. "I am sure the business will be profitable to us both," I add as I close the door.

Shaking my head I walk back to my desk. Sitting, I pull out adrawer and remove a teak case from where it has lain for the last year. Setting the case in front of me I slide its latch to the side and open it. Three items rest inside. A dog's polished skull, gleaming white with a complicated pattern painted in indigo ink across both sides of the cranium. A beautiful kingfisher kris, several hundred years old and wickedly sharp. Lastly, a small card of thick, creamy paper, the handwriting from a more elegant age.

He knows my fondness for weapons, I think, removing the kris. Few others in the city would appreciate it as do I. I hold it carefully: even sheathed a kris is not to be pointed at one's self or another. Tradition has it that the spirit housed in the kris can kill along the line of sight of the curving blade. It is not the thrust that kills, but the power of the being that dwells within the blade. Drawing the kris I marvel at its gorgeous serpentine curves fashioned from the finest Damascan steel. Like lines in the sand, left by a retreating tide. Carefully I return the blade to its sheath and replace the aged weapon in its case.

I lift the card and read, even though I know the words by heart:

"Honor one another's domain. When thou comest to a foreign city, thou shall present thyself to the one who ruleth there. Without the word of acceptance, thou art nothing."

Interesting that he, who is not of the Kindred, keeps to the old forms of the Traditions, when Kindred neonates scoff the ancient forms.

Replacing the card I carefully lift the dog's skull, tracing a finger along the jaw line, over sharp teeth. Empty sockets stare back at me. The intricate geometric patterns inscribed across the skull seem to glow with a faint deep purple light. But perhaps that is my imagination.

With a sigh I replace the skull in the box and lean back in my chair, contemplating. I could hunt you down easily enough, I think. And yet...you are an unknown element. Not even my brood are fully aware of you. And it has been so long. Where have you been all these years? It would be a pleasant distraction to spend an evening together. To reminisce. You also understand the heavy drag of the years.

On the other hand, while you honour our Traditions and recognize my authority, you purposefully hold yourself outside my circle. Still, if you have chosen to antagonize the Brujah, I can not help but approve. Even the Nosferatu are better.

With another sigh I close the lid and replace the teak box in my desk drawer. I will wait and see what happens. We live in interesting times. Maybe you will do me a great service and eliminate a few troublesome individuals for me.

Turning to the computer I return to the spreadsheet I had been perusing before T-bone arrived. Yes, I will wait and see what happens. However, for now I see that North Core Developments is up another dozen points. I reach for the phone to call my broker.

Place: Vancouver
Time: 30 March 1997, 15:30 hrs

First Posted: 6 April 1997

The filing cabinet shuts with a soft click and I lock it shut.

Another day and two more cases finished ... and a life. Found both kids. Even got a bonus.

"Shit!"

Yeah I found them both.

Boy was working the street. Got picked up the bus station when he arrived in town after running away from home. Cute kid, unmarked body, prime target. Found him with a John who was morethe willing to leave him in my care. Amazing what the threat of charges of sexual relations with a minor will do. Managed to hussle the kid off to a good shelter for a few days and now he is back with his Father. Dad was really greatful that I got his 'Kevin' back to him in one piece. So now all he has to worry about is school work and zits ... well that as well as the psych therapy and medical treatments for the STD he picked up. Lucky though. He's still alive.

Girl wasn't so lucky. Found her in near the main line CPR tracks not that far from downtown and had her escorted to Vancouver General ... sub basement. The locker. Coroner said she died from an "adverse reaction to the pharmeceuticials she was administered." Drugs. Wicked combination of tranquilizers and mood modifiers. He said the effect should have made her docile and should have made the worst of the pain feel like a mile high buzz. Marks on her body are consistent with sexual contact both vaginal and anal. Mom and Dad collected her body. Trace of humanity in the mother. Dad was stiff and rich. More concerned that nothing about her activities become pubically know. Might cause a red face or two back home.

"Asshole."

Well I'll say this much for him, he's an asshole who pays his bills. Dosen't want it looked into any further though. Mother wanted to see something done though. Independant minded lady that one. What she tell the asshole. Oh yeah, 'Shut the fuck up Stanely. Maybe if I had spoken up at home Jody would still be alive." Gotta like an idependant lady. Even if the case is officially closed Mom and I did have a very nice chat and a man has to do something with his off time.

And they were sloppy, both literally and figuratively. Industrial make up both facial and body including some areas that usally don't need to be masked from the spot lights. They tried to clean it up. Amazing what observant eyes and a good nose will tell you. Add that with the fun and games she was involved. Well you don't have to put two and two together here and get four.

Hmm... for some reason I have an urge to rent porn tonight. Well that is if I can find the right piece. Gotta have standards you know. Woundn't want to get some trashy piece of mindless drivel.

First Posted: 16 April 1997

{Yes}

[From: djd101@island.com
Subject: CCLU Warning about proposed Federal Bill

               ahj325@mail.anon.peb.com         Bitching Flick               *forwarded*
               carter@mail.londonlife.com          You owe me Josh
               dcalde@mail.bcgov.serv               re: March 31, 1997 request for information]

{open: hck134@anon.peb.com               Bitching Flick *forwarded*}

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Date: Tue, 01 Apr 1997 14:29:45 -0700
To: hck124@mail.anon.peb.com               *forwarded*
From: ahj325@mail.anon.peb.com
Subject: Bitching Flick
Enclosed: flick.zip
X-UIDL: 320d397b02c9a5a8b146a217f6efb763

Message:

Hey there Val,

Thanks for that picture of that outrageous t-tart from the vid. Looks younger and fresher then she does in my collection. Where did you get that picture of her? Looks like a high school photo nearly. Look forward to seeing her pink again in the next vid. They said it would be out in the next couple weeks.

I have included the files I made of the captured vid material you wanted and the titles from which they come. Good luck hunting them down up your way.

Southern Rider]

{Save and Close}

[Done]

{Unzip flick.zip in folder Cases/Jody/Follow Up}

[Unzipping ......

               Credits.jpg
               Credits2.jpg
               Opening.jpg
               Opening2.jpg
               Peel1.jpg
               Peel2.jpg
               Peel3.jpg
               Peel4.jpg

Done]

{Run SeaView}

[Done.]

[What material would you like to look at?]