From: friedman@news.cis.ohio-state.edu (Mark  Friedman, Crimson)
Subject: 21st Century Schizoid Man [part 03/21]
Organization: The Ohio State University Department of Computer and Information Science
Date: Mon, 17 Aug 1992 15:08:03 GMT

	Freddy had his head down on the table, watching the pink
elephants fly by on their little white wings, when he heard the big
bodyguard-type lean over to Xavier and whisper, "Time to go..."  The
group picked up and were going out the door in no time.

	On their way out he saw they ran into Howler and some chick
(who looked really good from where Freddy was sitting).  Xavier yelled
at them for a bit and then stormed out, followed closely by Howler and
the babe (maybe she digs musicians, eh?).

	He went back to elephant watching when another of his favorite
looking women walked in (it *had* to be Playboy...).  Grace was in her
normal combat gear, except she had some sort of sword with her this
time.  She walked up to the table and sat down.  "Crimson, you scum,
you owe me 42.5K.  I didn't pose as your wife to be cheated out of my
money."  She unsheathed her katana a bit to make a point.

	He smiled at her.  Play dumb...no, that didn't work last time
either.  One of the bar patrons called out, "You're real popular
today, Crimson!  Can I have some money too?"  Everyone laughed
including Freddy, but excluding Grace and the bouncers.

	Suddenly, he felt a prick at his knee (and his willie happened
to be down the *other* pant leg at the time!).  He rubbed it (his
*knee*, silly!) and whined a bit.  She half-whispered to him, "This
blade's poisoned, I'd like you to know.  What's it gonna be, the 42.5K
or the katana?"  The mage smiled.  Grace was doing something weasely
to him, he knew.  Sleep toxin?  Radioactive trace materials?  *Death
poison?*

	But soon all he could think about was poking her with
something else entirely.  Then things got a bit more interesting:
Rawhide, the pseudo-hippie neo-biker punk/thrash psycho-samurai,
walked in and spread his cheer: "Say hey, Grace!  What have we here?
That cowardly dekker that left us all for dead?"

	The crowd didn't take the comment that well, letting out a
simultaneous gasp.  Freddy hoped they took the 'cowardly' remark as
towards deckers in general ("damn, I need points here...").  Rawhide
pulled out a stun baton: "Now, now, this won't hurt him....much.  Oh,
please Grace...kin I have my knocks in before you ice him?"

	Freddy started drifting into thoughts of knocking Grace
herself, so to speak.  He sighed and reached slowly into his coat
pocket.  He took out three credsticks.  Twice he interfaced the
red one with the blue ones and punched up some numbers.

	"There ya go.  It's bonus time."  He tossed one stick to
Rawhide, who looked at the LCD readout.

	"Hot damn!  Five-oh-kay!  That should buy me a niiicce new
bike."  He walked over to the bar.  "Back in black, smoke the pack,
pour me a Jack, Mack!"  The barkeep read his eyes and simply gave
him the bottle of JD.

	The other credstick went to Grace.  She looked at the readout:
"Fifty-thousand?  That's nice, but what makes me suspicious about it?"
She leaned forward and gazed at his face, looking for a sign.

	Freddy leaned forward as well and mumbled, "It could be even
more if you'd like, nudge nudge, say no more!"  He grinned widely and
winked at her..

	A snarl crossed her face.  She hit him, hard, below his left
eye.  He never saw the roundhouse swing coming.  Grace stood up again,
"In your dreams, wuss-boy.  I'll be in touch: believe me, this isn't
over with..."  She pounded out the front door.

	Rawhide turned around, bottle in hand, when she hit Freddy.
"Hey!  No fair!  Let me try it, too..."  Freddy was still dazed when
the fist came down, even harder, on his right cheekbone.  The force of
the punch knocked him backwards, tilting the chair over and depositing
the decker on the floor.  The whole bar winced in sympathy and
muttered "owch!" in unison.  The samurai muttered something about
"...frickin' piece of Japanese..." and made his own exit.

	Freddy stared at the ceiling for a while, noticing how the
ceiling tiles kind of looked like a waffle when your vision was
blurry...

	|	|	|	|	|	|	|	|

	An hour or so past, during which people would occasionally
walk over to where he was laying.  They'd smile or chuckle, and he'd
smile back in return.  Finally he asked one decker, "Say, Sister
Sally, is there a van out front?"

	The large woman waddled over to the door and peered out.
"Yeah.  What kind you looking for?"

	Freddy lifted himself off the ground.  "Doesn't matter.
Thanks."  The woman shrugged.  He figured it would be Mortis, waiting
for a shot at him.  Hell, there wasn't anyone left that *hadn't* come
to see him tonight.  Well, except Rael.  And wouldn't that be a trip
if *he* dropped by...

	"Oh well...", Freddy thought as he freed his shotgun from the
velcro fasteners under the table.  Quite a few times during the night
his hand had made its way to the trigger.  But for some reason he
didn't off Xavier or Grace.  "Must be getting soft now that my
retirement fund has come in.  Heh."

	He hooked the shotgun under his coat and stretched a bit.  A
few of the patrons smiled and waved to him (they certainly got *their*
cover-charge worth of entertainment tonight).  He nodded and picked up
his gig bag.  A familiar face caught his eye and asked, "Where to
next, Fredster?"

	"Big Rhino: Rib Night."  He put his hat on and made a
not-too-straight line towards the back door, only pausing to salute
the barkeep on the way out.

	The night outside was cool, clearing away some of his
dizziness.  He'd get his Rapier back from the parking lot the next
day.  Hell, Mortis probably had it radio-tagged, or maybe even bombed.
Best to play it safe: he could *always* buy a new bike.  "I wonder if
there are buses running tonight..." he mumbled.

	*	*	*	*	*	*	*	*

	The guys in the Zoom-2 pickup dropped him off ten blocks from
the Rhino (as per his request: he wanted to walk a little more of the
tequilla off).  He waved them his thanks and continued toward his
destination.

	Freddy was a few blocks away when he spotted a gang of toughs
on the opposite side of the street.  He ignored them and walked past
("step 1: mind your business"), but one called out after him: "Hey,
you!  We wanna talk to you..."

	Freddy continued walking ("step 2: show no fear").  However,
when he heard the heavy clomping of shit-kicker boots crossing the
street, he felt around in his coat for his shotgun.  Once again a
gravely voice addressed him, "Yeah, YOU!  We got a message for you!"

	Freddy spun around and gave the group the finger.  They were a
group of six...Trog Crushers?  "Awww, shit..." ("damn, I think I just
showed fear") He made a quickdraw for his shotgun and fired twice into
the group.  The gang scattered and dove for the pavement.  When they
looked up again, Freddy was already up and running ("step 3: get the
hell outta there, chummer!").

	A million things raced through his head.  Did they know who he
was?  Did they know what he did?  Was it just a coincidence that they
were Crushers?  He decided not to hang around and ask.  He seemed to
be falling forward down the sidewalk more than actually running.  The
coat was tripping him up, and his depth perception still wasn't up to
par ("Damn those curbs!").

	He took a chance and looked back: yep, they were catching up,
and very quickly at that.  Only one and a half blocks left, though.
If he could make it there, he could make it anywhere...

(naahhh, too cliche'...)

	*	*	*	*	*	*	*	*

	So the one ork said, "Mphhh... dem... good... ribs... Derek...
<CHOMP!>"

	To which the other replied, "<SLURP!>... ain't they, though,
Nigel?"

	Ahhh!  All was well at The Big Rhino.  Rib Night was a
favorite along the regular patrons (all of whom happened to be orks).
It's quite the Spartan atmosphere down at the Rhino, only long tables
lined up end to end, but it does fill your stomach!

	"Can I get you boys some more?", the waitress asked.

	"Yuss, pleeze!", Derek SkullBuster answered.

	Yes!  It's all you can eat ribs at The Big Rhino: one cover
charge at the door and you can chow down 'til the cows come home (or
until they run out of cows!).  But this was no ordinary night at the
Rhino...

	A man in a black coat and hat ran into the room with a shotgun
in one hand and a black case over his shoulder.  He ran all the way
across the hall and jumped onto the small stage at the opposite end.
A few heads lifted from their plates to watch curiously, but they soon
went back to their eating.

	However, when six more humans ran into the room, apparently
chasing after the first, things got a bit more interesting.  The one
on the stage grabbed the microphone: "Heya and howdy from Seattle's
favorite spot for all ya can eat ribs, The big biG bIG BIG RHINO!"
The group of people that had just entered slowed to a stop and looked
slowly around themselves.  "The live entertainment will begin in a few
short minutes, but in the meantime we have a pre-game show for ya."

	He paused while more diners look up from their meals.  "Please,
everyone, let's give a warm welcome to my friends and yours, from the
Auburn area, THE TROG CRUSHERS!!!"  A spotlight was pointed on the
men on cue.

	At this, many more eaters stopped their repast and stood up.
One of the men uttered a pitiful whine of anguish, and the rest made a
mad dash towards the door.  They never made it.  A host of orks
escorted their new (and frantically screaming) human friends into a
room with the words "Party Area" scrawled over the door.

	"Hmmmm, dat's sompthin ya don't see every day, Nigel."

	"Yeah."  Nigel sucked on a rib bone as he spoke.  "Hoose da
breeder?"  He pointed to the man now walking off the side of the
stage.

	The question took a while to register in Derek's brain.
"Ohhh!  Dat ain't no breeder: dat's an ork."

	Nigel GutRipper was confused. "Huh?  Don't look like no
ork ta me..."

	"Uh-huh.  Dat's Freddy HeadBanger.  He's as ork as a softie
can get..."

	*	*	*	*	*	*	*	*

	The music was pounding away on the stage.  They were a power
trio, with Larry and Herb filling the guitar and drum positions (yeah,
they're orks too).  Freddy was playing his 6-string fretless bass.

	It was his favorite instrument of all: one of his artist
friends has mounted a holo-pict on the body and neck surfaces.  The
body depicted the head of a hooded Humanis member.  Around his neck
was a noose of thick rope.  This rope trailed upwards and continued
along the neck of the bass, so that it appeared that Freddy was
gripping the noose himself when he played it.  He loved the bass.  He
loved the symbolism.

	He was wearing full face-paint that night.  This was his
custom when playing in FizzleFry, but it also help to cover up his two
growing black-eyes on this occasion.

	The band all-in-all had a primal feel: the beat took over your
mind and wouldn't let go until it was done with you.  It was catchy
and driving: minimalistic, but by no means simplistic.  While the
crowd normal paid more attention to their food than the stage acts,
listeners all around couldn't help but to bob their heads in time with
the music while still eating.  Freddy's favorite tune was "Eleven", so
called because it was in 11/8, and they had nothing better to call it.
The lyrics were powerful and defiant:

	"I just can't seem to blend
	 into society
	 I have no hope for this dim
	 simplicity of law and order
	 by whose rules I see no rhyme in
	 the reason
	 I hold no hope for this holy treason
	 of love and so soft
	 by whose standards
	 They tell me, they tell me
	 Who are they, who is they?"

	Tears streamed down his face as he sang the song.  Tears of
frustration, saddness, anger, happiness, fear, hope, and every other
emotion imaginable: emotion flowing through him and out of him, into
the music.  It was catharsis he could find nowhere else.

	He poured himself out to the listeners...

	|	|	|	|	|	|	|	|

	He sat backstage with Larry LegLasher after the gig, telling
him of the past week.  "Man, I dunno what to do.  At least I got a few
lives left until the clone bank labels me as a financial liability.
But how long will it take the Crushers to geek me, say, four or five
times?"

	The ork nodded and brought his hand up to his chin in thought,
"Well, sounds like dem kluxers gotta bead on you.  It coulda been a
koinky-dink dat they saw you tonight: you may have assumed the worst,
since you paranoid.  But smart ting's not to do nothin' at this point.
We kin hole you up here at the Rhino for a while."  He smiled.  "We's
family after all."

	Freddy smiled back, "Yeah.  I guess we are..."

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

Comprehensive scripting and color commentary here is Copyright by Mark
Friedman 1991, all rights reserved.  Basic story plot  and Matrix help
was by Jerry Weiler, but he won't mind: I'm giving him all the profits
from the venture. Let's  see,  what's 100% of  $0.00?  :-) Also, basic
Shadowrun backdrops are in extensive use, so them FASA dudes might get
a small cut as well.  Oh yeah, and "Eleven" lyrics by Snap.

Any questions, comments, requests, criticisms, and Chapman Sticks will
be accepted and appreciated at the address in the sig.

					- Mark "Crimson" Friedman

Mark "Klone Crimson" Friedman is friedman@cis.ohio-state.edu .................
"There is nothing former   "Beat poets,    "If you put a hungry ferret in your
 about King Crimson."       not children."  trousers, he'll run around..."
 - Robert Fripp, 5/11/90    - anonymous     - Nigel Tufnel (Spinal Tap)
Newsgroups: alt.cyberpunk.chatsubo