usually meant cartoon alien porn.
Franco sat up, his bones
creaking, empty tins rattling from his body. His D5 shotgun hit the carpet with
a thump. His feet were encased in his large fluffy comedy rabbit
slippers. His tired eyes tried to focus on the clock. 11.17 AM. Hot damn, he’d
overslept!
Franco climbed wearily to his
feet, clutched his head in his hands, and wrenched his skull sideways. There
was a sickening crack of crunching neck tendons. “Ahh,” said Franco. “Ahh. Ahh.
That feels better.” Outside, the siren of an emergency vehicle wailed across
The City.
But... he thought.
But but but.
But why was he still
sleeping at 11.17 AM?
Why hadn’t Mel woken him?
Why was Mel still slumbering in
bed? That wasn’t like Mel. Mel was a stickler for rising early bright and
shine. Even after a crate of DOG Town red.
A million horrific scenarios
galloped across his imagination. Franco sprinted into the bedroom, saw
scattered, tousled sheets. But Mel was gone.
“Melanie?” he bellowed, panic
giving his voice a bestial urgency.
No answer.
“MELANIE?” he screamed.
“I’m... in the bathroom.” Her
voice was weak, thick, muffled by the hefty bathroom door. Her tone held a
wavering, ethereal quality. It sounded strange.
“Are you OK?”
“I just feel a bit... queasy.”
“OK. I’ll make you a coffee.”
“That’d be great, Franco.”
Franco staggered into the
kitchen, scratching at his testicles. He switched on the CoffeeChef™ (Coffee
coffee you wanna nother coffee? —although you probably had to be there to
appreciate the joke). He lounged against the worktop, breathing deeply, and
trying to work out any way in which Voloshko could find him. The bastard would
certainly make some kind of effort. After all, Franco had made the head
of a global Syndicate look like a dick.
From the bathroom, there came a thud.
Franco turned and stared at the
door, languishing innocently at the end of the long corridor.
“Mel?” he called.
No reply.
“You OK in there?”
“Franco. I don’t want you to get
angry.”
Franco sighed. That was bad, that
was. Any dialogue which began Franco I don’t want you to get angry meant
he was, nine times out of ten, pretty much damn guaranteed to get angry. Taking
care to keep his voice calm amidst his pounding headache and general feeling of
unwell-being, he said, voice steady, and measured, “Why would I be getting
angry, my love?”
“I just want you to promise me
you won’t get angry.”
“How can I promise something,
when I don’t know what the something is, that might make me angry? That’s
unfair, that is. You’re taking advantage of my good nature and prior ignorance
to a situation I know nothing about.”
“Franco!” she squawked.
“OK. OK. I promise I won’t get
angry.”
“Good.”
“So then? What’s wrong?”
“Now, you promise, don’t you?”
Her voice had gone all wavery again.
“Yes,” sighed Franco. Behind him,
the CoffeeChef TM pinged. Franco poured two cups of steaming,
frothing Heaven, and stood, a cup in each hand, facing the bathroom door.
“OK. I bought a...”
Here we go, thought Franco. A
settee. A TV. Some curtains. A new dishwasher. For a tax inspector, Mel was
awesomely lax when it came to inspecting the tax.
“... a biomod upgrade.”
There was a crash as the coffee
cup hit the floor. Coffee surged across the tiles. “You did what?” shouted
Franco. “How the hell do you think we can afford that? We’re getting married in
a few days! They’re bloody extortionate! We’ve already talked about this,
and...”
“You promised, Franco.”
His teeth snapped shut. He felt
his new denture twinge.
“Anyway,” continued Mel’s
wavering, “I didn’t get a proper NanoTek one because they’re too
expensive. My friend Emily took me to the market and we met
Franco sat up, his bones
creaking, empty tins rattling from his body. His D5 shotgun hit the carpet with
a thump. His feet were encased in his large fluffy comedy rabbit
slippers. His tired eyes tried to focus on the clock. 11.17 AM. Hot damn, he’d
overslept!
Franco climbed wearily to his
feet, clutched his head in his hands, and wrenched his skull sideways. There
was a sickening crack of crunching neck tendons. “Ahh,” said Franco. “Ahh. Ahh.
That feels better.” Outside, the siren of an emergency vehicle wailed across
The City.
But... he thought.
But but but.
But why was he still
sleeping at 11.17 AM?
Why hadn’t Mel woken him?
Why was Mel still slumbering in
bed? That wasn’t like Mel. Mel was a stickler for rising early bright and
shine. Even after a crate of DOG Town red.
A million horrific scenarios
galloped across his imagination. Franco sprinted into the bedroom, saw
scattered, tousled sheets. But Mel was gone.
“Melanie?” he bellowed, panic
giving his voice a bestial urgency.
No answer.
“MELANIE?” he screamed.
“I’m... in the bathroom.” Her
voice was weak, thick, muffled by the hefty bathroom door. Her tone held a
wavering, ethereal quality. It sounded strange.
“Are you OK?”
“I just feel a bit... queasy.”
“OK. I’ll make you a coffee.”
“That’d be great, Franco.”
Franco staggered into the
kitchen, scratching at his testicles. He switched on the CoffeeChef™ (Coffee
coffee you wanna nother coffee? —although you probably had to be there to
appreciate the joke). He lounged against the worktop, breathing deeply, and
trying to work out any way in which Voloshko could find him. The bastard would
certainly make some kind of effort. After all, Franco had made the head
of a global Syndicate look like a dick.
From the bathroom, there came a thud.
Franco turned and stared at the
door, languishing innocently at the end of the long corridor.
“Mel?” he called.
No reply.
“You OK in there?”
“Franco. I don’t want you to get
angry.”
Franco sighed. That was bad, that
was. Any dialogue which began Franco I don’t want you to get angry meant
he was, nine times out of ten, pretty much damn guaranteed to get angry. Taking
care to keep his voice calm amidst his pounding headache and general feeling of
unwell-being, he said, voice steady, and measured, “Why would I be getting
angry, my love?”
“I just want you to promise me
you won’t get angry.”
“How can I promise something,
when I don’t know what the something is, that might make me angry? That’s
unfair, that is. You’re taking advantage of my good nature and prior ignorance
to a situation I know nothing about.”
“Franco!” she squawked.
“OK. OK. I promise I won’t get
angry.”
“Good.”
“So then? What’s wrong?”
“Now, you promise, don’t you?”
Her voice had gone all wavery again.
“Yes,” sighed Franco. Behind him,
the CoffeeChef TM pinged. Franco poured two cups of steaming,
frothing Heaven, and stood, a cup in each hand, facing the bathroom door.
“OK. I bought a...”
Here we go, thought Franco. A
settee. A TV. Some curtains. A new dishwasher. For a tax inspector, Mel was
awesomely lax when it came to inspecting the tax.
“... a biomod upgrade.”
There was a crash as the coffee
cup hit the floor. Coffee surged across the tiles. “You did what?” shouted
Franco. “How the hell do you think we can afford that? We’re getting married in
a few days! They’re bloody extortionate! We’ve already talked about this,
and...”
“You promised, Franco.”
His teeth snapped shut. He felt
his new denture twinge.
“Anyway,” continued Mel’s
wavering, “I didn’t get a proper NanoTek one because they’re too
expensive. My friend Emily took me to the market and we met
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