have a major contract ; major money for providing a service to a major tribe, like the other major contractors –
A darker thought struck him, pulling him back from the few seconds of pleasant reverie. “Hey.” Staring suspiciously at Brevis’s image. “What about DeathPix? What happened to them? I thought they did graffex for Havoc Mass.”
Brevis’s vibrating enthusiasm ebbed, replaced by a more familiar expression. The uplifted hand cautiously stroked the air. “Uh . . . you don’t have to worry about them, Ny. This doesn’t really have anything to do with DeathPix. You know?”
“Yeah, I know.” Thanks a lot. You asshole. The grand estimate of the Havoc Mass wealth, and his tiny but juicy sliver of it, dwindled away. This is your big deal? Cutting in on DeathPix’s action? He shook his head. “Great – you really earn your commission on this one, all right. When DeathPix sends over some of their pet thugs to cut off my nuts, I’ll tell ’em to just do it ninety percent, and the other ten percent’s for you. Okay?”
“Ny . . . come on.” The voice displayed its wounds. “You’re my client . Would I set you up for something like that?”
“No, I don’t think you’d set me up. You’re just a stupid dumb fucker who doesn’t know what he’s doing. Jesus.” He couldn’t believe this. Everybody knew what a stupid idea – stupid to the point of merrily embraced self-destruction – cutting in on DeathPix’s business was. It was common knowledge among freelance graffices, one of those little bits of info that the old-timers were happy to pass along to the new guys. Complete with grisly accounts of what had happened to those foolish enough to have succumbed to that temptation. Accounts that, even shorn of the embroidery years of retelling had given them, still contained a hard stone of truth: that DeathPix was nothing to screw around with. It had the true arrogance of power, blithely servicing the Havoc Mass and the Grievous Amalgam, and any other tribe that could afford its fees. DeathPix was an organization big and powerful enough, with more revenue than most B-list tribes, to be considered a tribe itself. Except not as much fun; its gray hierarchy had put Axxter off the idea of accepting the job he’d been offered with them. It wouldn’t have seemed like going vertical at all; just one dud prison in exchange for the other. Grubbing away in some little cubicle and maybe three whole steps up the corporate ladder before he died, or got pensioned off good as dead. When he’d turned down the job, handing the contract back to the DeathPix recruiter, he’d thought it’d be better to starve out on some wastewall sector than to sign up for a life like that. He’d had occasion to think about that decision since; not quite so sure, now.
“Ny, believe me – I know what you’re thinking, and it’s not like that.” Brevis patiently worked his line. “I’m not trying to get you to go up there just to cut in on DeathPix’s business and get your butt kicked. It’s something different. And it’s something you’re gonna have to keep your mouth shut about, too, okay? You got me?”
Secrets, no less. “This better be good.”
“I promise you.” Brevis’s voice went lower, confidential. “There’s some big changes coming up. I mean really big. The Havoc Mass is thinking of dumping DeathPix altogether. I mean, boot them right out the flippin’ window.” He leaned back, eyeing Axxter’s reaction.
Genuinely impressed – Axxter bit his lip and drew in a hissing breath. Sweet Jesus – maybe Guyer is right, with all her talk of revolution in the air. Big changes, indeed. If not a complete inversion of Cylinder’s top power rankings – what Guyer’s messianic faith was given over to – it was still a fundamental change in the organizational fabric binding Mass and Amalgam. As if one of them had decided to switch over to some other
A darker thought struck him, pulling him back from the few seconds of pleasant reverie. “Hey.” Staring suspiciously at Brevis’s image. “What about DeathPix? What happened to them? I thought they did graffex for Havoc Mass.”
Brevis’s vibrating enthusiasm ebbed, replaced by a more familiar expression. The uplifted hand cautiously stroked the air. “Uh . . . you don’t have to worry about them, Ny. This doesn’t really have anything to do with DeathPix. You know?”
“Yeah, I know.” Thanks a lot. You asshole. The grand estimate of the Havoc Mass wealth, and his tiny but juicy sliver of it, dwindled away. This is your big deal? Cutting in on DeathPix’s action? He shook his head. “Great – you really earn your commission on this one, all right. When DeathPix sends over some of their pet thugs to cut off my nuts, I’ll tell ’em to just do it ninety percent, and the other ten percent’s for you. Okay?”
“Ny . . . come on.” The voice displayed its wounds. “You’re my client . Would I set you up for something like that?”
“No, I don’t think you’d set me up. You’re just a stupid dumb fucker who doesn’t know what he’s doing. Jesus.” He couldn’t believe this. Everybody knew what a stupid idea – stupid to the point of merrily embraced self-destruction – cutting in on DeathPix’s business was. It was common knowledge among freelance graffices, one of those little bits of info that the old-timers were happy to pass along to the new guys. Complete with grisly accounts of what had happened to those foolish enough to have succumbed to that temptation. Accounts that, even shorn of the embroidery years of retelling had given them, still contained a hard stone of truth: that DeathPix was nothing to screw around with. It had the true arrogance of power, blithely servicing the Havoc Mass and the Grievous Amalgam, and any other tribe that could afford its fees. DeathPix was an organization big and powerful enough, with more revenue than most B-list tribes, to be considered a tribe itself. Except not as much fun; its gray hierarchy had put Axxter off the idea of accepting the job he’d been offered with them. It wouldn’t have seemed like going vertical at all; just one dud prison in exchange for the other. Grubbing away in some little cubicle and maybe three whole steps up the corporate ladder before he died, or got pensioned off good as dead. When he’d turned down the job, handing the contract back to the DeathPix recruiter, he’d thought it’d be better to starve out on some wastewall sector than to sign up for a life like that. He’d had occasion to think about that decision since; not quite so sure, now.
“Ny, believe me – I know what you’re thinking, and it’s not like that.” Brevis patiently worked his line. “I’m not trying to get you to go up there just to cut in on DeathPix’s business and get your butt kicked. It’s something different. And it’s something you’re gonna have to keep your mouth shut about, too, okay? You got me?”
Secrets, no less. “This better be good.”
“I promise you.” Brevis’s voice went lower, confidential. “There’s some big changes coming up. I mean really big. The Havoc Mass is thinking of dumping DeathPix altogether. I mean, boot them right out the flippin’ window.” He leaned back, eyeing Axxter’s reaction.
Genuinely impressed – Axxter bit his lip and drew in a hissing breath. Sweet Jesus – maybe Guyer is right, with all her talk of revolution in the air. Big changes, indeed. If not a complete inversion of Cylinder’s top power rankings – what Guyer’s messianic faith was given over to – it was still a fundamental change in the organizational fabric binding Mass and Amalgam. As if one of them had decided to switch over to some other
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