precision. Now the crowd was beginning to murmur, but more out of morbid curiosity than disgust; I saw a few parents covering their children’s eyes, but for the most part, all attention was focused on the floor show.
A step backward, a drunken stagger, and the man raised his left hand—devoid of any weapons—high into the air. With a dramatic lurch, that arm swept down, axe-like, as his free hand plunged into the new, bloody body cavity. Another groan escaped his lips, followed by a gush of fluid, but he didn’t pause for a moment. As his body lurched about the Credit Union floor, torso heaving, legs shaking in a herky-jerky dance of death, the deadbeat grabbed hold, and grabbed hold tight. And then, with what must have been his last remnants of strength and will, he yanked.
And as he stumbled forward—his mechanical PK–14 Marshodyne fully functional pancreas with Auto-Insulin release clicking away in his bloody, outstretched hands, the titanium receptacle catheters still attached to the frayed ends of torn veins and arteries—the guards, who had not been at all put off when this man was wielding an 8-inch-long hunting knife, got spooked enough by the sight of a fellow offering up his own artiforg for repossession to launch into a full-scale assault, even though the man was, by all rights, only seconds from death.
All sixteen rifles fired at once.
By the time the attack was complete, the crowd was in an all-out panic, running for the doors, trampling each other in their effort to escape the onslaught. The Credit Union doesn’t have any policies in place for curtailing stampedes in their own offices; in fact, staff members are encouraged to let events play themselves out. At the very least, a few customers are bound to get stepped on in all the wrong places, creating a whole new profit base for the company on the next go-round. It’s no coincidence that Union money spearheaded the effort to get the “fire in a crowded theater” exception stricken from the First Amendment some years back.
That’s when I chose to make my exit along with the rest of the sheep, but I was pinned in long enough to see Frank arrive from upstairs with a Bio-Repo man in tow. He was a Level Three, just like they’d requested, his black tank top and bare neck displaying the Union tattoo belying his rank and profession. Hair cut short, military style, muscles firm and toned, a practiced scowl on a hardened face. Thin, wide-set eyes, blunt nose. In olden days, he’d have been a common street thug. In today’s marketplace, a Level Three was good as gold, nearly as close to Midas as a mortal could get. I’d been a Level Five, of course, but this wasn’t exactly the time to pull rank.
The Bio-Repo man flashed a scanner, pinging the already-quite-dead client, and confirmed that the artiforg was, indeed, Union property. Frank just stood there and stared at the bullet-riddled body on the ground, the outstretched arm holding the still-clicking Marshodyne PK–14. He spun on the contingent of guards, anger twisting his face into a scowl. “Who reclaimed that organ?” he bellowed, his voice carrying over the din of rioting customers. “Who reclaimed this goddamned organ?”
“The customer, sir,” replied the guard. “He did it himself, sir.”
“Customers don’t reclaim their own organs,” said Frank.
“This one did, sir.” He pointed to the hunting knife in the dead man’s hand with the barrel of his gun, as if to let the picture speak for itself.
I was halfway through the Credit Union door by that point, but as I hustled myself out, I could hear Frank spit in disgust. “Customers. Don’t know their goddamned place anymore.”
CHAPTER 6
A few more words about my current abode: It ain’t quite the Ritz.
To be more specific, I am staying in the burned-out remains of the Tyler Street Hotel, a formerly low-to-lower-class establishment that, when it was a functioning place of lodging, boasted no celebrity clientele
A step backward, a drunken stagger, and the man raised his left hand—devoid of any weapons—high into the air. With a dramatic lurch, that arm swept down, axe-like, as his free hand plunged into the new, bloody body cavity. Another groan escaped his lips, followed by a gush of fluid, but he didn’t pause for a moment. As his body lurched about the Credit Union floor, torso heaving, legs shaking in a herky-jerky dance of death, the deadbeat grabbed hold, and grabbed hold tight. And then, with what must have been his last remnants of strength and will, he yanked.
And as he stumbled forward—his mechanical PK–14 Marshodyne fully functional pancreas with Auto-Insulin release clicking away in his bloody, outstretched hands, the titanium receptacle catheters still attached to the frayed ends of torn veins and arteries—the guards, who had not been at all put off when this man was wielding an 8-inch-long hunting knife, got spooked enough by the sight of a fellow offering up his own artiforg for repossession to launch into a full-scale assault, even though the man was, by all rights, only seconds from death.
All sixteen rifles fired at once.
By the time the attack was complete, the crowd was in an all-out panic, running for the doors, trampling each other in their effort to escape the onslaught. The Credit Union doesn’t have any policies in place for curtailing stampedes in their own offices; in fact, staff members are encouraged to let events play themselves out. At the very least, a few customers are bound to get stepped on in all the wrong places, creating a whole new profit base for the company on the next go-round. It’s no coincidence that Union money spearheaded the effort to get the “fire in a crowded theater” exception stricken from the First Amendment some years back.
That’s when I chose to make my exit along with the rest of the sheep, but I was pinned in long enough to see Frank arrive from upstairs with a Bio-Repo man in tow. He was a Level Three, just like they’d requested, his black tank top and bare neck displaying the Union tattoo belying his rank and profession. Hair cut short, military style, muscles firm and toned, a practiced scowl on a hardened face. Thin, wide-set eyes, blunt nose. In olden days, he’d have been a common street thug. In today’s marketplace, a Level Three was good as gold, nearly as close to Midas as a mortal could get. I’d been a Level Five, of course, but this wasn’t exactly the time to pull rank.
The Bio-Repo man flashed a scanner, pinging the already-quite-dead client, and confirmed that the artiforg was, indeed, Union property. Frank just stood there and stared at the bullet-riddled body on the ground, the outstretched arm holding the still-clicking Marshodyne PK–14. He spun on the contingent of guards, anger twisting his face into a scowl. “Who reclaimed that organ?” he bellowed, his voice carrying over the din of rioting customers. “Who reclaimed this goddamned organ?”
“The customer, sir,” replied the guard. “He did it himself, sir.”
“Customers don’t reclaim their own organs,” said Frank.
“This one did, sir.” He pointed to the hunting knife in the dead man’s hand with the barrel of his gun, as if to let the picture speak for itself.
I was halfway through the Credit Union door by that point, but as I hustled myself out, I could hear Frank spit in disgust. “Customers. Don’t know their goddamned place anymore.”
CHAPTER 6
A few more words about my current abode: It ain’t quite the Ritz.
To be more specific, I am staying in the burned-out remains of the Tyler Street Hotel, a formerly low-to-lower-class establishment that, when it was a functioning place of lodging, boasted no celebrity clientele
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