Upgrade by Richard Parry

collar, the rain starting to bite his face.   “Wait.   It’s hard to be sure?”
    “Some members of the crowd didn’t have a tag.”
    “Illegals, huh?”
    “It’s not illegal, Mason.”   Carter sighed down the link.   “It’s just strongly discouraged.”
    Mason snorted.   “Yeah, sure.   You and I went to different schools, Carter.   Different schools.”
    “You should get out of the rain, Mason.”
    “Yeah.”   Mason rubbed his jaw, feeling where the rain was starting to burn his skin.   “Ok.   I’ll go see who’s home.”
    As he walked away from the bike, the machine’s lights dimmed.   Mason could hear the plink of cooling metal against the tap of the rain.   His feet scuffed against a few stray pebbles, the street and footpath in disrepair.   A Budweiser — staple of the common man — bottle lay in the gutter, the rain slowly burning the label from it.   He pushed open the door, which swung back on surprisingly even hinges.
    He’d expected a creak at least.   It’d have gone well with the inside of the place, all blacks and reds.   An actual stage was set against the back wall, lights and speakers cold and lifeless.
    At least it had a full length, not-fuck-around bar.   The rest of the room was just a big empty space.
    Except for her.   A woman was at the bar, a bottle of something amber — no glass — in front of her.   She sat in a small pool of light, the dim room stretching out around her like a lake of gloom.   Her eyes flicked to him as he stepped inside, then away.   “We’re closed.”
    Mason smiled.   “Bars never close.”
    “This one does.   Fuck off.”   She took a pull from the bottle, swallowing big.
    Mason shut the door behind him, walking towards her.   He nodded at the bottle.   “May I?”
    Her eyes flicked to him again, giving him a proper once-over.   “Sure.”   She didn’t turn away from the mirror behind the bar.
    Fine .   He reached under the bar and snagged a glass, splashing some of the liquor into it.   He took a sip, then coughed.   “Fresh, isn’t it?”
    A small smile tugged at the edge of her mouth.   She was pretty, if you wanted to dial up the grunge.   “That’s one word for it.   House speciality.”
    “I’d hate to taste what they do bad, you know?”   Mason pulled out a pack of Treasurers, offering her one.   She looked at the pack for a second, then reached out and took one with long fingers, painted black nails.   Guitarist’s hands, unless he missed his guess — the nails went with the calluses.   The silver of the cigarette caught the light against her black lipstick as she leaned forward to the offered light.
    She gave a small sound of pleasure.   “That’s a good cigarette.”
    Mason lit one for himself.   “Yeah.”   He breathed the smoke in, then sent the exhale out towards the ceiling.   “What do you play?”
    “Play?”
    Mason watched the cigarette smoke walk on lazy legs upward.   “You look like a guitarist.”
    “Nothing you’d like,” said the woman, but she was watching him with more interest now.   “Nothing straight and even.”
    “I don’t think life’s supposed to be straight and even,” said Mason.   “I think it’s supposed to be jagged around the edges.”
    “Sure,” she said, but something had relaxed in her shoulders.
    Still, tough crowd .   “How about them Seahawks, yeah?”
    She snorted.   “Don’t waste your time.”   She held the cigarette out from her, the tip pointed upwards against the flat of her hand.   “Are these — are these silver?   Did you just light me up a silver filter?”
    Mason took another drag, the ember tip of the Treasurer flaring briefly.   “What do you mean, don’t waste my time?”
    She thought for a few moments, then took another pull from her cigarette.   “Well, it’s one of two things.”
    Mason nodded.   “Sure.   What two things?”
    “Well, more like one thing, with a bonus round.”
    A smile tugged