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(no subject)

He ain't the killin' type. Even Hibbs knew it. Said as much, there in that hotel room, when he threw down that damn envelope with that damn picture and told that damn lie about Duckett. That lie fell off Hibbs's lips easier'n a cherry slidin' right off a banana split and damn, but he should've known he was bein' played. There's that old phrase about how you can't con a con-man, but it ain't true. You can con a con-man easy. Just find his weak spot and hit him there.

Damn Hibbs got him twice. Once this time, the other time back in Florida. So much for makin' right on the Tampa job.

There's two things he knows for sure. First is he ain't never goin' back to Australia. Second is he knows he got off easy. Maybe he didn't never intend on gettin' drunk enough to get in a fight, but when in Rome and all. Too bad the guy he head-butted turned out to be the Minister of Agriculture, but at least it got him out of the country before anyone could point the finger at him for what happened to Duckett. He don't care they deported him. He don't care at all. Once he gets to L.A. he'll be back closer to where he belongs. A man can get anywhere from L.A.

Least once he's on the plane (and damn if they don't open the door again for some last-minute lardo), he's just another traveler. He ain't the guy who flew halfway around the world to kill the wrong damn man. So what if he had to drink to dull the memory of the sound of the gunshot? It ain't like no one else in the whole damn country drinks. It's Australia, for God's sake. Ain't it true they wean babies off their bottles there by movin' 'em over to beer instead?

Yeah, right. At least he ain't in the business of makin' excuses, not for himself or for no one else. He looks around the plane. There's a couple, miserable-lookin', Asian. There's the most pregnant chick he's ever seen. There's some Arab -- ain't it a law they ain't allowed to fly since 9/11? -- and there's the guy they had to wheel on board ahead of time. A few rows back, there's a pretty lady with dark hair stuck in the middle seat. Across the aisle, some blonde chick's complainin' about not bein' in first class.

He ain't never flown first class. Instead of lookin' around he takes out the safety card, looks at the pictures on it, rolls his eyes, and puts it back. Sooner they get to L.A. the better. Settled back in his seat, he closes his eyes and relive the whole Australia thing. He ain't prone to regrets, but he has one. He killed the wrong damn man. Nothin' to do about it but endure.

'Til that punk kid goes racin' up the aisle, tryin' the bathroom doors, and the flight crew follows. He ain't never been a believer in some grand plan or in cause and effect, none of that stuff, but he can't help notice right after the kid pulls that little stunt is when the plane starts to shake and shimmy like it's tryin' to win the dance contest at Jack Rabbit Slim's. Before Osama a row ahead or the blonde who wanted first class or the big guy who almost didn't make it on the plane even get the chance to ask what the hell's goin' on, the oxygen masks drop. Good thing he read the damn safety card: put on your own oxygen mask before you assist others, it said.

To hell with assistin' others. Once he gets that mask on his grip on the seat handle's so damn tight they couldn't pry him out of there if they tried. Damn shame they probably ain't gonna get the chance. Not the way this thing's rockin' and rollin'.

Too bad he ain't big on prayer, 'cause now would be the time. Hell, he can't even think of the words, and ain't no one up there gonna listen to him anyhow.

(no subject)

Man's got to keep busy, and it ain't all watchin' the soaps and drinkin' Martian beer that satisfies. No, he's been doin' his time in the city. It suits him better than the resort sometimes; he gets an itch and when he gets that itch he's gotta scratch it. To some it might look like he's just another suit walkin' around, but that's what he wants 'em to think. When people think that, they slip up and tell him stuff, and that's how come he knows where to find the highest-rate forger in the city and how much a vial of red-eye goes for and where to get a gun that can't be traced and when the next shipment of contraband cargo's comin' in from Tharsis. It's also how come he knows where a person needs to go to get a high-quality holographic picture taken or what exactly goes into a retina scan and which lawyer's best at gettin' people out of all kinds of trouble here, on Mars, on Venus. He knows what that whole schematic he got his hands on a long time ago means, and how far things go under the resort and what the hotel's parent company is and where it traces back to and how many hops away that information is.

Damn, baby, he's just a walkin' encyclopedia of knowledge, and that dark suit he bought's sure come in handy. That and a pair of sunglasses'll buy almost any information in this city. People ought to be more careful, but they ain't, and knowledge is power and it don't take rocket science to figure that out.

Every now and then he gets the feelin' he's bein' watched, catches a glimpse of red before it disappears, but hell, he's just buyin' a pack of cigarettes or gettin' himself an ice cream cone or lookin' at magazines. Nothin' illegal or immoral. He can't help it if he's real good at inspiring confidences. All he's doin' is listening.

5/26/74

He didn't like that.

He didn't like that at all. That was a long... how the hell long was it the power was out anyhow? Nine hours? Ten? He sure lost track of time there in the darkness, but now that he's relieved himself and cleaned up a little, put on fresh clothes, it's time for the next order of business. If he was stuck in the elevator, it could be that somethin' bad happened to Freckles too.

Time to check up on Sassafras.

It don't take long at all to haul his ass down the stairs to 317; it's as likely a place to start lookin' as any. The elevator ain't even a damn option today, but in no time he's poundin' at her door. He don't care what time it is (maybe 7:30 in the a.m.) and he don't care if she's asleep and he don't care if he wakes up anyone else. Wake up the whole damn hotel for all he cares.

"You in there, Freckles?"

Hell yes he could have called first, but this ain't no date for a nice little cup of tea. He's got to see her with his own eyes and hold her with his own hands, and that's the only damn way he'll be satisfied.

(no subject)

Take me out to the ball game,
Take me out with the crowd.
Buy me some peanuts and cracker jack,
I don't care if I never get back,
Let me root, root, root for the home team,
If they don't win it's a shame.
For it's one, two, three strikes, you're out,
At the old ball game.

Back when he was a little kid, he played in a peewee league. He always liked that: the uniforms, swingin' the bat, hitting the ball as far as little arms could make it go. That was fun, and he ain't no slouch when it comes to bein' in shape -- better now he ain't smoking no more -- but he's pretty damn far from a pro athlete. Don't mean he can't admire it. So when Freckles said hey, Sawyer, how about a baseball game? he didn't even have to think twice.

Home team's called the Tokyo Tarantulas, and they're playin' the Earth-based Blue Sox. Don't even matter he ain't got a team to root for. As him and Freckles -- Freckles Loress, while they're here on Mars, to match her passport -- file into the stadium, he takes a deep breath of nighttime Martian air.

There's somethin' about a ball park. It's the way it looks and the way it smells. It's the arc of the lights, the hum of the crowd. People eatin' hot dogs and drinkin' beer, and guys working their way through the stadium selling all that stuff that's awful for you but you can't do without. Freckles had a lot of luck at that casino the first night, and maybe he'll have his turn at it tomorrow night but here in Halley Stadium ("Home of the Galaxy-Famous Tarantulas"), he's just a guy taking his woman to see the major-league baseball. It's warm and bright and the company's good and the beer's cold, and he hands her one as they sit about a third of the way back on the first base line -- good seats, good view -- and as soon as that hot dog guy comes around he's buyin' two with the works. And hell, if he had one he'd have brought a mitt.

Fly balls. Got to go for 'em. Got to love those souvenirs that come with near-death experiences attached.

"You good, Freckles? Want anything?" Got to also love those open-ended questions.

March 27, 2074

Eeny, meeny, miney, moe, catch a soldier by the toe.

"Now what the hell am I gonna do with you." The two toy soldiers stand at attention on his bureau. He knows there's a treasure inside, just like the one inside the Virgin Mary statues from that Beechcraft. And like the heroin inside the statues, the red-eye inside the toy soldiers is every bit as dangerous, every bit as addictive, and every bit as valuable. The difference is he's in a place where he could actually make money off what's in his little pals over there. On the island, there was no damn currency. The drugs were worthless.

Almost.

Here, though... well, he ain't never dabbled in selling drugs before, but he knows better than to do it in the Dragons' back yard. If he's gonna make a quick however many Woolongs off these things, he won't do it here. No, he'll wait till he goes to Mars with Freckles, then see what he can do with 'em there. Or maybe some other planet or moon. Someplace far, far away: he kind of likes what they have goin' here.

The question is this: how does he do it without Freckles catchin' on? She's sharp. It could just be he's got to take a trip without her one of these days, after he finds out what he can about the street value of this stuff. If he remembers right -- he hasn't opened 'em yet -- there's at least one vial in each of these. But each one of these little things is worth a bundle. He ain't gonna retire on the value of what he's got here or nothing, but it'll go a long way toward restoring what he spent on his passport.

But not today. No, today he wraps each of those toy soldiers in a sock, wraps each sock-clad soldier in a pair of skivvies, and sticks 'em in the back of his underwear drawer. Then he sets his ass down on the chair, stretches out his legs, and flicks on the television.

It's time for the soaps.

March 2, 2074

The shuttle ain't full, but there are other people on it. Who the hell knows where they all started? Mars? Some moon near Jupiter? Another asteroid?

When he was little -- like when he moved from Jasper to Knoxville -- he used to play this game in the car, mostly 'cause he was the only kid and his grandparents didn't have a whole lot of patience for car games like his mama used to have. He'd look at the other people in the cars and trucks and buses goin' by and think to himself where they might have come from and where they were goin'. It's a game he's tempted to play now, only in a more adult way.

It's only a half hour to Aphrodite, so that don't give 'em a hell of a lot of time for games. But as him and Freckles settle in their shuttle seats and that moment of damn, I remember what happened last time me and her were on any type of plane together passes, he turns to her and speaks so quietly it could be the most confidential statement in the world. Nodding toward a mismatched couple -- guy looks about fifteen years younger than the lady he's with -- he raises an eyebrow. "Wonder what their story is."

Resident Asteroid Travel Expert might or might not nibble and play along, but even if she don't, he can still wonder.

Flight attendants will be making a final check before departure. Please make sure your items are properly stowed and your seatbelts securely fastened.

Aw, hell, ain't no cause for nerves at all. It's just another damn plane ride.

March 1, 2074

Now how the hell does a cassette tape get in the middle of his damn magazines? He was just readin' 'em a minute ago and turned to look out the window 'cause that bird used to ride around on Vicious's shoulder flew by, and when he looks back, there's a dingy old cassette there. He picks it up, looks at the label on the side.

Kate and Tom 1989.

"Well, I'll be." He only knows one Kate, but he's pretty damn sure she didn't bring this thing in with her last time she was here, or the time before. Come to think on it, he ain't never seen it on the island neither, not that he's seen everything. Just most of it.

Maybe it ain't hers. He knows it ain't his. There's one way to find out: he picks up the phone and calls the operator. "I need a cassette player."

Whatever automated system it is puts him on hold, so he waits. And waits, and waits, until finally he gets disconnected. So he calls again: I need a damn cassette player. This time an automated voice comes back. No such item exists in inventory.

Son of a bitch. Of course it's old technology now. Plan B. Back to the phone, he calls his (Freckles') room. If she ain't still avoidin' him, maybe she'll pick up.

(no subject)

Ain't no such thing as butterflies in his stomach or his heart skippin' beats. None of that Wuthering Heights fated-to-be-in-love crap; he ain't no stalker like that damn Heathcliff son of a bitch and Freckles ain't no mournful mooning Cathy.

He never liked that book.

Over the years he's been with a lot of women. From the time he was sixteen, he's romanced 'em. Wined 'em, dined 'em, fooled around with 'em, conned 'em. He hasn't conned every woman he's slept with and he hasn't slept with every woman he's conned. But he hasn't had very many bedtime partners where he didn't have some kind of ulterior motive and he ain't ashamed to admit it: it's what he does. Reminds him of a long-ago conversation he had with Freckles when she wanted something from him. I've got a lot more of everything, but you ain't got carte blanche yet.

Whether or not she knows it, she's got it now.

So he can't help but wonder: what is it she wants right now? Right here, today, when all the stuff they want is just a phone call away and they got a whole damn asteroid at their disposal? If he was the introspective type he might wonder why him: out of all the guys here, why'd she choose him? Damn good thing he ain't never given introspection a second glance; he don't have time for that shit. So he's only a little bit surprised when he finds himself outside the door to her room, like he was drawn there by somethin' inevitable. Fate? He's a damn opportunist. He goes where his libido takes him.

If only that was always true, he wouldn't ever get into so much trouble like he does. If only he could shut it all up, all those damn little voices inside telling him what's right and what's wrong. Mostly he ignores 'em, always has. And then he woke up this morning going... hey there, Freckles. Only she wasn't there. It's a damn good thing he knows how to remedy that.

He ain't got no cards, no flowers, no pretty poems, no backpack full of mangoes. This time all he's got is himself. One of these days, that'll be enough.

February 17

At least here, he ain't stuck in some pit dug into the earth.

At least here, he ain't in a damn bear cage.

At least here, the bullet's been taken out by a real doc and everything, packed and wrapped and sterilized and all that good stuff, and the bandages ain't even bloody. Whatever that Marron kid did, he did good and the list of people he owes now is longer than it was a couple days ago. As much as he hates that live together, die alone crap Doc Giggles always espouses, there's somethin' to it. He won't ever admit that in public but hey, can't blame a guy for singin' a different song every once in a while.

The down side of bein' here all shot up is this ain't no magic healing island. Ain't nothin' special in the water here. Last night? It was hard, not that he'll ever own up to that. He wasn't quite feverish but almost. Had the chills, got too hot, tried not to move a whole lot, kept his leg propped up. Ordered in room service -- try gettin' that on Craphole Island -- watched too much TV. Read too many trash tabloids, finished a book, drank a beer from some place called Iapetus, which he'll look up sometime and see where the hell it is.

Mostly, he spent a lot of time wishin' he was out and walkin' around. Man always wants what he can't have, don't he? Reaching over to the bedside table, he grabs himself a cigarette and lights it with a book of matches from that pizza place where he told Freckles he'd try and behave. He hears a voice in his head from long ago reminding him it ain't smart to smoke in bed.

He ignores it.

(no subject)

Enough damn licking his wounds. So he got dealt a lousy hand: it ain't the first time and it won't be the last. There's only so much feelin' sorry for himself a man can do but damn, he ain't used to being on the receiving end of no con. Last time that happened to him, he wound up in Australia feeling like hell for killing the wrong guy. He knew he'd been played.

And you're pretty good, Sawyer. We're a lot better.

He believed it. He believed it at first, and he believed it the day after, and he believed it the day after that, too, but now... now he ain't so damn sure. All he knows is he's tired, and he doesn't get tired. Sure, they pumped him full of mida... zolam or whatever the hell it was back on the island, and then they gave him something in the hospital, but he's healthy as a damn horse. Stuff shouldn't affect him like that. Whether it's like him or not, it sure has been nice to just hide out in his room. He ain't never been accused of selflessness.

No new tabloids, no new news stories, nothin' new on the room service menu. He's shaved and showered and about as gussied up as he's gonna get, and he's been staring at the damn party invitation. For the past hour and a half he's been fighting with himself over picking up the phone and calling Freckles and he imagines the conversation will go like this: Freckles, remind me of one thing: no one at this place wants to kill me, do they? That's back on the island. There ain't no Others here. I got that right? And she'll roll her eyes and tell him no, James, what are you smoking? and that will be that when what he really wants to know is will she be goin' to this party and can he take her.

They been through a thing or two, him and Sassafras, and he still thinks they're two of a kind.

Does she? Hell if he knows. So he smokes, has himself a beer, smokes another cigarette, takes another shower. Ain't no amount of that can get the feel of the island off him.

(no subject)

Freckles was right about one thing: he does feel better after a night's sleep. And a big old room service breakfast and the latest tabloids -- damn if that Dr. Harper wasn't right about drug smugglers in the asteroid belt -- and a call to Freckles that went mostly like no, I don't need you, just thought if we're gonna go look for the doc we might as well get it over with before I get too damn used to this place. It didn't feel better to put on his stupid island clothes and that damn watch again, but he knows what he'll do when he gets back.

And revenge is gonna taste sweeter than the orange juice on his breakfast tray.

Twelve hours. They said twelve hours this time: the doc's worth half a day and that seems fair. One of these days they might even get around to timing this stuff to reality back on the island, but sittin' around waiting ain't nobody's idea of fun: if they're going, they might as well get a move on and git. It puts them back in their cages at night, but he's wide awake. He ain't so sure if Freckles is asleep or awake and he don't really feel like having a little tete-a-tete with her from across the aisle neither. Both of 'em got things to think about and he still ain't sure how much she paid for him at that hospital or where the money came from, but he ain't gonna begrudge her no secrets.

Hard to tell how long he lies there, but he knows the monitor's silent. And so is Freckles and so is he, and as the sounds of night deepen they bore him into this kind of half-sleep; he falls in and out of it until the sounds around them quiet and it has to be just before first light when he hears voices. It's the head honcho, Ben, with another couple guys with rifles and they take him out of the cage, real quiet, guns pointed to his back, and march him off. Day breaks around them; they're hiking up a steep path on the side of a hill. It feels like they walk in silence forever.

Finally, Ben opens his yap. "Not much further, James. Just at the top of the next rise." He points to a hill in the near distance -- does that count as an oxymoron, he wonders? -- but don't say no more. So far, they've just been walking.

"What's up there?" Man deserves to know where he's bein' led, don't he.

"Something I want you to see."

As far as he's concerned, Ben can talk all he wants but he knows the truth: there ain't no pacemaker in him. Whatever it is Ben wants him to see ain't gonna be shocking enough to give him a damn heart attack. So Ben wants him to see something? Let him show it off; it won't curb his sarcasm and general disbelief in everything the guy says from now on. He knows better than to trust a single damn word of it. "That little place you always wanted, George?"

Ben looks at him like he's got two heads, maybe three. His sorry? ain't nothin' more than a question mark at the end of the day.

"What, don't you read? It's from Of Mice and Men. You'd like it. Puppies get killed." Ben don't say nothin', neither do the other guys with the rifles. They just keep going, and the hike gets steeper and steeper all the time, covering harder terrain. Sure enough, the thing on his wrist starts beepin'. 125 beats per minute. What'd Ben tell him the top limit was? 140? He puts his hand over the bandage on his chest: now he gets to act it out with everything it's worth. They keep climbin', monitor reads 135. "Bring me up here to kill me? Make that thing you put inside of me blow up my damn heart?" If they don't know he knows, then he's got the damn power here, not them; his hand goes back to his chest like he's waitin' for his heart to pop right on out of there.

The only thing that surprises him even a little is the way the guy's so damn forthcoming about it. "Your heart's not going to blow up, James. The only thing we put inside you was doubt. Oh, the watch is a heart rate monitor, but nothing more." Why the hell's he telling him this now? Ben even pulls a white rabbit out of his satchel like some island magician; damn thing's got the number eight painted on its back. "Look. We gave him a sedative, not a pacemaker."

Yeah, right. Like the sedative and pacemaker they gave him and if he hadn't gone back and hadn't gone along with what Freckles wanted, he wouldn't even know this now, but he does. He ain't gonna act like it, though. The guys with the guns ain't that good, and sooner or later he'll be able to make his move. Not quite yet, though. "How do I know that's the same bunny? That you didn't just paint an eight on another one?"

"You don't," says Ben, matter-of-fact as hell.

That's it: he officially can't stand it no damn longer. Reaches back with his left hand, brings it around, and slugs the guy. Hard. Right in the damn mouth. "You son of a bitch." It's worth it, even though now the other two lackeys got him by an arm each.

Ben takes a minute, spits out a mouthful of blood: good. This is only the beginning. "The rabbit wasn't the thing I wanted to show you."

Now what the hell? Then he sees it, out of the corner of his eye at first and then better, and he can't believe it. Can't believe it for a second: across the way, across the water, another island. "What the--?"

"You ever been to Alcatraz -- take the tour?" Ben ain't even lookin' at him. Just lookin' across the water at the other island. "Right now you're standing on a small island roughly twice the size of Alcatraz. And that over there -- that's your island -- the one you've come to know and love. I just wanted you to know there's nowhere to run."

That don't make no sense. The whole thing ain't got no point. "You did all this just to... just to keep me in a damn cage?"

Now Ben turns to him, cool and casual and king of the damn world. "We did all this because the only way to gain a con man's respect is to con him. And you're pretty good, Sawyer. We're a lot better. Funny thing is, us telling you about the pacemaker wasn't what kept you in line. It was when I threatened her."

Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch! He don't want to hear this, but Ben just keeps right on going.

"You work so hard to make her think you don't care, that you don't need her, but, A guy goes nuts if he ain't got nobody. It don't make no difference who the guy is, long as he's with you. I tell you, I tell you a guy gets too lonely and he gets sick."

Eyes narrowed, he turns to Ben and can't get the view of that other island out of his mind, can't get the sick feeling out of his stomach. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"It's from Of Mice and Men. Don't you read?"

Of course. Now he gets it. Now he sees. It's a damn layered con, and he fell for it not once, but twice.

Son of a bitch.

"Come on, let's get you back to your cage."

This time, he don't even argue.

(no subject)

If that ain't the single crappiest night's sleep he's had since he got to this place. Yeah, ain't nothing like waking up in a damn cage covered with dirt and grime and sweat and dust. The inside of his mouth tastes like he ain't been near a toothbrush in a hundred years. Fish biscuits and kibble are nasty stuff. But he rolls over, stretches, runs a hand over the side of his face -- no call to shave -- then stands, blinking up at the morning light. There's sounds in the distance. A little bit like people movin' around, things like that.

Well. He knows where to get breakfast anyhow, now he's figured out the little system here. Just 'cause the bears did it faster ain't gonna bother him. It was an accomplishment, and it was his, and no damn Others get to take it away from him. He can order up his little fish biscuit faster now and he does. Pushes the levers just so, and throws the shoe, and...

Voila. The music starts, the biscuit and kibbles fall, and the water rushes out. In the cage across the way, he can see Freckles start to stir. Fair's fair: he breaks that fish biscuit in half.

(no subject)

Son. Of. A. Bitch.

His head don't feel so good; he's on the ground. Someplace outside, he realizes fuzzily as he starts to come around, but it don't smell like home. Hell, he ain't smelled home in months now but at least their part of the damn island smells familiar.

This don't.

As the world comes into focus and he sits up, he realizes he's in... a damn cage. Son of a bitch! And he ain't the only one: there's another cage across the walkway and a little ways away, a building with that damn Dharma logo on it. He'll figure out about that later, but for how all his attention's on the cage across the way.

'Cause it ain't empty. "Hey." The guy in Cage #2 looks over but doesn't say nothing. Time to try again. "Where are we? Who the hell are you?" Nothing. "Oh, you ain't gonna talk to me? What, you got more important things to do?"

At least two people can play that game and so long as Mr. Silent over there ain't one of theirs, he don't really care who the hell he is. Now he's upright, time to figure out how to get out of this cage. It looks solid, like the cages at older zoos. On one wall there's a button covered in some kind of Plexiglas; they got a fork and knife printed on it and a chute protrudes from the wall below it. That don't look so hard to figure out. In other parts of the cage there's a few levers. Bells and whistles, he guesses, things like that. They sure ain't just for decoration; he pushes the button.

Warning.

The voice comes from nowhere and everywhere and that's just fine and dandy. Warning for what? He pushes the button again.

Warning.

Now the guy from across the way pipes up, finally, just as he's about to push the button a third time. "I wouldn't do that."

"If I want your advice, I'll ask for it." Son of a bitch couldn't be bothered to answer before, so why should he listen to him now? Screw that; he presses the button and damn, that smarts. Damn thing's electrified, sends him flying across the cage to the bars on the other side. "Son of a bitch!"

"Told you."

(Damn know-it-all.)

The levers have his attention now. You pull this one, then press that one, then...

"Hey. Hey, how long would it take to get to your camp?" The guy on the other side's just a damn kid. Probably no more than sixteen, seventeen.

"What, you talking to me now, Chachi?"

The kid nods. "From where they got you, how long a walk was it? A day, two days? And what are the people like from your plane?"

Well, he's curious, ain't he. "Oh, they're just awesome." He turns his attention back to the levers. No, you press this one, then pull that one. "Last one of you boys came for a visit got tortured by our Iraqi. He tortured me, too. But hell, he don't know any better." No, maybe it's push this one, then pull this one, then pull that one... what the hell? How'd the kid get his cage door open? And he wasn't even watching.

Now the damn loudspeaker announces it. "Subject escaped. Subject escaped."

When the kid comes over to pick the lock on his cage, the whole escapin' thing starts to make sense. Still, he has to ask. "Hey, how'd you get out of there?"

The kid just opens his door and points. "Run that way."

Hold on... what the hell's goin' on, and where the hell's Freckles? The doc? "Hold on!"

"You run that way!" Kid's insistent, he's gotta give him that, and so he starts running. The kid runs the other way and it looks like they might just make it -- where, he doesn't know -- and then this blond lady shows up out of nowhere.

"Hey," she says with a smile. Whatever she shoots him with is good and it works fast.

It was a good try and he doesn't know what happened to the kid, but he sure as hell knows he ain't gettin' out of this cage again any time soon. What he can do is get himself a rock, and he stretches his arm through the bars until he grabs it. Aha: he might just have to be triumphant about that. Once he's got it he puts it on one of those levers, then takes off his shoe and throws it at the other lever.

Bingo! A song starts playing, and a voice comes over the loudspeaker. "Reward, reward." That chute near the button? A big old biscuit shaped like a fish comes out of it.

"Oh, come on." What the hell is this? "Unbelievable."

Next, a whole damn pile of food pellets comes out of the same chute. That cracker tastes terrible, but it's better than nothin', which is what he's had. He takes a bite, and a minute later water comes out of a pipe. He didn't realize how thirsty he's been and it tastes better than almost anything. But he stops. In the distance he hears a man's voice telling someone to keep moving. He watches, waits... and tries not to let his jaw drop too far when he sees it's Freckles. She's going in the damn cage across the way and he ain't sure if he ought to laugh or cry.

And it's that same son of a bitch -- Tom, that's what they said his name is -- who stole Walt off the boat. He locks her in, tells her to stick her arms out through the bars so he can take off her cuffs. Like he's concerned, he goes on. "They scratched you up pretty bad, didn't they? I'll bring you some antiseptic later."

How come ain't no one offering him no damn antiseptic? "How about you bring me an ottoman? While you're at it I could use a blow dry."

Tom gets all friendly and everything. "Hey, you got yourself a fish biscuit. How'd you do that?"

"I figured out your complicated gizmos, that's how." Only took a little damn ingenuity.

"Only took the bears 2 hours." Sure, be a son of a bitch and walk out after delivering a line like that. He calls after Zeke there as he leaves.

"How many of them were there?"

And then... well, then he turns his attention to Freckles. She don't look so very happy and he can't say he blames her. It'd sure be a hell of a lot easier if they were seven hours from Mars.

(no subject)

This sucks. The whole thing sucks. Ana and Libby, they're wrapped up in blankets, ready to be... taken care of. Just lying there in that little sleeping room in the damn hatch. It's time to take action.

The doc wants to know how many.

"Rifles and pistols? 11 total." He knows: he counted them more than once, and he's got them all. Or had them all but sometimes a man's got to act for the greater good. He still can't believe she's dead.

They're dead.

"That's it?" Looks like the doc thinks he's holding out on them or something.

He's got a scruple or two. Now ain't the time. "That's it. In case you forgot, they took five of 'em right off us."

Now Metro turns to Michael. "How long would it take us to get to their camp?"

There's something ain't right about Mike. Ever since he lost Walt on that raft and hell, it's understandable. It's his kid: it's got to be eating him up. He's all lookin' around and sweat as he answers the Doc. "We leave now, move fast? Middle of the night tomorrow. Look, they have no idea I know where they are. They won't be expecting us. So we get the guns and we go. Right now. Just the five of us."

Jack says just what everyone and their damn aunt ought to be thinking. "No, no, five's not enough. You said there's at least twenty of them. They've got our guns and we're not even sure if what you saw was..."

Mike cuts him off. "Hey, I know what I saw! We take too many people, they'll hear us coming. I'm not taking a damn army across the Island, Jack."

There's all this back and forth: Doc askin' Mike is he in the best place to be making decisions, Mike pulling the Daddy card out and using it.

And then Hugo pipes up, and he's pissed off. Rightfully so. "They're dead! Ana Lucia and Libby are dead. I mean, we haven't even buried 'em yet."

That's when they divvy up the responsibilities. The doc and Hugo, they'll take Libby over. And as far as Ana goes, well... that's up to him and Freckles. It ain't a joyful task and Mike? He gets to stay behind.

He remembers that night. Island time, must've been about two weeks ago but for him it feels like forever. Like it was a million years ago, so damn much has happened. They're in the jungle, looking for Michael after he disappeared. Him, the Doc, and Daniel Boone. As usual -- can't they ever do a damn thing without it turning into a giant pissing contest? -- the bald bastard and Captain Hero are arguing. About finding the trail, about going back, about anything and everything. Man would think they're some old married couple, and Jack's goin' on and on about what happens if they just turn around and go back. "We're never going to see him again. And that's going to be on us: on you, and on me."

That's when a familiar face steps out of the scenery and says "You're exactly right, Jack."

Hell, there's a reason they're all travelin' with guns and they're pointed at that bastard before Jack can even ask him who he is, which he does.

"He's the son of a bitch that shot me on the raft." Payback's a bitch, ain't it, he wants to ask, and he holds his own gun up to old Bluebeard.

"Why don't you point the gun down?" Yeah, like that's gonna happen, and then there's the zing of a bullet and something just grazes his neck, and son of a bitch, that stings, dammit.

"I don't believe you," says Jack, and Mister I Stole Walt says you don't believe what, and Metro has to go and tell him he thinks there's more of us than there are of them. The big guy just laughs, says what an interesting theory that is, then yells out to light 'em up. And suddenly they're surrounded by torches, and lots of 'em. And they're invited -- him, Locke, Jack -- to give up their weapons, turn around, go home. Without Mike, without nothin'.

The doc, of course, refuses. They ain't got no aces hidden up their sleeves, but these Others sons of bitches do: his stomach drops down to someplace around his knees when they bring out Freckles, a bag over her head. Damn it, Freckles. She was supposed to stay back on the damn beach. And here she is, all trussed up like a prize pig.

Damn. Ain't no question about it now: they throw down their weapons, him last.

"You and me ain't done, Zeke."

That's one promise he means to keep. Scooping Freckles up into his arms, all the torches go out at once. Without them, the island's pitch black again. They might not have gotten what they came for, but at least they got Freckles. And honestly, he cares about her a hell of a lot more than he cares about Mike.

This is just great. Now everyone knows where his stash is, not like it matters. Stuff's stuff. Just stuff, and if things run true to form he'll be able to get plenty of stuff again when this little trip back to the island's all over. For now, though, him and Sundance gather up all the guns. An afterthought, almost: he pulls out a regulation bottle of whiskey. So what if he's been hoardin'? Who's gonna drink it, mamacita? The munchkin? "What do you say, Doc?"

The doc gives him one of those looks, goes right on back to collecting guns like there's some big rush about it.

Well, if Jack there ain't gonna take a drink, he will. "Here I was thinking the Irish drink when somebody dies." The whiskey slides down his throat, harsh and bitter.

I'm not Irish, says the doc, but neither is he.

"So what happened out there in the jungle?"

Another capital-L Look. "Exactly what he said happened: he found their camp--"

"I ain't talking about Mike. You and Freckles. Before you found him y'all were gone all night."

Innocent as anything, Jack looks from the gun to him. "We were caught in a net."

"The hell's that supposed to mean?" The guy doesn't have to humor him. He's a big boy; he can take it. If he didn't want to know, he wouldn't have asked.

"It means we got caught in a net."

Oh, he gets it. Coy. Cute, doc, cute. "Is that what they're calling it these days."

That's all he's gonna get about that and they have all the guns and Jack still doesn't want any whiskey, so he sets that back under the plank and follows Hero outside. Sayid's there, askin' about old Henry, is it true he's gone, who's going after him. Gatherin' information like a good spy ought to.

Everyone's tired. Everyone's on edge. They got no idea just how annoyed this whole thing has him, after everything. Jack tells their friendly neighborhood terrorist that Locke and Eko went out in the middle of the night, but...

"But we haven't seen either of them since." And he ought to know: he's been everywhere. Between bringin' people back here and wrapping bodies for burial and listening to some of the weirdness spewing out of Mikey's mouth... yeah, he knows as much about what's going on as anybody.

That's when Captain Falafel notices the guns. "Those are the guns, aren't they? What are you doing with them?"

Observant, Abdul. "What do you think we're doing? It's time to finish this."

"When do we leave?"

Good, that makes him feel a little better. Finally someone who knows what they're doin' is on board. "In the morning."

Then Jack goes and opens his mouth, tells Sayid he's not coming, that Michael wants to keep the group small. Him, Kate, Hurley, and... he points over. "Him." Like there ain't even a name to go along with the person who's helping to save his sorry butt with all these guns? Sharing it all? Bringing painkillers over for poor Libby? Him, that's all he gets?

"Yeah, well, him says even though Pippi Longstocking and the damn Grape Ape are ideal candidates for the Dirty Dozen, I'm just gonna say we might just want to bring the Red Beret." Makes sense, dammit. It's about the only thing that does.

"It's Michael's call. He knows where we're going." What the hell's the matter with the doc? He stuck, like a record?

Even Sayid notices. "It is not his call, Jack. It's ours."

First sensible thing anyone's said all damn day. Ain't nothin' to do but share the wealth, hand Al-Jazeera there one of the good pistols. "Welcome aboard."

Looks like Mikey's gettin' ready, packin' his stuff. He's still all sweatin' and unhappy but hell, anyone ought to be after they get shot. Still, there's somethin' he can do. "Got some good news for you. Captain Arab's in too. Cavalry rides at sunrise."

"You told Sayid?" That ain't quite the happy reaction he's hoping for.

"Yeah, I told Sayid."

"You shouldn't have done that!" Definitely not the happy reaction.

"Oh, well, I'm sorry. I just figure if we're goin' to war, we'd want the one guy who's actually been in a war. That a problem?" Speakin' of problems, what the hell is Mikey's problem here? It ain't the first time they've all been under just a little damn bit of stress.

"No, it's not a problem."

"Well, all right then." For some reason, it's hard to believe. Mike's suffering from what they call a definite lack of conviction.

Everything else is set. The very last thing to do is prepare the guns. Then they can have the damn funeral, get that over with. He's never been no good at those things and already, they've had more than their share of them on this island. The marshal, that chick who drowned, Boone, Sticks. And now Ana and Libby: it ain't right. It ain't what he signed up for.

None of 'em did.

"Who's gonna talk?" It's just him and the doc, getting the ammo, making sure every damn pistol and rifle's in good working order. Jack gives him a look. "The funeral. Who's gonna talk?"

"I'm sure Hurley will want to say something about Libby."

Damn, he feels bad for Hugo for a minute. But... "I never even knew her last name. Ana Lucia."

"It's Cortez." Jack loads up another rifle.

"Cortez. Well there you go." Damn, damn, damn: he hates confession time and he can feel it welling up like some damn tidal wave he can't stop, and before he knows it the words are out. "I screwed her."

"What?" It's the doc's word of the day.

"That's how she got my gun. Ana, she jumped me." What he wants to say next is don't give me that innocent look. Exact same thing happened out there in the jungle when Metro was with Freckles: he as much as admitted it. "We got caught in a net."

It ain't always easy to read the looks on Jack's face and this is one of those times. "Why are you telling me this, Sawyer?"

He wishes he knew. He wishes he hadn't said a single solitary word. He wishes none of it had happened, not even the sex with Ana, enjoyable and fiery as it was. And now, after the confession, it's time for the harder admission. "'Cause you're about the closest thing I got to a friend, Doc. 'Cause she's gone."

That's that. Now he knows. Weak or not it's true, especially now that Doc Giggles went and did Freckles. He feels like he's lost not just a nice little fuck buddy in Ana, not just the weapons, not just the control. Even worse, he's lost the only person on this damn island who understands him.

Things ain't gonna be the same now. There's one small consolation prize, though. "Well, at least now we get to kill to somebody." The rifle in his hand's the only damn thing in this whole place that means anything honest at all any more.

(no subject)

It's a long damn night, that first night back and it's so strange: a few hours earlier he was with Freckles at a hotel near Mars and now he's back on Craphole Island, somewhere in the South Pacific but where exactly is anyone's guess, and by firelight all he's got for company are a bunch of sand fleas and the dog, Vincent. He scrapes a lone piece of boar meat off the bone and hands it to the dog because hell, even dogs have got to eat and someone needs to take care of 'em. Mikey's gone, Walt's gone, Shannon's gone and no, he doesn't want a damn pet, thank you very much, but he knows only too well what it's like to not have anyone. Besides, he ain't as hungry as everyone else, maybe. He's been livin' it up pretty good.

The dog sleeps right outside his lean-to all night long.

Oh yeah, he forgot how much he missed this shit: it's much easier to just roll out of bed and order room service but here, room service consists of nothin' at all and sure, there's food from the drop but no fresh fruit, so that... is exactly what he's gonna do today: gather mangoes. It might be the one thing they ain't got in 2074 that he actually misses from this place, although some of the other fruits from Mars and Venus and places like that are pretty good. But no mangoes, so he grabs himself a nice bamboo pole left over from when they built the raft and goes for it. It's easier knocking 'em off the branches than climbing trees and anyhow, that's Freckles's thing. He sure hopes she's doin' good out there in the forest with the Doc.

So he's been at it about twenty minutes when who should wander by but Ana Lulu, and she's got her hands on his fruit.

"Hey, I've been knocking those things down for 20 minutes. Get your hands off my damn mangoes."

She don't look like she's buyin' his warning. "I didn't figure you for the fruit picking type."

Two can always play that game; when he asks what she wants, he's real surprised at how straightforward the answer is: I need a gun.

His first reaction goes something like well, good for you and ain't that sweet but it isn't what he says. Everyone needs a damn gun, but his ain't up for grabs and he tells her as much. "Well, here's an idea: why not go to your buddy, Jack? He's got himself a gun." He only pauses for a moment, just for dramatic effect. "Oh, that's right, he's still traipsing around the jungle with Kate."

"If you've got a problem because he's making time with your girlfriend, don't take it out on me, man. How about you just give me a gun?" She ain't no slouch, Rambina from the tail section and he ain't takin' it out on her. He just can't see a damn reason why he ought to give her his gun. He had to go buy this one, and he won't lose a nice handy Beretta a second time.

Sometimes, having a reputation for bein' a friendless loner ain't a bad thing. Sometimes it works in a man's favor. "Here's another idea: scram. You heard me, now get." He watches her like a hawk, too: if she ain't getting his gun, she ain't getting his damn mangoes either.

(Bitch.)

Finally he's done picking fruit. On his way back to camp, his backpack's full and he ain't worked like this in a while. It was real easy getting lulled into a false sense of security on that asteroid, despite so many people having so many weapons. But here he's on high alert and he knows when he's bein' followed. Hell, he knows it back there too.

"Come out, come out whoever you are. I know you're there." The automatic reaction is to draw out his gun; he ain't stupid and he ain't soft, neither. "Don't make me come in after you." One thing he knows is when someone's there and someone's watchin'. Hell, half the time that knowledge is a con-man's first line of defense. And sure enough, there's the soft clearing of a woman's throat. "Well, well, well, what have we got here? Was Little Red Riding Hood gonna follow the big bad wolf back to his big old stash of guns?"

Yeah, they all want somethin'. In this case he knows it ain't just him for his good looks. Guns are the new currency around this place and he's got 'em all.

"Why don't you give me that one, right there?"

It's a nice try from Ana, but it won't work. First of all, he ain't that stupid and second of all, she ain't that cute. "I ain't gonna give you nothing." The whole not-so-cute part gets reinforced real well as she moves forward, lookin' like she's gonna kick his ass. Again. Well, she's got another thought to think 'cause this time he ain't injured like he was when she had him in the pit. "We've been through this, Lucy."

This time when she takes a swing at him he's ready and just like that, he gets out of the way of her hand. It probably ain't the smartest thing in the world to laugh at her but he can't help himself: he knows if he just hangs out long enough, he's gonna be transported back into the lap of luxury no matter what she does or what she wants. So he lets her pretend like she's won, but once he's down he turns the tables on her, climbs on top of her. So sue a guy for tryin': it's been a long time since him and Julie had their little fun and anyhow, he owes Analulu here for being such a damn bitch last time.

"What you gonna do now, Muchacha?"

The one thing he doesn't expect is the hunger in her kiss and like he just told himself, it's been a long damn time. He's due.

Even though she ain't his usual type, he's always thought of himself as an open-minded guy. So she ain't his definition of a classic beauty: doesn't mean he can't watch as she gets herself dressed again. The look she gives him ain't much in the way of encouragement, and neither is her annoyed-sounding what? Damn, baby, that's cold: might as well milk it for as much as he can. It ain't every day random jungle women jump his bones. "Don't you want my phone number?"

Now the look she gives him ain't just annoyed, it's downright mean. "You tell anyone about this and I'll kill you."

So much for that: it's been a long time since he saw a woman in such a damn hurry to leave after sleepin' together. As she disappears off into the jungle, he reaches for his own shirt. "I guess that takes cuddlin' off the table."

(no subject)

There's something about getting ready to go back to the island that rubs him the wrong damn way. He knows why Freckles wants to go and he knows exactly how come he's going with her, but it doesn't mean he has to like it. It ain't like he hates the people there any more than he hates the people here -- well, not most of 'em, anyway -- and some of them he even likes. And sure, there's all sorts of mysterious stuff going on there, from the whispers to the polar bears to the fact ain't no one come looking for them yet and it's been how long? Two months?

No one's gonna come at this point. The question becomes this: how much worse is it sitting there trying to pretend not to hope than it is sitting here pretending they're in some future? He ain't no philosopher, but he's read a lot and he knows his science fiction and every damn day, he can't help but wonder if he's just sleeping and this place is all a dream.

But he checks the scruff on his face and throat and the crappy island clothes on his back. The sand in 'em feels real. He ought to have been working on his damn tan here, but his skin colors fast and it ain't like anyone's going to notice anyhow. He's got his copy of The Great Gatsby, any identifying future date pages ripped out, much as it pained him to deface a book, and he'll drop his room key off at the desk for safe-keeping on the way out.

Hell no he doesn't want to go. He ain't as curious about it all as Freckles. Sooner or later, though, he'll wake up and when he does he'll probably find that this is a dream within a dream about the island and he'll still be in lockup in that shitty Australian jail.

Yeah, that's about how he figures it. Looking around the room, he shakes his head. No more asteroid belt gossip rags for a while.

Goodnight, Moon.

(no subject)

Seems like there's some big-ass effort going on, spearheaded by the dentist, Norma Rae -- no, his name's Bernie but he just can't help himself -- to build a big sign in the sand, and he's trolling for help. Trolling for help only means one thing: ain't no one too interested in the project, or they'd all be down there already and wouldn't no one be begging him for help. Yeah, he listens to the plan, but the last damn thing he feels like doing after all that prying mussels off rocks and standing at the edge of the path going into the jungle watching for Freckles and the doc and generally waiting for the clock to count down is haul rocks. Even though, like the dentist says, if he's got the time to fix up his tent he's got the time to haul rocks but no dice; he don't owe no one here nothing.

With Freckles gone, he don't even have anyone who comes close to getting what he's all about, and so he declines the dentist's offer as polite as possible, which means he just tells the guy he'll pass. There ain't long to go now; if he had a watch he'd be watching it like no one's damn business, second for second. But he ain't got no watch, so he kind of has to play it by ear.

Ain't no successful prisoner exchange and it's way too soon to expect that anyhow; he knows just how far away they got to go.

Ain't nothing happening at the beach camp, except Aunt Suzy and his wife Rose all arguing.

Ain't no one stealing babies or rooting around for his guns.

Yeah, just another damn day in paradise. Stomach rumbling, he sets out for that food drop to see what's there.

And then he ain't in paradise no more, just like that.

(no subject)

There's something about the same-old sameness of the water lapping up against the sand that sometimes stands in for the only relaxing sound on this whole damn island, what with worrying about polar bears and monsters and people with guns stealing kids off rafts and people who think they automatically deserve to be in charge and all that stuff. But the water on the sand: that, he don't mind. It's all hypnotic and quiet and as much as there's been luxury the past while at that hotel -- which don't seem remotely real now -- there ain't no beach. That's the difference: the more that time passes here, the more that other place seems like they just made it up. Like you could just walk into the jungle and end up three quarters of a century in the future and be someplace near Mars? It ain't remotely likely, but then again, neither is stumbling on a damn hatch in the middle of the jungle. He wouldn't believe any of it at all if it wasn't for the fact that while he was checking out his stash in his tent, he realized he don't have his gun no more. Freckles took it -- he gave it to her -- that day when the shootings happened in the spaceport. And he didn't bring the rifle with him from the future, so at the moment, he's unarmed but that's okay: he has all the guns hidden away anyhow. He's still the sheriff around here... for the time being. Guns equal power and so long as no one else has 'em, he's holding the cards.

Right now, though, he's holding a pile of rocks, and he takes his time tossing them one at a time into the ocean. The first one hits the water with a plunk: that's for Walt. The second one, a little louder and heavier: that's for Boone and the one after that's for Shannon. The third is for that guy he didn't kill the right way. Mars. And the fourth is for everyone else who ever got hurt or treated bad on this place or by this place, and the fifth is for all the crap that hasn't happened yet but will. This place don't sit still, that's for sure. It crawls with stuff, thick and heavy and unexpected, and the rest of the stones meet the water with a loud series of pitter-patters like raindrops, only nothing like those. Those are for Freckles not telling him what else it is she knows.

Thirty-six hours: time ain't crawled by so slow since that first night here when the plane crashed and they all waited and waited and waited for the rescuers who never showed up. It's hot and sticky despite the ever-present breeze, and the inside of his shirt crawls with sand fleas and the more he sits here, the more annoyed he gets but that ain't nothing new. He ain't had a whole lot of good days at this place.

None of 'em have.

(no subject)

Oh yeah, he remembers the feel of this place. The way clothes stick to his body, the humid heat, the damn heaviness in the air. It's almost unbelievable that they're back here again: they didn't have to. They could have stayed right where they were: clean rooms, plenty of food, nice-looking ladies, booze. Hell, Freckles even had a motorcycle there. He watches as she moves off without a sound into the darkness, her torch the only thing lighting up the night.

Looking down at the bag full of meds in his hands, his eyes narrow and he shakes his head: what the hell was he thinking? He don't need to bring the winnings to the doc; Metro can come find him when he wants it. It ain't like he up and moved and didn't leave no forwarding address.

Damn. Kind of hard to believe they came back here willingly and if it was up to him all alone, he wasn't going to suggest they come back here at all. But Freckles got his curiosity all piqued about what she wanted, and if she came back and he didn't, what was gonna happen to the other person? Time goes on for one of 'em but not the other? That seems awful kind of risky. But he can probably do his thirty-six hours here without getting killed: just another damn day and a half in paradise.

The walk back to his tent is quick and it's undisturbed, and everyone's in the same place they were when he left or at least close enough to it. Pulling open the flap protecting his lean-to, he takes a quick look around. A guy's got to take inventory of his stuff, and at first glance, it's all still here. He tosses the bag of pills and other meds down on the ground but he doesn't sit, not yet. He takes just a moment to stand in the makeshift doorway, the light of the fire illuminating the other shelters dimpling the beach. It's a hell of a thing, their plane crashing on this island. Until it did, he'd never been shot or tortured or even stabbed: for a con man, he'd been lucky. And just look what's happened: already, the past however many weeks of his life don't seem like nothing but a foggy memory except for one thing: the nights he spent with that girl, Julia. Almost seems like she ain't even real.

Still, it's funny how fast he falls back into his Craphole Island way of thinking. If they ever do end up getting rescued from this place, he ain't never gonna want to see another tropical location again as long as he lives.

Now he remembers how come he didn't want to come back to this place. The day ain't started out real good, with the babynapper telling him he ain't trustworthy, what with the sudden windfall of all that food dropping -- literally -- from the sky when all he suggests is a little order. But it's like being closest to the buffet at a party: everyone wants in, everyone's got to be first before the good stuff disappears, and that's what it's like there. Pure damn bedlam.

So no one listens to him? What else is new: they can take whatever the hell they want so long as it ain't out of his stash. Without a watch he can't tell how much of their thirty-six hours is gone, but it ain't like it matters: him and Freckles are either going back when the time's up or they'll be here just like always and while one of those options is a lot more comfortable than the other, it ain't like either of them is going to get him closer to home. In fact, his odds are better here... not that he wants to go home, particularly, but where he don't want to be is right here, trapped.

Like he's got any choice anyhow.

So when Jabba comes up looking for some Clonazawhatever -- which he ain't got 'cause he ain't no pharmacy, although he could put in an order next time he gets to play Back to the Future -- he's already in a bad enough mood and can't help but give him some crap, especially when he asks about a guy who ain't there. Invisible friends... he thought those things were supposed to fade when you're in first grade, but what's the harm in playing along, pretending he sees the guy Staypuff's talking about?

Apparently a hell of a lot, because he gets lit into like no one's business, and it's like all Barbar's damn anger's coming out in his fists. He don't deserve this: see if the big guy gets his damn Clonazepam now. Shit, the guy must weigh 300, 350. It's like trying to get out from under a damn elephant. Fortunately, Chewie finally pulls the Michelin Man off him and he's bruised, a little bloody. "What the hell's the matter with you? You're crazy!"

Damn.

"I'm not crazy! I'm not crazy!" As Lardo runs off, he sure as hell looks crazy.

Crap. That's the last time he ever nominates Mongo there to run anything, if that's the kind of thanks he's gonna get. There's a hell of a cut on his lower lip; he wipes it gently with the back of his hand. Yeah, business as usual. Why'd they have to pick thirty-six damn hours? One would have been more than enough.

(no subject)

After all this time -- all these damn scientific advances -- it figures a guy in 2073 spends his time alone in his room doing the exact same things he did alone in his room in 2004: reading magazines. The magazines of choice at this place are tabloids. Matter of fact, he can't imagine no better headlines than they got here.

SPACE ALIEN FATHERS CHILD!

Wait, here's another;

BATTLE OVER BABY CHIHUAHUA CAUSES SPARKS ON VENUS

That's a new one for him. But then there's this:

FOURTH DUI SPELLS JAIL TIME FOR HOTEL HEIRESS

Yeah, it's 2004 all over again. Figures there ain't nothing new under the sun. Setting the magazines aside, he flicks on the remote. Light from the TV flickers from across the room.

In today's news, famous hotel heiress...

"Son of a bitch." The TV goes off again. "Ain't there nothing to do in this damn place?" There ought to at least be something besides shopping and gambling. Hell, it don't work to run a con on a population of robots.

The lighter in his hand flicks on, flicks off. Bored is bored no matter what damn year it is.