| From: | "Paul J. Adam" <shadowtk@********.DEMON.CO.UK> |
|---|---|
| Subject: | I Hate This Job |
| Date: | Wed, 12 Nov 1997 23:59:37 +0000 |
>>>>>[You didn't answer my mail, bro. That's rude. Price just went up to
an extra fifty per cent, for me to try tagging War and Pestilence when I
find them.
Otherwise, when I find them I get real helpful about the asshole who
hired me, fed me shit info, dropped me in the drek and then went real
quiet when I pointed out that this called for renegotiation. You
dig?]<<<<<
-- Harley <23:29:48/11-12-58>
*****INTERNAL: Camera Footage
>>>>>[+++++include recorded video
"Is this piece of Indonesian junk working?" Harley's voice, as she peers
into the lens of a camera. "Guess so." It appears that Harley is from
the CAS, female, in her late twenties or early thirties, and
unexceptional in appearance, before she puts the camera down.
"I hate this freaking job." In the longer shot, Harley's wearing jeans
and a leather jacket, with a denim cutoff over it: the cutoff proclaims
her to be a senior member of the Renegades, a Puyallup go-gang long
since scattered to the four winds. She's loading brass cartridges into
the magazone for an old pistol: like many Barrens-dwellers, cased ammo
is a valuable resource that can be reused, and the elderly Colt M1911A1
looks worn but serviceable. "Schmidt's heading for a third strike.
First, he sends me to the wrong place and nearly gets my ass lynched.
Then he doesn't answer my mail. Now I'm checking out concentration
champs and churches, and while I don't mind the churches on account
they're kind of peaceful I _hate_ the camps."
She slides the magazine into the .45, chambers the first round, snaps
the safety on and shoves the handgun into the waistband of her jeans.
"Dust and old buildings and ghosts screaming. And that room full of
eyeglasses. I mean, what sort of asshole says, hey, let's kill six
million people, but we got to save their eyeglasses? Were there so many
short-sighted Aryans, deprived of eyeglasses by the international
Zionist freaking conspiracy?"
She picks up the camera, still grousing. "And the pictures. Not the
bodies, I mean, hell, stiffs are stiffs, you've seen one dead guy you've
seen them all. The guards. Every damn camp's got the mugshots of the
camp staff that the war crimes guys tried, and they all look the
fragging same. Stupid. They've all got these dead stupid-guy eyes, like
looking a sheep in the face, like 'hey dude, what did I do wrong, I only
did what I was told'. That _scares_ me. How the fuck can you kill so
many people and not think, hey, man, this is some weird shit here? How
can you just sit there looking at the camera with that what-did-I-do
dopey shit look on your face? I mean, get angry, look guilty, be afraid,
be proud if ya gotta, but feel _some_ freaking thing about it, don't
just look like a surprised sheep."
She's left the small motel room by now - the motel is a depressing,
anonymous ferroconcrete structure not a hundred yards from the autobahn
- and is walking briskly towards a Harley-Davidson motorcycle that seems
to dwarf the Volkswagen compact beside it.
"Let's see. Where are we today? Oh, great. Bergen freaking Belsen. At
least all the tourists wandering around saying 'this is a good idea, we
should try this at home' are tourists. I was worried about a country
that keeps these places as museums. Germans, huh? Keep them to remind
everyone what _not_ to do. Go fracking figure. Okay, Belsen. Then
churches. Churches are good. Nice and calm and quiet."
The Harley-Davidson's engine catches easily, and its rider turns off the
camcorder.
+++++end trideo]<<<<<
-- Harley <23:51:26/11-12-58>
