MEMP'IS
BOOK
ONE – “A LITTLE LESS CONVERSATION”
(Tuesday,
January 2, 2035)
CHAPTER EIGHT –
GOT a LOTTA LIVIN' to DO
When the digital clock reaches 1550 hours, Norlin puts aside his files and begins writing up his Daily
Report. C-Squad is preternaturally
quiet... Frankie taped and gagged, the pissboys gone,
the lonely and lovelorn lunatics otherwise occupied.
He pauses... "Homes," he
queries, "...as our resident Jatesologist, what
can you tell me about the Sun Police?"
"The Solar Commission, sir, is a
public-private enterprise which regulates and maintains rhythms and security of
the Solar Furnace, its reference societies, fuel supply and personnel in strict
adherence to stipulations left by Mister Jates in his
ultimate will and testament. The term
Sun Police, sir, is considered derogatory..."
"Yeah," Norlin
persists, "...know any of 'em?"
"There are Commission personnel in my Lodge,
Master Dane Varrick exempts them from obligatory
disclosure of their work," Homer explains, "as you understand, it's
confidential."
Norlin thinks, the name rattles round his brain, falls
into a slot. "Prefab housing dook, sponsors Parchette? Yeah.
Yeah! Any of 'em ever heard of a
Henry Hat? Ask around..."
"I do not believe that Master Dane..."
"It's Trouble Factory business, Homes," Norlin cuts him off.
"An order!
Eric... you said we've had prior dealings with Percival Manfred
Said. I want his microtransmitter
peregrinations snapped, mapped and tapped back to - ah k'ball,
say the first of the year..."
"PMS!" Eric snickers.
"His initials stand for PMS, your dog-man..."
Homer Sack frowns, biting his lip, stroking one
long, droopy ear. Eric Ice leans back in his chair, placing both feet on the
desk.
"One day, one whole k’ballin’ day! Sure, as a perp, an
alleged perp,"
he backs off with a little wave, "not a complainant. Dogs make his neighbors squirrely. Lotta dogs in the Jatesosphere today, right Homes? Might call it a dog day afternoon!"
Homer and Norlin stare back, puzzled, at this. "Old movie," Eric lays it out for
them, "...sometimes they show it on the premium channel, as if you dooks'd know. Al kebbin' five-thou-a-milliliter Pacino! Bone up on your media history, if you know
what I mean." He
dry-spits in the general direction of Drawer 21. "Time to hit the deekashops...
pick up a donna. Wanna
come, Homes? Donnas dig astronauts..."
"History is bunk, Henry Ford teaches us. And bunk is what Disorgs
excrete, in bulk, to counterfeit and swindle the gullible. While harmony finds its common denominator
between the unpurified female and impure male elements - the distinction being
deliberate, yes. Jates
have mercy on your soul," Homer Sack replies...
"My fex portfolio's
righteous," Eric spits, glancing towards Norlin
as if to crack another wisecrack, but thinking the better of it. Instead, he sidles up to taped-up Frank
Desperate and, smirking, rips the gray duct tape from his mouth...
"Oww! Get
Compliance on your ass!" the bad-glass criminal threatens. "The Law Firm!"
"Frankie!
Frankie! Doin' you a big
favor, lettin’ you breathe tonight - don't lemme
down." And Eric tweaks his ear. Almost affectionately.
"Don't keb with the cleaning crew, they're just level-six clones. Doops and mutes. Ain't got the big, big brains, way you and me do..."
He taps the side of his skull, smirks again,
towards Homer, this time... who looks away, ashamed. “Day and a half!” Norlin
fires back, typing his name and password on C-Squad's Daily Report (with brief
supplements on his visit to Terushka and the
debriefing of Automatic Slim), and crams a physical printout of the DR into the
vacuum tube to be whooshed upstairs.
Another day at the Trouble Factory.
1559 hours, 1600...
Done!
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