Post by agents7 on May 14, 2017 12:51:09 GMT -6
Johnny Maloney: Blade Runner
It was a real Word Funk afternoon, and that meant trouble.
See, the trade gets rowdy on the days that we record. I’ve had replicants pull triple homicides on Word Funk afternoons, detonate bombs, even assassinate corporate leaders on those days. They’ve been coming out of the woodwork lately, the replicants.
It’s probably the Americans’ fault. Most things are.
I took a drag off of my Canadian cigarette. We get free healthcare up here, so there’s no real reason not to chain smoke while staring wistfully out at the cyberpunk landscape of Neo-Ontario. It’s practically a Canadian sport.
The atmosphere out there on the balcony wasn’t exactly pristine, what with all the neon and noise pollution, but it was a helluva lot better than back in the apartment. I took a few more minutes just watching the hovercars pass, trying to think about nothing at all.
Deep breaths, Maloney. You can’t do this all day. I turned and went back into the victim’s apartment.
The first thing you notice is the smell. Most things in Canada smell like maple syrup, but not many things smell like maple syrup and blood. The stench hit me the moment I went back into the apartment, all salt and sickly sweetness. The cyber-mountie lay sprawled out on the floor among broken hockey memorabilia, his bio-organic tentacles chopped into pieces around his mangled corpse.
This was personal.
I took another drag of my cigarette to flush out the smell. Ended up just adding the taste of ash to the whole disgusting stew.
There was only one perp who could do something like this, and she was dead. Buried under a mountain of steel and concrete after her little Replicant-worshipping cult turned on her. Replicants are tricky beasts, though.
You can never be sure.
I copied the data from the cyber-mountie’s robotic eyes onto my phone, knowing it would be scrambled, knowing that anything truly incriminating would be wiped by perp.
Word Funk afternoon. At least there was only one corpse this time, though I knew that’d change in the next few weeks.
I tapped the icon for Skype and stepped out onto the balcony. Much better.
“Guys? I don’t think I can do Dice Funk season 3.”
It was a real Word Funk afternoon, and that meant trouble.
See, the trade gets rowdy on the days that we record. I’ve had replicants pull triple homicides on Word Funk afternoons, detonate bombs, even assassinate corporate leaders on those days. They’ve been coming out of the woodwork lately, the replicants.
It’s probably the Americans’ fault. Most things are.
I took a drag off of my Canadian cigarette. We get free healthcare up here, so there’s no real reason not to chain smoke while staring wistfully out at the cyberpunk landscape of Neo-Ontario. It’s practically a Canadian sport.
The atmosphere out there on the balcony wasn’t exactly pristine, what with all the neon and noise pollution, but it was a helluva lot better than back in the apartment. I took a few more minutes just watching the hovercars pass, trying to think about nothing at all.
Deep breaths, Maloney. You can’t do this all day. I turned and went back into the victim’s apartment.
The first thing you notice is the smell. Most things in Canada smell like maple syrup, but not many things smell like maple syrup and blood. The stench hit me the moment I went back into the apartment, all salt and sickly sweetness. The cyber-mountie lay sprawled out on the floor among broken hockey memorabilia, his bio-organic tentacles chopped into pieces around his mangled corpse.
This was personal.
I took another drag of my cigarette to flush out the smell. Ended up just adding the taste of ash to the whole disgusting stew.
There was only one perp who could do something like this, and she was dead. Buried under a mountain of steel and concrete after her little Replicant-worshipping cult turned on her. Replicants are tricky beasts, though.
You can never be sure.
I copied the data from the cyber-mountie’s robotic eyes onto my phone, knowing it would be scrambled, knowing that anything truly incriminating would be wiped by perp.
Word Funk afternoon. At least there was only one corpse this time, though I knew that’d change in the next few weeks.
I tapped the icon for Skype and stepped out onto the balcony. Much better.
“Guys? I don’t think I can do Dice Funk season 3.”