Headcrash

by Bruce Bethke

  “Spare me.” Gunnar broke his empty beer bottle over the head of a convenient dwarf and signaled the bartender to throw him another bottle. I ducked as Gunnar’s next beer sailed through the space occupied microseconds before by my head; it came to rest, open and right side up, in Gunnar’s waiting hand.

  Heaven definitely was a different kind of place on nights when Sam was not working.

  “Bet your lady friend really gets off on Arbor Day,” Gunnar said.

  I sighed. “They had a sunrise service at the Como Park Arboretum this year. They showed videotapes of it during the pot-luck dinner.”

  “Dinner?”

  I smiled and shrugged. “Well, the good news is, they’re not vegetarians. Dinner was barbecued ribs, teriyaki chicken, and a steak like a slab of two-by-twelve. I made a real pig of myself. Oink.” I leaned back in my chair, patted my belly, and sucked down another slurp of bourbon.

  Gunnar nodded. “Okay, so that’s half of a good evening. Now, back to your lady friend. Did she give you a chance to, uh, plow the furrow? Spill your seed?” He frowned and scratched his chin. “What would be a good vegentological metaphor?”

  I took another pull on my drink and allocated a few seconds to some last-minute polishing of the Lie. Aw, bugger it, I decided, I’ll tell the truth.

  “No,” I admitted.

  Gunnar didn’t seem at all surprised.

  “We got back to the restaurant parking lot where we’d left my car at about nine. She was driving; she stopped, put it in park, left the engine running. Clearly, she was waiting for me to get out of her car. I screwed my courage up to the sticking point, leaned across the front seat, and kissed her right on I the lips.”

  Gunnar arched one eyebrow. “And that’s when she punched your lights out?”

  I shook my head. “That would have been better, I think Instead, she just sort of looked at me with this incredibly blank expression, then said, ‘What was that for?’ I kind of, well, y’know, fumbled around for words—”

  “As you do so well,” Gunnar noted.

  “And then she said, ‘Don’t take this wrong, Py—, er Max, I really am flattered that you feel this way about me. And you know, a roll in the hay with you might even be fun. It’s been a long time since I’ve had a guy who needed training as desperately as you do.

  “‘But Max, sex without emotional commitment is just tag team masturbation, and frankly, I’m tired of collecting scalps.’”

  Gunnar set his now-empty beer bottle down on the bar, “And that’s when she gave you the goodnight handshake?”

  I set my empty glass next to Gunnar’s empty bottle. “Yep.” We both stared at the virtual light refracting through the virtual glass for a while.

  “Gunnar?” a voice behind us said. “Max Kool?” In unison, we turned around. One of Don Vermicelli’s slick-haired trigger boys was standing there, right hand tucked inside his expensive but tasteless pinstripe suit, looking more like Napoleon in a men’s clothing ad than a guy with a pistol in a shoulder holster. “The don will see you now.”

  Gunnar and I made eye contact with each other, then hopped off our barstools. “How fortunate that we are visible,” I said.

  “Shut up, Max,” Gunnar said. “And for God’s sake, let me do the talking. Your attitude right now could get us both killed.”

  9: PARSLEY, SAGE, ROSEMARY & POLIPO VERACI

  Don Luigi Vermicelli had a private table in the far left corner of Heaven. Most of the tables in Heaven were round. His was crescent-moon shaped, to accommodate his spectacular girth.

  I’ve mentioned before how in virtual reality details fill in as you draw nearer to a person or an object. The don used this effect well. Look at him from across the room, and you might mistake him for a white weather balloon with a hat and arms. But approach his table, and you begin to realize that he’s a man—albeit a spectacularly fat man—wearing a white linen three-piece suit, a white shirt, a white tie, and a white panama hat. Draw closer still, and you can see that the florid and misshapen lump between the brim of his hat and the collar of his shirt is not a giant mutant tomato, but rather, his head. Then take those last few steps, into the area of the don’s supreme influence (not to mention gravitational pull), and you can hear the plaintive mandolin music in the background, see the flickering light of the candles in the chianti bottles, and marvel at how, despite the incredible array of rich food that surround him, there is not one grease spot or sauce stain on Don Vermicelli’s white suit.

  And usually, that’s about the point where a few of the don’s trigger boys stick their pistols up your nose and ask the don if he wants you dead.

  “Boys, boys,” Don Vermicelli said, “what’s the matter with you? Relax.” His voice was strangely hoarse and soft, and his accent so thick it would probably be a violation of the Ethnic Humor Elimination Act to attempt to transcribe it, so I won’t. “Gunnar and Max are my friends.”

  The trigger boys backed off and let us through.

  “C’mere,” the don said to us, patting the bench seat that arced around the table to his right. “Sit with me. Let’s talk.”

  I tried to let Gunnar take the seat closest to the don, but he tried to let me, so we did the Alphonse-and-Gaston bit for a few turns until I said to hell with it and took the seat. Gunnar squeezed in next to me.

  “So, Max,” the don said, “Gunnar tells me you have a little problem, and he thinks maybe I can solve it.”

  I glanced at Gunnar, who was clearly working up the nerve to say something polite and circumspect, then turned back to the don and decided to go for it. “Yeah. Can you?” Gunnar blanched.

  The don considered me for a long, cold moment, then nodded slowly. “Yes, Max. I can solve your little problem for you.” Gunnar sighed in relief. “The question is, are you willing to pay my price?”

  Gunnar opened his mouth again. I struck first. “How much?”

  The don shook his enormous bloated head, and tched. “Such an impatient boy! Come, first mangiamo. Food is life, Max, and it’s bad for the heart to talk business on an empty stomach.” With some considerable effort, he got his hands together across the vast expanse of his stomach and clapped once.

  Two overinflated blond bimbos jiggled into view, wearing (as far as I could tell) nothing but jewelry, makeup, and high heels. “My friends,” Don Vermicelli said, “allow me to introduce the Silicione Sisters: Bambi and Thumper.” Bambi was the one on the left, I think, although I really couldn’t see any point in differentiating between them. Gunnar, however, clearly could.

  “Ah, my lovely gnocchis,” the don said to them, “my friends are hungry. Bring them some food. Oh,” he paused, and stroked his first two chins meditatively, “let’s start with a little polipi veraci all’ aglio, and a zuppa di cappelletti. Then maybe some tagliatelle verdi alla marinara, some starne al vino rosso, and just a touch of fondi di carciofi trifolati. And then for the appetizer course, I want—” He stopped, frowned, and waved his hand dismissively. “Oh, no mind, I decide when you come back. Now andiamo, andiamo!” He gave Thumper a little swat on the culo to hurry her along. The Silicione Sisters giggled and jiggled out of sight.

  Don Vermicelli turned back to me and Gunnar. “And now, my friends,” he lifted his wineglass, “to business.”

  About damn time, I figured. “Yeah. Are we talking—?”

  Gunnar elbowed me in the ribs and steered my attention to the full wineglass on the table before me. “He’s proposing a toast, Max.” Gunnar lifted his wineglass and joined the don.

  “To business!”

  Eventually, our food showed up. It was all very interesting to look at, although not much fun to eat because, being virtual, it had no taste and no nutritional value. Bambi and Thumper stayed around to serve and wait on us, which also had no taste and no nutritional value, but became somewhat amusing when Gunnar attempted to illustrate a story about Navy carrier pilots by using Bambi’s navel as a wineglass. Thumper then laid down across my part of the table and invited me to attempt the
same thing, but by that time I’d figured out the strange tonal quality in her voice was the result of her using a frequency shifter, which is usually a ninety-percent solid giveaway that the person in question is at least very confused about his or her gender.

  In the fullness of time, the dishes were cleared away, the Silicione Sisters disappeared, and we were left to sip vino rosso, nibble at the remaining polipi veraci, and discuss our business with the don.

  Gunnar had his virtual mouth full. “This has been a real delight,” he told the don. “I mean, I had no idea food could be so fascinating. For example, this,” he shook the polipi in his left hand, “this—what the hell is it?”

  “Polipi veraci all’aglio,” the don said.

  POLIPI VERACI ALL’AGLIO

  Take one octopus. Cut out the eyes, mouth, and ink sac, and place on a board and beat with a wooden mallet until tender. Place octopus in earthenware dish and season with olive oil, garlic, bay leaf, and cumin seeds. Cover dish tightly and place over low heat for one to two hours; longer for larger octopus. When tender, season with salt, pepper, rosemary, and parsley, and serve in tureen.

  “No, I mean, what is it? What do I ask for the next time I go to Buon Giorno?”

  “Octopus,” the don said. “Whole octopus, beaten to a pulp to make it tender and then boiled in garlic sauce for two hours.”

  “Oh.” Gunnar waited until the don was momentarily distracted, then set the polipi down on the table and covered it with a napkin.

  “So!” I said brightly. “I realize this is still early in the evening, but could we spend a minute or two on business? I mean, only to kill time while we’re waiting for dessert.”

  “Dessert?” Don Vermicelli moaned. “So soon? Oh, you children are so impatient—but yes, I can see, the time to discuss this is now.” He nodded, took another sip from his wineglass, and dabbed at his upper lip with a napkin the size of a bedspread. I was about to ask him to get on with it when he spoke again. “Max? Gunnar has explained your situation to me. You need a—how you say it? A laundromat, to make this money clean. I can do this for you.”

  Well, yeah, that was the general idea.

  “But,” he raised a finger in the air, “I will not play games with your IRS. For that, they sent poor Alphonse to prison.” A sad expression crossed his face—it was a slow journey—and I turned to Gunnar.

  (“Alphonse?”)

  (“Capone. Sometimes the don gets confused about what century he’s in.”)

  Vermicelli’s sad expression finished its voyage. “So this will not be a perfect launder. But it will keep your friend Amber from finding out who you really are. Is this enough?”

  I looked at Gunnar. He nodded, so I nodded.

  The don nodded. “Very good. Then in return, I ask only a small handling fee—a token, really. Hardly anything at all.”

  He was clearly waiting for a response. “And that is?”

  “Ten percent, off the top.”

  Gunnar almost jumped out of his seat. “Ten percent?”

  “Hey,” Vermicelli shrugged. “Most of the other dons, they charge you fifteen percent. But me, because you’re my friends, I only charge you ten percent.”

  “That’s ridiculous!”

  “Twelve percent.”

  “We won’t pay it!”

  “Fourteen percent.”

  I grabbed Gunnar by the front of his camo fatigues, hauled him down into his seat, and turned to smile at the don. “I’m still your friend,” I said with an innocent grin, “and I’d be honored to have you do it for only ten percent.”

  Don Vermicelli smiled, nodded, and waved away the trigger boys who had crept up behind Gunnar and were training pistols on the back of his head. “We have a deal, then. You have a way to contact this ‘Amber’ person?”

  I thought it over, and the address of a certain kinky apartment in ToxicTown came to mind. “I know how to find her.”

  “Very good. Then—” He turned to survey his trigger boys and picked one out of the group. “Bruno. I want you to go with Max.” The don turned back to me. “Max, you take my boy Bruno to meet this Amber, and leave him there. He’ll tell Amber how to get the money to me.”

  I looked at Bruno—yet another one of Vermicelli’s clones with slick hair and a pinstripe suit—and thought of Amber, and I must confess, my right eyebrow went up slightly.

  “Oh, relax, Max,” Don Vermicelli said. “After all, if you can’t trust la famiglia, who can you trust?”

  Thursday morning, 0530 UTC. Gunnar left the club with Bambi to either sleep it off or get it off, he wasn’t fussy which. I was rolling through the dark, narrow, labyrinthine streets of ToxicTown on my virtual Harley Ultraglide, with Vermicelli’s boy Bruno sitting on the p-pad behind me, his arms wrapped lightly around my ribs. The weight of the virtual Desert Eagle pistol tucked into his waistband may have been a comfort to him, but it was a major pain in the left kidney to me.

  Finding Amber’s place wasn’t all that hard. True, a couple of my major landmarks had disappeared since my last trip down here, slightly over twenty-six hours ago—that’s not unusual in ToxicTown; the place has all the topographical stability of an ice-cream sculpture on a hot day in July—but enough URL points remained to guide me into the right general domain, and from there I was able to follow the datapath down to the node intersection where I’d last found her.

  The damned dwarf was standing there, leaning against the lamppost, flipping a coin and catching it with almost mechanical precision. I parked the bike, and Bruno and I dismounted.

  TIED UP

  At the words “tied up” I immediately thought of the row of manacles on Amber’s bedroom wall, but decided this was not the time or place for a smartass comment. What a waste of a perfectly good opportunity.

  “Thorvold?” I called out as we walked over. “Son of Orvold, from the Hall of the Mountain King?”

  The dwarf caught the coin, palmed it, and stepped away from the lamppost. “Hi, Max,” he said. “Amber is tied up in real time and couldn’t make it tonight, so she put me here to watch for you.”

  Thorvold gave Bruno a long look up and down, and said to me, “So, Max. Who’s your friend?”

  INFONUGGETS

  Honestly, that was really the last one.

  Vermicelli’s boy didn’t wait for an introduction. “Bruno, son of Rocko, from the family Tattaglia.” He stepped forward and offered the dwarf a handshake. The dwarf took his hand, and shook it, and returned it, and the two of them smiled at each other like long-lost friends.

  I decided to interject myself. “You two know each other?”

  Bruno looked at Thorvold, and Thorvold looked at Bruno, and some sort of unspoken communication passed between them. “More like we’re distant cousins,” Bruno said.

  “Nice suit,” Thorvold said, fingering Bruno’s lapels and ignoring me. “Primus Softwear?”

  “Corvo Novus,” Bruno answered. The dwarf nodded knowingly.

  I cleared my throat and interjected myself once more. Well, I hate to break up your family reunion, but don’t we have some important business to discuss?”

  Thorvold looked at Bruno. There was that almost-visible flash of unsaid words between them again.

  “Not really,” Bruno said.

  The dwarf nodded. “You came here, and you brought Bruno. So obviously you’re taking the job, and everything’s going to be piped through Don Vermicelli. That about the size of it?”

  “Yes,” Bruno said. They both turned to me.

  “So thank you, and goodnight, and Amber will be in touch with you within twenty-four hours. You may go now.” Actually, I couldn’t even tell which one of them said that.

  But clearly, there was nothing more I could do there. I walked back to my Harley, mounted up, and kicked the engine into life. Then a tilt to get the kickstand up, and I stepped her down into first gear, popped the clutch, gave the throttle a good hard twist, and blasted off in a cloud of roaring exhaust and a squeal of burning rubber and a hearty Hi-yo
Silver.

  Damnedest thing. Just before I disappeared around the corner, I glanced in my rearview mirror, and it looked like Thorvold and Bruno were melting into one another. But by the time I turned my head to look, I’d gone around the corner, and there was nothing back there to be seen.

  I wrote it off to fatigue and headed for my exit point.

  * PUBLIC SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT *

  A natural question occurs here: why bother riding the Net to the end of the line? We’ve already seen Max demonstrate that he can bail out with a single word, or even quit via the stone- ax primitive method of taking off his VR headset and switching off his computer. After all, no matter what happens in virtual reality, it’s just data, and throughout everything the real Jack Burroughs remains safely ensconced in his mother’s basement, immune to all dangers except possibly that of having his gluteal muscles atrophy from sitting in one place too long. (Those readers who believe that Jack’s consciousness can somehow be electronically extracted from his cerebrum and functionally reassembled somewhere else independent of Jack’s organic brain are advised to drop all their computer science courses right now and instead enroll in Fundamentals of Voodoo 101.)

  So, to repeat the question: why bother navigating the Net to a virtual exit point?

  ‘Cause it’s neater, that’s why. It’s both stylistically better, and you don’t go around leaving orphan processes and bits and ends of trash files floating all over the place. After all, no one wants to be a cyberslob. Give a hoot. Don’t pollute.

  I cleared the worst part of ToxicTown without trouble, found a spur of .edu that was still in pretty good shape, and opened up the throttle, heading for the InfoBahn. The spur lifted up above the local tangle and became a virtual viaduct; the towering form of the UNISYS corporate datablock was just coming into view when suddenly the road before me erupted in a line of orange fireballs and a roaring geyser of brilliant blue flame.