Tristram
Tset stood outside the Bentley, admiring his reflection in the black honey-smooth finish, adjusting his pin-stripe suit jacket and climbing in. "To the office, driver."
Geoffrey harumphed and they peeled out, Tset pulling on some ThinSulate lambskin driving gloves, black, of course. He was grinning in the mirror at Geoffrey, who kept taking glances at him. "Francois' going to be upset. You look more like a European assassin than he does, with that silver tie and silk vest."
Tset grinned wider and looked out the side window at the passing city. Indeed - he wore a three-piece pinstripe suit, black shirt, silvery tie, gloves, and his silver-rimmed aviators. The tie was tied half-windsor and slightly loose. He looked like a man at ease, but wound inside like the finest Swiss spring - he was sharp enough to cut and his ease gave others the feeling he was in control.
They arrived at the offices again. Before Tset could enter, Yonatan stopped him, handing him a small card. "Sorry, sir, de Mans got busy. But dey said to me to give you dis card, here, and send you on your way wid dey bes' wishes." Yonatan was smiling to Tset. Tset, nonplussed, took the ratty business card.
~Tristram's
Books. Junk.
That's it.
I buy, sell, trade
PTO -->
... and kill punks
who think they
can steal my shit
560.384.775.6848
Tset was definitely non-plussed now.
"Go dere, dis Tristram guy's widdus."
Tset nodded and turned to get back in the car. "No, sorry, sir, Geoffrey's got udder business to atten' to."
Geoffrey looked ashen suddenly, nodded, and pulled off, too fast.
"Woah." Tset was wondering what was going on when Yonatan put a hand on his shoulder - Tset almost killed him; he was feeling very ill at ease.
"Don't worry, my friend, everyt'ing will come out right. Keep your phone on you and dat is your contact when you be feelin' alone in de world."
Tset nodded, looking Yonatan in the eyes - he was being truthful, there was no malice. At least not from him, maybe the Mans, as Yonatan had jokingly called them, were giving Tset the cold shoulder for some reason. As a test of trust.
'Well, fuck them.' He thought.
He hailed a cab. He told the cabbie where to go, climbed in and sped off.
An hour later, with no traffic, Tset was in a slummy downtown district. A wooden sign with old-world lettering announced:
~Tristram's~
Feel Free To
Go The Fuck Away
(sometimes open 24h)
Tset got out of the cab and went in the front door, which was a steel mesh. Stairs descended to his right and new-looking fluorescents glowed above his head. The stairway was brightly lit and Tset could see some accumulated odds and ends at the base, on a rug.
He went down the stairs, cautiously, and realizing he was unarmed.
The odds and ends were a broken down newspaper rack with thirty-year-old newspapers on it.
Tset pushed through the door.
The room was lined with books, paved with linoleum and smelled like dust and old paper and ink. There was one other, gothic, customer, but she was just leaving. She had earbuds in and was blasting what sounded like 'music.'
Behind a long Formica counter, laterally pasted with ads for Marbs, Emperials, Dromedaries and Bali's Gold, a six-foot-three goon stood. He had blue eyes, white teeth and long, dirty-blonde Nordic hair. He looked like a gangly viking and wore a dirty t-shirt. He was grinning at Tset.
"Hey there, dressy, the fuck do you need?"
Tset paused, then said carefully, "My employers sent me here."
"Wow," Tristram said, "You are fucking lame. Ever hear of not talking like someone doing illegal shit?"
Tset blinked.
"You walk in here, looking like someone shook you out of an issue of GQ, the wigger P-I-M-P yearly special, no less, then use words like 'employer' - even that dumb goth bitch woulda picked up you were a hit man, man."
"I-"
He was cut off, "I'll kick yo ass out, motherfuckaaah!"
Tset stopped, dead. He was in a cave, with a goon, and the goon was insane.
"Na, just kidding, man. Look, come behind the counter. I gots the hook ups."
Tset began wondering what was with all these Euro-Americans, anyway, it was supposed to be a sub-culture, and hesitantly followed Tristram, feeling he could just kill him if he tried anything.
"Give me your card."
"What?"
"Your card, you sack. The black one. The expensive one. It's got on it what you're getting, so unless you want the undiscounted rate, you best be showin' up with some cardage lest I kick yo' ass the fuck out!"
Tset fumbled for his card, handing it over.
Tristram looked at it, "Holy shit, dude, Precinct Zero. Last time one of you guys came through was years ago. You may be high level, slappy, but I ain't payin' you shit respe't."
Tristram ran the card, a small receipt printed out.
"Wow, you're getting a Starter Bucket."
"A what?"
"Shutcho mout'."
Tristram led Tset, who was grumbling, into a storage room, moved a box of pornography (actually loaded with explosives) and lifted a trap door, beneath which was a gleaming electric door. Tristram pulled his hair out of his face, passed the retinal scan and the door slid open.
Tristram went down, Tset followed, carefully.
"That's the only test I ever pass."
"What?"
"That retinal scan. Only test I ever pass."
Tset nodded, behind him, which was useless, but he wouldn't disbelieve that fact.
Tristram looked at him, grinning and shutting his eyes tight, "Just kidding!" He chuckled.
Tset was starting to go beyond annoyance.
Tristram pointed to a metal seat, "Sit."
Tset sat.
Tristram then proceeded to go into a large vault. "Come here."
Tset growled as he went in.
The inside was huge and metal - lined with carbines, sniper rifles, boxes, gear, body suits, odds, ends, things, pistols from scoped .375s down to one crudely labeled 'The Armeniator' that looked like a 9mm knockoff - all impressive and all expensive. Save the Armeniator, of course.
"You're inside by the way."
Tset looked at Tristram. "What?"
"You're inside, wearing glasses inside does not make you look cool, it makes you look like you want to look cool."
Tset slid the glasses down his nose. "My eyes are a bit weird."
"Cool contacts, man." Tristram turned and got some things down from a shelf. "Wear your glasses, then, but don't talk to me about your music."
This confused Tset, "What?"
"Your music. With black contacts, dressed like that, and the glasses? Only one thing you can be listening to."
"What's that?"
"Mainstream."
Tset grinned, not mentioning his love of the likes of Plant, Page, Bonham, Bruce, Rogers, Clapton and Keidis and Joplin, and asked, "Then what do you listen to?"
Tristram was still sorting through boxes and bits on the shelf, "Actually, this is gonna sound gay 'cause he's kinda mainstream, but have you heard Timmy Chonga's new tracks?"
"No."
"Oh, well, anyway, I've got a CD of his in the front, but till then, looks like I'm going to have to put together your kit by myself. I don't have one pre-made for you."
"How long'll that take?"
"About two minutes, I've got all the shit right here. Oh, you can read this. It's a guide to how to use your equipment, that girly French guy wrote it."
Tristram threw a paperback book on the table, it looked like a user's manual for a copier. On the front it said:
La
Libre
Du
Haliburton Co.
Tset opened it. It was all in French. No translation. "This is in French."
"Francois' a stickler, so, you'll have
to make due. It's required reading."
"Required?"
"Yup. Sorry dude." He turned back to his shelves and racks, pulling down a Colt Commando carbine.
Tset was going to burn it, "Howabout I burn it and say I read it?"
"That's fine." Tristram put the rifle on the table, along with a quarter-zippered sweater and an airplane case with a chrome finish and what looked like a lens box for a camera. "What caliber do you want your sidearm to be?"
"What?"
"How big do you want your pistol? I can give you anything from a .375 to a 9mm Mac10 to a .22 Berretta."
"Er, give me something heavy, but not quite a cannon."
"Wow, okay, would you like me to also get you a steak, well-cooked but not too well-cooked? Like maybe rare medium well done rare? Jackass."
Tset thought, then said, "Okay. Give me something with some serious stopping power but smaller."
"Ah, just the thing, right here."
Tristram placed a second Colt on the table - this one a 1911 M-1A. ".45, extended mag, nine rounds then one in your chamber, so that's ten, long-jacketed hollowpoint slugs. A fuckin' dude in a tank will feel this shit."
"Give me two."
"Er, that's outside the kit, man."
Tset put his card on the table. "Charge me for both of these and give me an SMG instead."
"SMG? May I suggest a European's favorite? The HK MP5? I got one left. No integrated silencers, though, the cops slammed down on that shit and never got another shipment for the last year or so."
Tset was getting overzealous, "Yes. And two of those Mac10s you were talking about."
Tristram brought the weapons down, adding it up in his head.
"Oh, give me a shotgun for urban stuff. Like an entry shotgun, 12 gauge."
Tristram smiled, laying the large pump-action tube over the pile, "Only gauge there is. Unless you like slug rounds."
Tset smiled. "We'll see."
Tristram printed two receipts, one from the equipment account for the standard kit, and the rest from the personal money pools, which were more like Artesian wells.
Tset signed both, block print.
"Ammo?" He asked.
"Before that - Let me tell you what this shit's for."
"Okay."
"Your carbine and SMG are for close-quarters guard handling, if you need to go in deep, right?"
"Right."
"They're loud, so make sure you're okay to rock and roll per your contract conditions."
"Fine."
"Yup, and your rifle here is your rifle, you're going to customize it and you're getting a bunch of different parts in this rifle kit to fuck around with. It's gonna be your fuckin' wife, so get used to her bitching and her problems quick."
"Sounds good."
"Right, and lenses here in this case."
"Excellent."
"Yeah, whatever, then your sidearm is when shit gets way too close or heavy."
"Okay." Tset knew all of this, and rolled his eyes.
Then Tristram held up the sweater - there was something oddly metallic about it, but it was a textile fabric. "Feel this." Tristram crumpled it and tossed it to him. The thing weighed twenty pounds.
"That's a regenerative matrix. It'll keep you from bleeding when you're hit, and repair itself. It'll also stop most bullets. To boot, you look more like a preppy bitch when you wear it, which, for you is a plus, even though to us non-mutants, we wouldn't wear the fucking thing if we were given it in front of a firing squad."
Tset muttered, "Non-mutants," Under his breath and took off his jacket, his glasses and his vest, sliding the sweater down over his head, leaving the zipper down just enough to expose his tie.
"Yup. Preppier than ever."
The sweater tightened and fit him. "It's also got something that won't wrinkle your clothes, 'cause that's so fucking important."
Tset slid his glasses back on and unconsciously struck a pose, clenching his fists and flexing his muscles.
"Alright, Grande McCock, you ready to leave?"
"Ammo?"
"I'll ship that, it was already charged. You can't carry it.
"Okay, so it and the guns."
"I'm not shipping your guns, dude, you have to take those."
Tset glared, "What?"
"You heard me, I'm an outfitter, not a fucking FedEx truck."
"Dammit!" Tset felt mildly frustrated, bordering on furious. He flipped open his phone and dialed FedEx's hotline.
"Yeah, hi, hi. Hello? Yeah, need a box and emergency shipping... yeah, my debit card number, wait... gimme a sec..."
A Steed of Steel
Thirty minutes later a FedEx truck arrived, with a scale, weighed Tset's box (labeled, in the same crude script as the Armeniator 'Books not Gunz') and drove it off. Tset wore his pistols plus two spare mags.
Tset had bought a pack of Emperials from Tristram, his favorite, cheap, bad, Chinese, brand of cigarette. He lit one up. Tristram had been standing with him and helping him load his 'books.'
"When do cabs come through here?" Tset asked around his smoke.
"What? Cab?" Tristram was lighting his own cigarette.
"Yeah, cab. Taxi."
"You are kidding. You're nine years old, official. Birth certificate is being updated as we speak."
Tset was getting more annoyed with the lack of answers and the patronization, he snapped, "What the FUCK is that s'posed to mean?"
Tristram was slightly taken aback. A vein stood out on Tset's forehead.
Tristram put his hand down. "No cabs through here. This is SlumLand, Greater Europe, insert ridiculous postal code. They can't be here after dark without getting killed. Better to be careful, unless they gotta fare going in there, and none's gonna come get you, it's early evening. Do you need a ride or something?"
Tset nodded, "Yeah, that would be nice."
Tristram looked thoughtful, an expression that was alien but also fitting on his face, "I've got just the thing, then, oh... you know what. Yeah, this is for you."
"What is it?"
Tristram went back into the store, "Come with, I'll show you." Tset followed, Tristram continued, "You look just like him, and this was his, so I think you'll do fine with it."
"What is it? Who's?"
"You'll see, my brother's."
"What happened to your brother?"
"He got eaten by vampires."
"No shit."
"No shit. Then they turned me into one."
"No shit."
"Yeah, check out my teeth." They were all flat.
Tset snorted. "Right."
"Anyway, this is yours now, like it was his, 'cause you look almost like him."
They were in a recessed area of the basement, outside the vault, looking at a tarp.
Tristram pulled the tarp off, sending dust in a cloud, radiating gold in the warm fluorescents.
The tank said SHADOW. It was red, and it was white. It had black leather saddle bags and chrome. It leaned on its two wheels low and heavy, but at the same time not too big it couldn't squeeze an illegal traffic maneuver.
"This is mine?"
"Yeah, I'll mail you the title. Consider it part of your kit. I can't look at the fucking thing, too many memories and I wouldn't ride it, anyway."
Tset slid onto it, lighting another cigarette with his beaten up Zippo. It was perfect. He balanced it with his thighs.
He put his hands on the grips and pulled the kick stand up with his heel.
"You know how to drive it?"
Tset had put the key into the ignition already.
"No."
The engine roared to life while Tset held out the choke and revved the RPMs until the bike sank under the press of the pistons, seeming to relax and tense.
He eased the throttle open more and more, letting it breath out after all this time of holding in, he felt. Dust and particles spread from the muffler in a fluorescent-refracting show, glittering gold.
Tristram said something about 'clean.' T
set nodded, looking around for an exit. Finding it was behind him, he grabbed the clutch, stomped the gearshift and turned the bike easier than butter, twitching his wrist delicately to balance throttle.
Tristram was amazed - he didn't remember the bike handling that well. He waved to Tset in the mirror.
Tset let out the clutch, waving back, and so erupted into the early evening light.
He looked much like a gallant knight on a steel stallion, sitting high, nearly standing on his stirrup footpegs, and while the bike rose and nosed, he kept his back straight and his chest out, one gloved hand on his knee, the other on the rein, while his beast cantered at 50mph down cement streets as a setting sun bathed everything in red and the rising moon sheened all in silver.
Tset pressed on the footpegs to turn, the bike leaned, traffic was nothing to him and he flew, the wind in his hair.
He saw his turning, and held both grips. When he met the intersection he turned a hard right, slamming the back brake in and drifting, his tires letting out a screech that was almost like pleasure.
Then the back wheel caught and he was away again, forward motion vaulting him around a small car and down an avenue.
He entered The City Proper, the cars became more expensive and the buildings more imposing. He was doing 80 down a thoroughfare.
This was one of the ten-lane avenues that bisected The City. The various machines on it traveled fast, so they thought, but Tset weaved through them like a giddy child in a Summer's forest of sprinkler heads, his old and tiny motorcycle dancing around them fay.
He had learned long ago that most police went in at night. God knew why, but they did, and, whereas before he was walking or hitching rides, now the night was his; stop lights, jams, idiotic drivers, none of it arrested his planular ascent, and all of it was left decidedly behind.
He saw the building he was looking for loom ahead. Haliburton.
Tset was grinning and going to make an impact.
Another sick drift and a dart across four lines of traffic, erupting from between cars like a tiger from bamboo, and the front wheel slammed into the slight upcurve of the round drive, bucking the bike up. The engine chugged and roared in protest.
As soon as the front tire touched down, Tset wrenched the bike into another screaming slide, coming along exactly sideways, achieving zero velocity with a good angle to drive right into the lobby.
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