Claude Lalumiere & Marty Halpern (eds) Witpunk (pdf)

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lose his grin.
Potty-Mouth grappled with him, lifting the smaller man oT his
feet. The fr�re took the beating for what seemed like a long time,
merely twisting to avoid the groin and face shots that Potty-
Mouth aimed. The trustafarians on the roof were all silent, watch-
ing, shivering.
I LOVE PAREE 77
Finally, the fr�re had had enough. He broke free of Potty-
Mouth s grip on his arms with ease, and as he dropped to the
ground, smashed Potty-Mouth in both ears simultaneously. Potty-
Mouth reeled, and the little fr�re aimed a series of hard, wicked-
fast blows at his ribs. I heard cracking.
Potty-Mouth started to fall, but the fr�re caught him, picked
him up over his head, then piledrivered him into the gravel. He
lay unmoving there, head at an angle that suggested he wouldn t
be getting up any time soon.
The fr�res in the cherry pickers scrambled down. One of them
slung Potty-Mouth over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes and
carried him down the stairs. The little fr�re who d killed him
stepped back into the doorway, pulling the broken door shut
behind him.
Get dressed, broadcasted a Power-Armor.
They herded us back downstairs without a word. The crowd
moved with utter docility, and I could see the logic of the pro-
ceedings. TerriWed, blood-sugar bottomed out, thirsty, we were
completely without Wght.
On the third Xoor, the cubicles and desks had all been piled in
a corner, making one big space. A few long tables were set up
with industrial-size pots of something that steamed and smelled
bland and uninspired. My mouth Wlled with saliva.
Form an orderly queue, said the sergeant from the night
before, who was waiting behind one of the pots with an apron
over his uniform, a ladle in his hand.
He looked each trustafarian over carefully as they passed
through the line, clutching large bowls that were eUciently Wlled
with limp vegetables, lumpy potatoes, and a brown, greasy gravy.
Each of us was issued a stale baguette and a cup of orange drink
and sent away.
We seated ourselves on the Xoor and ate greedily oT our laps.
Here in the mess, the fr�res relaxed and allowed the men and
women to mingle.
Friends found each other and shared long hugs, then ate in
silence. I ate alone, back to a wall, and watched the others.
78 WITPUNK
Once everyone had passed through the line, the sergeant began
walking through the clusters, stooping to talk and joke. He
touched people s shoulders, handed out cigarettes, and was gen-
erally endearing and charming.
He made his way over to me.
Monsieur Rosen.
Sergeant.
He sat down beside me. How is the food?
Oh, very good, I said, without irony. Would you like some
baguette?
No thank you.
I tore oT a hunk of bread and sopped up some gravy.
It is a shame about your friend, on the roof.
I grunted. Potty-Mouth had been no friend of mine and in a
situation like this one, I knew, you have to be discriminate in
apportioning your loyalty.
Ah. He stared thoughtfully at the trustafarians. You under-
stand, though, why it had to be?
I suppose.
Ah?
Well, once he was taken care of, the rest saw that there was no
point in struggling.
Yes, I suppose that was part of it. The other part is that there
in no place in a war for disobedience.
War. Huh.
The sergeant read my face. Oh yes, Monsieur Rosen. War. We re
still Wghting street-to-street in the northern suburbs, and some say
that the Americans are pushing for a UN Peacekeeping mission.
They re calling it Operation Havana. I m afraid that your govern-
ment takes a dim view of our nationalizing their stores and
oUces.
Not my government, Sergeant . . .
Abalain. Fran�ois Abalain. I apologize, I had forgotten that
you are a Canadian. Where did you say you live?
I have a Xat on Rue Texas.
Yes, yes. Far from the Wghting. You and the other �trangers
behave as though our struggle here were nothing but an
I LOVE PAREE 79
uninteresting television program. It couldn t last. You had pitched
your tents on the side of a smoking volcano, and the lava has
reached you.
What does that mean?
It means that our army needs support staT: cooks, mechanics
assistants, supply clerks, janitors, oUce staT. Every loyal
Parisian is already giving everything he can aTord to the Cause.
It is time that you, who have enjoyed Paris s splendor in comfort
and without cost, pay for your stay.
Sergeant, no oTense, but I have rent receipts in my Wling cab-
inet. I pay for groceries. I am paying for my stay.
The sergeant lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply. Some bills
can t be settled with money. When you Wght for the freedom of
the group, the group must pay for it.
Freedom?
Ah. He looked out at the trustafarians, who were leaning
against each other, eyes downcast, utterly dejected. In the cause
of freedom, it may be necessary to abridge the personal liberties
of a few individuals. But this isn t slave labor: each of you will
be paid in good Communard Francs, at the going rate. It won t
hurt these spoiled children to do some honest work.
I decided that if the chance ever came, I d kill Sergeant
Fran�ois Abalain.
I swallowed my anger. My cousin, a young girl named Sissy,
she was taken last night. She was just passing through, and asked
me to take her out to the club. My aunt must be crazy with
worry.
The sergeant pulled his clipboard out of his coat pocket and
snapped it open. He scratched on it. What is her last name?
Black. S-I-S-S-Y B-L-A-C-K.
He scritched more and scowled at the display. He scritched
again. Monsieur Rosen, I m very sorry, but there is no record of [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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