| Pipinar Free
Posted: 10/30/2009 5:14:09 AM | This is the opening to a short story, which is 3,900 words total. I'm looking for readers who wish to help me find mistakes, beta readers, alpha readers, call it what you wish. If you like what is here and you are interested, email me neil.fontaine@yahoo.com Be sure to put beta reader in the title. Thanks. :)
Pipinar Free
by Neil Fontaine
At the far end of his cramped apartment, Cola Freeze rapped his fingers on the unbreakable window as he stared out at the sky scrapers that punched through the clouds, and at the booster cars that flew at all heights. It was a massive entanglement of traffic. Some of the traffic lanes were thick enough to run on and jump on from lane to lane, something he often imagined doing, like some super hero, some somebody.
And now, just maybe, he had the chance to be a somebody because he was on his way to an important meeting. A sexy sounding lady had contacted Cola through the neuro-net and spoke with him via brain link. The conversation had lasted exactly fifty-nine seconds, a useless piece of information he only knew because of his brain chip. Brain chips were good for useless bits of information. But they were also good for knowing how to operate all types of machinery.
For instance, like how to use Autopilot brand of wet and dry. He turned from the window, stepped over the crab-looking cleaning bot, and grabbed a can of wet off the cluttered coffee table. His one and only suit hung from a hook attached to a standing lamp.
His service bot looked over its shoulder from inside the tiny kitchen. "Would you like me to clean your suit for you, sir?"
"I'm not completely useless, you know."
"I'm not implying you are, sir. But remember that one time you had tried to clean the sofa?"
Sure, he remembered. It mysterious had burst into flames. "That was a freak occurrence."
"Freak occurrences seem to happen around you a lot, sir."
"Stop calling me sir."
"Okay, sir."
He gritted his teeth. Damn Autopilot Corp. making service bots to say "sir" by default. He should just get off his lazy ass and reprogram the damn thing.
He had to look nice for this meeting, and he wanted to be responsible for making himself look presentable, because if this meeting didn't go well he wouldn't . . . wait, he wouldn't what? The lady on the brain link had been brief.
"Cola Freeze," she had said. "I have an opportunity for you, and we think we could use your services."
All Cola could think was why in the hell did his parents have to be part of the hippy revolution in year sixty-nine MC, which stood for Mars Colony, so sixty-nine MC was the same as one hundred CE. For some bloody reason, the big heads decided to start the calendar at zero after we had set up a colony on Mars, that way Earth's and Mar's calendar were the same.
Whatever, Cola didn't really care, but he did care about his damn hippy parents naming him after 21st century soft drinks. What a lame fad that was. He thought about getting his name changed, but it was too much trouble.
Anyway, so he had finally responded to the sexy lady on brain link, or Brink as everyone called it. "What's the meeting about?" he had asked.
"We'll discuss that when you get here," she said.
"Should I dress nicely? Is this a job interview?"
"Yes."
"Yes, this is a job interview?" he asked, "or yes dress nicely?"
"Where a suit Mr. Freeze."
The Brink connection was cut at exactly fifty-nine seconds. Dammit, why did his brain have to think like that every damn time he thought of that memory? Who gives a crap if it lasted fifty-nine seconds. He would need to get his brain chip reprogrammed as well.
He turned to his suit, his one and only, his baby, and sprayed it with Wet.
"You sure you don't want me to clean your suit, sir?" his white service bot asked.
"I can handle this."
This meeting was important to him, so Cola wanted to do it his damn self. Sure, it was nice that Autopilot Corp. made life easy. No one ever got sick anymore because of Autopilot's nano-immune system. If someone broke a bone, their nano-immune system had them back to new in seconds. It was fantastic really, but at times, Cola felt like he did nothing. He felt like a nobody. He felt like one of those rich, lazy ass **stards in the old films he had watched, those films that were popular before holographic movies became the standard. Money could never do that to him.
When Cola went to touch the suit, his service bot chucked an apple at his head. Crack, the apple broke into two pieces and bounced on the spongy, forest-green floor. Carpets went out of style.
"What was that for?"
"You don't want to touch the suit with wet on it, sir. Trust me."
"Could you have at least thrown a banana, or at least aimed for my chest?"
"I considered it, sir, but the apple was a better projectile."
"And the orange wasn't a good projectile?"
"The orange wouldn't have symbolized your hard headedness, sir."
"You're just jealous that you can't clean my suit."
"Perhaps."
"Ha, you didn't call me sir."
He threw the orange at him, but Cola dodged it. What an ornery little **stard, he thought. He should have gone with the big breasted, flesh covered, hot robot. Ah, too late now because he loved the guy.
"How long do I wait until I apply the Dry? I don't feel like downloading the info. I have enough useless info in my brain chip already."
"Enough time should have passed, sir."
Cola checked his brain chip for what time it was. 4:45. He had exactly fifteen minutes to be at the turning restaurant. Crap. He sprayed the hell out of his suit with the Dry, hoping it would speed up the process.
"You shouldn't have done that, sir."
"Why not?"
Then by some freak occurrence, something he was used to, his suit caught on fire. The probabilities of that happening were one in a billion, or so it was according to his brain-chip calculations.
"Ah, do something," he yelled, flapping his arms about. "Do something." | |
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