Despite leaning quite heavily in the direction of I-absolutely-need-to-move-back, I am still not sure Seattle was a mistake. I learned a lot of things by moving there, including what I was taking for granted. One thing I am sure of: its not any kind of fear of travel or new places that keeps me from living all over the world. I say this because before flying home I slept in an airport. The reason I slept in an airport is that my flight east on Christmas Eve was at the unholy hour of 7am. That makes boarding time 6:30, and if you add two hours of walking between security theatres trying to figure which one will be least likely to involve getting sexually assaulted by a male TSA agent, that takes you back to 4:30am. No trains were running at that time. I did not want to pay to keep my car in a lot for 10 days. That exhausts my travel options, because the bus tunnel doesn't go all the way to the airport, and since I think surface street buses are a waste of space, money, and raw materials, and the scum of tranist, I would only take them if I had no other choice. Picture the way Gandalf looked in the snowstorm saying "I would not take the road to Moria unless I had no other choice." That's me and [surface street] buses. They're gay.
Anyway. So I took the train and got there at like 2 am and then discovered that all of the ticket counters were closed. There was no way for me to print my boarding pass. I had been planning to sleep at the gate, wake up, and shuffle on to the flight. Instead, I slept in baggage claim for 2 hours, woke up, got through security without being fondled, and then slept for like half and hour at the gate.
The point of all that was, I was not put off by having to sleep overnight at an airport. It is definitely something I would have never tried unless I had to, (or unless I was under the intoxicating spell of some girl) but now that I've done it, it seems like no big deal. I think I could handle travel.
I think the real barrier to moving away is all of the people I know here. Wherever I go, I am always going to want to find my way back eventually. Maybe its not Seattle; maybe I've just spent a lifetime on the East Coast separating out all the cool people from the losers and I am just being impatient that I can't replace the friends I made in 9 years of high school and college.
So, I want to both: travel, and move back home. A rough plan is forming in my mind...something about staying in Seattle until next december, traveling (Europe/Russia) for a month, and then coming back home. I don't know where exactly I will live, but I needs to be close enough to the Philly area to have frequent and awesome parties.
I was planning to take a cooking class. Tonight I got the bright idea that cooking awesome food would be a great way to get people over and build up enough friends/acquaintances to have good parties.
Also, I want to be in a band. I watched Scott Pilgrim vs the World, and while I was a little disappointed that the main character ended up with the girl of his dreams, it did make me want to be in a band. I don't know what I have to do...but I love music and I want to make some, and I can't write any on my own. The best I can do is rewrite the lyrics of songs that other people have written. Whatever. I want to be in a band. It looks like so much fun.
So...I need to learn to cook, join a band, find a job on the east coast and plan a trip to europe which preferably includes learning a foreign language. Cool.
[Part 1.5]
The salsa combo from wednesday night:
Cross body lead, guy does left turn under her arm, lands facing away from her, her hand in your left
on 1,2,3, step across her to your left, pass her hand to your right behind your back.
lead an inside turn into a hug check (your left to her left shoulder, your right to both her right and her right shoulder)
hug check goes into a right turn, you're leading it with just your right
pick up left-to-left on top
then the hard part:
on 1,2,3, you to a half turn to the left, and swing your RIGHT arm over your head to your left shoulder. you should end up with your left arm going over your right shoulder to her arm and your right arm on top connecting over your left shouulder
you are going to the left--maybe its a cross body lead, Idk. Pull her around with your left hand / right shoulder.
then...right somes off somehow, and you go under the left, then you turn to your right, breaking the connection with your right hand over your waist and picking it up again, then you go to her left and pull her into closed position (her left arm goes over your head). Yeah, I wish I remembered this better.
Tuesday, December 28, 2010
Friday, December 17, 2010
Alone in the Crowd
[Alone in the Crowd]
I entered the pseudo-dance club still riding my driving high. When I say driving high, I am not merely attempting a clever turn of phrase, nor referring to an actual chemical imbalance akin to narcotics. I'm talking about something that happens to my personality when green lights line up and I can use my car's turbo. People who bitch about other people, specifically the ones who incorrectly assume there is a strong correlation between driving fast and getting somewhere in a timely manner, don't understand why people like me thrive on finding places where they can get up to 80 (indicated) on surface streets. Getting somewhere in a timely manner is typically not an issue of speed but of making the correct moves, the right lane changes, using the right routes. For a thorough treatise on the subject I suggest you read part of The Art of Driving, by Biff Becker. Anyway, those people, likewise, have probably never exited their car thinking that their life, the universe, and everything, is awesome, never heard their car's locking mechanism chirp behind them in agreement as they walk away.
I was late, later than usual, but the one girl I go dancing with, the only one (of the three and a half I usually dance with) who was planning to show up that night, had not gotten back to me about what time she was getting there. She has an incredibly attractive body. What I mean by that is that she pretty much spends the entire night dancing--she often can't get off the floor before yet another guy intercepts her for a dance. I pretty much only get to dance with her because I know her and she loves dancing with me and comes looking for me. With all that, I end up dancing with her like three times on a normal night. Anyway, the point of all that was really just that I can show up late and sneak in and she is so busy dancing she never knows when I actually get there. Back to the story. Wait, first: we'll call her Pink Shirt Girl. You don't need to know why...it involves my washing machine. Anyway.
As I checked my leather jacket, which I think is awesome and which gets a moderate amount of compliments that are unfortunately of dubious sincerity, the DJ began playing one of like 5 versions of a song with the phrase "zoom zoom" in the chorus--the version I like. Perhaps, "love" is a better word. "Love dancing to" would be better yet. I came down the large starcase and asked the first girl I saw to dance. She was quite attractive (which is normally cause for apprehension) and standing in front of the fan, but in my jubilation I didn't hesitate. She said she was sitting that one out, or whatever. I walked around the side looking for someone else. I saw no one, save for a bunch of guys also looking for girls, and an older woman that I didn't find attractive at all and who was asked to dance by some guy just as I passed her. I came around to where Pink Shirt Girl and my other salseras like to stand, still looking. The song ended before I found anyone. During the next song I surveyed the dance floor for Pink Shirt Girl, and realized she was not there.
Then I zoned out for a while, because there was no one there that I actually wanted to talk to, and standing around not talking to anyone is boring. When I came to, I went walking around looking for someone to dance with again, and this older woman asked me to dance. Don't get me wrong: she wasn't old, just older than me, by like more than a few years. So like, 30s. "Older" means 30s, maybe higher. I'm not really sure whats going on, but I'm starting to get the impression that I am quite popular with a lot of the older women. I think the circles under my eyes make me look older. Anyway, ...yeah, lets skip the rest of the details. I like writing prose, but they are not relevant.
A half hour after I got there, I had gotten one dance and one rejection, both of which I previously described, and Pink Shirt Girl never came. I was standing in the corner looking for girls to dance with. There were none, really; the few girls that I didn't mind dancing with were hot items and I couldn't get to them before someone else asked them to dance. My good mood had withered into the sort of stout denial of misery that I usually feel when I go salsa dancing by myself in this city. So I left. Wait, is that everything....yeah I think thats all the right details. Wait, no, there was one super attractive girl I've wanted to dance with for a while, but she is out of my league until I can find a good dance studio and get some lessons. So...that's where I'll be this weekend. Anyway, I didn't dance with her, and the realization that I wasn't going to dance with her made me ask what I'd come for anyway, so I left. So, onward.
Today, I found out that Pink Shirt Girl was on a date last night, the kind of date that went so well that she didn't make it out to dancing at all. This was a disappointing plot twist for me, because after doing my best to, you know, read signals, and all that b.s., I was leaning towards she likes me, and away from she just likes hugging me every time she sees me. Turns out, I was wrong again. Since she is a friend, and since, because she is one of the few girls I go dancing with, asking her out and getting rejected would have spoiled the usefulness of that frienship (for me), I suppose that avoiding it by not asking her out was the right move. However, I can't shake the feeling that I've lost something. And there is that small voice somewhere in my head screaming maybe she really is interested, and I should have been more aggressive, but I'm learning to ignore that one. I think Laura's perpetual unpredictability caused me to put too much faith in it. But I digress. Whatever my chances were with Pink Shirt Girl before, it looks like I'm locked in the friend zone now.
We are now back down to zero credible possiblities here in the dating/making out department.
I may swallow my pride, grow up, and start hanging out with Firefly Girl again, due in large part to the fact that I want to watch season 3 of Castle. I don't like sexual tension--if thats the right word for sitting, on your 5 year old Ikea futon that is poorly covered by a queen bed mattress cover that keeps coming off when you sit down because it doesn't fit, next to a girl that you want to make out with but can't. I hate that. I think girls thrive on it though. I think they love that shit, the way I love leaning in close but not actually kissing them. I think platonic stalemates, one-way attraction and unrequitted feelings stroke some kind of drama-themed pleasure-circuit in their brains. Thats why they love romantic comedies so much. You'll notice, when they throw eye candy into like an action movie in order to attract male viewers, they don't add a girl who is "its complicated"-ing some guy. They add a girl who takes her top off right before the scene switches away (see: Snakes on a Plane).
[Chief Medical Log, Stardate Bullshit]
I admit, I didn't entirely believe my prediction about the doctors being unable to find out what was wrong with me. I had myself kind of convinced that a pulmonary shunt was responsible for me passing out at altitude. Turns out...I do have a pulmonary shut, but its not a big deal (its "not significant"), and they have no idea what caused my mini blackouts, and also I'm apparently in great shape. So I guess I can go skiing now.
So, yeah. Life is one great mystery, or something. I'm going to find a suitable gay-sounding inspirational phrase like that to use as conversation segue, and put the whole thing out of my mind.
[The Organizational Announcement where they tell everyone I'm being punted to a new team]
In 2010, all Ordering <Fluff>. <Fluff>. <Fluff fragment>, <long-ass fluff fragment>.
<Fluff fragment>, <fluff fragment>. <Fluff>. Thoroughout this year, [teammate 1] has [figured out how to fix it]. In order to <fluff>, we will [shuffle a bunch of people around].
<Fluff>. <Fluff fragment>, <fluff fragment>. <Superfluff with +1 busswords>. <Fluff>.
In order to <fluff>, [teammate 1], [me], and [teammate 2] from [my team] will join [new team] <fluff>. [teammate 1 is awesome at everything] and [me] and [teammate 2] will be [there also].
I would also like to [we're getting another guy, too].
<Fluff>
<Generic "holiday" pleasantry>
I entered the pseudo-dance club still riding my driving high. When I say driving high, I am not merely attempting a clever turn of phrase, nor referring to an actual chemical imbalance akin to narcotics. I'm talking about something that happens to my personality when green lights line up and I can use my car's turbo. People who bitch about other people, specifically the ones who incorrectly assume there is a strong correlation between driving fast and getting somewhere in a timely manner, don't understand why people like me thrive on finding places where they can get up to 80 (indicated) on surface streets. Getting somewhere in a timely manner is typically not an issue of speed but of making the correct moves, the right lane changes, using the right routes. For a thorough treatise on the subject I suggest you read part of The Art of Driving, by Biff Becker. Anyway, those people, likewise, have probably never exited their car thinking that their life, the universe, and everything, is awesome, never heard their car's locking mechanism chirp behind them in agreement as they walk away.
I was late, later than usual, but the one girl I go dancing with, the only one (of the three and a half I usually dance with) who was planning to show up that night, had not gotten back to me about what time she was getting there. She has an incredibly attractive body. What I mean by that is that she pretty much spends the entire night dancing--she often can't get off the floor before yet another guy intercepts her for a dance. I pretty much only get to dance with her because I know her and she loves dancing with me and comes looking for me. With all that, I end up dancing with her like three times on a normal night. Anyway, the point of all that was really just that I can show up late and sneak in and she is so busy dancing she never knows when I actually get there. Back to the story. Wait, first: we'll call her Pink Shirt Girl. You don't need to know why...it involves my washing machine. Anyway.
As I checked my leather jacket, which I think is awesome and which gets a moderate amount of compliments that are unfortunately of dubious sincerity, the DJ began playing one of like 5 versions of a song with the phrase "zoom zoom" in the chorus--the version I like. Perhaps, "love" is a better word. "Love dancing to" would be better yet. I came down the large starcase and asked the first girl I saw to dance. She was quite attractive (which is normally cause for apprehension) and standing in front of the fan, but in my jubilation I didn't hesitate. She said she was sitting that one out, or whatever. I walked around the side looking for someone else. I saw no one, save for a bunch of guys also looking for girls, and an older woman that I didn't find attractive at all and who was asked to dance by some guy just as I passed her. I came around to where Pink Shirt Girl and my other salseras like to stand, still looking. The song ended before I found anyone. During the next song I surveyed the dance floor for Pink Shirt Girl, and realized she was not there.
Then I zoned out for a while, because there was no one there that I actually wanted to talk to, and standing around not talking to anyone is boring. When I came to, I went walking around looking for someone to dance with again, and this older woman asked me to dance. Don't get me wrong: she wasn't old, just older than me, by like more than a few years. So like, 30s. "Older" means 30s, maybe higher. I'm not really sure whats going on, but I'm starting to get the impression that I am quite popular with a lot of the older women. I think the circles under my eyes make me look older. Anyway, ...yeah, lets skip the rest of the details. I like writing prose, but they are not relevant.
A half hour after I got there, I had gotten one dance and one rejection, both of which I previously described, and Pink Shirt Girl never came. I was standing in the corner looking for girls to dance with. There were none, really; the few girls that I didn't mind dancing with were hot items and I couldn't get to them before someone else asked them to dance. My good mood had withered into the sort of stout denial of misery that I usually feel when I go salsa dancing by myself in this city. So I left. Wait, is that everything....yeah I think thats all the right details. Wait, no, there was one super attractive girl I've wanted to dance with for a while, but she is out of my league until I can find a good dance studio and get some lessons. So...that's where I'll be this weekend. Anyway, I didn't dance with her, and the realization that I wasn't going to dance with her made me ask what I'd come for anyway, so I left. So, onward.
Today, I found out that Pink Shirt Girl was on a date last night, the kind of date that went so well that she didn't make it out to dancing at all. This was a disappointing plot twist for me, because after doing my best to, you know, read signals, and all that b.s., I was leaning towards she likes me, and away from she just likes hugging me every time she sees me. Turns out, I was wrong again. Since she is a friend, and since, because she is one of the few girls I go dancing with, asking her out and getting rejected would have spoiled the usefulness of that frienship (for me), I suppose that avoiding it by not asking her out was the right move. However, I can't shake the feeling that I've lost something. And there is that small voice somewhere in my head screaming maybe she really is interested, and I should have been more aggressive, but I'm learning to ignore that one. I think Laura's perpetual unpredictability caused me to put too much faith in it. But I digress. Whatever my chances were with Pink Shirt Girl before, it looks like I'm locked in the friend zone now.
We are now back down to zero credible possiblities here in the dating/making out department.
I may swallow my pride, grow up, and start hanging out with Firefly Girl again, due in large part to the fact that I want to watch season 3 of Castle. I don't like sexual tension--if thats the right word for sitting, on your 5 year old Ikea futon that is poorly covered by a queen bed mattress cover that keeps coming off when you sit down because it doesn't fit, next to a girl that you want to make out with but can't. I hate that. I think girls thrive on it though. I think they love that shit, the way I love leaning in close but not actually kissing them. I think platonic stalemates, one-way attraction and unrequitted feelings stroke some kind of drama-themed pleasure-circuit in their brains. Thats why they love romantic comedies so much. You'll notice, when they throw eye candy into like an action movie in order to attract male viewers, they don't add a girl who is "its complicated"-ing some guy. They add a girl who takes her top off right before the scene switches away (see: Snakes on a Plane).
[Chief Medical Log, Stardate Bullshit]
I admit, I didn't entirely believe my prediction about the doctors being unable to find out what was wrong with me. I had myself kind of convinced that a pulmonary shunt was responsible for me passing out at altitude. Turns out...I do have a pulmonary shut, but its not a big deal (its "not significant"), and they have no idea what caused my mini blackouts, and also I'm apparently in great shape. So I guess I can go skiing now.
So, yeah. Life is one great mystery, or something. I'm going to find a suitable gay-sounding inspirational phrase like that to use as conversation segue, and put the whole thing out of my mind.
[The Organizational Announcement where they tell everyone I'm being punted to a new team]
In 2010, all Ordering <Fluff>. <Fluff>. <Fluff fragment>, <long-ass fluff fragment>.
<Fluff fragment>, <fluff fragment>. <Fluff>. Thoroughout this year, [teammate 1] has [figured out how to fix it]. In order to <fluff>, we will [shuffle a bunch of people around].
<Fluff>. <Fluff fragment>, <fluff fragment>. <Superfluff with +1 busswords>. <Fluff>.
In order to <fluff>, [teammate 1], [me], and [teammate 2] from [my team] will join [new team] <fluff>. [teammate 1 is awesome at everything] and [me] and [teammate 2] will be [there also].
I would also like to [we're getting another guy, too].
<Fluff>
<Generic "holiday" pleasantry>
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
Conversations in Bars
Two nights ago, I was part of a conversation where this guy insisted that in the jungles of Guatemala, a .22 does more damage to the human body than a 50 caliber bullet. A Guatemalan gas station security guard told him so.
I expressed my skepticism to the degree required to avoid passive aggressive behavior, and then pretended to accept his claim. It was cool though. What I liked about this guy was that he was not wearing fake boobs, an ugly whig or heaps of insecurity. I like that--the lack of that--in a guy, and, you know, if some radical change occured in my life that caused me to need more guy friends, maybe we could be buddies.
I expressed my skepticism to the degree required to avoid passive aggressive behavior, and then pretended to accept his claim. It was cool though. What I liked about this guy was that he was not wearing fake boobs, an ugly whig or heaps of insecurity. I like that--the lack of that--in a guy, and, you know, if some radical change occured in my life that caused me to need more guy friends, maybe we could be buddies.
Monday, December 13, 2010
An Orphan's Silent Night
My shoes are like soaked from the rain...so maybe I'm just in a bad mood. Whatever the case, I was made aware of this song, and as I was reading the lyrics, I realized that I actually don't owe my fucking freedom to anyone in the U.S. military, especially if they volunteered. So I banged this out in like 30 minutes:
An Orphan's Silent Night
Twas the night before Christmas, he cried all alone
in a bombed out ruin of dust and stone
I'd come down the chimmney with presents to give
and to check on the family in this home that did live
I looked all about, no family nor tree
just "collateral" damage, as far as I'd see
with refuse and blood, and holes of all kinds
a sober thought came through my mind
for this house was different, it was dark and dreary
the work of a modern soldier*, that I could see clearly
the boy lay in tears, silent, alone
curled up on the floor of what used to be home
the face was so tortured, the room in such disorder
it had been visited recently by a U.S. soldier
was this the great fight, of which I'd read?
protecting our freedom, or just staying ahead?
I realized the families I saw this night
lost their lives to stray bullets, "bad intel" in the fight
on the other side of the world, children will play
and grownups would celebrate a bright christmas day
they'll enjoy privilege and freedom this year
ignorant of the harm caused to the child curled up here
I couldn't help wonder how many died alone
on a warm christmas eve, killed in their homes
the very thought brought a tear to my eye
I dropped to my knees and started to cry
the kid looked at me and he implored:
santa, go away, I'm a Christian no more
the americans killed everyone that I hold dear
they droped a big bomb at the wedding this year
I want no part of their God or their "freedom"
the last day of my life will be the day that I kill them
the boy rolled over, and fell into sleep
I couldn't control it, I continued to weep
jacking off to ideals--thats fun--but he's right
its not a Merry Christmas for everyone this night
*"modern soldier" is meant to describe only soldiers in wars strictly after the Korean and Vietnam wars, of which I have not settled on a firm opinion.
Also, on a related topic: http://verydemotivational.memebase.com/2010/12/09/demotivational-posters-mission-accomplished/
Also: awesome (according to the movie the main engines of the shuttle burn oxygen and hydrogen, forming water vapor, making those engines greener than your car)
An Orphan's Silent Night
Twas the night before Christmas, he cried all alone
in a bombed out ruin of dust and stone
I'd come down the chimmney with presents to give
and to check on the family in this home that did live
I looked all about, no family nor tree
just "collateral" damage, as far as I'd see
with refuse and blood, and holes of all kinds
a sober thought came through my mind
for this house was different, it was dark and dreary
the work of a modern soldier*, that I could see clearly
the boy lay in tears, silent, alone
curled up on the floor of what used to be home
the face was so tortured, the room in such disorder
it had been visited recently by a U.S. soldier
was this the great fight, of which I'd read?
protecting our freedom, or just staying ahead?
I realized the families I saw this night
lost their lives to stray bullets, "bad intel" in the fight
on the other side of the world, children will play
and grownups would celebrate a bright christmas day
they'll enjoy privilege and freedom this year
ignorant of the harm caused to the child curled up here
I couldn't help wonder how many died alone
on a warm christmas eve, killed in their homes
the very thought brought a tear to my eye
I dropped to my knees and started to cry
the kid looked at me and he implored:
santa, go away, I'm a Christian no more
the americans killed everyone that I hold dear
they droped a big bomb at the wedding this year
I want no part of their God or their "freedom"
the last day of my life will be the day that I kill them
the boy rolled over, and fell into sleep
I couldn't control it, I continued to weep
jacking off to ideals--thats fun--but he's right
its not a Merry Christmas for everyone this night
*"modern soldier" is meant to describe only soldiers in wars strictly after the Korean and Vietnam wars, of which I have not settled on a firm opinion.
Also, on a related topic: http://verydemotivational.memebase.com/2010/12/09/demotivational-posters-mission-accomplished/
Also: awesome (according to the movie the main engines of the shuttle burn oxygen and hydrogen, forming water vapor, making those engines greener than your car)
Sunday, December 12, 2010
La Despedida
La Despedida by Daddy Yankee ...notes
Como Te Voy A Olvidar = how am I going to forget you?
Soñare - dream
olvidar - forget
igual - same
perdi - lost
Entonces - then
Destino - destination
Distancia - distance
Pelea - fight
Razon - reason
recuerdo - remember
matando - killing
Dijiste - said
Esperando - waiting
Espejo - mirror
Ganando - winning
Me Esta Matando - it is killing me
This girl I know says she learned french by listening to french songs. Tonight...I wasn't trying to learn spanish, actually. I was actually trying desperately to find this song with lyrics that sound like "zoom zoom zoom!" I thought I had it--a friend was playing it on her laptop thursday, so I texted myself the track name: "buena vista social club, track 2." Well, tonight I listened to every song on Buena Vista Social Club, including track 2, and none of them were the right song. My search did take me through a lot of salsa music, including a completely different song that has the lyrics "zoom zoom zoom" but is still the wrong song. Anyway, I eventually came across this page and how can I write about this? I just did this two hours ago. Well I guess we all no I accomplished nothing today. Except for drive all the way to Northgate to get my haircut by this really cute girl from alaska who asked me directly if I had a girlfriend and then we both complained about not dating anyone and I would have asked her out but she started telling me about this guy she is "seeing" or "dating" or whatever its called, so I left the place with a $40 bottle of conditioner that has so far provided an inadequate defense against my advancing hairline and without asking her out. Anyway, lets skip to the end: I've just listened to La Despedida by some guy Daddy Yankee about 30 times, and I still can't figure out what its about. I like it though. It has a meregue beat, unfortunately, and not a salsa, and...then I have a clever ending to this.
Como Te Voy A Olvidar = how am I going to forget you?
Soñare - dream
olvidar - forget
igual - same
perdi - lost
Entonces - then
Destino - destination
Distancia - distance
Pelea - fight
Razon - reason
recuerdo - remember
matando - killing
Dijiste - said
Esperando - waiting
Espejo - mirror
Ganando - winning
Me Esta Matando - it is killing me
This girl I know says she learned french by listening to french songs. Tonight...I wasn't trying to learn spanish, actually. I was actually trying desperately to find this song with lyrics that sound like "zoom zoom zoom!" I thought I had it--a friend was playing it on her laptop thursday, so I texted myself the track name: "buena vista social club, track 2." Well, tonight I listened to every song on Buena Vista Social Club, including track 2, and none of them were the right song. My search did take me through a lot of salsa music, including a completely different song that has the lyrics "zoom zoom zoom" but is still the wrong song. Anyway, I eventually came across this page and how can I write about this? I just did this two hours ago. Well I guess we all no I accomplished nothing today. Except for drive all the way to Northgate to get my haircut by this really cute girl from alaska who asked me directly if I had a girlfriend and then we both complained about not dating anyone and I would have asked her out but she started telling me about this guy she is "seeing" or "dating" or whatever its called, so I left the place with a $40 bottle of conditioner that has so far provided an inadequate defense against my advancing hairline and without asking her out. Anyway, lets skip to the end: I've just listened to La Despedida by some guy Daddy Yankee about 30 times, and I still can't figure out what its about. I like it though. It has a meregue beat, unfortunately, and not a salsa, and...then I have a clever ending to this.
Saturday, December 11, 2010
Another Night, Another Show
Dear Diary,
Bb9 invited me out to solo again. The only other person that was with her was that guy who is constantly seeking acceptance as a girl. He's a fucking guy. He had five 'o clock shadow! Bb9 mentioned a rum (I think) that is allegedly called "black cock." Fuckface then said that he loved black cock, and he was not talking about rum. He then proceeded...onward...in that direction of conversation, and I was subjected to hearing things I never wanted to hear. I think I partially blocked them out.
Later, fuckface finally left and me and bb9 hung out for a while. One of bb9's attractive acquantances showed up with a guy; they didn't sit with us.
Other things that happened tonight: I ate ice cream. I watched four episodes of Star Trek, Deep Space 9, one of which sucked. I played Diablo2, sending my sorceress, Lilly, into the desert to kill people and steal their stuff so she could save up and buy a special staff that lets her do more damage when she shoots a magical comet of ice.
Yeah, I guess I'm recounting my day backwards.
Today at work, we went over the results of a developer survey we were all supposed to take in september. Only six people on my team responded. I was one of the, and I was under the impression that it was an anonymous survey...mostly because they said it was. It was not anonymous. It was "anonymous." The results of the survey were grouped by team, printed out on like 18 pages of complicated bar charts, and handed out during our team meeting. We then spent two or three hours pouring over the results. Here's the fun part: when only six people respond to a survey, and you're the only one with highly negative answers, you kind of stick out, because every column you answered says "17%" of the team responded that way, which everyone quickly figures out was exactly one person. I eventually revealed myself as the single person who was chronically bored, unsatisfied and unproud of my work. Later, we got to the page where "17%" of the team was planning on moving to another team (or job!) but this time they didn't realize it was me because someone else had actually left the team since September. I felt no need to out myself this time, because at the beginning of the meeting my manager revealed to everyone that he is sending me and two other people off to another team. Not my idea. My team is basically getting split, and it sounds like I am going off with one of the sucky pieces.
This morning, I got a reminder call from the hospital for an appointment next week that I didn't even know I had. They are going to CAT scan my head, and then put me on a bicycle while they examine my heart, and then they are going to tell me they don't know why I have a strange tendency to pass out at 8,000 feet, after which I will go to an airport on christmas eve, get a dose of harmful radiation at the security theatre, and board an airplane to fly home.
Last night, though, salsa was good. There were very few girls there, but I still managed to get an ok amount of dances, one of which was with this tall girl who is older than me and preferred what I'm going to call the "zero inch rule." Oh, and I met a girl named Anastasia. Awesome. Also she is hot and has a Russian accent.
Bb9 invited me out to solo again. The only other person that was with her was that guy who is constantly seeking acceptance as a girl. He's a fucking guy. He had five 'o clock shadow! Bb9 mentioned a rum (I think) that is allegedly called "black cock." Fuckface then said that he loved black cock, and he was not talking about rum. He then proceeded...onward...in that direction of conversation, and I was subjected to hearing things I never wanted to hear. I think I partially blocked them out.
Later, fuckface finally left and me and bb9 hung out for a while. One of bb9's attractive acquantances showed up with a guy; they didn't sit with us.
Other things that happened tonight: I ate ice cream. I watched four episodes of Star Trek, Deep Space 9, one of which sucked. I played Diablo2, sending my sorceress, Lilly, into the desert to kill people and steal their stuff so she could save up and buy a special staff that lets her do more damage when she shoots a magical comet of ice.
Yeah, I guess I'm recounting my day backwards.
Today at work, we went over the results of a developer survey we were all supposed to take in september. Only six people on my team responded. I was one of the, and I was under the impression that it was an anonymous survey...mostly because they said it was. It was not anonymous. It was "anonymous." The results of the survey were grouped by team, printed out on like 18 pages of complicated bar charts, and handed out during our team meeting. We then spent two or three hours pouring over the results. Here's the fun part: when only six people respond to a survey, and you're the only one with highly negative answers, you kind of stick out, because every column you answered says "17%" of the team responded that way, which everyone quickly figures out was exactly one person. I eventually revealed myself as the single person who was chronically bored, unsatisfied and unproud of my work. Later, we got to the page where "17%" of the team was planning on moving to another team (or job!) but this time they didn't realize it was me because someone else had actually left the team since September. I felt no need to out myself this time, because at the beginning of the meeting my manager revealed to everyone that he is sending me and two other people off to another team. Not my idea. My team is basically getting split, and it sounds like I am going off with one of the sucky pieces.
This morning, I got a reminder call from the hospital for an appointment next week that I didn't even know I had. They are going to CAT scan my head, and then put me on a bicycle while they examine my heart, and then they are going to tell me they don't know why I have a strange tendency to pass out at 8,000 feet, after which I will go to an airport on christmas eve, get a dose of harmful radiation at the security theatre, and board an airplane to fly home.
Last night, though, salsa was good. There were very few girls there, but I still managed to get an ok amount of dances, one of which was with this tall girl who is older than me and preferred what I'm going to call the "zero inch rule." Oh, and I met a girl named Anastasia. Awesome. Also she is hot and has a Russian accent.
Friday, December 10, 2010
Seething in Seattle
Tonight I drove to get to the salsa club in an ultimately failed attempt to avoid soaking my shoes in the rain. There were some spots on the street in a 45 degree angle. I parked in one. Some guy in a bigass van pulled up and looked at me like he had wanted to park there and I had just spilled his ice cream and spit on his girlfriend. I took my time getting out and made sure to glare in his general direction, wondering if I should linger to prevent a brick getting thrown in my window.
Then I pregamed with friends and realized that one of the girls owns a honda shadow, one of the bikes I investigated when I decided I just had to get a motorcycle all those years ago.
THEN we walk by my car and there is a ticket on it. I got a ticket for parking the wrong way. I was in between the lines, yes. My car was supposed to be facing the street. Seattle is located in a lame-ass state where cars must have license plates on both the front and back, and they still want to bitch about which way my car is facing?
My only theory so far about why they have this retarded law is that it is related to the flow of traffic. For this reason, the next time I park in that area, I am going to approach from the same direction, then swing into the middle of the street for room but more importantly to get in the way, and then back up in a wide arc, completely what should be an entirely unecessary three-point turn that obstructs traffic in both directions. Hopefully that same guy with the van will show up, maybe after having passed the spot and turned around all proper like.
I drew you a diagram:
I think that useless and unecessary laws, when enforced, bother me more than unjust ones. For example, when Amazon caved and kicked wikileaks off of EC2, I was sad and disappointed, but I shrugged it off and said something cynical about the first amendment (and would have made a crack about airport scanners that bombard us with dangerous levels of radiation and can't detect bombs, but someone else said something). However, when I get bit by some random traffic thing that makes no sense, I feel a quick flash of fury. Strange.
Then I pregamed with friends and realized that one of the girls owns a honda shadow, one of the bikes I investigated when I decided I just had to get a motorcycle all those years ago.
THEN we walk by my car and there is a ticket on it. I got a ticket for parking the wrong way. I was in between the lines, yes. My car was supposed to be facing the street. Seattle is located in a lame-ass state where cars must have license plates on both the front and back, and they still want to bitch about which way my car is facing?
My only theory so far about why they have this retarded law is that it is related to the flow of traffic. For this reason, the next time I park in that area, I am going to approach from the same direction, then swing into the middle of the street for room but more importantly to get in the way, and then back up in a wide arc, completely what should be an entirely unecessary three-point turn that obstructs traffic in both directions. Hopefully that same guy with the van will show up, maybe after having passed the spot and turned around all proper like.
I drew you a diagram:
I think that useless and unecessary laws, when enforced, bother me more than unjust ones. For example, when Amazon caved and kicked wikileaks off of EC2, I was sad and disappointed, but I shrugged it off and said something cynical about the first amendment (and would have made a crack about airport scanners that bombard us with dangerous levels of radiation and can't detect bombs, but someone else said something). However, when I get bit by some random traffic thing that makes no sense, I feel a quick flash of fury. Strange.
Monday, December 6, 2010
Plans!
I am flying to the East Coast on Christmas Eve, December 24th. I'm going to spend a day or two in Virginia with my family. I am flying back to Seattle on Sunday, January 2nd. I'm going to try to visit my grandfather one of those days, but other than that, my week is currently wide open.
[Edit]
Also:
http://www.collegedegrees.com/blog/2008/06/11/100-useful-web-tools-for-writers/
The most exciting things I've done at work recently:
1: rewrite some of our documentation, reducing the quantity of information by 50% and making the articles actually useful
2: cleaned out my home folder on one of my desktops in preparation for upgrading the operating system
[Edit]
The article I had a lot of fun writing yesterday? The one that was supposed to help solve our doccumentation problem? I sent out an email asking people to read it. Instead of reading it, the annoying girl at work just spent all day basically duplicating it. Upon further inspection, we now have Six articles that describe how to do the same thing, but all at different levels of detail and completeness, in such a way that it would take hours to untangle them.
She doesn't see what my problem is. I've written about four responses to her, all of which I had to delete before sending.
[Edit]
Also:
http://www.collegedegrees.com/blog/2008/06/11/100-useful-web-tools-for-writers/
The most exciting things I've done at work recently:
1: rewrite some of our documentation, reducing the quantity of information by 50% and making the articles actually useful
2: cleaned out my home folder on one of my desktops in preparation for upgrading the operating system
[Edit]
The article I had a lot of fun writing yesterday? The one that was supposed to help solve our doccumentation problem? I sent out an email asking people to read it. Instead of reading it, the annoying girl at work just spent all day basically duplicating it. Upon further inspection, we now have Six articles that describe how to do the same thing, but all at different levels of detail and completeness, in such a way that it would take hours to untangle them.
She doesn't see what my problem is. I've written about four responses to her, all of which I had to delete before sending.
Sunday, December 5, 2010
The Epic Monopoly Game
The Rent Check Saga
The apartment complex I live in refuses to accept rent payments by any method other than ancient forms of trasanctions that involve physical paper, called checks or money orders. Checks are, as far as I know, the most unreliable form of payment that is still in use. If there is any hiccup in the rent transaction, an eviction threat is posted on my door and mailed to me. This eviction threat has a ten day deadline before the Bad Stuff.
I ran out of checks a long time ago. My primary bank is well known on the East Coast. I tried repeatedly over a period of months to order checks from them, but the people who wrote their website suck and it didn't work. My second bank does not deal with paper checks at all, unless the bank itself sends the paper check directly to the payee in such a way that prevents me from knowing if the payment was received or not. Ergo, if I used this form of check to pay my rent and then went on vacation, I would not know the payment failed until I came home and all of my possessions were on the street. One of the guys at work continues to insist that Washington is a renter friendly state.
So, I have been paying with money orders. Money orders are similar to checks, but with the important difference that they have been designed to be as difficult to obtain as possible. Every institution that offers them have different rules for you to jump through. So far, the post office is the most reasonable: they only force you to have a debit card, and to show up at the one branch in the entire metropolitan area that does money orders during their business hours, which are worse than a banks. Don't worry, I'll cover the other suppliers of money orders shortly.
So I have been paying rent with money orders for months. Two money orders per month, actualy, because of a maximum limit on the amount of the money order. Because of the sheer difficulty in obtaining the money order, there were occasional problems which led to me being intimately familiar with the eviction threats.
I decided to open a brand new checking account. This is bank #3. Actually, its a credit union. With this credit union, though, it only took about 3 seperate tries on their website before I received a shipment of real, actual, paper checks. Because of the perceived scarcity of paper checks in my mind, I ordered enough paper checks to pay rent for the next 20 years.
Upon receiving these checks, I filled one out for every rent payment between then and next september, which is when my ridiculously long 15-month lease ends and I am free of this retarded apartment complex. Each check when in an evelope labeled with the name of the month and a funny picture of a fat, cross eyed dragon. Part of some kind subconscious ploy to I guess stand out to the girls in the office, even though the only one I want to play tongue tennis with clearly has not only no interest in me but also a boyfriend. But I digress.
I used the first of the checks. It bounced. The credit union I am using seems to have opted to discourage the use of "external transfers," or wire tranfers to other banks (which is like most of them) by creating the worst interface for said transfers that I've ever seen. It is the single page on their entire website that opens in a new window. But I digress.
My november check bounced. I received an eviction threat on my door and by mail. It had a ten day deadline. I managed to initiate a wire transfer between the bank I actually use, and the credit union account that has paper checks. I waited for it to clear. I then wrote a new check and included the ridiculous 10% late fee, and the other fees they were charging me, and walked this check directly into the office and handed it to an employee of the apartment complex who accepted the check. A few days later, I received a voicemail while I was at work telling me that they "cannot" accept the check, and that I had until that night to complete the payment or they would evict me. I was...well I was...I'll spare you the details, but I was about 1/3 or 2/3s as mad at the bitch who called me as I was at the duck boat people who ran over my car, and since I still fantasize about sinking every fucking lame ass tank they have into the Puget Sound, you should know that I was pretty fucking pissed.
I was the primary oncall of my team, on the highest traffic day of the year, during an emergency of the highest severity. I found some time to walk up to the then-empty cafeteria and call those fuckers back. This girl that called me explained to me that they can accept personal checks of course, but they "can't" accept them the second time in a month, if the first time bounces, which really means that they can, but are refusing to. They would only accept a money order (a.k.a. cashier's check). Apparently the fact that I was falsely led to believe that they had accepted my payment did not extend the ten-day bullshit deadline. I explained to her that I could not leave work to run all over the city trying to acquire a money order. My voice betrayed me, relaying the emotion of frustration instead of the vengeful hatred that I was going for. She then talked down to me, making it sound like getting a money order was the easiest thing in the world. I agreed go to to 7-11 that night and drop it off in the drop box.
Acquiring a money order is not the easiest thing in the world.
One of the reason I managed to avoid getting evicted is that on that day, my boss sent half of the team home in the middle of the day, so that we could get online and deal with the emergency and cover the other half of the team. I decided that my commute would including a quick trip to 7-11 to pick up a money order so I don't get evicted from my apartment.
I went to 7-11. They told me they only accept cash. So, the bitch on the phone that told me I could get a money order at 7-11 has either never gotten a money order at 7-11, or thinks I walk around with $1500 in cash. I don't, because I'm actually not a drug dealer. The guy at 7-11 told me to go to the bank across the street. Because I had my car with me, and because the incredibly poor design of Seattle's roads, which included a lot of "no turns" and one way streets, it took me 15 minutes to cross the street. I'm not kidding.
I arrive at the bank and ask for a cashier's check (bank version of a money order). The pretty girl at the counter told me to fuck off because I did not have an account with them.
I went to the nearest post office. By some miracle they were still open. The lady behind the counter told me that branch can't do money orders. The other branch was on the other side of the city, which is roughly an hour to walk, and it was rush hour.
I called Adam, and after about ten minutes got the location of the nearest branch of the credit union, the only of my three banks that actually has a physical presence anywhere in this city. By some miracle, they were open until 6, and I was able to walk there in time. For the second time that night I asked for a cashiers check, this time as an account holder. This time the person told me that they would only use the money that was already in my account. Fucking credit union: I told you they hated "external" transfers.
Fortunately for me, I had just wired money into that checking account: the money that was supposed to cover the second check I wrote to the apartment bastards. I walked out of the credit union office clutching the check in my hand, and hurried all the way back to my stupid fucking overpriced apartment complex. Then I realized that if I dropped it or it blew away or I randomly passed out or something, I would both lose about $1500 and get evicted from my apartment. After some deliberation I tucked the check inside my jacket.
I arrived at the apartment office before they closed. I asked the girl to look at the check and see if anything was wrong. She basically checked that my apartment number was in the memo field, as well as all of the obvious things your mother or father probably scrutinized the first time they taught you how to write a check. I left not knowing if they would drum up some new kind of problem with my payment, but damn ready to lawyer up and give them hell if they did.
Days later, December arrived. I pulled my December rent check out of the envelope with the cute dragon drawing, inserted it into an envelope sans drawing, and deposited it in the drop box that, according to the rental agreement and/or website, does not legally count as the apartment receiving the check. Can I walk up to someone on the street and punch them and claim "I'm not responsible for what happens to your face" afterwards? Never in my life have I had so much trouble paying for an apartment.
Fountain Court: I highly recommend not living here.
Dance Floor Ownership
Dancing didn't suck. Yay! There were so many girls there...I'd say that there were only like 20 or 30 more men than women in the club. It was good enough that I got to dance every once in a while. There was this girl who I danced with three times. She might have been interested. I did not ask for her number because it didn't feel like we cliqued enough, and later one of the girls I go dancing with confirmed that asking for a girl's number the first night you see them at salsa is awkward (classes are better). Hopefully I see her again. Oh, and there was this other, super cute girl...like, gorgeous super cute. She was new. In fact, it was her first night but she agreed to dance with me. Despite her being new she possessed the most innate raw talent that I've possibly ever felt in anyone. I accidentally broke out moves that were way above her level, because she was good at the simpler ones, and its kind of automatic after that. I dance with her twice. After the second one she said I was very patient. She spent the entire time embarrassed about how little she knew, which is my fault for doing advanced stuff. No one should be embarrassed about lack of skill when they are out dancing and having fun. Moreover, "patient" is not the reaction I wanted. It seemed clear that she thought I was dancing with her to be not and not because I was drawn to her like a moth to a flame. She had an awesome laugh, voice, and dancingness. So...that was my good time. Dancing and not asking out girls. It is interesting though...I'm getting better and better at identifying the dancers that don't get asked much, and therefore are more likely to not reject me. I'm like a vulture. I was asking more girls though...that was good. I've found that when an awesome song comes on, like Aicha, or El Cantante, or Tu Amore Me Hace Bien, I scurry around and ask almost anyone without fear of rejection; the music really changes things. There is some kind of interesting tangent there that I would expand on if this post wasn't supposed to be about monopoly. Anyway...ok lets be done with the salsa stories. Oh, wait, no, so my new goal is to "own the dance floor." I have for a long time been avoiding the best looking girls, because they (due to a process I can't explain because it sounds too cynical) are the best dancers and know the most people, and I can't compete with the guys that dance with them--those guys are like two levels/grades/classes/leagues above me. This needs to end. I need to be able to look at any girl that dances L.A. style, and not be afraid to ask her to dance for lack of skill. So...I'm gonna take lessons or something. Yeah, a quick little entry before bed, I thought.
Crustaceans
Friday night, I pregamed by mixing expensive vodka that came in a $50 skull-shaped glass with gross, bottom shelf orange juice made from concentrate. I put off eating dinner because I was busy failing at creating a castle out of Lego bricks (more on that in the next section). 'Bb9 texted me and asked if I wanted to get a drink. I said yes, hoping that this time the girl who lives in my apartment would be there and not that guy who is pretending to be a girl. I left my apartment and went to the bar super hungry. None of here other friends were there. The bar did not have any food, so I thought it would be a great idea to drink three captain and cokes on an empty stomach. Then we left and 'bb9 took me to a grocery store. I stumbled away from her, bought a $15 platter of gourmet shrimp, and then searched for the cocktail sauce while briefly feeling like I was going to pass out for no reason, and then I went home and ate half of the shrimp while watching two mediocre episodes of star trak deep space nine. Actually, the second one sucked: the runabout (its like a shuttle) gets shrunk and flies around inside the other ship (the defiant). You could actually say it is probably one of the worst ten episodes in the entire serious, but I was drunk so I didn't mind and honestly I couldn't exactly tell you how it ended.
Rhymes with Flexible Crustacean
Its has been...more than a year, I think, since I made out with anyone I liked. I'm not going to spell out what that means, but maybe you can infer it:
Today, I played Diablo2. I leveled up my barbarian character and realized that the reason he was sucking so much was that I was fighting monsters way above my level. So I fought those monsters over and over again, and if things got too heavy and I couldn't jump out of the fray in time, I just pressed escape, quit the game, and then went back in. I spent a good amount of time debating between putting a skill point in Natural Resistance, which protects him from Fire, Cold, Lightning and Poison (yeah, exciting, I know!) or simply leveling up his Wirlwind ability, which took me like two hours of gameplay to figure out how to use. Then, I got bored, and switched to my sorceress character. The sorceress in diablo 2 is good for one thing: a spell called Frost Orb. You are not allowed to get this spell until your sorceress reaches level 30, which doesn't actually happen until you beat the game on easy. My sorceress is level 7. That'll be fun.
Then, the legos. Damn. Its 4:19 am and I still haven't gotten to the monopoly game. Well, this is what happens when I queue up ideas for posts. So, onward.
I had this idea that I would make a book about castles. I was going to make lots of models of archetype and real English castles out of Lego bricks, and include the directions for how to make them. I was hoping to sell this book on the internet, as part of a grand, effortless money making scheme that was hatched in my head when I read some book called 4 hour workweek. I was then going to write a second book on French castles, in order to have a credible excuse for suddenly learning French even though my real reason is that one of the girls-I-never-had-that-got-away is into French...stuff. I have since spent about $500 buying bulk legos from random people. Then I counted and sorted them, even going so far as being forced to scrub one batch because it was so filthy. That was the same batch that was comtaminated with fake Lego bricks (mega blocks and tycho and one other company makes them). I can't find the paper with the final sum, but I have about 20,000 Lego bricks in my apartment. These legos are currently strewn all over my apartment. I tried to take a picture for you but my phone said "insufficient memory" even though I just deleted a picture off of it. Whatever.
After doing some research on wikipedia during work, when I should have been using a tedious guess-and-check method to track down the cause of a ClassNotFoundException (literally, I have to manually find the class somewhere in an enormous source tree of a poorly implemented proprietary version control system, which is held in a repository so large I can't even list the packages in it), I found the smallest castle structure possible: a Motte. If any of you have played Lords of the Realm II, you are probably familiar with the Motte and Bailey castle. This is a two part castle consisting of the Motte: an often man-made hill on which some kind of wall and/or keep was constructed, and the Bailey, a large outer wall with a lower strategic value than the Motte. If you take away the Bailey part of a Mottle and Bailey, you are left with just a Mottle with a keep on top: the simplest and smallest castle that is really still a castle.
This is what I attempted to create out of Lego bricks. I started yesterday (friday) and continued on today (saturday). I created a cool mound. Then I attempted to erect the keep on top of it. Lego bricks are a reverse of the real world in that bricks that resemble wood are scarcer and more valueable than brick that resemble stone. Therefore, I decided that whoever had built this Motte was too poor to construct the Bailey, but somehow rich enough to build the keep out of stone. Maybe its the keep guarding the stone quarry; who knows. Anyway, upon attempting to construct the keep I came to the incredibly depressing realization that I don't have enough castle pieces to construct it. I have 20,000 pieces of Lego bricks in bins on my couch, table, chairs and floor, and I don't have enough bricks to build the smallest realistic castle. I have no corner pieces. I also have no horses. I have maybe six of those straight castle pieces...if you don't know what I'm talking about, forget it; I don't feel like searching the internets for an examples.
Now, for monopoly.
After the Diablo2 and the Lego bricks, Luke invited me over to his place to drink and play monopoly with his brother. An interesting idea. I briefly debated inviting 'bb9 or Firefly Girl. 'Bb9 probably had to work, and I didn't want to spent that much time alone in a car with Firefly Girl. So it was just the three of us. Three, belligerant boys drinking and playing monopoly. That was definitely an experience.
The first game, we played with what I'm going to dub Classic Childhood Rules. They are basically the real rules, except you take away the two that nobody likes: you don't have to pay interest when you unmortgage a property, and you don't have to sell houses at half price--you sell them at full price. I was impatient to get a monopoly, so I pushed for trading and gave up Boardwalk, allowing Matt to have a monopoly on dark blue, in order to gain a monopoly on the light blues and the light violets--the two second-least-valuable monopolies in the game. Luke got a monopoly on orange, which according so some study I saw on slashdot a few years ago is the monopoly that is most likely to benefit the player. Matt mortgaged everything and put all his resources into building hotels on blue. Luke bent everything towards building up orange. I lost.
The second game, we agreed to play with the interest and the selling houses for half price. As five year olds playing the game, no one ever abused the house selling priviledge; we just didn't know what interest was. As twenty-something computer science majors, we had all realized during the first game that allowing a person to resell the houses at full price makes the houses a completely liquid commodity like cash, and renders them somewhat pointless.
The second game...I waited a while, and then I broker a three-way trade that, in one transaction, gave us each monopolies. This time Matt got Orange, I got Red (the one better than orange) and Luke got Yellow (the one better than red but not as good as green or dark blue). Such a deal was necessary because in a three person game, none of us were willing to trade unless that trade gave us a monopoly, and the cards just fell in such a way that most colors had each card owned by a different person.
I refrained from my tendency to screw people over by forming secret or non-secret alliances, still remembering the game where Chris, who was the only played not involved in any agreement and was about to lose (while I was about to win), convinced every player other than me to stop honoring all the agreements they made, and the entire tide of the game changed immediately in Chris' favor, who slowly came back from losing everything, absorbing the other players (who were now weakened) one by one until it was just him and me, and he won. That was the last monopoly game I played with Chris. I have another story for Risk.
Anyway, so I didn't attempt any secret alliances and niether of the other players were interested in any creative deals (ex: "you don't have to pay rent this turn if I never have to pay rent on New York"). It was an interesting three way battle. Matt gained the upper hand with the Orange monopoly (we are starting to think that really is the best one). Luke grew closer to losing everything before I did. Luke was also tired of playing monopoly. Therefore, when he got desperate, I brokered a number of deals that saved him from losing the game but which involved me bascially acquiring everything he had for far below market value. In fact, I think I acquired every property he owned for $20. Matt thinks that counted as cheating, but kept playing.
Then something incredibly frustrating happened. Matt had only one monopoly: Orange. I had a monopoly on red, and a monopoly on yellow and every railroad. I had an entire side of the board. Matt only had Orange. However the rolls just landed in such a way that he kept winning. It looked like it was the end. Then due to some windfall like Free parking or maybe Matt just landed on one of my properties for once, I was able to pay to unmortgage all of Lukes properties. Then something weird happened.
We both ended up with unmortgaged properties, and hotels build on every monopoly we owned. We appeared to be evenly matched, and there would be no more trading between us. Only four monopolies on the board were built; te rest were split between us. Therefore, most of the board was effectively safe, save for either a side or two corners, depending on who rolled. Having nothing more to spend cash on, we simply horded it as a reserve against landing on each others hotels. As the game progress, we passed Go and collected $200 again and again, effectively infusing more and more money into the game, until we both had thousands of dollars which we simply traded back and forth.
When we realized this, we stopped playing, because it was clear that the game could continue on forever (or until the bank ran out of money). I did not know such a situation could occur in this game. I suggested we stop, and simply simulate the rest of the game and decide the game based on who was likely to win, even though Matt thought I had cheated him by buying all of Luke's properties for less than market value when Luke was both falling asleep and watching tv instead of paying attention to the game. Matt had already been wanting to quit for like an hour, so he agreed.
Side note: luke actually came back, briefly: after selling me all his properties he still had cash, and due to a bunch of fortunate die rolls managed to accrue enough prize/free parking cash to buy back the yellow monopoly from me for a while, which I freely gave because having luke in the game kept Matt off balance.
Anyway.
If you don't understand how a monopoly game could go on forever, consider this unlikely but technically possible scenario: every player, every turn, rolls a 10. The proceed from Go, to Jail, to Free Parking, to Go to Jail...oh. Well that won't work. Ok, without loss of generality, less asume that if you bored enough right now to go get a monopoly game and look at the board, you would be able to identify some pattern of die rolls that take a player safely from Go, all the way around the board and back to Go without landing on any properties. Every time the a player lands on or passes go, they get $200, but since they do not have to give it to other players, they simply amass the wealth and never lose. Once the money is in the players hands, it never really goes back to the bank (not when all the properties are dealt). Thus, the game can continue forever.
I suspect that our game may have continued on forever. For this reason, I wrote down all relevant information about the state of the gameplay so that I could simulate it from the exactly moment we stopped. The entire point of this post was supposed to just be for me to write down that game state, but now its like 5 in the morning and...well ce la vie:
It is Matt's turn.
Me: current location is Tennesee Ave (middle orange)
I was playing the hat.
$3417
All railroads
all utilities
vermont
oriental
virginia
states ave
pennsylvania
pacific avenue
all reds (all hotels)
all yellows (all hotels)
park place
Luke:
well, he ended on Luxury Tax. Sucks to be him.
Matt: current location is Pennsylvania railroad (2nd railroad)
He is the wheelbarrow. cause thats super important.
all orange (all hotels)
boardwalk
north carolina
connecticut avenue
st charles place
all browns or dark purple, depending on edition (mediterranean ave and baltic) - (all hotels)
Free parking:
the space contains $850. (we played without the initial $500)
The next chance cards to be drawn were this sequence:
-advance to go
-go to reading railroad
-go to st charles
-get $50
-go to jail
-go to nearest railroad (pay owner twice normal rent)
chance cards in discard pile:
-pay each player $50
-lose $15
-goto go ($200)
-goto illinois ave
-get $150
-nearest railroad (pay owner twice rent)
-repairs: $25 for house, $100 per hotel)
-get out of jail free
-go back three spaces (note: this is probably why orange is worth so much!)
-goto boardwalk
-nearest utility (throw dice again and pay 10x)
next community chest cards to be drawn:
-get $200
-goto jail
-repairs: $40 per house, $115 per hotel
-pay $100
-get $100
-get out of jail free
-pay $50
-get $20
-get $100
community chest cards in discard pile:
-get $25
-get $10
-get $50
-get $50
-get $100
-get $10
We were rolling only 2 six sided die for moving. Unmortgaging cost 10% interest. Houses and hotels sold for half. There are 30 of each monetary demonination, making the upper bound of money in the game 30*500+30*100+30*50+30*20+30*10+30*5+30*1 = $20,580. Player behavior is trivial: nothing to spend money on; if cash reserves are insufficient to cover landing on a property, first mortgage properties, starting with the least valuable (by potentional income) one then selling houses (always selling first on the least valuable one by income). When cash exceeds the necessary reserve, starting buying back houses and then unmortaging properties. Exactly what the necessary reserve is probably the only intelligent decision left for us to make, and will be hard to do accurately, but the simulator can make a reasonable guess that matched our atually behavior during the game, simply by looking at the worst payment someone will have to make on their next trip around the board. I might have to play around with the needed reserves. Then again, maybe not. After a while both of hour reservers were enormous.
I'm going to try to write a simulator tomorrow, or sometime. Maybe if I get really bored at work or something. I want to simulate a few million (or billion?) different possible outcomes of the game, and see how many involve my victory, Matt's victory, or a game that runs forever (i.e. the bank runs out of money). I do not have a lot of experience writing simulators. If you have any opinions other than those inspired by being a fanboy of some random language, framework or paradigm, please feel free to share them with me, especially as it relates to the design of the simulator. It seems to me that the Object Oriented approach does not map perfectly to simulations.
BONUS POINTS: can we arrive at such and apparently unbounded situation in monopoly, without someone being, like, a total dick and selling all their cards for a price that is way below fair market value? An interesting question.
A Quarter Mile at a Time
I drove home fast, since I drove home at like 2:30 in the morning (the second monopoly dragged on so long that we were both completely sober well before its hiatus). It was awesome. I don't actually consider myself a "road ninja" in real life. Indeed, the knowledge of driving I've accumulated thus far is only a fraction of what my fictional characters know, and I will probably never catch up to them. I do like to drive fast, though, and long ago I learned that the best chance you have of staying safe (from the cops) is to eschew the technological games completely (radar, lasers, etc) and simply slow down at every single point they could be hiding. I have, therefore, gotten into a habit of jetting through the tunnels as fast as I want and then slowing down right before the exit. Tonight, it paid off when I exited the first tunnel. It took a really long distance for me to slow back down to the absurdly low speed of 60mph, so long that I actually bursted out of the tunnel before I was all the way back down. There was a police cruiser waiting for me, positioned to drive onto the road and give chase immeditately. He must have seen my brake lights and my car dipping forward from the deacceleration, but I was already down to right over 60 and he didn't chase me.
I later remembered that my speedometer is overclocked by, on average, 10 miles per hour. So I actually emerged from the tunnel already doing the speed limit, and that one part where I thought I was doing 110 mph, I was actually doing 100 mph. One hundred miles per hour is actually not fast.
Still, it was a rush to almost get pinned but to be saved by one of the paranoid things I do on the road. I really love driving fast. I can't claim to think that driving can ever be as good as hooking up with a girl, but I'd say two are at least comparable.
[edit]
And Matt has $2761. Man, I thought I lost that.
The apartment complex I live in refuses to accept rent payments by any method other than ancient forms of trasanctions that involve physical paper, called checks or money orders. Checks are, as far as I know, the most unreliable form of payment that is still in use. If there is any hiccup in the rent transaction, an eviction threat is posted on my door and mailed to me. This eviction threat has a ten day deadline before the Bad Stuff.
I ran out of checks a long time ago. My primary bank is well known on the East Coast. I tried repeatedly over a period of months to order checks from them, but the people who wrote their website suck and it didn't work. My second bank does not deal with paper checks at all, unless the bank itself sends the paper check directly to the payee in such a way that prevents me from knowing if the payment was received or not. Ergo, if I used this form of check to pay my rent and then went on vacation, I would not know the payment failed until I came home and all of my possessions were on the street. One of the guys at work continues to insist that Washington is a renter friendly state.
So, I have been paying with money orders. Money orders are similar to checks, but with the important difference that they have been designed to be as difficult to obtain as possible. Every institution that offers them have different rules for you to jump through. So far, the post office is the most reasonable: they only force you to have a debit card, and to show up at the one branch in the entire metropolitan area that does money orders during their business hours, which are worse than a banks. Don't worry, I'll cover the other suppliers of money orders shortly.
So I have been paying rent with money orders for months. Two money orders per month, actualy, because of a maximum limit on the amount of the money order. Because of the sheer difficulty in obtaining the money order, there were occasional problems which led to me being intimately familiar with the eviction threats.
I decided to open a brand new checking account. This is bank #3. Actually, its a credit union. With this credit union, though, it only took about 3 seperate tries on their website before I received a shipment of real, actual, paper checks. Because of the perceived scarcity of paper checks in my mind, I ordered enough paper checks to pay rent for the next 20 years.
Upon receiving these checks, I filled one out for every rent payment between then and next september, which is when my ridiculously long 15-month lease ends and I am free of this retarded apartment complex. Each check when in an evelope labeled with the name of the month and a funny picture of a fat, cross eyed dragon. Part of some kind subconscious ploy to I guess stand out to the girls in the office, even though the only one I want to play tongue tennis with clearly has not only no interest in me but also a boyfriend. But I digress.
I used the first of the checks. It bounced. The credit union I am using seems to have opted to discourage the use of "external transfers," or wire tranfers to other banks (which is like most of them) by creating the worst interface for said transfers that I've ever seen. It is the single page on their entire website that opens in a new window. But I digress.
My november check bounced. I received an eviction threat on my door and by mail. It had a ten day deadline. I managed to initiate a wire transfer between the bank I actually use, and the credit union account that has paper checks. I waited for it to clear. I then wrote a new check and included the ridiculous 10% late fee, and the other fees they were charging me, and walked this check directly into the office and handed it to an employee of the apartment complex who accepted the check. A few days later, I received a voicemail while I was at work telling me that they "cannot" accept the check, and that I had until that night to complete the payment or they would evict me. I was...well I was...I'll spare you the details, but I was about 1/3 or 2/3s as mad at the bitch who called me as I was at the duck boat people who ran over my car, and since I still fantasize about sinking every fucking lame ass tank they have into the Puget Sound, you should know that I was pretty fucking pissed.
I was the primary oncall of my team, on the highest traffic day of the year, during an emergency of the highest severity. I found some time to walk up to the then-empty cafeteria and call those fuckers back. This girl that called me explained to me that they can accept personal checks of course, but they "can't" accept them the second time in a month, if the first time bounces, which really means that they can, but are refusing to. They would only accept a money order (a.k.a. cashier's check). Apparently the fact that I was falsely led to believe that they had accepted my payment did not extend the ten-day bullshit deadline. I explained to her that I could not leave work to run all over the city trying to acquire a money order. My voice betrayed me, relaying the emotion of frustration instead of the vengeful hatred that I was going for. She then talked down to me, making it sound like getting a money order was the easiest thing in the world. I agreed go to to 7-11 that night and drop it off in the drop box.
Acquiring a money order is not the easiest thing in the world.
One of the reason I managed to avoid getting evicted is that on that day, my boss sent half of the team home in the middle of the day, so that we could get online and deal with the emergency and cover the other half of the team. I decided that my commute would including a quick trip to 7-11 to pick up a money order so I don't get evicted from my apartment.
I went to 7-11. They told me they only accept cash. So, the bitch on the phone that told me I could get a money order at 7-11 has either never gotten a money order at 7-11, or thinks I walk around with $1500 in cash. I don't, because I'm actually not a drug dealer. The guy at 7-11 told me to go to the bank across the street. Because I had my car with me, and because the incredibly poor design of Seattle's roads, which included a lot of "no turns" and one way streets, it took me 15 minutes to cross the street. I'm not kidding.
I arrive at the bank and ask for a cashier's check (bank version of a money order). The pretty girl at the counter told me to fuck off because I did not have an account with them.
I went to the nearest post office. By some miracle they were still open. The lady behind the counter told me that branch can't do money orders. The other branch was on the other side of the city, which is roughly an hour to walk, and it was rush hour.
I called Adam, and after about ten minutes got the location of the nearest branch of the credit union, the only of my three banks that actually has a physical presence anywhere in this city. By some miracle, they were open until 6, and I was able to walk there in time. For the second time that night I asked for a cashiers check, this time as an account holder. This time the person told me that they would only use the money that was already in my account. Fucking credit union: I told you they hated "external" transfers.
Fortunately for me, I had just wired money into that checking account: the money that was supposed to cover the second check I wrote to the apartment bastards. I walked out of the credit union office clutching the check in my hand, and hurried all the way back to my stupid fucking overpriced apartment complex. Then I realized that if I dropped it or it blew away or I randomly passed out or something, I would both lose about $1500 and get evicted from my apartment. After some deliberation I tucked the check inside my jacket.
I arrived at the apartment office before they closed. I asked the girl to look at the check and see if anything was wrong. She basically checked that my apartment number was in the memo field, as well as all of the obvious things your mother or father probably scrutinized the first time they taught you how to write a check. I left not knowing if they would drum up some new kind of problem with my payment, but damn ready to lawyer up and give them hell if they did.
Days later, December arrived. I pulled my December rent check out of the envelope with the cute dragon drawing, inserted it into an envelope sans drawing, and deposited it in the drop box that, according to the rental agreement and/or website, does not legally count as the apartment receiving the check. Can I walk up to someone on the street and punch them and claim "I'm not responsible for what happens to your face" afterwards? Never in my life have I had so much trouble paying for an apartment.
Fountain Court: I highly recommend not living here.
Dance Floor Ownership
Dancing didn't suck. Yay! There were so many girls there...I'd say that there were only like 20 or 30 more men than women in the club. It was good enough that I got to dance every once in a while. There was this girl who I danced with three times. She might have been interested. I did not ask for her number because it didn't feel like we cliqued enough, and later one of the girls I go dancing with confirmed that asking for a girl's number the first night you see them at salsa is awkward (classes are better). Hopefully I see her again. Oh, and there was this other, super cute girl...like, gorgeous super cute. She was new. In fact, it was her first night but she agreed to dance with me. Despite her being new she possessed the most innate raw talent that I've possibly ever felt in anyone. I accidentally broke out moves that were way above her level, because she was good at the simpler ones, and its kind of automatic after that. I dance with her twice. After the second one she said I was very patient. She spent the entire time embarrassed about how little she knew, which is my fault for doing advanced stuff. No one should be embarrassed about lack of skill when they are out dancing and having fun. Moreover, "patient" is not the reaction I wanted. It seemed clear that she thought I was dancing with her to be not and not because I was drawn to her like a moth to a flame. She had an awesome laugh, voice, and dancingness. So...that was my good time. Dancing and not asking out girls. It is interesting though...I'm getting better and better at identifying the dancers that don't get asked much, and therefore are more likely to not reject me. I'm like a vulture. I was asking more girls though...that was good. I've found that when an awesome song comes on, like Aicha, or El Cantante, or Tu Amore Me Hace Bien, I scurry around and ask almost anyone without fear of rejection; the music really changes things. There is some kind of interesting tangent there that I would expand on if this post wasn't supposed to be about monopoly. Anyway...ok lets be done with the salsa stories. Oh, wait, no, so my new goal is to "own the dance floor." I have for a long time been avoiding the best looking girls, because they (due to a process I can't explain because it sounds too cynical) are the best dancers and know the most people, and I can't compete with the guys that dance with them--those guys are like two levels/grades/classes/leagues above me. This needs to end. I need to be able to look at any girl that dances L.A. style, and not be afraid to ask her to dance for lack of skill. So...I'm gonna take lessons or something. Yeah, a quick little entry before bed, I thought.
Crustaceans
Friday night, I pregamed by mixing expensive vodka that came in a $50 skull-shaped glass with gross, bottom shelf orange juice made from concentrate. I put off eating dinner because I was busy failing at creating a castle out of Lego bricks (more on that in the next section). 'Bb9 texted me and asked if I wanted to get a drink. I said yes, hoping that this time the girl who lives in my apartment would be there and not that guy who is pretending to be a girl. I left my apartment and went to the bar super hungry. None of here other friends were there. The bar did not have any food, so I thought it would be a great idea to drink three captain and cokes on an empty stomach. Then we left and 'bb9 took me to a grocery store. I stumbled away from her, bought a $15 platter of gourmet shrimp, and then searched for the cocktail sauce while briefly feeling like I was going to pass out for no reason, and then I went home and ate half of the shrimp while watching two mediocre episodes of star trak deep space nine. Actually, the second one sucked: the runabout (its like a shuttle) gets shrunk and flies around inside the other ship (the defiant). You could actually say it is probably one of the worst ten episodes in the entire serious, but I was drunk so I didn't mind and honestly I couldn't exactly tell you how it ended.
Rhymes with Flexible Crustacean
Its has been...more than a year, I think, since I made out with anyone I liked. I'm not going to spell out what that means, but maybe you can infer it:
Today, I played Diablo2. I leveled up my barbarian character and realized that the reason he was sucking so much was that I was fighting monsters way above my level. So I fought those monsters over and over again, and if things got too heavy and I couldn't jump out of the fray in time, I just pressed escape, quit the game, and then went back in. I spent a good amount of time debating between putting a skill point in Natural Resistance, which protects him from Fire, Cold, Lightning and Poison (yeah, exciting, I know!) or simply leveling up his Wirlwind ability, which took me like two hours of gameplay to figure out how to use. Then, I got bored, and switched to my sorceress character. The sorceress in diablo 2 is good for one thing: a spell called Frost Orb. You are not allowed to get this spell until your sorceress reaches level 30, which doesn't actually happen until you beat the game on easy. My sorceress is level 7. That'll be fun.
Then, the legos. Damn. Its 4:19 am and I still haven't gotten to the monopoly game. Well, this is what happens when I queue up ideas for posts. So, onward.
I had this idea that I would make a book about castles. I was going to make lots of models of archetype and real English castles out of Lego bricks, and include the directions for how to make them. I was hoping to sell this book on the internet, as part of a grand, effortless money making scheme that was hatched in my head when I read some book called 4 hour workweek. I was then going to write a second book on French castles, in order to have a credible excuse for suddenly learning French even though my real reason is that one of the girls-I-never-had-that-got-away is into French...stuff. I have since spent about $500 buying bulk legos from random people. Then I counted and sorted them, even going so far as being forced to scrub one batch because it was so filthy. That was the same batch that was comtaminated with fake Lego bricks (mega blocks and tycho and one other company makes them). I can't find the paper with the final sum, but I have about 20,000 Lego bricks in my apartment. These legos are currently strewn all over my apartment. I tried to take a picture for you but my phone said "insufficient memory" even though I just deleted a picture off of it. Whatever.
After doing some research on wikipedia during work, when I should have been using a tedious guess-and-check method to track down the cause of a ClassNotFoundException (literally, I have to manually find the class somewhere in an enormous source tree of a poorly implemented proprietary version control system, which is held in a repository so large I can't even list the packages in it), I found the smallest castle structure possible: a Motte. If any of you have played Lords of the Realm II, you are probably familiar with the Motte and Bailey castle. This is a two part castle consisting of the Motte: an often man-made hill on which some kind of wall and/or keep was constructed, and the Bailey, a large outer wall with a lower strategic value than the Motte. If you take away the Bailey part of a Mottle and Bailey, you are left with just a Mottle with a keep on top: the simplest and smallest castle that is really still a castle.
This is what I attempted to create out of Lego bricks. I started yesterday (friday) and continued on today (saturday). I created a cool mound. Then I attempted to erect the keep on top of it. Lego bricks are a reverse of the real world in that bricks that resemble wood are scarcer and more valueable than brick that resemble stone. Therefore, I decided that whoever had built this Motte was too poor to construct the Bailey, but somehow rich enough to build the keep out of stone. Maybe its the keep guarding the stone quarry; who knows. Anyway, upon attempting to construct the keep I came to the incredibly depressing realization that I don't have enough castle pieces to construct it. I have 20,000 pieces of Lego bricks in bins on my couch, table, chairs and floor, and I don't have enough bricks to build the smallest realistic castle. I have no corner pieces. I also have no horses. I have maybe six of those straight castle pieces...if you don't know what I'm talking about, forget it; I don't feel like searching the internets for an examples.
Now, for monopoly.
After the Diablo2 and the Lego bricks, Luke invited me over to his place to drink and play monopoly with his brother. An interesting idea. I briefly debated inviting 'bb9 or Firefly Girl. 'Bb9 probably had to work, and I didn't want to spent that much time alone in a car with Firefly Girl. So it was just the three of us. Three, belligerant boys drinking and playing monopoly. That was definitely an experience.
The first game, we played with what I'm going to dub Classic Childhood Rules. They are basically the real rules, except you take away the two that nobody likes: you don't have to pay interest when you unmortgage a property, and you don't have to sell houses at half price--you sell them at full price. I was impatient to get a monopoly, so I pushed for trading and gave up Boardwalk, allowing Matt to have a monopoly on dark blue, in order to gain a monopoly on the light blues and the light violets--the two second-least-valuable monopolies in the game. Luke got a monopoly on orange, which according so some study I saw on slashdot a few years ago is the monopoly that is most likely to benefit the player. Matt mortgaged everything and put all his resources into building hotels on blue. Luke bent everything towards building up orange. I lost.
The second game, we agreed to play with the interest and the selling houses for half price. As five year olds playing the game, no one ever abused the house selling priviledge; we just didn't know what interest was. As twenty-something computer science majors, we had all realized during the first game that allowing a person to resell the houses at full price makes the houses a completely liquid commodity like cash, and renders them somewhat pointless.
The second game...I waited a while, and then I broker a three-way trade that, in one transaction, gave us each monopolies. This time Matt got Orange, I got Red (the one better than orange) and Luke got Yellow (the one better than red but not as good as green or dark blue). Such a deal was necessary because in a three person game, none of us were willing to trade unless that trade gave us a monopoly, and the cards just fell in such a way that most colors had each card owned by a different person.
I refrained from my tendency to screw people over by forming secret or non-secret alliances, still remembering the game where Chris, who was the only played not involved in any agreement and was about to lose (while I was about to win), convinced every player other than me to stop honoring all the agreements they made, and the entire tide of the game changed immediately in Chris' favor, who slowly came back from losing everything, absorbing the other players (who were now weakened) one by one until it was just him and me, and he won. That was the last monopoly game I played with Chris. I have another story for Risk.
Anyway, so I didn't attempt any secret alliances and niether of the other players were interested in any creative deals (ex: "you don't have to pay rent this turn if I never have to pay rent on New York"). It was an interesting three way battle. Matt gained the upper hand with the Orange monopoly (we are starting to think that really is the best one). Luke grew closer to losing everything before I did. Luke was also tired of playing monopoly. Therefore, when he got desperate, I brokered a number of deals that saved him from losing the game but which involved me bascially acquiring everything he had for far below market value. In fact, I think I acquired every property he owned for $20. Matt thinks that counted as cheating, but kept playing.
Then something incredibly frustrating happened. Matt had only one monopoly: Orange. I had a monopoly on red, and a monopoly on yellow and every railroad. I had an entire side of the board. Matt only had Orange. However the rolls just landed in such a way that he kept winning. It looked like it was the end. Then due to some windfall like Free parking or maybe Matt just landed on one of my properties for once, I was able to pay to unmortgage all of Lukes properties. Then something weird happened.
We both ended up with unmortgaged properties, and hotels build on every monopoly we owned. We appeared to be evenly matched, and there would be no more trading between us. Only four monopolies on the board were built; te rest were split between us. Therefore, most of the board was effectively safe, save for either a side or two corners, depending on who rolled. Having nothing more to spend cash on, we simply horded it as a reserve against landing on each others hotels. As the game progress, we passed Go and collected $200 again and again, effectively infusing more and more money into the game, until we both had thousands of dollars which we simply traded back and forth.
When we realized this, we stopped playing, because it was clear that the game could continue on forever (or until the bank ran out of money). I did not know such a situation could occur in this game. I suggested we stop, and simply simulate the rest of the game and decide the game based on who was likely to win, even though Matt thought I had cheated him by buying all of Luke's properties for less than market value when Luke was both falling asleep and watching tv instead of paying attention to the game. Matt had already been wanting to quit for like an hour, so he agreed.
Side note: luke actually came back, briefly: after selling me all his properties he still had cash, and due to a bunch of fortunate die rolls managed to accrue enough prize/free parking cash to buy back the yellow monopoly from me for a while, which I freely gave because having luke in the game kept Matt off balance.
Anyway.
If you don't understand how a monopoly game could go on forever, consider this unlikely but technically possible scenario: every player, every turn, rolls a 10. The proceed from Go, to Jail, to Free Parking, to Go to Jail...oh. Well that won't work. Ok, without loss of generality, less asume that if you bored enough right now to go get a monopoly game and look at the board, you would be able to identify some pattern of die rolls that take a player safely from Go, all the way around the board and back to Go without landing on any properties. Every time the a player lands on or passes go, they get $200, but since they do not have to give it to other players, they simply amass the wealth and never lose. Once the money is in the players hands, it never really goes back to the bank (not when all the properties are dealt). Thus, the game can continue forever.
I suspect that our game may have continued on forever. For this reason, I wrote down all relevant information about the state of the gameplay so that I could simulate it from the exactly moment we stopped. The entire point of this post was supposed to just be for me to write down that game state, but now its like 5 in the morning and...well ce la vie:
It is Matt's turn.
Me: current location is Tennesee Ave (middle orange)
I was playing the hat.
$3417
All railroads
all utilities
vermont
oriental
virginia
states ave
pennsylvania
pacific avenue
all reds (all hotels)
all yellows (all hotels)
park place
Luke:
well, he ended on Luxury Tax. Sucks to be him.
Matt: current location is Pennsylvania railroad (2nd railroad)
He is the wheelbarrow. cause thats super important.
all orange (all hotels)
boardwalk
north carolina
connecticut avenue
st charles place
all browns or dark purple, depending on edition (mediterranean ave and baltic) - (all hotels)
Free parking:
the space contains $850. (we played without the initial $500)
The next chance cards to be drawn were this sequence:
-advance to go
-go to reading railroad
-go to st charles
-get $50
-go to jail
-go to nearest railroad (pay owner twice normal rent)
chance cards in discard pile:
-pay each player $50
-lose $15
-goto go ($200)
-goto illinois ave
-get $150
-nearest railroad (pay owner twice rent)
-repairs: $25 for house, $100 per hotel)
-get out of jail free
-go back three spaces (note: this is probably why orange is worth so much!)
-goto boardwalk
-nearest utility (throw dice again and pay 10x)
next community chest cards to be drawn:
-get $200
-goto jail
-repairs: $40 per house, $115 per hotel
-pay $100
-get $100
-get out of jail free
-pay $50
-get $20
-get $100
community chest cards in discard pile:
-get $25
-get $10
-get $50
-get $50
-get $100
-get $10
We were rolling only 2 six sided die for moving. Unmortgaging cost 10% interest. Houses and hotels sold for half. There are 30 of each monetary demonination, making the upper bound of money in the game 30*500+30*100+30*50+30*20+30*10+30*5+30*1 = $20,580. Player behavior is trivial: nothing to spend money on; if cash reserves are insufficient to cover landing on a property, first mortgage properties, starting with the least valuable (by potentional income) one then selling houses (always selling first on the least valuable one by income). When cash exceeds the necessary reserve, starting buying back houses and then unmortaging properties. Exactly what the necessary reserve is probably the only intelligent decision left for us to make, and will be hard to do accurately, but the simulator can make a reasonable guess that matched our atually behavior during the game, simply by looking at the worst payment someone will have to make on their next trip around the board. I might have to play around with the needed reserves. Then again, maybe not. After a while both of hour reservers were enormous.
I'm going to try to write a simulator tomorrow, or sometime. Maybe if I get really bored at work or something. I want to simulate a few million (or billion?) different possible outcomes of the game, and see how many involve my victory, Matt's victory, or a game that runs forever (i.e. the bank runs out of money). I do not have a lot of experience writing simulators. If you have any opinions other than those inspired by being a fanboy of some random language, framework or paradigm, please feel free to share them with me, especially as it relates to the design of the simulator. It seems to me that the Object Oriented approach does not map perfectly to simulations.
BONUS POINTS: can we arrive at such and apparently unbounded situation in monopoly, without someone being, like, a total dick and selling all their cards for a price that is way below fair market value? An interesting question.
A Quarter Mile at a Time
I drove home fast, since I drove home at like 2:30 in the morning (the second monopoly dragged on so long that we were both completely sober well before its hiatus). It was awesome. I don't actually consider myself a "road ninja" in real life. Indeed, the knowledge of driving I've accumulated thus far is only a fraction of what my fictional characters know, and I will probably never catch up to them. I do like to drive fast, though, and long ago I learned that the best chance you have of staying safe (from the cops) is to eschew the technological games completely (radar, lasers, etc) and simply slow down at every single point they could be hiding. I have, therefore, gotten into a habit of jetting through the tunnels as fast as I want and then slowing down right before the exit. Tonight, it paid off when I exited the first tunnel. It took a really long distance for me to slow back down to the absurdly low speed of 60mph, so long that I actually bursted out of the tunnel before I was all the way back down. There was a police cruiser waiting for me, positioned to drive onto the road and give chase immeditately. He must have seen my brake lights and my car dipping forward from the deacceleration, but I was already down to right over 60 and he didn't chase me.
I later remembered that my speedometer is overclocked by, on average, 10 miles per hour. So I actually emerged from the tunnel already doing the speed limit, and that one part where I thought I was doing 110 mph, I was actually doing 100 mph. One hundred miles per hour is actually not fast.
Still, it was a rush to almost get pinned but to be saved by one of the paranoid things I do on the road. I really love driving fast. I can't claim to think that driving can ever be as good as hooking up with a girl, but I'd say two are at least comparable.
[edit]
And Matt has $2761. Man, I thought I lost that.
Monday, November 29, 2010
Carbon 250 - Epilogue
so leave me at the roadside
hang me up and out to dry
so leave me at the roadside
so leave me at the roadside
hang me up and out to dry
and I don't think you see the places inside me that I find you
and I don't know how we woke up one day and somehow thought we knew
exactly what we're supposed to do
Chinatown. That is where Dave sold his green 250. He walked the streets for a while, until long into the night, unable to accurately mark the passage of time. Something inside him had deflated. He was hollow and empty, a skulking wraith. He heard a motorcycle to his left. A pink rider on a large pink bike rolled up. She took her helmet off and hung it on one of the mirrors. It was Evelyn. Dave was in "ninja" mode, with the gray hoodie that was neither designer nor ghetto, but was instead a fabric, cut and color intended to blend in--to make you see a guy in a hoodie, and then forget him, or not see him at all. Eve knew what he looked like, though, even clad in such a semi-disguise.
There had been a great weight on Eve's heart in the days following the glorious car chase. Her mind would not rest until she had performed the mental acrobatics in order to figure out what they were--she and Dave--where they were, where they were going or not, and what to say to him. She had finally ironed things out and readied her speech.
Eve spoke. It began with "Sorry about your car" and continued on with the torrent of words that she had lined up in her head, finally ending with something like "blah blah blah and you're blah blah amazing blah blah blah and blah blah blah blah I think we are better off as friends. You know?"
Dave waited, in case there was more. He looked straight into her eyes and spoke evenly.
"I would rather die that be just your friend."
Ever clear, ever cold. Girls try very hard to put you in that place, the sexless prison where they get what they want and can imagine you are happy, but they only have so many ways of putting it, and Dave had heard them all.
Eve said nothing. She stared back for a while. Then, without a word, she put her helmet back on, and rolled away. He walked, somewhat angry that he had been given such a long glimpse at what he'd be missing for who knows how many years to come. Though he had not decided what, yet, some radical changes were in store for his life. It was the only way he could survive.
Far, far away, and hours later, Biff stirred from the ground. He sat up slowly. Everything ached. Everything burned. Some things were infected. He had promised himself that he would go to a hospital the moment he stepped foot in the next city. The morning air was cool. Biff wiped the fog from the helmet, which he had donned in the middle of the night for what little warmth it could provide. Carby sat to his left.
Biff looked out over the great river, with the bright swirls of fog curlying over its dark water. The sun shone low in the east, bathing the land with her early morning light. Beyond the river lay the next city. Every city had a personality, Biff had discovered, and he was looking forward to getting to know this one.
The early morning hours were typically difficult for Biff. That is when his guard was down, when he could not prevent his mind from straying towards what he'd prefer to have forgotten. This morning, though, he felt at home on the road. He was always fine so long as he had a mission, and he had two remaining books to recover. Biff rose to his feet and started Carby's engine.
So ended those chapters in the lives of the two men that were ever the closest to Evelyn, who we can call the pink rider: one who loved and then lost, and one who never loved at all. It is up to you to decide who had the better fate.
Carbon 250 - Chapter 21
Laurelin's Last Fruit
Bicyclists, on occasion, and after receiving constant abuse from the idiots driving cars, will pick a night on which they rally themselves to swarm the streets as a single uncontrollable mass. The event is aptly named Critical Mass. It is a night of slightly inconveniencing thousands of drivers, in return for all of the doors that were opened on bikes, and all of the cars that ran them over for lack of watchfulness. Someone had the bright idea to do the same with motorcycles one night. The event came about when the fury over the quasi-legal mercenary cops was nearing its climax. Stories of mercenaries acting unfairly and abusing people's rights fueled the rumor mills. Most of the people did nothing, however, as they were accustomed to being herded, accustomed to letting the government stick its proverbial gloved hand wherever it wanted.
The collective ridding of motorcyclists, sparse and unorganized as they were, was the closest thing to a known credible threat the reigning political powers of the city had. Spies were sent out on Greywater's dime, and the times (assuming no rain, of course) and location of the planned ride were relayed directly to the city's "anti terrorism" unit, as in modern political parlance, every one you don't like is either a nazi or a terrorist. Plans were made, barricades were erected, checkpoints and security theatres installed. Many of the surface streets were blockaded as well.
The night of the ride was a Friday, and became the worst traffic jam in the city's history. Traffic cones funneled all incoming highways down to one or two lanes, where police and Greywater security manned "checkpoints," occasionally sniffing out DUIs but really just looking for excuses make motorcyclists pull over. Such excuses including spotting motorcycles splitting lanes and looking for devices that flipped license plates. All Greywater Security personel showed up in full riot gear.
Elsewhere, a loose caravan of five brilliantly colored muscle cars with street glow drove in loose formation.
Biff began the night with a slightly different purpose: the road ninja signal was lit and he wanted to know why. The signal that was to never shine again had been installed on one of the highest skyscrapers, and was being continually redirected towards the closest clouds, an ever moving spotlight begging the road ninja to return from the dead. Biff came forth on his...prime motorcycle, the black Aprilla, intent on bringing his wrath against the prime suspect in his head, assuming that she was the one still manning the signal. Primal rage was briefly overtaken by a wave of animal lust. His mission was delayed, however, when he saw the checkpoint.
Biff split the lanes for miles, heading directly for the checkpoint. He surveyed their strength. Three squad cars blocking traffic, five parked, eight real cops and ten mercenaries pointing automatic weapons at a row of motorcyclists with their hands behind their heads. The presence of those automatic weapons raised the situation to the highest category of threat in Biff's mind. The correct move came at him immediately: go full trottle, ignite the nitro, and slam on the front brake tens of feet from the barricade, sending the bike flipping forward into the cop cars, or maybe a group of mercenaries, with lethal force. However, Biff had only ever accomplished this move with stunt bikes. He knew of only one person that ever did it with an Aprilla. So instead, he popped a wheelie, slammed down just in front of the barricade and began weaving his way through, giving the finger to the first cop that screamed at him to stop. He was quickly surrounded, at a stop, by men holding guns and tasers. They screamed what they always screamed. Biff held up a grenade with the pin popped, and basked in the delicious expressions that washed over their faces. The cops and mercenaries backed away. "Don't tase me bro," was all he said
Half a mile away, on a different road, a hooded figure watched the standoff for a few moments, then finished covering a black sports car with a heavy canvas.
Biff feigned a toss. They ran. He rolled the grenade--his only flashbang--under a car and took off. Behind him he heard the a loud (but not loud enough) pop, and saw a bit of smoke in his rear view mirror. Biff had used a real grenade, believing that one should never completely bluff with that move, but it had been an old one. Behind him, the checkpoint was reduced to half-strength as most of the manpower was hopping in their cars to chase him. He had a three quarter tank and two nitros. Biff accelerated, but forced himself to breathe slow, to tame the adrenaline. Steel nerves clamped down on his excitement. It was race 'o clock and he had work to do.
Eve was similarly caught unawares by the chaos. Among those dead-stopped in traffic, her commute home within the city became her initiation to the community of splitting lanes and riding on shoulders. She had done three U-turns to avoid checkpoints (and therefore avoid getting in trouble for having a flip plate) by the time the path of least resistance had shifted her far from the inner core of the city and onto lesser streets. She'd made up her mind to stop and wait it out at a bar. Then a black SUV ran her off the road. The man who got out was the man who had pulled her over before and tried to force her to go on a date with him. Interesting fact: this man's favorite color was purple.
"Get off the bike!" The man pointed a handgun at her. Eve sensed extreme danger and kept Carby running as she dismounted. Carby sensed her fear. His RPMs dipped. Eve backed up and stood near Carby's right corner. The mercenary had planned to cuff her wrists behind her and bend her over the hood of his SUV, but then he saw that her riding suite was a full piece. It would have to be the back seat instead. He pulled out his taser. "Let's see how you like this."
Eve's mouth dropped when she saw the taser but one of her new instincts took over. She took the gemmed sword from its hiding place under Carby's rear faring and swept up and sliced the merc's taser hand at the wrist. The small, straight sword was not meant for slicing; it did not sever tendons. The man was bleeding, however, and he was a veteran of no war. He dropped everything and clutched his arm below the wrist, screaming. Eve placed one of her boots behind one of his and shoved, sending him sprawling on his back. She held the sword at his neck, gripping with one hand, the other flat against the end of the handle, poised for the kill blow like a warrior goddess on the ancient battlefield. The sword bent neckflesh, but would not go further. She could not commit herself to the kill stroke. She was not a killer. Then she looked down and saw that the mercenary had wet himself. Eve wiped the blade clean of blood on the man's sleeve, sheathed it, and rode away as quick as she could.
The mercenary was not so easily beaten. He got back in his SUV and made a radio call: "Gray 21 in pursuit of pink motorcycle, license plate alpha, kilo, one, three, three, lima. Shots fired." In reality, it was the rider that was pink and not her totally awesome motorcycle (who is single, by the way! loves long rides near but not on the beach!), but of course no shots had been fired either.
Outside and west of the city, five brightly colored muscle cars rounded a bend. Their drivers caught sight of the skyline, with the road ninja signal shining in the center like the beacons of Gondor. One by one, the cars accelerated.
Somewhere within the city, a man wearing a dark grey hoodie, and who was not a fireman, slipped into a fire hall and started a fire truck. The power mysteriously cut out just as the bay doors opened. The man in the fire truck turned left and headed for the nearest checkpoint. This one only had two police cars. He rammed into one, pushing it onto the sidewalk and into a building. Then he backed up and ran the other one off the road as well. It was a confused scene for a while, but traffic did resume. The man in the hoodie headed on to the next checkpoint but stopped first to install a sound system to his satisfaction. He flipped a switch, and suddenly the cabin and the intersection outside was filled with the sound of Shipping up to Boston.
The fire truck was the small kind, the kind that did not require a rear driver. Still, it packed some serious momentum. The hooded figure turned toward trench town. The checkpoint was south of the bridge. The fire truck roared across with music blasting that even the impatient drivers could hear.
The police and mercenaries saw the truck coming. The driver placed extra emphasis on whose side he was on by laying on the trucks powerful horn, which eclipsed even the loud music. As the truck increased to its top speed, it began shifting laterally in order to hit as many cars as it could. It was at this point that the cops and mercenaries fled. The fire truck's sole occupant laid down on the seat and wrapped himself in the seat belts. The truck slammed through a throng of cars and SUVs, sending one into the grass median, one spinning around itself, and piling three up, appearing to toss them harmlessly into the area made vacant by traffic cones.
The truck had so much momentum left over that it had to use its brakes to stop. It backed up, coming alone side the wall of speechless and handcuffed motorcycle riders. The door opened, and a hooded figure stepped out just as Shipping up to Boston ended and the instrumental version of Nightwish's Amaranth started playing. It was a soft spot in the noise that allowed him to shout: "WHO WANTS TO DRIVE?" Eager volunteers boarded, and handcuff keys made their rounds, coming to rest in the pockets of those formerly bound. The fire truck started moving again. It took a while for its new crew to realize that their hooded captain was missing.
Far away atop a hill with view of that location, five muscle cars were parked with their lights shining over the edge of a cliff. Five drivers stood, looking at the city laid out before them. Two of those five considered themselves former apprentices of the road ninja, and the other three were of similar skill. Lawrence Lee, the owner of the yellow camero, stood on the right. To his left stood Jason Web, whose red and black leather jacket matched his red mustang. To his left was the one they called Snow Monkey, whose real name is not important. Snow Monkey brought with him a purple road runner, and a purple long sleeved shirt to match, which he wore under his open leather jacket. To his left was Dave--not the Dave who appears in the rest of this story but an entirely different one. Don't worry, he won't be mentioned by name again. Dave's ride was a blue Trans Am. Ok now he won't be mentioned by name again. The fourth member of their informal squad shall remain unnamed, but his car was also a camero, and it was bright green.
The boys stood in a row, dented into a slight semi-circle, because, well, they knew how to stand in such times as these: hands on their hips, one foot forward a little as if it was on a rock or something, shoulders turned a bit, staring out, not looking at each other as they talked. Behind them their muscle cars purred like the cats of Queen Beruthiel, and behind them, the runway of midfield airstrip, or KSGIP, as Snow Monkey referred to it.
"These checkpoints are going to be problematic."
One of them raised their arms. "Below us, never a greater hum of scive and villany!"
"Dammit man."
"What the fuck?"
"Are you drunk?"
"No!"
"Scum of hive--oh fuck you have me saying it wrong now."
"Gentlemen! The task at hand."
They discussed this briefly. Then they caught sight of a fire truck coming over a bridge, heading for the checkpoint. The conversation died as they watched it slam into the police cars, throwing them everywhere. They looked at each other.
"Oh hell yes."
"Fire trucks."
"Biff would approve."
"His ninjaness would be proud. His in...the memory, honored..."
"...rest in peace," one of them mumbled.
They were moving to their cars.
"What do you think, two to a truck?"
"Snow, can you provide air support?"
The man nicknamed Snow Money held up a can of black spray paint he'd just pulled from the trunk of his car. "I'll be in the air in fifteen minutes. Pair up so at least one of you knows the damn street names."
"Man I wish the girls were here. You know how hot they get when we-"
"Hey!"
"This is an official mission, man."
"Keep your head clear."
"I'm justs saying, you know, I wish."
"Word."
The muscle cars, except for the purple one, roared away, cutting directly across the runway of the uncontrolled airport. Snow Monkey walked past a line of sexy low-wing aircraft and popped the lock on a tiny little cessna. He didn't feel sexy in a high wing aircraft, but he needed a good view of what was below. Snow expedited his preflight, pausing to spraypaint over the tail numbers. Then he got a bright idea and spraypainted an R and a backwards N under the wing. A tribute to the master. As he did this deed, a single verse escaped his lips, nearly as an afterthought:
Biff approached the signal crossing. A train was coming, but it was too far away. Biff blew through the crossing before the lights even came on. Shit. The cops followed him, around and to the next signal crossing. Timing this right forced him to slow down, and they caught up to him. The first car was on his left. The window was open. The passenger was yelling. The drivers right hand moved to the wheel, ready to cut him off. Biff threw his wrench through the window. It narrowly missed the passenger cop and struck its intended target. The car swerved, and interfered with the passage of the others. Biff was within a half-mile of the next crossing. The timing was still good. The next car approached. Biff yanked his helmet strap loose. The lights of the train crossing began to flash. The cop knew what Biff planned, and sped up. Biff pulled his helmet off with his right hand, swinging it up, back, down around in one giant arc, finally sending it back at the cop's windshield. It was a direct hit, creating tight circles of white fractures that spread out and rendered the entire windshield too opaque for successful pursuit. The beams of the train crossing began to lower. Biff was now without eye protection. He aimed, squinted, and then leaned forward, lending every spare kilo of his weight to the enterprise of keeping his front wheel on the ground as he ignited the nitro. The bikes engine screamed and redlined, and Biff ducked his head behind the tiny-ass windshield. He passed under the crossing beams as they lowered, clearing them by inches. The remaining cop car, and the one whose driver had been merely hit by a metal tool, floored their vehicles, intending to break through the beams and beat the train. Then they realized they were too late and slammed on their brakes. The train passed in front of them, and behind it, the road ninja vanished.
Biff put on a pair of lightly tinted safety glasses, the glasses he kept for when a girl wanted a ride and was given his helmet. He squirreled his way around in the direction of the central office building where the ninja signal had been installed. He was parallel to the highway when he saw, below it, Evelyn in pink, on her bike, being chased by an SUV-type minivan. Biff saw more than heard the gunfire, his eyes attracted to the bright flash of the muzzle. Biff's conscious mind was briefly transported to another night a long time ago, to the image of a pink rider, the pink rider, the elusive, beautiful, evanescent love of his heart, flying through the air, her eyes briefly locked on his shortly before the impact that severed her spinal cord.
With the cry of a man reaching for a falling friend, Biff twisted the throttle. A reflex saved him from fully opening it, which would have flipped the bike. In an instant, his mind reviewed the move that would involve riding full speed at the minivan with feet on the seat, jumping at the last instant, and rejected it. There was nothing but concrete pillars and rubbish on the other side of the mercenary's ride--nothing he could slam his body into at 100/160 mph/kph and expect to live. No, there was only one move. He had never done it before, and he had not the proper gear: he was wearing a leather jacket instead of his upper body armor and didn't even have a damn helmet. It was a tight spot.
Biff accelerated, the booming of his engine growing and then suddenly shrinking with every shift to a higher gear, far past the point at which Biff's every instinct, every fiber of his body screamed at the dire mismatch between his speed and the surrounding--more importantly oncoming--terrain. Biff pictured the way the first pink rider's body looked when she had done the move in nothing but that riding suit, but only for a moment, for he had to concentrate: the timing had to be just right. The pink rider and her attacker were in a perpendicular line of travel. Biff ignited the nitro at the wrong place in the power curve, which damaged the engine in a way that ultimately didn't matter. Then he actually tapped the rear brake a bit, making sure everything lined up. The needle on the speedo swung far past 120/193 mph/kph.
Then Biff squeezed the front brake, hard. The bike flipped forward. His world was a flash. He did his best to guide the bike with his legs, but they did little good. Then the bike was gone, and he was consumed with preventing his sudden death. Skidding along asphalt at speeds in excess of 100 miles per hour is no joke. The friction can quickly wear leather and jean down to flesh, and flesh down to bone. Biff landed on his boots, balancing on them like an alphine skiier who loses purchase on a sheet of ice and spreads his skiis wide, putting all of his cards into balance. Balance became a fall, and Biff was sliding on his ass, with the padding wearing down with each meter he slid. He raised himself up by his gauntlets--riding gloves that were unnecessarily tough because he was planning on literally punching someone's lights out later. By this time over half of his kinetic energy had dissipated, but there was still a lot left when the gauntlet move put him into a spin. He tumbled. He tried to protect his head, but there was a loud blow that disrupted any remaining ability to affect his fate.
Once again Eve had never been so scared in her life. This was like the fourth fucking time. How much college did Carby cost? Don't think about that. The road! Fucking gunfire. Shit, sugar. Back and forth, babe, don't give that fucker a clear shot. Her body was so jacked up on adrenaline that every limb was shaking. Any single pothole would have ended her run, and she was less than a minute away from losing control for no other reason than her own fear. Then something flashed in her mirror, and there was a gunshot that was much softer than the others, and the shots ceased. Eve looked in her mirror and saw the SUV impaled on a pillar. She looked ahead at a red light and slammed on her breaks, having just enough sense left to drag her feet on the ground and keeping the light bike from falling.
Eve breathed. Carby's engine redlined with the clutch in. She let go of the throttle, then the clutch, and Carby lurched forward and stalled. It did not fall.
Ow! yelled Carby.
Eve caught her breath, keeping an eye on the crashed SUV, severely worried that it might suddenly roar to life and start shooting at her again. After a minute or two her heart began to slow. Then it sped up again.
Someone far behind her, near the SUV, rose from the ground, staggering toward it. She knew that figure, somehow. Eve started the bike again and drove back slowly. She stopped fifty feet from the disabled--no totaled--SUV. There was a fucking motorcycle in the SUV, compressed into the space where the driver used to be. There was blood. Eve stopped the engine, took off her helmet and hung it on the mirror. The SUV had also crashed into a pole, compressing the engine. There was little left of it that was unharmed by the collisions. Eve dismounted, and saw Biff.
Biff was covered in blood and dust. There was a wound on his right temple. His jacket was ripped, both sleeves torn enough to reveal possible lacerations on his forearms. He walked with the wobbly limp of someone in severe pain but still coming down from an adrenaline high. Heavy, black gloves swung at his sides with no clear rhythm. He glanced at the SUV, and appeared to nod to himself, satisfied at something. Then he looked at her. His blue eyes were alight and blazing, like electric fire.
Eve backed up and drew her sword from its hiding place. Biff advanced. She retreated. He advanced farther, and again. Eve stepped to the side, turning his advance into a strange, circular dance. Biff tore something out of his jacket. It appeared to twirl in the air briefly, then lock into place with a loud chink. It was a butterfly knife.
Biff lounged. Eve tried to block his advance with her sword. Biff swung, disarming her in a single unusual arc of motion. The sword clattered on the ground. Biff stopped three feet from her. His knife disappeared.
"Did you light that signal?" He pointed at the orange glow in the sky. As he did so, the beam flickered on another cloud, as if the operator was crying out for attention.
"N-No."
Biff looked at the road ninja signal, which shifted again, and back at Eve, who was clearly not operating it.
"I guess not." Biff looked around. "I need to borrow your bike."
Eve backed up a step. "You're not so nice with bikes...."
"It saved your life." Biff nodded towards the wreck. He held out his hand.
Eve winced and dropped her keys into it. "Take good care of him."
"I will." Biff was on the bike, and then he was off.
Sirens wailed in the distance. Eve ran, scrambled up an embankment and leapt over the guardrail.
An olive skinned rider on a large, yellow and for some reason completely legal motorcycle, who had passed peacefully through the checkpoints, saw a pink rider land on the shoulder, her hair blowing in the air. She was tight. He pulled over and asked for a lift.
"I need to get to Ball street and Volley ave."
"Hop on."
Just South of that location, a police helicopter had been given orders to report somewhere north of its position. This chopper would have then seen and reported Biff if the right-seat pilot had not screamed "TRAFFIC!" and pointed dead ahead of them. A cessna was flying straight at them. The pilot had little time to react, especially since the helicopter was more or less stationary at that time, with no momentum to divert. Fortunately, the cessna rolled to a dangerous 60 degree bank and narrowly avoided them. They felt the buffet.
"Snow Monkey, Captain Crunch."
"Snow Monkey."
"Crunch is ready for more."
"First intersection fifth and bounce. Second intersection Crowe and McDuff."
"Understand fifth an' bounce, crowe an' McDuff."
"Monkey is heading out. Coppers are screaming at ATC about me."
"Understand Snow Monkey is a giant pussy."
Snow Monkey clicked his mike twice in response, rolling his eyes, and double-checked that his transponder was OFF. He ducked low to quickly increase his airspeed just shy of never exceed, bolting out of the south theatre of the battle.
Below him, Jason turned his fire truck onto Bounce street, heading for the police barricade at 5th Avenue. Later, at some point the mercenaries would unload their automatic weapons at the fire truck, and Jason and Lawrence would laugh hysterically, and consider it fitting given that they'd heard of a time when fire trucks had been used to capture illegal street racers. But theirs is no longer a part of this story, save for the fact that traffic everywhere was cleared up within the hour.
Biff had business at the tower in the center of the city, but Carby was riding on empty and he was forced to pull over. He was also very much in need of a bottle of painkillers. His arms were burning, though at least not dripping blood, and his legs, head and chest ached. The chest pain was more of a burning; Biff suspected bruised rib. Though it was painful, he could inhale, mostly, which should rule out pneumothorax.
Though he was on a different bike with a different license plate, a black [clad] rider on a black bike is a black rider on a black bike, and one so obviously injured as Biff clearly matched the description "unarmed and extremely dangerous." As Biff filled the tank, a police car pulled up in front of him and a mercenary minivan behind him. They were both riding alone, and both drew their guns.
Biff looked at them and did not move. They insisted more loudly, probably something about getting on the ground, who knows. Typical cop bitching. Gasoline spewed out of the now full 3-gallon tank, but he still didn't move--not even his hand. It was their only warning.
Biff flicked the pump handle left, hosing premium gasoline directly into the merc's face. The cop lunged forward but Biff, without looking, thrust his hand out, sending a white, powdery substance into the cops eyes that would be later identified as magnesium carbonate, or climbing chalk. The cop fell at Biffs feet and Biff recovered the man's sidearm. He hopped on Carby and started the engine.
Yee haaaaa! said Carby.
Two more cop cruisers approached as Biff pulled on to the street. Carby was manuverable as hell, but not fast at all. Biff did his best, reading the traffic and using low speed maneuvers so that Carby still had enough power to spring ahead when he yanked the throttle back. He managed to lose one of the cop cars, but the second followed him into a tunnel. Biff had the advantage. He raced through the tight corners, up and almost out the other side when a black SUV-type minivan lurched in front of him. Biff braked, spun the bike around, and headed back under the building. If he could make it to the loading dock....
He could not. The cop car met him too early. He was stopped, sandwiched between a cop and mercenary on a 30 or maybe higher degree incline in the tight, concrete passage. They paused for a moment before opening their doors. A moment was all Biff needed. He pulled out a handgun in each hand, twisting his body and stretching his arms wide like a great eagle's wings. He fired repeatedly into each windshield. The shots were horribly inaccurate, because he was firing one handed, as well as slow, because, again, he was firing one handed. Putting a gun in each hand is a terrible way to kill anything, but it does look good in movies and it is a great way to stir up havoc. Biff leaned to Carby's left in order to get the position just right. When the gunshots paused, the cop and the merc, who had tucked down and made ready their own weapons, sat back up and fired. Biff threw himself off Carby and to the right, still keeping Carby's right handlebar pressed with two fingers in order to hold the front brake on. The bullets missed him, but did not glance off harmless surfaces. One of the cop's bullets hit the merc, and one of the merc's bullets hit the cop, as Biff intended. Biff clawed at the side fairing to keep the bike from tipping.
The mercenary and the cop both let off their brakes a little. The cop car and the SUV both began to roll down the tunnel. Biff crawled, slid, waddled as best his could to keep Carby between them. Then the cop, clutching his chest, deliberately let go of his brake in order to back off and call for backup. Biff hopped onto Carby. The mercenary was hit in the arm and could not shoot, but instead he hit the gas, trying to run Biff over. He would later admit in court that he knew this action had a high likelihood of further damaging the police cruiser.
The loading dock appeared before the SUV could reach Biff. Biff veered out of the way. The SUV crashed into the police cruiser, and Biff escaped behind it.
The hot guy with the big yellow bike dropped Eve off where she asked, and asked for her number. She said "not tonight" but did hint that he might see her around. She did not, in fact, use the word "boyfriend," although she was maybe ok with Dave saying "girlfriend."
The building was a shared commercial space, a large chunk of which was occupied by Marksen Lot. Inside, the security guard appeared to be strangely absent, although he was actually just unconscious somewhere behind the desk. Also the elevators didn't seem to work without a key card. They were, in fact, completely disabled, except for the one that was in key mode on the 45th floor. Eve took the stairs.
The first eight flights were fine. Cake, even. She was in great shape. Up to fifteen, she slowed down. After twenty, she slowed way down. A couple floors later, she collapsed on the floor and waited to catch her breath. She continued her pace, far more slowly, with a lengthy pause every two floors. The 20s slowly became 30s. It felt like an hour had passed since entering the building when she finally hit the big 4-0. Oh, and she was carrying her sword. Despite Biff's apparent prowess at deflecting it, the sword was now mandatory equipment for any place where she might meet him. In fact, she shouldn't be anywhere near this building, but she had to know. It felt like an hour had passed since she had entered the building when she heard grunts above her. Stealing a glance up through the opening between the stairs, she saw a hand. Temporarily forgetting her exhaustion, she darted up and around and found Biff, halfway up a flight, clutching the railing with a death grip and heavily favoring his left leg. He was doing it very one step at a time.
Biff whirled around in what would have been a quick, alert movement had he been, you know, anywhere near sea level. Instead, his climbing and his drive had his brain running low on oxygen and the movement looked more like that of a drunk man. Whatever threat could have been there in his eyes was drowned out by exhaustion. Eve smiled at him, and without a word, caught up to him and slung his arm around his shoulder. Together they ascended the remaining flights of stairs. Eve forced them to stop at every landing to breathe and rest. At one of them, Biff turned to her and looked at her. There was still blood on his face.
Biff was drawn to her face, and for the first time, he appreciated her beauty, her true beauty that extended beyond her exquisite physical form, down to the steel core of her soul. He saw what Dave had seen months earlier, and he felt a wave of love that, while brief, was not overshadowed by a fear that he was just clutching for something that vaguely resembled Christine, the real pink rider. No, Eve was most definitely her own person. She wore the suit; it did not wear her. A strong magnetic force pulled Biff's lips toward hers, and though hers opened slightly in anticipation, Biff, instead, diverted the movement and kissed her on her forehead.
They continued.
Seeing the final flight of stairs to the roof exit, and a glimpse of a thick, green extension cord, was...glorious. Eve would have plenty of time later to think of a better adjective. They felt a tad more energetic and burst onto the roof. The orange spotlight was directly in front of them, ten feet away, near the edge of the roof. It was pointed towards nowhere in the sky in particular. Something seemed wrong in the back of Biff's mind, but he was too tired to think on it.
They looked around. The roof seemed deserted. They stood there for many minutes, and exchanged words that observers could not hear. The way Eve looked at Biff, though, the way she was balanced forward, leaning more on her toes, body stretched subtly outward and upward, like her breasts were pointing at him--that was no secret, not to someone who was a veteran at reading body language.
"Are you so cold? Are you really so obsessed with yourself and your own baggage that you can't let anyone else in?" Eve asked him, a bit louder. She placed a hand on his chest.
Biff regarded her while sorting through about twenty bitter, sarcastic responses. None quite fit. He was spared from his task however.
Orwell kicked the door. It was already open, but he wanted to make an entrance. Then the door bounced and flew back at him and he had to catch it with his free hand. Not so dramatic. He had a gun though. That was impressive. The guy in front of the spotlight: it was him. Him and his bitch girlfriend. Him, the man to had clocked him upside (Orwell doesn't know what 'upside' actually means) the head with a crowbar (actually a socket wrench) and put him in the hospital. "I knew it was you!" said Orwell. Not just the man with the crowbar (socket wrench!) but the...that...fuckface that hung out with those turds over at Wilson's Tire Garage back--
"You were there," said Biff. Biff recognized Orwell immediately, and not just from their altercation at the bridge. Biff now recognized Orwell's as one of the faces burned into his memory when he had cradled Christine Miller's hand in his lap--her hand because he was praying to the angels that she was still alive and wanted to leave head-moving for the medics. Even though her chest wasn't moving....
"FUCK YOU," shouted Orwell. He had wanted to go with, "it was that dumb bitches fault" but decided against it. Didn't want to think about it. The accident wasn't his fault.
Biff moved towards him. Orwell held up his gun, like, higher. Orwell looked back and forth between Biff and his girl, looking actually at Eve's chest instead of her face. Orwell was leering. Eve clenched her jaw. Then she saw someone behind Orwell. She saw a hooded figure slowly and soundlessly rise to a standing position atop the stairway entrance, behind Orwell. Biff's face did not give away the fact that he saw a tall grey shape outlined against the slightly brighter glow of the light pollution in the sky. Eve's did, but Orwell, fortunately, still wasn't looking at her face.
"I called it in," gloated Orwell. That sounded pretty good, right? "I knew it was you, I just knew it. I dragged your dumb little light up her and look who I caught? Ninja my ass. Everyone is-"
"If you are going to shoot me," said Biff, "you'd better do it right now. This is your only chance." The gray figure dropped behind Orwell. Eve heard no sound. It was like the movement of an owl. Biff stepped forward.
Orwell shook the gun a tad and was about to say something but the hooded figures hands moved in a circular fashion and suddenly Orwell was choking on a wire that Biff and Eve didn't see. They stood there as Orwell choked and struggled, the hooded man maintaining his grip. Finally, Orwell passed out.
The man in the hood stepped over Orwell's body and tossed an encyclopedia-sized book at Biff's feat. It landed with a thud. The cover was plain, either black or dark brown--it was hard to tell under the orange glow of the road ninja signal. The front of the book had the title "The Art of Driving" embossed in four lines of large letters.
"'I've said all the right things, in exactly the right way.' I've made all the right moves," said the hooded figure, "but she's never, ever looked at me like that." He pulled his hood back. It was Dave.
Eve's heart stopped. Well, it didn't actually stop, but she could think of no other way to describe the shock.
Biff knelt down slowly, painfully, and retrieved the book. It was the third lost copy, now recovered. "You stole this one."
Dave shrugged. He still hadn't actually looked at Eve, at all. Eve felt something bad growing in the pit of her stomach.
"I didn't even give this one to you, and yet you have outdone everyone else."
"Even you," said Dave.
Biff didn't answer. He was considering the truth of Dave's words. Maybe ever since the pink rider's death-
"This building has been surrounded at the surface level." Dave interrupted Biff's musing. "Whatever hope you could have of stealth is lost." Dave tossed a set of keys at Biff. Biff caught them. "You're welcome to see what I've done. Maybe take her out for a good ole escape spin. She's on the B3 level, spot 23 golf." Dave turned to walk away. Then he turned back, "Oh, and there is an elevator on floor 45 in key mode. All the coppers will have to take the stairs. You'll sail right by them."
Eve saw Biff staring at Dave with some strange look of pride.
"Thanks," said Biff. Biff wanted to say more, but didn't know what.
Dave turned to go.
"Dave..." said Eve.
"You should let her fuck you," said Dave, turning back one last time. He still only looked at Biff. "I don't think many men get a chance to enter that paradise--you shouldn't blow yours."
Dave had, technically, called Eve the opposite of a whore, and complimented her at the same time, but the bitterness in his tone still stung her and made her feel like one.
Biff could not meet the comment with a response. "May the echoes of angels protect you--" an old religious saying in his family--was all he could say.
"I can offer you no such blessing. Evelyn loves you. For that, I'll never forgive you." Then Dave was gone. The doorway was empty, save for Oliver's not-actually-dead corpse.
"Time to go," said Biff. He looked over the side of the building. Eve followed suit. The height was dizzying. Below them, cop cars circled the building with their lights. Biff noticed it was only cop cars. No SUV-type minivans. Unknown to him, the police chief--or really the police commissioner, after an exorbitant number of reports of mercenaries improperly getting their guns off and after having every police deparment at sixes and sevens for this damn unnecessary response to what should have been an innocuous biker stunt, flipped his shit and ordered the arrest of all Greywater security personnel. He let his captains sort out the details of how to actually accomplish that, and told them to charge the 'bastards' with anything that would keep them off the streets for a while. Mayor Pennington had marched right down to his office, where he promptly threatened to put her in a cell and screamed at her with a red face.
Eve helped Biff lift road ninja signal. It was heavy. They had a lot of trouble getting it to the edge, and Eve felt a little vertigo. It was up there, though, on the ledge. Biff, without warning, gave it a sudden shove. He also gave a shout to warn the cops below. A road ninja does not murder. The spotlight fell many stories onto a cop car, and pretty much totaled it.
They road the elevator from the 45th floor in silence, Biff in pain, and Eve in a panic over Dave. Many emotions clouded her judgment0 then, and it is difficult to really describe any of them. Carby was outside, on the surface level, on his side. Orwell, thinking the bike was Biff's, had taken a bat to it and done a lot of superficial damage. Not a great night for Carby.
They arrived at the third basement level and walked among the cars. Biff approached slowly, like the father of an architect looking for his son's first building. The car--or the back of it--came into view. The rear end of a black 2007 Subaru Impreza WRX STI is not particularly elegant, or chaste. The bigass spoiler sticks out like a shopping cart handle, and while it does balance out the sleek look of the car, overall, where a BMW or like an Aston-Martin or something might evoke images of a bond girl in a sleek evening dress, the STI is more like a girl with medium-to-big boobs in a tight sports bra. She doesn't star in many movies, but she can haul ass, sugar.
Biff clicked the unlock. The black sports car lighted its flashers and chirped merrily. "Everyone who reads the book--they always use rice burners."
"Probably for the mileage," said Eve.
"And, well, the all-wheel drive is amazing, although it complicates drifting...." Biff's voice trailed off as he approached the door. He had not driven a...one of these...since Christine and the cliff.
Eve put her hand on the door. "I'm driving," she said, nodding at his leg.
Biff looked at her and then kissed her. Her mouth tasted like spearmint. His tasted like he'd eaten a meal three hours ago, but Eve didn't care. Biff pressed her against the car and kissed her.
They could have had sex there. They had time for it. Biff knew they had the time. Eve would have easily gone for it--her body was on fire for him again. Biff also knew his way around the back seat. However, whether they had sex then or not, no one seems to know, and Eve doesn't seem to think its anyone's business.
Biff sat in the passenger seat, Eve in the drivers. The dashboard had a raised part for the driver, you know, where the speedo and tach are...and the temp gauge, outside temp, oil, turbo...ok you get the picture. On the top right corner of the driver's portion of the dash, on the curve that slopes down over the radio, was a hidden panel. Biff found it because he knew to look for it. He pressed. A cover flipped up. On the inside of this cover was the subtle black outline of a squid.
"What's that?" asked Eve, as she started the car. It started with that familiar, happy sound that pretty much all Subarus make. The panel contained a switch all the way on the left called Arm, a dial with three settings, a switch called Smoke, a switch called Fire, and a switch called Detonate. The dial and the Detonate switch were not described in The Art of Driving. Dave had clearly surpassed the manual.
"Nothing." Biff closed the panel. "Just...don't hit anything." Biff was concerned about the destruct button.
"What?"
"This car...isn't made of metal. You can't bang other cars around like you can with a muscle car."
"I'll uh, keep that in mind," said Eve as she backed out of the space.
They made it to the garage exit, which was thankfully actually attached to a different building on the surface (they could thank Dave for that) without incident. However, the garage exit was installed with an annoying voice that said "CAUTION. CAUTION. VEHICLE EXITING." It drew the attention of the cops. Most didn't seem too concerned. They were just standing around talking about their poor buddies who got stuck taking the stairs. One of them waved for them to pull over.
Eve, anticipating that they would definitely not be pulling over, did the opposite of what Biff was about to tell her, and floored it. The car lurched forward, and then lurched forward again, swerving to the side because the wheel was still turned a tiny bit. Biff's hand flew to the wheel, steadying it with his hand on top of hers.
"This has a turbo. They're freaky little things," he said. He looked behind them. What cover they had was blown. Two, maybe three cars, pursued, and they had radios. "Take that street," said Biff. Biff directed her every move, and it reminded him of a time long ago when he had last taught the art. Jason had been quite different though. They reached a three lane avenue. "Stay behind and to the right of this car."
"What? We need to-"
"Those cars up there are blocking us. We have to wait for an opening but can't ride their ass. Stay here, this is a position of power."
"A what?"
"Its a position where--listen, sometimes its better to be behind."
"That's what she said," said Eve, grinning. She was scared, yes, and might end up in jail, sure, but she was damn sure gonna enjoy this. A hole broke in the line of cars, or more precisely, Biff saw that a hole was going to break in three or four moves, and directed Eve to make optimal use of the hole as soon as it appeared. Despite their best efforts, the police had a quick time catching up. Their lights and sirens tended to part traffic like it was two receding tides of water.
Biff got them to a long stretch of road that ended in a t-junction. I know, they were just in the central district, or whatever the hell I named. Biff is good like that. Biff found the secret panel with the differential braking controls that were most definitely not stock, and saw the button for the super high beam. "Its too bad you can't use this."
Eve grinned at him. "Don't be so sure, sugar. What you need, a 180?"
"Yes."
Eve flipped the right combination of switches and braked, spinning the car around. The reverse gear of the car could not be engaged at these speeds, so she just coasted. "Now wh-"
Biff pressed the super high beam switch. Incredibly highly powered bulbs that were installed next to the real headlights, and which were powered by capaciters that had been charging since Eve started the car, flashed on with an intensity approaching the strobes of a jet airplane, bathing the scene before them in a while light, like that of lightning. Seconds later, the bulbs burned out. Biff studied the vehicles in pursuit. They drifted...yes, they were stopping. "Turn back around." Eve did so. They drove. More cop cars found them. Biff continued to direct her calmly, ever instructing. "Every aggressive move you make has a cost; it gets you noticed. Remember: cops can't pull over what they can't see." Then later, "we don't endanger their lives unless they endanger ours. Remember, these cops have wives and families. A road ninja does not murder. Though, if they..." Biff cut a piece of the roof fabric, and then said: "Well, fuck me sideways."
"What is it?"
"Nothing. Turn there." They used every available move that could be done by someone that had no training for it, and which did not involve bumping into anything. They did shake the cops, many times, but the police helicopter still found them. "Shit."
"What now?" asked Eve.
Biff pointed. The bridge. They sped across it. "Forget about stealth. With a chopper, speed is our only ally." Eve dodged haphazardly between cars.
"Can we really outrun a helicopter?"
"Helos have to tip themselves to go forward, and their blades can only spin so fast, so..Yes." Then Biff listened to chatter with his cell phone. Then, "No."
"What?"
"No one can outrun radio waves. They have the highway. Left lane!" Eve swerved to the left lane. "Stay. Move to the right a little, straddle the line divider. Slow down. More. Slow down to 30. When we reach that building up there, you are going to break, hard, a little, and swung over on the concrete. Give gas when you hit the curb--ok here we go."
Eve swerved left onto the curb. Some kind of small tourist area where they could mount the foot bridge. There were pillars in their way, the kind that stop cars.
"Follow the pillars," said Biff. "There, yes, go between the two stands." How Biff knew about that path, Eve didn't even know. She coasted between them. "Straight," Biff was pointing now, directing her onto the bridge lanes going the other way. Biff glanced right, to the oncoming traffic. "Go go go."
They dropped back onto the highway. There was a ginormous tractor trailer right behind them, so close that its lights illuminated the car's insides from the rearview mirror. The driver slammed on his air brakes.
"Floor it," said Biff. Eve floored it, this time doing a better job of catching the wheel when that second burst of speed jerked the steering. She did her best with the shifter to keep up with the TAC needle as it raced to the red line again and again in every gear. Their side of the bridge folded under the other one, and they were temporarily hidden from view of the police helicopter. The chopper knew where they were going though. Seeking hidden ground was partly a reflex on Biff's part. It gave him time to think. Unfortunately, the only two--well, three--ways out of here were to hijack a car, or double back and drive against the current, which Eve definitely couldn't handle. Biff didn't want to hijack a car, either. There was no justification for it. That third option was something utterly ridiculous, like driving off a bridge and into the 45 degree (7.22 Celsius) water. "Do you...trust me?" asked Biff.
Eve glanced at him. "In a way...." She blushed. Hm...blushing...I don't know.... "I guess I do."
"How much fuel do you have?"
"Its between a quarter and half."
Probably not enough to run the helo out of fuel, assuming they could even play shadow games that long. They were low on equipment that Biff was willing to use. He had purposely kept no hiding places that could fit cars. There were few spots with any chance of ditching a helo in this area. Police response was increasing. Acrobatics were out of the question. "Turn right," said Biff, "after the bridge. The first exit on the right." He looked behind them. "And slow down to 60. Make that 45."
The speed limit was 60, but Eve obeyed. She felt childish watching people pass her, the angry, annoyed people that she had just blown by.
Biff made a phone call. "Hi--yes. I need you to drop it off somewhere else." Biff was arguing about something with the person on the other end. Eve assumed it was related to their rescue. Maybe a tractor trailer would gobble them up and hide them from the cops like in knight rider? Biff ended the call with "Listen, I will pay you double if you drop it off at the following address and wait there until she picks it up. Yeah, of the full price. Ok." He hung up.
"What was that?"
"Business." They turned off the highway after the bridge, taking a long ramp down to the surface streets of a waterfronted, semi-abandoned industrial area that divided the Mark from Trenchtown. The streets were mostly deserted, but he made her go slow. Two cruisers appeared on the on ramp behind them, their lights flashing the concrete around them in blues and reds. Biff studied their surroundings. Eve grew increasingly nervous.
"What are you doing?"
"Ssh...there. Stop dead center in that intersection. Diagonally. Point the car at that corner."
Eve could see police approaching the intersection from the other side. "Are you crazy?"
"Just do it! Trust me, neither of us will be caught tonight."
Eve swallowed at did as he asked.
"Leave the car running, e-brake on," said Biff as they rolled to a stop. "Stay very still." Biff opened the panel, the one with an outline of a squid on the inside, and then he held up a handgun. Eve didn't know he even had one. He brandished it at them, and tapped against the window glass of his door. The cops kept their distance, opening their doors, pointing their guns at them. They were shouting. Then he said, "Oh!" and pointed it at Eve, while still looking at the cops.
"WHAT THE FUCK?" Eve shrieked.
"Just buying time." Biff looked at her. She saw a new expression on his face. Maybe it was love. Maybe not. The gun made it hard to tell. "Also, making sure I'm the bad guy. If anyone asks, I forced you at gunpoint."
"What?"
"Say it."
"You...forced me at gunpoint?"
"Perfect. Don't give them any details. Don't talk to anyone, not even EMTs, if it comes to that. Lawyer up and all that."
More cops were arriving. The police chopper covered, keeping the spotlight on them. Eve looked around, scared, though not scared for her life. She saw the ring of police around them. She saw the water, reflecting the moonlight. She saw the spotlight on the hood of Dave's car. This was definitely an experience to remember.
Biff pointed, with the hand that wasn't holding the gun, and in a way the cops couldn't see. "Listen to me. Listen to me very carefully. This is where you are going to go. When I say go you are going to run, straight for that corner. You are going to run for ten steps..." Biff glanced at her legs, as if so make sure of something. "...and only ten steps. Then you are going to walk. Crawl, if you have to."
"I don't understand."
"You will. Tell me what you are going to do."
"Run ten steps, then walk."
"Where? Don't point."
Eve nodded where he told her.
"Good girl. Also, note the markings here on the ground. You may need them to find your way." Biff flicked the switched labeled Arm. "When you get there, walk to the next block. Whatever you do, just walk. Act like you were just down here, hanging out. Pretend you're deaf if you have to. Do you understand me."
"Yes. Yeah, uh, what are you doing?"
"Water based mist. At least, I hope its water based." Biff turned off the air conditioning. "Pop the trunk."
Eve looked at the cops with their guns pointed at them.
"They are aiming at me, not you. Pop the trunk. There are two levers behind your left foot. One of them is--aw hell just give both a yank."
Eve reached down slowly, scared of letting the cops see she was moving. Biff turned the dial next to the Arm button. It had three settings. One was labeled with a small circle. The next was labeled with a larger circle around a small circle. The last was labeled with three circles. Biff turned it to the three circles. Eve closed her eyes and pulled the levers.
The trunk and the gas cap popped open. The shots Eve was afraid of were never fired. The police were busy looking in the trunk for maybe a body they needed to rescue. What they saw instead was quite different.
Biff pressed the smoke button. There were many loud sounds similar to explosions. The most noticeable event for those inside the car was the hood popping up, so that smoke, ostensibly from the engine, could pour out unhindered. For people outside, it was the sight of something similar to rockets launching in the air. The rockets went a hundred feet in the air caused the police chopper to take an evasive action that would have been far too late had the rockets done anything other than explode into dust. Ashes and dust rained down on the intersection and behind it. From far away it looked like there was a giant white-ish grey dust ball in that corner of the city.
Had the road ninja's "former apprentices" and, you know, those other three guys they hung out with, seen it, they would have suspected something. However, they were already on their way home, jubilant with the success of their "mission" and with the awesome industrial music that was playing on the radio. Well, Snow Monkey listened to jazz. Fucking pilot.
The smoke settled in around them, making Eve think they were in a war scene from a movie. "Crack open your door a little," said Biff. Eve did so. Biff held up her sword. "Don't forget this." Eve smiled and took it. "Its about to get hot in here."
"What?"
"Don't touch anything, and be ready to kick your door open as soon as I shout the word." said Biff.
Eve put the sword between her legs and hugged herself in order to not touch anything. "What word?" she asked slyly.
"Not funny." Biff flipped the switch labeled Fire. They heard what sounded like giant supersoakers. "This is injecting a volatile liquid into the air which will combust as soon as something spark--"
BOOM. The sound was deafening. The car was engulfed in flames. Even felt the heat on her face. The fire began to dissipate almost as quickly as it came, though she couldn't see that it was continuing to burn upwards.
"GO!" Biff screamed at the top of his lungs and right at her. Eve's body filled, yet again, with adrenaline. She kicked. The door swung open, easily, and came back and hit her. She pushed it over. She ran and almost forgot to count her steps, going a couple extra steps at a run. She now understood everything. She walked, slow, trying to stay soundless. The air was heavy with smoke, but the smoke was thinning. She almost ran straight into the front of a cop car, and realized she was slightly off course. She heard someone to her left, crouched down, and started crawling on one hand and two knees, cradling her sword with the other.
Biff was still in the car, furiously wiping every nearby surface free of fingerprints. If there was DNA in the backseat, he didn't mention--well thats not really a clue if they--nevermind. The final switch was fairly obvious: Detonate. There was a number above it: 12. Well, it definitely wasn't minutes. Biff opened his door, reviewed his route, and flipped the switch. There was a loud beeping sound that started immediately. He ran. He executed his route perfect, leaping over some kind of low wall just before the explosion. This secondary explosion was not as loud or theatric as the first, but there were satisfying crunching sounds as pieces of the car flew into things. Not, he hoped, into any of the cops. Hopefully they had the sense to stay behind their cars.
Biff ambled away, slowly, saying to himself:
Two blocks away, a crowd gathered, partly because these guys with a truck and a trailer had just unloaded this totally rocking pink sportbike that said Aprilla on the fairing, and partly because of the smoke that extended more than two blocks in every direction. And the kickass explosions.
They talked excitedly amongst themselves, many of them kids (by our reckoning), some high school, some college, some yuppies, some old people. It was these people that caught a glimpse of someone in the cloud of dust as falling ash. Someone pink. They fell silent as she emerged, tall, terrible, beautiful. She had a fucking sword drawn.
Evelyn's hair was wild about her, but her cheeks and suit were crisp and remarkably clean. After all of the events of that day she hadn't actually fallen or gotten dirty. There was plenty of sweat, yes, but that didn't show through the suit. She was, quite simply, breathtaking. A terrible angel.
Eve walked out of the smoke and ash and saw the crowd. She knew what Biff had done, what he had left her, the moment she saw that pink motorcycle. She wondered when she would see him again, not knowing that in a few days Biff would steal Carby away from the impound lot and those hot ducatis and take the road under the mountain. One of the guys waiting there with the bike walked up to her and handed her two keys, and some slips of paper. Eve smiled at him, knowing full well where is eyes went when she unzipped her suit part way, and tucked the papers inside.
The bike was waiting for her on its side stand. Eve mounted it, started it, and tucked the sword between her right leg and the fairing. Then she rode away into the night, with all eyes on her ass.
Moving up to such a larger engine should be done with care. Eve took it easy, and didn't seem to have any problems. Not everyone, perhaps not even many, name their bike. I don't know. What I do know is that Eve named hers. She thought about the name the entire way home. While she didn't decide on the exact name then, of one thing she was certain:
This bike...this bike was a she.
crowded streets all cleared away
one by one
hallowed heroes separate
as they run
Bicyclists, on occasion, and after receiving constant abuse from the idiots driving cars, will pick a night on which they rally themselves to swarm the streets as a single uncontrollable mass. The event is aptly named Critical Mass. It is a night of slightly inconveniencing thousands of drivers, in return for all of the doors that were opened on bikes, and all of the cars that ran them over for lack of watchfulness. Someone had the bright idea to do the same with motorcycles one night. The event came about when the fury over the quasi-legal mercenary cops was nearing its climax. Stories of mercenaries acting unfairly and abusing people's rights fueled the rumor mills. Most of the people did nothing, however, as they were accustomed to being herded, accustomed to letting the government stick its proverbial gloved hand wherever it wanted.
The collective ridding of motorcyclists, sparse and unorganized as they were, was the closest thing to a known credible threat the reigning political powers of the city had. Spies were sent out on Greywater's dime, and the times (assuming no rain, of course) and location of the planned ride were relayed directly to the city's "anti terrorism" unit, as in modern political parlance, every one you don't like is either a nazi or a terrorist. Plans were made, barricades were erected, checkpoints and security theatres installed. Many of the surface streets were blockaded as well.
The night of the ride was a Friday, and became the worst traffic jam in the city's history. Traffic cones funneled all incoming highways down to one or two lanes, where police and Greywater security manned "checkpoints," occasionally sniffing out DUIs but really just looking for excuses make motorcyclists pull over. Such excuses including spotting motorcycles splitting lanes and looking for devices that flipped license plates. All Greywater Security personel showed up in full riot gear.
Elsewhere, a loose caravan of five brilliantly colored muscle cars with street glow drove in loose formation.
Biff began the night with a slightly different purpose: the road ninja signal was lit and he wanted to know why. The signal that was to never shine again had been installed on one of the highest skyscrapers, and was being continually redirected towards the closest clouds, an ever moving spotlight begging the road ninja to return from the dead. Biff came forth on his...prime motorcycle, the black Aprilla, intent on bringing his wrath against the prime suspect in his head, assuming that she was the one still manning the signal. Primal rage was briefly overtaken by a wave of animal lust. His mission was delayed, however, when he saw the checkpoint.
Biff split the lanes for miles, heading directly for the checkpoint. He surveyed their strength. Three squad cars blocking traffic, five parked, eight real cops and ten mercenaries pointing automatic weapons at a row of motorcyclists with their hands behind their heads. The presence of those automatic weapons raised the situation to the highest category of threat in Biff's mind. The correct move came at him immediately: go full trottle, ignite the nitro, and slam on the front brake tens of feet from the barricade, sending the bike flipping forward into the cop cars, or maybe a group of mercenaries, with lethal force. However, Biff had only ever accomplished this move with stunt bikes. He knew of only one person that ever did it with an Aprilla. So instead, he popped a wheelie, slammed down just in front of the barricade and began weaving his way through, giving the finger to the first cop that screamed at him to stop. He was quickly surrounded, at a stop, by men holding guns and tasers. They screamed what they always screamed. Biff held up a grenade with the pin popped, and basked in the delicious expressions that washed over their faces. The cops and mercenaries backed away. "Don't tase me bro," was all he said
Half a mile away, on a different road, a hooded figure watched the standoff for a few moments, then finished covering a black sports car with a heavy canvas.
Biff feigned a toss. They ran. He rolled the grenade--his only flashbang--under a car and took off. Behind him he heard the a loud (but not loud enough) pop, and saw a bit of smoke in his rear view mirror. Biff had used a real grenade, believing that one should never completely bluff with that move, but it had been an old one. Behind him, the checkpoint was reduced to half-strength as most of the manpower was hopping in their cars to chase him. He had a three quarter tank and two nitros. Biff accelerated, but forced himself to breathe slow, to tame the adrenaline. Steel nerves clamped down on his excitement. It was race 'o clock and he had work to do.
Eve was similarly caught unawares by the chaos. Among those dead-stopped in traffic, her commute home within the city became her initiation to the community of splitting lanes and riding on shoulders. She had done three U-turns to avoid checkpoints (and therefore avoid getting in trouble for having a flip plate) by the time the path of least resistance had shifted her far from the inner core of the city and onto lesser streets. She'd made up her mind to stop and wait it out at a bar. Then a black SUV ran her off the road. The man who got out was the man who had pulled her over before and tried to force her to go on a date with him. Interesting fact: this man's favorite color was purple.
"Get off the bike!" The man pointed a handgun at her. Eve sensed extreme danger and kept Carby running as she dismounted. Carby sensed her fear. His RPMs dipped. Eve backed up and stood near Carby's right corner. The mercenary had planned to cuff her wrists behind her and bend her over the hood of his SUV, but then he saw that her riding suite was a full piece. It would have to be the back seat instead. He pulled out his taser. "Let's see how you like this."
Eve's mouth dropped when she saw the taser but one of her new instincts took over. She took the gemmed sword from its hiding place under Carby's rear faring and swept up and sliced the merc's taser hand at the wrist. The small, straight sword was not meant for slicing; it did not sever tendons. The man was bleeding, however, and he was a veteran of no war. He dropped everything and clutched his arm below the wrist, screaming. Eve placed one of her boots behind one of his and shoved, sending him sprawling on his back. She held the sword at his neck, gripping with one hand, the other flat against the end of the handle, poised for the kill blow like a warrior goddess on the ancient battlefield. The sword bent neckflesh, but would not go further. She could not commit herself to the kill stroke. She was not a killer. Then she looked down and saw that the mercenary had wet himself. Eve wiped the blade clean of blood on the man's sleeve, sheathed it, and rode away as quick as she could.
The mercenary was not so easily beaten. He got back in his SUV and made a radio call: "Gray 21 in pursuit of pink motorcycle, license plate alpha, kilo, one, three, three, lima. Shots fired." In reality, it was the rider that was pink and not her totally awesome motorcycle (who is single, by the way! loves long rides near but not on the beach!), but of course no shots had been fired either.
Outside and west of the city, five brightly colored muscle cars rounded a bend. Their drivers caught sight of the skyline, with the road ninja signal shining in the center like the beacons of Gondor. One by one, the cars accelerated.
Somewhere within the city, a man wearing a dark grey hoodie, and who was not a fireman, slipped into a fire hall and started a fire truck. The power mysteriously cut out just as the bay doors opened. The man in the fire truck turned left and headed for the nearest checkpoint. This one only had two police cars. He rammed into one, pushing it onto the sidewalk and into a building. Then he backed up and ran the other one off the road as well. It was a confused scene for a while, but traffic did resume. The man in the hoodie headed on to the next checkpoint but stopped first to install a sound system to his satisfaction. He flipped a switch, and suddenly the cabin and the intersection outside was filled with the sound of Shipping up to Boston.
The fire truck was the small kind, the kind that did not require a rear driver. Still, it packed some serious momentum. The hooded figure turned toward trench town. The checkpoint was south of the bridge. The fire truck roared across with music blasting that even the impatient drivers could hear.
I'm shipping off
To find my wooden leg
I'm a sailor peg
And I lost my leg
I climbed up the topsails
I lost my leg
I'm shipping up to Boston
To find my wooden leg
I'm a sailor peg
And I lost my leg
I climbed up the topsails
I lost my leg
I'm shipping up to Boston
The police and mercenaries saw the truck coming. The driver placed extra emphasis on whose side he was on by laying on the trucks powerful horn, which eclipsed even the loud music. As the truck increased to its top speed, it began shifting laterally in order to hit as many cars as it could. It was at this point that the cops and mercenaries fled. The fire truck's sole occupant laid down on the seat and wrapped himself in the seat belts. The truck slammed through a throng of cars and SUVs, sending one into the grass median, one spinning around itself, and piling three up, appearing to toss them harmlessly into the area made vacant by traffic cones.
The truck had so much momentum left over that it had to use its brakes to stop. It backed up, coming alone side the wall of speechless and handcuffed motorcycle riders. The door opened, and a hooded figure stepped out just as Shipping up to Boston ended and the instrumental version of Nightwish's Amaranth started playing. It was a soft spot in the noise that allowed him to shout: "WHO WANTS TO DRIVE?" Eager volunteers boarded, and handcuff keys made their rounds, coming to rest in the pockets of those formerly bound. The fire truck started moving again. It took a while for its new crew to realize that their hooded captain was missing.
Far away atop a hill with view of that location, five muscle cars were parked with their lights shining over the edge of a cliff. Five drivers stood, looking at the city laid out before them. Two of those five considered themselves former apprentices of the road ninja, and the other three were of similar skill. Lawrence Lee, the owner of the yellow camero, stood on the right. To his left stood Jason Web, whose red and black leather jacket matched his red mustang. To his left was the one they called Snow Monkey, whose real name is not important. Snow Monkey brought with him a purple road runner, and a purple long sleeved shirt to match, which he wore under his open leather jacket. To his left was Dave--not the Dave who appears in the rest of this story but an entirely different one. Don't worry, he won't be mentioned by name again. Dave's ride was a blue Trans Am. Ok now he won't be mentioned by name again. The fourth member of their informal squad shall remain unnamed, but his car was also a camero, and it was bright green.
The boys stood in a row, dented into a slight semi-circle, because, well, they knew how to stand in such times as these: hands on their hips, one foot forward a little as if it was on a rock or something, shoulders turned a bit, staring out, not looking at each other as they talked. Behind them their muscle cars purred like the cats of Queen Beruthiel, and behind them, the runway of midfield airstrip, or KSGIP, as Snow Monkey referred to it.
"These checkpoints are going to be problematic."
One of them raised their arms. "Below us, never a greater hum of scive and villany!"
"Dammit man."
"What the fuck?"
"Are you drunk?"
"No!"
"Scum of hive--oh fuck you have me saying it wrong now."
"Gentlemen! The task at hand."
They discussed this briefly. Then they caught sight of a fire truck coming over a bridge, heading for the checkpoint. The conversation died as they watched it slam into the police cars, throwing them everywhere. They looked at each other.
"Oh hell yes."
"Fire trucks."
"Biff would approve."
"His ninjaness would be proud. His in...the memory, honored..."
"...rest in peace," one of them mumbled.
They were moving to their cars.
"What do you think, two to a truck?"
"Snow, can you provide air support?"
The man nicknamed Snow Money held up a can of black spray paint he'd just pulled from the trunk of his car. "I'll be in the air in fifteen minutes. Pair up so at least one of you knows the damn street names."
"Man I wish the girls were here. You know how hot they get when we-"
"Hey!"
"This is an official mission, man."
"Keep your head clear."
"I'm justs saying, you know, I wish."
"Word."
The muscle cars, except for the purple one, roared away, cutting directly across the runway of the uncontrolled airport. Snow Monkey walked past a line of sexy low-wing aircraft and popped the lock on a tiny little cessna. He didn't feel sexy in a high wing aircraft, but he needed a good view of what was below. Snow expedited his preflight, pausing to spraypaint over the tail numbers. Then he got a bright idea and spraypainted an R and a backwards N under the wing. A tribute to the master. As he did this deed, a single verse escaped his lips, nearly as an afterthought:
gone is the rider, on a chariot of fire
silent is the horn that blew
who shall challenge the skies of grey dust and ash
legend has passed into spring's shadow
vanished like the faint mountain's dew
Biff approached the signal crossing. A train was coming, but it was too far away. Biff blew through the crossing before the lights even came on. Shit. The cops followed him, around and to the next signal crossing. Timing this right forced him to slow down, and they caught up to him. The first car was on his left. The window was open. The passenger was yelling. The drivers right hand moved to the wheel, ready to cut him off. Biff threw his wrench through the window. It narrowly missed the passenger cop and struck its intended target. The car swerved, and interfered with the passage of the others. Biff was within a half-mile of the next crossing. The timing was still good. The next car approached. Biff yanked his helmet strap loose. The lights of the train crossing began to flash. The cop knew what Biff planned, and sped up. Biff pulled his helmet off with his right hand, swinging it up, back, down around in one giant arc, finally sending it back at the cop's windshield. It was a direct hit, creating tight circles of white fractures that spread out and rendered the entire windshield too opaque for successful pursuit. The beams of the train crossing began to lower. Biff was now without eye protection. He aimed, squinted, and then leaned forward, lending every spare kilo of his weight to the enterprise of keeping his front wheel on the ground as he ignited the nitro. The bikes engine screamed and redlined, and Biff ducked his head behind the tiny-ass windshield. He passed under the crossing beams as they lowered, clearing them by inches. The remaining cop car, and the one whose driver had been merely hit by a metal tool, floored their vehicles, intending to break through the beams and beat the train. Then they realized they were too late and slammed on their brakes. The train passed in front of them, and behind it, the road ninja vanished.
Biff put on a pair of lightly tinted safety glasses, the glasses he kept for when a girl wanted a ride and was given his helmet. He squirreled his way around in the direction of the central office building where the ninja signal had been installed. He was parallel to the highway when he saw, below it, Evelyn in pink, on her bike, being chased by an SUV-type minivan. Biff saw more than heard the gunfire, his eyes attracted to the bright flash of the muzzle. Biff's conscious mind was briefly transported to another night a long time ago, to the image of a pink rider, the pink rider, the elusive, beautiful, evanescent love of his heart, flying through the air, her eyes briefly locked on his shortly before the impact that severed her spinal cord.
With the cry of a man reaching for a falling friend, Biff twisted the throttle. A reflex saved him from fully opening it, which would have flipped the bike. In an instant, his mind reviewed the move that would involve riding full speed at the minivan with feet on the seat, jumping at the last instant, and rejected it. There was nothing but concrete pillars and rubbish on the other side of the mercenary's ride--nothing he could slam his body into at 100/160 mph/kph and expect to live. No, there was only one move. He had never done it before, and he had not the proper gear: he was wearing a leather jacket instead of his upper body armor and didn't even have a damn helmet. It was a tight spot.
Biff accelerated, the booming of his engine growing and then suddenly shrinking with every shift to a higher gear, far past the point at which Biff's every instinct, every fiber of his body screamed at the dire mismatch between his speed and the surrounding--more importantly oncoming--terrain. Biff pictured the way the first pink rider's body looked when she had done the move in nothing but that riding suit, but only for a moment, for he had to concentrate: the timing had to be just right. The pink rider and her attacker were in a perpendicular line of travel. Biff ignited the nitro at the wrong place in the power curve, which damaged the engine in a way that ultimately didn't matter. Then he actually tapped the rear brake a bit, making sure everything lined up. The needle on the speedo swung far past 120/193 mph/kph.
Then Biff squeezed the front brake, hard. The bike flipped forward. His world was a flash. He did his best to guide the bike with his legs, but they did little good. Then the bike was gone, and he was consumed with preventing his sudden death. Skidding along asphalt at speeds in excess of 100 miles per hour is no joke. The friction can quickly wear leather and jean down to flesh, and flesh down to bone. Biff landed on his boots, balancing on them like an alphine skiier who loses purchase on a sheet of ice and spreads his skiis wide, putting all of his cards into balance. Balance became a fall, and Biff was sliding on his ass, with the padding wearing down with each meter he slid. He raised himself up by his gauntlets--riding gloves that were unnecessarily tough because he was planning on literally punching someone's lights out later. By this time over half of his kinetic energy had dissipated, but there was still a lot left when the gauntlet move put him into a spin. He tumbled. He tried to protect his head, but there was a loud blow that disrupted any remaining ability to affect his fate.
Once again Eve had never been so scared in her life. This was like the fourth fucking time. How much college did Carby cost? Don't think about that. The road! Fucking gunfire. Shit, sugar. Back and forth, babe, don't give that fucker a clear shot. Her body was so jacked up on adrenaline that every limb was shaking. Any single pothole would have ended her run, and she was less than a minute away from losing control for no other reason than her own fear. Then something flashed in her mirror, and there was a gunshot that was much softer than the others, and the shots ceased. Eve looked in her mirror and saw the SUV impaled on a pillar. She looked ahead at a red light and slammed on her breaks, having just enough sense left to drag her feet on the ground and keeping the light bike from falling.
Eve breathed. Carby's engine redlined with the clutch in. She let go of the throttle, then the clutch, and Carby lurched forward and stalled. It did not fall.
Ow! yelled Carby.
Eve caught her breath, keeping an eye on the crashed SUV, severely worried that it might suddenly roar to life and start shooting at her again. After a minute or two her heart began to slow. Then it sped up again.
Someone far behind her, near the SUV, rose from the ground, staggering toward it. She knew that figure, somehow. Eve started the bike again and drove back slowly. She stopped fifty feet from the disabled--no totaled--SUV. There was a fucking motorcycle in the SUV, compressed into the space where the driver used to be. There was blood. Eve stopped the engine, took off her helmet and hung it on the mirror. The SUV had also crashed into a pole, compressing the engine. There was little left of it that was unharmed by the collisions. Eve dismounted, and saw Biff.
Biff was covered in blood and dust. There was a wound on his right temple. His jacket was ripped, both sleeves torn enough to reveal possible lacerations on his forearms. He walked with the wobbly limp of someone in severe pain but still coming down from an adrenaline high. Heavy, black gloves swung at his sides with no clear rhythm. He glanced at the SUV, and appeared to nod to himself, satisfied at something. Then he looked at her. His blue eyes were alight and blazing, like electric fire.
Eve backed up and drew her sword from its hiding place. Biff advanced. She retreated. He advanced farther, and again. Eve stepped to the side, turning his advance into a strange, circular dance. Biff tore something out of his jacket. It appeared to twirl in the air briefly, then lock into place with a loud chink. It was a butterfly knife.
Biff lounged. Eve tried to block his advance with her sword. Biff swung, disarming her in a single unusual arc of motion. The sword clattered on the ground. Biff stopped three feet from her. His knife disappeared.
"Did you light that signal?" He pointed at the orange glow in the sky. As he did so, the beam flickered on another cloud, as if the operator was crying out for attention.
"N-No."
Biff looked at the road ninja signal, which shifted again, and back at Eve, who was clearly not operating it.
"I guess not." Biff looked around. "I need to borrow your bike."
Eve backed up a step. "You're not so nice with bikes...."
"It saved your life." Biff nodded towards the wreck. He held out his hand.
Eve winced and dropped her keys into it. "Take good care of him."
"I will." Biff was on the bike, and then he was off.
Sirens wailed in the distance. Eve ran, scrambled up an embankment and leapt over the guardrail.
An olive skinned rider on a large, yellow and for some reason completely legal motorcycle, who had passed peacefully through the checkpoints, saw a pink rider land on the shoulder, her hair blowing in the air. She was tight. He pulled over and asked for a lift.
"I need to get to Ball street and Volley ave."
"Hop on."
Just South of that location, a police helicopter had been given orders to report somewhere north of its position. This chopper would have then seen and reported Biff if the right-seat pilot had not screamed "TRAFFIC!" and pointed dead ahead of them. A cessna was flying straight at them. The pilot had little time to react, especially since the helicopter was more or less stationary at that time, with no momentum to divert. Fortunately, the cessna rolled to a dangerous 60 degree bank and narrowly avoided them. They felt the buffet.
"Snow Monkey, Captain Crunch."
"Snow Monkey."
"Crunch is ready for more."
"First intersection fifth and bounce. Second intersection Crowe and McDuff."
"Understand fifth an' bounce, crowe an' McDuff."
"Monkey is heading out. Coppers are screaming at ATC about me."
"Understand Snow Monkey is a giant pussy."
Snow Monkey clicked his mike twice in response, rolling his eyes, and double-checked that his transponder was OFF. He ducked low to quickly increase his airspeed just shy of never exceed, bolting out of the south theatre of the battle.
Below him, Jason turned his fire truck onto Bounce street, heading for the police barricade at 5th Avenue. Later, at some point the mercenaries would unload their automatic weapons at the fire truck, and Jason and Lawrence would laugh hysterically, and consider it fitting given that they'd heard of a time when fire trucks had been used to capture illegal street racers. But theirs is no longer a part of this story, save for the fact that traffic everywhere was cleared up within the hour.
Biff had business at the tower in the center of the city, but Carby was riding on empty and he was forced to pull over. He was also very much in need of a bottle of painkillers. His arms were burning, though at least not dripping blood, and his legs, head and chest ached. The chest pain was more of a burning; Biff suspected bruised rib. Though it was painful, he could inhale, mostly, which should rule out pneumothorax.
Though he was on a different bike with a different license plate, a black [clad] rider on a black bike is a black rider on a black bike, and one so obviously injured as Biff clearly matched the description "unarmed and extremely dangerous." As Biff filled the tank, a police car pulled up in front of him and a mercenary minivan behind him. They were both riding alone, and both drew their guns.
Biff looked at them and did not move. They insisted more loudly, probably something about getting on the ground, who knows. Typical cop bitching. Gasoline spewed out of the now full 3-gallon tank, but he still didn't move--not even his hand. It was their only warning.
Biff flicked the pump handle left, hosing premium gasoline directly into the merc's face. The cop lunged forward but Biff, without looking, thrust his hand out, sending a white, powdery substance into the cops eyes that would be later identified as magnesium carbonate, or climbing chalk. The cop fell at Biffs feet and Biff recovered the man's sidearm. He hopped on Carby and started the engine.
Yee haaaaa! said Carby.
Two more cop cruisers approached as Biff pulled on to the street. Carby was manuverable as hell, but not fast at all. Biff did his best, reading the traffic and using low speed maneuvers so that Carby still had enough power to spring ahead when he yanked the throttle back. He managed to lose one of the cop cars, but the second followed him into a tunnel. Biff had the advantage. He raced through the tight corners, up and almost out the other side when a black SUV-type minivan lurched in front of him. Biff braked, spun the bike around, and headed back under the building. If he could make it to the loading dock....
He could not. The cop car met him too early. He was stopped, sandwiched between a cop and mercenary on a 30 or maybe higher degree incline in the tight, concrete passage. They paused for a moment before opening their doors. A moment was all Biff needed. He pulled out a handgun in each hand, twisting his body and stretching his arms wide like a great eagle's wings. He fired repeatedly into each windshield. The shots were horribly inaccurate, because he was firing one handed, as well as slow, because, again, he was firing one handed. Putting a gun in each hand is a terrible way to kill anything, but it does look good in movies and it is a great way to stir up havoc. Biff leaned to Carby's left in order to get the position just right. When the gunshots paused, the cop and the merc, who had tucked down and made ready their own weapons, sat back up and fired. Biff threw himself off Carby and to the right, still keeping Carby's right handlebar pressed with two fingers in order to hold the front brake on. The bullets missed him, but did not glance off harmless surfaces. One of the cop's bullets hit the merc, and one of the merc's bullets hit the cop, as Biff intended. Biff clawed at the side fairing to keep the bike from tipping.
The mercenary and the cop both let off their brakes a little. The cop car and the SUV both began to roll down the tunnel. Biff crawled, slid, waddled as best his could to keep Carby between them. Then the cop, clutching his chest, deliberately let go of his brake in order to back off and call for backup. Biff hopped onto Carby. The mercenary was hit in the arm and could not shoot, but instead he hit the gas, trying to run Biff over. He would later admit in court that he knew this action had a high likelihood of further damaging the police cruiser.
The loading dock appeared before the SUV could reach Biff. Biff veered out of the way. The SUV crashed into the police cruiser, and Biff escaped behind it.
The hot guy with the big yellow bike dropped Eve off where she asked, and asked for her number. She said "not tonight" but did hint that he might see her around. She did not, in fact, use the word "boyfriend," although she was maybe ok with Dave saying "girlfriend."
The building was a shared commercial space, a large chunk of which was occupied by Marksen Lot. Inside, the security guard appeared to be strangely absent, although he was actually just unconscious somewhere behind the desk. Also the elevators didn't seem to work without a key card. They were, in fact, completely disabled, except for the one that was in key mode on the 45th floor. Eve took the stairs.
The first eight flights were fine. Cake, even. She was in great shape. Up to fifteen, she slowed down. After twenty, she slowed way down. A couple floors later, she collapsed on the floor and waited to catch her breath. She continued her pace, far more slowly, with a lengthy pause every two floors. The 20s slowly became 30s. It felt like an hour had passed since entering the building when she finally hit the big 4-0. Oh, and she was carrying her sword. Despite Biff's apparent prowess at deflecting it, the sword was now mandatory equipment for any place where she might meet him. In fact, she shouldn't be anywhere near this building, but she had to know. It felt like an hour had passed since she had entered the building when she heard grunts above her. Stealing a glance up through the opening between the stairs, she saw a hand. Temporarily forgetting her exhaustion, she darted up and around and found Biff, halfway up a flight, clutching the railing with a death grip and heavily favoring his left leg. He was doing it very one step at a time.
Biff whirled around in what would have been a quick, alert movement had he been, you know, anywhere near sea level. Instead, his climbing and his drive had his brain running low on oxygen and the movement looked more like that of a drunk man. Whatever threat could have been there in his eyes was drowned out by exhaustion. Eve smiled at him, and without a word, caught up to him and slung his arm around his shoulder. Together they ascended the remaining flights of stairs. Eve forced them to stop at every landing to breathe and rest. At one of them, Biff turned to her and looked at her. There was still blood on his face.
Biff was drawn to her face, and for the first time, he appreciated her beauty, her true beauty that extended beyond her exquisite physical form, down to the steel core of her soul. He saw what Dave had seen months earlier, and he felt a wave of love that, while brief, was not overshadowed by a fear that he was just clutching for something that vaguely resembled Christine, the real pink rider. No, Eve was most definitely her own person. She wore the suit; it did not wear her. A strong magnetic force pulled Biff's lips toward hers, and though hers opened slightly in anticipation, Biff, instead, diverted the movement and kissed her on her forehead.
They continued.
Seeing the final flight of stairs to the roof exit, and a glimpse of a thick, green extension cord, was...glorious. Eve would have plenty of time later to think of a better adjective. They felt a tad more energetic and burst onto the roof. The orange spotlight was directly in front of them, ten feet away, near the edge of the roof. It was pointed towards nowhere in the sky in particular. Something seemed wrong in the back of Biff's mind, but he was too tired to think on it.
They looked around. The roof seemed deserted. They stood there for many minutes, and exchanged words that observers could not hear. The way Eve looked at Biff, though, the way she was balanced forward, leaning more on her toes, body stretched subtly outward and upward, like her breasts were pointing at him--that was no secret, not to someone who was a veteran at reading body language.
"Are you so cold? Are you really so obsessed with yourself and your own baggage that you can't let anyone else in?" Eve asked him, a bit louder. She placed a hand on his chest.
Biff regarded her while sorting through about twenty bitter, sarcastic responses. None quite fit. He was spared from his task however.
Orwell kicked the door. It was already open, but he wanted to make an entrance. Then the door bounced and flew back at him and he had to catch it with his free hand. Not so dramatic. He had a gun though. That was impressive. The guy in front of the spotlight: it was him. Him and his bitch girlfriend. Him, the man to had clocked him upside (Orwell doesn't know what 'upside' actually means) the head with a crowbar (actually a socket wrench) and put him in the hospital. "I knew it was you!" said Orwell. Not just the man with the crowbar (socket wrench!) but the...that...fuckface that hung out with those turds over at Wilson's Tire Garage back--
"You were there," said Biff. Biff recognized Orwell immediately, and not just from their altercation at the bridge. Biff now recognized Orwell's as one of the faces burned into his memory when he had cradled Christine Miller's hand in his lap--her hand because he was praying to the angels that she was still alive and wanted to leave head-moving for the medics. Even though her chest wasn't moving....
"FUCK YOU," shouted Orwell. He had wanted to go with, "it was that dumb bitches fault" but decided against it. Didn't want to think about it. The accident wasn't his fault.
Biff moved towards him. Orwell held up his gun, like, higher. Orwell looked back and forth between Biff and his girl, looking actually at Eve's chest instead of her face. Orwell was leering. Eve clenched her jaw. Then she saw someone behind Orwell. She saw a hooded figure slowly and soundlessly rise to a standing position atop the stairway entrance, behind Orwell. Biff's face did not give away the fact that he saw a tall grey shape outlined against the slightly brighter glow of the light pollution in the sky. Eve's did, but Orwell, fortunately, still wasn't looking at her face.
"I called it in," gloated Orwell. That sounded pretty good, right? "I knew it was you, I just knew it. I dragged your dumb little light up her and look who I caught? Ninja my ass. Everyone is-"
"If you are going to shoot me," said Biff, "you'd better do it right now. This is your only chance." The gray figure dropped behind Orwell. Eve heard no sound. It was like the movement of an owl. Biff stepped forward.
Orwell shook the gun a tad and was about to say something but the hooded figures hands moved in a circular fashion and suddenly Orwell was choking on a wire that Biff and Eve didn't see. They stood there as Orwell choked and struggled, the hooded man maintaining his grip. Finally, Orwell passed out.
The man in the hood stepped over Orwell's body and tossed an encyclopedia-sized book at Biff's feat. It landed with a thud. The cover was plain, either black or dark brown--it was hard to tell under the orange glow of the road ninja signal. The front of the book had the title "The Art of Driving" embossed in four lines of large letters.
"'I've said all the right things, in exactly the right way.' I've made all the right moves," said the hooded figure, "but she's never, ever looked at me like that." He pulled his hood back. It was Dave.
Eve's heart stopped. Well, it didn't actually stop, but she could think of no other way to describe the shock.
Biff knelt down slowly, painfully, and retrieved the book. It was the third lost copy, now recovered. "You stole this one."
Dave shrugged. He still hadn't actually looked at Eve, at all. Eve felt something bad growing in the pit of her stomach.
"I didn't even give this one to you, and yet you have outdone everyone else."
"Even you," said Dave.
Biff didn't answer. He was considering the truth of Dave's words. Maybe ever since the pink rider's death-
"This building has been surrounded at the surface level." Dave interrupted Biff's musing. "Whatever hope you could have of stealth is lost." Dave tossed a set of keys at Biff. Biff caught them. "You're welcome to see what I've done. Maybe take her out for a good ole escape spin. She's on the B3 level, spot 23 golf." Dave turned to walk away. Then he turned back, "Oh, and there is an elevator on floor 45 in key mode. All the coppers will have to take the stairs. You'll sail right by them."
Eve saw Biff staring at Dave with some strange look of pride.
"Thanks," said Biff. Biff wanted to say more, but didn't know what.
Dave turned to go.
"Dave..." said Eve.
"You should let her fuck you," said Dave, turning back one last time. He still only looked at Biff. "I don't think many men get a chance to enter that paradise--you shouldn't blow yours."
Dave had, technically, called Eve the opposite of a whore, and complimented her at the same time, but the bitterness in his tone still stung her and made her feel like one.
Biff could not meet the comment with a response. "May the echoes of angels protect you--" an old religious saying in his family--was all he could say.
"I can offer you no such blessing. Evelyn loves you. For that, I'll never forgive you." Then Dave was gone. The doorway was empty, save for Oliver's not-actually-dead corpse.
"Time to go," said Biff. He looked over the side of the building. Eve followed suit. The height was dizzying. Below them, cop cars circled the building with their lights. Biff noticed it was only cop cars. No SUV-type minivans. Unknown to him, the police chief--or really the police commissioner, after an exorbitant number of reports of mercenaries improperly getting their guns off and after having every police deparment at sixes and sevens for this damn unnecessary response to what should have been an innocuous biker stunt, flipped his shit and ordered the arrest of all Greywater security personnel. He let his captains sort out the details of how to actually accomplish that, and told them to charge the 'bastards' with anything that would keep them off the streets for a while. Mayor Pennington had marched right down to his office, where he promptly threatened to put her in a cell and screamed at her with a red face.
Eve helped Biff lift road ninja signal. It was heavy. They had a lot of trouble getting it to the edge, and Eve felt a little vertigo. It was up there, though, on the ledge. Biff, without warning, gave it a sudden shove. He also gave a shout to warn the cops below. A road ninja does not murder. The spotlight fell many stories onto a cop car, and pretty much totaled it.
They road the elevator from the 45th floor in silence, Biff in pain, and Eve in a panic over Dave. Many emotions clouded her judgment0 then, and it is difficult to really describe any of them. Carby was outside, on the surface level, on his side. Orwell, thinking the bike was Biff's, had taken a bat to it and done a lot of superficial damage. Not a great night for Carby.
They arrived at the third basement level and walked among the cars. Biff approached slowly, like the father of an architect looking for his son's first building. The car--or the back of it--came into view. The rear end of a black 2007 Subaru Impreza WRX STI is not particularly elegant, or chaste. The bigass spoiler sticks out like a shopping cart handle, and while it does balance out the sleek look of the car, overall, where a BMW or like an Aston-Martin or something might evoke images of a bond girl in a sleek evening dress, the STI is more like a girl with medium-to-big boobs in a tight sports bra. She doesn't star in many movies, but she can haul ass, sugar.
Biff clicked the unlock. The black sports car lighted its flashers and chirped merrily. "Everyone who reads the book--they always use rice burners."
"Probably for the mileage," said Eve.
"And, well, the all-wheel drive is amazing, although it complicates drifting...." Biff's voice trailed off as he approached the door. He had not driven a...one of these...since Christine and the cliff.
Eve put her hand on the door. "I'm driving," she said, nodding at his leg.
Biff looked at her and then kissed her. Her mouth tasted like spearmint. His tasted like he'd eaten a meal three hours ago, but Eve didn't care. Biff pressed her against the car and kissed her.
They could have had sex there. They had time for it. Biff knew they had the time. Eve would have easily gone for it--her body was on fire for him again. Biff also knew his way around the back seat. However, whether they had sex then or not, no one seems to know, and Eve doesn't seem to think its anyone's business.
Biff sat in the passenger seat, Eve in the drivers. The dashboard had a raised part for the driver, you know, where the speedo and tach are...and the temp gauge, outside temp, oil, turbo...ok you get the picture. On the top right corner of the driver's portion of the dash, on the curve that slopes down over the radio, was a hidden panel. Biff found it because he knew to look for it. He pressed. A cover flipped up. On the inside of this cover was the subtle black outline of a squid.
"What's that?" asked Eve, as she started the car. It started with that familiar, happy sound that pretty much all Subarus make. The panel contained a switch all the way on the left called Arm, a dial with three settings, a switch called Smoke, a switch called Fire, and a switch called Detonate. The dial and the Detonate switch were not described in The Art of Driving. Dave had clearly surpassed the manual.
"Nothing." Biff closed the panel. "Just...don't hit anything." Biff was concerned about the destruct button.
"What?"
"This car...isn't made of metal. You can't bang other cars around like you can with a muscle car."
"I'll uh, keep that in mind," said Eve as she backed out of the space.
They made it to the garage exit, which was thankfully actually attached to a different building on the surface (they could thank Dave for that) without incident. However, the garage exit was installed with an annoying voice that said "CAUTION. CAUTION. VEHICLE EXITING." It drew the attention of the cops. Most didn't seem too concerned. They were just standing around talking about their poor buddies who got stuck taking the stairs. One of them waved for them to pull over.
Eve, anticipating that they would definitely not be pulling over, did the opposite of what Biff was about to tell her, and floored it. The car lurched forward, and then lurched forward again, swerving to the side because the wheel was still turned a tiny bit. Biff's hand flew to the wheel, steadying it with his hand on top of hers.
"This has a turbo. They're freaky little things," he said. He looked behind them. What cover they had was blown. Two, maybe three cars, pursued, and they had radios. "Take that street," said Biff. Biff directed her every move, and it reminded him of a time long ago when he had last taught the art. Jason had been quite different though. They reached a three lane avenue. "Stay behind and to the right of this car."
"What? We need to-"
"Those cars up there are blocking us. We have to wait for an opening but can't ride their ass. Stay here, this is a position of power."
"A what?"
"Its a position where--listen, sometimes its better to be behind."
"That's what she said," said Eve, grinning. She was scared, yes, and might end up in jail, sure, but she was damn sure gonna enjoy this. A hole broke in the line of cars, or more precisely, Biff saw that a hole was going to break in three or four moves, and directed Eve to make optimal use of the hole as soon as it appeared. Despite their best efforts, the police had a quick time catching up. Their lights and sirens tended to part traffic like it was two receding tides of water.
Biff got them to a long stretch of road that ended in a t-junction. I know, they were just in the central district, or whatever the hell I named. Biff is good like that. Biff found the secret panel with the differential braking controls that were most definitely not stock, and saw the button for the super high beam. "Its too bad you can't use this."
Eve grinned at him. "Don't be so sure, sugar. What you need, a 180?"
"Yes."
Eve flipped the right combination of switches and braked, spinning the car around. The reverse gear of the car could not be engaged at these speeds, so she just coasted. "Now wh-"
Biff pressed the super high beam switch. Incredibly highly powered bulbs that were installed next to the real headlights, and which were powered by capaciters that had been charging since Eve started the car, flashed on with an intensity approaching the strobes of a jet airplane, bathing the scene before them in a while light, like that of lightning. Seconds later, the bulbs burned out. Biff studied the vehicles in pursuit. They drifted...yes, they were stopping. "Turn back around." Eve did so. They drove. More cop cars found them. Biff continued to direct her calmly, ever instructing. "Every aggressive move you make has a cost; it gets you noticed. Remember: cops can't pull over what they can't see." Then later, "we don't endanger their lives unless they endanger ours. Remember, these cops have wives and families. A road ninja does not murder. Though, if they..." Biff cut a piece of the roof fabric, and then said: "Well, fuck me sideways."
"What is it?"
"Nothing. Turn there." They used every available move that could be done by someone that had no training for it, and which did not involve bumping into anything. They did shake the cops, many times, but the police helicopter still found them. "Shit."
"What now?" asked Eve.
Biff pointed. The bridge. They sped across it. "Forget about stealth. With a chopper, speed is our only ally." Eve dodged haphazardly between cars.
"Can we really outrun a helicopter?"
"Helos have to tip themselves to go forward, and their blades can only spin so fast, so..Yes." Then Biff listened to chatter with his cell phone. Then, "No."
"What?"
"No one can outrun radio waves. They have the highway. Left lane!" Eve swerved to the left lane. "Stay. Move to the right a little, straddle the line divider. Slow down. More. Slow down to 30. When we reach that building up there, you are going to break, hard, a little, and swung over on the concrete. Give gas when you hit the curb--ok here we go."
Eve swerved left onto the curb. Some kind of small tourist area where they could mount the foot bridge. There were pillars in their way, the kind that stop cars.
"Follow the pillars," said Biff. "There, yes, go between the two stands." How Biff knew about that path, Eve didn't even know. She coasted between them. "Straight," Biff was pointing now, directing her onto the bridge lanes going the other way. Biff glanced right, to the oncoming traffic. "Go go go."
They dropped back onto the highway. There was a ginormous tractor trailer right behind them, so close that its lights illuminated the car's insides from the rearview mirror. The driver slammed on his air brakes.
"Floor it," said Biff. Eve floored it, this time doing a better job of catching the wheel when that second burst of speed jerked the steering. She did her best with the shifter to keep up with the TAC needle as it raced to the red line again and again in every gear. Their side of the bridge folded under the other one, and they were temporarily hidden from view of the police helicopter. The chopper knew where they were going though. Seeking hidden ground was partly a reflex on Biff's part. It gave him time to think. Unfortunately, the only two--well, three--ways out of here were to hijack a car, or double back and drive against the current, which Eve definitely couldn't handle. Biff didn't want to hijack a car, either. There was no justification for it. That third option was something utterly ridiculous, like driving off a bridge and into the 45 degree (7.22 Celsius) water. "Do you...trust me?" asked Biff.
Eve glanced at him. "In a way...." She blushed. Hm...blushing...I don't know.... "I guess I do."
"How much fuel do you have?"
"Its between a quarter and half."
Probably not enough to run the helo out of fuel, assuming they could even play shadow games that long. They were low on equipment that Biff was willing to use. He had purposely kept no hiding places that could fit cars. There were few spots with any chance of ditching a helo in this area. Police response was increasing. Acrobatics were out of the question. "Turn right," said Biff, "after the bridge. The first exit on the right." He looked behind them. "And slow down to 60. Make that 45."
The speed limit was 60, but Eve obeyed. She felt childish watching people pass her, the angry, annoyed people that she had just blown by.
Biff made a phone call. "Hi--yes. I need you to drop it off somewhere else." Biff was arguing about something with the person on the other end. Eve assumed it was related to their rescue. Maybe a tractor trailer would gobble them up and hide them from the cops like in knight rider? Biff ended the call with "Listen, I will pay you double if you drop it off at the following address and wait there until she picks it up. Yeah, of the full price. Ok." He hung up.
"What was that?"
"Business." They turned off the highway after the bridge, taking a long ramp down to the surface streets of a waterfronted, semi-abandoned industrial area that divided the Mark from Trenchtown. The streets were mostly deserted, but he made her go slow. Two cruisers appeared on the on ramp behind them, their lights flashing the concrete around them in blues and reds. Biff studied their surroundings. Eve grew increasingly nervous.
"What are you doing?"
"Ssh...there. Stop dead center in that intersection. Diagonally. Point the car at that corner."
Eve could see police approaching the intersection from the other side. "Are you crazy?"
"Just do it! Trust me, neither of us will be caught tonight."
Eve swallowed at did as he asked.
"Leave the car running, e-brake on," said Biff as they rolled to a stop. "Stay very still." Biff opened the panel, the one with an outline of a squid on the inside, and then he held up a handgun. Eve didn't know he even had one. He brandished it at them, and tapped against the window glass of his door. The cops kept their distance, opening their doors, pointing their guns at them. They were shouting. Then he said, "Oh!" and pointed it at Eve, while still looking at the cops.
"WHAT THE FUCK?" Eve shrieked.
"Just buying time." Biff looked at her. She saw a new expression on his face. Maybe it was love. Maybe not. The gun made it hard to tell. "Also, making sure I'm the bad guy. If anyone asks, I forced you at gunpoint."
"What?"
"Say it."
"You...forced me at gunpoint?"
"Perfect. Don't give them any details. Don't talk to anyone, not even EMTs, if it comes to that. Lawyer up and all that."
More cops were arriving. The police chopper covered, keeping the spotlight on them. Eve looked around, scared, though not scared for her life. She saw the ring of police around them. She saw the water, reflecting the moonlight. She saw the spotlight on the hood of Dave's car. This was definitely an experience to remember.
Biff pointed, with the hand that wasn't holding the gun, and in a way the cops couldn't see. "Listen to me. Listen to me very carefully. This is where you are going to go. When I say go you are going to run, straight for that corner. You are going to run for ten steps..." Biff glanced at her legs, as if so make sure of something. "...and only ten steps. Then you are going to walk. Crawl, if you have to."
"I don't understand."
"You will. Tell me what you are going to do."
"Run ten steps, then walk."
"Where? Don't point."
Eve nodded where he told her.
"Good girl. Also, note the markings here on the ground. You may need them to find your way." Biff flicked the switched labeled Arm. "When you get there, walk to the next block. Whatever you do, just walk. Act like you were just down here, hanging out. Pretend you're deaf if you have to. Do you understand me."
"Yes. Yeah, uh, what are you doing?"
"Water based mist. At least, I hope its water based." Biff turned off the air conditioning. "Pop the trunk."
Eve looked at the cops with their guns pointed at them.
"They are aiming at me, not you. Pop the trunk. There are two levers behind your left foot. One of them is--aw hell just give both a yank."
Eve reached down slowly, scared of letting the cops see she was moving. Biff turned the dial next to the Arm button. It had three settings. One was labeled with a small circle. The next was labeled with a larger circle around a small circle. The last was labeled with three circles. Biff turned it to the three circles. Eve closed her eyes and pulled the levers.
The trunk and the gas cap popped open. The shots Eve was afraid of were never fired. The police were busy looking in the trunk for maybe a body they needed to rescue. What they saw instead was quite different.
Biff pressed the smoke button. There were many loud sounds similar to explosions. The most noticeable event for those inside the car was the hood popping up, so that smoke, ostensibly from the engine, could pour out unhindered. For people outside, it was the sight of something similar to rockets launching in the air. The rockets went a hundred feet in the air caused the police chopper to take an evasive action that would have been far too late had the rockets done anything other than explode into dust. Ashes and dust rained down on the intersection and behind it. From far away it looked like there was a giant white-ish grey dust ball in that corner of the city.
Had the road ninja's "former apprentices" and, you know, those other three guys they hung out with, seen it, they would have suspected something. However, they were already on their way home, jubilant with the success of their "mission" and with the awesome industrial music that was playing on the radio. Well, Snow Monkey listened to jazz. Fucking pilot.
The smoke settled in around them, making Eve think they were in a war scene from a movie. "Crack open your door a little," said Biff. Eve did so. Biff held up her sword. "Don't forget this." Eve smiled and took it. "Its about to get hot in here."
"What?"
"Don't touch anything, and be ready to kick your door open as soon as I shout the word." said Biff.
Eve put the sword between her legs and hugged herself in order to not touch anything. "What word?" she asked slyly.
"Not funny." Biff flipped the switch labeled Fire. They heard what sounded like giant supersoakers. "This is injecting a volatile liquid into the air which will combust as soon as something spark--"
BOOM. The sound was deafening. The car was engulfed in flames. Even felt the heat on her face. The fire began to dissipate almost as quickly as it came, though she couldn't see that it was continuing to burn upwards.
"GO!" Biff screamed at the top of his lungs and right at her. Eve's body filled, yet again, with adrenaline. She kicked. The door swung open, easily, and came back and hit her. She pushed it over. She ran and almost forgot to count her steps, going a couple extra steps at a run. She now understood everything. She walked, slow, trying to stay soundless. The air was heavy with smoke, but the smoke was thinning. She almost ran straight into the front of a cop car, and realized she was slightly off course. She heard someone to her left, crouched down, and started crawling on one hand and two knees, cradling her sword with the other.
Biff was still in the car, furiously wiping every nearby surface free of fingerprints. If there was DNA in the backseat, he didn't mention--well thats not really a clue if they--nevermind. The final switch was fairly obvious: Detonate. There was a number above it: 12. Well, it definitely wasn't minutes. Biff opened his door, reviewed his route, and flipped the switch. There was a loud beeping sound that started immediately. He ran. He executed his route perfect, leaping over some kind of low wall just before the explosion. This secondary explosion was not as loud or theatric as the first, but there were satisfying crunching sounds as pieces of the car flew into things. Not, he hoped, into any of the cops. Hopefully they had the sense to stay behind their cars.
Biff ambled away, slowly, saying to himself:
gone is the rider, on his chariot of fire
silent is the horn that blew...
Two blocks away, a crowd gathered, partly because these guys with a truck and a trailer had just unloaded this totally rocking pink sportbike that said Aprilla on the fairing, and partly because of the smoke that extended more than two blocks in every direction. And the kickass explosions.
They talked excitedly amongst themselves, many of them kids (by our reckoning), some high school, some college, some yuppies, some old people. It was these people that caught a glimpse of someone in the cloud of dust as falling ash. Someone pink. They fell silent as she emerged, tall, terrible, beautiful. She had a fucking sword drawn.
Evelyn's hair was wild about her, but her cheeks and suit were crisp and remarkably clean. After all of the events of that day she hadn't actually fallen or gotten dirty. There was plenty of sweat, yes, but that didn't show through the suit. She was, quite simply, breathtaking. A terrible angel.
Eve walked out of the smoke and ash and saw the crowd. She knew what Biff had done, what he had left her, the moment she saw that pink motorcycle. She wondered when she would see him again, not knowing that in a few days Biff would steal Carby away from the impound lot and those hot ducatis and take the road under the mountain. One of the guys waiting there with the bike walked up to her and handed her two keys, and some slips of paper. Eve smiled at him, knowing full well where is eyes went when she unzipped her suit part way, and tucked the papers inside.
The bike was waiting for her on its side stand. Eve mounted it, started it, and tucked the sword between her right leg and the fairing. Then she rode away into the night, with all eyes on her ass.
Moving up to such a larger engine should be done with care. Eve took it easy, and didn't seem to have any problems. Not everyone, perhaps not even many, name their bike. I don't know. What I do know is that Eve named hers. She thought about the name the entire way home. While she didn't decide on the exact name then, of one thing she was certain:
This bike...this bike was a she.
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