Epic Death
Mike Doom
Copyright 2013 Mike Doom
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Table of Contents
Foreword
Chapter 1-13
Chapter 13-26
Brief History
Foreword
This book is dedicated to Katie. I always said to myself growing up that I would dedicate whatever I published first to you.
I do this for two reasons:
First, because of a ridiculous sense of historical dedication bordering on the obsessive. I spent far too long pining after what was, what could have been, and refusing to let go and become the man I was destined to be. For better and worse, but mostly better, leaving was a pivotal part of my childhood that I would never take back now.
Second, having now reconnected, I dedicate this to you to wish us both the best. That what happened, as hard as it was on me at the time, everything was exactly perfect in the end.
That said, and likely poorly at that, this is my first stab at a novel. I hope everyone likes it and doesn’t rail on me too harshly for the logical inconsistencies that I am SURE still exist here, typos that I missed, and names that are too hard to say. I promise I tried my best, but that I will try even harder the next time. Know that my favorite part was naming the restaurants, and that my favorite character is Truckee because I love his name and I think he is the character I am the most (and least) ‘like’.
GovNet Police Report
Filed: Torrance Clover
Location: Ju-Ju Cha-Cha
Time: 9:15 PM - Selba CST
Description: Scene appears shot up. Displays of candy shattered. VI called when Owner triggered alarms. Statement of the Owner and one Witness claim a hold up by the Accused. Accused shot up store after Owner confessed to lack of physical rico on hand. Accused was prone when I arrived on scene, surrendered to authority without incident.
Accused: White male, body aged 37 years, appears complete organic human. Checked retinal files, nothing pending of interest. Small time hired man, is likely.
Nothing else to report.
Requests: VI scrub of videologs for information on possible theft. Need Auditor sent to assess damages to facilities and loss of product for insurance purposes. Due to loss of security via window alarms, stationing two police at site until glass is replaced, estimate 2 hours repair time.
Sunshine Apocalypse is sitting in a pool of honey. Her black dress covered in various levels of glucose, sucrose, high fructose and other various sweetening items even less related to canes and organic oils. Her blond mass of curls is disheveled, peppered with jimmies and those really, really tiny gummy bears. She assumed she would get cut with the glass, but nothing. She’s fine, if sticky as fuck is considered fine. She is sure someone would presumably pay money to see a model in this condition. She gets up and attempts to dust herself of errant Coconut Hollabacks, whilst writing a note to herself in her LiveJournal:
[Ask to buy the surveillance video.]
Peppermint White Ninja is choking an assassin. Okay, more of some douche with a gun. Douche couldn’t be more than forty in actual, wearing a suit two sizes too big and entirely too expensive for the piece of hardware he was clumsily brandishing. Pepper sighs heartily, settling into properly strangling the man. Today, started normal enough:
Pepper opened his candy store in the Astral Complex of Hojo City, a very good location for a store selling stress release foods. The business clientele tended to show up angry and leave angry with a sugar high. Pepper wasn’t terribly fond of his clientele, but a retiree has little room to talk if he gives up his main profession to work at a candy store. It’s not like he doesn’t have other options, if he was willing, but being low-rez is easier in some industries than others. Regular Thursday, until a supermodel got thrown through his front window. Speaking of, where is that skinny bitch?
The Legendary Transvestite Nightmare®, Truckee Dumpstar closes the case on his most prized possession. The Jewel of the Ancients is no longer his, technically. Its power meant for someone with slightly less debt, and hopefully more creativity. Truckee only asked the gem to make him a universally renowned creature of interest, and it enhanced his own innate “talents” to make that possible. Ten years hard living on Selba Prime, and Truckee is under twenty-two trillion rico to some “interesting” characters. So it’s give up the gem that got him here or give up his life.
Truckee puts the box in his wall-safe and codes it with a wave of his palm; he’s late to the marketing department. Char-els wanted his okay on the sensivise campaign for the Race of the Ancients. You see, Truckee is a woman of spectacle and no mere auction would be enough. No, he paid the Tusk League handsomely to hold a contest for the Jewel, and the product and sensicast rights are what will pay off Iced Mocha and stop the ridiculous charred animal skulls from appearing in his front fountain. Truckee is now positive that his dog was playing with a blackened Pelarian wildcat skull this morning. He had almost lost his appetite from it even. Well, whatever appetite he ever has to begin with. Girl’s gotta keep her figure.
Truckee locks his office with a simple wave as well, the optical mechanism reading the biometric wetwiring in Truckee’s wrists. He actually only has to flex his right index to lock the door, but the wave is a bit more flashy.
An icon blinks in his peripheral vision, a little purple circle. Voice-only. Probably Char.
“Char-els, what is it I can do for you a mere ten steps from being in the same room as you?”
“We need to ki-ki about this ad.”
“Right... let me just pull it up...”
Truckee coughs slightly, the video plays directly in his eyes. More of unfolds in a disturbing car wreck sort of way, mostly because it is of a disturbing car wreck.
“Okay, so this is supposed to be what, exactly?”
“It’s a woman getting hit by a car.”
“Yes, I am fully capable of receiving lumens. Why is it a woman getting hit by a car?”
“It’s a race ad?”
“I am also aware that I asked your office to produce this ad for my race. And am presently doing you the service of ignoring how you used a speedster to promote it. For the moment.”
“It’s hot.”
“I can see her intestines.”
“They fall out to spell your name.”
“Yes, I can see that.”
“T-beez.” Truckee scoffs at this. Char-els so behind the times.
“Disregarding jargon, how does this promote the biggest event in Selba Prime’s history… exactly?”
“The blood spray says the date.”
“O—kay.”
“Want to see it in motion again?”
“I don’t think that’ll be necessary.”
“You could probably use it for the sensivise trailers.”
“Wh-What perspective did you film at?”
“Last Chance, the girl, she’s fully wired.”
“So… You filmed an ad. For my race. From the perspective of a woman getting hit by an one hundred and sixty thousand rico race car?”
“It’s hot.”
“Just throw it in post, I want this… this thing… in the world by tomorrow morning.”
“Dinner at ten, then?”
“Of course. Normal place?”
“You ice?”
“Frigid.”
“AIDS?”
“Full-blown.”
“Then normal place is fine.”
Cirrhosis Induction is trying on his n
ew, fully logo’d, jumpsuit. An attractive man, if you consider men who have probably seen (or in Cirrhosis’ case, definitely seen) their fair share of a scuffle. Geneering and rejuvenation can only clean a face so much. Eventually the solid stare and pugilist nose are still giving everyone the real story. He’s not what you would call a particularly tall man, six-three, two hundred and seventy pounds of usually muscle. You can tell he sees the inside of a gym on a regular basis, but has the body of someone who trains in the more traditional sense as well. Not just a pectoral delivery system. The suit seems to only be showing the small bits of fat someone holds if they don't shy away from pasta like a model to a discount retailer.
“How’s it fit? Are you comfortable?”
“It’s a little tight. You can see my foreskin through this...”
“There’ll be padding.”
“I think I brought my own.” Cirrhosis jiggles his stomach using his hands. Probably about five years until he’ll need to hit the tank again.
“I’ll schedule you a trainer.”
Cirrhosis flexes in the mirror. Smiles. Opens his mouth fully, and then closes it to a frown.
“Yeah. Like anytime after eight.”
Sunshine manages to get most of the candy off of her, but her thousand rico black corseted day-dress isn’t going to be serviceable. And she is pretty sure she has honey all over her body. Like everywhere.
The Ju-Ju Cha-Cha looks like a supermodel got thrown at it, then like that supermodel was shot at by some guy in an ill-fitted gray suit. The open floor plan allowed for some of the displays to stay intact, but cases are shattered everywhere. The florescent lights blinking rhythmically, the owner must have triggered the alarms.
“Hello? Is anyone still alive?” Sunshine can barely hear her own voice. The gunfire has left her a little dazed. She tells her eButler to set her an appointment with a doctor.
Peppermint White Ninja leans up from behind a display for Coco Sexos, his long dreadlocks twisted in a knot. “Just finishing up here. You okay, Miss…”
“Sunshine.”
“Pepper.”
“A pleasure?”
“Want a shot at guy here?”
“You seem to be choking him rather satisfactorily.”
“Thank you. Do you know this person?”
“No, actually. He’s turning a color, you should probably stop doing that now.”
“Such is life.”
“Cirrhosis.”
“Yes?”
“How do you like the new uniform?”
Cirrhosis is in an elevator in the official headquarters for the Race of the Ancients, T-Net Tower. A five hundred story starscraper dedicated to intergalactic programming. Sensivise programs, live sports and news, advertainment, and everything else someone might be willing to pay a few rico to point their eyes at. With all his padding on now, Cirrhosis looks like a very well advertised superhero, but barely got an eyebrow raise in a building filled with model/actors and actor/models.
“It makes my penis hurt.”
“Well, the tailor can let that out after the press conference. Do you have your lines pulled up?”
“Yes, I got the LiveText a while ago. Why are we even holding this, everyone already knows I’m running in this circuit.”
“You need to be very public for the story to come out perfectly.”
“Story?”
“Get off the elevator, Cirrhosis.”
The doors slide open quickly. A man of some particular age is waiting, leaning against the wall opposite. He is seven feet tall, at least a hundred pounds underweight, and bald. He is wearing a thin suit, tailored very specifically to his awkward dimensions. His eyes are heavily lidded, like he is but barely conscious. Must be half-diving, half in and half out of the intergalactic computer network, the World, as it is known colloquially.
“Vii.” Cirrhosis grunts as he exits the elevator. Somehow he redirected Cirrhosis’ texts, when he actually thinks about that though… not exactly the biggest feat ever if one hacks the server of the building. Cirrhosis wasn’t even using an external line, which would have been a feat to hack. Not to belittle Vii Ariable of his skill, as Truckee has some of the best internal firewalls available. Gotta protect that IP.
“Walk with me a moment.” Vii gestures slightly with a long thin arm, his fingers boney and just a little on the side of arthritic looking.
“To start with—“ Vii has a deeper voice than Cirrhosis would assume, throaty. Perhaps he chain smokes to keep his alien-ish figure. Cirrhosis knows Vii from reputation. Their circles cross, but they have never actually met. Vii came into power about when Cirrhosis started hitting the narrow.
“I’m already working for Toro. I own him a l—“
“You own him seven million rico.”
“Yes. And I intend to pay him by winning this race.”
“That what he tells you?” Vii Ariable smiles thinly, sinister and sickly all at the same moment. Cirrhosis walks along, but makes a point of putting more lateral distance between them.
“He tells me what he needs to. I’m not on the take, he is legitimately backing my team.”
“I obviously already know that. However, I need the prize.”
“The Jewel of the Ancients.”
“Yes. And I will gladly pay Toro back for you in exchange.”
“And the catch is?” Cirrhosis pauses, press conference is two doors away, no use being seen with Vii there. That and he smells something foul. The deal. If that gem is worth threatening him and seven-million rico in words, it must be worth much more to Toro. Enough to put a crossbow bolt in the back of someone’s neck, for instance.
“That I will kill you if you refuse. Enjoy the press, Mr. Induction.” And with that, Vii turns his back on Cirrhosis and walks down the hall back the way they came. Cirrhosis grits his teeth, fiddles with his zipper and pulls up the speech from his LJ.
“Truckee, why is it you are giving up this gem of—“
“The Jewel of the Ancients.” Truckee leans in on the mic, the increase in his voice negligible, the room is crowded with reporters, some from the Low Tech prefects using actual cameras, most using wetwire sensivise rigs, recording the event with full-reporter-emotion and displaying that nearly instantly on the World, and then through ansible to the Federal Colonies at large. All in all, twenty-five billion people are logged into this broadcast in its many forms. Truckee has his eButler pull up the feed on the girl questioning him, her heart is racing. A pretty little girl if not a little too ordinary, brown hair, frail, with a smallish nose. Slight imperfection to her left eye, not enough to be interesting and therefore attractive, just enough to be lop-sided and thereby somewhat unattractive. Fucking commoners and their hack-job genetherapy.
“Yes—Why are you giving that item as the prize?”
“Because I want the Race of the Ancients to be the biggest event in the Colonies. This year, or any year. And to promote the Selba Tiger himself—“Truckee looks over his left shoulder and an aide or bodyguard or whathaveyou, opens the door and in walks Cirrhosis Induction, Champion. Selba Tiger. Human Billboard. VI relational software generates billions of advertisement messages keyed to the billions of viewers, instructing them to visit their local Captain Suzaku’s Hot Pick’n Go-Go Chicken and pick up one of the several commemorative holostills of the Selba Tiger doing various media friendly sporting poses. The reporters clap to a satisfactory level, general emotional feedback is positive and relatively excited.
“Hello, everyone. It was my sincere goal to take the title again, and get this prize for Toro Intergalactic.”
Truckee raises an eyebrow slightly, and looks Cirrhosis in the face. A handsome man, if a little testosterone heavy, he has full five o’clock shadow and Truckee is positive he had this man shaved and tailored not four hours ago. His jaw is clenched and his blue eyes focused firmly on the crowd.
“Mr. Induction, did you say—“
“Yes. I am sorry, but do to circumstances beyond my control; I must pull out of the Race of the Ancients, immediately.”