The TV didn’t work but he had his computer, his game. Toilet paper dispenser right beside the bed, actually a little over top of the bed. That’s normal, right? he asked himself while automatically logging in. He left now blue haired Cloe at the bank holding a gun in one hand and 50,000 lindens in the other. Paper bag, again. He goes back back back to when he was a kid, getting take out for them while Mom was busy with, er, clients, she said. Only later of course did he understand what that meant. She had a room downtown, very much like this one. In fact… no: impossible. The old motel was torn down about ’67, he supposed, right around the time of the robot revolution (Robolution). He himself became a mechanoid for 3 years after that — whaddaya call them? A *hybrid* anyways. Anyway. Dr. Diper fixed him up in late ’70, and by ’71 he was back on the streets, peddling duck dope to the ones also fortunate enough to come through the other side of the mess. Mid-town rebuilt. *No* robots allowed. They had to move back down to Southside by the railroad and the chicken plant. *They* didn’t have any noses, the town council decided. They can handle the fowl stench.
Meeting Mom in 30 minutes, Westside Diner. Shower and general tidying up didn’t take as long as he recalled. Clothes fit perfectly and didn’t have to be rehemmed. The man remembered the boy remembered the man. Cap fit rightside up instead of upside right. He left Cloe moving quickly to the get away car with the bag, unwitting Fran at the driver’s seat. She’s as culpable as the other now. “Get the lead out!” she said while slamming the door (END). Enough of all that, he thought. I’ll read a book for 15 minutes, and maybe it will be time to start my shower again since I left the water on.
Shhh, don’t tell anyone.