Chapter 2

The day started off quietly enough. I had shaved and eaten a couple of eggs when my mobile rang. It was the office of ‘All that Jazz’ asking me if I was free that evening to do a gig back on Mars. ‘How much’, I asked. I don’t go out for anything under 10,000K, these days. All that time travel is playing hell with my metabolism, I don’t think the transport people put me back together as I was last time, or am I truly getting old?

The fee was OK and Fats Waller was a sinch. All I had to do was pop in the memory chip and spend 10 minutes in Prosthetics. I do all the piano players from around the 21^st century, plus a few sax’s but the sax is hard work. Oscar Peterson, Earl hinds,  Lennie Tristano, Jnr. Mance, I could go on. Yes I know Fats Waller was born in 1904 and died in 1943 so it is not strictly 21^st century, but the cats around then still dug him.

I took a fast walker down to prosthetics. Always a pleasure as the redhead on the mould had the best ass this side of Pluto. I popped a zoomer for the hell of it and sat  in reception waiting for my turn. Sitting next to me was my sometimes companion Artie. We do the occasional gig together. He specialises in vocalists, or crooners as they were called. He is always well turned out. Today he had on a skin tight mica cat suit with moondog collar. Pointed poon skin boots with spurs. Some sight, hey, you have to admit it. No one else could wear that combination and get away with it. Not me. I am strictly a cool zoot suit man copied from the tailoring of the Big Apple in Harlem some time in the 20th century. It was such a cool time. All those broads in silk short dresses that clung to them like a second skin. Now you know why I specialise in piano players from that era. Them broads like to lean on the piano sucking on cigarettes stuck into long holders. God forbid they should get nicotine stains on their fingers. If I feel like hanging about without pressing the return button on my wrist piece, I can guarantee a lay. I could go on, but the redhead is beckoning me to her booth. I give Artie a high five and follow the best ass in the business to get prossed up.

All the redhead has to do is program in the right numbers and watch that the machine doesn’t throw a tantrum, and then clean up afterwards. I step under the canopy and five minuets later I am Fats Waller. Not even his mother could tell the difference. Right down to the corn on his little toe. I don’t know how they do it, some kind of force field creating an image around my own body. I still feel like me but I don’t look act think or talk like me. I am Fats Waller complete with a chip in my neck relaying all his memories and personality to may brain. Clever. Yet I still know I am impersonating him. Inside I am still me. A thought just struck me. Maybe the redhead is not a redhead at all, but a brunette with a baggy ass and acne. I paid 200,000K for my licence, where would she get that kind of money, still she does have access to the machine. I’ll have to look for the chip slot under her locks.