I
am in a small room somewhere on Mars, maybe. Don't ask me where
because I don't know. I was just scammed here. I stepped into my
travellator to go to a bar downtown and ended up here. The room is
set out like a lecture theatre in the round. All the big cheeses from
the IGBI and the IGIA are seated in the front tiers, I am between
Doil and Jenny Wizz, in the back row. In the bowl of the room sit the
Finks in front of a 4 dimensional model of a Fish Fry. They are
messing with the scene, pushing moving holograms through time and
space. The movements are played out on a big 3D screens on the walls.
They are so quick that it is like a Holovid on very fast forward. I
began to feel dizzy and close my eyes. Doil yawns and Jenny reaches
for my hand. Are we the only people in this room that think this is
absurd? Plus I need a piss.
Suddenly the Finks jump up and the scene freezes, and is then replaced on the screens by names and co-ordinates. The room gives a communal sigh. The Finks shake hands, bow and leave the room. General B. All GM. GS.and Oak leaf, stands up walks over to the frozen scene. Fats with his middle finger on F sharp, the pimp and the hooker on the couch two bulls by the door and Veronica between them.
'Here at last is the final setting for our venture to stop the Universe coming to an end. There will be a debrief in ten minutes for all control room staff. The rest of you are dismissed until needed. That is all.'
'Pompous prick,' says Jenny and stands up. 'I need a drink.'
**************
I don't like going home any more. The apartment is too big and impersonal, What do I need a whole block for? A bed a shower and a piano, is sufficient. Who wants a pool with Dolphins? Dophins are nice people, don't get me wrong, but I don't want them in my pool. When I dive in all I can think of is that Mr and Mrs Dolphin have been fucking in it, and to be honest it puts me off. The basement is full of junk from star ships. The, “It might come in useful”, department of the household. I have to draw the line somewhere, and storing human egg incubators is repugnant to me. If I have children, and that is a big if. I want to do it the old fashioned way, sex and nine months wait. Men can carry an embrio now. It has to be a cesarian, obviously, but the baby comes out healthy and wailing. As I reach my apartment, I see Zeno sitting on the stoop,wearing her ship wreckers outfit. She looks up at me but says nothing, then shifts over and makes room for me. I sit down and light a Camel with my Zippo. This is habit I picked up on Earth, it marks me out as a time traveller, but what the fuck who's watching? Only the whole of Mars. Democracy has it's drawbacks. Anyone can now access the data base of all the cameras, and watch in real time my activity on the street.
So Mr and Mrs Nobody of Nowheresville can watch me smoke a Camel cigarette. Big Deal. Whatever turns them on.
Suddenly the Finks jump up and the scene freezes, and is then replaced on the screens by names and co-ordinates. The room gives a communal sigh. The Finks shake hands, bow and leave the room. General B. All GM. GS.and Oak leaf, stands up walks over to the frozen scene. Fats with his middle finger on F sharp, the pimp and the hooker on the couch two bulls by the door and Veronica between them.
'Here at last is the final setting for our venture to stop the Universe coming to an end. There will be a debrief in ten minutes for all control room staff. The rest of you are dismissed until needed. That is all.'
'Pompous prick,' says Jenny and stands up. 'I need a drink.'
**************
I don't like going home any more. The apartment is too big and impersonal, What do I need a whole block for? A bed a shower and a piano, is sufficient. Who wants a pool with Dolphins? Dophins are nice people, don't get me wrong, but I don't want them in my pool. When I dive in all I can think of is that Mr and Mrs Dolphin have been fucking in it, and to be honest it puts me off. The basement is full of junk from star ships. The, “It might come in useful”, department of the household. I have to draw the line somewhere, and storing human egg incubators is repugnant to me. If I have children, and that is a big if. I want to do it the old fashioned way, sex and nine months wait. Men can carry an embrio now. It has to be a cesarian, obviously, but the baby comes out healthy and wailing. As I reach my apartment, I see Zeno sitting on the stoop,wearing her ship wreckers outfit. She looks up at me but says nothing, then shifts over and makes room for me. I sit down and light a Camel with my Zippo. This is habit I picked up on Earth, it marks me out as a time traveller, but what the fuck who's watching? Only the whole of Mars. Democracy has it's drawbacks. Anyone can now access the data base of all the cameras, and watch in real time my activity on the street.
So Mr and Mrs Nobody of Nowheresville can watch me smoke a Camel cigarette. Big Deal. Whatever turns them on.
'What's
up Zeno, Brian locked you out?'
'No
he just drives me nuts, going on about a body all the time. Why don't
you just let him have one, and we can all have some peace.?'
'Are
you nuts, he's insufferable now, think how pompous and overbearing he
will be if he has a body. Mind you I don't have to give him a human
form. He could be a Dolphin, or piece of slime. Shall we go in?'
The
apartment is eirilly quiet, but I can guess why, Brian has been
listening in again. Then he speaks.
'Piece
of slime indeed.'
'It's
a living thing'
'Not
what I had in mind.' Zeno is taking off her work clothes and I am
distracted, but Brian is insistent. 'Sir'
'What
did you have in mind, Brian'
'We
have enough money to buy the best, a copy of the latest Bat Man
actor, you know George Clooney MMXI, would be ideal.'
'You
know he's not real, don't you?'
'It's
difficult to tell who is and who isn't these times.' says Brian with
a sigh.
'I'll
think about it, Brian, now fix us a drink. I'm going to join Zeno in
the shower.'
****************
I am relaxing in my suroundarama lounge watching The Count Basie Band in rehearsal, the 3D image is so real that I can see the needle marks on their bare arms. The Count has a wide grin on his face as the music comes together. I move the control so I have a good view of Basie's fingers. His touch is light but in command. They are half way through Splanky, when Brian interrupts.
'The Agency on the vid, Sir.'
I switch the controller over to incoming. The sleek form of Chico the booker appears. He dresses in the latest Martian fashion, not my taste, too in your face. I turn down the contrast.
'Hi Chico, whats occurring?'
'A late one just come not much Gelt but I think it is up you Strausser.'
I am relaxing in my suroundarama lounge watching The Count Basie Band in rehearsal, the 3D image is so real that I can see the needle marks on their bare arms. The Count has a wide grin on his face as the music comes together. I move the control so I have a good view of Basie's fingers. His touch is light but in command. They are half way through Splanky, when Brian interrupts.
'The Agency on the vid, Sir.'
I switch the controller over to incoming. The sleek form of Chico the booker appears. He dresses in the latest Martian fashion, not my taste, too in your face. I turn down the contrast.
'Hi Chico, whats occurring?'
'A late one just come not much Gelt but I think it is up you Strausser.'
'Not
Fats Waller, I hope.'
'Right era ish wrong fingers, and it's here on Mars.'
'Spill it Cicho.'
'The President is entertaining a delegation from Earth and needs someone with taste and a sense of occasion to put a band together. Eating music to start with, then dancing.'
'What kind of dancing, give me a clue, is it Fred and Ginger or the Saturn Ring dance?'
'The invite says “Venetian Masked Ball, dress appropriately. Recreation Drugs only”
I think about it for a second.
'Right era ish wrong fingers, and it's here on Mars.'
'Spill it Cicho.'
'The President is entertaining a delegation from Earth and needs someone with taste and a sense of occasion to put a band together. Eating music to start with, then dancing.'
'What kind of dancing, give me a clue, is it Fred and Ginger or the Saturn Ring dance?'
'The invite says “Venetian Masked Ball, dress appropriately. Recreation Drugs only”
I think about it for a second.
'OK
I'll come as the Duke, he played for The White House, wrote some good
tunes too.'
'Chico fades, and I dial up The Duke Ellington Orchestra, to get in the mood.'
In the bedroom I open my desk drawer where I keep my personality chips. Look under D for Duke, but find it under E for Ellington. Thank Mars I'm not a band librarian, it is a nightmare. There are so many tunes beginning with, “The”, or “A”, that some just file them under the second name or third, so “The Theme from Rocky”, would be filed under “Rocky”. Anyway I obviously file Duke under E. I rope in Artie as Ben Webster, and Zeno as Rosemary Clooney and ask Artie to fix the rest of the band, he's more in touch than I am; what with one thing and another.
*************
The band dressed in black tails and me in white, are definitely out of place in the ballroom. All the guests are flamboyantly attired in fifteenth century Venetian courtiers costumes, all masked. The women, because of the anonymity of the masks, show more of their bodies than normal. Nipples rouged and merkins curled. The men sport elaborate cod pieces, in all manner of shapes from snakes to lions heads and the odd uncodded one painted with imaginative designs. The delegates from Earth stand out because of their reluctance to join in the vulgar excesses of the colonists. The meal is over and the band can get stuck into some swing, ballad time behind us. But before we do I improvise over “Mood Indigo”, so the heavy drinkers in the band can take a piss. When all the band is back on the stand, we take off with “C Jam Blues”, which lasts about twenty minutes, by the time all the soloists have taken two choruses. This gets the guests pumping, masks come off and so do some garments. I keep smiling in true Ellington fashion, and the band keep on keeping on. It's a while before I notice a couple not dancing, standing over by one of the large French windows that lead out in to the ornamental gardens. Although masked it is obvious who they are. There is no mistaking the stance of Veronica and the bulk of Doil. I suppose it won't be long before I find out as our stint is coming to an end, the Cuban band is setting up behind the curtain. When we come to our last number, the stage will be rotated around and the Cuban band will appear, segueing from us to them. An old Palais de dance trick, centuries old but still effective. Beats all your modern tricks of fades and laser slide ins. We finish with “Take the A train” and as we turn the Cuban band echo the melody alter the rhythm, bring in the congas and the bits of metal that they rattle, some of the boys can't resist it and join in, especially the trumpet section, who are always a headache. In the words of that great British band leader, Ken Mackintosh, The Sods Opera at the back. In the band room, I turn down the Ellington prosthetics and sling down a double shot of Burbon, and sure enough, Doil enters and beckons me out into the garden. Today the garden is set out like a Venetian secluded courtyard with colonnades and mimosa bushes. Veronica is seated on a bench under a fig tree trimmed like a pompom on a stick. She has removed her mask with the face of a Borgia and her freshly applied lip paint glows like a dying star. My heart gives a leap.
'I don't know who is the handsomest you or the Duke.'
'What's with the compliments? When you two turn up it is always trouble.'
'Have you heard of the I.G.M.I.B.'
'A bit of a mouthful, igmib.' I say it as one word.
Doil gives me a look and Veronica a half smile.
'I.G.M.I.B, are the initials of the Inter Galactic Misinformation Bureau. Their job is to alter any bad news subtly to make it seem a good thing.'
I look puzzled, I am puzzled.
'Give me a for instance.'
'For instance if there is a riot on a minor planet against the legitimate Government and we have to send in the Space Police, we don't want the rest of the planets following suit. So we leak misinformation to the media....' He pauses, but he has lost me already, then continues in case I maybe catch up. '...saying that the Space Police were there to protect the rioters, who had a legitimate grievance, about the Governor’s heavy hand.'
'What if the rioters have released their own side of the story to the Press?'
'We again misinform.'
'Seems very underhand.'
'It's better than Galactic War III.'
'I feel much better now.' I say, sarcastically and wait for them to tell me why is it of any importance to me. Doil obliges.
'Somehow news of the imminent end of the Universe has leaked out, and the I.G.M.I.B., are busy misinforming the Planets that it is not so, just a plot by some outerworld miscreants to destabilize the elected Council.'
'The rabbit is out of the hat and,...(I pause for effect)... don't tell me, you want me to put it back.'
'No we want you to go back to Earth and do some Fish Frys, but this time is it going to be a Blitz of Fish Frys.'
'Ah Super Waller, the Galactic hero to the rescue'
Doil turns to Veronica. 'You tell him'
Veronica taps the bench next to her and I obey, feeling her warmth and smelling her perfume as I sit down.
'You know all those clones you had made.'
'They are safely decommissioned in my lock up.'
'We want them fully working, plus you, plus the real Waller, simultaneously playing a Fish Fry.'
'How is that going to work? You can't have seven Fats Wallers, all being Fats Waller at the same time.'
'Yes we can, it's New York 1935, no surveillance, pay phones or spyflies, you could have a Waller in adjacent blocks and nobody would know.'
Who is she kidding? I've been there and the Bush telegraph on the West side is faster than a Mars news flash.
**************
'Chico fades, and I dial up The Duke Ellington Orchestra, to get in the mood.'
In the bedroom I open my desk drawer where I keep my personality chips. Look under D for Duke, but find it under E for Ellington. Thank Mars I'm not a band librarian, it is a nightmare. There are so many tunes beginning with, “The”, or “A”, that some just file them under the second name or third, so “The Theme from Rocky”, would be filed under “Rocky”. Anyway I obviously file Duke under E. I rope in Artie as Ben Webster, and Zeno as Rosemary Clooney and ask Artie to fix the rest of the band, he's more in touch than I am; what with one thing and another.
*************
The band dressed in black tails and me in white, are definitely out of place in the ballroom. All the guests are flamboyantly attired in fifteenth century Venetian courtiers costumes, all masked. The women, because of the anonymity of the masks, show more of their bodies than normal. Nipples rouged and merkins curled. The men sport elaborate cod pieces, in all manner of shapes from snakes to lions heads and the odd uncodded one painted with imaginative designs. The delegates from Earth stand out because of their reluctance to join in the vulgar excesses of the colonists. The meal is over and the band can get stuck into some swing, ballad time behind us. But before we do I improvise over “Mood Indigo”, so the heavy drinkers in the band can take a piss. When all the band is back on the stand, we take off with “C Jam Blues”, which lasts about twenty minutes, by the time all the soloists have taken two choruses. This gets the guests pumping, masks come off and so do some garments. I keep smiling in true Ellington fashion, and the band keep on keeping on. It's a while before I notice a couple not dancing, standing over by one of the large French windows that lead out in to the ornamental gardens. Although masked it is obvious who they are. There is no mistaking the stance of Veronica and the bulk of Doil. I suppose it won't be long before I find out as our stint is coming to an end, the Cuban band is setting up behind the curtain. When we come to our last number, the stage will be rotated around and the Cuban band will appear, segueing from us to them. An old Palais de dance trick, centuries old but still effective. Beats all your modern tricks of fades and laser slide ins. We finish with “Take the A train” and as we turn the Cuban band echo the melody alter the rhythm, bring in the congas and the bits of metal that they rattle, some of the boys can't resist it and join in, especially the trumpet section, who are always a headache. In the words of that great British band leader, Ken Mackintosh, The Sods Opera at the back. In the band room, I turn down the Ellington prosthetics and sling down a double shot of Burbon, and sure enough, Doil enters and beckons me out into the garden. Today the garden is set out like a Venetian secluded courtyard with colonnades and mimosa bushes. Veronica is seated on a bench under a fig tree trimmed like a pompom on a stick. She has removed her mask with the face of a Borgia and her freshly applied lip paint glows like a dying star. My heart gives a leap.
'I don't know who is the handsomest you or the Duke.'
'What's with the compliments? When you two turn up it is always trouble.'
'Have you heard of the I.G.M.I.B.'
'A bit of a mouthful, igmib.' I say it as one word.
Doil gives me a look and Veronica a half smile.
'I.G.M.I.B, are the initials of the Inter Galactic Misinformation Bureau. Their job is to alter any bad news subtly to make it seem a good thing.'
I look puzzled, I am puzzled.
'Give me a for instance.'
'For instance if there is a riot on a minor planet against the legitimate Government and we have to send in the Space Police, we don't want the rest of the planets following suit. So we leak misinformation to the media....' He pauses, but he has lost me already, then continues in case I maybe catch up. '...saying that the Space Police were there to protect the rioters, who had a legitimate grievance, about the Governor’s heavy hand.'
'What if the rioters have released their own side of the story to the Press?'
'We again misinform.'
'Seems very underhand.'
'It's better than Galactic War III.'
'I feel much better now.' I say, sarcastically and wait for them to tell me why is it of any importance to me. Doil obliges.
'Somehow news of the imminent end of the Universe has leaked out, and the I.G.M.I.B., are busy misinforming the Planets that it is not so, just a plot by some outerworld miscreants to destabilize the elected Council.'
'The rabbit is out of the hat and,...(I pause for effect)... don't tell me, you want me to put it back.'
'No we want you to go back to Earth and do some Fish Frys, but this time is it going to be a Blitz of Fish Frys.'
'Ah Super Waller, the Galactic hero to the rescue'
Doil turns to Veronica. 'You tell him'
Veronica taps the bench next to her and I obey, feeling her warmth and smelling her perfume as I sit down.
'You know all those clones you had made.'
'They are safely decommissioned in my lock up.'
'We want them fully working, plus you, plus the real Waller, simultaneously playing a Fish Fry.'
'How is that going to work? You can't have seven Fats Wallers, all being Fats Waller at the same time.'
'Yes we can, it's New York 1935, no surveillance, pay phones or spyflies, you could have a Waller in adjacent blocks and nobody would know.'
Who is she kidding? I've been there and the Bush telegraph on the West side is faster than a Mars news flash.
**************
FISH
FRY, Clinton
St , Between East Broadway
and Delancey St
It's raining, raining so hard that Clinton Street looks like a river. A cop in a waxed coat and hat seeks shelter under an awning which is sagging with the weight of water captured on it. Above the awning is a neon sign that is spluttering on and off. The red part of the sign has given up the battle with water and just the green part flashes the end of the word. “MIST”. The cop hears the sound of a piano across the street playing “Aint Misbehaving,” and steps over to take a look. It has got to be better than getting a soaking. The street is quiet anyways, no one in his right mind would venture out on a night like this. When it rains in Manhattan it rains! He can smell the fish frying, the odour coming through the open window. His gut gives a rumble, he likes his grub this cop, six doughnuts for breakfast is not unusual. His gut is legendary. Large and round, overflowing his serge trousers, which have been especially made for him by a Chinaman on his beat.
FISH FRY Bleeker Street.
Steam and the smell of fried fish billows from the kitchen. A sign on the wall says
CATFISH
$1
BOOZE
10C
The fat man at piano is wearing a Derby hat and a fancy bow tie. His sleeves are rolled up and he has a cheroot in his mouth. His waistcoat has plain red silk on the back, and red and white vertical stripes on the front. On the piano top is a jug of gin. The piano is by the window which is open and the heavy rain splashes into the room. By the door stands a Bull from the Fifth Precinct, legs spread apart, hands in pockets, hat pushed back. The Bulls special is visible under his arm, the holster shiny and slick with use. On the coach sits a blonde with her legs splayed showing red garters. Her shoes are blancoed, with a dirty yellow, showing through. Her pimp, a man from new Orleans, sits on the arm of the couch, legs crossed at the knees, two tones swinging. The piano player a dead ringer for Fats Waller, plays, “Aint misbehaving.”
FISH FRY 49th and Broadway.
A Black Limo pulls up to the door, of 124, 49th Street. It gets as near as it can so that the occupants don't get a soaking from the incessant rain. Waterspouts spew glugs of water onto the sidewalk, waterfalls flow from the guttering, the sheets of water are lit by a neon sign across the ways that reads DRUGS, in gaudy red. A silver pump steps out of the Limo followed swiftly by a silk dress, the chauffeur holds a large umbrella over the woman and walks with her to the entrance of the project. She holds her dress above her ankles with white gloved hands, she waits by the doorway for her companion to join her. He is a big man in a long raincoat to his ankles, and a black trilby hat. From the open window on the second floor comes the sound of an upright piano, the tune is “Aint misbehaving.”
It's raining, raining so hard that Clinton Street looks like a river. A cop in a waxed coat and hat seeks shelter under an awning which is sagging with the weight of water captured on it. Above the awning is a neon sign that is spluttering on and off. The red part of the sign has given up the battle with water and just the green part flashes the end of the word. “MIST”. The cop hears the sound of a piano across the street playing “Aint Misbehaving,” and steps over to take a look. It has got to be better than getting a soaking. The street is quiet anyways, no one in his right mind would venture out on a night like this. When it rains in Manhattan it rains! He can smell the fish frying, the odour coming through the open window. His gut gives a rumble, he likes his grub this cop, six doughnuts for breakfast is not unusual. His gut is legendary. Large and round, overflowing his serge trousers, which have been especially made for him by a Chinaman on his beat.
FISH FRY Bleeker Street.
Steam and the smell of fried fish billows from the kitchen. A sign on the wall says
CATFISH
$1
BOOZE
10C
The fat man at piano is wearing a Derby hat and a fancy bow tie. His sleeves are rolled up and he has a cheroot in his mouth. His waistcoat has plain red silk on the back, and red and white vertical stripes on the front. On the piano top is a jug of gin. The piano is by the window which is open and the heavy rain splashes into the room. By the door stands a Bull from the Fifth Precinct, legs spread apart, hands in pockets, hat pushed back. The Bulls special is visible under his arm, the holster shiny and slick with use. On the coach sits a blonde with her legs splayed showing red garters. Her shoes are blancoed, with a dirty yellow, showing through. Her pimp, a man from new Orleans, sits on the arm of the couch, legs crossed at the knees, two tones swinging. The piano player a dead ringer for Fats Waller, plays, “Aint misbehaving.”
FISH FRY 49th and Broadway.
A Black Limo pulls up to the door, of 124, 49th Street. It gets as near as it can so that the occupants don't get a soaking from the incessant rain. Waterspouts spew glugs of water onto the sidewalk, waterfalls flow from the guttering, the sheets of water are lit by a neon sign across the ways that reads DRUGS, in gaudy red. A silver pump steps out of the Limo followed swiftly by a silk dress, the chauffeur holds a large umbrella over the woman and walks with her to the entrance of the project. She holds her dress above her ankles with white gloved hands, she waits by the doorway for her companion to join her. He is a big man in a long raincoat to his ankles, and a black trilby hat. From the open window on the second floor comes the sound of an upright piano, the tune is “Aint misbehaving.”
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