As Ye Sew, So Shall Ye Rip

As Ye Sew, So Shall Ye Rip
A Coco Pommel Vogonverse Tale

En Route to Denver, Colorado

The smell of the train station was something that always made coming home feel better. The Historical train station was one of the few Twentieth Century buildings to remain untouched by the Denver City Councils “urban beautification” programme. Meaning that of all the buildings in downtown Denver, The Amtrak station had seen only modernization efforts applied to it. Holographic and interactive billboards were installed, independent Digital Assistant kiosks were installed and ran the majority of the ticket operations, and improved Wi-Fi networking were provided to improve the building, along with some minor aesthetic and infrastructure improvements.

The Rocky Mountain air was a welcome breath to Miles, compared to the smoggy atmosphere of Las Vegas. If he didn’t know any better, he would swear that some of the hucksters on The Strip would sell “Pierre-Air,” canned and purified oxygen, to the tourists and maybe a few Las Vegans as well. Here in God’s Country, though, the city and state had worked hard to bring dep environmental laws into place to keep the The Continental Divide air as clean as humanly possible. Maybe that Pierre-Air would come from the city’s ecosphere, Miles though, I don’t want to imagine the markup those con artists would put on. The thought of seeing hundreds of people popping open a can and breathing deeply from the hissing air inside of it gave him a chuckle.

“Welcome back Mr. Malone. I noticed that while in Las Vegas you enjoyed a relaxing massage provided by the Healing Touch Massage and Spa. Would you like for me to book you a similar experience at Mistress Tina’s International House of Massage?” the Digital Kiosk Assistant asked.

Miles’ Eyes widened at the name. He had heard about it before. The place was famous for some of the more lewd acts that happened behind closed doors. It was rumored that the owner of the place actually recorded everything that happened in there. It could explain how a couple of minor celebrities had some incriminating videos of themselves released with a couple of Tina’s girls.

“No thanks,” he said.

“Very good sir, would you like me to contact the shuttle for you? It could take you to your parked vehicle,” it said.

“Thanks, but I’m fine walking,” Miles replied, “Although I will admit that I’m a little hungry. I’m kind of craving a Sirloin Swiss & Grilled Onion from Jack in the Box. So, would you mind making a pickup order for me?” he asked.

“Of course sir. Sir, the local Jack-in-a-Box has been notified and told about your order, would you like to add anything else to it?” it asked.

“Actually yeah, add a Cherry Coke and an order of steak fries,” he replied.

“Very good sir. The wait time for your pickup is fifteen minutes,” it said before he stepped away.

He walked out into the crisp mountain air. There was two parking lots for the train station, and his was in the underground parking lot. Unlike the traditional parking lot the underground one had the advantages of two parking attendants on every level, panoramic security cameras spaced in yard by yard grids throughout the structure, RFID parking validation stubs, high powered laser security gates, and last but not least where tire spike strips at every entrance and exit in the lot. It was one of the safest places to park he had seen in most of Colorado. The smell of one of a soft Pretzel and Cheese vendor caught his attention as he neared the entrance of the underground parking lot.

“Mister, want a soft pretzel? I’ve got the Sourdough pretzels, I’ve got the Cheddar bread pretzels, and I’ve even got the classic pretzel,” the older man said.

Miles could see from the cart and the way the man was standing that his business had to be suffering a little. He walked toward him and then noticed a couple of college kids looking at the stand and checking their mini tablets. The girl, in particular, was looking rather annoyed. From what little he could hear, the prizefighter could only assume the two had naught but two nickels to rub together to buy some lunch. He grinned and then nodded to the man.

“Yeah, I’ll take two of each of those, and some extra cheese sauce for them as well,” he said before he waived the two kids over.

“Can I help you?” the girl asked.

“Noticed that you two looked a little hungry, enjoy your lunch,” he said before he had the vendor hand them their pretzels.

“Wow… Thanks Mister,” she said before she took a huge bite of the Sourdough Pretzel.

He grinned, watched them enjoy their food for a moment, and then walked over to the locked door for the stairwell. He pressed his thumb against the fingerprint reader, it scanned for a moment before the door clicked open, and he stepped inside. The door closed, clicked again, and he walked down to the second level. Once down there he walked toward the attendant’s station and knocked on the window. A young man wearing an open tan jacket and matching Khaki slacks looked at him, opened the window, and smiled.

“What’s up boss? What can I do for you?” he asked.

“I need to pick up my ride,” Miles replied.

“Just scan in and I’ll hand your keys and space number,” the attendant replied.

He pressed his thumb into the scanner once more and it beeped.

“Holy fuck… Miles Malone? Dude! I’ve watched all of your fights! That one against Tony ‘Scarface’ Pacino was amazing! The two of you went thirty-five rounds! How in the hell did you do that?” he asked.

“I got lucky,” Miles deadpanned, “He was a skilled fighter, the kind of guy that you could only read about in the history books.”

“No kidding! That, ‘Say hell to my little friend’, punch of his is supposed to be unstoppable. Dude… My friend won so much scratch over that fight. You’re like my fuckin’ hero!” he exclaimed

“Thanks,” Miles said before the blond headed kid smiled and held up a picture that Miles wished he could forget.

The fight had been one of the worst. It was an exhibition match Mickey had been forced to sign him up for. It was the only way to open up the gates to kind of prize fighting they both wanted him to be in. Mickey had tried, hard, to keep it from happening, but it didn’t matter. Thirty-six rounds with a man from South America simply known as the Mangler. Even with all of the rules and safety regulations the mangler had nearly gouged out his eyes. The man wasn’t attempting to beat him in a boxing match. He was trying to kill his career.

The match lasted so long, he was so tired at the end of it, and it took him actually killing the Mangler’s career for it to stop. He looked at the picture of himself battered, bruised, tired, and at one of the weakest points he had ever been emotionally to a kid who was smiling like he had just woke up Christmas morning and found everything his heart ever desired under a tree.

“You mind to sign an autograph?” he asked.

“Are you going to keep hounding me about that fight until I give you one?” Miles asked.

“Well, yeah, pretty much,” the attendant said.

“Okay,” Miles said, before fishing in his pockets for a pen. The attendant was quicker on the take the Miles was currently, producing an excellent reproduction of a Cross writing instrument, a Peerless 125 Limited Edition, which nominally would set a body back a thousand scrip easily. This reproduction fountain pen was made with cheaper gold electroplate, but it was still a nice pen all the same. Miles took it, signed the little tattered notebook the attendant pushed at him. The attendant began to fanboy after miles handed him the notebook and pen back, almost squeaking like a child’s toy.

“Here you are Mister Malone,” the young man said with a toothy grin, “you’re parked down in Sector 7G. Thanks again, Mister Malone!”

“Right back atcha, kid,” Miles replied, before heading off for his truck.

Along the way, Miles met several security guards, many of them armed with Sandman bolt-casters and MAC-10s. Having been a frequent visitor to this terminal, they guards greeted him with a nod and let him pass without incident. According to his validation ticket, his truck was located in the Red Section of 7G. Why red? Miles thought, I’m almost always parked in green.

He walked toward the red section unsure of why his classic Ram was parked in this section. It shouldn’t have bothered him as much as it did, but there was something that kept saying that this was wrong, that maybe it was a bad omen. He brushed that thought off after a moment and thought about grabbing his meal, getting home, and settling in for some training. He unlocked the door, opened it, and slid into the comfortable cloth seat. He slid the key in, turn it on for the glow plugs to do their job, and when the indicator light came on he turned the engine over.

There’s something satisfying about hearing an engine roaring to life. The sound of the old Diesel engine made him smile as he backed it out of its spot and headed toward the exit area. He wasn’t the only one with a Diesel in the area, but there wasn’t that many folks. Most of the other cars in the parking lot had been electric or Plasma. He could see the exit drive for the second parking lot down and pulled through it after showing exit attendant his ID. After a few minutes of driving and stopping he was outside. The colder air outside had been replaced by the heat from the old Ram.

He waited as the moderate traffic slowed and then headed toward home. He was already considering going up to the cabin, and getting started with his training, but then again sometimes it would snow pretty deep in the mountains. While the snow itself only helped in the training it would be the devil’s own time getting back down again. Deciding against heading up the mountain right away he instead headed toward his home.

The old Victorian style house began to come into view. The older home was chosen, originally,because it was set to be destroyed. The house’s wiring structure just wouldn’t support the kind of full immersion rig that would normally be a selling point for owning a house this large. Finding out that it would need a massive overhaul, in wiring at least, to work in the kind of immersion rig that would attract most people was exactly what attracted him. He didn’t want to be as connected as everyone else.

In a way he liked living in what could be considered a twentieth century setting. Something from a time that had already passed on by. The house itself sat set on a pretty large plot of land. Apparently the city had absorbed the ranch the house belonged to long ago, but the home place, basically a very large yard, was all that was left of a place where cattle and horses had once roamed. He pulled into the garage, used his remote to lower the door, killed the truck and walked out of it then over to the house. He unlocked it with the key set he had, and walked inside.

The air inside of the house had gotten a little stale. He looked at the hall he was in and gave a slight smile. He reached over, flicked on a light switch and the old standard lighting came on. He closed the door, walked to the stairs and walked up to his room. It had been a dream, at one point, to try and make this place look like it had at the earlier point of its existence. The remodel had been slow, and part of that was finding a saw mill that was willing to cut and shape the hardwood floor he wanted. From there he treated and stained it. It had taken nearly a year and a half to finish the entrance hall, the dining room, and the den. It had taken patience, love, and desire to see the house to this level of completeness, and he knew that anything worth having in life took the same traits.

The sound of the television switching on was the evidence of the one piece of semi modern technology. The Television was a couple of years old, being more of a large all in one computer than a television, and it had a motion activator inside of it. The moment it picked up him being in the room it activated and began to fill the room with the sounds of the current news.

“In the latest news today, Ryan Stommel, the representative for the McDonald’s/Walton Corporation, is the latest to be indicted for his actions regarding corporate slaving. Mr. Strommell’s lawyers have stated that they feel it is unfair of the Federal Government to set charges against their client on this law. We’ll be following the trial, and bringing the most up to date information possible. On a sadder note, Vice President Steve Gates is currently in critical condition. Most of our viewers may remember when Andrew Walker, the national manager for the McDonald’s Corporate farms, pulled out a pistol and shot the vice president. We here at MSNBC want to send our well wishes, and prayers, to Vice President Gates, and we hope for a speedy recovery,” the anchor woman's voice said as he passed by.

He walked out of the room and the television put itself into powersave mode. He walked up to his bedroom and saw the massive bed. It had been in the house when he bought it. It was a holdover, an antique King Sized bed frame, and while he didn’t often go for overly grand things he loved the idea of having such a large bed to sleep in. Right now that was something he was seriously considering. Exhaustion had reared its ugly head, and he was ready to climb into the bed. Still, he had training to do, and the mountain was the best place for the strength training he was going to do. It meant packing a light bag, making sure to take a toolkit, and of course take a barrel of used cooking oil to run the diesel generator for the cabin.

These thoughts and others flashed across his mind before a boot clad foot struck at a upraised floorboard, broken in an incident several weeks back involving a set of weights. Miles looked forlorn over the broken board. “Bloody Hell…,” he muttered, before kneeling down and removing the old plank, rotted by unchecked rain plus time. Looking around the master bedroom with keener eyes than before, he noted that while the downstairs flooring was brand new, the upstairs had been ignored entirely. Threadbare carpet, musty curtains, rotting floorboards, Miles had paid for renovations of the first floor without thinking of the second floor.

“I’ll need to make a trip back out to Mile High Lumber again…” Miles murmured, “and I’ll also need to see about some new curtains. And dang it all if the carpets up here are on their last hundred footsteps of life! The cabin’ll have to wait. I got some errands to do right here.”

Still holding the broken plank, Miles returned downstairs. Despite the last century aesthetic of his home, he was not without some of the latest conveniences. He did his best to hide them, though, molded polycarbonates and chrome did not mesh well with hardwoods and Victorian style veneers. Marching to a hall just off the sitting room, Miles taps at a panel hidden in a corner bending towards the kitchen. From the concealed panel emerges a modern holographic rig, attached to a kinetic battery assembly.

Miles planted a foot on the charging paddle of the assembly; his pushed the paddle down repeatedly over several minutes until a sufficient charge has been built up. Next, he dialed the number of Mile High Lumber, the woodshop that he used the last time to rebuild the lower level floor of his home. The video screen shows him a blank screen with the words, “DIALING…” emblazoned on it. After three rings, “DIALING…” changes into “…CONNECTING….” Within a moment, the screen fills in with a view the office at Mile High Lumber and a sickly young man with a shock of ash blonde hair emerges on the screen. he wears a blank look on his face and answers the videophone in a detached manner.

“Mile High Lumber,” the bored looking clerk recited, “finest quality wood in the four corners. My name is Jim, how may I help you?”

Miles said, “Hey, Jim, it’s Miles Malone.”

“What can I do for you, Mr. Malone?” replied Jim, the unenthusiastic sales clerk.

“I want to speak to your boss, Austin,” Miles answered, “is he in?”

“Let me check.” Jim replied, before placing the call on hold. It isn’t long before the hold screen, with accompanying Muzak, flashes back to the office once more. This time, the image of a forty-something old man comes onto the screen. Like Jim, his hair is sandy blond, his eyes are a pale grey, and his cheeks are pale. Unlike jim, Austin is a bundle of energy and a smile cracks across the lower half of his scraggly, unshaven face.

“RUSTY!” Austin shouted, “my favorite customer! How’s it hanging, Red?! After yer last fight, I had it in mind you was gonna be in the wind for a month or so! What cen I do ya fer?”

“Curb your enthusiasm, Austin,” Miles retorts, “I didn't have a concussion before, but you're close enough to give me one!’

“Okay, okay,” Austin deferred, “so, what can I help with on this fine, Denver day?”

“More of the same from last time,” Miles answered, “the downstairs is looking right posh, but the upstairs? I just did a quick shifty of it and it’s an outright mess. I’m going to need a lot of planks to get this job done…”

“Okay, I gotcha,” Austin said, “another order of Hickory, then. And the varnish, too? Or are gonna try making that stuff by hand?”

“Yeah, I’m gonna need the varnish,” Miles said, “the last time I tried, I ended tripping balls for days. I still don’t know what I was doing with that pillow…”

Austin laughs, “Ah, that is classic! Yeah,I told you the handmade stuff is hard. Almost gotta be a theoretical physicist to make that stuff right. Or some DuPont/Dow chemist. Okay, a order of varnish to go with. Anything else, Rusty?”

“Nope, that should about do it,” Miles said, “when can I pick it all up?”

“It’ll be a bit before the lumber is in,” said Austin, “hickory is kinda uncommon nowadays, but I know a guy that has some to spare. I figure, next Wednesday, at the earliest.”

“Okay, that will give me time to shop for carpets and drapes,” Miles said.

“What,” Austin quizzed, “you expecting a woman, Rusty?”

“No,” Miles retorted, “why can’t a guy just like to make his home look nice.”

In the background, Jim the Unenthusiastic Sales Clerk was heard saying, “Gay!” Austin turns to his young employee and growls, “You wanna know what unemployment is like in this economy, Jimbo?”

Jim can be se shaken his head, his face ashen.

“That shut the Hell up and get back to work, eh?” Austin continues, “Good help, huh?”

“Pretty much,” Miles replies, “so, Wednesday?”

“Yep,” Austin answers, “be here with bells on?”

“You better believe it!” Miles retorts.

The two man chat for a while, every now and again watching Jim sidle into view trying his best to bomb the chat. Eventually, Miles and Austin say their goodbyes; Miles hangs up the holovidphone and returns it to it’s hidden crevice. Now assured of at least important errand he had accomplished, he set out again, still fatigued, to a local home decor shop.