Mechanically Separated Chicken.

Saturday, March 30, 2002

The centre of the disc collapsed under Bellow's thumb, leaving behind a ragged metal edge, like a circle of tiny gold teeth.



He grunted in satisfaction and flicked it over to Gunn. "Told you, it's a fake," he said, "The real ones don't get fried by UV like that."

Gunn, incredulous, held the disc up to the light and inspected it. "Chinese?" he asked.

"Maybe," replied Bellow, "or Argentinian. Irish even, who knows? It's the new Get-Rich"

"I just hope this one's traceable," said Gunn, dropping it into the evidence bag and clicking the Here-Boy for the 'mover. "No leads means another month in Licensing for me. And I need the Cold-Hard."

"Quit your grousing," said Bellow, sliding heavily into the 'mover beside him, "The lab work'll come through on that thing and we'll be singing pineapple songs all through August. You just gotta be patient."

He stretched lazily in his seat and adjusted the line-goggles, taking his time to set up the Station co-ords while Gunn stared at the blinks in silence.

"Remember when this used to be fun? Like dancing?" asked Bellow softly, and pressed 'Go'.

After a click, the air started up like hot ozone and those lines, out in the distance like tiny yellow strips, elasticked slowly towards them. Bellow felt himself hooked by their warm spaghetti and, reaching forward to catch a couple in his fists, pulled himself ahead into a somersault that seemed to last a decade. He closed his eyes beneath the goggles, a smile stretched across his face.

Truth was, it was still fun, and for him -- as it always had been -- a hundred million times better than dancing.

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