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PZs were full of undeserving wankers, wallies, wasters and wooftahs.
"Ain't I one of your special customers?"
"Hell, not since you gave Hot Pants Hannah that dose of the Cincinatti Pox
you ain't."
"That weren't me."
"You goddam prove it, and then maybe I'll dig out that bottle."
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"Any time, Magda, any time." Curtius started unbuckling his gunbelt.
"Hold on there, cowpoke. I don't mean like that. I mean with a medical
certificate."
"Ah shee-it, I ain't going to no mad doctor and gettin' mah pecker all
X-rayed. Probably shrivel up like a cactus in a microwave. Haw haw haw."
Curtius Kenne thought he was funny.
"Then, cowpoke, you better get used to having nothing but cows to poke for a
while."
"Whisky, straight."
Mrs ze Schluderpacheru poured Curtius a shot. Even her sumpstuff was okay by
Big Empty standards. If you poured it on the table, it probably wouldn't even
eat half-way through.
"Thank you kindly ma'am. That's a real nice dead bird you got on your hat.
You kiss it to death yerself? Haw haw haw."
Curtius Kenne was a bloody nuisance, and sooner or later someone would put a
ScumStopper under his heart and get himself free drinks on the house for a
month.
The cowboy turned around, and surveyed the bar. He looked at Connie and
licked his nose. She ignored him, and turned up the sound on the telly.
Disappointed, Curtius looked for amusement elsewhere.
"Has anybody heard the one about the Maniak Chieftain and the six-weeks-dead
camel corpse?"
"You told us yesterday," said Margaret Running Deer.
"Yeah, and the day before that," said Connie, touching up her lipstick with a
finger to cover the razorscar under her nose.
"And it wasn't funny then," said the Indian Girl, picking her nails with her
scalping stiletto.
Having had no luck with the girls, Curtius finally noticed Jitters in the
corner. A mean look crept into his eyes.
"Hey Jitters, you limey bastid, last Thursday I saw me some Argentinian
fellers marching downMain Street with GenTech weapons. You still runnin' away
from that thereSouth Atlantic battle?"
Jitters hadn't run away. He had been ordered to make a tactical withdrawal.
It had been a rout, but that hadn't been his fault. Nobody had known how well
equipped the bloody buggering Argies would be.
He didn't say anything. Curtius took his drink and carried it over to the
corner. He sat down.
"Hell, you limeys are yellower'n a cat's pee on a canary. We've bailed you
out of two freakin' world wars, and you're still whinin' about it. You oughtta
get yourselves some backbone. Get yourselves some real men, you know, maybe
you could buy some of John Wayne's frozen sperm and impregnate some of your
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frigid women with it. Get yourselves a generation with cojones the size of key
limes, eh?"
Jitters just smiled, and sipped his drink.
"Leave him alone, zeroid," shouted Mrs ze Schluderpacheru. "Jitters is all
right. He never gave nobody no venereable diseases."
Curtius grinned, showing off the diamond inset into his front tooth.
"Me and old Jitters is just having a sociable little drink, Magda. Chatting
over old times. He was like a war hero, y'know. Got his ass peppered at Goose
Green."
Jitters had been wounded in the first landing, in the shoulder. It hadn't
been what they'd been told to expect by the Daily Mail. They didn't know that
the Argies had GenTech and G-Mek hardware. They'd all gone over the side,
singing Johnny Lydon's hit 'Who Do You Think You Are Kidding, Mr Galtieri,'
and 98% of them hadn't made it to the beaches. In five minutes, everyone he
had been with on the long voyage over from Pompey was dead. Jitters had been
wounded early, and washed back to the landing craft. They'd piled him in with
the dead, and it was only later a naval ensign noticed him twitching. That was
when they started calling him Jitters. He still twitched.
"You're a blister on the behind, Curtius," Mrs ze Schluderpacheru shouted,
"leave him alone or you're barred for life."
Curtius took his drink, smiled slowly, and backed away.
"So long, hero. Hey, I heard me a new one. What's red, white and blue and got
piss all over it? A British flag inBuenos Aires , haw haw haw! Good 'un, ain't
it?"
Jitters drank his drink.
V
She ran the five miles from Doc Threadneedle's place in twenty minutes. Not a
world record, but acceptable. She wasn't sweating, but there was a pleasurable
sense of exertion. Some time, she would have to push herself, to find out
exactly how improved she was. For a real workout, she'd need an opponent. She
experimented with her new optic, shifting her patch to her right eye and
perceiving the world through heat patterns. She saw the sands cooling as the
temperature fell.
She was wearing a black karate suit It was loose, but felt good. She ran on
bare feet.
Her heightened senses were working overtime. She would have to get used to
that. She was sensing far more people and ve-hickles in the area than could
possibly be there. For a while, she would have to downscale her first
impressions. Doc Threadneedle had warned her about it.
He bicycled alongside her, keeping level, occasionally asking questions and
nodding to himself.
"No prob here," he kept saying.
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