TEXT ADVENTURE #14

HEY, WEIRD SHOES

by Stanley Lieber

1

Christmas, 1942.

Prosthetic legs at fifty percent power.

Hurts.

Admit it: scaring myself.

Duck behind the Mercedes.  Vizier under much heavier guard than
normal.

One right there.  Laying on the ground.  Check his pockets.  Reload.
Increase dosage by twenty percent for the next ten minutes.  Glance at
the snow.

Legs at forty-three percent.  Not good.

Over the back of the car.  Scuffed shoes on pavement.  Back into my
pockets for ammunition.  Get into a rhythm.  But: still losing power.
Find a way to recharge.

Without warning, the Vizier’s car resolves to pull away from the
alley.  Eyes follow the tracks.  Realization: they’re sticking with
standard procedure.  Get the VIP out of the line of fire.

Locate a sliver and waste thirty seconds charging my legs.

Phase one is a shambles.  The old woman won’t like my report.

Start running after the car.

2

The Vizier had switched himself out.  Long before the barbecue.  Just
another changeover.  Recent events scrolled by, nothing catching in
his mind.

He sat in the back of his limousine, staring down at the VHS cassette
in his hand.  Black, rectangular plastic against pale flesh and gold
brocade.

Inserted the cassette.

Presently, there appeared upon the screen a fifty percent blue/pink
gradient field.  Hovering above the smudge of colors was a familiar
phrase, USING MAGIC TO FIGHT DRUG ABUSE.  The Vizier was able to take
some comfort in the kerning of the typeface and the contours of the
drop shadow.  He pondered the traditional refrain.  One benefit of
membership in his ancient fraternity was the freedom to seek refuge in
its various conceits.  Like so many before him, he decided to proceed
as if the message were addressed specifically to himself, personally.
He straightened his necktie and opened a packet of cocaine.

Word came from the driver that the Vizier’s destination was within
reach.

Sensing no alternative, he nodded his assent.

With some effort, reached.

“We need more btemps for the party,” he shouted into the glass
partition.  “These other ones are dead!”

The vehicle lurched to a stop and his door was yanked open by someone
standing outside the window.  Harsh winter sunlight invaded the
armored cabin.  He stared up at the man’s spiked hair, enveloped by
the stench of some considerable amount of hair product.  The man was
grinning from ear to ear.

“I hope that’s a limo full of money, ‘cause we’ve brought mountains
and mountains of our finest white powder.”

A second man appeared, this one not grinning at all.  He carried a
sheet of translucent green paper.  The man surveyed his surroundings
as if for the first time.

“My partner’s not talking about the snow.”

3

Six miles down the road I botch phase two, as well.

More specifically, I slip in the snow.

One leg powers down completely as I approach the parked limousine.
Drop to my knee and then pull myself back up and lock the joint
manually.

Suddenly notice the others.

Large pink aircraft, catty-corner on the street.  Strange triangular
shape.  Glossy.

Spinning up my weapon to take out the newcomers and then it happens,
I’m face down on the slick pavement.  Scrape my chin.

On second thought, relieved.  Don’t think anyone saw me take aim.  Or
fall.  But, locked leg and nothing to pull myself up with.

And now: unobstructed view of their ankles.

Spin up the gun.

Hey, weird shoes.

4

I lay here on the ground and consider my life.

Leaving the basement is increasingly difficult.  Even on these short
missions.  Place has everything I need.  Diversions, companionship,
nourishment.  The religious stuff I can take or leave.  Then there’s
that huge t-shirt.

Think about my room.

The old woman keeps the heat on.  Few objectionable personal habits.
Doesn’t seem to mind the state of my body, either.  A steady supply of
spare parts.

Eventually, I know, I’ll have to leave, whether I want to or not.
Mission completion leads to extraction.  The natural order.  But it’s
possible this excursion may last for years.  I’ve no way of knowing
when my employer will be satisfied.  Just have to keep on, keeping on.
Always do my best.

Speaking of.

Pants have gone cold.  Legs dead.  Visor control is on the fritz so I
pull on my gloves.

Vizier’s still talking.

5

The shoes look soft.  Puffy?  No heels.  Some sort of transparent
section, there, along the bottom.  An actual logo or insignia sewn
onto the side.  Tongue that reads: PUMP.  Is that leather?  And where
are the laces?

Velcro?

Whatever, the conversation is concluded.  The pink aircraft has
vanished more quickly than makes sense for a vehicle of that size.
Car starts up and peels out.

I’m humping it again.

6

The Vizier often diminished himself through commerce.  He claimed the
privilege under a branch of theological speculation less popular in
the current century than in times passed.  While it was necessary to
conduct most transactions in private, he longed to demonstrate the art
of the deal to his followers.  Unbeknownst to his political advisers,
he had prepared a treatise on the subject that he planned to issue in
the spring.

The Vizier leaned his face against the glass of his window as the
limousine accelerated into a long curve.  As the road behind him came
slowly into view, he thought that he could make out the silhouette of
a man clad in full commando gear, sprinting forward into the vehicle’s
wake.

He wondered: Could this be a new customer?