Apparently it –was- all in the wrist. Raiden was winning.
"Steee-rike," he exulted, waggling a fist in the air. Technically it was a spare, since Snake had surreptitiously pressed the re-rack button on the ball return, but after five frames he was still forty points ahead. Life was good.
The highlighted bar on the scoring screen overhead slipped down from "BOWLGOD" to "HLOKITY". Snake was up. He'd been in the men's room putting his clothes back on while Raiden entered the names. Otacon got to be "CHESFRY".
Snake sighted down the lane. The tiny guidance arrows under the thick varnish winked cheekily at him. Little bastards, he thought. He'd get them this time.
He shuffled forward, got a good back swing on the ball, and released. The ball slid spinlessly across the varnish for the first few initial yards, then began to rotate like mad as it homed in on the pins. A little to the left…to the LEFT, damn it…not that far goddammit get back over to the right you dirty son of a bitch ball you bastard goddamn ball OVER TO THE RIGHT GODDAMMIT…Christ. It was so unfair.
"Gutterball again, Snake?" Otacon already had his weapon of choice out of the ball-return.
The injustice of it was palpable. It quivered in the air like a translucent jelly. It hung like a noxious odor. There was only one thing to do, and by God Snake was going to do it. His ball came back. He hefted it grimly, and turned again to face the sneering mouth of Lane 8.
He walked forward, stepping neatly over the red foul line, past the first row of guidance arrows, past the veering streaks where cheaply-polished balls had left multicolored tracks on the lane's glossy laminate, past the second grouping of arrows put there by the sadistic arbiters of bowling alleys to point up the fact that a given roll was, by that point, irrevocably screwed. With one red-and-blue oxford-style shoe, he swept the lane clear of standing pins. And then, to make it official, he bent to give his ball a good shove through the middle of the gap. He walked back.
"Steee-rike," he stated flatly. "You're up, cheese-fry."
Otacon stared, briefly dumbstruck. Hacker or not, he was used to thinking in terms of orderly patterns, of defined constants and variables. Snake had just violated one of the most basic, primal laws of bowling. He had done what every bowler in his heart of hearts longed with a seething frustrated passion to do, but was restrained from by the inflexible interface of the sport. Or the management.
"Ah, Snake," he managed finally, "maybe we should call it here. There's a couple of guys coming over."
Indeed there were. A middle-aged potbellied man and a younger earnest- looking sort in a polo shirt with the Century Bowl logo over the breast pocket were grimly making their way through the loose crowd of bowlers toward Lane 8.
"Guys…" ventured Raiden, tugging at the finger-holes in his ball.
Snake swore under his breath. "Don't have enough to trank them all. Dammit."
"I don't –really- think that's necessary, Snake."
"-Guys-," repeated Raiden, rather louder.
"This is what engineers like to call 'bad systems management'."
"Bite me."
"Got a little problem here," Raiden insisted. The ball's thumb-hole had latched onto his relevant digit with remarkable tenacity, and would not be dislodged. Meanwhile, the management had closed ranks.
"Can I help you, gentlemen?" asked the older one. The higher-ranking, obviously. Snake catalogued eight different ways to incapacitate him before he could get out the fatal phrase.
"Just, ah, just bowling. You know." Otacon attempted a disarming grin. It worked on grocery checkout girls.
"I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to leave," said the Upper Management. Snake cursed the lost opportunity.
"Look, I'm –sorry- to interrupt here," noted Raiden with a growing impatience, "but I've –really- got a PATHETIC FOOLS! DID YOU THINK I COULD BE DEFEATED SO EASILY?"
The British-accented voice boomed at preternatural volume through the cavernous open space of the alley.
Snake took cover behind the ball-return. "What the –hell-?" He fumbled at his hip—damn it all, his weapons were at home…
"I'VE BEEN WAITING FOR YOU, SNAKE," the voice boomed. Raiden stood like a stick of wood, ball dangling heavily from a nerveless hand. "IT'S TAKEN ME MONTHS TO MAKE MY WAY HERE, BUT I KNEW YOU'D COME."
"Jesus Christ!" The Upper Management scrambled up the two steps into the seating area, and nearly went sprawling as he dodged into the cocktail lounge. The Middle Management, not far behind, took refuge behind a pool table.
"ALL IT TAKES IS A CUTICLE, SNAKE," the voice teased. "A TINY SCRAP OF FLESH, FERRIED FROM THUMB TO THUMB, FINALLY COME TO REST IN EXACTLY THE RIGHT PLACE TO SEAL YOUR LONG-AWAITED DOOM!"
"Outside!" barked Snake, breaking for the front door. Most of the other bowlers had already panicked their way out. The din of car engines starting and hasty acceleration promised a clear open space by the time he got there.
"GET OUT THERE, OTACON," prodded Liquid's voice smugly. Still standing underneath the scoring screen, Raiden's foot nudged at the stunned engineer. He'd 'hidden' under one of the chairs. One pale arm attempted to fold into the other, hampered to a considerable degree by the bowling ball still attached to its right thumb. "I CAN WAIT."
Otacon made a mad dash for the door. His top speed was a pretty good one, especially if one made allowances for windmilling like a demented stork. To his distinct surprise, a spray of blood and lung tissue completely failed to erupt from his chest at any point. Out in the lot, Snake had already taken up position behind the Buick, gun or no gun. Otacon made a dive for a low bank of ornamental shrubbery bordering the opposite side of the parking lot. There was no way he was going to be much use during –this- showdown—he didn't even have his laptop! How could he have been so careless?
"READY YET, SNAKE?" The insouciant swagger was marred by the counterbalance of a ten-pound ball, but the booming voice paid no heed. Lights flashed and danced behind Raiden's head, making a multihued corona in his light hair.
"Come and get me, you monocellular asshole," growled Snake. This was going to be a rough one.
Raiden advanced. And stopped.
He snickered. With a brief grimace and a faintly audible crack of the joint, he pulled his thumb out of the ball. And he snickered again.
"You can come out of the hedge, Otacon. Suckers."
"Jesus –Christ-, Raiden." Snake rose up from behind the car like a wrathful force of nature, brows drawn so far together as to nearly occlude his eyes. "You try a stunt like that again, and I swear to God I'll kill you in your sleep just to make sure."
"Oh, come on." Raiden tucked his hands into the pockets of his jeans and rocked back on his heels, which still sported the alley's rental shoes. "You were losing anyway. Let's go get coffee."
"How'd you do the voice like that, dammit? Were you using the PA?"
"Nanos," Raiden admitted.
Otacon stalked shakily across the lot. His nerves were fizzing, and he wasn't sure if he wanted to throttle Raiden with his bare hands or just start gibbering now. "Coffee," he muttered dazedly. "Coffee good."
"Get in, then." Snake unlocked the car. "Get in, before I decide to put the kid in the trunk."
Silence reigned as Snake pulled out into traffic. It remained as he took a freeway on-ramp and nearly collided with a Volkswagen. It remained as he pulled off again, and into the brightly-lit lot of the all-night restaurant.
Finally: "Otacon?"
"Yeah, Snake?"
"You owe me five bucks."
"Bite me, Snake."
********************************************
Next chapter: Who gets the pie? Who gets the Denver omelette? Stay tuned!
"Steee-rike," he exulted, waggling a fist in the air. Technically it was a spare, since Snake had surreptitiously pressed the re-rack button on the ball return, but after five frames he was still forty points ahead. Life was good.
The highlighted bar on the scoring screen overhead slipped down from "BOWLGOD" to "HLOKITY". Snake was up. He'd been in the men's room putting his clothes back on while Raiden entered the names. Otacon got to be "CHESFRY".
Snake sighted down the lane. The tiny guidance arrows under the thick varnish winked cheekily at him. Little bastards, he thought. He'd get them this time.
He shuffled forward, got a good back swing on the ball, and released. The ball slid spinlessly across the varnish for the first few initial yards, then began to rotate like mad as it homed in on the pins. A little to the left…to the LEFT, damn it…not that far goddammit get back over to the right you dirty son of a bitch ball you bastard goddamn ball OVER TO THE RIGHT GODDAMMIT…Christ. It was so unfair.
"Gutterball again, Snake?" Otacon already had his weapon of choice out of the ball-return.
The injustice of it was palpable. It quivered in the air like a translucent jelly. It hung like a noxious odor. There was only one thing to do, and by God Snake was going to do it. His ball came back. He hefted it grimly, and turned again to face the sneering mouth of Lane 8.
He walked forward, stepping neatly over the red foul line, past the first row of guidance arrows, past the veering streaks where cheaply-polished balls had left multicolored tracks on the lane's glossy laminate, past the second grouping of arrows put there by the sadistic arbiters of bowling alleys to point up the fact that a given roll was, by that point, irrevocably screwed. With one red-and-blue oxford-style shoe, he swept the lane clear of standing pins. And then, to make it official, he bent to give his ball a good shove through the middle of the gap. He walked back.
"Steee-rike," he stated flatly. "You're up, cheese-fry."
Otacon stared, briefly dumbstruck. Hacker or not, he was used to thinking in terms of orderly patterns, of defined constants and variables. Snake had just violated one of the most basic, primal laws of bowling. He had done what every bowler in his heart of hearts longed with a seething frustrated passion to do, but was restrained from by the inflexible interface of the sport. Or the management.
"Ah, Snake," he managed finally, "maybe we should call it here. There's a couple of guys coming over."
Indeed there were. A middle-aged potbellied man and a younger earnest- looking sort in a polo shirt with the Century Bowl logo over the breast pocket were grimly making their way through the loose crowd of bowlers toward Lane 8.
"Guys…" ventured Raiden, tugging at the finger-holes in his ball.
Snake swore under his breath. "Don't have enough to trank them all. Dammit."
"I don't –really- think that's necessary, Snake."
"-Guys-," repeated Raiden, rather louder.
"This is what engineers like to call 'bad systems management'."
"Bite me."
"Got a little problem here," Raiden insisted. The ball's thumb-hole had latched onto his relevant digit with remarkable tenacity, and would not be dislodged. Meanwhile, the management had closed ranks.
"Can I help you, gentlemen?" asked the older one. The higher-ranking, obviously. Snake catalogued eight different ways to incapacitate him before he could get out the fatal phrase.
"Just, ah, just bowling. You know." Otacon attempted a disarming grin. It worked on grocery checkout girls.
"I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to leave," said the Upper Management. Snake cursed the lost opportunity.
"Look, I'm –sorry- to interrupt here," noted Raiden with a growing impatience, "but I've –really- got a PATHETIC FOOLS! DID YOU THINK I COULD BE DEFEATED SO EASILY?"
The British-accented voice boomed at preternatural volume through the cavernous open space of the alley.
Snake took cover behind the ball-return. "What the –hell-?" He fumbled at his hip—damn it all, his weapons were at home…
"I'VE BEEN WAITING FOR YOU, SNAKE," the voice boomed. Raiden stood like a stick of wood, ball dangling heavily from a nerveless hand. "IT'S TAKEN ME MONTHS TO MAKE MY WAY HERE, BUT I KNEW YOU'D COME."
"Jesus Christ!" The Upper Management scrambled up the two steps into the seating area, and nearly went sprawling as he dodged into the cocktail lounge. The Middle Management, not far behind, took refuge behind a pool table.
"ALL IT TAKES IS A CUTICLE, SNAKE," the voice teased. "A TINY SCRAP OF FLESH, FERRIED FROM THUMB TO THUMB, FINALLY COME TO REST IN EXACTLY THE RIGHT PLACE TO SEAL YOUR LONG-AWAITED DOOM!"
"Outside!" barked Snake, breaking for the front door. Most of the other bowlers had already panicked their way out. The din of car engines starting and hasty acceleration promised a clear open space by the time he got there.
"GET OUT THERE, OTACON," prodded Liquid's voice smugly. Still standing underneath the scoring screen, Raiden's foot nudged at the stunned engineer. He'd 'hidden' under one of the chairs. One pale arm attempted to fold into the other, hampered to a considerable degree by the bowling ball still attached to its right thumb. "I CAN WAIT."
Otacon made a mad dash for the door. His top speed was a pretty good one, especially if one made allowances for windmilling like a demented stork. To his distinct surprise, a spray of blood and lung tissue completely failed to erupt from his chest at any point. Out in the lot, Snake had already taken up position behind the Buick, gun or no gun. Otacon made a dive for a low bank of ornamental shrubbery bordering the opposite side of the parking lot. There was no way he was going to be much use during –this- showdown—he didn't even have his laptop! How could he have been so careless?
"READY YET, SNAKE?" The insouciant swagger was marred by the counterbalance of a ten-pound ball, but the booming voice paid no heed. Lights flashed and danced behind Raiden's head, making a multihued corona in his light hair.
"Come and get me, you monocellular asshole," growled Snake. This was going to be a rough one.
Raiden advanced. And stopped.
He snickered. With a brief grimace and a faintly audible crack of the joint, he pulled his thumb out of the ball. And he snickered again.
"You can come out of the hedge, Otacon. Suckers."
"Jesus –Christ-, Raiden." Snake rose up from behind the car like a wrathful force of nature, brows drawn so far together as to nearly occlude his eyes. "You try a stunt like that again, and I swear to God I'll kill you in your sleep just to make sure."
"Oh, come on." Raiden tucked his hands into the pockets of his jeans and rocked back on his heels, which still sported the alley's rental shoes. "You were losing anyway. Let's go get coffee."
"How'd you do the voice like that, dammit? Were you using the PA?"
"Nanos," Raiden admitted.
Otacon stalked shakily across the lot. His nerves were fizzing, and he wasn't sure if he wanted to throttle Raiden with his bare hands or just start gibbering now. "Coffee," he muttered dazedly. "Coffee good."
"Get in, then." Snake unlocked the car. "Get in, before I decide to put the kid in the trunk."
Silence reigned as Snake pulled out into traffic. It remained as he took a freeway on-ramp and nearly collided with a Volkswagen. It remained as he pulled off again, and into the brightly-lit lot of the all-night restaurant.
Finally: "Otacon?"
"Yeah, Snake?"
"You owe me five bucks."
"Bite me, Snake."
********************************************
Next chapter: Who gets the pie? Who gets the Denver omelette? Stay tuned!