World of Gonzo

A Fresh Head of Lettuce

Strange thing to think about now. When we were children, these were miracles, manna from the heavens above of the great grey skyscrapers. Big green balls, with leaves. They'd be advertised in those fancy shows, or in neon signs, ones which featured the corporate boots, gnawing lettuce like a hamster. Though I asked, as a younger synth coke addict, when I looked up from sniffing to notice, "What the hell is lettuce? Kibb seems fine to me." And Prepak as well, because we didn't know a damned thing better. Like Exodus, we have been cast from the holy land, and forced to scavenge what little we can. Century ago, we could send grain to everyone, eat juicy grass-fed steaks every dinner, and eat au natural. Then the Mid-west dried up, the government went belly-up like a bloated corpse in the bay, the DEA disintegrated cheap hash and marijuana, and everywhere went to hell. Now we can't have any of those nice things, especially the narcotics, because of those authoritarians and their offspring.

"Gee, Gonz, aren't you an optimist? Why're you talking about this?" Well because I like to complain, and a man has the right to complain.

A century ago, our great-grandparents screwed it to hell and back, we're still picking up the pieces like a suicide off the street, guts and all. At least the Hebrews got less of a boot on their neck than we do now, from the besuited fascists and authoritarians, that bunch of cosmopolitans who love to dine on their fresh lettuce, specially grown off the corpse of some dumb ganger who found himself as fertilizer. Oh, back in the days they were in Egypt (If anyone knows anything about the Old Testament beyond something like a highlight reel of football when they gouge out each others' eyes with the spikes) they had fresh food, they had homes, but they were slaves. Real nice arrangement. Guess the suits here have realized that some people might like to know the taste of lettuce, make them like the old Hebrews. Slaves appreciative in the change of diet. Blame these jaded eyes, but that's all we Americans are nowadays: Slaves to a government, corporations, and to the technology we so gladly slide onto ourselves.

Now, some corporate in a nice suit who'd grubbed for a scrap of Bulgarian Kibble from the '10s, on a dare, complained and decided: he wanted to have the good stuff cheap. Good to know there's some slick-suited individuals high off the remaining natural cocaine of this world to wonder what cheap lettuce tastes like. Of course, one's choice for narcotic predilections does not mean that a corporate man wants lettuce only. No, he'd seen enough to know: He wants some tomatoes too! And before you know it, he makes a whole sandwich, one that makes the Jesse James Kosher Deli jealous. All for himself. Now, corporate men are not like you or I: they find something, they want to make money off of it. So this bastard figures to sell it, and cheap. His public relations people, the slimiest of all that reside in corporate suits, probably want to say that it's for a good cause. That being, the man's wallet.

It certainly hasn't helped mine, the money I save on sandwiches is stolen by the pig who puts notices on my car.

Now, I've been at the Jesse James a few times since our corporate benefactor has provided his fresh lettuce, and every time I've went, the sandwiches get cheaper. I'd had to pay fifty eddies for a small morsel ten years ago, squeezed between a Chromer and a member of the New Hell's Angels. They'd argue how to shake me down for money to pay for their meal and split me in half for the meat on their sandwich. Now, they only want to see which parts of me go on their sandwiches, so I've had to skip out on the place. Damn the man who got it cheaper, when it was pricier it gave me more time to slip out before those two started to kill each other.

Now, ol' Gonzo has to deal with some chromeheads trying to break in to steal his weapons cache, so if you don't hear back from me, you know I have taken them all to Hell with me.

Lookin' over the edge with a sandwich and a handcannon,

Gonz

(Hope you enjoy, for your reading pleasure)

Takes place between Chapter 2 and Chapter 3 of A Man With A Heart.

Tie-in to my Cyberpunk story: A Man With A Heart, on , but posted separately here.

These chapters don't belong to me, but are instead the work of one BlackStar on Alternatehistory.