World of Gonzo
Status Report
Hello again. Gonzo here. Now, don't worry about the radio silence, folks. Just been stumbling on writer's block. Had a pleasant evening a few days ago. Ended up in the Jesse James Kosher at 3, and fell asleep. Though I was on a cocktail of synthetic Mary Jane, acid, and a whiff of mescaline, might've explained the evening. All jumbled up, memories more fucked up than a permanent resident in the braindance parlors. Not sure how I got there, just found myself there when it was all over.
First found myself at a hole in the wall in Japantown, squeezed in between a tourist trap and an antiques shop. I was just as squeezed in, between a sumo wrestler the size of my lawyer and a yakuza the size of the sumo wrestler. Was gnawing at a piece of soyscop, rendered into some god-awful approximation of seaweed, as a wave of lucidity slowly washed onto me. Thinking of the Oriental gentlemen next to me, mused a touch on how Night City became a nice little part of the Co-Prosperity Sphere. A nice little colonial port for Arasaka. Ever since Rhyne invited them back during the Reunification War, they've been seeping into the city like a drip of acid slowly going down floor after floor of a megablock. Makes me sick. Choosing between one poison or another wasn't a good choice for the city, and it shows. Watched the whole show from the top of the Pacifica mega towers, watching the tanks roll up to the border, skirmish with the Free State mechs. Then the carrier, that big black "fuck you" that came in and ruined any chance of a definitive answer for all this. Fucking Japs went ahead and screwed over the US again, that was the third time in 140 years. "Jesus, did I say that?" Muttered out like a loon, a schizophrenic talking aloud. Would've been crucified, for being one of the round eyes who spit on the rising sun and get burned. Didn't say anything, I think. Thankfully, the sumo and the yakuza man were more focused on something else. My eyes wandered over the arm of the Yak, covered in an array of golden scales like a koi fish. Shimmered like the holographic one there, and as ephemeral.
The tv was on, popped to a Japanese language channel, a Pacific Rim import. Some military general talking about exercises in the South Pacific, from the subtitles. Never enjoyed the idea of fighting in the South Pacific over the islands. Saburo has a hard on for re-fighting a century-old war, and settling the score for the 4th Corp. Great-Grandpappy Gonzo fought there, and I'd been to those specks of land before. Little sand pits with plastic, pollution, and oil slick leftovers from when SovOil and PetroChem duked it out. Believe me readers, if you know your history, that arrogant old prick Saburo, if and when he flies out with his cloned body, will go ahead and set up a real set up, knock down fight. Thinking about that, made me realize I needed another stamp of acid. Excusing myself from the canyon of massive Japanese, I found myself in the bathroom, and laid the little square inch of psychedelia on my tongue. Pulled out a little package of synthcoke, took a sniff as well. Set out from the bathroom, and I wandered in a blur. Neon signs, joygirls, Japanese businessmen in their suits here to take over the place. Found myself in front of a store window, watching about that mayoral candidate. You know the one, the one who cheated death like a Vegas card cheat. Seems that every time I saw him, I'm always on something, and his name changes. George, Arthur, Richard. Not surprising, all these politicians, corporates who dream of a better world, are as interchangeable as suits. They sell out, they get replaced by the best new thing, then that gets replaced.
Damn! Miserable feeling sort of evening, then. Needed a pick me up. Synthcoke wasn't doing the trick. Figured I'd go for some cheap swill nearby, go for a drink. My memory began to really go from here. Remember some terrible karaoke bar, a firefight, stumbling to the Jesse James after beating the hell out of a ganger.t. Could remember one of two things: I remembered was a salaryman with a sword, drunkenly cut down a ganger like an old chanbara flick, while I was blasting away at some scavvers with a pair of Saturday Night Specials. Wrote down notes, but they're all scrambled and beaten, hard to parse out. Something about Chiba, an AI, and some indecipherable scribbles. The second: Had burst my way inside of the Jesse James, found a tablecloth that was fairly clean, wrapped myself in it, took a booth, and called it a night.
I woke up from that night still in the booth,with a dutiful employee pointing a nice little piece at my head. Would've been turned into the daily special, if it weren't for the owner. Suppose the owner recognized me, and figured it'd be bad publicity if they threw out its most notable customer. Had a hangover that felt as if Satan had tap-danced on my forehead with a mech, but I'd had worse. Much worse. Had escaped violent death, as per usual on a night out on the town. Supposed I should've thanked that salaryman from- My memory didn't recall it then, and it doesn't now, all that I knew was that he was a Japanese executive who had a samurai sword. Suppose a cowboy journalist and a wannabe samurai could get along, even if everyone else couldn't. But I paid for my breakfast, coffee, and staining the booth with my wet boots, and stumbled back to my place.
Perhaps not the scathing commentary that I usually do, but hell, even a man wandering around the ruins needs something to take his mind off from time to time.
Takes place between Chapter 8 and Chapter 9 of my story: A Man With A Heart
All credit for writing this goes to BlackStar