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Michigan Jones: Hit Man: Chapter 7 Michigan Jones: Hit Man: Chapter 7
by Asa Butcher
2008-08-10 10:06:03
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Without thinking about it, I'd found myself sitting in some shithole of a bar that didn't even bother to have a name above the door. It was off the main drag, away from the crowds and out of the rain, and was just what I needed, a hiding place. Hiding from what, I still wasn't sure, but I did feel parts of me beginning to relax. My hand was nursing what was allegedly-described as whiskey and the drink seemed determined to dissolve my stomach lining… it felt comforting!

Answers, that's what I wanted, so I flipped open my Ez1000 - the latest in personal organisers, if you want to believe all the advertising bullshit - and brought up the only message from demigod_943876. I ran the message through all the tracking software and even performed a few random searches with the name, but nothing came back. I even circumnavigated the security protocols and was able to retrieve some hidden information that ended up being useless.

It seems as though she had used a public terminal to send the message, she had no unique User_ID and, to all extents and purposes, never existed online, which is fucking rare in this day. I did discover that there were very few other demigods online, let alone over 900,000, so that number had to mean something but again all my searches turned up fuck all. 943876, demigod, what was the connection and why were you seemingly a ghost in life and death?

My expertise was limited to what I had already uncovered, so it was time to call in a few favours from a few unsavoury acquaintances. My finger hovered, as if having second thoughts of its own before my body continued to walk down this path - actually, my finger, my trigger finger, does seem to operate independently of me, which has saved my life on occasion. However, this time it had no further say in the matter and the number was dialled.

The call was rerouted through two other servers and had further security chucked at it, the phone began to ring. "Madame Zee's House of Disrepute, how may I corrupt you?" chirped the irritating female voice of Zee's receptionist. I had no idea why Zee didn't invest in a personal line, but she was Old School, as she liked to call it. "Put me through to Madame Zee, tell her it is a very old friend that needs…" I fucking hated passwords, "…severe discipline for his eternal soul."

Another set of bleeps sent the call through one more set of security protocols, specially designed my Madame Zee herself, and finally her voice came over the line, "Well, well, well, what do I owe the pleasure of seeing your handsome face again, Midge?" I shuddered, "Don't call me 'Midge'! You know that pisses me off!" The first time we had ever met I was calling myself M.J., but she decided that was too 'American' and had merely pronounced it as a word.

Madame Zee, heading into her mid-60s, owner of one of the city's premiere sex megastores and one of the thoroughly fun people who would ever hope to meet - she didn't look too bad for her age, either. "Midge, baby, calm down! What can I do for you after all these years? It must be something heavy or you wouldn't be asking for help… huh, Mister Solo, Mister 'I can do it by myself', Mister…" Goddamn, the woman liked the sound of her own voice.

"Zee, shut up and listen. I need you to find out all you can about somebody for me… it is important." There was a silence, "Sure thing, Midge honey. Will this make us even?" I smiled, she knew we were even a long time, but it had become part of our tradition, "Maybe, Zee, maybe, but I think you will have to severely discipline my eternal soul!"


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