@4{FRANK X

                                 @7by @5Phil South

@1
   So there I was, sitting on the Hampstead Hoppa, thinking about Greta. I'd
   only met her a couple of weeks before, you see. The little memories she'd
   stored in various parts of my  anatomy  were still hijacking my conscious
   mind whenever I had an idle  moment.  And travelling through Hampstead on
   the bus in the middle of winter is an idle moment if ever I have one.
@3
   We'd met at the Dance-O-Mat in  Kings  Cross, a sleazy little dive, which
   was the neon hang-out for most of  the  pro computer jockeys in town. She
   came over to sit next to me and ordered  a drink. She asked me if I had a
   match, and I said I didn't smoke. She said neither did she, but it seemed
   like a good way to  get  the  conversation  going.  Hah! That was her all
   over. Cute, funny, ballsy, and hotter  than a microwave. She had straight
   tobacco blond hair, and the kind of  glossy brown eyes that made you want
   to swan-dive into them. She had a good build, and dressed like she wanted
   to kill you stone dead just by  letting  you  look at her. So, we dated a
   few times. Well, I dropped by  the  Dance-O-Mat  a  few times and she was
   always there. And we went places.  Then  we  didn't go places, but stayed
   in, watched movies and got fresh with each other. Before I knew it, she'd
   moved in, and I was loving every minute of it.
@1   So there I was  on  the  Hoppa,  mentally  flipping  her  clothes off and
   nuzzling my nose in that fragrant niche next  to her ear, when I felt the
   unmistakable cool pressure of a pistol  muzzle  at  my neck. I flicked my
   eyes around the inside of the bus, only  to see there was just myself and
   a little old lady on it. So, not  much risk of a heroic rescue, I relaxed
   and waited for the gunsal to make his move. He did.
@3
   His breath rasped like a  tiny  nailfile  close  to  my  ear. "I am Grodu
   Volant of the Dken. I identify you as Frank  X and I am going to kill you
   if you move a muscle." Now I hadn't done much starhopping in the last few
   months, but I knew an  authentic  Dken  accent  when  I heard one, like a
   metal edge being drawn across stone before battle. Nice people, the Dken.
   Since there were no wars left  to  fight  in  their own galaxy they found
   plenty to join in ours, if the price was right. I turned slightly. "Where
   are we going then, Grodu?" - "You  will  be  please to keep your hands in
   plain sight, and then alight from this  vehicle at the next stop." By way
   of punctuation he prodded the gun into my neck.







@1   Now, I wouldn't want you to get the  idea that this sort of thing happens
   to me every day. Nope, I'm a  freelance programmer by trade. I fix things
   for people. You know, if someone owes  you money, I crack into their bank
   account and strip them clean. If  someone  steals your girl, I crack into
   the police computer and tell it that  he's an escaped lunatic and he gets
   canned. Inconvenience and revenge, they're  my  stock  in trade, and I do
   alright on it. But I'm good, and I  never  leave a trace. So why was this
   cheap alien torpedo poking his alloy piece into the collar of my shirt? I
   had to admit, I drew a blank on that one.
@3
   We stood and lurched down the  aisle  together,  really close so his iron
   pressed into my spine. As we  started  down  the  steps I made my move. I
   used the handrail to  bring  my  elbow  near  his  face, and then quickly
   snapped it back, catching him a good  shot  in the throat and spun round,
   grabbing the hand holding the pistol.  Jumping  down onto the pavement, I
   pulled his arm up and out of  the doorway, forcing its owner outside with
   a strangled yelp. We landed on  the  verge  with his arm behind his back,
   the pistol in my hand  and  his  face  in  the  snow.  He struggled for a
   second, until I pressed the flat snout of  the gun to his cheek. "Hold it
   there, old  boy."  I  hissed.  He  relaxed  and  glared,  his  mouth set,
   breathing hard.



@1   "You alright there,  mate?"  Said  the  driver  of  the  bus, revving his
   engine. I pretended to be picking  my  assailant up, carefully placing my
   body between the door and  the  gun.  I  looked  around  at the driver, a
   convincing look of embarrassment heating my face.
@3
   "Hah, yes thanks... we're alright..." I smiled thinly, brushing snow from
   my coat as the bus drew away from the curb.
@1
   My captive started to move, very fast, and almost got a hand to my throat
   before I clipped his flat forehead  with  the  hard muzzle of the gun. He
   crumpled to the grass.  Going  through  his  pockets  I  found his forged
   British Passport, in the name of Brian Smith (Tsk! So unimaginative), and
   his real papers from the  Dken  Embassy.  As  I touched them they flashed
   into flame and disappeared. They must have been treated with some kind of
   chemical which reacted to my salty  human  skin. My prisoner groaned, and
   as I looked down at him he  rose  gingerly  to his feet and started at me
   with his black beady eyes. I glanced at his pistol in my hand.







@3   "Hmm," I said conversationally,  "nice  piece.  Fulgerator. Made in about
   1998 in Macau, unless it's a Dken copy.  Is it?" I raised my eyebrows. He
   didn't move. "You know what one  of  these  can  do to a person close to,
   don't you? The lightning bolt  comes  out  of  the barrel, and before you
   even notice someone's  fired  at  you,  all  your  blood  is  boiling and
   squirting out of every  orifice.  Horrible,  really."  I watched his eyes
   flicker. He wasn't going to tell me anything.
@1
   A proud race, the Dken. Trained  from  infants  to be soldiers, then sent
   out into a  universe  with  concepts  they  don't  understand  like love,
   individuality, kindness, truth, beauty...  It  cracks  them up. You can't
   turn them, convince them,  or  convert  them.  They're like vicious dogs,
   with two legs, flat heads and sharp pointed teeth. To be honest, I'd like
   to say I don't enjoy waxing them. But I'd be lying.
@5
                                  -=-=-=-=-=-
@3
   When I got home, I  had  a  shower  and  put  my  bloodied clothes in the
   incinerator. I slipped on  a  pair  of  dark  canvas trousers, soft black
   shoes and a dark shirt, and pulled  my favourite black leather jacket out
   of the wardrobe. I  tried  the  geek's  fulgerator  in  the pocket of the
   jacket.


@1   I got Kino on the blower.  His  face  was  hamster rumpled on the screen,
   like he'd just woken up.
@3
   "Hey Frankie, what's happenin'?" he  rubbed  his  almond eyes and lit the
   cigarette that hung in his lips.
@1
   "Listen, Kino, I need some info,  and  I  need  it fast. Why would a Dken
   hitman be after me?"
@3
   Kino's thin Jap face blanched. "I - I don't know what you..."
@1
   I slammed my hand down hard on  the  table. "Don't bulsh me, Kino, if the
   Dken have heard about a price  on  my  head,  then you must know about it
   too. Who's paying the price,  Kino?"  I  pulled  the fulgerator out of my
   pocket and held it up in front of me. "And before you answer, think about
   whether you'd like to join the ex-owner  of this piece in little bits all
   over Hampstead Heath."
@3
   Kino gulped and pulled the  cigarette  out  of  his  mouth. "It's not me,
   Frank. It's not me. It's Bella. He thinks you steamed his computers after
   that last job you did for him. Please Frankie, don't tell him I told you,
   you know he'll..." I snapped the switch and the screen went black. I hate
   to see a grown man cry.

@5                                  -=-=-=-=-=-
@1
   Bella's house was in Finchley, along a main drag, set back from the road.
   There were gaudy lights around the doors and windows, and a big neon sign
   proclaiming "@7Ca