Random Pulp Paragraphs #1

From “Agony Acres,” by Samual Douris, 1988

Mark slammed open the door to Mr. Farrin’s private study, startling the rolling millionaire and his two cybered Dobermans, who both dropping into a defensive stance, their red eyes narrowing with promised violence.

“Tash and Levert are scraped,” announced Mark with slumped shoulders and blank face, everwhere smeared with blood and grime.  He carried a stainless case in one hand, a black market toxthrower in the other.  Behind him, Brinks and Module didn’t look any happier; while Mark’s posture was one of loss and grief, his companions were primed for payback.

Farrin buzzed from around the desk, his cyber-incompatible body seemingly twisted even worse than usual by his disease.  “I see,” he said.

The toxthrower twitched.  “No, you don’t fucking see, downmeat.  Tash and Levert are strawberry skidmarks back on 19.  They didn’t make it to the offramp before there were Nisiki soldiers all over them.  I watched Tash’s face melt on the speedway, fucker.”  Mark’s eyes glimmered with fresh tears.

“Your sister knew the risks, as did you, Lainwright.  Thus the generous compensation for the run, which, by the way, you are now each entitled to a larger portion of.”  Farrin wheeled up close.  The dogs followed, low to the floor.  “Pardom my lack of empathy, but I didn’t know any of you until three days ago, and, honestly, I don’t care about anything except that steel briefcase you’re carrying, sir.  May I have it?”

“Are you ready to make the transfer?”

“I need only call my banker and give him the go code.”

“Pips 2 mil,” growled Module, flexing his fists.

Farris smiled condescendinly.  “You streets and your jargon,” he said quietly.  “Yes, that is correct.”

Brinks suddenly stepped from the back, his face twisted into a sneer of pure hate, his hands gesticulating wildly.  “Enough fucking mouth!  You need to ‘compensate’ us for Tash and Lev—yyyeaaaAUUGGCCCHH!”  The dogs were on him instantly.  One took out his legs.  The other clamped his steel teeth shut on Brinks’ throat.  Blood jetting.  Ripping, tearing.  Chunks of meat and Brinks’ head rolling free from his body.  The dogs released their prey and shook their heads, splattering Mark with blood.  They trotted back over to Farrin, gore dripping a trail from their jaws.

Mark was perfectly still.  Module’s large frame was shuddering.

Farrin smiled.  “It you think you are quick enough to get all three of us with that street-market contraption you’re carrying, Lainwright, go right ahead.  I already have to dispose of one body, now…adding a couple more isn’t going to matter at this point.”

Mark dropped the case to the ground.  “You are a rancy piece of trot,” he said.

“Yes, yes…I assume I was just insulted.  Do you want to be rich, now?”

Mark risked a peak at Brinks’ ravaged body.  “Yeah,” he growled.  “I guess I do.”

——-

Samual Douris is a writer of cyberpunk and speculative fiction who always seemed to be on the verge of a breakout he never achieved.  The story excerpted above was published in New Chrome, a magazine dedicated to cyberpunk fiction and technology news.  It folded two months later, which is par for the course with Douris.  Of the various periodicals who have published his work, more than half of them no longer exist, their ends coming pretty swiftly after his publication.  He now manages a screen-printing company and publishes his fiction online at www.SamualDouris.com.