Cyberpunk

younger, and she tackled me in the middle of a crosswalk when the light changed. A car hopped over us, its undercarriage just ruffling the top of her hard copper hair.
    “Just come back and finish your omelet. Or we’ll buy you another.”
    “No.”
    She yanked me up and pulled me out of the street. “Come on.” People were staring, but Tremont’s full of theaters. You see that here, live theater; you can still get it. She put a bring-along on my wrist and brought me along, back to the breakfast bar, where they’d sold the rest of my omelet at a discount to a bum. The lady and her group made room for me among themselves and brought me another cup of coffee.
    “How can you eat and drink with a forked tongue?” I asked Tattooed Cheeks. He showed me. A little appliance underneath, like a zipper. The Featherweight to the left of the big boy on the lady’s other side leaned over and frowned at me.
    “Give us one good reason why we shouldn’t turn you in for Man-O-War’s reward.”
    I shook my head. “I’m through. This sinner’s been absolved.”
    “You’re legally bound by contract,” said the lady. “But we could c’noodle something. Buy Man-O-War out, sue on your behalf for nonfulfillment. We’re Misbegotten. Oley.” She pointed at herself. “Pidge.” That was the silent type next to her. “Percy.” The big boy. “Krait.” Mr. Tongue. “Gus.” Featherweight. “We’ll take care of you.”
    I shook my head again. “If you’re going to turn me in, turn me in and collect. The credit ought to buy you the best sinner ever there was.”
    “We can be good to you.”
    “I don’t have it anymore. It’s gone. All my rock ’n’ roll sins have been forgiven.”
    “Untrue,” said the big boy. Automatically, I started to picture on him and shut it down hard. “Man-O-War would have thrown you out if it were gone. You wouldn’t have to run.”
    “I didn’t want to tell him. Leave me alone. I just want to go and sin no more, see? Play with yourselves, I’m not helping.” I grabbed the counter with both hands and held on. So what were they going to do, pop me one and carry me off?
    As a matter of fact, they did.
    In the beginning, I thought, and the echo effect was stupendous. In the beginning . . . the beginning . . . the beginning . . .
    In the beginning, the sinner was not human. I know because I’m old enough to remember.
    They were all there, little more than phantoms. Misbegotten. Where do they get those names? I’m old enough to remember. Oingo-Boingo and Bow-Wow-Wow. Forty, did I say? Oooh, just a little past, a little close to a lot. Old rockers never die, they just keep rocking on. I never saw The Who; Moon was dead before I was born. But I remember, barely old enough to stand, rocking in my mother’s arms while thousands screamed and clapped and danced in their seats. Start me up . . . if you start me up, I’ll never stop . . . 763 Strings did a rendition for elevator and dentist’s office, I remember that, too. And that wasn’t the worst of it.
    They hung on the memories, pulling more from me, turning me inside out. Are you experienced? On a record of my father’s because he’d died too, before my parents even met, and nobody else ever dared ask that question. Are you experienced? . . . Well, I am.
    (Well, I am.)
    Five against one and I couldn’t push them away. Only, can you call it rape when you knew you’re going to like it? Well, if I couldn’t get away, then I’d give them the ride of their lives. Jerkin’ Crocus didn’t kill me but she sure came near . . .
    The big boy faded in first, big and wild and too much badass to him. I reached out, held him tight, showing him. The beat from the night in the rain, I gave it to him, fed it to his heart and made him live it. Then came the lady, putting down the bass theme. She jittered, but mostly in the right places.
    Now the Krait, and he was slithering around the sound, in and out. Never mind the tattooed cheeks, he wasn’t just flash for the fools. He knew; you wouldn’t have thought it, but he knew.
    Featherweight and the silent type, melody and first harmony. Bad. Featherweight was a disaster, didn’t know where to go or what to do when he got there, but he was pitching ahead like the S.S. Suicide.
    Christ. If they had to rape me, couldn’t they have provided someone upright? The other four kept on, refusing to lose it, and I would have to make the best of it for all of us. Derivative,