Complete Atopia Chronicles

I sent an apology note about my little spat with Nicky to Rick and Cindy as we flitted out, and heard Sid asking, “What skins did you have in mind?” as we transitioned.

We appeared in what, for all intents and purposes, looked like a shoe store in 1920’s London, somewhere off Saville Row. Little boxes, whose covers danced with images and logos, lined the walls and aisles, and a smarmy synthetic salesman glided up to us.

“What can I do for you boys?” he asked, smiling.

“I don’t know, not sure,” I responded, not sure, plus high. “What have you got that’s new?”

He looked us up and down.

“You looking to skin up or skin out?”

“Either way, or both, just show us anything new,” replied Sid. Seeing my eyes swimming, he added, “And hurry up please.”

“Hmmm,” noted the salesthing as he put one hand to his chin. With the other he began swiping the wall, and the little boxes swept left and right and up and down at a blurring pace.

“We’ve got some new designer skins that do a great job of making everyone look good naked,” he began.

Both Sid and I rolled out eyes.

“Yeah you’re right, boring. How about this—more subtle—we’ve got some nice intelligence skins that make you look and act smarter.”

“Thanks buddy,” I replied, frowning, “what are you getting at?”

“Nothing, I’m just…okay then, look, we have some great new skins of Asia. The Snow Leopard, for instance…that’s all the rage now.”

“Naw, no animal stuff.”

“How about something more clever then? We have some that read your cognitive profile and make subtle changes to your wife or girlfriend to make them…”

Sid cut him off, “No wife or girlfriend stuff please.”

Sid looked at me and shook his head.

Smarmy the salesman tapped his finger to his mouth as he simulated thinking. “Okay boys, I have something really special, and it’s our new top seller.”

My interest piqued. “Go on, my smarmy friend.”

“We call it HappyTime—it’s a reality skin that makes subtle adjustments when you talk to or interact with people you know. It is guaranteed to help you lead a happier and stress free life.”

“Sounds good,” said Sid, “so what does it do?”

“Well, it makes slight changes in your perception so that you get the impression that you’re better off than your friends and family, diminishing the effects the further they are from you personally.”

Sid smiled. “So how does that work?”

“Well it doesn’t actually change anything, it just gives you the sense that your friend isn’t as happy with his new relationship as he really could be, or modifies how much you hear him telling you he makes at his new job,” it explained. “Little things so that you still get the gist, but modified so you feel like you’re doing better than they are.”

“And it works?”

“It works like a charm, proven by extensive research. You will lead a happier life, my friend, guaranteed or your money back.”

“Hey Sid,” I asked Sid.

“Yeah.”

“Am I actually getting paid big money for surfing and boozing all day while you slave away as a programmer at Solomon House?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay, cool, I thought maybe I had HappyTime on already and I’d forgotten.”

“Fuck off, Bob.”

6

THE GLARE OFF the hood of the ’67 Mustang made me squint, and the sweat beading down from my forehead stung my eyes as I tried to wipe it away.  The police were just beyond the barricade, less than two hundred feet away, and I could hear them nervously loading their weapons and talking in short, staccato bursts into their walkie–talkies.

Waves of heat rose up from the tarmac that was melting into the soles of my Converse. Hot rubber mixed with the smell of burnt gunpowder and equal parts fear and body odor. Body odor.

Subtext Bob to Sid: Could you please dial down the BO, I’m choking over here.

Sid looked over and cracked a smile as he peeled his back harder against the side of the car. He had his sunglasses on and was soaked in sweat too, but looking cool as a cucumber and totally in his element. Sid’s grin widened as he pulled out a ridiculously oversized handgun he had somehow hidden in the small of his back.

“So what do you think, should we make a run for it?” I asked breathlessly.

“Hell yeah, little buddy,” came the reply as he magically produced a second cannon from somewhere on his person. “I’ll just crawl into the back and you squirm into the driver seat and get us going. We gotta meet up with the boys to have any chance at busting out of this one!”

“Okay, then, let’s do this.”

A voice came over a loudspeaker from the roadblock, down between the derelict buildings and burnt out car shells up ahead.  “Come on out with your hands up, we don’t want to hurt anyone.”

Rolling my eyes, I complained to Sid, who was already crawling cat–like into the back seat, “Can’t they come up with anything better than that?”