January 12th, 2009 by Joel | Posted in Kitch | No Comments »
Kitch had never been a fan of this run-down part of town. And he really wasn’t a fan of the hissing window Drugs had installed. Told him to fix that, Kitch thought. The thirteenth floor hallway had no visible light except for the flickerings of neon playing on the floor under the pneumatic window. Kitch walked down the hall towards the entrance of Drugs’s little kingdom. Despite the dark, Kitch had no problem finding the correct door due to the thermal signature emanating from the crack at the bottom.
Kitch knew this was Drugs’s domain and he should let him run it however he wanted. He knew no matter what he said, Drugs would only change something if he felt so inclined, and was not otherwise preoccupied … which was extremely rare, if not impossible.
Kitch reached for the door, aware that he was being scanned by multiple security measures that most corporations would envy. He touched the door directly to the right of the antique handle and it swung open. Kitch knew telling Drugs about the window (again) was pointless. Drugs would not listen. He knew it was ludicrous to even attempt.
“I told you to the window’s too loud,” Kitch called from the doorway.
“Screw you and the horse you rode in on!” came the reply. Kitch grinned within his hood.
“Where’re you hiding?” asked Kitch as he began walking into the room.
“Back here, in Surgery,” yelled Drugs.
Drugs’s living arrangements, which could only be called a home in the loosest sense of the word, filled what used to be the offices of an oral surgeon. Drugs, who was oddly proud of his find for living arrangements, loved to mock the suicidal thinking that must have caused anyone to open an oral surgery in Akihabara. Kitch had always thought Drugs chose Akihabara to set up shop as a subtle homage to his roots. Drugs was not Japanese, but was utterly obsessed with all things electronic. And had been his entire twenty years of life.
Likewise, Drugs’s shop reflected its resident to perfection. As soon as Kitch walked past the entrance and into what used to be Reception, he was confronted with all the machines and sensor apparatus which had digitally frisked him in the hallway. Clearing Reception and heading down the hall towards the Surgery, Kitch was forced to duck and dodge protruding electronics at almost every step.
The Surgery was the heart of Drugs’s spread. In keeping with his own neurotic logic, Drugs used the Surgery for performing the same on his plethora of devices.
Kitch straightened up as he entered the Surgery after ducking the mass of power cords stretching through the doorframe. Drugs was bent over a workbench, looking through a thick magnifying glass, and using the smallest soldering iron Kitch had ever seen. Drugs’s deck was open and spread out before him.
Kitch watched Drugs, not wanting to look at the white heat of the solder. In the thick, white-rimmed magnifying glass, Drugs resembled more a deep sea monstrosity than a man. Kitch grinned within his hood again. He stood in the doorway and waited for Drugs to speak.
Drugs lifted his foot from the solder release, cutting the flame. “Well if it ain’t ol’ long, tall, and ugly.” Drugs was currently on a western kick in his cinema patronage and had been using the lingo whenever he got the chance, or could force it into a conversation. Kitch still found it amusing and had not tired of it. Yet.
“You ready?” Kitch asked.
“Just a sec,” said Drugs. When he was not on a computer with a clock, time had no meaning for Drugs.
Which is why Kitch was early.
Drugs was bent over the workbench once again, and the white light from the solder cast harsh shadows around the room. Kitch began glancing around but looked back at Drugs when he began to speak.
“Upgrading the deck,” offered Drugs. “Be able to enter ‘works from almost twice as far.” Kitch knew Drugs was referring to the range of his deck—his portable computer—and its ability to pirate into wireless networks. “Should work from half a click out,” he said through mostly clenched teeth, his attention focused on the deck.
Kitch thought of the implications of such a distance. Drugs could conceivably sit in a bar or noodle shop and pirate a network from three blocks away. It made Kitch glad he was not a religious deck user, or a corporate media liaison. After a minute of silence where the only noise was the soldering iron and the only smell was the faint odor of burning synthetics, Drugs lifted his foot, turned off the soldering iron, and unplugged it. He had never been one for taking chances. He picked up an electric fan from the workbench and pointed it at the deck. When he was satisfied it was cooled, he set down the fan and reassembled his deck.
Kitch had watched this all in silence.
“Alright, lemme test it and then I’m ready,” said Drugs. Kitch made no reply; he wanted to know it worked as much as Drugs did. Needed it to work. Drugs inserted a cord into the deck which led to a system diagnostic tower. Kitch didn’t know enough about computers to understand the technical readouts and data Drugs was sorting through. Instead, he watched Drugs’s hands. Kitch knew they had no enhancements or upgrades of any kind, and the speed at which his friend’s fingers moved was mesmerizing. Still young and having been raised with computers, Drugs could manipulate his deck faster than the small display screen could keep up. He was always three steps ahead of where it seemed he was at. When Drugs pulled his hands away and unplugged the diagnostic cord, the display was still shuffling through readouts.
Drugs stood up and snapped the deck shut. Kitch saw that the screen was still flashing through data as he did so. He’s already boosting, thought Kitch. That explained why the display had still been moving, then.
“Saddle up, pardner,” said Drugs. He dropped his deck into its Kevlar satchel and swung it over his shoulder, tightening the strap so it hung snug against his side. He put a thin, black leather coat on over top, concealing the deck. “Ready when you are.”
“I’m already saddled,” said Kitch, keeping a straight face. “I’ve been saddled since I got here.”
“Yeah, yeah,” said Drugs, waving his hand back and forth in front of his forehead in a Japanese gesture for “whatever, forget about it.” Drugs started walking down the hall towards Reception. Kitch, dressed entirely in muted black, took an automatic inventory of Drugs’s clothing. Black hair. Black, non-reflective leather jacket. Black designer suit pants with subtle pinstripes that probably cost more than the jacket. Black on black Chuck Taylor’s.
“Drugs,” Kitch said.
Drugs stopped walking and turned around. “Yeah?”
“Your socks.” Drugs looked down as he picked his right foot up halfway to his knee.
His socks were bright orange.
“Kuso,” Drugs swore in Japanese. He walked into the Examination Room that served as his bedroom to change. Kitch found it amusing that, no matter what current trend he was on, Drugs always maintained a subconscious Halloween color theme to his wardrobe, despite Kitch’s warnings otherwise.
“Okay, Kemosabe, now let’s go,” Drugs said with a slightly embarrassed hostility. Kitch, knowing the annoyance Drugs could be if he felt he had been one-upped, let it slide and held out his hand towards the entrance.
“After you.” Kitch was glad his hood was still up because he couldn’t help smiling as Drugs walked to the door in front of him.