Fear and Loathing on the Learning Curve: Observations on Life, Tech and Web Design from a Slightly Misanthropic Mind

Creative Writing

Lao was famil­iar with hate. He felt it in the air around him, felt it brush past him in the street at night, heard its name whispered through half-open doors, wit­nessed its trans­ac­tion between hun­dreds of parties every hour he spent in the City.

The digital clock next to his mat­tress read 22:17 when he woke, to hear the rain lash­ing against the roof of his build­ing. He rolled on to the wooden boards of the floor, feel­ing their dull tex­ture slide against his skin. His small room partly illu­min­ated by a dimly lit ter­minal in the corner. Another night in the City.

In the alley next to the bar above which he lived, the rain fell in sheets, cre­at­ing a con­tinual stream of white noise that washed over him as he stepped out. Light from the street glisten­ing on the wet sheen of the walls. Shadows passing the end of the alley. He pulled his col­lar up over his neck and headed for the street.

The Rue de Revolution was awash with people, as it always was at this time of night. Young people flock­ing in groups, chat­ter­ing loudly, never static, tour­ists out later than was safe, pairs of suited busi­ness­men keep­ing con­nex­ions alive, street­walk­ers soaked to the skin, still hop­ing for cli­ents. Bright neons in fiery col­ours cre­ated globes of isol­ated warmth out­side bars and cafes, illu­min­at­ing the faces of those that passed him, clouds of steam rose up from the street stalls of food vendors. The hum of soci­ety. A thou­sand voices blurred into a smudged mur­mur, and the pulse of some drug-enhanced music, some­where he couldn’t dis­tin­guish. The leather of his jacket flowed as he pushed his way through the herd, press­ing his pis­tol against his hip on every other step. Carrying a con­cealed weapon had been legal for years, indeed in the City, it was almost mandatory.

On top of a down­town arcade tower, he looked down on the streets, at the cease­less move­ment of count­less lives. The rain still fell all around him, as he sheltered in the lee offered by a non­des­cript bill­board. Feng was tonight’s con­tact, a cour­ier from the other side of town. Somewhere on the oppos­ite side of the roof, a tiny, metal­lic click struggled to his ears over the sound of the down­pour, and a flicker of light illu­min­ated a cupped hand and jaw as Feng lit up. The point of orange light moved closer, and then Feng was beside him, a wiry fig­ure in a dark brown trench coat.
“My fam­ily once owned a tea clip­per.” That was today’s pass­phrase.
“Really. Where’s the pack­age?” Lao felt cold.
“I’ve got it brother, don’t sweat.” Feng reached into his coat and pro­duced a black plastic packet, handed it over. Lao slipped it into a deep pocket and smiled.
“Thanks. Tell your con­tact that we’ll pay double for three more ship­ments. This stuff sells.“
“I will.” And he was gone, slip­ping away into the night like a shadow. Lao turned back to look out over the street, and pulled a slim phone from his coat. He opened it and dialled a num­ber he only knew from memory. The line rang twice before it was answered, and then he was greeted only by silence. There was an indis­tinct click in the back­ground as two scram­bler pro­grams syn­chron­ised, and then he spoke.
“I have the goods, I will make the drop tomor­row in the usual place.” He hung up.

On his way back to the bar, he threaded through more back streets than was neces­sary. He wasn’t expect­ing to be fol­lowed, and he had his blades, but he didn’t want to kill tonight. On reach­ing his fire escape he crouched down, check­ing that the hair-trigger across the step was still set. He swung up the stairs and keyed his code into the door lock, then stepped inside.
His room was warm from the heat of pat­rons in the bar, and he could hear the low hum of voices from below. He crossed to the win­dow and pushed the left side of the cill down, and then back, reveal­ing a hid­den com­part­ment only a couple of inches thick. He dropped the black packet into it and replaced the cill, threw his sod­den jacket into the corner and slid on to his mat­tress, shed­ding the gun belt as he did so. He thumbed the magazine release and slid it under his pil­low, and thanked God he hadn’t had to use it this night.