Author: Gabriel Walker Land

Upcountry in Indochina I had a good thing going, nice and palatial.

My wives didn’t fight with one another, neither did the happa kids — we all got along and ate well, Mekong fish and real tropical fruit.

Still, up there out of range of 7G wireless I was little people.

We all bow down like dogs to someone, to something, sometime eventually.

A call came in on an ice shoot down to Krung Thep AKA Bangkok, where a runner had nabbed a bag of non-reps and I was to hem them up.

“The hard target’s in Patpong somewhere,” said the handle over slow as shit 6G cast through my bud.

“Patpong?” I said. “Shit I haven’t worked there in a decade. You do know I’ve had trouble with pots right?”

“Of course, you old hound,” said the handle. “We got you covered.”

A microne flew in later that day to drop a parcel off from the Golden Triangle.

It was a powder that iced the rutting drive without upping flavones, so a man could focus on his work.

I knew I would need it, what guy wouldn’t?

Next day I got flown in on a looper to BKK and voila, found myself presto right in the vector of nectarville, world’s oldest and largest red light district by a metric mile.

I hadn’t been looking forward to this.

As I walked through the lanes of kickdolls and upgrades I immediately knew I wouldn’t need that designer dust that was droned in to me upcountry.

The dolls all had heads as big as anime and manga characters, eyes as large as grey aliens, lips looked like they could swallow mine.

Tossing the dust, I still put a blinder in my snout, though, as I cased and canvassed.

Just because the eyes ached at the sight of the biotik upgrades it didn’t mean the perfume knocked off hitches of phermonals.