Campaign of the Month: November 2014

Shadowrun - The Rat's Nest

Neighbourhood

Personal Log - R. Kowalski, PI

Personal log of Kowalski, Roger

The stationary aged telecom from the sixties turned back to this fuckin’ tunes everytime I try to switch it to a different radio on the broadcast channels I got from the company, while I’m sitting and trying to learn shit. Charleen dropped by before her shift, we gave my new job and office a little housewarming. She left me fuckin’ flowers on the desk, which already turned hangin’ the minute her ass left the door. I did lie a bit when I said I had a flat too. She frowned but didn’t say nothing. Moved my bits in the office until I have some money left, I decided to squat up here.

I didn’t ask anyone if I may, so didn’t get answers I won’t like to hear. People ‘round this place don’t care much anyway.

My old pinched badge sticks inside my coat, could be of help some time. If not the wrong guys see it and snuff me for my past. It’s not that everybody likes Ex-Cops I guess. It’s just that I was on the other side, this time I’m something in between. Brownout around noon, guess everybody’s cooking. Went down for some noodles. Chin was in place, so I sat down.

“Do you like elves”, got a decent meal. Looking as if she hadn’t one for days. Name is Babsie she said, “from an old book”, I didn’t know. “She’s the hero there”, she said, “want to be like her.” Wasn’t stopping to talk. Told me about her work, which I preferred she didn’t. Slid her the rest of my soup over, too. She was so hungry. Asked if I want to cuddle, “your’re cute.” I passed. “Fuckin’ jerk”, she cursed and went back to her place on the other corner, hoping for some John earning her the next shot of whatever she’s on.

Looking out my window, reading stuff for the PI test, watching people down on the street most of the day. Like I’m in a cheap flick, payed my creds for the real life, all clean entertainment peepshow of Dumbster Hills Ave 90210. Come and watch as life goes by…

Tried to use the instant coffee tabs, in the drawer at the side of my desk. Left there from the guy who seemed to have left this dark spot on the floor at the place my chair is. The ugly stuff was even worse than the shit they had given us at Hard Corps station. Got a guest.

Cocky young insurance agent living in the office 202. She’s an Orc maybe in her twenties, but Orcs look older than that, old enough for me. Has this very nice and shiny coffee machine. Which is the only thing that’s not covered with grease in her room. Tried to flirt with me, I guess but she’s not my type. “So you’re the dick from 203?”, she asked. “Sure. Nice coffee machine”, said I. “It is”, she nodded. “Coffee is good. Mind if I come around to brew me some? Fuckin’ dickheads from my company screwed me. No coffee machine. And I need it.” “You’re no freelancer?” “Who is really free these days?” She nipped her Kaf, soykaf of course. Nobody can afford the real stuff anymore, her tusks blinking. “She’s ya girlfriend?” “Kind of.” “Heard that.” She smiled. “Bit skinny for my taste.” “She’s all right. How is work around here?” She sighs. “People have no much money left to buy things, so why bother about insurance? I’m fucked with my job, but at least I have one.” “Freelancer?” She nodded. “Lots of spare time”, and I didn’t like the way she was mustering me. “Thanks for the kaf”, said I, put my mug down. At least I would not bother about cleaning them. Not that the mug was clean when she offered it to me. “What’s your name?” “Kowalski.” “I mean the ‘R’ on that plate on the door.” “Roger.” She nodded. “Nice of you to drop by. Welcome. I’m Sandy.” “Of cause you are.”

At least I had a decent coffee. I tossed the instant pads in my office after that. A few minutes later, I got them out of the basket again, put them back to the drawer. You never know.

Her pimp dropped by late afternoon, when he was cashing her, she pointed up to me. I closed the bamboo shutter of the window. A few minutes later, him standing in my doorframe. “You’re new here?” “Yes. Private Investigations.” He pointed to his crimson jacket. “You know who we are?” “Crimsom Crush”, said I. “Local gang, I guess?” “Good. So you know what’s up?” I played as if I didn’t. “Sorry that I can’t offer you a coffee. My machine got nicked”, I shrugged. “If you want insta-pad?” He ignored the offer. Guess he tried some long ago. “Babsie told me you’re up here. Your job dangerous?” “Not very.” “There’s not much police around here”, said he. “No, not many. A few. Me for example.” “You police?” “No. Private dick. But I was police”, said I. “We provide some security around here. Serious security. Hundred a month, not much. Just a call we come and help.” Slowly I shook my head. “Thank you, chap. But I don’t have anything that’s worth protection, that I can’t provide myself.” He stared at me as if I was something like a ’tarded troll. “We help everyone around here, provide security.” “Yes. I guess so”, said I.

Maybe it’s a bad idea not to pay the Crimson Crush off. But call me old fashioned. I won’t ever pay. I’m still a fuckin’ cop inside. Can’t ignore that or I will be washed through the gutter. He shouted at Babsie outside, slapped her, went off.

Not done yet. I have been reading for the rest of the day. Tyrell and Partners is some offshore company, HQ at Cayman island. Not much more to know about them, guess it’s just a kind of tax scam. Whatever, I got a job and it’s legal.

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