I don the red suit ’cause that’s the
way it is.
I’m looking for a fight, to freshen
up, to kick ass to the three months of nothing – mining negrolite
for credits on that godforsaken planet and here I am on Station
Electra, no plans for what’s next.
I stare at the mirror, tighten the suit.
It’s beautiful, pathetic. Wonderfully idiotic.
“Captain Flycatcher,” I mumble.
Pulling on the dark red boots, I smile
at my reflection.
A young face, thirty years of age;
stubble and flushed cheeks.
I stand and the fake leather squeaks
with my joints. My lanky figure accentuates the haplessness. A blonde
fringe waving to his left and my right; blue eyes, the perfect
victim.
“Captain Flycatcher,” I repeat.
And I stride to the door.
– Whoosh,
it sounds, shunting upwards.
Stepping
out into the corridor, I make my way to the bar while the
videoscreens scream at me. This room, that room. Injections for
pleasure. Rides to Gzynthem. Casinos that value the customer and
opportunities in a life of trade.
Turning
left along a series of flashing oblongs, I measure my pace, ignoring
it all.
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