s n a p p e r h e a d: November's 1 thru 10

back-forward to this story's previous 1000 words

	Within meters of a turn out—empty at this hour—the V-Sat vibrates. It’s screen reads: Confirm ETA 225. I press the center button. The screen becomes yellow and begins counting backward. In exchange for my gray, I could experience all of Joe’s life. Definitely worth it, if measured in decades. Not so much, if I become just another Radimer. A tan, four-door, Mercedes TS1220 quietly enters the turnout. Electric power? Vibrating and flashing, the V-Sat reads: ETD 10, and counts backward. I press. It turns green and reads: Load. The driver’s door slides open. I get in. Oh. Wow.
	Before I have a chance to contemplate the smell of comfort—the door closes, harnesses envelop, the car begins to leave the turn out, and Lieutenant Ohura’s voice says: destination. Without thinking, I reply, “coffee.” WOooonderfully tired! Ohura says: select, and an in-dash screen—autumn trees blowing in the wind—becomes a moving photo-map with a list of coffee shops and café’s. I say, “the nearest.” Acceleration presses me gently into soft leather as the screen returns to red-orange trees...reminiscent of Busse Woods. Wonder what the dragon-master gained from my last mission? Chicago, 1982? “Search, Chicago, Nineteen-Eighty-Two,” I say.
	‘Everybody needs a little time away… I heard her say…’ “Stop.” The music cuts off. Joe is computer savvy, therefore, I am. All I need to do is refine the… Although still traveling, Ohura interrupts: fast-poured available. I read the menu (and, apparently, there are more screens if this list of thirty-six premiere coffees is insufficient). “Twelve, extra-large.” Seventeen-fifty - credit - confirm? “Twenty, with tip. Yes.” Thanks for the expensive Java, Lösch. Where was I? Thinking about music? The car slows, window lowers, a man gives me a cup and a thank-you-sir; as window and speed rise, the car re-enters traffic.
	As I clarify my new destination with Ohura, because Joe’s flat is equidistant from two turnouts, I drink my Vanilla Latte-chino. From among the horde of bicyclists, an amazing ass stands out—forcing me to look out the rear window as I pass, to see if her ventral is as pleasant as her dorsal view. drive setting: automatic - full-manual - or - combination manual-auto available - occupying driver-seat required by… “Handicap automatic,” cuts Ohura off. Must have shifted in my seat too much, or bumped the wheel; Lösch said to direct the override-setting each time I got in, but I forgot. Sooo tired.
	Standing in the hall outside Joe’s flat, I concentrate on the door-combination: 31-11-20-29. His own goddamn birthday? Who’s savvy? The pocket-door rolls open. A half-glance right as I u-turn into the bathroom completes a recon: pallet in the far corner, clothes on a broken rack, and a desk (actually two doors propped across four sawhorses). I sit. My pent-up-urine-burst is nearly orgasmic; defecation brings chills up my back and across my scalp. The pleasure of evacuation: another reason to consider Lösch's offer. Crumpled over the drainpipe for the sink, a crusty rag reminds me of something else I forgot: masturbation!
	On the pallet, holding an unfamiliar, flaccid penis in my right hand, I attempt envisioning Zuella. Why is first intimacy always difficult? Squinting at the skylights, I recognize that—besides a window over the tub the size of a cribbage board—these are this flat’s sole natural-light openings. Four-meter ceilings. Emergency-egress prohibitive. When Grimy Go-between and Piggyback Dad team-up to take back the Surinam’s Ish purchased… …climb metal scaffolding… …wiggle onto roof… …attain foothold on cloud-bulletin-board… …fall. I wake-up. If I decide to keep Joe’s life, I should keep my breakfast appointment. I have an hour and a good hard-on.
	I exercise my cow-milking muscles. On the pier, Zuella walks towards me completely naked. The rub of fingers over my ventral ridge creates a familiar tingle-tickle sensation. She smiles like Zuella used to. My pace increases. Her nipples are erect. I enter. focus. on. one. Nipple. In. My. Mouth. ON. MY. TONGUE. I continue pawing for many long seconds beyond ejaculation. Once the spasms subside, I get up and take a shower. Stupid to return where piggyback dad discovered it is not a small world—but if I want Joe’s life, I need to keep his friends and his routines.
	Shaving, I notice a tiny scar on the top edge of my lip. How did I get that? Yesterday, I asked a question without thinking—did I set myself up for a deception? Robert-not-Bob said, ‘breakfast tomorrow? Ten-thirtyish?’ I think my reply was, ‘Ten-thirty’—open to interpretation and non-committal. My memory is unclear. If I said, ‘see you then’—with no intention of returning at that time—I could be back on the pier at 1031. I hurry. Wearing dark slacks and a silky, teal-and-ivory, pull-over sweater-jacket with zippered inside pockets, I approach the, now busy, turnout. V-Sat time: 1008.
	Once inside the car, I ask Ohura to play some smooth music. Immediately, incredible ambient overlapping melodies ease into me. I smile, even though the day is becoming cloudy. I notice a MasterPark sign and say, “Query. Vehicle parking. Locations and ordinances.” A map of the city—with dozens of blue ‘P’ indicators and a list of topics—fills the screen. In minutes, I learn about EU-mandated, underground, park-fuel structures in metropolitan areas. From the turnout, I walk a half-block. The restaurant is nearly empty. Sliding into the booth, I smile at Holly who is listening to Robert-not-Bob talk football.
	Speaking into his orange juice glass—just like Lösch did last night—Robert-not-Bob says, “Did you hear, JoLo? Another one.” Holly finishes while he gulps, “This makes three, and still no sight of SDU. Guess this one wasn’t messy. Ray says not to touch the WC until they get here.” I shake my head, “Acronyms.” Holly shrugs, “Suicide… something-with-a-D …Unit? Anyway. Want the special? Still got some left.” I nod. She walk-skips away. We watch. “Maybe a system-glitch,” Robert-not-Bob says. “But probably, Souillé Déplacement Unité’s directive is: Wait, someone else will clean it; if not, displace multiple soiled’s and triple-bill.”