From: prvalko (prvalko@Oakland.edu)
It was the kind of night they write about in dime store detective rags,
dark, lonely. It was all that and then some.
The waning full moon hung low, like the sagging yellowed jowls of an old
man eating soup in some two bit diner.
I had just left the office, late as usual, trouble comes in all shapes
and sizes. Mine was a big blonde named Cindy. She'd just taken a
powder for the week, said she was going to a "conference" in Maine.
Yeah, right. They sunk the Maine, too.
That left me to do the dirty work. I didn't want to have to do it, I
could of stayed in school, but I would have ended up like one of them.
The thought churned in my gut like cheap booze.
I walked into the flop house I call home and slunk down those thirteen
steps to the celler. Why thirteen steps? Why tonight? Some guy's idea
of a sick joke. If I ever find him I'll ask why twice, nicely at first.
The room was filled with dead empty hulks. Nothing here works. Boxes torn
apart like a girly magazine on a schoolyard sandlot, all the good parts
missing. What a dump.
This was my shack and I like it that way.
I had about forty five minutes to find this character, the clock was
ticking and my head was spinning. Where'd I put the NorCal? Power. Got
to get power. Twelve volts, Thirteen point eight. That number again.
To hell with it.
I listen around. That's what I do best. This joker's just another snoop
job, nothing more, nothing less. I take them as they come. There are a
lot of clowns out tonight. Big talkers. Ignore them. I'm looking for a
little shrimp, so they say. Word on the street is that this one's in the
noise, whatever that means.
They tell that this boy's out of North Carolina. N-o-r-t-h C-a-r-o-l-i-n-a.
That big bruiser is hogging the whole band. My AGC is pumping like...
well, forget it. This is no place for a weakling to hang out. I'm not
listening to him anyway. They've got a name for guys like that. KW's,
DXers, Contesters, All I know is that they all cramp my style.
What's he doing here anyway? Time to put an ear to this blabber.
Then it comes.
I get hit between the eyes. How could it be? I feel like a speed bag at
the corner gym. How could it be? He's supposed to be weak, in the
noise, unfindable. That's why they call on me, I find the weak ones.
This one's louder than the steam whistle on the Century Limited.
I jump him. He's 599, plus. Plus what? 10... 20... 100? Damn Norcal, no
He gives me the old 569. Sure pal, whatever you say, like I've never
been called worse. Fact is, I bagged you buddy. You're in the log.
I am good at this business.
My job was done... or so I thought.
Paperwork. Time? Date? Time and date in GMT?
The thirteenth. Uh huh.
73! =paul= wb8zjl
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