Underland Press

By Simon Drax
November 17, 2009

* * *

Exit Rector… Exit Rector… Exit Rector…

“Exit Rector,” whispered the man seated at the bar beside Mori—too damn close, in Mori’s opinion. If she wanted, Mori wouldn’t even have to stretch to hit him. Hit him hard.

Break his nose.

Make him bleed.

Make the asshole beg, the asshole, the…

“Exit Rector,” the man said again, as if to himself.

Oh, way too close, Mori thought. The jerk had better shut up, soon.

She turned away and drank.

The bar was dark, thick with smoke. About her, losers and loners, bent over their drinks. Old music played, but nothing too obnoxious—ancient shit from the 20th century, some moron’s idea of cool, black plastic keyboard synth crap—but really, nothing too bad, nothing too loud. And up until five seconds ago the bar had been fine, the place had been a balm, a cloak, a fucking bomb shelter. But now…

“No shit, Exit Rector,” the jerk beside her whispered, his voice climbing toward a puzzled whine. He studied his handheld Sony ATRA-P4, then glanced at the big flatscreen that flickered and pulsed behind the bar. The man raised the Sony so that the device could clearly "see" the screen.

The man nodded to himself. “Yeah, yes… that’s what this one’s saying, too. ‘Exit Rector!’”

VECTOR, you fucking, dickless, shithead, dickwad, asswipe… dick, Mori thought, but said nothing. She closed her eyes, picked up her drink again. It was the sixteenth drink Mori had ordered in the last sixty minutes. She tilted it back. Oh, goddamn spring water of Mother Russia—it was cold and good. She’d splurged, ordered the expensive shit. Mori finished, a not-quite-satisfied little gasp on her lips; she winced, rubbed at her jaw.