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Cracked Part 1....
'...Got a little carried away with yourself, back there, dude?' I think to myself on the return drive to the hotel. '...Uh...' Cin unselfishly let me hold her ride. Guess she figured it was the least she could do, considering what I'm about to do for her. That, and my using her Neon's all part of the plan we scribbled on two napkins. The plan she kept telling me is so, 'far out'. Even for me. She has no conception whatsoever of how far out it can get in cyberspace, and my previous exploits in it. Where am I now? I happen to look up and recognize the towering frou frou billboard advertising yet another Sprint rip off. We passed this ad on the way over. Cin gave me good directions for getting back to the hotel, but I really didn't need 'em. I didn't tell her why, though. Been to Vegas every one of the ten years since getting intimately mixed up with my 'homies.' The light flicks to green, and I start off again. I'm behind the wheel, with hands white-knuckled, abusing the pliable leather of the grip-guard my mindblowing fg's put on it. Dawn's early is about to happen any moment now, and I'm one sleepy 'Dudley Do Wrong.' As I cruise past gambling establishments which cater to a lower rung of low rollers, I'm not regretting that I offered to help her out in the way I have in mind. Dammit, I'm gonna. I'm gonna come through for her in a way I've never come through for _anybody_ before. Mulder and Scully as a package deal, included. Hell, _myself_ even. It's just that...well, I've admitted this to myself more than a few friggin' times on this drive back. I'm a little scared... Okay, I'm lyin'. Okay? I'm 'fly into the Death Star, and detonate it' scared. I've never done something like this before; dreamed about it, hell, yeah, but never actually done this deed either, like the other. Too many things could go wrong; a bazillion. Things so hairy, I could grow another head of. So, I tell myself, stop thinkin' about what could go wrong. As I pull into the hotel's boomeranged driveway for valet parking, I know I'm gonna do it, arguments against closed. Hell yeah, I'm gonna do this, because, aside from wanting to help my long lost lady love out of a sleazy jam, and her son get a better start in this ass-kicking world, which is a rush all its own, if I can really pull the multiple transfunds-crack off, even if I manage only one, it'll be the mother of all rushes. Me and a rocket-sonde will have a payload in common. Cin gave it her best shot, trying to convince me that the risk is unacceptable. 'Richie, you can't do this...' She's naive but she's not stupid; stealing is stealing regardless of whether or not the intentions and the reasons are good. If I get in trouble on account of my trying to even the score with her ex, she said she'd never speak to me again. Ha! Like I'd be speakin' to much of anybody, locked behind bars, being someone named Mitch the Fist's 'girlfriend.' What a way to lose my virginity, God... The full-bodied kiss, the real nice capper, which Cinny gave me, started the T-minus countdown a half-hour ago. I wet my lips with a sandpapery tongue, and think about getting a Coke from the machine on our floor. I haven't had a good rush of the cracking kind in ages. I'm needy for it. Frohike and Byers love steppin' on my Converse-covered toes, but this time... "Leave the keys?" I look at the keys in question in my right hand, before deserting the car, then shrug. "Yeah, dude, no hassle." And I hand them off to the attendant who's dressed like he's Prince Charming, or somebody equally lame. The soda machine's fresh out of Coke, so I opt for a ' Dew, which on second thought might be better, taking into account the 'rain dance' ahead of me. I feel like I'm perched on the rider of a fifteen foot fence, peering down into a tank of sharks. Once I get some of this stuff in me, I'll be better able to assess if those sharks have actual teeth, or are all dorsal fins. Man, I really am tired, I think again as I extract my lockslip and open the door to where we're holed-up. Can I really do this on half-mast gray matter? I take another swig of incentive, and head for the makeshift setup I largely set up alone. Byers and Frohike were too busy arguing about who was gonna be the high roller and who got to be waiter in the charade we conjured, which unraveled in their astonished faces. Served 'em right. I shoulda been the player, and if I _had_ been, I woulda had nothing but winning hands, and I wouldn't've let those 'crap-e-zoids' at that table burn me! "Where the hell've you been?" Ah, yeah...there it is the blare that inspires punk-ass comebacks. "What the hell's it to you, Doohickey?" I bark back, not as much pissed with him as with his waking up this precise moment. Damn him; he's gonna wanna know what shit I'm up to once I get started. If he decides to bug me, that is. "None-a your freakin' business, man. Delete you." "Got some action, huh? At last." I gape at him. "Losin' it in Vegas. What better place?" he says, the leer leaping out to arrest my divided attention. "'Bout time, virgin man. Don't know what you were savin' it for." And he's laughing like he's heard the funniest joke, only it's me. "Screw you, asshole..." "For your first time, it musta been a lousy lay. But how would you know? You've got nothing to compare it with," he mutters, gets up from the bed he was sharing with a lightly snoring Byers, and heads for the john. "Hasn't made your disposition any nicer. If you paid for it, you was robbed." I hate it when he chuckles like that; all back in his throat and irky. Before I hear the bathroom door close to allow for privacy, I flip him the fickle finger of the action he's so sure I had. Cin was hard to read after the kiss. I dunno what I would've done if she'd wanted to take me on. Check me out; like she doesn't get her fill of dudes as it is. What she said about just talkin' for a change sticks in my mind. Well, that level of intimacy never materialized, and I won't say I'm sorry it didn't. Once we got started, if we had, she'd have known what I still am, in a snap. She would have called me a baby, and I'd be in all my naked dishonor, wishing she had never found out. And...there's Leese now. Don't wanna initiate myself by bein' a shit from the start. Even if she never found out, I'd still be hurtin' her. Saying ya love someone... Hell; that freaks me too. I haven't said it to Leese yet, and she's so rare, she didn't press me for it after she told me how she feels in spite of the lack of intimacy. I'm sorta building up to the whole enchilada the next time I see her. I'm already scared witless just thinking about being with her the way she kinda expects. Am I soundin' like 'nowhere man' here? What the hell's with me? Will I_ever_ grow up? Besides, for my first time, I would've felt deeply creepy with Cin's kid right in the next room. I can't get it out of my head. How can she do it at her place, and her boy's under the same roof with his mom going at it with skeezy strangers? The small shudder gets poured into the arc light I turn on, and as I try to flush any telltale, unsavory images my mind has dredged up, I hear Byers' familiar sharp intake of breath. Oh, damn, man. Not him too? "Why are you booting up?" he hits me with. He's climbed onto his elbows, and eyeing me suspiciously. "Ringo?" "You're still in dreamland..." I drop my voice, "Narcoleptic." I let my fingers do the talking, then pause for the desired recognition. Not from Byers; from the servos and their bundles. "What are you doing? Going after another Black Ops drop-in?" He's growing wider awake, but I can still downplay that. "You're only dreamin' it's me," I bounce off him, and make with a mantra so he takes the hint, and falls back. No go, dammit. He's ditching the bed bent on pestering me. I mask the access I've just achieved, and think up something furiously. "'Hike set you straight about your babe-in-someone-else's-arms?" Woof. That was some bad look he just exploded me with. It's a good thing I know we're supposed to be through thick an' thin friends. "I'd rather not talk about Susanne, if you don't mind," he assures me huffily, so I go Cro-Magnon on him. Swear, the guy so asks for it sometimes. "Face it, Byers, the chick's doin' ya a phat favor. You can do a lot better than that f'in' tramp." The bucket he was soaking his head in earlier today is close enough to him for chucking it at me. I avert my eyes away from the potential missle. "If there were ever a time for you to keep your rude mouth shut," Byers hisses, "you should pick this one," and he stops his advance on me. Good, I've gotten him mad. And when Byers gets mad, he's less likely to take anything I do, or say seriously. Although, I had my qualms about his hurling that bucket at me. "Why are you still wearing your suit?" He ignores me. He starts looking around the room for something he won't comment about. The interval affords me the chance to lay all the passbooks off to my left. I open them to the pages on which the account numbers are on, and study the two pairs of figures; three of them belong to Scumbag...the fourth's Cin's. Of the quad, hers is the easiest to memorize, and by the time Byers finds the Tylenol he was looking for, I can quote the eight-digit nomial identifier in my sleep; backwards and forward. "Where did you get those? Who do they belong to? What--" I splice and dice him for coming up from behind like that, scaring the living crap outta me. "Better back off the hell away from me," I snap viciously, and he looks as though I've already severed his head from his body. That's Byers, man... "Okay, okay," he counters, suddenly sounding leery. Actually afraid that I might break all over his scaredy-cat ass, finally. Which I'd never do. Not even on a worst day, but a healthy fear of the 'Wrath of Langly' could go a long way for his getting off my case. "I'm just curious," he pitter-patters, finding a voice to go along with the chastened look on his face. "Okay, gimme a minute," I relent, "and I'll fill you in," I lie with a face as deadpan as they come. "They're not what you think they are." "This is a bankbook," he affirms, having plucked up Cin's for closer, more thorough examination. I'm all wide-eyed innocence. "Like I said, _not_." I swipe it back. "Absorb this. It's a phony." He folds his arms over his chest. "It looks like a real McCoy to me," he says suspiciously. "I'm branching out the skills," I expansively tergiversate. I focus my intent, all set to really lie my ass off when Frohike breaks out of the john, looking as onery as when he went in. "I'm hungry," he growls, and I think about that bear. The grizzly in a woods somewhere in Oregon I had pictured in my mind when I was describing Fro' to Cin. To my and Frohike's surprise, Byers says, "I am too. I shouldn't have foregone dinner last night." Like we don't know the reason why your appetite got trashed, I press the dig for the inner snipe. "I'm in the mood for Eggs Benedict." "And I know you're in the mood for chow, Chewie, after your fling. So how's about I spring for some breakfast?" I nearly fall out of the chair. Since when does Doohickey treat? Is it remotely possible he was worried about me 'cos I didn't come home? _Nah_. That'd be the day... He'll probably help me pack, if the day ever comes when I decide to lamb. "Count me out, guys. I already ate." Boy, did I ever. Cin just sorta picked, so I helped clean her plate too. "When?" Frohike wheedles. "A little while ago, man.
Eggs, bacon, home "Then I'll borrow John's. You comin'?" he directs at Byers, and he nods, running a hand over his jacket, which remarkably isn't harboring a single wrinkle. "You're a fine one to hassle about a tie," he razzes me. "In all the years I've know ya, I've never seen you saddle yourself with one." I laugh in his heckling face. Byers straightens his tie, then sits down to put his shoes on, even giving them a quick trousers buff before they take off. Good...alone at last I revel once the door closes. Alone with my machine 'et' attachments, and it's all about _my_ Pentiums. The way it's always been. The prompt waited patiently. Good prompt; greater network. This time, the patches are granite. Only as good as their cords, and they're golden. Wasn't even a matter of improvising. We came well prepared this year, no corners cut. I give myself several cuffs beneath the chin. I've typed in his account number with 'Las Cruces Federal Savings.' In less than a minute I'm plugged into his financial history, as zippy as you please, which pleases me to noend. I'm gettin' the feelin', and my heart rate responds to the varied stimuli. I'm breathing hard, relishing each jaggy breath, as ill-timed as they may be. '...Get me there, take me there; anyway you can, jumpstart...' Several rapid-fired prompts later, and 'to wire transfer to' appears. I'm quick with my response. Smiling, heady and ready, I double click. The tidy sum is deposited where it rightfully belongs. In Cin's thirsty account. I've successfully completed my first illegal transfer of somebody else's ill-gotten gain. My high's buildin', and the zone I love bein' in is babblin' my name. I go with it as easily as I go with all the cool, no-brainer stuff I love doin'. Initial success had me all hopped-up for extracting the next stash. Once I'm in his 'NorWest Bank of Nevada' account, (the branch at 9325 W. Sahara Ave.) my eyes pop as they embrace the sizeable sum he has sacked away here. Mercy... Scumbag could fill his Jacuzzies with Benjamins scores of times over. My fingers devour the keyboard as though they don't need any insipience from me. They've got knowledge, acquired and tested, all their own, instinctive and immediate. I gloat huge once Scumbag's loot no longer resides where it did moments ago. Fun is a weak description for what I'm having. What I'd begun calling a labor of love-tinged vengeance, has morphed into one hungry turn on. I'm so stoked, the seat of my pants is soaked. I'm on fire down there. Would you believe my lenses are foggin' up? Time for the third jewel in this triple crown. The windfall whose home's in Frisco. Exact location, the BVB; BayView Bank. The fleet search completes, credentialing is given the green flag, I breathe relief. The 'window of opportunity' I've worked like an ant hefting a two gram crumb to raise pops up. Yeah, oh, man. I'm staring at his net worth here at 540 Van Ness; a lusty wolf whistle of a jackpot that's good and plenty. The throes of moving the bulk of his hefty fortune overtake me. I'm gonna leave him with the harpooning two cents I've left in his other accounts. No. Screw that. It all goes. Like I told her...'I got the power.' Don't I though. I am 'The Man.' My final installment of key-in passes faster than an instant, and my work's almost done. Good thing too. I'm being sprayed with ID verifiers in one to two minute increments. I re-type what got me in, in the first place, and that seems to satisfy the pesky 'watchdog' for the time being. I double click, a hesitation that's quickly followed by CTRL-DELETE-F8 through F11, then ALT for the SysRq... To breathe another relieved sigh-- _WHAT THE HELL_ How was this dragged up? It's a 'par-en-par.' The unbelievable prompt siphons the little breath I still have trapped in my lungs expertly away. What a trip, and I mean it purely in the actual. 'Initiate Link With Swiss Bank Router?' It's way hard to hear myself think over the din of my pounding heart. Man, it's pounding so hard its rhythm is flailing against my damn T-shirt, and the pounds have a voice...'go for it-go for it-go for it'. Under the hypnotic spell, way before any better judgement asserts itself, my right index finger convulses in the affirmative. 'Who am I?' I've told you already. I panick, and doubt using the same account number is gonna work for the Swiss. A more cautious voice, the one I more times than not choose to ignore when I get like this, warns me to cease and desist before my trigger-happiness drops me in shit's creek dog paddling. Where's Byers when I need him? _Who_? What drugs am I on? Like he'd really help me with this. Can't ya just hear him get as preachy as all get out? Tellin' me I've done a bad, bad thing. Even if it is for a cause I see fit to call good. How much you wanna bet Mr. Puritan would call the cops? Have 'em arrest me and throw away the key? Getting cute, I throw caution to the wind and hammer: 'Remember for me.' Then a short cut I filched off of 'Wormskull,' in one of his weaker moments, for a 'sidewinder' which mimics 'parapar' to give the command a different spin. The relay is totally devoid of a sense of humor. So, like what was I expecting? Uncle Miltie? Gilda Radner? Chris Rock? One of my 'knock-knock' jokes? Cyberspace does an impression of a night at the 'Improv'? _Not_. I'm dumped to a 'lockout' screen, left to stew, and it's here where I should collect my marbles and blow. It might as well be a holding cell. The little hour glass stubbornly sits there, refusing to give anything up. Again, what did I expect? Like it was gonna be way easy, even though I am in a tiny section of it? The Swiss Bank? Come on. I might as well be knocking literally on Fort Knox's door with a gunnysack, askin' for a damn hand-out. Maybe there is some truth to the rumor that _I'm_ certifiable more than Fro'. When I'm all hyper like this, that is. You'd think I'd know better about having that sixth sense and all, at this stage of the game. Which, when it's all boiled down, it is to me, always has been, guess always will be. Still all fired-up like this, and forced to cool my jets. So not easy. 'Re-enter previous account #'... I read and obey, all itchy. Knowing I should give this up, but just as stubborn to break through as the system is determined to keep me out. I employ another ploy. It tells me to type the account number again. Yeah. The bells are clanging non-stop, but, mentally, I mute 'em. I wanna see what goes down. I'm on the line and I'm rollin'. Goin' with the reel-in. Hook, line, sinker. If I sink, I'll rip out connection, leave the guys an encrypted message, haul this rig-up and my ass outta here faster than a speeding Miranda bein' read. Somehow, it's not feeling real now, like I'm gonna wake up any sec in a cell minus padding, and my worst nightmare, Mitch, is flexing his in his eyes. Bummer. All outta 'Dew.' I need a bracing hit, and a soft drink won't cut it; make it Boone's Fuzzy Navel instead. Not that hard, but not so soft either. I've been on the wagon for a while now; tryin' to be a good boy. Some funky permutations are going on in the system tray. I gulp, not liking what that could mean. So...what am I waiting for? Time to bail-- _No_! Give it another-- 'Compiling...converting...Please wait'... Please... Okay; but now what? Every nerve I possess strains as I wrestle with myself to hold it together. I must be nuts. Instead of asking for it, I should be in Cin's car, heading back to her place, pick her up for the trip to her bank so she can close her healthier account. Fight to hang tough, or opt for flight? I've never had an adreneline rush like this ever, adding to the fact that I've never had such a spooky feeling before either. I'm gonna auto-destruct. I tickle the hard plastics; (if this 'greaser' doesn't cut it, I'm out) and chant nice. 'KNOCK-KNOCK-KNOCK' Oh, shit! GO AWAY!! Is it the fuzz? "Room service..." I didn't order anything, my mind ripples, as my heart recovers from savage palpitations. I ignore the second rattling set of bangs, and mutter under my breath, "Go the hell away..." After knocking three more times, the dipwad finally takes my unuttered suggestions and cluefully splits. I gotta get outta-- I'M IN! MY Kung Fu, baby. The system's warlords have seen fit to grant Lord Manhammer access to Scumbag's Never, Never Land, for whatever reason I'm down on my knees for. Talk about Nirvana, man, to the tune of more dough than I've ever laid eyes on, or ever will again. Yeah, well, guess what? I'm _never_ doin' anything distantly-related to this ever again. I guess. Hell yeah. This is much too much excitement. Maybe twenty years ago I would've handled this more calmly, like a grades-changing hack. Course, I never did anything like that; honest. Tempted to, sure, but I never changed my grades or anybody's. Not even Cin's, and changing her mid-term grade of eighty in Trig., without her knowledge, to a ninety-five was something I saw myself doing a couple of times in my dreams. I fill my lungs with air, point, click, and the bread's converted into U.S. currency. Slap me senseless. Talk about mass conversion, part and parcel of autonomic generation. And this booty's all for you, Cin. Hell, for you and that nifty baby boy of yours, I would go through this again. It is possible to survive terminal nervous prostration, and live to tell. Call me quirky, but this time, I don't make off with all the loot. Feeling charitable has nothing to do with it. I let Scumbag keep a thou. I'm overtired, wrecked and wanna get this the hell over with, and me out of this cyber'hood like since yesterday. I've pushed the envelope as far as I want to. Hey, it was real cool doin' business with ya, SB, BVB, NWBN and LCFS. I know; it's understood. I'll be sure not to make this a habit for the sake of my continued sanity, and freedom. I've been insanely lucky, shovin' my slippery Kung Fu aside. If I took this up as a serious hobby, sooner or later I'd mess up and have no one to blame but my own half-assed self when the cell door slams. I've returned to Cin's account, and it's lookin' real good. I smile contentedly, and flex my hands. My work's done here. So's what's left of my mind... My hands shaking the way they
are, and the fact that I need a whole fifteen minutes to stand is a litmus indication of how little
there is left to mess with. End Part 5 |
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