Switch by Zak Vaudo (570 words)

The night’s wet and miserable as I walk through the grimy streets of Downtown, looking for McGinty’s: a pub full of lowlifes. Hate leaving Sara back home alone, but I have a job to do and it’s gotta get done. I lift my coat collar higher and stomp through dirty puddles.

.357’s dry and loaded, tucked in my coat. Picture of the target’s wet but clear: thick beard, Neanderthal forehead. I adjust my vest under my shirt– Israeli, top-grade. Been jumped too often on jobs, so it’s worth the loan I took out to afford it. I pocket the picture. McGinty’s is about five blocks ahead, so I better

The writer stopped and closed his eyes. He’s weary–it’d been hours, but this story still sucks. Too clichéd, too cookie-cutter. Who wants another basic pulp piece? He skipped back, edited some things, and reread it: better. He smiled and picked up where he left off.

hurry.

…What was that? Strange feeling. No time. Finish this, get home. It’s hot out here, and I don’t wanna be here longer than necessary.

So freakin’ hot here. Why’d I bring this coat? Because it was…wet? But it’s not… I strip it off and move the pistol to my waistband. So tired. Finish the job. get some sleep.

Target’s a mean lug named Smith, wanted for murder…or was it smuggling?…Can’t remember. Doesn’t matter. Almost to McGinty’s and my head’s all

Wait, no: He can’t use McGinty’s. Some show already used it. Might as well fix more things, too. Changed time, changed locale, and…perfect. He kept typing.

fucked.

That same feeling..couldn’t place it. Had to be the medicine. I always say these weekly doses ain’t good for the population. That’s the 22nd Century for you.

22nd WHAT? No, it’s…what year is it? Gotta be meds screwing with me–no! It’s NOT the meds! Damnit. I can’t sit here like this: Smith’s sitting in the pub. Get in, do the job, get out. Think later.

I pushing through the crowded street. Wasn’t it empty before? Stop it. Stay focused. Blaster’s heavy in my pocket….the fuck’s a blaster? Screw it. If it shoots, it works.

There. Alabaster’s Pub. Wait: that wasn’t the name. But it’s the only pub here. I shake myself off and put my hand on the door.

He drummed his fingers and wracked his brain for better ideas. Nothing felt right: too hokey, too rushed, too whatever. Deadline’s coming. He picked at random.

Another headache hits me.

“Eric?” Sara’s standing behind me, gorgeous as ever.

“Sara, what’re you doing here?“

"Who?"

"You…” Head’s reeling. She rolls her eyes.

“Jenny, dick. Learn my name already.”

Jenny? No, Sara. I know that. Or…maybe it is Jenny. Always been, right?

“…what’re you doing here?”

Boring. Deleted. Different direction.

My eyes fuzz as the headache passes. Where did Jenny go? Or Sara? I’m going crazy. I push the door.

Two bruisers leap at me: Fusion-humans. half-mechanical monstrosities. Nothing new. Blaster’s out and

No. Too far from the plot. He sighs and starts over..

The night’s wet and miserable.

No! No it’s fucking not! It was hot. Before THAT it was wet. I’ve done this, I KNOW I have. Where did Jenny–SARA–go? She was right here! Where’s the pub? What’s its name? Why am I back where I started? Mechanical faces and drugs and laser blasters and… why am I here?

Delete.

Everything’s sideways. I was a guy with a job. Now I’m…I’m nobody. It’s all going away. Dear God, it’s all gone away. I don’t

He kills the document and refills his coffee. Fuck it.

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