I should begin (I don't know why) by mentioning the fact that my Johnson has to be one of the ugliest, most vulgar, most repulsive individuals on the face of the Earth. Thank god he didn't goblinize. But, on your first night in a strange city when all you have to eat is a half gnawed ration bar and a raspberry juice box, you sometimes have to lower your standards.

I wish I could say my relations with my last Johnson ended pleasantly. Apparently the scoundrel in a suit tried to gyp me out of ten grand. I remember his last words as being "Maria, believe me." Him using my real name was more than enough justification to blow a two inch hole in his neck. I don't know why people are always going for the head. The neck is so much softer. Plus a bullet's impact tends to be more colorful.

I didn't know about his friends, the Symmetry Brothers, two twins who worked together better than God and Jesus. Nearly lost my new arm trying to simply get out of their way. There was no firing back at these guys. Over the duration of a four mile foot chase I still wasn't given the chance to unholster a pistol. Or hardly breathe.

So here I is, Seattle, the city of brotherly lone starred big apples. Or whatever. Doesn't matter. I just need a run. I'm beginning to get that trigger itch. Nearly made me cake a bouncer for no discernable reason. Just wanted to scratch the itch. You know how it is.

So my putrid Johnson hands me a silver platter with thirty grand on it. In other words, a simple slap and run facility hit isn't what I'd call work. I call it a vacation. But I need a car. Or needed. Or whatever. And we all know how the real runners get one. I mean, we don't want to be traced and followed and all that crap and we all know that a dead couple tossed into a river of industrial sludge isn't in any position to call the cops. Look for the make out points. Most people don't carry a firearm on a date.

It's an ok model, Ford Ameriawhatever. Probably daddy's. Perhaps I'll look him up in a few years and let him know what happened to sonny boy. But now the sec guard is checking me for I.D. and this place is too stupid to have cameras. Also it's kind of cool what happens after a bullet leaves the back of a person's neck. Looks kind of like those little blotter things the shrinks show people.

So the guard falls as does another and I don't even bother to stop for the third. Just ploughed her over. Didn't even bother to shoot her in the neck until I decided to leave and run her over a few more times. But now I'm inside. They didn't even bother to lock the doors, stupid people. And now I'm at the computer and I use the new eye datajack I got a few minutes ago. Didn't even realize I had it, really. Guess I was too busy blowing tunnels in people's necks. But the data is in my head now and I can see it mulling around, trying to find it's home, almost distracting me as I run over the guard eight or nine more times and shoot her in the neck on the way out.

And somebody has put the gate back up and there are more guards now and they won't let me shoot them in the neck. What did I do to make them not let me shoot them in the neck? But they're going away now. Oh, god damn, they're fading away and I can't shoot them in the neck and now I have to stare at this dingy apartment wall filled with no guns and no people to shoot and I don't know where they went. Help me, please, I need my world back because I can shoot all the people I want there and they can't shoot me back and I don't need Dennis to protect me here in my world. Dennis? Give me my world back. Yes, I'll do anything. Just give me my world back! I won't run away, I promise. Just give me my world, Dennis. Give me my world. I'll do anything for it. Give me another chip, Dennis. Please.....another chip.