Sample Sunday: Chasing Filthy Lucre

I haven't participated in a Sample Sunday in a long time. Here's a little something from Chasing Filthy Lucre. Hope you like it. If you do, leave a comment. If you really like it then buy a copy. It's in all the usual spots. For direct links click the "Where to read me" tab at the top of the page.

 There was an older gentleman who spent his nights sitting in the lobby watching the people pass on the street and reading a book. He couldn't sleep and he'd rather be downstairs than up in his apartment. At least he told me that’s why I always saw him when I came in at night. A nice guy. Never said more than a few words to me.

“Good evening, Mr. Rexall,” he said when I’d come in late.

“Please,” I’d say, “call me Weber.”

“Sure thing, Mr. Rexall.”

That was it, our entire exchange. It always made me smile. He was there when I got home that night carrying my haul from Raul’s.

I climbed the stairs to my apartment. I sat the bags down in front of my door and fished in my pocket for my keys. Inside, I sat the bag from Raul's on the kitchen counter. If this were a few years earlier, I would have plugged in as soon as I was inside my apartment. The port in my arm would have itched, would have begged me to put it to use.

There was a wire straight from the wall, added as a convenience years before I moved in. Easy data access for anyone with a terminal. I’d had it converted to my own personal hot jack. Plug in. Heat up. Pass out.

Plugged into the feed, I could forget about life for a few minutes. The experience started as a tingle near the port where the wire connected to my arm. It started like something crawling under your skin but quickly turned to a burn that rushed across the entire body. For a few minutes it was uncomfortable. You wanted to pull off your skin. But, if you could wait -- if you could push through the hurt -- your body would settle into the rush of data that was assaulting every last nerve. You would calm. You couldn’t hear anything. You couldn’t think anything. You just were. For your time on the wire you didn’t have to deal with life in the present or remember life in the past. All of those things you’d seen or done were gone. They weren’t affecting you anymore. That was the appeal. That’s why so many soldiers were the first to abuse the technology.

When someone said they were "on the wire," the wire referred to was the one that ran from your port to your brain, not the one from the source to your port, although that’s what most people thought. It was an understandable confusion.

It was a technology developed by a team of Dutch doctors and scientists. Exactly how it worked I couldn’t tell you, but it’s made up of three parts.

There’s the port. It’s typically inserted into the arm, but really it could go anywhere. The older a person was the more discrete the location of their port. The younger, the more visible. Many kids were opting for a port in the neck. The thinking was that the shorter the distance from the port to the brain, the more intense the sensation. How much more intense the experience needed to be, I wasn’t sure.

The second element was the wire itself. It’s a fine piece of microfilament that ran from the port to the brain and the third element, the net.

A net, also made of microfilament, was woven into the different parts of the brain. The digital came into the port, ran along the wire, and then spread across the net and into the user's head.

The original applications were military. Soldiers were given their mission details with the port. They’d plug in at night and wake the next morning with their orders and all pertinent background information.

The original ports came with a governor that controlled the flow of data to the brain. Hackers cracked those soon after ports were approved for commercial use.

Mine was a military unit, first generation. I had it cracked in a small computer shop two blocks from base as soon as I was discharged. Done by a hack in a back room. Me laying on a table and him plugging a beaten up laptop into my port.

He punched some keys and I laid there and felt the flush of digital for the first time. It started with a tingle that ran up my arm and into my shoulder. It crossed over to my neck and then into my head. It became an intense heat that left me dizzy and light headed.

From my head, it ran down my chest, past my waist, and into my toes. For the first time I felt my head tip back and my mouth drop open. I could no longer think. Nothing was in my head. All the things I’d seen and done had been replaced by the heat of the data.

After thirty minutes and twenty bucks I was on the wire.

Chasing Filthy Lucre: Excerpt 5

And we keep on rolling. Here's part five. Hope you all are enjoying this. If you missed the previous sections find them here:
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4

Chasing Filthy Lucre: Excerpt 4

Excerpt the fourth. Tell me what you think, good or bad.

Part 1
Part 2
Part 3

Chasing Filthy Lucre: Excerpt 3

Here's Part 3 of Chasing Filthy Lucre. Again, if you like it let me know. If you hate it let me know that too. Just do it gently. If you see something that needs to be fixed I also want to know that.

In the past I put up Part 1 here.
And Part 2 here.

Chasing Filthy Lucre: Excerpt 2

Here's the second excerpt from Chasing Filthy Lucre. Our two heroes get to know a little more about each other.

In case you missed it the previous section is here: Excerpt 1

Chasing Filthy Lucre: Excerpt 1

Wanted to share a bit of the first part of Chasing Filthy Lucre. Thought I'd serialize the first section on the blog while I still try and get things ready to publish. These will be longer than the previous excerpts. I didn't write this in chapters, so the lengths may vary. Here's the first. I'd love to hear what you think, both good and bad.

Another unedited excerpt

Here's a bit of what I've been working on. It's from the beginning of Part Four. I don't think it gives anything away. No specifics, anyway. But some might consider what's included here as a spoiler, so I'll warn you in advance. This may be a bit of a spoiler. And this is unedited writing that's about ten minutes old so be nice if there are typos or grammar mistakes.

The steps to my apartment seemed longer and taller that night. It felt like I was on the top of Everest by the time I made it to my door. I fished in my pocket for keys and, once inside, I collapsed into the chair in the middle of the room and rubbed my arm. It had been a few days since I’d been on the wire. I told myself that I wouldn’t plug in until we’d finished all of our business.

Out the window I could still see the flames coming over the tops of buildings and I could hear the crowds of people gathered down at the docks, either to help or just to watch the destruction.

I plugged the feed into my port and felt the warmth over take me. From my elbow up to my shoulder. From my shoulder down my back and up my neck. Then down to my toes. Everything went fuzzy and the red from the flames became and orange mess as I slowly faded away.

I woke the next morning with a pool of drool on my chest and the sun beating on my face. I tried to pull my left arm up to my face to check my watch, but I couldn’t lift it. I’d over done it and my arm was dead. Not literally, but for a few hours it was useless.

I stumbled out of the chair and went through my morning routine one-handed. Toothpaste on the toothbrush. Shampoo in my hair. Making toast. All of it just a little more difficult. But that was OK because we’d taken care of our business. We’d made what happened to Carroll right. Made it all square.

A warm reaction

Got the first feedback from some in my writers group and it was good. Got a nice reception and people want to know what's next in the story. That's always nice. Also got told that my story and writing was better than someone who is a professional, NY-accepted author who has a bit of buzz right now. That was nice to hear. Nope, not going to say who it is since people can Google themselves. I'd hate for that to happen and have that author see that I was told they were better than them. Not like that would matter to this person, but just don't want to make any enemies or anything like that.

Have started Part Four and like where it's gone. As I was wrapping up Part Three I decided to expand a subplot. I'll have to go back to add to the previous sections, but in Part Four I've written it in. It's going to make the main protag -- Weber Rexall, in case you've forgotten -- a little more of an unsympathetic character, and that's what I wanted. The reader is supposed to root for the guy but easily see his flaws. He's not the virtuous leading man. But he doesn't live in a very virtuous world.

That's it for now. Wanted to check in since it's been a few days.

An excerpt

I have been making steady progress on Chasing Filthy Lucre. We are about 3,500 words into the third section of the story. This won't make any sense, but Rexall and Berger are building their team and getting things in place to carry out the plan that they are about to develop. I have a couple more steps to write and Rung 10 will be done. I've already started setting up Rung 11.

Since I haven't done this in a while, here's an excerpt of something I just wrote. Literally wrote it today so it hasn't been edited or polished. If you like it let me know. If not, let me know that too.

The crowd that gathered on Fortson could only be described, if we’re being charitable, as rough. If we weren’t being charitable it was a bunch of liars and thieves. But they were smart liars and thieves. What had begun along Fortson Street as a place for people to trade services for goods had turned into something else. It evolved into a black market that was populated by the under class of New Eden, the desperate and the crooked.

Berger and I arrived just before the sun went down. I had the description of an explosives guy an Army buddy told me he knew. Said that our guy was also a former soldier, trained by the government in how to make big things into bunches of small things. He had dark hair, unshaven face with a medium build and average height. If I hadn’t known better I’d have thought he was describing me.

I was told that he’d be waiting near the shutdown drugstore two shops from the corner of Fortson and Fifth. When Berger and I arrived the only person there was an old man trying to bum a few dollars for a hit from the hothouse that was only a few blocks from our location. It was a small hothouse. The air here was still and there was no crowd gathered, no people coming or going.

Berger fished a dollar from his pocket and put it in the man’s eager hands. We waited in front of the drugstore for a few minutes and our guy never showed, but someone else did.

She put her hand on her hip and said everyone called her Simmer. Simmer Jones, full name. She twirled her gun on an index finger like some gunfighter from a western movie and smiled.

I shook my head. This one was good. Couldn’t see a seam or anything on the skin. Her eyes blinked slow, but not unnatural. And she had more curves than a typical Serve-O. Put crudely, this one was built with birthing hips. She had short chopped hair and olive skin. They had dressed her in green cargo pants and a white tank top.

“Keep moving, Simmer,” I said. “Not interested.”

Some progress and a little taste

Made some progress on the WIP. About 500 words, I think. Would have liked to have done more, but had a few day job related things to take care of before I started writing. Once I got to writing, though, the words came pretty easy. And 500 words is progress so I can't complain about that.

Figured I'd post another excerpt. It had been so long since I'd posted one I had to go back and see what I'd put up. Turns out that if you read all the excerpts you get a decent idea of what the story is and where it's going. If you do that, know that the present tense thing seen in earlier excerpts and a little here is gone. I started writing it that way, but it was presenting too many problems. I have a printout of the first part of the WIP that is dripping red ink from all the verbs I marked that need changing.

Anyway, here's the unedited excerpt.

The ships along the south bay were loaded with mismatched boxes and shipping containers. Men worked through the night getting cargo ready to drop on to the overstuffed decks. Cranes groaned over our heads, pulling full boxes up to the decks. Men called out instructions and the ships fought against the ropes holding them close to the docks.

Berger watched the action and shook his head.

“Horrible job,” he said. “I don’t care how much you paid me, I wouldn’t do it again.”

Spray from the bay was coming up and catching the men around the ships. Most wore long pants and t-shirts that were dripping wet.

“I don’t know,” said the runner, his jacket now off and thrown over one shoulder. “It can’t be as bad as what we’re doing now.” I nodded my agreement.

“Nah,” said Berger. “That work is worse. You know how much I’d have to work to make what I am going to make tonight?”

“Yeah, but it’s risk and reward thing,” I said.

“How many guys you know died doing that job?” the runner asked.

“You mean physically or otherwise? ‘Cause I’m not sure there is a difference.”

The runner shook his head. “Then you’re an idiot.” Berger popped him in the back and the runner stumbled forward.

Moving forward on my WIP

I added about another thousand words to the work in progress last night. Then about 350 more this morning.

It's a three part story* and I solidified the path to the end of part one. I knew where I needed to go but didn't know how I would get there. I figured that out last night. I also figured out how to work in a bit of characterization I needed to work in with my main supporting character. I wrote that part before work this morning but I'm afraid it needs to be amped up. There are guns drawn and shots fired. It should be more exciting that it seems to be right now. I need to reread what I wrote, but it seems flat.

I am thinking that I will add one of those WIP bugs on the right side over there in the next few days. To keep me accountable.

Here's another sample from it, with a bit of an explanation of the idea of data running that I'm playing with. Let me know if it doesn't make sense. And keep inmind that these are all first drafts.

As we walk back to Raul’s to get ready for that night’s action we try and stay on the streets that are well lit. The sun in going down and casting long shadows down the asphalt. The buildings are getting taller as we head into downtown and I am explaining what it is that Carroll does.

“It’s called data running,” I say, waiting at a corner for a man pulling a small cart on the back of his bicycle to pass, the orange flag attached to the seat is popping in the breeze. Berger nods like he knows what I am talking about but I know he doesn’t, he can’t.

I lift my left sleeve and show him the port in my arm, just below my elbow.

“You’re on the wire?” Berger asks.

I nod and tell him that I could be. “I’ve got the equipment, but I don’t use it. Not often anyway.”

“So, what does that have to do with Carroll and this job?”

“It’s how they run data.” We turn the corner and pass the restaurant we ate at a few nights before. We hear generators rumble to life. Shop keepers are starting to turn on the lights outside their front doors and little pools of light are beginning to litter the sidewalk. I continue. “They sit a guy in a chair, hook him up to a feed. They dump whatever info that needs to travel securely into a part of the brain that’s not being used and send him off with an address on a page and name of someone to ask for. Once they get to wherever it is they are supposed to go they get hooked back up and the data is pulled out of their heads. All we have to do is make sure they get there.”

* Possibly a novella since we are at 4,000 words now and not done with the first of three parts. We are looking at probably 25,000 to 30,000 words when all is said and done. Plus, it being a novella plays well into something I have been kicking around in the back of my head. More on that if something comes of it. **

** Thanks to Joe Posnanski for this little aside device. SO much easier than trying to work that info into the main post.

More from the current WIP

King of the abbreviations drops another one on you. WIP is work in progress for those who don't know.

Sue asked for a little more of what I am working on. These, by the way, are just a random few paragraphs. Not from the beginning or the end. And they don't go together so don't read this one as a continuation of the last one.

Berger takes a bite of his sandwich then mumbles with a full mouth, “And what did you do before you got started fighting?”

“I was a soldier, then a cop.” I look for the woman who took our order and ask her to bring us two beers. “These are on me,” I tell Berger. He nods his thanks then asks more questions.

“That where you learned to fight? The military?”

“That’s where they taught me how to throw a proper punch. Nobody teaches you how to fight. You just know how to do that. Born with it.”

The redhead sits two label-less brown bottles on the table. They are a home brew and I take a long drink. It’s bitter and I shut my eyes tight as I swallow, fighting to get it down.

“So, a soldier, huh?” I say to Berger and reach down to my boot and pull a pistol that’s been holstered to my ankle and put it on the table. “I guess you know how to use one of these.”

Berger smiles and says, “Yes, I’ve used a gun before.”

“How long ago did you last shoot?”

“Basic training.” He puts what’s left of his sandwich in his mouth and washes it down with a swallow of the home brew. “I worked the kitchen, and let me tell you, I make better sandwiches than these things. Better beer, too.” He slides his empty plate to the middle of the table and pulls his napkin from his lap.

Writing ADD and what I'm working on

That's attention deficit disorder, not just random capitalization. But I do think I have writing ADD. I have a tough time finishing things. And it's not because I think whatever project I 'm writing isn't good. It's just that something else in my head grabs hold of my attention and chokes it to the ground. For example, I have two pieces that I have started but sort of abandoned in favor of something that sprung into my head the other morning.

I wrote on it the other day and then again last night and we are around the 2,500 word mark right now. The words are still coming easy, and that may be why it's what I am wanting to write at the moment.

Here's a little taste of what I've been doing.

I push him off of me and he stumbles out to the middle of the circle. He struggles to stand and I come at him with a flurry of punches. First a right, then a left, then another right. I throw one more hard left and Berger’s head snaps back. He falls to the ground and the crowd starts to shout. A pair of men fight through the mob and grab Berger under the arms and drag him into a back room. I follow them, accepting congratulations.

Once the door shuts behind us one of the men who had been dragging Berger waves smelling salts under his nose. He shakes his head and his eyes blink open.

Raul stands up from the desk that’s in the corner. He approaches Berger and me with two stacks of cash, Berger’s bigger than mine since he took the fall.

“Sorry it can’t be more, boys,” he tells us.

“It’s alright,” I say, speaking for the both of us. “It pays the bills.”

And it does. That’s why I do this, not because I want to, but because I need to.

I sit with Berger for a few minutes after Raul has left. He’s given me the keys and asked me to lock up. We are in the basement below his store, a shop that sells a little of everything but specializes in nothing.

“Sorry that one was so rough,” I say to Berger as he pushes himself off of his back and onto his elbows. “I think I got carried away.”

Berger just smiles and tells me not to worry about it. “I’ve taken worse beatings,” he says. “At least I am getting paid for it now.”

I nod and agree. At least we are getting paid for it.