I had been camped out across the street watching the jewelry shop for longer than I could remember. I found cover in an abandoned car and blended in with all the other forgotten cars along Airline Drive, a place that reminded me of the wreckage yards of Xanthar. The only difference was all life on Xanthar had been eliminated in the Seventh Great Neutron War and I was still bumming smokes to members of Rebirth Brass Band. This Earth music group must be larger than the Zanthian Orchestra, as incredible as that might sound.
I saw the chocolate faced man walk in the shop after smoking many cigarettes and drinking many beers on the side of the building. He looked out of place, even given the surroundings. When he walked out about ten minutes later with a briefcase, I knew he was the connection. If I followed this poor bastard and find the diamonds I could nail his Jew boss for dealing in the rocks. If this guy was selling conflict diamonds as The Lieutenant suspected, I wanted to take him down. When I was a green rookie on the force, they sent me out to a standard recon of Slagar. Turns out the planet had a lot more going on then anyone guessed. There were large diamond deposits underneath the surface and the Jews were mining it out with a vengeance. After I'd rescued that first tiny robot dog pup from the mine, I swore it was personal.
I guess everything's personal these days.
The man in the paint stained clothes began to take a baffling connection of bus routes and I tried to keep up, but he was more proficient at this game than I. He moved from ease stretching his single dollar farther than transportation should physically allow. I kept a distance back on my hoverbike and I don't think he saw me. Finally, he got off in what my maps labeled as the city's Uptown sector.
The mule moved down the street in a jagged pattern, perhaps trying to throw anyone tracking his movements. Or perhaps he was just really wasted. Either way, he turned a corner and vanished. I glanced around, but the only activity I could see was a house with a man standing out front. This could be the market for unloading the diamonds, I couldn't be sure. I would try to get in, hopefully I could talk my way past this guard at the front.
"It's five dollars, man," he told me as I got closer.
I took him in. His earth pants were very tight and made of a fabric I recognized as denim. They were "jeans" I surmised. His vision must be impaired because he wore glasses, although not the most aerodynamic I'd seen, as they were large and black rimmed.
"What's five dollars?" I asked him. I had to feel this out and play it cool. If he was the bouncer to an illicit diamond trading market, I would have to bring my A-game.
He made an exasperated sound.
"It's a show, man. Pay to see the band plus you can eat all the tofu you want."
I took it all in, but it really didn't help.
"Hey, did you see a black guy come in here a little while ago?"
He turned his nose up, literally.
"Black? What are you? Some kind of racist? Maybe you should go somewhere else, I bet there's a NASCAR race or something on TV," he said chuckling.
I put my hand on my blaster, but kept it holstered. I really wanted to blow his head off right there, but I refrained. Maybe I could find his weakness. My matrix did a quick assessment of his attire and identified him as an Earth sub-species known as "Hipster." I found the approach to exploit him.
"Listen, tell me what I want to know or I'll tell all your friends I saw you at Hot Topic last weekend," I threatened.
He broke. He looked at the door and then back again.
"Ok, I know the guy, he had a briefcase. I was afraid he'd steal something. I let him in a couple minutes ago," he said.
I looked at him. "That wasn't too tough, now was it?" I paused and glanced through the window on the side of the doorway. "Just what kind of show is this?"
The hipster seemed to regain his composure despite the threat. "You've probably never heard of them," he sniffed. "They're called Farewells in Brazil. It’s made up of a sitar, a trombone, an upright bass and a tin whistle.
He paused for a second.
"Think if Grunge Pharaoh joined with Chemical Cranberry in the rehearsal space of 3 a.m. Arrival while The Indian Trace Sessions sang backup. It's post-Emo new wave Skacore from L.A."
I remembered the time on Woozathon when my universal translator gave out. The native species had me in shackles. I seemed to be facing a similar situation. I did not understand a single word uttered.
"You've probably never heard of any of those bands. It's ironic."
I forced my way past this guardian to the six people gathered inside the hallway. I immediately felt uncomfortable. I heard utterances unspeakably annoying.
“I bleached my hair today, then decided I didn’t like it so I dyed it back.”
I stumbled.
“God, does anyone actually listen to CDs anymore? Don’t they realize vinyl is so much better?”
Another misstep.
“Everything is just so corporate .”
The walls were closing in. I was in hell - and there were hipsters there.
“I’m in a kickball league. That’s ironic.”
I stumbled again.
"This band, they cover an N’Sync song. That's ironic."
I turned on the skinny, tall guy who said that last thing and unloaded.
"That's not irony you son of a bitch. I think you're fishing for sarcasm. Irony is being a Greek king and having sex with your mother or buying a set of combs for your bald whore of a wife."
He stared at my blankly.
"Are you being ironic?"
By the Gods of Jupiter, I wanted to blow his head off with my blaster. But, I knew better. The Lieutenant would have my badge and McGruff wasn't around to take the fall.
Things couldn't get any worse. Then I heard that voice.
"Yo, space dawg! I'm back!"
I turned around and saw him, a head in a jar perched on a robot body. The metallic fingers held a blunt in one hand.
Oh shit. It was Will.
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