"Garbage Day" - читать интересную книгу автора (Mccarthy Wil)

things like that: "donkey fuckbrain vomit" and "diarrhea blood angel," and
Conrad's personal favorite, "mother-Christing piece of dammit." Ho seemed to
find some weird pleasure in mixing his cusswords up that way, or maybe it was
some subtle organic defect in his neural wiring, that the fax filters dismissed
as a mere character flaw.
In the Queendom of Sol, character flaws were considered your own damned
responsibility Ч you had to identify them yourself and then formally authorize a
medical doctor to repair them for you. Or better yet, you could treat it
yourself through personal experience and growth. And either way, if there were
side effects in your overall personality, well, those were your own problem as
well.
But Ho was only fourteen, so really it was his parents who should be worrying
about these things. And Conrad supposed they had, in their own special way: by
sending the boy off to summer camp. Very therapeutic, oh yes. Nothing cut down
on cusswords like having to shit in a goddamned outhouse.
A sour mood threatened briefly to come on, but the watery beer was really good
somehow, and the nachos were even better, and anyway Bascal seemed determined
that all his men should be cheerful tonight. Who could argue with that?
And then, before they'd even finished off their first glass, Bascal's
black-haired girlfriend showed up again, pulling up a plastic chair and
inserting herself between the prince and Conrad.
"Hi," she said, matter-of-factly. How much was unspoken in that one syllable!
Hi, Prince. I know who you are, Prince, but I don't care Ч I'm here to check you
out as one human being to another. Prince.
Which was fine, sure, except that it was Bascal she'd sat down with, not some
ordinary puke two years younger than her. And she hadn't brought her friends,
either. Probably hadn't even told them, for fear of having to share.
"Hi," Bascal said back, in imitation of her tone.
"Hello," Conrad added, with no particular inflection, figuring he might as well
at least try.
The girl nodded, sparing him half a glance before focusing her attention on
Bascal once again. She asked, with mock-indifference, "You wanted something?"
Bascal leaned back and smiled. "Seeing you, my dear, I can think of a lot of
things to want. But I doubt we have much time, so I'll come right to the point:
I need access to a taboo fax machine. I'm carrying contraband. What's your name,
by the way?"
Her eyes widened. "I'm Xmary. You need acc Ч "
"Eksmerry? Is that a nickname? Short for what, Christina Marie?"
"Xiomara Li Weng," she answered distractedly. "You want what, now?"
"A fax machine. A simple, ordinary fax machine that will copy ta'e fakalao.
Forbidden objects and substances. My men are here are on a mission, for which
they have certain material requirements. Clothes, for one thing," he said,
pinching his Camp Friendly shirt for emphasis.
"And what else?" the girl demanded, clearly concerned that this was a setup,
that she was the focus of some sort of royal joke or sting operation.
"Jewelry," Bascal said, with an inscrutable little smile.
"That's all?" Her eyes flicked downward, then settled on the only jewelry Bascal
was wearing: the well-gold signet ring on the middle finger of his left hand.
"Pretty, eh?"
"It's not an ordinary ring."