by Brian Armour
Copyright 2013 Brian Armour
Smashwords Edition, Licence Notes
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This work is dedicated to:
Sam, my beloved son.
There's no future in crime - the thought ricocheting around inside his brain case refused to come to rest. Mac swung his bio-boots onto the desk, leant back in his chair and spilled scotchliq down the front of his finely cultured suit. “Aww Jees!" He stood up, more annoyed at his clumsiness than any concern for his suit, which would reject any matter it could not use as food. He watched the droplets freed from his crotch fall through space, bounce and remain beaded on the equally uninterested carpet.
A loud thump and a crumpling sound made him look out the open office doorway down the hall. A desk gripped in the metal claws of an old removal bot was coming toward him. At regular intervals, weaving like a drunk from side to side, it scraped along the walls leaving long dark gouges wherever its huge metal body made contact. It stopped in front of him, juggled the table to a vertical position and began manoeuvring the legs around the corner of the hall leading to the lift bay. Behind the bot, he saw an operator holding a control unit.