
Johnny Turbo, D.R.
by Jason K. Goodowens
  
It was raining in the city.  A good, hard rain that washed the grime
from the sidewalks and sent it pouring down the sewer grates where it
belongs.  I like the rain.  From my office window I could see a two
bit hood called Manny the Medium hawking black market floppies from
the shadows of an alley.  I guess the rain can't get rid of all the
scum.  He'd cornered some poor joe and was giving him the pitch on
how you could turn a single sided to a double sided with a hole
puncher.  Same old scam.  I knew the routine, I'd been in the
business for years.  Some things never change.  The line router on my
desk suddenly flicked on.  I waited patiently as it determined if the
incoming call was voice or data.  After a few clicks and whirs, the
phone rang.  It was the chief and it was trouble.  There had been a
crash.
  
When I got to the scene, the big boys' recovery team was already
there.  I hoped they hadn't gotten their hands on the hardware, yet.
Those goons couldn't rebuild a cluster if it were made out of tinker  
toys.  I elbowed my way past the police line and into the building.    
  
The crash scene was a typical one.  An empty chair.  A blank monitor.
A sobbing executive.  He was a pudgy polyester type, who looked as if
his first cousin was a wombat or possibly a beaver.  His secretary
attempted to console him by bringing him a fresh cup of coffee.  That
had always worked before, but not this time.  He knocked the mug from
her hands and dropped to his knees.

"The third quarter financial reports... the entire budget for this  
year... Wing Commander... all gone...," he wailed.  

I sat down in front of the dead system and drew my driver from its  
worn leather holster.  "Easy, pal," I growled over my shoulder.
"I'll get your data back."
  
His sobbing stopped and he looked at me with shining eyes.  "Even...
even my contact database?"  
  
"Yeah, sure."  I turned my attention back to the monitor.  It was a
messy one.  The entire boot sector had exploded, strewing bits
throughout the partition, and there were several broken Windows to
deal with.    

My hands moved quickly, surely.  I had devoted my life to learning
more about computers and my study had paid off.  There wasn't a
system in the world that I couldn't infiltrate, destroy, or repair.
The big boys knew it, and they wanted me on their side,  but I
wouldn't play their game.  I work on my own.  I like it that way.  I
tapped a few more keys and whipped out a simple batch recovery
program.  That did it.
  
I turned to my pudgy pal, who was attempting to wipe the teardrops 
from his paisley tie, and said, "Don't touch it for ten minutes.
After it reboots, you're as good as new."  
  
"You work miracles, sir.  How can I ever thank you?" he asked.  
  
I flicked out a smoke with practiced ease, then put it away just as
quickly.  Damn smoke free environments.  I just had one more
question. "How'd this crash happen, buddy?  This was no ordinary
power surge..."  
  
He looked at me with a smile that I didn't like.  "Why don't you ask
them?" he said, pointing behind me.
  
I whirled around just in time to see two of the big boys' thugs put
my lights out with a printer stand.
  
I came to in an old warehouse, surrounded by old, out of date XT's.
A computer graveyard, a micro-mausoleum.  I tried to stand up, but
everything was moving like a cheap CD-ROM drive -- much too slow.  I
hit the floor again like a pile of rags.  A small door opened at one
end of the silicon tomb, and a man stepped through.  One of the big
boys himself!  I wanted some answers.  
  
"I want some answers..." I croaked.  
  
He stood over me and laughed.  "You should've taken our offer, Mr.  
Turbo.  It was fair, equitable, and far more generous than we're
going to be right now."  
  
I had to move fast.  I slowly reaching into my coat and found my  
can of compressed air in its secret pocket.  "Hey buddy," I said, "I  
think you need some air."  
  
"What?  Mr. Turbo, don't be ridiculous.  Why I --"  
  
I leapt up and cut him off with a quick blast up the nostril.  The
rush of air over-oxygenated his brain and rendered him unconscious
almost instantly.  He dropped like a sack of rotten potatoes.  I
pulled the static electricity inducer from his sweaty hand and made
tracks for the exit.  The dumb look on his hired gun's face when I
burst through the door was highly comical, I wish you could have seen
it.  I zapped him with the charge of a thousand feet dragged across a
thousand carpets.  I dashed down the alley, and caught the local bus
back to my office.  

So now I sit here behind my desk, feet propped up, and a bottle of
good whiskey in one hand.  If the big boys want me that bad I'm sure
they'll be back.  But, then again, I'm used to keeping one eye over
my shoulder.  Sure it's a rough and tumble business, and a lot of the
time the chips are down, but I wouldn't have it any other way.  I lit
up a smoke and watched the rain fall.                           {RAH} 
-------------
Jason K. Goodowens is slowly biding his time in Section, AL.  He has
no permanent E-MAIL address, but messages may be posted for him as 
JASON GOODOWENS on the Dynamic Data Systems BBS, (205) 574-4236.

