>SCREECH LIKE A RAPTORYou take a deep breath to do so, the cold air burning your lungs. You let out a terrible scream, hurting your own ears in the confines of the crate within the first two seconds. You drop the can of ravioli and clutch at your head, mentally calling yourself a handicap. You hope no one heard you.>TURN ON RADIOYou do that. The radio buzzes and hums uselessly.
>TUNE RADIO DIPstuffYou start scanning the airwaves. You catch a snippet of a bluesy number, a soap advertisement, a news report- you snap the dial back to the news report, squatting down on one knee to listen.
"...and has also claimed that the oil-rich plains of Baku, a city in the Soviet Union, are under siege. No confirmation has come from the nation of iron at the moment. In local news, police have found a dead woman in the office of a 'Roger D. Patterson', private investigator for hire, after gunshots rang out at twelve-o-clock this afternoon. EBPD has declined issue a statement, other than the owner of the office in question is a chief suspect, seeing as the woman was a paying client. For Press Radio News, I'm Lowell Harris."
The cops are after you and Lowell doesn't even have the courtesy to ask you to come forward. richard. You scan the waves again, hoping to catch something else.
"-L-T, Delta Radio, I'm Walt Williams, breakin' into th'blues for a hot story comin' a block away from the park, a one-man band playin' the firearm put a hole in the heart of a woman this afternoon. Police have one suspect, the man that owns the office and an old friend'a your's truely, Roger Patterson. Roger, if you're tunin' in, buddy, I say run faster," the announcer laughs. "But seriously man, offin' a client like that? You're loosin' it old-timer, don't come up here when you need a place to hide. Delta gets back into the music now on E-D-L-T, Delta Radio."
Ah, Walt. Good friend of your's back when you spent a few on a boat before being sent home on 'medical leave'. The paperwork got lost and you walk freely now. You know why Walt got sent home and shiver. The same Jap plane machine-gun burst that put a hole in your calf hit him in the knee, tearing his leg off.
>WHATEVERThe parser can't understand your command. starfish.
>forget YOUSorry pal, I don't swing that way.
>CHANGE CLOTHESYou open the crate, reaching inside to grab at the clothes you left inside. It's a change of outfit, going from your cold-weather clothes to a working man's torn vest with dirty shirt underneath, work slacks, paperboy cap, with a ratty surplus waterproof trenchcoat, patched in several places, to keep you as warm as possible. You put it all on and find the small mirror you had underneath it all, checking your reflection out. You look like stuff. You add the final touch, reaching down and picking up some charcoal, you stain your hands black and add some of it to your nose. Now you look like a working man addicted to booze that can't clean up right. You don't look like the reasonably well-paid PI you actually are. You swap your items as best you can to your new outfit, dropping your revolver directly into a coat pocket instead of it's holster.>TAKE WHIPPETYou pick up the shotgun, racking the small slide back half-way to make sure it's unloaded. It is. The gangster boyfriend put a swivel-point for a strap he made out of a belt. You put the gun on your shoulder and cover it with your coat. It looks suspicious, but it's better than carrying a shotgun in public. You pocket a handful of rounds to compliment the texture of your car keys.
You're standing inside your storage crate hideout. Without your nice expensive coat, you're already shivering.
>_You're perfectly healthy.
You are carrying: .38 Colt, Multitool, Lockpick, Kar Ceys, Check, Knife, Whippet. You have 23.92$.
You are wearing clothes that make you look dirt-poor and ready to get wasted. You're already shivering from the thin layers 'protecting' you from the cold, but you won't get hypothermia. You are also wearing a paperboy hat. The shotgun in your coat makes you look suspicious to anyone taking a close look at you.
