8.
3 days ago.

I leave for work at different times every morning, and I take a bunch of different routes to
work and back home. Basic tradecraft, never leave at the same time or go home at the
same time. Don’t take the same route every day. Every so often I see Dwayne’s piece-
of-crap yellow 4 by 4. Sometimes I park in the lot, sometimes I park on a side street.

This time I parked two blocks away. I’m walking through the parking lot, I notice a new
car: Honda sedan with Maryland plates. I look in the window. Totally ordinary car interior,
except the driver’s seat has what looks like a satin pillow case over the cloth upholstery.

Dwayne’s getting into the elevator as I get out. “An old friend of yours is in town for a visit,
Toots.” It’s probably the first time someone has been called “Toots” in the 21st century.
Dwayne’s breath smells like beer and burgers with extra onions. He scowls over at my
cubicle.

Antolos is there, grinning at me. Looking great. Smooth and clean and shiny as a bullet.

I freeze. Beside me, Dwayne spins his twenty-sided die on the palm of his hand, scoops
it up, shrugs and scratches himself in a manly place. “Sure, he’s good looking. But it ain’t
the tools,” he says. “It’s the plumber, baby.”

Antolos takes me out to lunch, says he doesn’t work for The Office anymore, wonders if I
would be interested in a job. I shoot up in the bathroom between the entrée and dessert
and when I get back to the table with my heightened sense of smell I can now catch the
faint whiff of battery acid on his clothes. He is definitely on the copper, too, but the smell
is very faint. He must not have shot up in two or three days.

Maybe he’s lying to me, trying to entrap me. Maybe he’s just a nice guy.

I tell him I’m happy with my current job. I’m lonely, but the drug is crawling under my
skin, so I flinch like a burn victim where the cuffs of my silk shirt rub against my wrists.
Paranoid, I wedge myself back as far into the booth as I can get and think about what I
would do to him with my fork if he started to pull a gun.

“Copper?” he says, when nobody is listening.

“Couldn’t trust you if I wanted to,” I say. Apologetic.

He understands. “Too bad.”

*

The next morning I asked what I would have to do to retire. Turns out this job comes
with more baggage than you’d think. Leaving aside the classified information I know,
copper is only administered to people on the federal payroll. I figured I could just do
without and take my chances if the Red Horse got out of the barn, but it turns out—and
this is the funny part—it turns out the copper rewires you pretty savagely. Enough that
withdrawal is fatal.

So much for looking for work in the private sector.

9 -> It has 7 musical notes

8.
3 days ago.

I leave for work at different times every morning, and I take a bunch of different routes to
work and back home. Basic tradecraft, never leave at the same time or go home at the
same time. Don’t take the same route every day. Every so often I see Dwayne’s piece-
of-crap yellow 4 by 4. Sometimes I park in the lot, sometimes I park on a side street.

This time I parked two blocks away. I’m walking through the parking lot, I notice a new
car: Honda sedan with Maryland plates. I look in the window. Totally ordinary car interior,
except the driver’s seat has what looks like a satin pillow case over the cloth upholstery.

Dwayne’s getting into the elevator as I get out. “An old friend of yours is in town for a visit,
Toots.” It’s probably the first time someone has been called “Toots” in the 21st century.
Dwayne’s breath smells like beer and burgers with extra onions. He scowls over at my
cubicle.

Antolos is there, grinning at me. Looking great. Smooth and clean and shiny as a bullet.

I freeze. Beside me, Dwayne spins his twenty-sided die on the palm of his hand, scoops
it up, shrugs and scratches himself in a manly place. “Sure, he’s good looking. But it ain’t
the tools,” he says. “It’s the plumber, baby.”

Antolos takes me out to lunch, says he doesn’t work for The Office anymore, wonders if I
would be interested in a job. I shoot up in the bathroom between the entrée and dessert
and when I get back to the table with my heightened sense of smell I can now catch the
faint whiff of battery acid on his clothes. He is definitely on the copper, too, but the smell
is very faint. He must not have shot up in two or three days.

Maybe he’s lying to me, trying to entrap me. Maybe he’s just a nice guy.

I tell him I’m happy with my current job. I’m lonely, but the drug is crawling under my
skin, so I flinch like a burn victim where the cuffs of my silk shirt rub against my wrists.
Paranoid, I wedge myself back as far into the booth as I can get and think about what I
would do to him with my fork if he started to pull a gun.

“Copper?” he says, when nobody is listening.

“Couldn’t trust you if I wanted to,” I say. Apologetic.

He understands. “Too bad.”

*

The next morning I asked what I would have to do to retire. Turns out this job comes
with more baggage than you’d think. Leaving aside the classified information I know,
copper is only administered to people on the federal payroll. I figured I could just do
without and take my chances if the Red Horse got out of the barn, but it turns out—and
this is the funny part—it turns out the copper rewires you pretty savagely. Enough that
withdrawal is fatal.

So much for looking for work in the private sector.

9 -> It has 7 musical notes