Going Shogun by Ernie Lindsey Page B

grinning.  “You
can’t tell by looking at it, but this place is Rescinder friendly.  I’d be
surprised if anybody in here is over 11-1.”
    Ah, blue sky.  That’s how Bingo even
knows this place exists.  I ask, “How come it looks so nice?  This place is way
beyond 11-1.”
    We walk up to the hostess stand and
Wait to Be Seated, Please. 
    Bingo dishes more about our
surroundings.  She says, “The owner Rescinded back to R10 from R5 about three
or four years ago.  He would’ve gone further but the Permits and Rules and
Regulations Office wouldn’t let him and still have a place like this while
sitting at R11-1.”
    “There’s no danger of being in here
with them, is there?” I ask.  “We don’t want any more attention from the BAs if
they get bored and decide to hassle some dropdown punks, right?”
    “No, don’t be silly,” Bingo says. 
“The R10 Rebel keeps it kosher in here.  I’ve never seen any White Hearts wannabes around.  Wait, no.  Just once.  But they were off duty.”
    Forklift shows a moment of concern
that’s as rare as a coelacanth sighting by furrowing his coolest of cool
brows.   “Are you Punchline City, Bingaling?”
    Bingo chuckles.  “Good God, listen
to you guys.  Both of you should be shooting babies out of your vaginas like
cannonballs.  Relax.  We’ll dine on the best burger you’ve ever had, mainline
some caffeine and be on our way in half an hour.  Forty-five minutes, tops.”
    “Aight,” he says.  Shoulder shrug. 
“Let’s chow cow.”
    I’m not convinced this is a good
idea, but I trust Bingo, and Forklift’s gut instincts are reliable, to a
point.  I decide to leave this one up to the gods for now, because I’m getting
a little delirious from hunger.  Plus, I haven’t had an old-fashioned plain
cheeseburger in ages.  I’ve gotten used to eating what’s headed to Wishful
Thinking’s trash bin at the end of my night shifts, so my stomach could use
some normal food for once.
    I’ve had enough Fruitcake Baked
Ziti, Eggplant Brûlée, and Artichoke Cookies to satisfy me for the next
Election Cycle, which is a long time.  (Board Members serve six-year
terms, but the Re-Election Process starts about six months after they enter
office.  So between the Ascension Memorandums, the Apply Yourself brochures,
and the constant campaign sequence, we’re inundated with an oligarchical
marketing nightmare.  At least you can pay a fee to have their mudslinging
removed from your television but it costs so damn much that only R3s and up can
afford it.)
    A big-bouffant blonde waitress
strolls up, cheerily popping her bubblegum.  Her nametag reads Flo .  How
relevant.  She asks if it’s just the three of us, then guides Forklift, Bingo
and me over to a four-top table in the center of the restaurant.  We’re way too
exposed here, and my back is to the door.  I can feel my heart rate rising. 
Bingo senses something is wrong, so she reaches over and puts a hand on my
thigh, gives it a small squeeze and then looks at me as if to say, “It’s okay,
tighten up your man-lady balls and enjoy yourself for a bit.”
    I concede and try to relax. 
    What’s the worst that could happen? 
Famous last words for some, but seriously, we’re sitting in a crowded, happy-camper
restaurant at 2AM, miles away from LX’s apartment and The Minotaur’s compound. 
We’re hiding in plain sight.  We’re goldfish in a koi pond, we’re daisies in a
field of roses, we’re dogs running in a wolf pack.  We’re the same, but
different.
    Deep breath in, full exhale out. 
Deep breath in, full exhale out.  Nothing to worry about.
    I’m ripped out of my fear cage when I
glance over the menu and see real food.  And no, I mean that.  Food . 
    Food that R11-2s like me should be eating.  Hamburgers, steaks, vegetable dishes.  Actual, real, full-on
vegetable dishes like Buttered Peas and Carrots.  Not some crazy kooked-out
concoction that no normal human being should