Loins still tingling from the hippy demons’ invitation to debauchery, Alyce’s touch was electric.
But he had to shake his head. He could still recall the stench of sweat and whiskey-breath on the camp quack that had slapped his first replacements in after his slight miscalculation with the blasting caps. It had been a no-frills job, and when he’d finally sprung for his fancypants upgrades, he’d declined the external accessorization then as well. “Ol’ Steve Austin din’t need none o’ that, an’ he was a man barely alive. Al sure as hell won’t want fer it,” he’d explained to the upscale sawbones in his swanky downtown Seattle clinic.
Now, shouting to be heard over the racket that damned robot and his scattergun were making, he only said, “Ain’t no port, toots. An’ it ain’t the wireless hits me, it’s the feed, an’ no way ‘round that.” Though he wasn’t inhaling the sizzling microparticles, they left an acrid taste in his mouth when he spoke. It complemented the sour taste of bile building in his throat.
Remembering his manners, he added, “Much obliged though."
