At least they had the courtesy not to draw after forking over the chit. Its metallic surfaces shined coldly in the flickering drum light and strangely looked far more valuable than it was in my outstretched hand; I briefly hesitated. The sob story was transparent and insulting, as was the threat, but I was too tired to start anything. After the thugs in Seattle it was clear that these two were not worth the trouble. Besides, I was already in over my head; no sense risking a couple of corpses with connections. Still flush from the win at the 'Pit, 150 credits would hardly be missed. The shakedown would have been more irritating than unsettling but for the unblinking asshole standing not 20 feet down the alley, just watching the fleecing. Was he in on it, or had Cairo really gotten so bad?
I retreated to a nearby alcove to consider my next move but was soon startled by screaming. Cautiously peeking around the corner, I witnessed one of the most surreal scenes of my life. The con closer to the burning barrel had somehow managed to light himself on fire and was flailing about in the street. Transfixed and still bristling, I made no move to help. More bizarrely, neither did his partner or the man down the alley. Only after the burning hustler had collapsed in a smoldering heap did the other con take action. Pulling out a boltcaster and shouting obscenities, he charged the motionless observer, firing a barrage of toxic darts at close range. His target, finally reacting, began running tight circles in front of his attacker like a manic pin-cushion until he too lay crumpled on the ground. Apparently satisfied, the remaining man holstered his weapon and resumed his post near the drum.
Just what the hell was going on in this town?
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