Friday, March 15, 2121- The thirteen I picked up yesterday have been more trouble than they’re worth. Literally. It turns out that they’re actually Salvation Army refugees, not illegal aliens like the contracts said. Nobody will buy refugees. There’s too much chance somebody will come looking for them. The sub-jets are still down, so that’s not an option, either. I’m not sure what I’m going to do with them yet, but I need to get rid of them soon. They’re taking up valuable space in my carrier’s cargo hold.
Saturday, March 16, 2121- Holding these refugees has become a serious liability. I’ve decided to look up some of my old connections down in Texas. I wouldn’t do it if I had another option, but I don’t. Besides, those sharks down there will take anyone. I would have. Still, it’s a risky move going back. The last time I was down there I was jumped and beaten almost to death. Thankfully I’ll be bringing a little more muscle this time.
Sunday, March 17, 2121- Finally. My carrier’s empty again. I don’t even care that I didn’t make any money on them. I have to admit, though, it was a little intimidating coming back to my old haunt. It’s almost embarrassing to admit I used to work in a place like this. And I can’t leave soon enough. I thought things were getting bad back in Missouri, but that’s nothing compared to here. It’s like something out of those old Charles Palahnuik novels. Everyone’s either insane or dying. Or both. I’m leaving first thing in the morning.
Monday, March 18, 2121- I should have left earlier. I found my carrier, but it's been completely stripped. There’s no way it’s flight-worthy. My crew’s gone, too, though I didn't really expect much more out of them. At least I still have Ivan. I need to get moving if I’m going to find out who’s behind this. Someone's going to pay.
Tuesday, March 19, 2121- Two days of searching and I’ve gotten nowhere. Well, not nowhere. I’ve walked through about fifty kilometers of dirty streets and back-alley bars, I had to pull Ivan off of a would-be mugger before he ripped his throat out, and I’ve thinned out my wallet paying off low-level lackeys in an attempt to find out why I’m stuck in this trash dump. So I’m worse than nowhere. I’m nowhere with no cash and no energy, and I’m sleeping in my carrier.
It could be worse, though. I saw at least seven dead bodies today. Some showed signs of a violent end, but I didn’t get close enough to most of them to find out. Things are definitely getting worse. And that’s saying something around here.
Thursday, March 21, 2121- I was almost killed at the hand of the Honorable Judge Cabello yesterday, but it was worth it. He was the same one responsible for my misfortunes five years ago. It seems I’m not the only one that holds grudges. His thugs jumped me around noon yesterday and if Damien, my best crewman, hadn’t responded to my PIC distress call, I would probably be floating down the Colorado River right now. Instead, we managed to overpower our attackers, but not before I was thoroughly battered. Two of them got away, but Ivan held on to the smallest of the three. I squeezed enough out of him to learn that Cabello was the one responsible for my carrier.
As for my missing crew, Damien claimed that a local moneylender bought them off; no doubt one of my past associates that fell in with Cabello. When I asked Damien why he returned, he said, “Wha’s the point of money in a place like this. S’all smoke an’ axle grease. No subst’ute for green grass, tha’s for sure.” I usually can’t stand his type, but Damien has proven himself to me more than once.
My main concern now is finding the fastest way out of here. Things are changing too quickly to keep up with. I’ll be back for Judge Cabello soon.
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