WELCOME!
It is my pleasure to welcome all quality folks to visiting of Hong Kong. Whether seriously in business or on a fun-loving hijink, make yourself totally homely in this meager environment. If any aspect is not utterly harmonious, gratefully bring it to my notice and I shall strive to earn your satisfaction.
We of Greater Hong Kong take many prides in our tiny nation’s extravagant growth. The ones who saw our isle as a morsel of Red China’s pleasure have struck their faces in keen astonishment to see many great so-called powers of the olden guard reel in dismay before our leaping strides and charged-up hustling, freewheeling idiom of high-tech personal accomplishment and betterment of all peoples. The potentials of all ethnic races and anthropologies to merge under a banner of the Three Principles to follow
1. Information, information, information!
2. Totally fair marketeering!
3. Strict ecology!
have been peerless in the history of economic strife.
Who would disdain to subscribe under this flowing banner? If you have not attained your Hong Kong citizenship, apply for a passport now! In this month, the usual fee of HK$100 will be kindly neglected. Fill out a coupon (below) now. If coupons are lacking, dial 1-800-HONG KONG instantly to apply from the help of our wizened operators.
Mr. Lee’s Greater Hong Kong is a private, wholly extraterritorial, sovereign, quasi-national entity not recognized by any other nationalities and in no way affiliated with the former Crown Colony of Hong Kong, which is part of the People’s Republic of China. The People’s Republic of China admits or accepts no responsibility for Mr. Lee, the Government of Greater Hong Kong, or any of the citizens thereof, or for any violations of local law, personal injury, or property damage occurring in territories, buildings, municipalities, institutions, or real estate owned, occupied, or claimed by Mr. Lee’s Greater Hong Kong.
Join us instantly!
Your enterprising partner,
Mr. Lee
Back in his cool little house, Semi-Autonomous Guard Unit #A-367 is howling.
Outside in the yard, it was very hot and he felt bad. Whenever he is out in the yard, he gets hot unless he keeps running. When he got hurt and had to lie down for a long time, he felt hotter than he had ever been before.
Now he doesn’t feel hot anymore. But he is still hurt. He is howling his injured howl. He is telling all the neighbor doggies that he needs help. They feel sad and upset and repeat his howl and pass it along to all the rest of the doggies.
Soon he hears the vet’s car approaching. The nice vet will come and make him feel better.
He starts barking again. He is telling all the other doggies about how the bad strangers came and hurt him. And how hot it was out in the yard when he had to lie down. And how the nice girl helped him and took him back to his cool house.
Right in front of the Hong Kong franchise, Y.T. notices a black Town Car that has been sitting there for a while. She doesn’t have to see the plates to know it’s Mafia. Only the Mafia drives cars like that. The windows are blackened, but she knows someone’s in there keeping an eye on her. How do they do it? You see these Town Cars everywhere, but you never see them move, never see them get anyplace. She’s not even sure they have engines in them.
“Okay. Sorry,” Hiro says. “I keep my own thing going, but we have a partnership for any intel you can dig up. Fifty-fifty split.”
“Deal,” she says, climbing onto her plank.
“Call me anytime. You have my card.”
“Hey, that reminds me. Your card said you’re into the three Ms of software.”
“Yeah. Music, movies, and microcode.”
“You heard of Vitaly Chernobyl and the Meltdowns?”
“No. Is that a band?”
“Yeah. It’s the greatest band. You should check it out, homeboy, it’s going to be the next big thing.”
She coasts out onto the road and poons an Audi with Blooming Greens license plates. It ought to take her home. Mom’s probably in bed, pretending to sleep, being worried.
Half a block from the entrance to Blooming Greens, she unpoons the Audi and coasts into a McDonald’s. She goes into the ladies’. It has a hung ceiling. She stands on the seat of the third toilet, pushes up one of the ceiling tiles, moves it aside. A cotton sleeve tumbles out, bearing a delicate floral print. She pulls on it and hauls down the whole ensemble, the blouse, the pleated skirt, underwear from Vicky’s, the leather shoes, the necklace and earrings, even a fucking purse. She takes off her RadiKS coverall, wads it up, sticks it into the ceiling, replaces the loose tile. Then she puts on the ensemble.
Now she looks just like she did when she had breakfast with Mom this morning.
She carries her plank down the street to Blooming Greens, where it’s legal to carry them but not to put them on the ’crete. She flashes her passport at the border post, walks a quarter of a mile down crisp new sidewalks, and up to the house where the porch light is on.
Mom’s sitting in the den, in front of her computer, as usual. Mom works for the Feds. Feds don’t make much money, but they have to work hard, to show their loyalty.
Y.T. goes in and looks at her mother, who has slumped down in her chair, put her hands around her face almost like she’s vogueing, put bare stockinged feet up. She wears these awful cheap Fed stockings that are like scouring cloth, and when she walks, her thighs rub together underneath her skirt and make a rasping noise. There is a heavy-duty Ziploc bag on the table, full of water that used to be ice a couple of hours ago. Y.T. looks at Mom’s left arm. She has rolled up her sleeve to expose the fresh bruise, just above her elbow, where they put the blood-pressure cuff. Weekly Fed polygraph test.
“Is that you?” Mom shouts, not realizing that Y.T.’s in the room.
Y.T. retreats into the kitchen so she won’t surprise her mother. “Yeah, Mom,” she shouts back. “How was your day?”