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Deck and his train of thought parted ways like two junkies fleeing a prowl car's floodlight as he passed a 24-hour drugstore. He'd been meaning to refill his 'script for the medicated cream for weeks. Deck spat cleanly through the open window of a passing rice rocket and wheeled into the store.

The pimply prick at the prescription counter was a dead ringer for that pasty little fucker at Kinko's. 'Christ,' Deck thought, 'Why don't I get some redheaded C-cup bitch like on TV?' He tossed the tattered 'script at the kid, who filled it while yammering away on his cell. "Yeah, somehow when I hacked the kernel I zorched the code that does the automated DST rollover..." Deck tuned him out, paid for the cream, and split faster than Marilyn Monroe's legs for JFK.

Deck was halfway up the block when the penny dropped. 'DST' was Daylight Savings Time. Deck usually caught up with that change around Thanksgiving weekend. But ... Fuuuuuuuuck.

The was why Kim Li hadn't called. Deck almost shat himself. This was a bigger fuckup than that time in San Diego with the Drill Sergeant's twin daughters.

It was at that moment that the limo pulled up beside him. Limos and Deck were hardly on intimate terms, and by the time he'd worked out the implications, he was in the trunk, and his skull had gone into business growing grapefruit.

The speaker mounted above his head began to pound out Life is a Cabaret as he vomited explosively into the wheel well and passed out.

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