Par thought a trip to the
City would do him good.
Morty wasn't exactly Par's best friend, but he was all right. He had
been charged by the Feds a few months earlier for selling a password
to a credit record company which resulted in credit card fraud. Par
didn't go in for selling passwords, but to each his own. Morty wasn't
too bad in the right dose. He had a place on Coney Island, which was
hardly the Village in Manhattan, but close enough, and he had a
fold-out sofa bed. It beat sleeping on the floor somewhere else.
Par hung out with a Morty and a bunch of his friends, drinking and
goofing around on Morty's computer.
One morning, Par woke up with a vicious hangover. His stomach was
growling and there was nothing edible in the fridge, so he rang up and
ordered pork fried rice from a Chinese take-away. Then he threw on
some clothes and sat on the end of the sofa-bed, smoking a cigarette
while he waited. He didn't start smoking until he was nineteen, some
time late into his second year on the run. It calmed his nerves.
There was a knock at the front door. Par's stomach grumbled in
response. As he walked toward the front door, he thought Pork Fried
Rice, here I come.
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