CompuServe Messages

[Continued from previous message] "Ok, Pilgrim. Spill it. What did you steal?" He glared at me with bloodshot eyes; an avenging angel, king of a sooted alley. "Hel…" "Help you want?" he laughed, backhanding me across the face. "Hel…" "You're bound for hell for what you've done?" He laughed again, bunching my shirt tighter. "Hel…vetica," I gasped. He let go of me like I'd caught fire and stepped back to his bike, a stunned expression creasing his mouth and eyebrows. His left ear twitched under his black curls as he repeated, dumbstruck, "Helvetica?" Wiping blood from the corner of my mouth, I shot him a defiant glare. "Yeah," I said. "It was Helvetica." I looked at the shattered Jamerson's bottle and felt a pang of nostalgia for the days of cold type. Even phototypesetting was at least predictable, I remembered. And expensive. He climbed back onto his motorcycle, still shaking his head, his hands trembling. "You must be…" he started; then hesitated. He couldn't get the word out. "Yes," I replied, fighting back the malicious grin. He fumbled in his pocket for his motorcycle keys. "You're the man from…" "Yes." The words fell flat on the rain-slicked asphalt. "I'm the man from Bitstream…"