Sweet Justice Read Online Free

I) was. The Judges were neither helpful nor very sympathetic. ‘Look, pal – we got enough to do fighting crime without busting our guts to find a lady who’s “abandoned” a 23-year-old!’ as one of them so forcefully put it.
    The only hope I had was Orinoko’s. Mom used to come here every Thursday after her Principal Fondomics work-out; I’d come over from the apartment to meet her, and she’d tell me about those mysterious exercises she learned.
    I checked with her Fondomics instructors, but they were only vexed that Mom had split without paying her overdue tuition fees. So I took to hanging out in Orinoko’s at that same time every Thursday, in the faint hope that one day she’d come back. And she never did...
     
    I felt a tear dribble down my cheek, pushing a small heap of muck before it. I didn’t even try to wipe it away. What was the point? Insulted and beaten up by Juves; unemployed and unemployable; friendless and alone; a man whose own mother had deserted him. Who cared if I cried or not. Who gave a mutie’s curse?
    ‘I do, Pizmo.’
    The voice was low, throaty – the sort of voice they used to advertise hi-class clinics. A friendly voice. It seemed to come from under the table. I looked down, expecting to see maybe a television set or a lurking dwarf.
    ‘No dwarf, Pizmo,’ the voice said. ‘It’s me. Your kneepad.’
     
    January 20 th
     
    I broke off rather abruptly yesterday. I needed time to absorb the implications of that amazing incident. Finding that my kneepad could talk wasn’t all that big a deal; I mean anybody who watches holovision (which is everybody) sees a dozen equally amazing things in their living rooms every week. A talking kneepad isn’t really more surprising than a dame with a goldfish face, or men like the fatties who can eat a tonne of food at one sitting.
    No, what amazed me was the fact that my kneepad cared. And even more – it cared about me.
    I started to ask it how come it had never told me this before, but the kneepad cut me short. ‘I can’t talk here,’ it said. ‘Someone might overhear. Let’s go home.’
    So we did.
     
    Back in my apartment the questions I was bursting to ask came pouring out. ‘Why did you never speak before? What’s your name? Does it hurt when I kneel on you?’
    The kneepad ignored them. ‘For the past 17 years,’ it began, ‘I have been studying humanity from the vantage point of your left knee. My studies have now reached an end. I have formulated a conclusion – and from your point of view, Pizmo, a very grim conclusion it is.’
    A little shiver ran up my spine. ‘Wh-what is it?’
    ‘Simply this: that you, dear Pizmo, are the victim of a city-wide agreement which has resulted in you becoming a victim for all and sundry to persecute at will.’
    I could hardly believe my ears. ‘This is incredible!’ I gasped. ‘It’s like you’ve been reading my mind. I’ve often wondered what I did to deserve a life like mine: no job, no prospects, plagued by sinister Juves, a man whose own mother...’
    ‘Yes, yes, Pizmo,’ the kneepad put in impatiently. ‘I know all that. The question is – what are you going to do about it?’
    I shrugged helplessly. ‘What can I do? Like you just said – everybody in the city’s against me. The only place I might get help is in foreign parts – like Texas City, maybe, or Brit-Cit. But there’s probably a conspiracy to stop me leaving town – and besides, I have no money.’
    ‘You’re too negative, Pizmo,’ the kneepad told me. ‘Adopting a more positive attitude would be of immense benefit. Yes, I think that’s where we’ll start...’
    It talked on into the evening. I have a feeling that my life is going to take a sudden turn for the better.
     
    January 21 st
     
    On the advice of my kneepad, I have taken up Hari-ip-Slip, the ancient Oriental art of self-defence through Positive Posturing. From a basic ten or so slinky body movements, I am constructing a dancing defence