"Cory Doctorow - Shadow of the Mothaship" - читать интересную книгу автора (Dodd Christina)

So I wait for the man, Stude the Dude and the gentle clip-clop of Tilly's hooves
on the traction-nubbed foam of my Chestnut Ave.

My nose is pressed against the window in the bat's crotch, fingers dug into the
hump of fatty foam that runs around its perimeter, fog patches covering the rime


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of ground-in filth that I've allowed to accumulate on my parents' spotless
windows.

Where the frick is Stude?

#

The man has cometh. Clop-clip, clip-clop, Stude the Dude, as long as a dangling
booger, and his clapped-out nag Tilly, and the big foam cart with its stacks of
crates and barrels and boxes, ready to do the deal.

"Maxes!" he says, and I *know* I'm getting taken today -- he looks genuinely
glad to see me.

"Stude, nice day, how's it?" I say, as cas and cool as I can, which isn't, very.

"Fine day! Straight up fine day to be alive and awaiting judgment!" He
power-chugs from the perpetual coffee thermos at his side.

"Fine day," I echo.

"Fine, fine day." Like he's not in any hurry to get down to the deal, and I know
it's a contest, and the first one to wheel gets taken.

I snort and go "Yuh-huh." It's almost cheating, since I should've had something
else nice to say, but Stude gives me a conversational Get-Out-Of-Jail-Free.

"Good night to tricky treat."

I concede defeat. "I need some stuff, Stude."

Give it to him, he doesn't gloat. Just hauls again from Mr Coffee and pooches
his lips and nods.

"Need, uh, spool of monofilament, three klicks, safety insulated. Four litres of
fix bath. Litre, litre and a half of solvent."

"Yeah, okay. Got a permit for the solvent?"