The Best of Electric Velocipede Read Online Free PDF

illegal to traffic in smart animals. But no one enforces. The policia, I’m sure, are always looking for good dogs too.
    So I put my credit card (light amber, which isn’t too bad, I guess) lightly against my belt, on the right side. The sigil of a serious buyer. I meander through the cages, many of them brown with rust, sift through the animals and their sellers with about a dozen others. A dachshund catches my eye because it has three. The seller peers at me, his entire forearm winking in aquamarine, less excited than his dog. I move on.
    “Psst. Hey.” A woman about half my height motions towards me. She is in a sari but her skin is whiter than mine. “Yeah, you.” Talking isn’t really allowed, by house rules, but furtive whispering usually didn’t bring imprisonment. I look over to her, nod, hoping that will do the trick.
    She motions me with a crooked finger to peek underneath a curtain covering a shape on the table. She pulls it up. Shapes, rather. Goldfish bowls.
    With goldfish inside.
    I almost, almost laugh, which would have gotten me thrown out at least. I stifle the chuckle and look at the seller with a grimace meant to show bewilderment. She gives an I-know-what-you’re-thinking look, and offers me a chip, which I reluctantly swallow. She pulls a wand from underneath her sari and touches the rim of one of the bowls. The goldfish inside squiggles up to the top, sinks down, and spins its tail a little.
    Yeah, I’m talking to you. The augmentation, it seems, has finally trickled down to carnival fish. So are you going to buy me or what? At first, the goldfish all look exactly the same (well, gold), but upon second glance this one looks a little healthier, the scales a little brighter. The seller’s prize fish, then.
    Well, are you? Impatient fish.
    I’ll need you to find a keeper. In days.
    The fish makes a blooping noise, which—I guess—is a laugh. You expect a problem? I’m the best. Let me show you. Come on. Keepers are god-damn trancy-dancy shifty whatevers anyways.

    I meander back in the Dresden, with a coffee and cherry pie and a goldfish bowl on the lacquered table. I come here often enough, and tip well enough, that the cashier doesn’t ask about the pet, which is probably a health violation. I am a health violator.
    Incredulous, here, with a goldfish worth two weeks pay.
    “All right,” I whisper out loud. Even though I don’t have to speak, it is bizarrely reassuring to speak. “What do you need from me at this point? How are you going to find her?”
    No problem at all. You infected from her? I nod. I’m not sure if it would pick up human body language but it does. Ouch. She must be needing you real bad, then.
    “Then why did she ignore me the last time I called?” I hiss, a little louder than I wanted. A family of three from a booth across the restaurant looks up at me from their pancakes, in unison.
    She’s playing a game. It’s all a game. That’s why she infected you. To make sure you come back. But she wants you to work at it too. There is no pleasure without pain.
    “How long does someone stay a keeper?”
    Who can say? It’s hard to tell. The goldfish—whose name I don’t even ask for, which would be ridiculous—swims in a tiny circle in the bowl. Usually after they mate, at which time they go normal. I think of Paula, cold in my flat’s bed and babbling. But not always. Never exactly works out the way people want. I don’t know. Are you ready then? I’ll find her, don’t worry.
    “I guess,” I mutter. “What do you need from me?”
    First, I need a sample of her virus, the little bit of titanium that’s itching your member. So, if you will . . .
    “What?”
    You know . . . The goldfish possesses subtleties unknown in the fish world.
    I sigh, a little embarrassed despite myself; I get a little cup from the water dispenser and enter the bathroom. The family, probably enjoying a day off from work rationing, stares at me. I don’t blame them.
    The servicing