Winworld

By Dick Upson

As a Twenty First Century detective in the Republic of Vegas, Joe Nazzarino’s typical assignments involve breaking up non-government sanctioned gambling and other forms of unconstitutional betting. When Vegas ruler and talk show host Prezzy Dent offers him a brand new body in exchange for tracking a fugitive, Nazzarino jumps at the chance. Not only does he have the chance to discard his century old skin for that of a twenty five year old, but he also gets an all expenses paid trip to Winworld, the renowned gaming theme park on the moon.

The detective’s mission is to track down renegade Vegas courtier John Baptista, who has apparently stolen the dreaded Lotto virus, an ancient CD capable of disrupting the electronic games of chance that Vegas’ economy depends on.

As Joe Nazzarino tracks John Baptista through Malltown, Aqualand, Attitude City and the other lunar parks, he arouses the suspicions of the mysterious Tribe, the rulers of Winworld, a race of halfbreeds who represent a race created by the union of the Native American tribes with the Mafia. He risks becoming a social outcast by falling in love with Mary, his assigned Leisure Lover, who is both an Afrab and a clone.

Nazzarino is surprised to find himself starting to admire Baptista, and the two men develop a friendship,leading to the truth about the alleged thief as a leader of the Casino Orphans. This terrorist group is composed of orphans whose parents abandoned them in casinos, dedicated to the destruction of gambling in all its forms. Joe Nazzarino finds himself in a race against time, desperately trying to get off the doomed planet with his beloved Mary before the orphans carry out their final revenge.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: May 7, 2001
• ISBN: 9781477162651

Dick Upson

DICK UPSON wrote his first novel at the age of ten, and hasn’t stopped since. He spent fifteen years in broadcasting, winning awards for news reporting and public service. Publishing credits include newspaper columns, essays, and poetry, as well as newswriting and advertising copy. WINWORLD is Upson’s twelfth novel.

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Copyright © 1999 by Dick Upson.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in

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in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the

product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance

to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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CONTENTS

2.

5.

6.

7.

8.

9.

10.

11.

13.

16.

17.

18.

19.

20.

21.

23.

24.

25.

28.

29.

30.

31.

32.

35.

36.

37.

38.

39.

40.

«ATTENTION YOU IDIOTS!» The onboard computer guidance system bleated. «YOUR FLIGHT IS—LIKE—ABOUT TO LAND—IF WE’RE LUCKY!» The tinny sound created an unsettling echo in the cramped confines of the LUNAIR Redeye Shuttle. Fortunately, the bucolic imagery of verdant fields and lush trees reminiscent of ancient earth being projected on the inflight OMNIMAX screen kept the passengers relatively passive.

Betcha 500 credits we’re toast! The speaker was an emaciated man, a silver needle bisecting his nose, pink spikes of hair sticking out from his wrinkled skull, garbed in a bright orange robe with carefully ripped holes. He jabbed his neighbor with a razor sharp elbow. These old wrecks ain’t been upgraded since before the Chicago Treaty. Wudya say, dudeguy?

Joe Nazzarino chuckled at Pink Spikes’ proposed wager. You’re on. You want action—I’ll raise ya a thousand. Thing of it is. He glanced down at the glow from the gargantuan dome visible through the grime-encrusted portholes, surrounded by the planet’s powdery gray surface. A series of giant pools of light marched across a dark plain, delineating the artificial environment. If we both hit Lifend—who wins?

Pinky sneezed, spraying the robot steward as it bustled down the aisle. Whatever.

JUST ONE MORE TIME BEFORE THE TRIBE TAKES OVER! The disembodied voice commanded. CHECK YOUR KEYPADS! TIME FOR THIS HOUR’S LUCKY NUMBER!

Before Nazzarino had a chance to snuff out his Colombo Light in the smokeless ashtray hanging off the seat in front of him, the OMNIMAX image changed to the vast Univision set, broadcast live from the Republic of Vegas to the known universe twenty four hours a day, seven days a week. His fellow passengers scrambled frantically to punch in their individual combinations and bets on the portable keypads supplied by the spaceline. It was their last chance to play the Lot before arriving on Winworld. The signals were immediately beamed back to the Vegas MegaComp for instant entry. Joe snickered, selecting a random assortment of numbers, putting up his usual 250 credits.

Prezzy Dent, the show’s permanent host, lolled on a plush sofa. —An’ then the old lady said— The leader of the Republic of Vegas paused for effect, his bright blue eyes twinkling, —’But he’s using MY hand! ‘ The camera angle changed to sweep across the entire Laughable Legislature studio audience. At least one bloated Sexy Senator was choking with mirth, his cheeks bright crimson. I do bee-leve it’s THAT time again, folks, Dent crowed, standing up. His teeth were flawless crystalline white. His hair was frozen in a meticulous tease. Got upwards ‘a—say what?—five million ridin’ on this one, friends.

Five mil-yon, Pinky whined. I could score a new brain chip with those kinda credits.

The odds suck, Joe pointed out. The house rules. I’ll take the live action any day,buddypal.

Prezzy’s perfect face dissolved into a lecherous grin as he sidled up to the Lot Machine. The towering monolithic shape managed to fill most of the inflight screen, the metallic facade punctuated by huge rectangles housing the digits that would light up to comprise that hour’s winning combination. He leaned over to press the first button, unleashing a raucous chorus of bells, a blinking merry-go-round that gradually slowed to a stop. Your lead is 5. Dent alternated between stabbing at the controls and winking. 9—0—7—2—11. The bonus number is 23. Hope it’s yours.

Al-MOST, Spikes hissed. I got two of ‘em, anyways.

Well, now, Prezzy beamed, adjusting his imperial purple robes so that his penis was clearly visible, Time to move on to the ‘Global Gaming’ portion of our show. Lemme telya, people, we got a ‘It’s A Free Country’ grudge match comin’ up that’s DA BOMB—DA FREAKIN’ BOMB! The Comic Congressmen roared their approval as Dent made his way to a stupendous holographic globe, floating above yet another portion of the theatre. Nazzarino was struck by the broken necklace of tiny lights used to indicate the remaining domed citystates, swallowed up by the trackless, mostly uninhabitable wastes that covered nine tenths of hishome planet. Ladies and gents, give it up and put your hands together for my old buddy SECRETARY LI—SHUPENG from the PEOPLE’S REPUBLIC OF BEIJING! A beaming ChiJap bounded out from the wings,waving at the camera. But that’s not ALL—my close personal friend PRINCE HANS KRUPP from the REPUBLIC OF BERLIN IS IN THE HOUSE! Krupp marched stiffly across the thin carpet, bowing at Dent. How yawl doin’? Now, I’m sure yawl know the rules—five card stud, nothing wild, best out of three hands. I’ll tell ya, we got some SUPER prizes. Hey—Vanna—VannaMadonna—shoot. He peered comically into the wings. Now where’d that old gal get to this time?

ENTERING WINWORLD’S ORBIT, The guidance system interrupted. TWO MINUTES BEFORE WE LOWER THE BODY HARNESSES.

Right here like always, Prezzy baby. Joe Nazzarino had to marvel at VannaMadonna’s melanoma-free complexion. Despite the protective dome, most of the EuroWhites in Vegas only ventured out at night to avoid ending up covered with fatal cancer sores. The camera feasted on her bulging chest, the twin peaks of flesh poised to lift off like ancient missiles. VannaMadonna’s avalanche of twisted curls framed her classic features, a rainbow of multicolored streaks swept across her forehead I was just waitin’ on you, baby, givin’ myself a little— She batted her elongated black eyelashes —handjob. The Legislature roared its approval. Whoever takes this round—why—your little old republic’s gonna win BIG TIME! VannaMadonna flounced over to a floor to ceiling NetOne screen. An image rapidly materialized :dry lonely mountains jutting into a murky raft of clouds above a foul black sea, littered with floating corpses and assorted chunks of debris."

THAT’S RIGHT—IT’S THE ISLAND FORMERLY KNOWN AS NEW ZEALAND! The statuesque female leaned over, her breasts straining against the flimsy tank top. This ISLAND PARADISE will be yours if the surviving natives don’t put up much of a fight. She giggled. Most of ‘em already went through Lifend, right, Prezzy, darlin’?"

Dent nodded. Just about the whole damn WORLD’S gone through Lifend, hey, folks? He waited for the laughter.

Feast your eyeballs on them tittyknockers, dudeguy, Pinky gushed.

I’m there, Nazzarino agreed. A sudden plunge reminded him that, despite the form fitting cocoon that had been devised to protect twenty first century space travellers from sudden impacts, there was no way to verify the rumors concerning the aging space shuttle fleet. Joe recalled the stories about the bulky craft disintegrating when they touched down, compounded by the ancient scandals that oldtime American manufacturers had used shoddy components to build the transports.

Hold on just one minute, darlin’. Prezzy’s weird way of speaking was considered quaint by most Univision viewers—to Joe, it bordered on being irritating. These here dudeguys come a long ways just to be with us in FAN-TAS-TIC Vegas—we don’t want ‘em goin’ home empty-handed—now do we, folks? Howzabout we throw in a bonus—another little old spare country?

You’re the boss. Dent’s ravishing sidekick ambled over to another screen. Her lizard tongue snaked out to wet her bright pink rubbery lips. There’s no place like Vegas when it comes to high stakes Global Gaming, so let’s see what we can do to sweeten the pot. VannaMadonna cocked her lionness head to one side. Wait a minute—CHECK IT OUT—something tells me one of our LUCKY CONTESTANTS would love to go back to their citizens with this ONCE-IN-A-LIFESPAN SUPER AMAZING FORMER COUNTRY—CHAD! As she gushed, the image coalesced into a tawny unbroken plain of windblown sand. After all—it’s one of the few places that still looks exactly the same as it did in ancient times.

PAY ATTENTION—DUMMIES! The guidance system advised.

HARNESSES LOWERING.

Nazzarino closed his eyes as the thick black foam barrier surrounded his squat, muscular frame, the built-in oxygen mask fit-

ting over his bulldog face. The computer shrieked some muffled entreaty as the vehicle slammed into the Winworld landing bay, bouncing against the protective membrane before coming to a tooth-rattling stop. Joe breathed a sigh of relief, reflecting on the fact that—if he hadn’t been summoned to Prezzy Dent’s office a few days earlier—he never would have stepped on the shuttle in the first place.

2.

Shoot. The most important man in Vegas peered at the computer screen in disbelief. You’re the only private eye left in the whole damn Republic.

Joe Nazzarino settled into the cozy armchair that looked out the floor to ceiling windows from Prezzy Dent’s lavish suite high atop Caesar’s Palace. From his vantage point, Joe could see a good swath of the Strip as well as a close up of the holographic imagery continually projected on the interior skin of the protective dome that covered the entire Republic. This hour’s offering was a jumble of giant naked bodies contorted in various sex acts. It’s not exactly a growth industry, Mr. Dent.

The other man chuckled. Looks like you done alright by us, buddypal. He tapped on the keyboard. Got some dyn-o—mite collars. Busted up a dice game at the Tropicana back in 2038—infiltrated a poker ring inside the Monte Carlo during 2041—uncovered the rat races at the San Remo, 2053—it goes on and on. Prezzy yawned. He turned away from Joe’s homepage to face Nazzarino head on across the ornate desk. It’s people like you that make our country strong—and solvent. Thank you, sir, The detective beamed. And may I say—I love your show.

Great. Dent stood up unexpectedly. I’m gonna haveta cut right to th’bone, dudeguy. Got another drawin’ on deck in about fifteen minutes an’ old Vanna—well, she can only hold up by herself but for so long.

She can hold me anytime she wants, Nazzarino quipped.

The head of state chuckled, standing with his back to the private eye, gazing out at the view. I do the jokes here, OK, Joe?

Yes sir, Nazzarino squirmed. I didn’t mean-

Prezzy turned unexpectedly to wink at his companion. Gotcha! The Univision Live! host giggled. You ain’t the only one with a sensa humor, dudeguy. Joe emitted a hollow laugh. Born in 1984, right—so this year’s your hundred and first birthday?

Yes sir.

Dent paced across the lush carpet, placing a well manicured hand on the marble bust of a leering Greco-Roman faun. How’d you like a whole new life—wipe the old slate clean—start from scratch?

The detective shook his head sadly. You mean recycled human body parts? Already used up most of my credit reserve getting my new penis.

—Listen to me, buddypal—I’m talkin’ a total body makeover—a brain transplant right into an eighteen year old body with a dick the size of a lazer cannon. Prezzy paused, a smile playing on his cherubic face. I’ll even throw in a couple brain chips so you can remember what you had for breakfast. He pointed playfully at Nazzarino. You can fuck until the cows come home—know what I’m sayin’?

Nazzarino’s palms were oily with sweat. Cool. What’s a cow?

They got one in the zoo over to the Mirage—check it out. Dent’s voice turned serious. You want another life—you got it—all’s you have ta do is steal somethin’ for me.

Steal?

Steal. Prezzy’s permanently indented smile lines turned up at the corners. Get back a CD that one of my people lifted offa me.

A CD? Joe tried to hide his sarcasm. But sir, that’s—like-prehistoric technology.

Dent nodded. Ain’t that the truth? This one’s just a tad different. He moved back to the desk, extracting a ThaiStickPerfecto from a carved wooden box. What I’m gonna lay on ya never leaves this room—can’t see the light of day. Prezzy ignited the tip, wreathed in a cloud of pungent smoke,his eyes burning through the haze into Nazzarino’s. Loose lips sink ships—know what I’m sayin’?

The private eye felt a twinge of fear creep up his spine. Absolutely.

You know better’n anyone the laws we got here in the Republic. Dent glared at his heavy gold watch. Shoot—gotta wrap this up in five minutes. Way our system of government works, every Vegas citizen gets the monthly wagering allotment, free meals and free housing. All those credits come back to us in bets on the lottery, the scratch tickets, keno and the VirtuaSports—right? Right.

The damn Tribe, they got everything else up there on Winworld. He jabbed with his thick cigar. We get a measly little ten percent off the top. Well, now I think they may be about to get their hands on somethin’ else—the Lotto virus.

Joe gasped. I thought—that was just—a—a story or something. The legend of the Lotto Virus had been passed among Vegas residents for decades—how a twisted, anti-gaming software genius had devised a diabolical computer program to destroy the lottery. Once the command language was entered by activating the disc at the same time the numerical sequence was being picked, the virus would supposedly transform any random combination of digits—any entry—into a match. Nazzarino found it hard to believe that such a doomsday device existed—yet it was a hardcore gambler’s dream: everyone would truly be a winner, the downside being the fact that the sponsor of the lottery hit by the virus would be driven into instant bankruptcy.

Nope—it’s real alright—sure as shit. Prezzy frowned. Ever since I been doin’ this job, the CD with the program on it ‘s been locked up in a hidden safe right here in my private office. Leastways, up until the other day.

What happened?

Well, seems one a my top people—dudeguy name of John Baptista-

—’ Go-For-Broke’ Baptista? Nazzarino interjected.

—The very same— He expelled a plume of smoke -seems he broke in ‘cause he’s th’only other one who knew the combination—stole it—and took off for some R & R on Winworld. I think he cut a deal with the Tribe.

But how come—if it’s so dangerous-how come it wasn’t destroyed years ago?

The leader glanced one more time at his watch. You know how it is, Joe—can’t trust them sneaky toons down in Orlando—I need an ace in the hole—so to speak. The Republic of Orlando was the only other gaming-dominated government left in the former America. Here’s th’deal—I want you to go up there to Winworld—find that ratbastard Baptista—steal that damn CD—and bring it right back here.

To Winworld? The private eye’s tone turned reverent at the mere mention of the offworld gambling empire.

Couple a hours from now, we’ll pop seven hundred fifty thousand credits into your account. Prezzy Dent crushed the cigar into a huge ashtray emblazoned with the Republic seal. And—hey—when it’s all over,you’ll be a whole new man, buddypal. Wudya say?

Joe inhaled deeply. He thought of the network of age lines carved deeply into his face, the fact that his entire body consisted of rebuilt parts, not to mention the areas of his brain that functioned sporadically I’m in. 3.

HEY—YOOOO! Pink Spikes brayed, jostling the ex-cop as they rode the people mover out of the Winworld Spaceport, Looks like we keep our credits. Here on in, I’m golden, dudeguy—all those years working on the Organ Collection Squad finally paid off. That your scam? Joe Nazzarino studied the bulbous neon letters floating in a garish arc over the Welcome Center, reading: YOU’VE COME TO WINWORLD—HOME OF THE BEST ODDS—THE BIGGEST PAYOFFS IN THE UNIVERSE TODAY—JUST ASK CHARLIE Q. FROM THE REPUBLIC OF TORONTO—

HE WON THREE MILLION CREDITS YESTERDAY AT THE CRAP TABLE."

You ain’t LIVED, Pinky sneered, his nose pin jiggling, ‘til you’re cutting th’ kidneys outta some useless beggarbastard. The detective’s stomach rumbled uneasily. And you’re proud of yourself? The ragged line of half-alive Outsiders was a daily feature at the entrance to the Vegas dome, which was located at the far end of the Strip by McCarran Spaceport. Most of them had drifted in from the burning desert, or lived in rundown encampments around the perimeter, squatting in their own filth rather than lose their turn in the queue to be examined by the Organ Extractors. The government unofficially condoned an active black market in transplants, enabling citizens whose credit was no longer good at the various clone banks to still be able to buy a recycled body part at a discount. Each potential donor was probed and prodded, tested and re-tested for any discernible trace of genetic, environmental or bacterial contamination. The handful who qualified were hustled into the extracting rooms where Pink Spikes and his comrades would quickly remove a lung, a limb, an eyeball, the testicles, whatever the contract called for, before being sewn back up. The donors would be given enough credits to party it up on the Strip, lasting weeks, months, years in some isolated cases, before they collapsed. No matter how much time they had left, it was still better than the wretched, violent existence outside the dome.

Got a problem? Spikes’ tone turned belligerent. Yeah, well, talk to the hand. He held his wrinkled palm outstretched in a familiar gesture of dismissal. I did my time—now I get what’s comin’ to me. Nazzarino’s newfound companion drooled with excitement as they approached the grinning Leisure Lover at the barcode station—a towering, black-haired female clone, racial classification and serial number branded on her forehead.

Welcome to Winworld, where everyone’s ALWAYS a winner, She gushed. Wrist, please. The attendant grabbed Pinky’s spidery arm, sticking it under the omnipresent scanner. The retired organ collector’s birthname, age,employment history, health record, sexual orientation, gaming status, criminal record and all important credit balance splashed across the gigantic screen behind her, just another stream of data bytes leading to the ocean of information on NetOne. Mr Thomas Gray, you’ll be our guest at Aqualand.

Cool. Gray winked lecherously at the private eye.

How about a quick fuck? Black Hair gestured toward an adjacent corridor sporting twin rows of red lights, the dim interior echoing with passionate moans. It’s the Tribe’s way of saying ‘thanks for your business’. We’ve got a great selection of available pussy—from EuroWhite to Afrab to ChiJap to—whatever.

You busy? Pinky breathed.

The attendant gently pushed