text: [Themes: sci-fi, cyberpunk, humor, anti-hero, science fiction]
  
  They're coming. You see them in the security camera, but you've known for days. You can't burn the people you've burned and not expect a visit from the Monkeys. Looks like four of them. Four gene mod chimpanzees, decked from head to toe in unmarked black fatigues; they're carrying neuro-linked, twin-barreled, neck-slung, plasma-smartguns, with probably a half dozen other hyphens you don't know about.
  
  It's fine. It's all fine, baby. You're Mohammed James Wang and you've gotten out of far worse. You grab the revolver from your desk and check the cylinder. Six .44 shots, and another dozen in your pocket. Analogue is best when you need to smoke a motherfucker on a budget. You sling your trillion-dollar briefcase around your neck. If you had to guess, you'd say that the gorillas planned to aerate you and take it. Any more than a small, deniable, wetwork team, and they risk acknowledging its existence. Classic.
  
  As you approach the window and aim the gun at the Safe-T-Glass, the window warns you, in harsh terms, that a suicide attempt will void your health insurance.
  
  "Like I have fucking health insurance," you say as you blast the window out and leap out onto the street below. You land heavily on a watermelon stall, earning yourself a barrage of Indonesian curses from the proprietor. You can hear your apartment door being incinerated on the second floor.
  
  [Author's Note: A short, silly, high-octane ride through a cyberpunk future where your bullets are few, your friends are fewer, and the long tentacles of the law are slithering up your pant legs. I am aware that technically, writing a sentence in all capital letters is gramatically incorrect. I did this on purpose, several times, for stylistic effect. If you point this out in the reviews, a team of hit-apes will kick in your door.]
  
  > TAKE IT TO THE SOVIETS
  Everything is going according to plan. Your contact, one Sergei Tartakovsky of the FSB, has given you exactly what you need to make it into the USSR. All you need is to cross the city and meet him. You hear the sound of insane ape rage in the second floor apartment as they tear it apart, no doubt looking for you.
  
  You step out into the street, forcing a motorcyclist to stop.
  
  "What the fuck, man?" he yells.
  
  Shaking, you point the gun at his chest. "Get the fuck off!"
  
  You order him off the bike, then get on. As he watches you steal his ride, you thrust the gun at him to dissuade him from coming near. "Fuck you, asshole!" he says.
  
  "That's fair," you mutter to yourself as you punch it.
  
  As you drive dangerously through the market district, whipping past pedestrians and vendors at breakneck speed, the back of your neck starts to tingle. You heed your well-developed sixth sense and take an abrupt right turn, and the ground behind you explodes beneath a hail of well-aimed machine gun fire.
  
  As you turn for a split second, you notice a black drone in hot pursuit. Its lack of markings tells you that it isn't a cop, and it doesn't take a genius to puzzle out the rest. The spooks are trying to wipe you off the map with a drone, and they don't care how many people they waste in the process. Its cannons glow red hot as they begin to cycle up for another barrage. You have seconds to act.
  
  > DRIVE THROUGH A COVERED MARKET
  You swerve to avoid another blast of gunfire and drive into a covered wet market. There's a slight delay; you know from experience that the onboard AI is struggling to pick you up amid the live animals and haggling people. Put the emphasis on slight. Exactly three seconds after you take the motorcycle into the market, the first stall explodes in a rain of high-calibre death. The shopkeeper and her chickens are reduced to a fine red mist. Instantly, the market explodes into a furor.
  
  A fat, aged, Chinese man reaches under his stall and produces a black market mag-grenade launcher. "You fucking Tong mothafucka not happy with money I already pay?" he demands indignantly, before firing a barrage of sticky grenades at the drone.
  
  You laugh as you drive away, leaving death and chaos in your wake.
  
  > HEAD TO THE DOCKS
  You lay low for a few hours. You buy a few loosies and slum it in a covered back alley, smoking and shooting the shit as best you can. As day turns to night, the usual suspects emerge; whores, junkies, fixers and punks. These people are high-tech lowlives, vermin that twist, scream, and fuck in the neon-drenched streets.
  
  You're close enough to the docks now that you no longer need the motorcycle. You toss the keys to the first bum you see. His one good eye widens; half in gratitude, half in suspicion.
  
  "I don't fuckin' need it," you say.
  
  "Thankyekindly," he slurs. You nod.
  
  You leave the alley behind as you head for the port. It's raining now, so you pull your hood high. You feel the eyes of the Feds upon you at every turn. You reach into your jacket pocket and feel the cold weight of the revolver. It comforts you.
  
  You pass a sign that says Al-Kobe Port, which makes you figure you're on the right track. You quickly walk a few more blocks. The no-question motels and cheap shredclinics that cater to sailors act as even further confirmation. Soon, you come across rows of dockside warehouses, and the port comes into view. It's a minor port, and its fortunes have diminished even further as a result of the recent epidemic of octo-piracy in the Pacific. That means no security robots, just a few night watchmen who you duck with ease.
  
  Soon, you arrive at Warehouse K2-29-139. You're in the right place at the right time. You open the door.
  
  > SHOWDOWN AT THE WHARF
  You enter the warehouse. Half of it is open to the water, probably to facilitate clandestine unloading. It's spacious but empty, and lit with flickering white industrial lighting. Chains and hooks hang from the ceiling. There's a conspicuous wooden crate right by the waterfront.
  
  "Sergei?" you call out uncertainly. You take your gun out and hide it behind your back. Your thumb finds the hammer and cocks it.
  
  You nervously step back as something rises out of the water. One reddish, puckered tentacle, then another, then another.
  
  "You didn't tell me you were a fuckin octopus!" you hiss.
  
  Sergei shrugs with all eight of his tentacles.
  
  His limbs begin to twist and contort in ASL - Animal Sign Language.
  
  Easiest way to get package back. Put in stomach.
  
  "You want me to go in your fuckin' stomach? This isn't Jonah and the fuckin' whale here, god damn it!"
  
  No. Briefcase. You go on boat. Arrive soon.
  
  "You think I was born yesterday, Sergei?"
  
  No time. Briefcase in my mouth. Go now.
  
  "Fuck you. I'm not doing shit 'til I have my ride out of here,"
  
  Sergei reaches behind him. Instinctively, you throw yourself to the ground. You look behind you as you do, and notice the ninja star quivering in the wall behind you. It would have gone right through your throat. Sergei smashes the crate, and you can hear the whine of a plasma gun. You roll to the side as he vaporizes the ground you were laying on a split second before.
  
  "Wait!" you yell, putting the briefcase in front of you. "If you kill me, you destroy this!"
  
  He points the gun into the air with one tentacle, and begins to sign with the rest.
  
  "Hands on the floor motherfuckers!" comes a booming voice from behind you. You step to the side, and point your gun at the source of it. A bald white guy with shades, an immaculate suit, and two laser pistols bursts into the room. He trains his guns on you and Sergei; Sergei trains his gun on him, and you train your gun on Sergei.
  
  "Who the fuck are you?" you ask.
  
  "Harris Smith, Central Intelligence Agency," he says. The chimps from earlier follow behind him, training their guns on you and the Soviet octopus. The two laser sights trained on your chest make you understandably nervous. You hold the briefcase in front of you like a protective shield.
  
  "You've had a good run, Mohammed James Wang, if that's even your real name. But it's time to give it up. Nobody robs Uncle Sam and gets away with it. What's in that thing, anyway?"
  
  He poses a fair question. What's in that thing, anyway?
  
  > A NUKE
  "I had hoped to get this to the Russo-swine first, but this will have to do," you say.
  
  "What the fuck are you talking about?" Harris asks. His finger tightens on the trigger.
  
  "For too long, these swine have enslaved my people, Agent. No longer! Glory to the People's Octopode Republic!" You fire three shots into the briefcase. It glows white hot for a brief second. The chimps gun you down a millisecond after, but it doesn't matter. The briefcase goes thermonuclear. The ensuing fireball kills the chimps, Sergei, Smith, and everyone else in the city. It triggers an earthquake and a tsunami, killing tens of thousands.
  
  In the after-action report, both the CIA and the FSB realize they've made a crucial mistake. While both suspected that Mohamed James Wang was a fake name, they both assumed you were a human being; this proved to be a critical error. Mohamed James Wang was the pseudonym of Tiberius Erik III, an uplifted octopus and notorious octopode-rights terrorist; he had been strategically inserted into a human body a few months before.