Going in the Dark

          I heard a slight scrape that wasn’t a shoe. It wasn’t a shoe because I turned around and I couldn’t see anyone. My hand left my pocket, my heart sank back down, my paranoia went into remission. Magical thinking is better than hypertension. The sun was setting and I was cutting through an alley because some lessons have to be learned over and over again.
           Soon, it would be obvious that I was alone, alone except for all those other things. My towers were gone and the houses were about to disappear. I was leaving every stray window that could possibly give me guidance. Crossing into the industrial park and the only light I had was the one I held.
          Like the rest of Dis, Little Lagos didn’t mean to be here. It inherited factories and mostly ignored them. In the middle was a warehouse and that seemed like as good a place as any to put a club and so they made a banner and Solomon’s was born. Under the banner was a pair of double doors and a bouncer. The bouncer’s name was Usman and he seemed to like my tits. I thought his were a little too sinewy but I was just reading his name tag. I found myself at an almost plastic orange table marked 10, deeply with a knife. As I relaxed into a wicker bottom Mexican restaurant refugee my waiter found me and proceeded to ram itself into my chair’s back legs.
          “Drink?”
          “Robitussin, on the rocks.”
          “No Robitussin. Well drink?”
          In Little Lagos, this bar especially, the wells aren’t fit to drink from.
          “Cough syrup, any?”
          “No cough syrup. Well drink?”
          “Any booze that I recognize at all?”
          “Well drink.”
          “I don’t recognize that as booze.”
          My waiter was silent save for the servos. In front of me was a wall with sound behind it. There was a man sitting in a stool watching a door. A woman passed me and walked to the door, where she traded a cigar for a stamp on her hand. An uncaring computer boomed Unchained Melody as it shuffled through an eclectic haphazard playlist.
          “Well drink?”
          “Sure kid.”
          The little fire hazard dashed off back into employee’s only land looking for a drink that would shame a bootlegger. I wondered how many touches from a soldering iron that little guy had left before he was just gone. How many appliances was he? We’re big on recycling in Little Lagos. That’s why I was planning on eating chips; prepacked unopened grease.
          “Chop?”
          The robot had returned with my… drink. It looked flammable.
          “Chop? Chips.”
          “No potatoes.”
          “Crisps, crisps. Sorry.”
          “What kind?”
          “BBQ.”
          I retrieved a monte cristo from my coat and dropped it on garçon’s head. Seeing as though I come to alcohol for the venom I didn’t mind. I heard a scraping on the ground, it was another chair.
          “Do you mind?”
          “Yes but go ahead.”
          He had a thick mustache, skin like cocoa powder, and a chemical marvel of a pompadour. As he sat across the table he draped his jacket on the seat’s back. He was maybe a little too thin but I wasn’t all that picky.
          “I’m Billy D.”
          You can do that in Dis, I’ve met Tom Cruise twice.
          “How new are you?”
          “Dropped in a few…”
          “Yeah, I don’t know either.” There are clocks and calendars, but where to start was a matter of contention. “What did you do you Billy D?”
          “Don’t you mean what do I do?”
          “You scavenge and you take odd jobs.”
          “I do?”
          “But what did you do?”
          Billy grabbed a few strands of his hair and then moved his hand down to his lip petting his mustache.
          “A model?” I guessed.
          “Heh. A hairdresser. You?”
          “Government.”
          “What, CIA?”
          “Smaller.”
          “So boring.”
          “Yeah.”
          More pause followed and then a lighter appeared. It was followed shortly by a nice box of Newports: yellowed but not ruined. I thought for a moment he had found an intact pack. If he was about to smoke that, I’d have mugged him right there. The flap flew back revealing neat black cigarettes with red seams. They were Dis made, but very nice.
          “You want one?”
          I never had that habit but I was tempted.
          “No.”
          He took a long drag and began coughing profusely.
          “Not tobacco.”
          He quickly crushed it on the table and I could smell one of my habits lifting towards the roof. Shame.
          “So, you’re doing well enough to actually smoke smokes?”
          “Hair still gotta get did don’t it?”
          I was pretty sure there was a leaf in my hair and it had been there for a year, however long ago that was.
          “Sure.”
          “So anyways, is it an off night or what?”
          “No, it’s still hopping back there.”
          “Back where?”
          I pointed towards the door guarded by a stool.
          “Costs Cuba’s finest but you get a stamp and it’s good all night.”
          “Do I want a stamp?”
          “Underneath, above or…” I waved off the science. “There’s a sound you can’t hear. It’s happy, it just turns you on like a switch. It doesn’t carry past the wall.”
          “So why aren’t you in there?”
          “I did something stupid once and I got myself in trouble. Don’t leave before the music stops.”
          “So you’re okay?”
          “Follow your bliss Lando.”
          With that he left and I suddenly didn’t want to chop, I just wanted to leave. Usman almost protested but I walked past. My little light and I walked towards home. Leaves scuttled and plastic bags whistled and one pair of keds patted the ground. I was in the dark and making my way. Then my light caught a knife.
          I saw a svelte man in tight blue jeans with long flowing blond hair holding a fillet knife. He saw a portly small frizzy ginger with a weird gun. Our eyes met but those little sparks never came, neither did the knife.
          But, somewhere the music was still playing. More the shame.

Advertisements

The Far Flung Future of 1999

          The future is a scary place with towering insurmountable white walls. It’s a three mile square smack dab in the middle of Dis and its residents are almost unknowable. I had business there. I had a bit of something that they didn’t want me to have. It might have been a battery, maybe a bomb; it was plasticine, purple and has a coil. Haley was nervous; I was nervous too but I knew I didn’t have a firearm. Haley was less comfortable unarmed, despite her arms being twice mine in strength and length.
          “Maybe you should stay behind.”
          She seemed a little hurt by that but there’s not much logic that says I was wrong. After 2160, Humanity gets jumpy and you can never quite tell what a man who’s decided to wear a white lycra bodysuit with a bright red tie thinks is sensible. There was one on either side scanning traffic going in. Their posture told me that the power tools in their hands were actually weapons. I could almost make out the text being displayed on their huge granny sunglasses. I suppose it was weather and sports scores, maybe celebrity gossip.
          This corridor was about long enough to cross a decent river and we were quickly approaching the point where leaving would be inconvenient or worse, suspicious. If I didn’t return the purple thingmabop they’d come looking for it surely. The scanners were quickly approaching and the solemn ridiculous guards were beginning to pick up on the nervousness of my friend. I promptly found Haley’s hand and she looked down at me. I tried to sing a little under my breath.
          …out of the blue and into the black…
          The trick to lullabies is there not for the baby, they’re for the parent. I use to sing Sex and Candy when fiddling with diapers. Kept me calm. I was never any good at it though.
          I was hoping that there was a transitive property to my calm, despite it never working before. Seemed to. I stepped through the scanner first.
          1999, Homo Sapient. 91 kilos. Cleared for Sector 1.
          The LCD seemed smug. I wasn’t going to argue, especially when I had a favorable answer at home. It was Haley’s turn.
          ????, ????, 120 kilos. Contaminant.
          Red lights, sirens and powered drills aimed at my friends head: calm was gone. I was pointing what looked like a studfinder back at them; stunguns didn’t even really look intimidating back in the day. Every part of the standoff was bluffing to a degree, but they had 3 clear advantages: (1) I knew their guns killed (2) I had one feasible shot, while they were 2 (3) My gun only stunned. To my surprises, Haley had not pulled out that revolver of hers. Too bad, the Old West somehow just knew how to stay imposing through the years.
          After a couple seconds I holstered my incredibly dangerous Builder’s Square bargain bin weapon. Slowly I pulled out the purple thing and put it at my feet, very calm, very cool.
          “This is yours. We’re done?”
          They didn’t speak English, they didn’t deem it prudent. Their Hiatachis lowered to the ground. Me and my friend slowly backed out of the line. After an awkward close to a mile backtrack we were out.
          “Sorry I cost you that finder’s fee.”
          “Oh, wasn’t like I needed it.”
          True, it was clothes I needed… and food.
          “Amber?”
          “Uh huh?”
          “You’re holding my hand again.”
          So I was.

In Little Lagos Layed an Old English Cross

      The asphalt was unforgiving that morning. It didn’t care that I was just walking to the store, it was going to try and take my shoes with every other step. Then the door tried to break me with its old world heft. VS was a bad choice for supper. In mid groan I heard pops. They didn’t register right away but I figured it out before I stepped on the welcome mat.
      I heard 5, Nicola tapped 6 on the counter. If gunshots are close it’s a draft notice but a couple blocks away, they’re a running gag. A weak incandescent bulb was shining over my head. It tried to show the paltry stock decorating the aisles behind me. The perishables had perished, everything else was getting dusty. All the good stuff was behind the swollen old proprietor in the stock room. That was smart, I’d probably just take it otherwise. He’d take from me, I’d take from him. We were simpatico.
      “Grape nuts, bra, milk.”
      I put down on the table what I thought fair.
      “You’ve got 10 packaged needles. I think that’s enough for milk and a brassiere.”
      Currency in my community is somewhat dynamic.
      “Could an eightball get me some grape nuts?”
      “Cocaine maybe but so little? Meth no, tweakers are … subsistence farming yes?”
      I remembered when this Tienda was Javier’s. Javier (who actually spoke Spanish) use to give me a tits discount. Nicola still looked, but I paid retail. Sometimes more.
      “I’ve got most of a Glock. No trigger, thats all.”
      “That’s shit. What’s a gun that can’t shoot.”
      “A trigger from a gun that can.”
      “I can shoot 8 times when you can’t shoot once. Worthless.”
      I wasn’t getting my grape nuts but I wasn’t letting this slight pass.
      “Well, you can shoot 8 muskets but if I get a trigger assembly, I can shoot 15 times before I reload. Which takes about 5 seconds.”
      “It’s good feature, but trigger is better feature.”
      I could only grudgingly accept that he was correct. 3 miles to the south, just out of Lower Celestia was the beginning of Portland. There sat Wang’s Emporium, where I could get everything I wanted and a Grandfather clock as a bonus. This was dreaming, I like everyone else in Little Lagos had no car. We had big fuck all square buildings full of people, we had guns and drugs, but cars? No. So locals shopped local.
      “I will have my grape nuts old man.”
      “Yes but not for that price… maybe something else?”
      “Are you suggesting?”
      “No.”
      He wasn’t. I was out of shape, way after puberty and he could have anyone around. I suddenly felt old and unfuckable. The room kept on talking without us, whirs, hums and little clicks babbled as Nicola stood on the other side of the counter, tapping. My hands were diving into a tote searching for absolutely nothing, stalling. Then suddenly angry French outside.
      “Old English shit, it’s 7am.”
      Old English starts where Little Lagos just shrugs and gives up. It’s a place where those who won’t have and those who don’t have squat together. Those who don’t have are soon to be lured by the sometimes working indoor plumbing and enticing hope of electricity.
      “Probably drugs.”
      Nicky spiked those few words with a gallon of jealousy.
      “Sugar.” My inner cynic used my tongue.
      “Sugar makes hope. Hope is better than drugs.”
      I was going to argue the finer points of hope and antibiotics but then I heard a rifle, and again. Something about Nicola’s face told me he wasn’t going to to help. I could’ve tried to get something out of his delinquent conscience but sadly, my better parts screamed a little louder than his and I was soon out of the door with the bra and the milk on the table. Outside, with not a shadow of a gunman, I found myself a corpse. All that anger, that life, and here I was stepping in it, my soles were dripping with it.
      He was a powerful little man, who may have looked like a towheaded Aryan angel a decade prior to our meeting before he got pocked and scarred. The wool of his tunic was coarse, soiled and unusable. There was a big crucifix around his neck and a Bulova that was quite still hanging off his likewise unmoving wrist. Promptly, they became mine and entered my bag. Out of the corner of my eye, I found a dog waiting his turn. I met his gaze. I’d give him his due once I took what I could. That’s how it goes, those who live get priority over those who don’t.
      AMO
      A minute earlier and I would have missed it but the dawn had come and there it was engraved on a beautiful sleek shiny metal box, with ear buds. If a man should know one bit of Latin, I guess thats not a bad bit. was almost giddy as I reached down for it. I was hoping to hear something good.
      “Onri? Onri!”
      Instead I found myself pointing a gun at a pretty little savage that was maybe 16. I couldn’t remember grabbing the glock. My finger had already pulled, impotently. She was unaware of the context, for all she cared I just didn’t like her. Slowly time returned to normal and the scene started to make sense. Man buys music for a girl, music goes away, man gets angry. I pointed at her and then the mp3 player.
      “Amo?”
      “Agostina.”
      Amo.
      I got up, and I walked his cross over to her. She would get more use out of it than I would. I gave her 3 rings too, that I didn’t know I’d taken. I kept the watch. I was going to tell her that I didn’t do it, that I could probably fix her music but I didn’t have the words. We just stood there.
      I’m ashamed to say I was still pining for grape nuts.

Anywho I try to make these so that they can stand on their own but.. here’s the first Dis story.Here’s the second one.