| From: | Pete <p.siems@******.NET> |
|---|---|
| Subject: | L/V: Twitch's Christmas Party |
| Date: | Thu, 24 Dec 1998 03:14:13 -0000 |
591221_0038[E]
>>>>>[Food wrappers, packaging and discarded screamsheet pages blows across
the concrete quay leading to the rickety wooden pier. Thick clouds scud
along driven by a cold wind in the night sky. The background glow of a pale
moon breaks through the clouds occasionally, highlighting a large figure
standing at the end of the empty pier. Water feeds itself around the pier's
pylons, murmuring, complaining bitterly at being disturbed by the wind that
ruffles the figures' long hair. Rocking the small sailing boats moored to
buoys out from the pier, the hoist cables clanging faintly against the alloy
masts. The hulking figure at the end of the pier hurls something hard out
across the water, the faint splash lost in the sound of the waves breaking
on the pylons and quay wall.
"I thought you said there was some work?" The camera flares briefly from
the strike of a zippo. "If there's work what the fuck are we doing lurking
here?"
The figure on the pier turns, the face hidden under a baseball cap, the glow
of a cigarette the only sign of life under the deep shadow. "I ain't
fuckin' psychic Scratch, I got told there was a hit, I ain't heard shit
since. What do you want, that I should write an ad' for the papers and
fuckin' ask. Don't be such a stupid cunt. If there's work, he'll contact
as just as soon as he needs us. Last message I got said he had problems.
Until we hear something, shut the fuck up." Twitch turns back towards the
water, hurling something else, hard, his body twisting from the force. A
faint clonk indicates that he has hit one of the boats.
"Yeah," Scratch mutters around his cigarette. "Yeah I'll shut up ya big
lunk. Just as soon as I've got cash in my pocket and food in my belly." He
shifts slightly the broken pallets he's sitting on scraping together,
unhappy at this human using them as a sofa. Scratch stretches his legs out,
heavy boots glistening wetly in the faint light. "Shut up. That's your
fucking answer to everything isn't it."
A few minutes pass. Twitch hurling things at the moored boats, Scratch
cleaning his nails with a switchblade. "Oh fuck this Twitch. It's damn cold
and I'm hungry. We've been here for four fucking days man. It's time to do
something." Scratch lifts a leg and breaks wind noisily, followed by a
sniffing sound. "Hell I'm so hungry even my farts don't smell no more."
Twitch turns and walks steadily up the pier, climbing the steps to the quay.
His huge bulk slowly filling the camera lens as he approaches Scratch. For
a few long seconds he simple stands, square chin jutting out from under the
shadow of the baseball cap, cigarette clamped between tight, drawn lips.
"So, yer hungry, huh? OK, let's go eat." Twitch takes off the hat and
stuffs it into his thick jacket. "What d'ya want?"
"Curry."
"If you're havin' curry, you sleep outside ya smelly bastard." Twitch walks
over to his bike, the battered Harley lurking menacingly in deep shadow next
to a hut.
"You just don't have a sense of style Twitch. A good fart might be smelly,
but it sure warms up a cold sleepin' bag." Scratch slides off the pallets
and follows Twitch. A dark coloured Yamaha sits behind the huge Harley,
sleek lines talking loudly of speed and power.
Twitch swings his leg over the Harley and presses the start, the big engine
thundering into life, exhaust coughing thickly. The Yamaha shrieks into
life, it's high revving engine a strange soprano to the deep bass of the
Harley. Twitch looks over at Scratch, grinning ferally. "First we gotta
visit the bank." Lifting his leg off the floor Twitch lets the Harley have
it's head, shaking the windows of the hut as he pulls off, the Yamaha
whining along behind, heading towards the orange glow of the lights of
Downtown.
Hitting the Intracity highway, the two bikes weave in and out of traffic,
brake lights flashing as Twitch cuts a few close causing the drivers the
brake and swerve, hitting their horns and cussing at the ignorant biker.
Until they notice the grinning face of Scratch peering in through their
window, at which point off ramps and lane changes become the order of the
moment. Illuminated signs pointing the way to the Downtown off-ramp reflect
off the wet hardtop, demanding that the drivers "Get In Lane" for the
onrushing heart of Seattle. A lonely Patrol Car, skims along one of the
lanes, the darkened glass hiding the officers inside. Scratch negligently
waves at the Police vehicle which studiously ignores him, though no doubt
the officers inside certainly noticed. The two bikes pull off the highway
while the officers waste time deciding whether stopping them would be
worthwhile in the cold wind.
Twitch's Harley slides slightly as he takes a hard left at the bottom of the
off ramp, the Yamaha sticking to the road without trouble, though leaning
hard into the corner to keep up. The neon nightmare of downtown ahead of
them, the two bikers pull alongside each other, slowing to match the traffic
flow before pulling into the endless stream of cabs, Japanese compacts and
American built road monsters. Following the main road through Downtown, the
edifices of Aztechnology and Renraku Arcology fill the skyline before the
two hang a right and head towards a neon heavy part of town laden with the
most obscene array of Christmas lights and decorations imaginable. The two
pull over into a park and pay, climb off and look around at the bustling
crowds. People laden with brightly wrapped packages, wrapped against the
cold wind. Children laughing and shrieking, pointing at the bewildering
array of gifts, offers and animated displays in the store windows.
Twitch takes a deep breath, sniffing loudly. "Goddamn I love this time of
year."
"Say what?" Scratch is more than a little puzzled, and it comes through in
his voice clear as a bell. "Are you fuckin' nuts?"
"Scratch, you just ain't got no sense o' opportunity man. Sniff the air.
Go on, sniff it."
Scratch does precisely that. The camera shakes. "I can't smell nothin' cept
traffic fumes, donuts an' summat else I can't," he sniffs again,
"identify."
"That other smell buddy, is money. Free money, lots of it. Easy pickin's."
The camera scans the street from one side to the other, covering the crowded
sidewalks, the heavy traffic, and the insane bedlam that can be seen behind
the window displays as people battle for last minute bargains. "You are
nuts."
Twitch's shoulders slump for a moment as he glances over at Scratch. "Just
follow the Twitcher, an' you'll see what I mean."
"Twitch, I ain't come here to get into trouble, I came here to get food."
"Scratch, first we get money, then we get food, then beer. You got a
problem with that?"
"Yeah, what the fuck do we need money for?"
"Fun, asshole. Ya can't have fun without it."
"Right. Yeah. Whatever." Scratch shambles after the hulking Twitch,
sniggering as the crowded sidewalk seems to separate and flow around the
brute as people trample each other to get out of his path, much like a ship
ploughing through the ocean. Twitch stops for a moment, and slowly walks up
behind a man loading boxes into the back of a Mercedes station wagon.
Whether it's the smell, or the sudden darkness that covers him, the man
turns, sees Twitch no more than an arm's length away and squeaks, his eyes
widening so far it appears that they'll fall out of his head.
"Evenin'. Dun sum shoppin' den?" Twitch's voice has sunk to his boots, and
his educational level through the tarmac.
The man's mouth moves, but nothing more than a tuneless unintelligible
squeak manages to squeeze itself past his rapidly bobbing adam's apple.
"Fort so. Ya know dere are people who ain't got nuffink dun ya? Poor little
kiddies who's starvin' and dyin' while you buy stuff. Wotcha got dere
anyway? Huh? Furs fer de missus, stuff fer de kids, gifts fer da boss and
yer relatives? Yeah, I bet you dun spent loads on dat, but you ain't never
fort o' dem little'uns out dere 'ave ya?"
Again the man's Adam's apple goes through it's aerobics routine. People on
the sidewalk studiously ignore the conversation going on around the back of
the Mercedes Scratch sits on the bonnet of a Chrysler, scratching his nuts,
admiring his reflection in the polished Mercedes.
Twitch continues, "I fink it'd be real decent of ya ta donate summat.
Don'tchoo?" He leans closer to the terrified man, baring his teeth and
sniffing, as though testing for freshness before taking a bite." The man
nods enthusiastically, and offers his credstick. "Now wot am I gonna do wiv
dat? Kiddies ain't got credit. Nah. Dere's an autoteller over dere," he
points to a wall teller on the corner of a store. Ow's about you make a
nice fat donation to a poor charity huh?." Something catches one of the
streetlights and glints. Suddenly the man's fear makes sense, it isn't just
because Twitch is probably the ugliest individual he's ever seen, it's
because he can also see one of the ugliest knives in the world dancing
somewhere near his nether regions. He nods enthusiastically at Twitch's
suggestion and leads the way to the autoteller. Even now, he tries to hide
the keycode he feeds to the machine, and then presses a few numbers,
pointing at the three figure sum on the display. Twitch shakes his head and
sticks a finger in the air, pointing up. The man changes it to a four
figure sum, and Twitch nods, taking the offered money and strolling off down
the road whistling happily. The man virtually streaks for the Mercedes,
slamming the rear gate down hard and leaping into the drivers seat, hitting
the central locking system and burying his face in his hands.
Scratch spins back to the crowd and trots after Twitch, who dives down an
alley between stores, heading for the back streets.
Scratch finally catches up with him as he exits round to the rear of the
stores and strolls up another litter filled alley. "Charity? Charity!? You
really are nuts Twitch, nobody robs someone in a crowded street like that.
You're face will be all over the trafficams tonight, and the police cruisers
tomorrow."
"An' what did they see Scratch? A greasy long haired biker and someone big
enough to be a troll. A troll and his ganger buddy. Trafficam is too
damned busy watchin' the traffic to worry about people, and the store
security is all turned inwards to catch the fuckers who're shopliftin'. The
Police could give a fuck about a troll and some hairy fuck when they've got
more serious things to do on nights like this. It's the stupid season man,
people are killing each other to get at the bargains, they're rammin' each
other on the road, and shootin' each other on the highway. Who gives a shit
about some Troll who just got his christmas bonus. Besides, the guy pissed
himself, he ain't gonna phone no cop to help, he'll go home, get changed,
have a stiff drink and pretend like it didn't happen."
"You're gonna get yourself killed one day doin' that." Scratch tosses two
wallets and a ladies pocketbook into the air, in a small juggling act. "You
gotta learn to be more subtle dude." Twitch raises an eyebrow. "Hey, I
didn't know what you were gonna do, so I thought maybe you wanted me to stir
up somethin' for us."
Twitch chuckles, "You are going to get your hands cut off one day. Fuckin'
thief. At least I does it the honest way."
"You stick a knife in a guy's bollocks and you call that honest? Shit
Twitch, I don't hurt people. They don't even know they been got at. You,
shit your like a goddamn bulldozer."
Twitch stops for a moment, leaning against a full dumpster, counting the
notes in his hand, separating them into two groups one which he secures in
his jeans, the other inside his jacket.
Scratch rummages in through the top of the dumpster. "It's OK Twitch, I
ain't gonna pick your pocket dude."
"That ain't what it's for. Right. Oh for fucks sake, get your head outta
that thing, you stink enough already. We eat, then I got a call to make."
Scratch pulls his arms out of the dumpster, a pizza box in one hand.
Opening the lid, he discovers a wedge left in the box, removes it, sniffs at
it, then proceeds to eat, smacking his lips noisily.
The two men slowly wander out of the alley, back into the neon and
pedestrian crowded street, walking slowly back to their bikes, rubbernecking
at the displays of utter capitalism in the store windows, Scratch
occasionally bumping into the odd pedestrian, apologising profusely round
his pizza wedge. On reaching the bikes, the two mount and join the uptown
traffic, driving slowly, passing jokes and comments between each other,
interspersed with curses and insults for any driver they consider a moron.
They drive for 10 minutes before Twitch waves over to the side of the road,
pointing at an Indian Restaurant that doesn't appear too busy. Dismounting,
the two straighten their clothes, and walk into the restaurant. A horrified
Indian greets them as politely as he can, asking what he can do for them.
Scratch grabs a menu, and orders several takeout items, the waiter scuttles
into the kitchen, reappearing with two large beers and offering the two a
table hidden under a flight of stairs away from the main eating area.
Twitch sips at his beer, wiping the froth off his lip with his sleeve. "Ya
know. I can't understand why so many people wanna wear suits, and pretend
they's summat special. I get great service like I am. Why the fuck should
I change?"
Scratch merely sniggers happily, froth on the end of his long nose
unnoticed, absently scratching at his armpit. "Dunno Twitch, I do alright
too." He shuffles around in his chair, emptying the small change and notes,
credit cards and other items out of several wallets he extracts from his
jacket, leaving a small pile of the things in the corner under the stairs.
"Wotcha keepin' the cards an' sticks for? We can't use 'em."
"Coz I c'n sell 'em. There's a fence on the strip who deals with these
things, he's a stingy fucker, but it's free money, so I don't give a shit."
Scratch looks around the restaurant to see if anyone is watching them, and
smiles when he notices the people in sight are studiously ignoring the two
bikers.
The take out arrives in record time, the waiter all smiles and pleasantness,
as he ushers the two thugs out of the door with a sigh of relief. Scratch
spits on the pavement. "I wonder why he wanted us out so quick?"
Twitch looks at the biker. "Coz you fuckin' stink."
Scratch sniffs his armpits. "It ain't that bad. I been worse."
"You ain't been worse unless you been dead for a month." Twitch grins
broadly and punches the Harley's starter as Scratch loads the takeout into
the Harley's bags.
"Where to now?" Scratch winds up the Yamaha and secures the sidestand.
Kobi Park, we eat, then I gotta call on someone, it'll only take a moment,
then we get some beer afore we head back to the hut. Scratch looks puzzled
but says nothing. They hang a left and follow the road round to Kobi Park.
The Park, under the shadow of the Renraku Arcology is a hive of activity,
news teams, police and a variety of aerial and satellite equipped vans
parked in various places, interfering with the normal gang activities and
night life of the busy park.
"What's goin' on?" Scratch tucks into a Chicken Korma with gusto.
"Dunno, an' I don't care. fuckin' place should be burned to the ground.
Ugly fucking thing."
"You don't like anythin' do you Twitch?"
"I don't like fuckin' corps. Bastards should all be drowned and fed to the
sharks."
Scratch nods, eating more important than conversation. The two bikers sit
next to their bikes, stuffing themselves on bahgees and rice, beef and
chicken curries and patties. Twitch pulls a small bottle of scotch out of
his jacket, swigs from it, screws the lid back on and tosses it to Scratch.
The activity across the park and in front of the Arcology oblivious to the
two men, Christmas and the worsening weather.
Throwing the empty cartons away into the bushes, they mount up and head out
to Redmond.
90 minutes driving takes them across downtown and over the causeway
stretching over Lake Washington, through the rich suburbs of Bellevue and
out into the ruins and poverty of the Barrens. Twitch follows a winding
route through the twisting streets, stopping eventually outside a burned out
building. Leaving the Harley running, he climbs off and walks up to the
building, resting one hand on the scorched brick entrance. His shoulders
and head sag for a moment, before he walks up the stone steps, and through
the charred doorway. The legend "Let there be Light", sprayed on the broken
mosaic entrance floor.
Scratch steps off the Yamaha, and walks into the ruin behind Twitch. "What
the fuck is this place?"
Twitch turns, his face grey and ashen, eyes colder than ice, one bitter word
scrapes past his teeth. "Home."
Scratch looks around the ruin, catching a half burned sign. "Anthony's
Orphanage and Way House". He looks back at Twitch before turning back to
the bikes, leaving the big man to his thoughts in peace, spitting on the
sprayed legend in the entrance before leaving.
Twitch stands in the rubble for several minutes before walking back to his
bike, his feet heavy and dragging on the sidewalk.
"I got taken in when my parents were killed in a resettlement project. The
old bastard that ran that place was as good as any father to me. He never
asked where the money came from that we brought back, just so long as it fed
his kids, and the others round here." Scratch bends a leg over the Harley's
tank, and sits side saddle on the bike, lighting a cigarette and drawing
heavily on it. "Fuchi wanted to build a factory in my old neighbourhood, we
and a bunch of other squatters were in the way. I was about 5 maybe 6 I
guess. One night, the corp sent their teams around, broke the doors down
and shot anyone who resisted. They'd got permission from the city to clean
out the squatters, with a licence to defend themselves against attack. They
just saved themselves some trouble, and killed anyone who complained.
That's how I got this." Twitch traces a scar over his right eye. "Fuchi
rifle butt. The cunt holding it didn't like it that some brat kid wanted
his Ma. I woke up in the gutter of an alley, my parents bodies dumped on
top of me. I musta looked like hell on legs, covered in blood like I was.
There was a group of people who ran the home there. One of them found me
staggering in the street, too fucked up to even know who I was. Every year,
I make the trip up here and give him something for what he done for me.
Now..." He waves at the rubble. "Now it's gone. That's my life in that
rubble, Scratch. Everything I was, is gone." Scratch sensibly stays silent
while Twitch chugs from the scotch bottle, catching the bottle when it's
tossed to him he finishes the scotch, and cocks his arm back to throw the
bottle into the rubble. "NO!" Scratch pauses. "Give it to me. I've got
a
use for it."
He passes the bottle back to Twitch who climbs off the bike and crouches
next the tank. Twitch pulls the fuel feed off the tank, and opens the tank
valve draining fuel into the empty bottle, tearing off a piece of his shirt
and stuffing it into the top, upending the bottle to soak the cloth. "I got
a use for it." The voice is cold, mean, lips thin Twitch re-attaches the
fuel pipe and climbs onto the Harley. He looks over at Scratch. "Comin'?"
"Fuckin' A." Scratch follows close behind the Harley, driving past squats
and collapsing buildings, entering gang turf within a couple of minutes.
Twitch follows a narrow road into a disused goods yard, train tracks rusting
on rotten sleepers, a glass, concrete and steel building at the end of the
yard showing some signs of occupation. He stops at the end of a wide yard
leading to the storage building and lights the whiskey bottle. Gunning the
Harley, Twitch accelerates at the building, followed by the screaming Yamaha
and slams into the makeshift doors, splintering them, bursting through the
other side into a wide concrete floorspace, gang members and other people
gathered around burning oil barrels for warmth. Twitch hurls the scotch
bottle at a thick group of people slamming the brakes hard and sliding the
Harley to a halt. The Yamaha slides to a stop, Scratch dropping the
side-stand and dismounting, drawing an automatic in a practised move.
Twitch climbs off the Harley pulling his revolver as the molotov hits the
concrete just short of the group, spilling petrol and flames into the crowd
and lighting the dry wood pallets and empty crates.
"WHERE THE FUCK IS SPANNER!?" Twitch stomps towards another surprised
group, ignoring the screams and panic from the group hit by the petrol bomb.
One man, tattoos covering his arms, gang colours prominent, and a green
mohawk stands up.
"What the fuck you doin' Twitch? You can't come in here bustin' up the
place!" His answer is a loud roar from the revolver, the heavy slug tearing
most of his face and skull off.
"I WANT SPANNER! GET HIM OR EVERY FUCKER IN THIS BUILDING DIES!" Two
gangers scrabble over a pile of crates heading into the back of the
building, returning with a large negro.
"Yo Twitch. What's fuckin your ass then?"
The revolver chamber clicks over as Twitch pulls the hammer back. "You were
supposed to protect the home ya fuck. That's what you were paid to do, or
do you just take money for nothin' now?"
"We couldn't. Fucking terrorists came out of nowhere, it was over before we
got there."
"Why weren't someone on lookout Spanner? You made plenty o' money outta
that place to keep some people there."
"I told ya Twitch, they came out of nowhere. Fuckers like CoT don't give no
warnin' man, they just come out of the dark, and boom."
"D'ya go after 'em?"
"Yeah we went after them. They turned into fucking ghosts, man.
Disappeared."
Twitch stops for a moment, looking at Spanner, his face blank. Scratch
swivels left and right, watching the rest of the gangers, the automatic
turning with his head.
"So, ya didn't hear nothin' on the street afore hand, and ya couldn't stop
'em, and ya didn't catch 'em. That's pretty fucking useless Spanner. You
losin' it?"
Spanners face hardens, "I ain't losin' nothin' fucker. They had it all
planned, we din' hear nuttin'."
The casul roars again, splintering a crate and a pallet, a body punches into
the wall behind Spanner, the rifle it was holding clattering noisily to the
floor. "That weren't nice Spanner, you think you c'n kill Twitch? Do ya?
Is that what you think? Twitch ain't so fuckin' easy." Three more times
the revolver shouts, spitting it's heavy rounds into the gang leader,
driving his body back, lifting it off it's feet and throwing it into a
leaning tower of crates and drums, spilling them across the concrete.
Scratch's automatic barks several times hitting or cautioning opportunists,
the light barking hollow after the deep booms of the revolver. Twitch
calmly reloads. "Dago! DAGO!" An ork steps out of the shadows near the
entrance. "It's your gang, be better than that." Twitch points at the
shattered body of Spanner.
"Sure thing Twitch." The young Ork sneers.
"Don't fuck with me Dago, or you'll be joining that useless cunt in the
river. Ya hear me boy?"
Dago's eyes narrow, his tongue runs over one tusk, "I hear ya. Ya better
get out Twitch. Ya dun what ya wanted. Don't come back."
Twitch and Dago stare at each other for a moment, the Ork defiantly, Twitch
emotionless, "Don't make that mistake Dago, you ain't enough. Not you nor
these fuckwits with ya."
s
"Just leave Twitch, you ain't got no home no more, and you ain't welcome
here." Dago stands his ground, the deaths of his leader and several others
obviously on his mind, but understanding that he has no choice if he's to
lead the gang after this.
Twitch walks slowly to the Harley, followed by Scratch. Mounting up the two
drive slowly out of the building. Heading back towards civilisation.
Scratch pulls alongside once they hit the blacktop heading back into
Downtown. "You took a fucking risk with that Twitch, they ain't gonna be so
friendly if you go back."
Twitch turns his head for a moment, looking over his shoulder. "Don't bet
on it Scratch. I gave that kid his own gang, I gave him the turf that gang
owns, and he's got kudos with the rest for facing me down. Nah, I got a
friend there if I need it, but on level ground this time."
Raiding an off-licence of a crate of beer on the way into Downtown the two
bikers head back to the docks, dumping the beer and two bottles of whiskey
on the floor of the hut, and firing up the small heater sticking a tatty,
battered tree on top of it before settling down with the beer. Twitch cocks
a can of beer into the air. "Happy fuckin' Christmas Scratch."
+++++End R/RW program <y/n> y
+++++Data written.]<<<<<
-- Twitch <03:02:12/23-12-59>
