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Alarmingly Strange Stories Underbelly by Rob Morgan |
| Sure, doll. I'll find your husband's killers, (drag) or die tryin'. Rich weaved away
from the arcade, eyes flashing. He fell into an alley, to clear his head. The shadowy figures crowded round the
far dead end wall spun in alarm as Rich clanged through a roadblock of American-style dustbins. Dodging and weaving like monkeys, they shot towards him, past him, rushing guilty headlong into the street. None were older than fifteen. Rich stared at them in shock, frozen, only jolted as they pushed past him in the narrow alley somewhere beneath the towers of Tokyo. Rich stared straight ahead, at a comic strip of frightened faces streaming past him. Every one was wearing roller blades. He looked, transfixed, up at the dead end wall as the last of them skated away. The kids had nearly completed a massive Anime-style portrait when he had interrupted them. A tall, thin teenager wearing psychedelically coloured baggy pants and no shirt was skating easily away from chasing police, helicopters and men in black suits. His skates were huge and wired like a computer. He wielded a paint can in each hand. Rich spun in alarm as someone entered the alley behind him. The dealer stared past him at the graffiti, then looked questioningly at him. Rich looked down at his heavy coat, then into the dealer's face. The mirror-glass windows of the towers all around rang with a phosphoric foom as the searchlights ignited. A silent helicopter chopped steadily between the buildings, it's smaller lamp a weaving blade of light in the fog. The alley was illuminated suddenly, blindingly. Wedge and Garcia's heads whipped up from their work, the light shining off Wedge's plump, balding head and the lenses of the complex goggles obscuring most of Garcia's face. Elena spun, leather jacket whirling and revealing the countless holsters strapped to her body. Crane shot straight up into the air, landing crouched and ready on a fire escape two floors up, mouth already forming the words of a chant. The searchlights lit up only the back of the tall figure standing in the middle of the alley, overseeing his men's work. The unforgiving glare illuminated every dull stain, every crease of the man's ancient brown trenchcoat. Dozens of police cars screamed to a halt blocking the wide street beyond the alley, sirens mewling pitilessly. Blue and red strobes stroked across the figures in the alley, sending gibbering shadows streaking across the dirty bricks either side. The figure turned his head unhurriedly to look backwards, still not turning round. The brim of a battered fedora dug a well of shadow across his face. Torchlight from the cops behind their cars glinted off one eye deep in the darkness, a tiny malevolent bead of light. "Well, boys." he said in a steady voice. "It looks like we've been set up." The crowd of cops jostled as taller figures pushed through, their faces masked and their bodies coated in black combat suits. Dragon's men settled into fighting stances, eyes locked on the troopers. From a holster slung down his back he pulled a long shotgun, and his other hand slid a curved sword from a sheath in his coat. Beneath his hat, teeth glinted. Early morning mist swirled about his feet. Rich shifted, smiling in his sleep. One hand clasped the paper bag to his chest. The sleeping tube was filled with sweet-smelling smoke. Perhaps it was a dream. Perhaps it wasn't. I don't think it matters. Sometimes, I suppose, assimilation can save a person, not destroy them. Sometimes, I suppose, You have to make your own adventure. Sometimes, I suppose, you have to find your own Beach. |
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