RabidGibbon
05-18-2005, 14:34
One Last Chance…
These new skyscrapers act like rain funnels I tell you, it makes sense though you gotta admit - less room for the clouds up there, so they get, like packed together and shit - and the end result is when I stepped out of the Office for Subversive Elements Dispatch I get rained on. I’ve just left a warm office for a filthy stinking street - and I mean that for real, when it rains the sewers back up, and its always raining - result? Grade A stink.
Still at least its dark, the low clouds and the crappy street lighting take care of that, and the shadows of the damn towers make pretty sure.
And why am I here? I mean, why? Were not gonna catch this guy, and even if we do its gonna be, I dunno, 12 months before they pay the bounty. Don’t know why I work - get paid more as a consumer. Of course I’m thinking like this cos’ its raining, and here in Sheffield its always raining. Always.
Of course that’s climate engineering for you isn’t it. 800 billion tax payer dollars and they screw it up big style. No more damaging water shortages, no more devastating heat waves - nope, now we’ve got the December floods, a continent that’s 90% marsh and more than enough water to go around. Food? Food? You ever tried farming a marsh. Heh, we might as well just lay back and wait for the aliens to save us cos’ no other buggers going to.
That’s the problem with big problems, like the boss says, their big. Right now I’ve got another problem which is getting this dossier to the airport dry - I’m looking round for a cab, but damn me, I cant find one cos’ I need one.
I give up finally and stuff the dossier under my overcoat - but I cant close the overcoat without folding the dossier, and I cant fold it without ruining the laminated suspect visual record, so the up shot is I’m getting wet, the dossiers getting wet, were both getting wetter whilst I try to find a way round this and wishing like hell I hadn’t done the sensible thing and handed my briefcase over this morning when a cab comes racing past, drives through the biggest puddle of backed up sewage on the street and leaves me smelling and feeling a damn sight worse than I have for some time.
By now I’m cold, you know, real cold, where your bones are cold and you cant feel your flesh, but suspect its going to just gonna turn to sludge and drip off cos’ your so damn wet? Well that’s how I was feeling when Larry pulled up.
“Hooo hooo” he was hollering, like he always is, noisy sonoffa----- “Your one wet bubble o’ crap man. You need a lift, dudeo, like kinda hot off the press.”
“Yeah, so you gonna give me one then punk?” I snarl back without stopping, or even looking at him. Ya gotta realise that Larry being Larry he’s probably gonna drive off any mo’ now and leave me to get high on the emissions from his wheeled over compensation, and I aren’t gonna give him the thrill of seeing me get excited about the chance of a dry, warm trip to the port.
As it pans out this is the wisest move I could’ve made - some weird twisted part of his psyche absolutely has to do the unexpected, so he stops, hit’s the door release, and gestures me in. As soon as my ass hit’s the seat I can tell he’s been at the stuff again. The smell is stronger than my new found sewer enticed stench - and trust me that’s saying something.
For about 3 seconds I wonder whether its wise to drive with Larry whilst he’s as high as he so obviously is but then decide sod it - its raining outside and Larry drives one of those ex-army 4 by 4’s, so if any ones gonna get hurt in a crash it ain’t gonna be yours truly.
Larry wishes he was two things in life - a gangster, and black, and trust me when I say he ain’t either. Too much time in his blacked out windowed car smoking the stuff means that he’s lost the tan he got in China, and he’s no closer to going “big-time” as he puts it then when we both got released.
Hell that’s the only reason I still talk to him - we did our time together and then counts for more than actually liking some one.
“So where ya going my bruvva?” as he speaks I notice he’s a step closer to his stated dream of replacing all of natures teeth with golden ones. Crazy son of a…. he’s probably got more money in his mouth than I earn in a year.
“Heading for the airport man, I’ve got a file for the boss.” I say tapping the bright yellow folder.
“Still working for that freak huh, fool, you should come work for me man, I’ll find you some shit to do.”
“Larry, you don’t make enough for yourself, let alone two people.”
“Well, hell, neither do you.” He’s put on weight I think, looks more like some ones stuck a hose into him and turned on the tap - he’s kinda inflated looking.
“What you been up to anyway?” I ask, trying to change the conversation from the perennial job offer.
“Loads of stuff, man, Loads of stuff.” he replies, shaking his head to show how many amazing (but unmentioned) tasks he’s been heroically striving towards. Freakin’ fraud.
Larry nods towards the file “So who you got there? Some brother?”
“Nah, bank robber,” I reply, shouldn’t even had said that much, but its an interesting one. Normally the police only farm out non-violent offenders to private firms, but this son of a’ is proving hard to track down - ex-professional, went to China for fun rather than rehabilitation - and judging by his file had fun too.
He's come back now and decided the real enemy of civilisation is poverty, or rather his poverty, and turned his little bag of tricks against a couple of banks in New Moscow. And of course because the cameras ain’t got Moscow blanketed yet, and without a satellite overhead the boys in black don’t know where to start.
Should make a change from sitting in front of the screen tracking down hackers, tough on the boss though - then again maybe not, he’ll probably just get yours truly to do all the plod work.
Larry pulls up in a disabled space outside the port, and flashing a grin at him I get out, waving the file at him, we promise to E each other some time - both knowing where not gonna, and I turn to enter the bustling main gate, gazing up a sign that’s been plastered above the entrance for as long as I Can remember….
“Sign up Now, Fight for Freedom.” Like the message’s meaning the once bright red words have faded over time and the peeling message is barely visible now. I jump with surprise, then cus as Larry beeps his horn twice whilst driving off, and turning I return his wave.
**********************************************************
Heres my latest effort, more to come later.
These new skyscrapers act like rain funnels I tell you, it makes sense though you gotta admit - less room for the clouds up there, so they get, like packed together and shit - and the end result is when I stepped out of the Office for Subversive Elements Dispatch I get rained on. I’ve just left a warm office for a filthy stinking street - and I mean that for real, when it rains the sewers back up, and its always raining - result? Grade A stink.
Still at least its dark, the low clouds and the crappy street lighting take care of that, and the shadows of the damn towers make pretty sure.
And why am I here? I mean, why? Were not gonna catch this guy, and even if we do its gonna be, I dunno, 12 months before they pay the bounty. Don’t know why I work - get paid more as a consumer. Of course I’m thinking like this cos’ its raining, and here in Sheffield its always raining. Always.
Of course that’s climate engineering for you isn’t it. 800 billion tax payer dollars and they screw it up big style. No more damaging water shortages, no more devastating heat waves - nope, now we’ve got the December floods, a continent that’s 90% marsh and more than enough water to go around. Food? Food? You ever tried farming a marsh. Heh, we might as well just lay back and wait for the aliens to save us cos’ no other buggers going to.
That’s the problem with big problems, like the boss says, their big. Right now I’ve got another problem which is getting this dossier to the airport dry - I’m looking round for a cab, but damn me, I cant find one cos’ I need one.
I give up finally and stuff the dossier under my overcoat - but I cant close the overcoat without folding the dossier, and I cant fold it without ruining the laminated suspect visual record, so the up shot is I’m getting wet, the dossiers getting wet, were both getting wetter whilst I try to find a way round this and wishing like hell I hadn’t done the sensible thing and handed my briefcase over this morning when a cab comes racing past, drives through the biggest puddle of backed up sewage on the street and leaves me smelling and feeling a damn sight worse than I have for some time.
By now I’m cold, you know, real cold, where your bones are cold and you cant feel your flesh, but suspect its going to just gonna turn to sludge and drip off cos’ your so damn wet? Well that’s how I was feeling when Larry pulled up.
“Hooo hooo” he was hollering, like he always is, noisy sonoffa----- “Your one wet bubble o’ crap man. You need a lift, dudeo, like kinda hot off the press.”
“Yeah, so you gonna give me one then punk?” I snarl back without stopping, or even looking at him. Ya gotta realise that Larry being Larry he’s probably gonna drive off any mo’ now and leave me to get high on the emissions from his wheeled over compensation, and I aren’t gonna give him the thrill of seeing me get excited about the chance of a dry, warm trip to the port.
As it pans out this is the wisest move I could’ve made - some weird twisted part of his psyche absolutely has to do the unexpected, so he stops, hit’s the door release, and gestures me in. As soon as my ass hit’s the seat I can tell he’s been at the stuff again. The smell is stronger than my new found sewer enticed stench - and trust me that’s saying something.
For about 3 seconds I wonder whether its wise to drive with Larry whilst he’s as high as he so obviously is but then decide sod it - its raining outside and Larry drives one of those ex-army 4 by 4’s, so if any ones gonna get hurt in a crash it ain’t gonna be yours truly.
Larry wishes he was two things in life - a gangster, and black, and trust me when I say he ain’t either. Too much time in his blacked out windowed car smoking the stuff means that he’s lost the tan he got in China, and he’s no closer to going “big-time” as he puts it then when we both got released.
Hell that’s the only reason I still talk to him - we did our time together and then counts for more than actually liking some one.
“So where ya going my bruvva?” as he speaks I notice he’s a step closer to his stated dream of replacing all of natures teeth with golden ones. Crazy son of a…. he’s probably got more money in his mouth than I earn in a year.
“Heading for the airport man, I’ve got a file for the boss.” I say tapping the bright yellow folder.
“Still working for that freak huh, fool, you should come work for me man, I’ll find you some shit to do.”
“Larry, you don’t make enough for yourself, let alone two people.”
“Well, hell, neither do you.” He’s put on weight I think, looks more like some ones stuck a hose into him and turned on the tap - he’s kinda inflated looking.
“What you been up to anyway?” I ask, trying to change the conversation from the perennial job offer.
“Loads of stuff, man, Loads of stuff.” he replies, shaking his head to show how many amazing (but unmentioned) tasks he’s been heroically striving towards. Freakin’ fraud.
Larry nods towards the file “So who you got there? Some brother?”
“Nah, bank robber,” I reply, shouldn’t even had said that much, but its an interesting one. Normally the police only farm out non-violent offenders to private firms, but this son of a’ is proving hard to track down - ex-professional, went to China for fun rather than rehabilitation - and judging by his file had fun too.
He's come back now and decided the real enemy of civilisation is poverty, or rather his poverty, and turned his little bag of tricks against a couple of banks in New Moscow. And of course because the cameras ain’t got Moscow blanketed yet, and without a satellite overhead the boys in black don’t know where to start.
Should make a change from sitting in front of the screen tracking down hackers, tough on the boss though - then again maybe not, he’ll probably just get yours truly to do all the plod work.
Larry pulls up in a disabled space outside the port, and flashing a grin at him I get out, waving the file at him, we promise to E each other some time - both knowing where not gonna, and I turn to enter the bustling main gate, gazing up a sign that’s been plastered above the entrance for as long as I Can remember….
“Sign up Now, Fight for Freedom.” Like the message’s meaning the once bright red words have faded over time and the peeling message is barely visible now. I jump with surprise, then cus as Larry beeps his horn twice whilst driving off, and turning I return his wave.
**********************************************************
Heres my latest effort, more to come later.