Wednesday, June 10, 2015

pastel and poison part one

Goddamnit, we were in too deep.

The alley stretched on uneven and leaning like every other patch of this too-tight pill-stack of a nieghborhood. I reached into my pocket for the hundredth time. The pharm-cards were still there. I ran my soft fingers across the pass-codes, carefully cut into ‘em. That’s solid currency.

The neon fogs drifted from blue-green to mauve; I was nearly to the green-yellow glow of the Rusty Bucket. I was nearly to my partner.

I drew hard on my vapor stick, fed the hunger in them angry lungs. Night’s not good under the dome, too wet, too heavy. ‘Course it’s poison outside it, so...

Finally, I spotted the tilted doorway with the namesake nailed to it. The old, tin can wept crocodile tears in the saturated nighttime air.

Heavy’s early, no surprise; he was chatting up some one-up looker at the bar. I shook my head and dropped my synth-berry ticket at the bar. Moments later, Heavy’s coming on like his name, and I’m sipping bucket-vin with some kinda stim kicker. Fucking machines won’t make ya hooch, but they’ll give synth-fruit and bread to go mold. Time and bucket’ll do ya the rest.

Crowd’s too quiet. Everybody seems too clean.

A few minutes later and the supplier’s late. Fuck.

Harry Hard don’t take money back. He gets the units or your ass. Fuck.

I took a longer look at Heavy’s heavy-pet. She had too much meat on her bones to be on the level.

The long twisted light above the bar kept humming, hissing, and spitting out a bad rhythm to match my mood. Fucking stim-vin wasn’t helping either.

Fuck. Supplier must’ve seen Heavy and Too-much-meat. The walls were closing in. There wasn’t much time, now.

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