Thursday, May 2, 2013

Bruce - Short Story

Bruce coughed as he walked down the unlit street.

He, a dark clad figure, had no problem passing unnoticed but some other figures called more and more of his attention.

There was the Lizard Man known as Ed, always dressed formal in an ever changing two piece suit, who lurked the streets only at night, he hissed and sissed as he walked past by, checked his golden watch and ran off in a hurry as if he was late for something.

Mindy the psychotic cyborg whore wearing her mini skirt, nothing else aside from that, and a cigarette on her left hand, not that it mattered if she smoked it or not, it was a good tactic anyway and made her look more real than the udders she had implanted.

Don the Butcher which was just closing down his shop but Don was a weird guy, secretive, a loner, big fellow but with a heart of gold, that he could never deny to anyone. Bruce had heard of people that had come into his store and never gone out, it was relative though as most of those that never came out weren't in good terms with society to start with.

There was Alex standing near a broken down light post, his distinctive bowler hat had a seven of clubs on the left side and a bullet casing on the right that had the word 'Mother' engraved on it. He loved to play with a folding knife and show his rotten teeth as he sneered at passerbies who were always terrified of him, it made him laugh but he wasn't that bad.

Mark the dealer who could hook you up from anything simple like drugs or guns to complex stuff like military grade weaponry and vehicles or households and vehicles. He was quite a peculiar being, no one knew how he did it or who his contacts were.

Dan the Man, a mercenary that had fought in the China and African wars. He had been hit by every possible projectile and chemical known to man, clinically he has been called dead at least fifteen times but he is still alive, somehow, but not complete, had gone mad during the process of said wars and had begun predicting the world would end soon. He even opened up his own cult and preached day and night how it would all go down.

Bruce knew all of them because he lived in Quarter Stone, a place also known to be Satan’s little Hell Hole. Anything could happen at any moment here, any second, it was as unpredictible as the population that inhabited the area, even time itself wasn't sure what was going on here anymore.

Bruce kept walking down the street when someone stopped him and pulled him back.

"Where are you going Bruce?" Asked the voice and Bruce turned his head over his left shoulder. It was a loan shark that had been chasing Bruce, his debt calling on his door again.

"Home. What do you think you are doing here?" Asked Bruce. The Loan Shark smirked.

"I can go wherever I want. Now where is my money" He looked really angry now. Bruce turned his sight back front and sighed.

"You really want to know. I think I have your money right here" Bruce turned and produced his Pescadero Automatic Pistol which he pointed to the man forehead. The Loan Shark laughed.

"You think you are going to kill me and get away with it. My boss would surely get your ass for this, he will anyway" Said the Loan Shark then grinned.

"You know, I prefer to run the risks nowadays" A succession of five micro bullets came out from the gun and tore most of the head off. The lifeless body crashed on the ground with a single thud and Bruce noticed chunks of the head everywhere on the street, not that he was going to clean it or that it mattered to him.

He hid the Pescadero again under his jacket and walked to a small alley in which an single engine air-cycle was waiting for him. The air-cycle was shinning gray and was resting in the open ground of the alley, respected by those who passed by and left alone by the ones that lived there.

Bruce took off a small card from his pants pockets and placed it on the ignition. The air-cycle came to life and it hovered a few centimeters from the ground. Bruce mounted in and went forward with it, trying to keep the speed at a minimum. He reached a street that was made of blue color markers, twelve lanes on each side, and entered it, the speed raising automatically to the minimum accepted, his trench coat flying, knuckles red then white from pressure, lenses reflecting the morbid lights of the city, the horror show born in it, the panoramic view of the twenty second century, cold and magnetic, dead with desire but never giving anything back for it. He kept the speed up and continued up north, destination unknown...

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