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Date Posted: 22:41:35 07/30/01 Mon
Author: Dogstar and Leash
Subject: Argh ... brain ... hurts ...

It's not a hard job: just some silly arse out too late, trying to get from his sweating-steel concrete office building with the shiny mirrored windows to his slightly battered hovercar in the covered car-park down the block. Just one little block, less than one hundred metres, but definitely enough to kill him.

His ears pick up the sound of the fellow's hurried steps, his laboured breaths as he tries to pant through a tight waistband and several decades of comfortable living. He steps out into the fellow's path, shutting his eyes and flicking the bright flame out of his lighter; brings it up to his mouth to light the newest cigarette clenched between his teeth; lets it rest there for a minute, catching the prey's eye and keeping it there. Like an angler fish. Just like an angler fish.

The business-man stops in his tracks, quite unaware that the man in front of him can smell his fear as well as his sweat, and says with belligerent self-assurance, "Do you mind? I'm rather late."

"No, I don't mind." He bares his teeth in something only half a grin - he doesn't feel like grinning much, never does, these days - and lets the flame flick out. He wishes the damn lights weren't so bright out here; if there were any justice in this world, it'd be dark. Nothing fun ever happens in the light.

So he lets the lighter flicker out and lets the man's eyes turn downwards to the .38 Magnum trained on his overstrained heart.

"Yeah, I hate to say this, it's really so clich�ed, but your money or your life."

"Gah! Don't shoot! I'll give you everything." Just like in New York, the cash flows like rain as the businessman digs out his wallet and thrusts it into gunman's bony hand, trying not to look up at his face. Just like everyone else in Kiyonis, he's been mugged before. It's no big deal, it's just a little play, acted out a thousand times a day by half a million different thespians. Everyone knows their part and their lines, and they know better to deviate from them.

The man with the gun doesn't even bother to glance down at the pilfered wallet before he makes his swift and decisive deviation from the unwritten script:

The businessman is collapsing backwards, a spreading ring of dark wetness devouring the sweatstained, rumpled front of his white-collared shirt, before the snap of the gunshot has finished ringing off the glassy facades of the business district. No one will come to see what's happened, of course. The business distict is just as dirty as the rest of Kiyonis.

With the air of a farmer wiping off his hatchet after assuring tonight's chicken dinner, Dogstar holsters his gun and finally glances down at the wallet. Nice plump thing, practically bulging with cred, a nice sight even though the smell of its aged and cracked leather, stained with sweat after sitting in its previous owner's rumpled slacks for days on end, assaults his nose.

With a disgusted noise, he flings the thing into the gutter next to the cooling body and stalks off to fetch his bike, stowed away in an alley that runs between the unlucky victim's office building and the next one.

The motorbike is an old one, with wheels instead of propulsion units, and smokes more than its owner, but it's been well taken care of: the chrome is shiny, the black paint equally so; there's not a speck of rust on it, and the tires have been recently changed. It's as if all the owner's care for himself has been diverted to his vehicle.

This is a quite accurate description, as a matter of fact. Even though his motorbike is older than he is, it is Dogstar, not the bike, who has clearly seen better days: tall, well over six feet, he looks roughly like a wolf in human form, all rangy and fierce. His hair and eyes are much the same raven-dark shade, the one falling raggedly to his jaw, the other blinking irritably, framed by dark circles and heavyily scowling brows. His face is big-boned and angular, maybe handsome once, but now so ill-fed that the skin is waxy-white and stretched tautly over the high cheekbones, except where deep lines of disgust score it from nostril to mouth-corner. His clothes are all black, shabby and worn, and the whole picture is that of a heartless, angry kid in a man's body, intent on making someone else pay for his pain. In short, a murderer.

You can see why it fits.

It's always the Saturday nights that are the longest, Leash reflects, dropping her book for the eighth time in the last half-hour. An interminable stretch of seconds and minutes with no hours to divide them, make them go faster. Even the usually melodious sounds of old bluegrass emenating from her laser-stereo system is grating on her nerves. She reaches over and slaps the "power off" button angrily, cutting off the female singer right in the middle of a line about someone with dark hair.

It wouldn't be so bad, she thinks, if I had someone to talk to about all this. I mean, Litte's out of town, and Dogstar ... Well, she doesn't even want to think about Dogstar.

As if merely thinking his name has summoned him, Leash hears the door open violently and close the same way, followed by her partner's heavy tread as he stalks through the living-room/kitchen. Hurriedly, she snaps off her light and freezes in the darkness, waiting while his steps pause outside her bedroom door, and then stomp off down the hall to his own.

Sighing, she gives up on her book, rolls over in bed, and pulls the pillow over her head. Maybe the minutes will go faster if she's not aware of them.

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