Got Any Twist?

In a grubby alleyway Blake Shaw was slowly killing himself.

He shook another cigarette from the pack and lit it from the first, inhaling the harsh smoke.

“Goddamn cheap tokes,” he wheezed, picking a piece of tobacco from his tongue. “Nobody recognizes quality these days.”

It was a common complaint. He was old enough to remember the good days, the days of democracy. Back then you could get a decent cigarette; proper tobacco - not the crap they gave you now - machine rolled with a filter and everything. But that was before the Coup, before the Junta and the Transition Government. Now, they had rationing, nine p.m. curfew, spot searches and summary executions. That’s progress for you.

Down the alley, past the trash cans and festering rubbish, a patrol car passed. He dropped the cigarette and dived behind a dumpster. If they’ve got infra-red I’m fucked, he thought. He didn’t have anything on him, he’d carefully stashed his stuff behind a loose brick in the wall across from him, but the Junta didn’t need an excuse to haul you in. Being in an alley was enough, especially looking the way Shaw looked.

He was a throwaway from the thirties, a dropout from the new Summer of Love. He wore his hair long and had a mountain man beard, a CND tattoo covering the skin of his right palm. The other neo-beatniks – the ones that were still around – had cut their hair and shaved their beards. It just wasn’t worth the trouble, they said, the Man had won and there was no use kidding themselves. Better the quiet life, they didn’t need the hassle.

Fucking pussies.

They might have given up, but Blake Shaw was a different breed. He’d never sell out, take a lower management job and beg for the Man’s cash. He wouldn’t be carolled in some battery farm, a two hour commute, and home to a wife and two-point four kids, getting drunk and listening to old Jesus Juice albums, lamenting his lost youth. No way, he was still living the dream – still opening the doors to perception.

He peered round the dumpster and saw that the car had gone. He allowed himself a sigh of relief and got back to his feet, retrieving the cigarette that still smouldered on the ground.
From the apartment block across from him he could hear the muffled quack of a TV. Some block head was tuned in to the Patriot Channel - Sergeant Well’s Healthy World Workout.

“And stretch, two, three…come-on, people. You’re not trying! A fit body means a fit country! Keep that heart rate up…”

Government TV, another blow for the Man. He could vaguely remember back to his childhood, watching re-runs from Free TV. They had that show with the dog…what was it? Lassie, yeah, Lassie, Christ he’d loved that show. And that other one, what was it now, the one in space…on the ship, the Enterprise – Oh, yeah, Space Trek, now that was quality. But now it was all propaganda – Sergeant Well, Cooking with the Commandant, Confession Time, Wheel of Fortune and that soap opera, The Informers – crap, all crap.
He dropped his cigarette and crushed it with the heel of his boot. It was a slow day; if he didn’t get any business soon then he’d move uptown to the park. The park was always good for business.

He heard a low whistle from the mouth of the alley and recognized the signal – business coming his way. He whistled back, three notes, one high and two low and watched as a blond head ducked into the gloom.

It was a kid. He couldn’t be any older than twelve or thirteen, small and skinny, blonde hair carefully combed back in the style they were wearing it now.

Shaw felt a thrill as the boy approached. God, he loved selling to children. A lot of dealers he knew wouldn’t have anything to do with them. The penalties were stiff for dealing to kids – twelve years hard labour minimum. But for Shaw this was what it was all about, the chance to turn a young mind onto something new, a unique experience that would hook them and give them the taste for life. So what if the Man didn’t like it, so what if they called it corrupting innocents. They could take that and shove it. He was going to blow this kid’s mind.

The boy walked towards him, nervous looking, scared. Definitely his first time, thought Shaw, this is going to be sweet.

“You interested in buying, kid?”

The blonde head nodded.

“You came to the right guy. I only hold the best; you won’t get quality like this anywhere else. The rest of them guys deal in crap, if it ain’t vintage I don’t touch it. Now, what you looking for?”

The boy put a fingernail in his mouth and chewed. “I-I don’t know. I-I’m not sure this is a good idea…”

“Look kid, I can see you’re nervous. You’ve been listening to the crap the teachers tell you. About how it’s bad for you, bad for society. Well, take it from me; they don’t know what the fuck they’re talking about.” He crouched down slightly so they were eye to eye, laying a fatherly hand on the boy’s shoulder. “They want you to do what they say, to make your mind up for you. That’s what the Man does, kid. They control you. They ban whatever’s bad for them, not you! Now, don’t be scared, you’ll like what I’ve got, and I guarantee you’ll be back for more.”

The boy spat out a piece of nail and nodded, “Okay, you’re right.”

“So, what’s it to be?”

“Got any Twist?” said the boy. “I hear Twist’s the best.”

Shaw laughed. “It’s up there all right, kid. Up there with the best of them.”

He went to the wall and removed the loose brick, pulling out a canvas bag. “Come here, kid.” He looked inside, rummaging until he found what he was looking for.

“Ha! Here it’s, kid. Twist – Oliver Twist by Charles Dickens. You won’t regret it. A damn good read, highly addictive, though it ain’t cheap.”

Shaw looked up just in time to see the stun gun come down on his shoulder. Suddenly he was lying on his back, his muscles stiff and paralysed.

“You fucking degenerate,” said the boy, “you’re under arrest.”

Shaw moaned and tried to roll over, the alley was filled with blue flashing lights and the clump of boots as the Junta ran towards them. He tried to roll again and grunted as the boy kicked him hard in the ribs.

“Stay where you are, sicko. There he is boys, book him and let’s see what he’s got. Pride and Prejudice, Great Expectations, Vanity Fair…” The boy whistled. “You’re going away for ever for this!”

Shaw was dragged to his feet. “I ain’t done anything wrong!” he said. “They’re just books for Christ sake!”

The boy smiled and produced a set of handcuffs. “Tell it to the judge, sicko. Tell it to the judge.”

The End.