Revisited

Prelude

So, here ye have it right. Some fucker about 6’, maybe 6,’2”. Caucasian, male. Yeah, definitely male, right. Wiry frame, sinewy, but muscular. Where it counts anyway.

Sounds about perfectly average normal. Nothing to write central about, yeah. ‘Cept for a couple things here an’ there. Ok, maybe when you come to think about it, one or two things really stood out.

First, there’s the shoes. I know a good pair when I sees ‘em, ‘specially considering how I never has any for very long in my line of work – specialising in sewer cleanups, right. But this guy, he’s got these bright red ones, real big and about 3 foot long I’d say. I mean what kind of fuckwit goes trampin’ around Downtown with that kind of gear?!

There’s no room for quick manoeuvring, an high-speed trollopin’ just isn’t gonna work it now is it? That’s what you’d expect anyway! But noooo! There’s more even strange oddity jing’eldy where that crap came from.

There’s damn circus organ music or some shit coming from nearby?!

Now, when I’m lyin’ on my back with some fucks 2-by-4 shoved in my gob I like to take a breather an’ figure out just exactly how I got to be there. An that’s when you notice - which is always the really weird thing about this kind’a shit, noticing things I mean - that the buggers’ dressed up like a clown from some kind’a whacked out freakshow circus! Bright orange curly hair, big red nose, and a face full’a make-up!

It just ain’t right man. An’ I swear, I still can hear that fuckin’ organ grinder!

Now, at first you might think that seeing something like this, at a distance, is a particularly good warning sign that something’s about to go bust. You know, some deviant nutjob casually strolling along Downtown 47th avenue who just happens to be wearing big floppy red shoes, baggy chequered pants an’ curly orange hair.

It never happened like that, an if it did, in hindsight I wouldn’a be here now. I’d be haulin’ off down Midden street for a comfy bed and safe behind my quadlock safety door and riot shield.

Say... You guys really got here fast…

+++

We found him like this, sir. Fourth one this week, makes seventeen in total so far. Witnesses say he was babbling something before we arrived, something about a clown. Probably a waste of time but we're sending them Downtown for questioning anyway.

Roger that.

Scans show nothing traceable here, just the same M.O. as before.

Run it anyway, we might get lucky.

Copy.

Looks like he got our vic down pretty fast.

Fireaxe to the knees tends to do that. Our boy’s a traditionalist, doesn’t like to work machinery, prefers muscle and a heavy blade.

Exactly the same; get the vic down first, quickly. Followed by cracking the pubis open with the axe. Single blow, took it all the way up to the lower intestine.

Looks like he rode the struggle for a while this time before he snapped the vics neck with his foot. Left red polish on the vics face and broke some teeth this time.

So what are we missing this time? Twenty says the spleen…

Funny. No. Not sure what’s missing this time, but looks like the common entry so far; hand inserted through the lower extremity mutilation and shoved in up to… Yeah, the elbow probably judging by the bulge at his sternum. Wait till we get word back from the scan before we know what’s missing.

Roger that. Let’s hustle this mess back to the lab. His chip shows Premium Extract and Rebuild and we’re almost outta time.

Copy. Out.


And She Is

Are we at the point of farce now, or is there still comedy, and perhaps tragedy to behold? When the wheels have turned this far, and time and dust have put things to rest, why is there the need to rattle the bones?

Some may say closure is needed, to make sure that nothing endures. Time endures. History endures. The truth makes liars of us all, no matter where we try to hide.

Perhaps therein lies the farce?

Somewhere, towards the outskirts of Downtown, close to the bustle of the main streets and goings-on of the city, there is an apartment. It’s there, tucked away on the second floor, towards the corner, away from the main complex. Compact in its entirety, nothing more than two rooms, a bathroom and a lounge. With hardly space for living, and much less for actually being.

There, in this tiny castle, lives a woman.

She lives alone, in solitude away from the madding crowd. She has little family, and even lesser friends. Only her children, aged two and twelve, provide her companionship and relief from the emptiness.

She has chosen this life, away from others, away from those that might bring harm to her or the children. Hard-learned experience has taught her that in this life, no-one can be trusted, not even the closest friend or family. A product of several misguided lifetimes, she runs from that not so distant past. For the most part, she succeeds.

Oftentimes though, the past isn’t as far away as it seems.

Sometimes, when the past has been running hard to catch up, blanketing itself under the guise of trust and friendship, even conscience, its spindly, crooked fingers reach out like gentle whispers in the wind, warm and enticing, brushing softly against her neck like a familiar cat.

For that brief moment, for just long enough, she stops running and turns round. Hope?

Her long black hair wisps across her face, her eyes glinting from the evening light. Her eyes glisten, but only for a moment, and the fear is willed back.

“Too late”, the icy wind whispers from the shadows. Too late.