GentlemanLoser
Ex-Bluelighter
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(here we go, my first one. part one in one characters bad days in Citadel.)
Crashing
pt.1
by Rick (GL)
I’m strung out on bad decisions and dexmethamphetamine.
How classy.
Cold was all he could feel. The cold air, the cold rain that stripped the chrome off of cheap Chinese nock-off handguns, and the cold rush…the cold confidence the dexmeth gave him. His shirt was stained a brown-yellow, with a crimson spot for good measure. That spot made it look like a tie-dyed shirt from hell. Because the hole at the center was the hole that only a 5mm high-velocity tungsten slug could make.
Leaning there, against the grimy walls of the Old City, its majestic garbage spires rising to greet God but instead meeting only more polluted rain, Leny decided that maybe he should retire. Crime wasn’t paying. But the unemployment line wasn’t much better.
It was fucking cold. And he was itching for another tablet to crush and run through the vaporizer he carried in his back pocket. Electric current run through pure tablet-form dexmeth, smoke inhaled, and reality pushed back long enough to put a bullet between the eyes of that Russian fuck.
Pushing against the walls, rising-up from his hiding spot behind long ignored dumpsters and what might be the decomposing remains of a dog, he shivered. He ached from cold and internal bleeding. The drugs were definitely wearing off. He was losing blood. And that Russian from his Employer was probably getting closer.
The money. The drugs and 3 spare clips for his antiquated Berretta 93 machine pistol were all in the nylon backpack he had on. The exchange had gone well but Leny, Leny was out of his league. The golden rule of working in the Private Sector was to avoid corporate sponsorship. But it looked good. The deal looked real good on paper. All he had to do was unload one shipment of some new time-release pain killers, in a certain area, and be done. They paid him in STAD’s, not credit, which was even better. STADS: Standard Monetary Exchange Currency, the last of “hard” currency used in the Federal Republics borders. Accepted anywhere money was. Ten thousand stads plus the money he made selling the crap? That was nearly 35,000 stads. More cash than he’d come across in years.
Of course it was too good to be true. There were a couple hundred junkies in the South Citadel ghetto that wanted their money back, if it weren’t for the fact they were all dead. They’d mixed the potency to high. Figured Leny dealt with a different crowd of junkies. Corporate Intel? They’d figured Leny for a different sorta dealer, and a different sorta junkie. His crowd was uppers and mescaline analog. That and illegal hardware and firearms. But painkillers? They’d said “Sure, I’ll try em’.” Now they were dead. All of them. Save for a few, the few who came back and threw a Molotov on his girls Honda Citycar EX. Now, he was an accounting error. He was a dead man walking. He couldn’t cross the bridges into North Citadel without passing Federal border guards and corporate security. He was stuck here.
A quiet whiz and thud, shattering brick detonating just behind his head. It sent rock splinters into the back of his neck; pain drove him forward faster than a racehorse on steroids. That Russian. Sergi? Yurgi? Whatever, the Cossacks looked like gorillas all the same. The man was a good shot. And quiet. Probably ex-military or ex-KGB. That 5mm Glock HighVel was going to make a hollow gourd outta his skull if he didn’t run.
Run he did. Bolting with what little juice he had left in his capacitors he dove and rolled in the grime accumulated on the ground of the Southern sectors of Citadel. Arm thrown back to release a burst of 9mm slugs behind him. It was cover fire, they both knew it. Leny wasn’t street samurai, and this Gorilla knew it. But he ducked, because that’s what you do when even an idiot fires a gun at you. Bad luck killed more people than skill every year; in fact it was a common cause of death amongst the masses.
Each time his feet hit broken concrete the pain shot through every nerve on his body. Some of those pain killers wouldn’t be bad right now.
Salvation was a train depot not 25 yards ahead. Sickening wet splatter of shoes on scum each time his feet fell. He was dizzy, lightheaded and fiending for just one hit outta his cooker. One hit and he’d run till dawn. But that wasn’t happening. The familiar crack of the Russians gun behind him. Now it was a race, they both knew it. The huffing and puffing of the large bodied man was louder than the silenced dartgun was behind him. Apparently, track was not one of this mans extracurricular. Leny on the other hand was an expert runner, running from things be it problems or police was a talent he’d had since he was 15.
“Welcome to CitadelTransport! We here at Transit Control hope your travel is safe and comfortable one! Remember we offer…” was all he heard as he all but dove into the car. The metal doors with ArmorPlas windows slid shut on magnetic rails. The high-pitched whine of steel giving way to tungsten ammunition on the train made his heart miss a beat. But they were shut. The Russian was standing there, reloading. Spitefully he fired off round after round into the ArmorPlas windows. Each round left a spiderweb of shattered composite material. But they didn’t go through. It was a full minute before he lowered his arms from their position covering his face. The only extra hole on his body was the wound in his side. God it hurt. He was cold. There was blood in his stomach, he could tell since it was making him nauseas.
He turned sideways and vomited up blood in-between body-shaking sobs of quiet crying.
Crashing through sobriety, pain and his life, Leny curled up next to the trains doors and buried his face in the backpack. He didn’t know where he was going. He didn’t know where he was getting-off. Right now this would do. Right now he was alive.
The only thing he could think about though was Jenny. Jenny was dead and it was his fault. She wouldn’t have fought back. She’d have just cried. And begged. That Russian wasn’t in the sympathy business. He couldn’t go back to his apartment. Because there was a corpse there: her corpse. In the end it was his fault.
Pain and agony and addictions need were like teeth grinding in his skull. Soon they’d lash out and bite, tearing away at his resolve till he broke-down and fed one of them. It would be the speed. It always was.
Crashing. Him, his life, his central nervous system…it was all coming down hard. Everything in this town was down. Falling or already there. Be it the rain or it’s inhabitants, everyone was going nowhere fast or down even faster.
Loneliness was worse than death. At least one of them had an end. Now he had a bag with 25k in cash, bullets and drugs…but he didn’t know where he was going to go with it.
Jenny would’ve known where to run. Where to hide. But the very thought of her, sprawled-out against the wall of their old condo that faced the polluted river...a double-tap wound to the chest and one to the skull…her blood pooling and congealing under her made him leave thoughts of Her to another place and time. She was a corpse. Another accounting note somewhere in the corps books. Billed to that goddamn Russian.
Maybe he’d give up. But not yet. Not until he tied up some lose ends. If he was gonna Crash, he was going to drag some people with him. Vindictive, sure. But his karma wasn’t an issue right now.
Right now he just wanted to cry and bleed on this car, wishing he could find the damn speed he had in his pocket.
He did. It had gotten wet and dissolved in his pocket. The decision was made for him: it was back to crying and bleeding, on the long-ride down of Lenys final Crash.
[ 27 September 2002: Message edited by: GentlemanLoser ]
Crashing
pt.1
by Rick (GL)
I’m strung out on bad decisions and dexmethamphetamine.
How classy.
Cold was all he could feel. The cold air, the cold rain that stripped the chrome off of cheap Chinese nock-off handguns, and the cold rush…the cold confidence the dexmeth gave him. His shirt was stained a brown-yellow, with a crimson spot for good measure. That spot made it look like a tie-dyed shirt from hell. Because the hole at the center was the hole that only a 5mm high-velocity tungsten slug could make.
Leaning there, against the grimy walls of the Old City, its majestic garbage spires rising to greet God but instead meeting only more polluted rain, Leny decided that maybe he should retire. Crime wasn’t paying. But the unemployment line wasn’t much better.
It was fucking cold. And he was itching for another tablet to crush and run through the vaporizer he carried in his back pocket. Electric current run through pure tablet-form dexmeth, smoke inhaled, and reality pushed back long enough to put a bullet between the eyes of that Russian fuck.
Pushing against the walls, rising-up from his hiding spot behind long ignored dumpsters and what might be the decomposing remains of a dog, he shivered. He ached from cold and internal bleeding. The drugs were definitely wearing off. He was losing blood. And that Russian from his Employer was probably getting closer.
The money. The drugs and 3 spare clips for his antiquated Berretta 93 machine pistol were all in the nylon backpack he had on. The exchange had gone well but Leny, Leny was out of his league. The golden rule of working in the Private Sector was to avoid corporate sponsorship. But it looked good. The deal looked real good on paper. All he had to do was unload one shipment of some new time-release pain killers, in a certain area, and be done. They paid him in STAD’s, not credit, which was even better. STADS: Standard Monetary Exchange Currency, the last of “hard” currency used in the Federal Republics borders. Accepted anywhere money was. Ten thousand stads plus the money he made selling the crap? That was nearly 35,000 stads. More cash than he’d come across in years.
Of course it was too good to be true. There were a couple hundred junkies in the South Citadel ghetto that wanted their money back, if it weren’t for the fact they were all dead. They’d mixed the potency to high. Figured Leny dealt with a different crowd of junkies. Corporate Intel? They’d figured Leny for a different sorta dealer, and a different sorta junkie. His crowd was uppers and mescaline analog. That and illegal hardware and firearms. But painkillers? They’d said “Sure, I’ll try em’.” Now they were dead. All of them. Save for a few, the few who came back and threw a Molotov on his girls Honda Citycar EX. Now, he was an accounting error. He was a dead man walking. He couldn’t cross the bridges into North Citadel without passing Federal border guards and corporate security. He was stuck here.
A quiet whiz and thud, shattering brick detonating just behind his head. It sent rock splinters into the back of his neck; pain drove him forward faster than a racehorse on steroids. That Russian. Sergi? Yurgi? Whatever, the Cossacks looked like gorillas all the same. The man was a good shot. And quiet. Probably ex-military or ex-KGB. That 5mm Glock HighVel was going to make a hollow gourd outta his skull if he didn’t run.
Run he did. Bolting with what little juice he had left in his capacitors he dove and rolled in the grime accumulated on the ground of the Southern sectors of Citadel. Arm thrown back to release a burst of 9mm slugs behind him. It was cover fire, they both knew it. Leny wasn’t street samurai, and this Gorilla knew it. But he ducked, because that’s what you do when even an idiot fires a gun at you. Bad luck killed more people than skill every year; in fact it was a common cause of death amongst the masses.
Each time his feet hit broken concrete the pain shot through every nerve on his body. Some of those pain killers wouldn’t be bad right now.
Salvation was a train depot not 25 yards ahead. Sickening wet splatter of shoes on scum each time his feet fell. He was dizzy, lightheaded and fiending for just one hit outta his cooker. One hit and he’d run till dawn. But that wasn’t happening. The familiar crack of the Russians gun behind him. Now it was a race, they both knew it. The huffing and puffing of the large bodied man was louder than the silenced dartgun was behind him. Apparently, track was not one of this mans extracurricular. Leny on the other hand was an expert runner, running from things be it problems or police was a talent he’d had since he was 15.
“Welcome to CitadelTransport! We here at Transit Control hope your travel is safe and comfortable one! Remember we offer…” was all he heard as he all but dove into the car. The metal doors with ArmorPlas windows slid shut on magnetic rails. The high-pitched whine of steel giving way to tungsten ammunition on the train made his heart miss a beat. But they were shut. The Russian was standing there, reloading. Spitefully he fired off round after round into the ArmorPlas windows. Each round left a spiderweb of shattered composite material. But they didn’t go through. It was a full minute before he lowered his arms from their position covering his face. The only extra hole on his body was the wound in his side. God it hurt. He was cold. There was blood in his stomach, he could tell since it was making him nauseas.
He turned sideways and vomited up blood in-between body-shaking sobs of quiet crying.
Crashing through sobriety, pain and his life, Leny curled up next to the trains doors and buried his face in the backpack. He didn’t know where he was going. He didn’t know where he was getting-off. Right now this would do. Right now he was alive.
The only thing he could think about though was Jenny. Jenny was dead and it was his fault. She wouldn’t have fought back. She’d have just cried. And begged. That Russian wasn’t in the sympathy business. He couldn’t go back to his apartment. Because there was a corpse there: her corpse. In the end it was his fault.
Pain and agony and addictions need were like teeth grinding in his skull. Soon they’d lash out and bite, tearing away at his resolve till he broke-down and fed one of them. It would be the speed. It always was.
Crashing. Him, his life, his central nervous system…it was all coming down hard. Everything in this town was down. Falling or already there. Be it the rain or it’s inhabitants, everyone was going nowhere fast or down even faster.
Loneliness was worse than death. At least one of them had an end. Now he had a bag with 25k in cash, bullets and drugs…but he didn’t know where he was going to go with it.
Jenny would’ve known where to run. Where to hide. But the very thought of her, sprawled-out against the wall of their old condo that faced the polluted river...a double-tap wound to the chest and one to the skull…her blood pooling and congealing under her made him leave thoughts of Her to another place and time. She was a corpse. Another accounting note somewhere in the corps books. Billed to that goddamn Russian.
Maybe he’d give up. But not yet. Not until he tied up some lose ends. If he was gonna Crash, he was going to drag some people with him. Vindictive, sure. But his karma wasn’t an issue right now.
Right now he just wanted to cry and bleed on this car, wishing he could find the damn speed he had in his pocket.
He did. It had gotten wet and dissolved in his pocket. The decision was made for him: it was back to crying and bleeding, on the long-ride down of Lenys final Crash.
[ 27 September 2002: Message edited by: GentlemanLoser ]
