be crawling with activity. Everyone was
doing his last minute shopping, getting ready for the day tomorrow. You only got
one day to rest in the year, and for most people that meant switching off their
legs.
Peter squeezed through a
retiring line of people and made his way toward a stall. The city’s towering
buildings were all around, glowing a heavy yellow in the rain. The falling rain
couldn’t wash away the stench of Lower City, a constant morning breath, but a
person got used to it.
A nauseating, fishy odor
drifted around the stall. Bill Mohigan was handing over his inventory – seafood
the Upper City didn’t want – for money and anything that could make his life
better. Peter stepped onto something that made his one foot sink into the
ground. It was the stomach of a half-eaten trout. He wiggled his foot around,
trying to throw the innards off, and waved at Bill.
‘My boy!’ he proclaimed, waving
crab legs in the air. Bill had been calling Peter “my boy” ever since his
father had died, which Peter found strange but reasonable to some degree.
‘How you doing, Bill?’ Peter
saw an upgrade to the stall: crushed ice under some of the sea food. He made
his way under the silky roof and brushed water from his arms.
‘Sold more fish than I could
count,’ Bill said. ‘The peeps getting ready to relax tomorrow. You hungry, my
boy?’ Bill was larger than a door, a giant compared to some of the Asian people
in the city. He always had a sweaty forehead, and he always stank of fish.
Peter scanned the fishy mess. ‘You
got anything edible? Don’t feel like cooking.’
Bill laughed as if it were the
funniest joke. He lowered his knees, which took some effort, and popped up with
a box. He slapped the cap open and dug his hand in. ‘Got fresh mussels right
here. Sandak brought them over this morning.’ He winked. ‘Think she’s getting a
thing for me, if you know what I’m saying.’
‘Sure,’ Peter said, thinking
how ugly Ms Sandak is. The first time he saw her he thought “she” was an
elderly man. ‘Got a bag to put them in?’
‘Five steps ahead of you.’ He
ripped a plastic bag from above and threw the mussels inside. ‘They say these
things are good for you, healthy for something. You gotta stay healthy in
today’s life, my boy.’ He pointed at a building that towered into the rainy
clouds. ‘You see those lights in there, those flickering ones.’
Peter glanced. It was an old
corporation building, the letters Xia Corp still at the top, a place
where people used to work, something about an office industry. Rain obscured
his vision.
‘Yeah,’ Peter said. ‘It’s a
squatter’s tower.’
‘Wanna know why the police
don’t clear that building out?’ Bill asked, slapping a fish onto the counter. Peter
glanced away from the rain-obscured building and waited for Bill to continue.
‘It’s because they don’t care about Lower City.’
Well that’s nothing new, Peter
thought. He glanced at the tower again and saw windows flickering orange, some of
them had shadows passing through. ‘Say, Bill, I don’t suppose you’ve heard the
latest on Dream Chasing?’
Bill dug his fingers into the
fish’s head and ripped it off. No need for a knife. Purple innards trickled
over the table. ‘I thought I told you to stay away from that stuff.’
Not this again. Bill had given
him a two-hour lecture last time over the dangers of Dream Chasing, had told
him: that’s how the divide between the people started, how the rich got super
rich, and the poor, well, poorer?
Peter gave a reassuring
yeah-I-know smile. ‘I’m just curious, that’s all. It’s not like I’m going to do
it myself.’
A fight broke out not far away.
A beggar had tried stealing a bucket of something, maybe apples, because he was
surrounded in them on the floor. He was now screaming in pain as the people
around him kicked his stomach, telling him they’ll kick him until he pays up. An
elderly woman next to Bill’s
doing his last minute shopping, getting ready for the day tomorrow. You only got
one day to rest in the year, and for most people that meant switching off their
legs.
Peter squeezed through a
retiring line of people and made his way toward a stall. The city’s towering
buildings were all around, glowing a heavy yellow in the rain. The falling rain
couldn’t wash away the stench of Lower City, a constant morning breath, but a
person got used to it.
A nauseating, fishy odor
drifted around the stall. Bill Mohigan was handing over his inventory – seafood
the Upper City didn’t want – for money and anything that could make his life
better. Peter stepped onto something that made his one foot sink into the
ground. It was the stomach of a half-eaten trout. He wiggled his foot around,
trying to throw the innards off, and waved at Bill.
‘My boy!’ he proclaimed, waving
crab legs in the air. Bill had been calling Peter “my boy” ever since his
father had died, which Peter found strange but reasonable to some degree.
‘How you doing, Bill?’ Peter
saw an upgrade to the stall: crushed ice under some of the sea food. He made
his way under the silky roof and brushed water from his arms.
‘Sold more fish than I could
count,’ Bill said. ‘The peeps getting ready to relax tomorrow. You hungry, my
boy?’ Bill was larger than a door, a giant compared to some of the Asian people
in the city. He always had a sweaty forehead, and he always stank of fish.
Peter scanned the fishy mess. ‘You
got anything edible? Don’t feel like cooking.’
Bill laughed as if it were the
funniest joke. He lowered his knees, which took some effort, and popped up with
a box. He slapped the cap open and dug his hand in. ‘Got fresh mussels right
here. Sandak brought them over this morning.’ He winked. ‘Think she’s getting a
thing for me, if you know what I’m saying.’
‘Sure,’ Peter said, thinking
how ugly Ms Sandak is. The first time he saw her he thought “she” was an
elderly man. ‘Got a bag to put them in?’
‘Five steps ahead of you.’ He
ripped a plastic bag from above and threw the mussels inside. ‘They say these
things are good for you, healthy for something. You gotta stay healthy in
today’s life, my boy.’ He pointed at a building that towered into the rainy
clouds. ‘You see those lights in there, those flickering ones.’
Peter glanced. It was an old
corporation building, the letters Xia Corp still at the top, a place
where people used to work, something about an office industry. Rain obscured
his vision.
‘Yeah,’ Peter said. ‘It’s a
squatter’s tower.’
‘Wanna know why the police
don’t clear that building out?’ Bill asked, slapping a fish onto the counter. Peter
glanced away from the rain-obscured building and waited for Bill to continue.
‘It’s because they don’t care about Lower City.’
Well that’s nothing new, Peter
thought. He glanced at the tower again and saw windows flickering orange, some of
them had shadows passing through. ‘Say, Bill, I don’t suppose you’ve heard the
latest on Dream Chasing?’
Bill dug his fingers into the
fish’s head and ripped it off. No need for a knife. Purple innards trickled
over the table. ‘I thought I told you to stay away from that stuff.’
Not this again. Bill had given
him a two-hour lecture last time over the dangers of Dream Chasing, had told
him: that’s how the divide between the people started, how the rich got super
rich, and the poor, well, poorer?
Peter gave a reassuring
yeah-I-know smile. ‘I’m just curious, that’s all. It’s not like I’m going to do
it myself.’
A fight broke out not far away.
A beggar had tried stealing a bucket of something, maybe apples, because he was
surrounded in them on the floor. He was now screaming in pain as the people
around him kicked his stomach, telling him they’ll kick him until he pays up. An
elderly woman next to Bill’s
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