in the eye, and with a small voice asks, “And what are we going to do?”
“You’ve got a call to make. I’m off home, to swear my head off for the pain. I’ll see you tomorrow, I hope one of the fifteen thousand people at MetroPo is smart enough to catch that sad old pimp between blowjobs.”
I wish I
could
go home, I think to myself while leaving
Cicisbeo
with the promise to only come back to set fire to it. The thing is, I really don’t like suffering at all, even if I was platonically attracted to certain devices the Brunette used with her clients before she left the business. And then, I’d need at least a whole day at home in my underpants on the sofa and in bed to get a proper rest. Which will never happen while all this is going on.
It’s time to confiscate something from my good friend Eton—dealers have to pay their taxes, too.
If it were me, I’d rename this place ‘Eton Square’, seeing as the half-ogre practically lives here. What’s more, the signs bearing the real name of the place have long since been nicked, seeing as some imbecile had the bright idea of using expensive mable to make them. Usually, the dealer hangs around under the street light that works, in full view of his clients.
Not tonight. The cone of light contains only a tramp, sat on the kerb, obsessively scratching, some bizarre withdrawal symptom. Just getting out of the car sends a searing pain down my back; I only hope I haven’t broken anything. I rip the cellophane off a new packet of cigarettes, and drop it on the ground along with the small piece of foil. The square is unnaturally quiet. Normally it’s packed with impatient consumers lying around along its walls, tramps and thugs who’ll cut throats for a few coins, pushers and slags.
Maybe there’s just been a raid. Or a showdown, but there are no dead bodies. In any case, there’s a menacing feel to this calm environment. If my back wasn’t hurting so much I’d go and look elsewhere, but seeing how things are, it’s worth asking the junkie crouched under the street light a few questions.
The echo of my shoes sounds sinister. When I get to the edge of the pool of light, the flea-ridden junkie jumps to his feet with a flash of hope. Momentarily, he stops scratching his arms which are already scarred from a long drug addiction and deep lacerations which are almost definitely self-inflicted.
“Eton?”
I take one more step, into the light. His enthusiasm fades instantly with the return of the rhythmic scraping of nails on flesh.
“I’m looking for him as well. Do you know if he’s coming?”
He shakes his head, and shifts the scratching to his back.
“Have you got anything, while we’re waiting?” He moves nearer.
“Keep your distance, fleabag.”
“Prick!”
He sits back down again, in a sulk. My cigarette is half-finished; I decide that I’ll wait until I get to the filter. Another drag. Someone’s coming out of the building, on my left. Someone very large indeed. Maybe it’s more a case of ‘something’ rather than ‘someone’. Noticing my interest in another area of the square, fleabag jumps to his feet again, trying to see if his own personal powder messiah has finally returned.
Three humanoid profiles, at least nine feet tall and stooping. They are using their freakishly-long arms to help themselves walk. The only sound they make, despite their size, is a long, drawn-out wheeze. I know what they are before they even get near the light. Trouble.
Oda. They come from the southern continent, hunchbacks from births, they get even more deformed as they age. Their legs are shorter than those belonging to a human, but their upper limbs almost touch the ground and end in six-fingered hands as big as anvils. Officially, these giants with skin as grey as rock, are classified as sentients, despite the fact that their appearance suggests quite the opposite. Greenish villi with a diameter of at least five centimetres hang down their
“You’ve got a call to make. I’m off home, to swear my head off for the pain. I’ll see you tomorrow, I hope one of the fifteen thousand people at MetroPo is smart enough to catch that sad old pimp between blowjobs.”
I wish I
could
go home, I think to myself while leaving
Cicisbeo
with the promise to only come back to set fire to it. The thing is, I really don’t like suffering at all, even if I was platonically attracted to certain devices the Brunette used with her clients before she left the business. And then, I’d need at least a whole day at home in my underpants on the sofa and in bed to get a proper rest. Which will never happen while all this is going on.
It’s time to confiscate something from my good friend Eton—dealers have to pay their taxes, too.
If it were me, I’d rename this place ‘Eton Square’, seeing as the half-ogre practically lives here. What’s more, the signs bearing the real name of the place have long since been nicked, seeing as some imbecile had the bright idea of using expensive mable to make them. Usually, the dealer hangs around under the street light that works, in full view of his clients.
Not tonight. The cone of light contains only a tramp, sat on the kerb, obsessively scratching, some bizarre withdrawal symptom. Just getting out of the car sends a searing pain down my back; I only hope I haven’t broken anything. I rip the cellophane off a new packet of cigarettes, and drop it on the ground along with the small piece of foil. The square is unnaturally quiet. Normally it’s packed with impatient consumers lying around along its walls, tramps and thugs who’ll cut throats for a few coins, pushers and slags.
Maybe there’s just been a raid. Or a showdown, but there are no dead bodies. In any case, there’s a menacing feel to this calm environment. If my back wasn’t hurting so much I’d go and look elsewhere, but seeing how things are, it’s worth asking the junkie crouched under the street light a few questions.
The echo of my shoes sounds sinister. When I get to the edge of the pool of light, the flea-ridden junkie jumps to his feet with a flash of hope. Momentarily, he stops scratching his arms which are already scarred from a long drug addiction and deep lacerations which are almost definitely self-inflicted.
“Eton?”
I take one more step, into the light. His enthusiasm fades instantly with the return of the rhythmic scraping of nails on flesh.
“I’m looking for him as well. Do you know if he’s coming?”
He shakes his head, and shifts the scratching to his back.
“Have you got anything, while we’re waiting?” He moves nearer.
“Keep your distance, fleabag.”
“Prick!”
He sits back down again, in a sulk. My cigarette is half-finished; I decide that I’ll wait until I get to the filter. Another drag. Someone’s coming out of the building, on my left. Someone very large indeed. Maybe it’s more a case of ‘something’ rather than ‘someone’. Noticing my interest in another area of the square, fleabag jumps to his feet again, trying to see if his own personal powder messiah has finally returned.
Three humanoid profiles, at least nine feet tall and stooping. They are using their freakishly-long arms to help themselves walk. The only sound they make, despite their size, is a long, drawn-out wheeze. I know what they are before they even get near the light. Trouble.
Oda. They come from the southern continent, hunchbacks from births, they get even more deformed as they age. Their legs are shorter than those belonging to a human, but their upper limbs almost touch the ground and end in six-fingered hands as big as anvils. Officially, these giants with skin as grey as rock, are classified as sentients, despite the fact that their appearance suggests quite the opposite. Greenish villi with a diameter of at least five centimetres hang down their
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