restaurants. Dredd drove up on his bike.
‘Nice work, Normal. We’ll get the medics to patch him up, then we’ll throw him in a Crim-Cube. I reckon nine to eleven years. By the way, how was the punk controlling those fake Normals?’
‘Easy, Man. There were little mechanisms in the flares of the phoney suits,’ I said. (This is what I saw when I first looked at the suspender pretender’s mock Leon Brittans. Remember?) ‘The mechanisms were linked to the computers in the warehouse. When activated I reckon they sent messages to the wearers’ brains. And so Gaultier had an army of barmy Normals.’
Dredd revved his bike, about to depart.
‘Okay, Normal. You’re in the clear. You can go ahead with the Max Normal Mega-City Fashion Show. And your suits remain legal. For now.’
‘Cool, baby,’ I said, tipping my hat. ‘You can’t say flarer than that!’
JUDGE ANDERSON: THE MOST DANGEROUS GAME
By Mark Millar, Judge Dredd Yearbook 1992
It happened every year. No-one could stop it. Grilles snapped tight over shop windows, steel shutters were locked over doors and those people in Mega-City who believed they were decent stayed inside, weapons in hand, until the madness was over. Children huddled to their parents for comfort, terrified eyes filled with tears. How many would die? How many more would die this year? Bones snapped in two, meat torn from bodies, streets red with corpses.
How many more would die this year... for Charades?
The Judges always appeared after the fights were over. When everyone was dead. Every year the Scot-Blocks would meet the Albion-Blocks in a pitched battle to the death for their sport. ‘Charades-Hooligans’, as Channel 99 News had called them; people who failed to understand that it was only a game. People who took each subtle gesture, each syllable, each film with six words in the title so seriously that they were prepared to die for it. The streets were already crimson with blood, and the semi-finals had barely begun. All the Judges could do now was to pick up the pieces and hope that the luckless contestants had no more fight left in them. Load up the bodies in a sweet-smelling truck bound for Resyk. Few Judges dared break up the riots. None would enter the Scot-Blocks at night – there was even a rumour that Judge Dredd himself had whistled and driven past a fight between two drunken Scotsmen. It’s said that even he was afraid to confront them, but this was only a rumour. It probably wasn’t true.
A man screamed like a girl from the direction of the teetering edifice that was Albion-Block and the Judges squinted up at the sun as a window on the fifth floor shattered into fragments. A broken, bleeding body landed at their feet, still twitching.
‘Huh-he tore out muh-my heart...’
The Judges leaned forward to examine the gaping hole in the man’s chest. They studied his clothes. The Cuban heels. The mauve, flared trousers. The tight wool jumper. His face; worn, yet tanned. The swept-back mound of brillo-pad hair. The likeness was unmistakeable. ‘Who did this to you, citizen?’ they asked the clone of Lionel Blair.
Blair coughed on his own blood as his eyes clouded over, approaching death. He glanced down at his ragged chest, chuckling for a moment at how ridiculous it looked. He tried to talk, but could only whisper odd, quiet syllables. The Judges leaned closer still. ‘What’s he like? Can you give us any clue as to who he is?’
Blair stretched out his hands, palms upwards. ‘Song?’ one of the Judges asked hesitantly. Blair nodded vigorously, and the Judge smiled smugly. ‘Three words,’ said the second Judge, catching on fast. Blair’s eyes bulged encouragingly as his hands fluttered like small birds above his shattered rib cage.
‘First word’s “Hey”.’
‘Second word. Sounds like “swannee”.’
‘“Nonny?”’
‘Third word...’ Blair ground his teeth furiously as the Judges looked on. ‘Gnaw?’ The second Judge
‘Nice work, Normal. We’ll get the medics to patch him up, then we’ll throw him in a Crim-Cube. I reckon nine to eleven years. By the way, how was the punk controlling those fake Normals?’
‘Easy, Man. There were little mechanisms in the flares of the phoney suits,’ I said. (This is what I saw when I first looked at the suspender pretender’s mock Leon Brittans. Remember?) ‘The mechanisms were linked to the computers in the warehouse. When activated I reckon they sent messages to the wearers’ brains. And so Gaultier had an army of barmy Normals.’
Dredd revved his bike, about to depart.
‘Okay, Normal. You’re in the clear. You can go ahead with the Max Normal Mega-City Fashion Show. And your suits remain legal. For now.’
‘Cool, baby,’ I said, tipping my hat. ‘You can’t say flarer than that!’
JUDGE ANDERSON: THE MOST DANGEROUS GAME
By Mark Millar, Judge Dredd Yearbook 1992
It happened every year. No-one could stop it. Grilles snapped tight over shop windows, steel shutters were locked over doors and those people in Mega-City who believed they were decent stayed inside, weapons in hand, until the madness was over. Children huddled to their parents for comfort, terrified eyes filled with tears. How many would die? How many more would die this year? Bones snapped in two, meat torn from bodies, streets red with corpses.
How many more would die this year... for Charades?
The Judges always appeared after the fights were over. When everyone was dead. Every year the Scot-Blocks would meet the Albion-Blocks in a pitched battle to the death for their sport. ‘Charades-Hooligans’, as Channel 99 News had called them; people who failed to understand that it was only a game. People who took each subtle gesture, each syllable, each film with six words in the title so seriously that they were prepared to die for it. The streets were already crimson with blood, and the semi-finals had barely begun. All the Judges could do now was to pick up the pieces and hope that the luckless contestants had no more fight left in them. Load up the bodies in a sweet-smelling truck bound for Resyk. Few Judges dared break up the riots. None would enter the Scot-Blocks at night – there was even a rumour that Judge Dredd himself had whistled and driven past a fight between two drunken Scotsmen. It’s said that even he was afraid to confront them, but this was only a rumour. It probably wasn’t true.
A man screamed like a girl from the direction of the teetering edifice that was Albion-Block and the Judges squinted up at the sun as a window on the fifth floor shattered into fragments. A broken, bleeding body landed at their feet, still twitching.
‘Huh-he tore out muh-my heart...’
The Judges leaned forward to examine the gaping hole in the man’s chest. They studied his clothes. The Cuban heels. The mauve, flared trousers. The tight wool jumper. His face; worn, yet tanned. The swept-back mound of brillo-pad hair. The likeness was unmistakeable. ‘Who did this to you, citizen?’ they asked the clone of Lionel Blair.
Blair coughed on his own blood as his eyes clouded over, approaching death. He glanced down at his ragged chest, chuckling for a moment at how ridiculous it looked. He tried to talk, but could only whisper odd, quiet syllables. The Judges leaned closer still. ‘What’s he like? Can you give us any clue as to who he is?’
Blair stretched out his hands, palms upwards. ‘Song?’ one of the Judges asked hesitantly. Blair nodded vigorously, and the Judge smiled smugly. ‘Three words,’ said the second Judge, catching on fast. Blair’s eyes bulged encouragingly as his hands fluttered like small birds above his shattered rib cage.
‘First word’s “Hey”.’
‘Second word. Sounds like “swannee”.’
‘“Nonny?”’
‘Third word...’ Blair ground his teeth furiously as the Judges looked on. ‘Gnaw?’ The second Judge
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