of the car. He
knew the way it worked. Error begat more error, so you had to act
fast, you couldn't let it grow. Besides, maybe Alan would get lucky
-- maybe this clown knew a thing or two about bodies and
bridges.
The guy was already shimmying through the
gate by the time Alan got close.
"Stop! Police!"
The man squinted, seeing Alan for the first
time.
And then came the flood. An entire, ragged
looking crew came charging out of the building. They looked like
escapees from some apocalyptic meltdown, blinking in the sun like
half blind trench-dwellers. Alan thought Joe might be among them,
but that didn't seem to be the case.
"Nobody move! Attention! Do you hear me!"
These were the untenured, the floaters, the
drifters. The type who didn't earn, they stole. The type who didn't
live, they survived -- a careful distinction, living being grand
and ethereal, survival being base and reptilian. They were loners
who watched the glow of civilization from afar, from out in the
woods, with their sloth and their vices, with all the other beasts.
No matter what you called them: gypsies, drunks, beggars, tramps
(lazy, lazier, laziest, lazing) -- they defied all of Alan's ideals
and endeavors.
Alan was suddenly overwhelmed by this
stunning bouquet of loserdom. How to choose? Each bum was more
tantalizingly problematic than the last. He wanted to be
everywhere, he wanted to hunt them all. The mind reeled--
Alan stopped himself. He had to remain calm,
here. He had to maintain his focus and approach the situation one
problem at a time.
The first man, he was nearly across the
street, his baggy clothes flapping in the wind like a garbage flag.
Alan went after him. The guy wasn't fast, Alan easily narrowed the
distance. "Desist, fucker! Desist!"
Alan got the man from behind and shoved. The
guy hit the ground rolling. Alan was about to kick him when his
foot slipped. He fell awkwardly, face-forward, cracking his knee on
the asphalt.
He was close though, just behind the guy. He
grabbed the man's shoe, wrestling with the foot. Alan tried to get
standing, but gasped from the pain in his knee and sat back on the
ground. The guy was already up on one foot and half-crouched on the
other.
"Get off me, Charlie! This ain't no
game!"
Alan was climbing the guy's leg, one handful
at a time, almost bringing the man's pants down. The guy hopped
forward on his free leg. "Stay...still," grunted Alan.
The man looked at him. And then in a quick
motion, more an afterthought, he swiped at Alan's forearm. Alan
felt the flesh there snag and give way, saw the dull shine of metal
in the man's hand. A large parenthesis opened in his skin.
Alan recoiled, and the man was gone, loping
across the intersection. Alan immediately hunched over his arm. Oh
shit. He didn't think the cut was deep. The knife had only sheered
the surface, leaving a surprised flap of skin that was just now
starting to flush with the blood. But still. Oh shit. What about
that knife? Where had that knife been? Holy fuck, what filth had
that knife touched?
Alan's hands were trembling. The grand
organism had been breached. THE GRAND ORGANISM HAD BEEN BREACHED.
He unholstered Womack's revolver and aimed. One bullet, one wad of
metal the size of a fingernail, that's all it would take to churn
that man's head into sauerkraut. It was one mess that would
probably be worth it.
But... No. Alan wasn't shooting anyone, not
in the back. Not when he could pursue them and capture them and put
them in a cage instead. Not when he could force-feed them obedience
and court and discipline. Get them fat on the stuff, like those
foie gras ducks. Only, if you were to slice them open in a few
years, instead of a big buttery liver you'd find a big buttery
heart, absolutely engorged with the System.
That's what they'd get for fucking with him.
That's what they'd get for cutting Alan's goddamn arm with that
(shit oh shit) filthy goddamn knife.
He replaced the gun. He noted with mounting
dismay that blood had
knew the way it worked. Error begat more error, so you had to act
fast, you couldn't let it grow. Besides, maybe Alan would get lucky
-- maybe this clown knew a thing or two about bodies and
bridges.
The guy was already shimmying through the
gate by the time Alan got close.
"Stop! Police!"
The man squinted, seeing Alan for the first
time.
And then came the flood. An entire, ragged
looking crew came charging out of the building. They looked like
escapees from some apocalyptic meltdown, blinking in the sun like
half blind trench-dwellers. Alan thought Joe might be among them,
but that didn't seem to be the case.
"Nobody move! Attention! Do you hear me!"
These were the untenured, the floaters, the
drifters. The type who didn't earn, they stole. The type who didn't
live, they survived -- a careful distinction, living being grand
and ethereal, survival being base and reptilian. They were loners
who watched the glow of civilization from afar, from out in the
woods, with their sloth and their vices, with all the other beasts.
No matter what you called them: gypsies, drunks, beggars, tramps
(lazy, lazier, laziest, lazing) -- they defied all of Alan's ideals
and endeavors.
Alan was suddenly overwhelmed by this
stunning bouquet of loserdom. How to choose? Each bum was more
tantalizingly problematic than the last. He wanted to be
everywhere, he wanted to hunt them all. The mind reeled--
Alan stopped himself. He had to remain calm,
here. He had to maintain his focus and approach the situation one
problem at a time.
The first man, he was nearly across the
street, his baggy clothes flapping in the wind like a garbage flag.
Alan went after him. The guy wasn't fast, Alan easily narrowed the
distance. "Desist, fucker! Desist!"
Alan got the man from behind and shoved. The
guy hit the ground rolling. Alan was about to kick him when his
foot slipped. He fell awkwardly, face-forward, cracking his knee on
the asphalt.
He was close though, just behind the guy. He
grabbed the man's shoe, wrestling with the foot. Alan tried to get
standing, but gasped from the pain in his knee and sat back on the
ground. The guy was already up on one foot and half-crouched on the
other.
"Get off me, Charlie! This ain't no
game!"
Alan was climbing the guy's leg, one handful
at a time, almost bringing the man's pants down. The guy hopped
forward on his free leg. "Stay...still," grunted Alan.
The man looked at him. And then in a quick
motion, more an afterthought, he swiped at Alan's forearm. Alan
felt the flesh there snag and give way, saw the dull shine of metal
in the man's hand. A large parenthesis opened in his skin.
Alan recoiled, and the man was gone, loping
across the intersection. Alan immediately hunched over his arm. Oh
shit. He didn't think the cut was deep. The knife had only sheered
the surface, leaving a surprised flap of skin that was just now
starting to flush with the blood. But still. Oh shit. What about
that knife? Where had that knife been? Holy fuck, what filth had
that knife touched?
Alan's hands were trembling. The grand
organism had been breached. THE GRAND ORGANISM HAD BEEN BREACHED.
He unholstered Womack's revolver and aimed. One bullet, one wad of
metal the size of a fingernail, that's all it would take to churn
that man's head into sauerkraut. It was one mess that would
probably be worth it.
But... No. Alan wasn't shooting anyone, not
in the back. Not when he could pursue them and capture them and put
them in a cage instead. Not when he could force-feed them obedience
and court and discipline. Get them fat on the stuff, like those
foie gras ducks. Only, if you were to slice them open in a few
years, instead of a big buttery liver you'd find a big buttery
heart, absolutely engorged with the System.
That's what they'd get for fucking with him.
That's what they'd get for cutting Alan's goddamn arm with that
(shit oh shit) filthy goddamn knife.
He replaced the gun. He noted with mounting
dismay that blood had
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