UNNECESSARY JUSTICE: Part 3

Shattering rain blew around the waterfront warehouse in powerful gusts as the waves of the Puget Sound crashed underneath the pier. The inhabitants of the warehouse were ignorant of these noisy occurrences, however; this battered, boring building was misleadingly sound proof. Thick walls and plenty of obstructing leftovers from the storage needs of yesteryear scattered inside were all that this overlooked landmark needed to supply the perfect meeting place for the illegally inclined.

The rain beat against unwavering windows high up towards the barely slanted roof of the building. Behind them dusty air hardly moved, falling the short distance to the gangway that wound through the rafters. The metal walkway stretched far into the darkness, and the silhouette eclipsing the window looked alone save for the muffled weather outside.

It was an easy gig. He’d been hired last minute via email; contract job, one night, time and a half, shoot to kill. Down below, the maze of shelved boxes spread out from the middle of the well lit warehouse where the meeting he’d been employed to guard was well under way. The creepy guy in the trenchcoat had met him at the door, his weird smile directing him to the rafters of the warehouse.

The armed henchman shifted the weight of his rifle to the other shoulder as he kept a sharp eye on the downpour outside. He had seen the other hired goons head upwards as he made his way to the assigned position, but they were invisible to him now. He thought he’d heard one coughing a few times off in the darkness and that was it.

There’d been some sort of a scuffle with the trench-coat guys men not long ago. They seemed to have it handled, and he could barely make out their faces from this vantage point anyway. Aside from the musty air and the occasional howl of wind it was a calm, violence free evening.

He was antsy. There’d been a depressing lack of beating people up in his line of work recently, and the few deaths he’d been a part of had been lackluster in their presentation. Business definitely wasn’t booming though, so he figured that he should be grateful for the work he could get. Adrenaline coursed through his veins and his muscles slowly tensed and untensed as he readied himself for anything the night might throw at him.

“I’m genuinely fairly sorry about this."

There was a nervous cough. The silhouette guard in the window crumpled to the floor unceremoniously, his head twisted farther to the right than biology normally allowed. A gray figure stood in his place. This neutral character blended into the backdrop of the warehouse attic without moving an inch, patiently waiting. A gray boot was placed on the side of the dead henchmans chest, and fter a moments pause in the silence of the thick air, a question floated up from the gathering below.

“... who keeps coughing?"

The grey boot pushed forcefully, and the horizontal thug slid off the metal gangway into the unseen depths of the warehouse floor. Before his body hit the bottom, the gray mirage leapt over the walkways hand rail towards the center of the giant room, aiming for the open space around the table covered in light. In mid flight and with an imperceptible flourish, the flying gray figure produced a small black grappling hook that found its way to a beam directly above the round table. The trajectory of the single colour costume brought it sliding vertically from the nylon rope that hung from the secured grappling hook, 50ft over the circular congregation. The colourless blur sped towards the assembled criminals feet first.

The sound of the heavy set watchman hitting the ground off in the recesses of the warehouse startled all in attendance. Not in the cheek slapping, high pitched screaming kind of way; these lords of the underworld were students of the draw-guns-and-fire-blind school of surprise. Seconds after they’d risen from their seats and shot wildly into the shadows of the stacked streets, the hurtling gray figure from the rafters came crashing down through the center of the round table.

With guns still aimed at the nothingness beyond, the crime lords could make out a man wearing an all gray outfit in the center of their splintered mess. As the shaded stranger stood up & brushed off the debris from his landing, they all turned to aim their bullets at this more tangible target. Time slowed for a moment as everyone thought about their next move.

Dick Tracy jumped backwards just in time to see the man in the gray uniform take something from his belt and throw it hard at his own feet. The khaki trench-coat was pulled up & over his head as he felt the air pressure change with the sound of escaping gas. Peeking through gaps in the folded material, he risked a glance at the cloud of smoke which had already engulfed the men at the broken table.

Muffled shouts. Loud thumps. Wet snaps. The smokey mass in front of the khaki man emitted a melody of painful music as he stood just a few feet away.

The thick cloud began to dissipate, and his fedora tilted down as the man in the trench-coat dragged the black blade from its hidden sheath. He calmly brought it level with the almost transparent smoke. The shark smile was nowhere to be seen, and his unamused lips were pressed white together.

The gray figure was still in the center of the destroyed table when the smoke disappeared. He held a frightened crime lords back close to his chest, obscuring almost all of his features with a human shield. Bodies littered the surrounding area. Some twitched. Some moaned. The sound of knocking wood came from the shaking legs of the criminal hostage. The smell of ammonia came from what was running down them.

The sword wielding Khaki wearer didn’t even flinch when the person that caused all this disruption reached up with surprising speed and snapped the neck of his short lived shield. The shaking ceased and the legs gave way beneath dead weight, leaving the remaining upright pair to stare at each other through the settling dust.

The gray man raised a gloved fist to his mouth with dramatic emphasis.

He gave a nervous cough, lowering his hand to reveal a wide smile.

"Should I assume that the other men are similarly... incapacitated?" The voice coming from the khaki hat was low and threatening, an inquiring growl. His dark steel was still aimed steadily at the gray intruder.

The costumed man in front of the motionless sword seemed to not notice the question. He proceeded instead to shake off the leftover table dust, looking around his immediate vicinity with passive interest.

He wore varying shades of gray body armour, similar to light-weight riot police garb. Shoulder, knee, and elbow pads protected all the usual knobbly extremities whilst a thin but sturdy looking chest guard took form around an athletic torso. A narrow column of moving plates shielding his spine could be seen as he turned his upper body 180 degrees in both directions with his arms folded in a classic stretch. A snug padded helmet partially obscured his features, a wide band across his forehead leading down his cheek bones and under his chin to frame his face. It resembled the leather protective caps used by Ye Olde Football players of the 1950's, a tuft of dusty brown hair poking defiantly out the top of the head band.

The grinning gray head stopped searching the room when it caught sight of the crumpled burlap sack at the edge of the circle of light. It looked like it had been thrown to the side as a result of his grand entrance and the excitement that followed. The scene in the warehouse momentarily became a screen capture; nothing moved save for the barely visible breathing from the unconscious and pretending-to-be-unconscious lumps near the table.

"Is he alive?" The gray man was still smiling. There was no hint of humour in his stoney voice as he stared at the inanimate sack.

The khaki man was smiling too, now.

"I... hadn't noticed." His sword was impossibly steady, arm still holding it perfectly level with his guests eyes.

The gray man slowly turned from the sack to match the shark smile with his own. Their eyes met, presumably; between the fedora and the forehead band it would have been impossible to determine exactly what the shrouded sockets were looking at. The tense moment playing out was a textbook standoff, neither party willing to give up the bravado.

A loud bang echoed through the warehouse. It was far enough away that its source was unknown and arrived at the standoffs' ears from all sides. Neither man showed any interest in its origin. They continued their staring contest.

A pounding of many feet came from the streets of shelves, the sound weaving from one side of the building to the other as they wound their way closer. Both stoic figures remained in place.

As various people came careening around the corner of a stack of boxes with a cardboard clamour, the standoff ended. The man in the khaki trench coat lunged forward in expert fencing form towards the man in the gray costume.

Five minutes later there was no one left standing in the well lit arena. Those rousing from unconsciousness on the ground looked around as sirens wailed outside. Those who were pretending continued as such. It was looking to be a long night, and they wanted as much rest as possible.

UNNECESSARY JUSTICE: Ch. 2

. . .

It was raining hard in the Emerald City, and it was doing so on Stanley Hartwell.

The monochrome gray cityscape was bathed in a sheet of falling mist and little more, as the streets of Seattle were seldom busy at this time of night. Save for a few headlights seemingly lost in the mushroom clouds that bounced off the streets, Stanley walked alone.

He kept a consistent pace of wet eruptions as sturdy leather boots splashed a determined path towards his destination & sanctuary. Rain bounced off of everything in sight, the matte finish of the concrete giants that surrounded him barely glistening for a second before their stone underbelly came seeping through once more. He hurried past giant opaque windows, glistening star-charts of raindrops shifting sideways as fast as he could walk. Without breaking stride, he turned a corner at a wide four way junction and stood to attention. This cross in the arteries of the city saw one soggy cardboard box doing the work of three tumbleweeds.

Under the shelter of a well lit bus stop Stanley waited patiently for the obvious. Fat droplets of rain fell from his folded arms as they tried to hug his shivering body into submission, sodden clothes threatening to prolong the process. His shaking skin aside, Stanley was actually the epitome of a living statue in his cocoon of harsh sterile light. The street in front of him might have blushed had it the necessary prerequisites to do so, as his unwavering stare had been intimately scanning every square inch of visible pavement for 5 minutes. Without moving his head Stanley made a point to survey his surroundings with intricate recall, as was protocol in such situations per his own private regulations. You could take the boy out of the neuroses but you couldn't take the neurosis out of the boy.

Stanley Hartwell had been orphaned at the age of 18. It was hard to get any sympathy when you are an official adult in the eyes of the law & your frugal extended family, so he sought comfort from a studio apartment with 2 bunkbeds and 5 roommates. It was not the light beer, inner city celebrity lifestyle he had been sold as a child, but it was all he needed in life.

His parents had been the last of the Baby Boomers retaliative baby-atomic bomb; an almost over populated America was given a new wave of job hungry little bundles of joy, and they all had a thirst for technology. I.T. degrees were the most sought after of diploma’s in the mid-21st century, and they soon became the requirement for the vast majority of U.S. employment opportunities. His mother & father belonged to a nation of computer Nerds and internet Geeks who became the driving force of the technological revolution, with America leading the charge.

Mr. and Mrs. Hartwell were simple folk, as Stanley had seen them. They loved him. They fed him. They clothed him, at least until he was 14 and got that job running a fast food Drive-Thru from his bedroom. What few social skills he possessed he probably learned from them, though he often felt guilty for not remembering any of their conversational exchanges.

He knew they liked things the way they were. Before the cameras on every PC and admins in every chat room.

Stanleys eyes flitted left as soon as the bus came into peripheral view, following it like an old typewriter ribbon as the hulking people carrier stopped and started its way through the road lake. It came to a stop with a tumultuous tidal wave, opening its doors directly opposite Stanley. He took two bounding steps into the bus and swiped his Creditz Card through the drivers slot. He spared a quick once-over of the tinted plastic in front of him, then took off down the aisle.

The bus drivers bullet proof pod gave a muffled beep as the doors closed behind Stanley, signalling to the 400lb conductor that it was time to wake up from his nap and punch in the Stop/Go log-in key. This process was one of the few non-automated functions in the Emerald City’s fleet of public transportation services, and as he made his way to the middle of the bus Stanley could already hear the faint rolling thunder of the bus drivers snore through the almost-sound proof protective shell.

He sat in one of the many empty plastic cradles on his left. A few of the other uninviting safety seats were occupied by various night denizens. None of them seemed likely to pose a threat. The drain hole in the bottom of his aisle seat caught a rivet on his faded blue jeans as he slid over the hump towards the window. The rivet pulled tight and the jeans jerked him forward, face planting him into the welcoming arms of the wet, dark Saturday night that started to move by behind the glass.

The drenched streets of Seattle flew through Stanleys head as he studied his reflection in the bus window. He rubbed his forehead inches from the glass, tendrils of wet hair attempting to cover his right eye with tortured style. The stark glare from above the seats and along the walkway gave him full exposure to what had grown into a constant reminder of where he came from.

He had his mothers eyes. Bright, gray pools of listless anxiety. She worked for the city, or state, or something Government-y; he could barely remember her real first name and it had only been 4 years. She was the smiler (a trait he hadn’t picked up) and the cynic, a perfect partner for his stern but hopeful father. Stanley recognised his fathers brown hair and strong jawline, but nothing else. Both inside and out; his dad was a lean, tall man who said little whilst doing a lot. Stanley was a thin, slouched post-adolescent who said little whilst thinking a lot. Which he proceeded to do in the uncomfortable bus seat he was settling into. He laid his head back against the perforated cradle, eyes scanning everything.

The day they died, Stanley was looking for an apartment to rent. His first. They had been at a protest or a rally of some sort, for off towards the city center. His father was always chatting to and meeting people from the Web, mostly through work, and he assumed these were the people they had been with. The quiet parent spoke of his job in terse descriptions, so as far as Stanley was ever able to discern he was a librarian. A very important librarian, apparently, because some serious men tried to get in touch with Stanley not long after the funeral. Luckily his anti-social tendencies had given rise to a knack for shirking responsibilities. They never found enough of him to touch.

Whatever type of gathering had been intended that day turned into a riot, according to official police statements on the news. Hundreds of citizens began looting businesses and assaulting firemen and policemen alike. When rubber bullets couldn’t quell the angry mob, live fire had been permitted. They said someone from the crowd threw a badly made Molotov Cocktail. That it hit a streetlight and rained down on the crowd. On cars and generators and other flammable things.

Whatever type of gathering had been intended on that day burned in a series of deafening explosions, according to unofficial rumours. They said roughly the same thing to Stanley when the authorities informed him over the phone that his parents had perished. He had been travelling on the same bus route he was on now when he got the call, heading towards what would become his current home. He wasn’t given many details; they apparently didn’t need a positive I.D., and according to the records all the necessary bank transfers had been made -minus the handling fees & police labour taxes, of course- so if he could collect their things from storage within the month that’d be great, sorry for your loss goodbye.

The swimming bus churned up the puddles of blocked drains as it slowed to turn the corner and head down to the waterfront. This edge of the city ran alongside the Puget Sound, tendrils of the Pacific seeping in through giant cracks of land. Separating the towering urban stalagmites from a taste of the ocean was the Viaduct Gardens; an unstable elevated double decker highway-turned neglected public green belt. Years of traffic congestion beneath this concrete dog park had forced the once bustling waterfront promenade into an empty strip of abandoned docks and warehouses.

Stanley leaned forward and stared intently out the windows on the other side of the bus as it turned again, the waves of the Sound cresting to the left of the humming transporter. His stop was coming up soon and he needed to make sure there was a clear path to his so called apartment. Four years in this neighbourhood had taught him a lot about preventing negative confrontations with the less savoury characters of city life. A few armed muggings and a beat down or three had moulded Stanley into an effective criminal radar, one that avoided such people that might show up on his screen.

The bus continued its journey along the waterfront with the creaking viaduct as its only companion on the stretch of gently winding road. Stanley was scanning his side of the road now as they approached his destination. Six blocks ahead he could see a huddled gathering close to his apartment entrance. Possibly homeless, possibly lawless. He wasn’t going to take a chance.

As the bus drew closer he instinctively reached inside his puffy blue water-resistant jacket for his smart-phone. Almost immediately the top of his left forearm started vibrating, and with a barely perceptible roll of his eyes he pulled up his dripping sleeve to cancel the Bus Stop Request that flashed on his phone display. He could remember to beat the automated destination confirmation almost to the second, but the recent upgrade from detached to attached cell phones was still hard for Stanley to retain. The trend had caught on well over a year ago but he’d only just made the switch. His quiet stubbornness met its match against the propietary nature of his service provider, which had deemed wrist mounted “Uber-Phones” to be the new standard.

With his exit from the bus delayed momentarily, Stanley took a second to collect his thoughts and prepare Plan B.

Entrance to house: blocked. Conditions: damp and ill lit. Options: attempt frontal entry (strikethrough) attempt rear entry through alleys continue on bus route full circle

The thought of riding this electric tank halfway around the city did not appeal to him as much as risking the boring alleyways 4 blocks away from his front door. He pulled up his sleeve again and pulled up the city transit icon on his uber-phones display, teardrop rainbows forming where water had smeared off his jacket. He hit Next Stop and stood up, steadying himself with the bar overhead and the textured metal walkway beneath him as he swayed down the aisle to the front of the bus.

The bus had received his stop request and was obediently slowing down underneath the shadow of the viaduct, a few flickering streetlights illuminating the wall-less cavern for short bursts at a time. Stanley could hear the bus driver snort to attention as he swiped his Creditz Card on the way out of the bus, the low tone beep yelling at him to leave through the opened doors. The beep was also a reminder that his journey and destination had been recorded and filed away thanks to the multifaceted Creditz Cards that were used for almost every transaction imaginable.

Stanley stood motionless outside the bus doors after they had closed. Between the wind and the rain and the indefinite light sources, he had barely gotten a cursory glance at his surroundings. The Viaduct Gardens above shadowed everything within his limited sight, but above the ancient roadway loomed the weather puncturing buildings of the city's edge.Water poured from their windowsills and gutters peppering the street in vertical river rapids, scattered cars parked nearby bearing the brunt of the falling streams. The dark alleyways that carved into the metropolis echoed with the sounds of a city under siege. As a crescendo of overturned trash cans came to a stop, Stanley noticed the collection of night dwellers that had appeared from the alleys.

His radar had failed him. No doubt the typical Washington weather was disrupting his usually keen senses, and he pondered how one could have overlooked such skulking rain walkers. He knew they frequented the dark alleys of the city, but not usually this close to the water. Too many open areas, a marginally steady reel of witnesses rolling by on busses. His late night entourage must have chosen the sounds of the sea over the sky falling.

Plan C...

They formed a badly drawn semi circle in front of him as he collected his thoughts once more. Their bodies began to hunch as they shimmied closer in the cold rain. Plan C was rarely called for, and had never actually worked, but Stanley was more than willing to give it another shot. He quickly spread his feet shoulder width apart in a stance that was somewhere between fight and flight. It was closer to fright.

He yanked his left arm up with his fist pointed down, and aimed his wrist at each of his potential assailants one at a time from left to right, awkwardly switching between them with hesitant jerks. A frantic red dot appeared on the chest of every one he pointed at. He hastily brought his right hand down on his left bicep and leveled both arms.

“I’m not afraid to shoot!!”

His voice was high pitched and quavering, but the commanding tone stopped the half circle from advancing for a moment. Another bout of frantic dot waving zipped between them.

“It’s loaded! One more step and I’ll fry you where you stand!!” Now Stanley was just waving his arm back and forth between the individuals on either side of his peripheral vision.

The lowered figure in the middle of the group stood up straight at this last threat. A brief second passed as two people in the rain stared at each other. The evenings conditions hid any facial features, hiding any possible humanity that could have swayed anyones convictions. The two crooks either side of him took a step forward.

“Shit!!!”

Stanley slid his sleeve up yet again at the same time as he brought his left forearm in front of his face. In one deft move he uncovered his wrist phone and fingered a complicated pattern on the screen, pressing his eyebrows to his cheeks as hard as he could.

By their second step the street gang was blinded by the most dazzling, pure white light they could imagine. Shadows raced up the sides of walls and every single rain drop was seen for a split second as Stanleys phone trapped the semi circle in a box of brilliance. Eyes still closed he backed away from the bad scene, shadows stretching and pulling as he went.

Seconds later the light went out. The pink glow in front of his eyelids was gone. The phone battery was already dead; 4100 lumens of worth of energy would probably do that.

He opened his eyes and could make out the stumbling outlines of the probably disgruntled crowd assembled in front of him. Plan C may have been a bluff but it worked. Kind of. As they stood up rubbing eye sockets with knuckles, Stanley also stood up and mumbled quietly to no one in particular.

“Plan D it is, then.”

He broke into a sprint and headed into the alleyways behind his grasping attackers. They fumbled and fell as they turned around to give chase, their quarry already taking confusing turns through the alleys in a desperate bid for freedom. Hurried footsteps quickly melted into the myriad of echoes that came from these dark veins of a city as the nearby waves lapped against the warehouses that stood like sentry on the shore.

At least this time he'd blinded his opposition instead of himself. Plan C was getting better.

Plan D was simpler, though.

Stanley hurtled further away from home.

. . .

UNNECESSARY JUSTICE

Crime never sleeps.

At least not with its eyes closed.

And never with socks on, that's just weird.

On one particularly restless night, a nefarious slumber party congregates in an abandoned warehouse, a giant rusty shoebox blending into the night. Those windows not blacked out or boarded up are obscured by heavy set figures with guns, silent silhouettes playing chaperon to the inner minglings of this late night soiree.

Inside the warehouse a labyrinth of shelves and boxes wind their way to the center of a cardboard city, looming over the fake streets with tapering darkness. The stars above flicker and die as old bulbs go supernova. Down below, this city's only inhabitants huddle around a giant circular table, safe in their Corrugated Castle.

Nothing is said at first. No one wants to be the first to break the silence in these situations as criminals have a natural tendency to either one up or ridicule anyone that comes before them. Not as natural as their tendency to commit crimes of course, but still pretty second nature-y.

Finally, an unassuming man in a khaki trench-coat rises from his impersonal seat at the table, removing his matching fedora in strained respect for his company. His voice is methodically slow and hoarse, like he swallowed a wire brush and decided to just roll with it (health insurance is the real crime).

"Welcome, everyone. Let me be the first to thank you for visiting on such... short notice".

His ellipsis was palpable as every eye at the table glanced towards the burlap sack in the corner of the room, still now after a brief bout of thrashing and sack-kicking when they had arrived. High above, the silhouette guards chuckled faintly. A few of the attendees showed slight signs of approval through nods and grunts; a genuine burlap sack was hard to come by these days, and they appreciated the attention to spectacle. All eyes turned back to the khaki man.

"You all know we've been suffering... cutbacks of late. This economy just can't sustain our...expensive tastes."

The pauses were abundant and poignant, as each rusty knight looked away from the round table to hide the shame behind their eyes.

These people were the top crime bosses in the city, yet over the last year they had lost over half of their collective businesses. They used to burn rivals with gasoline soaked piles of money, but nowadays they had been forced to just beat them with a big bag of coins. Not even a burlap sack, just a shopping bag filled with change. Though not the plastic kind; they may be criminals but they understood the benefits of recycling just like the rest of us.

A nervous cough broke the silence.

It was followed by an even more nervous exclamation that didn't just break the silence, it stomped it into the ground with nasal vehemence.

"Would you just get to the damn point already?! I haven't got all day and the dust in here is playing havoc with my asthma!"

All in attendance suffered from verbal whiplash at this outburst, their necks unable to tear away from the khaki speaker. He continued an onslaught of silence. Another nervous cough punctuated the empty air.

"Seriously, we've all heard this before! At least last time we got to shoot someone. We were even back before CSI!"

The loud asthmatic man stood wheezing in place, slowly realising that the chairs in his immediate vicinity had mysteriously retreated from the table. Their occupants had followed accordingly. He remained standing, though his demeanour had progressed from shaky defiance to stoic anticipation. His lungs heaved his heart back & forth in his chest.

With a deep, raspy breath he continued his critique.

"Look, you poor man's Dick Tracy, this is the time for action. We should be out there breaking legs and ruining names. We must have a mole or something, because between the cops and these little upstarts I can barely afford to keep my Hummer running! And I LOVE my Hu-uurk?!"

The confused chicken impression garnered some interest from the braver members of the gathering. One by one they dragged their eyes to the asthmatic whiner. The last pair widened with watery disbelief, landing just in time to see the blood first start to trickle, then pour down wheezy's neck.

The sound of 9 chairs scraping in unison echoed across the warehouse, and the wet thump of the suddenly limp dissenter echoed throughout. His head lolled back off his neck right after his eyes rolled up into it. Twitching briefly, he laid to rest on the dusty ground. His inhaler fell out of his white knuckled hand.

"I suppose there are other... opinions?"

The now upright crime lords snapped back to reality, forcing their attention again to Dick Tracy who was nonchalantly using a bright white cloth to wipe his sword. A slick black blade that had apparently been hidden.

"Speak up, why don't you? I promise I won't... bite."

Their gaze followed his hand like a drunk desperately trying to pass a field sobriety test as it slid up & down the shining Katana with methodical determination. No one said anything. No one could; the soft cloth brushing against the sleek steel was the loudest thing they'd ever heard.

A nervous cough.

"I'm glad to see you are all paying... attention. Now, let's get back to business."

With passive obedience, the 9 scared chairs scraped back to position, their passengers heads hung low. They sat like children now, necks burrowing into their shoulders as they awaited their teachers lesson. No one knew where the khaki man was going with this meeting, but none of them was about to interrupt him again. These men respected spectacle, especially when combined with horrifying authority. So they sat. Patiently. Still and quiet, in fear of their teachers paddle.

The khaki man stood firmly in place at the head of the round table, an impressive feat considering the geometrical impracticality of such an act. He was not surprised at all, though.

This man commanded respect, demanded obedience, and always got what he want. This much was obvious just by looking at his demeanour; in a room filled with the most violent criminals in the city, he carried on as though strolling the corridors of a pound looking for his next pet. He obscured his eyes by tilting his hat just far enough that all they could see was his mouth as he talked. His teeth, encased in a dangerously smug smile, told the men what they needed to hear.

. . .

In 2015, the internet was hacked.

Not just certain sites or businesses; the entire internet became the playground of a few super-smart idiot teenagers with nothing better to do than bring the technological revolution to a standstill.

The whole world was faced with complete privacy invasion as a million blogs screamed in violated fury.

International pandemonium spread like a celebrity nip-slip. The government, the police, social services, even those humorous websites with the never ending barrage of cats; they all fell into the hands of a rising number of computer experts who had no idea what they were doing.

With the infiltration of their government web sites only 4 months after the initial “attack” (there was no other word for what amounted to someone reading through your diary), the United States were the first to declare martial law on the information superhighway. No more unmediated web surfing; everything was under scrutiny and control.

They shut down the forums, the social networks, and even the chain mail groups that had been circulating for over 20yrs. Millions of people suffered anxiety issues and ‘Net-Deprivation Syndrome’ as it was later coined, yet their troubles were far from over. After the success of the first wave of constraints, the American government decided to keep the ball rolling. Small businesses, big businesses, personal emails, private websites; every single aspect of the internet was put under federal control, with nothing sacred and everything monitored. The people of the United States were cut off from the rest of the world, deciding to concentrate on their own security while the other countries handled theirs. America essentially had its own enclosed internet, at the behest of the commander in chief. A closed circuit of information that only the highest authority could regulate.

Their were dissenters, of course. You can’t take away that much freedom without upsetting a few people.

The porn addicts were the first to revolt. They took to the streets in jittery droves as they unleashed their pent up aggressions on any authority figure they could find. Riots formed around these crazed depraved individuals, with more followers joining their cause around every block. The Twitterers, the status updating junkies, the technology review site curators; most if not all came to arms in an attempt to convince the powers that be that they had made the wrong decision. That this wasn’t for the best. That the people needed their internet.

It was all in vain. The rioters and freedom fighters and dissenters and regular folk caught in the excitement had not yet learned to live without the world wide web. They kept using it to organise, to spread intel and learn methods of resistance. All these things monitored by the very regime they sought to overthrow.

It took less than a month to quell the angry voices. With no way to communicate their angst and frustration, they accepted their fate. As much spit and vinegar as they could muster to rally against the hordes of eFacism, they would still rather some form of internet than none. So it was that in 2016, not even a year after the inital hack had started it all, the American Web was officially announced; cut off from the outside world, but secure in their own. Limited access with many private information rights waived, but all citizens had an official right-to-surf and it was still free.

. . .

The khaki man paused in his historical rhetoric as a quivering arm rose up in front of his face. The smug smile disappeared, replaced by a thin line of unamused lips.

“You... may speak.”

Instinctively the hand-raised man stood to attention. The teachers unseen eyes demanded it.

“Erm, sorry sir but we all ah-a, that is to say, well, we uh... we were there. We know all this.”

Eyes scrunched tight and mouth pursed as tight & to the lower left as could be, the hand-raised man waited for a response. He was only three seats away from faux-Dick Tracy, what else did he have hidden under that trench-coat?

A nervous cough.

“Put your damn... hand down, and I’ll explain myself.”

. . .

The fall of internet privacy saw the fiery rise of eCrime.

Previously the realm of credit card fraud and surprisingly debt laden African royalty, the American Web had become the new gangsters paradise. All businesses and people were connected to the new Net whether they liked it or not, and the more tech savvy criminals liked it a lot.

Soon, if you didn’t know how to hack into someones bank account and rob them blind then you were no more successful than a pickpocket. The modern criminal could have you mugged, homeless and killed all in one day without ever knowing what you look like. eCommerce had been hijacked by eCrime, and the authorities were overwhelmed.

For every highly trained computer literate police officer there were at least 20 self taught near-savants ready to ruin that officers life. The typical age for the most common crimes came down to 14 at one point, and the death penalty was even suggested for a 16yr old who had managed to cause numerous suicides through their illegal dealings. The government was unwilling to admit fault on their part, so they poured funding into better security and even more monitoring. Regular citizens faced the consequences of ever increasing numbers of eCriminals.

Eventually the wild west of web crime began to calm down, as the most successful illegal entrepreneurs formed large groups and syndicates similar to the Mafia of the early 20th century. These mobsters controlled their own electronic turf, setting up personal security measures not just against the authorities but also rival gangs. Small time crooks didn’t stand a chance anymore unless they chose a side.

The police and the rest of the government factions couldn’t keep track of the spreading crime wave. Their efforts were strengthened and they were able to monitor much of the activity, but preventing it was a wholly different matter. The new eCriminals seemed to be one step ahead at all times. A few successes here and there were all they could hope for.

It was never an official agreement, but many people speculated that the government just gave up. They could still handle all the regular crime and dole out appropriate justice, but when it came to the modern eCrime they seemed to adopt a Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell policy. The police were still around to help when you called, but when it came to keeping all your personal information private they just shrugged their shoulders and filed the paperwork. They claimed it was to keep everyday citizens safe; they could monitor the wide scale bad behavior and do their best to weed out the petty crimes using the information gathered. The big eCrime-bosses were considered a necessary evil.

. . .

“And this is where we... come in.”

The round table of misfits were listening in slack-jawed fear of the khaki speaker. At the mention of “we”, some of them almost did. Regaining their posture they sat up to attention, realising something was expected of them.

“Ahem. Sir? Where do we come in, exactly?” A brave soul amongst a band of thieves.

The Dick Tracy look-a-like started to stalk around the table. His shoes sounded no steps as he seemed to glide around the assembled chairs.

“Gentlemen, we come in... armed." His sword had somehow disappeared from sight again as he made his way. None of the assembled eyes could see it anymore.

A nervous cough.

"Our rivals have suffered the same... losses we have in recent months. Considering the ignorant cowardice of the... authorities, I find it hard to believe they are involved."

His trenchcoat dusted the floor where he stood as the Khaki man came to a stop a few feet away from the silent burlap sack. Without looking behind him, he gestured widely to the slumped bag with his left arm.

"Which is why I believe... vigilantes are involved."

The table of troublemakers risked some sideways glances between each other at this revelation. It was amazing the self control one had when faced with a choice between chuckling in disbelief and losing your ability to wear hats.

Arm still aimed at the sack, Dick Tracy continued.

"We have no... moles. Trust me, loyalty is something I pay attention to." The teeth flashed momentarily beneath his shrouding brim.

"We lose our stock and our funds, both physical and... digital, yet our rivals make no gains. We would expect to see a victor rising from our... predicament, yet no such person comes forward."

Now the khaki speaker was walking backwards towards the burlap bag. His feet were barely visible through his shuffling coat curtains.

"Through my own... findings I have come to the conclusion that we have vigilantes in our city. OUR... City." He spat the last words through clenched teeth. It was the most emotion anyone in attendance had seen thus far, and it was more unnerving than the cooling body on the floor.

He crouched next to the sack now, still not looking directly at it but at his audience instead.

"They know the Net. They listen and watch. We have become... lazy, allowing simple children access to our accounts and plans. They steal our money that we rightfully stole from them, and they get away with it because we are... complacent."

His quick words were met with a flurry of movement as the khaki man picked up the burlap sack by its drawstrings and brought it to the table in one swift move. He placed it unceremoniously in the center of the giant table.

"I have traced these... usurpers back to a few select groups. We need to take back the... Fear. This city used to cower before us as we took what wanted. These vigilantes seek to... upset that balance of power." He was speaking louder now, his forceful nature aimed solely at the sack. The men around the table could feel his gaze trying to burn through the bag on the table. It defied his stare and remained singe-free.

A nervous cough broke the silence yet again. The embittered Dick Tracy continued with his tirade.

"Which is why we are here. I wish to make an... example of these ne'er do wells. They seek to challenge us to our own... game? Then its time they learned the rules."

This time they watched the sword emerge from his trenchcoat, its mdinight steel sucking them in like a black hole of awe. Teeth were unsheathed as the khaki man leveled his blade towards the burlap sack with steady determination, allowing the men a moment to appreciate the grandiosity of such a performance.

For a moment nothing could be heard except the faint hum of a generator far off in the warehouses streets of shelves. A nervous cough was the only addition.

Sword still steady and pointed at the sack, the khaki man's shark-like grin went under the surface. The hat pivoted slowly as it surveyed those in attendance. His unamused lips came back up.

"Wait... who keeps coughing?"

. . .

Short Story

It should have been a dark and stormy night, but the weather in Washington rarely does anybody any favours. So it was that the gentle moonlight bathed a quiet street in glowing luminance, a clear night sky open and welcome to constellation gazers from all walks of life.

Taking full advantage of this opportunity was a young man, his eyes cast high and filled with stars. It didn’t matter to the weather that both of these activities had been facilitated by a sharp blow to the back of his head, flat on his back with a creeping concussion; all that mattered was that somebody was paying attention.

Though this attention was waning, as much as had been there to begin with, for the warm blood pooling beneath him was a rising distraction from mother natures night show. A furrowed brow cut across his forehead slowly, raising canyons of confusion as he tried to come to terms with his current predicament. Previously this young man’s concerns were simple and straightforward, consisting mostly of decisions about food. Now, with his bed of blood widening and an alarming amount of activity suddenly erupting in the street, his gaze fell from the sky and came crashing back down to earth.

Dark shapes were pouring into the moonlit street. They moved slowly, some hunched over with hands close to their bodies whilst others stood straight up, advancing with a steady and determined pace. The sounds of shuffling feet filled the night air, muffled mutterings breaking the crisp silence. The young man’s eyes began to dart back and forth, unable to focus on the shapes but never letting them out of his sight. Television could not have competed with how engrossed he was in his surrounding company, not even the reality tv that had captured his heart and soul long before his woes had seemed so far away.

Dancing With The Stars, Survivor, Flavour of Love; reality itself had finally proven more attention grabbing than the occular glue that had once prevented him from leaving his couch or even noticing what was going on around him. The News had escaped him for some time, replaced instead by shiny outfits and angry British people. His knowledge of current events was embarrassingly narrow, more so now than ever as his thoughts were muddled by displacement and blood.

The dark figures were upon him. They stood over his limp body, and he could only assume they were watching him considering the severe lack of anything else going on that night. Their feet had caused ripples in his crimson kiddie pool that had already started to subside, no more movement to continue their circles. Eye level with steel toes, the young man craned his neck upward to get a closer look at his audience, to see just what had disturbed his evening stroll.

Apparently this was a bad idea, exemplified by the metallic boot that came crashing down on the young man’s chest. Slamming against the street with a red splash, the boot still in place, he lazily rolled his eyes up to the source of the offending foot. Another poor life choice; something else came hurtling towards him at break neck speed, something blunt and wooden and literal minded. Head bouncing off the pavement and back again, he couldn’t see anything anymore. Nothing but blood.

The crowd dispersed cautiously. They never turned their backs on the young man on the ground, leaving his immediate vicinity the way they had entered it, though with marginally more gore on their bedraggled clothes than before. One by one they melted back into the shadows from where they had come, until only one figure remained. He kept his stance over the young mans lifeless body, baseball bat still in hand. Between the corpse in the street and his stoic grip on the instrument of sport/death, nothing moved in the moonlight save for the air between them.

Seemingly satisfied with the complete lack of anything interesting occurring, the bat wielder turned to leave. It was not an easy task as it turns out, because the lifeless hand on the ground had appeared around his ankle with surprising speed and strength. So the man with the bat in hand did what came naturally to those faced with a bloodied dead person tugging at their legs; he swung for the fences.

This was the third time that night the young man in the street had been hit in the head with a baseball bat. Apparently that was the lucky number, as his skull finally caved in to brute force and vehement passion. Though just to be safe, the bat made its way back to the young man’s head a few more times. Blood everywhere and the immediate threat finally dealt with, the sports enthusiast was satisfied with the evenings hunt. He knew it was a bad idea to go after the undead alone, but the others were too squeamish to stick around and make sure the deed was done, especially to a former neighbour.

He walked back to his home, leaving his now-completely-dead friend under the moons care. He kept the bat. It wasn’t as effective as a gun for taking care of the infected, but it was more personal.

"They're Buuuddiiiies"

Dear Body,

We've had some good times together, eh? The trouble we've gotten each other into, well... let's just say I've got some permanent reminders of our more exuberant endeavours (my face holds a grudge, but don't worry about that. Face is a whiner).

Yet I can't help but feel like we're growing apart lately. It's not just the things that you do, but more the little things you don't that make me question our relationship.

There was a time when you'd be stoked for an all night bender, stomach and liver working seamlessly to convert the copious amounts of liquor & beer into the fuel our brain needed to perform ill-planned acts of social deviance. Legs, you deserve special mention for your Forest Gump-esque ability to keep running even when the weather, physical fitness, and common sense dictated we should probably sit down and quit smoking.

There wasn't a bruise too big or an embarrassment too damaging that could prevent us from living each day like it was our last (sometimes threatening to convert the metaphorical to the literal). And throughout it all, you got me out of bed the next day ready to conquer a new day, all remnants of the previous nights indiscretion neatly erased from both physical and mental memory.

But no longer.

These days, I'm lucky to have my eyes open for 5 minutes before you sucker punch me in the gut to remind me of the late night "pizzadventure" we decided was a good idea after guzzling a disproportionate amount of beer (and I mean WE; don't act like you were protesting that 8th greasy slice). My once meditative morning showers have become a skull-thumping ordeal as I try to cleanse myself of the stench of poor life choices, your packed bags under my eyes like a dejected spouse whose had enough of my shenanigans.

Don't you like hanging out anymore? You seem to want to go upstairs and pass out sooner & sooner lately, long before I'm ready to end the nights frivolities. And its not even like we're getting some alone time either; I could handle the premature party pooping if I was getting a lil more attention. But no, you're just content to roll over and start snoring, leaving me to grip the sides of the bed and focus on something solid so as to prevent the room from carnival riding me into a porcelain nose dive (legs, at least you try. That one-foot-on-the-floor trick is greatly appreciated).

...I'm sorry. I should be less accusatory. This is a partnership, and I realise I can be a bit demanding of you. I could probably drink more water and get more sleep. I should cater to YOUR needs a little more, I get it. I've taken advantage of you these past few years, and I have to start treating you better.

We can get through this, I know it. Make a fresh go of it, both of us. I'll be good to you, I swear. I just need you to show me a little more effort, okay? Let see that fire again, the spark we once had when we were prodding buttocks and collecting signatures.

You and me against the world, Body. Always and forever.

Sincerely, Alan.

(PS - you've got some kind of a rash on your butt. I'd get that looked at if I were you. M'just saying).

#ohsnowyoudidnt

Eyes to the sky, frozen lashes protecting and denying
The beauty that harasses the landscape, crying ice.
Waiting for the break in the clouds
That allows for us to take in the wake
Of an apathetic Mothers blanket.

Four wheeled ignorance careens across the distance,
Tyre-peeled pavement revealed in checkered grayscale.
Her gifts and burns are hard to discern;
Natures frosty bard wants us to learn
That humankind will be left behind.

Laugh and play, complain away the day;
It doesn't matter to that bitch.
Enjoy it or annoyed by it;
She doesn't care either way.

Protected from the elements, bundled in metaphors,
Our mother wont acknowledge us, we're considered mere sediment
At the bottom of a barrel called Earth.
The forgotten apparel that saw no worth
From a woman who gave us birth.

SNOW!! 'n shit.

Other Love Songs #1

For when 33 "Bay-beh"s in some tweeny bopping auto-tuned mess aren't quite enough to get it off your chest, whatever It may be. Here's the first in an ill conceived and indefinite series of Valentine Day related posts exemplifying what I consider Alternative Love Songs.

Ida Maria, from Norway, is reported to have the neurological phenomenon of synesthesia which, in her case, means she envisions colours when she hears music. Take from that what you will whilst this song tugs on your situational, metaphorical, and/or theological heart strings.

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