By Simon Drax
November 25, 2009
* * *
The three acolytes of Fritz snapped out Kirovs, the electrified blades active and humming.
“Hey, hey! Hold on,” the Bald Writer Dick started.
“Oh, honey,” Mori told him with a disbelieving squint, “fuck that noise. Excuse me—”
She reached past the writer, casually plucked a bottle from the bar and smashed it in the face of her closest foe.
Blood flashed with a musical plume of flying glass. The boy screamed, hands reaching for the jagged shards imbedded in his eyes and cheeks, rivulets of crimson running between his fingers. He stumbled back. His comrades gaped.
Mori tossed away the stem of the broken bottle.
“Open wide,” she snarled, and Mori waded into the two nimrods, the two Fritzophiles, Christ did they have it coming, open wide, and she swung her fist and her fist was met with the crumpled smack of flesh, she was rewarded with an accompanying cry of pain which made her feel really pretty damn good, and she hit the asshole again and again…
* * *
That morning, in the car, on the way home to the dark city…
Trista and Mori had sat unspeaking in the back seat, each turned away from the other, their eyes hard, hearts laced tight with unvoiced accusations, defenses, half-formed apologies. They watched the barren landscape flow past in an unbroken stream of yellow and brown.
Mori had thought, and Mori thought… nothing.
Nothing.
There was only the landscape, the back of Billy’s head, the unspooling black of the road, the road, the grey spikes of the distant city rising from the horizon. Mori knew she should be screaming, felt that she had every damn right to vent outrage and fury in vast sheets against Trista, unleash it like a tidal wave, send it slamming against the Ice Queen, the Astral Goddess, the fucking Moon Bitch…
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