Underland Press

By Simon Drax
December 1, 2009

* * *

“Ow,” Mori winced absently, “ow, ow, ow…”

She wagged her right hand, shaking it limp at the wrist. Tiny flecks of blood flew. “Ow.”

“Come on,” the Bald Writer Dick told her, all stern and strong, as if he cared—oh, like a real man. Mori snorted with a half-breath of laughter, drunk and indifferent as the BWD took her by the elbow and steered her away from the carnage she’d wrought at the bar; he led Mori outside to the wet and sharp and cold night of the city.

Whoom! Wow. Mori’s head spun. The night was loud like an air tunnel, the street crowded and heavy-shouldered with traffic, broken by laser-bright prisms and beams. Soft rain like a kiss. Jesus. Oh boy. There was nothing, nothing like a nausea-soaked buzz and blood on her fists from a crumpled creep at her feet to let her know she was alive, man. “Alive!” Mori brayed to black sky, the towers looming above.

She yanked her arm away from the Bald Writer Dick.

“Alive,” Mori told him with a sneer. She wobbled, caught herself. She summoned her spit and hawked one on the street. “Yeah,” she drawled, and showed the BWD her tongue. “See me? Alive, mofo.”

“My name’s Fredrick,” he offered, nicely enough.

“Huh,” Mori grunted. “It figures,” she drawled. “You,” she began with a sloppy gesture, “you… you look more like a Bono. You know? You know what I’m talking about? Serious sincere prick who acts like he gives a shit, but really, really…”

“Hey.” He reached for Mori. “Come on…”

“Hey,” she snarled, twisting away from him. “Fuck off!”

Not far away, two figures watched from the shadow of a doorway. One of them stirred, took a half-step forward.