striving to jump from the little pond to the ocean. The only real problem was that the ocean was a very dangerous place.
Man, when I get out of here I’m
gonna seriously fuck you up, ran Slick’s internal dialogue. He composed
himself and lifted his bloodied face to meet the man’s iron gaze. Despite Slick’s
pain, and his beating, he made no sound of weakness. He focused with turquoise
eyes.
“I’ll start again.” Slick spoke,
voice slow and measured. “I’ll start at the beginning. Do you know who I am?”
The bull-necked gangster nodded,
once, a curt movement. Then he smiled, and it was the smile that did it. Messed
with Slick’s brain. It was the smile of the knowledgeable. The accepted. The
Big.
“My name,” came the bass rumble, “is
Mr Konan.” He paused, a long and arrogant pause.
“Never heard of you.” Slick was
satisfied to witness a twitch at the corner of Konan’s mouth.
“I am the avatar of Mr Voloshko.”
Slick’s heart skipped a beat. He
felt the temperature of his skin plummet. His balls shrivelled to pips. Slowly,
he allowed a breath to exhale on a jet of apprehension. He took a tentative
lick at bark-smeared lips.
“OK. Voloshko I have heard
of. Can you tell me what I’ve done wrong?” Shit. Now it made sense. Slick
became finally and terminally aware he was in some pit of depravity for a crime
he did not comprehend. He was in what had become notoriously nicknamed Voloshko
Cellars. Torture Cellars. Down south in The Dregs.
He chuckled—but the chuckle fell
from his soul. This was serious. This was bad shit.
Mr Konan sighed, stepping closer.
His boot squeaked in a puddle of blood Slick’s flesh had deposited when his
head connected with stone. “Up there, Mr Guinness, up above us elevates the
perfect world, glass and alloy, gleaming, an immaculate rejection. The
Tek-World. The City. It is a pinnacle of human and alien evolution, an entity
of organic construction over natural chaos, a mish-mash blend of organics and
genetics ruled by money, ruled by the biomods, ruled by NanoTek. But down here,
Mr Guinness...”
He frowned, heavy brows
darkening. The henchmen approached from the shadows; they carried helves and
steel truncheons. One—the most intimidating, in all his slim ferret-faced
efficiency—carried a steel-panelled briefcase. Somehow, this was even more terrifying
than any obvious weapon.
“Down here, NanoTek doesn’t give
a shit what The Seven Syndicates do. We rule, Mr Guinness. The Dregs, the
Sub-City Catacombs. They’re ours. Our Land. Our World. Our Dominion.”
Slick nodded, heart racing. He
agreed. I agree, he thought, I agree! Just let me out of here...
You did not mess with The
Syndicates.
You could not mess with
The Syndicates.
The Seven Syndicates ruled. And
Mr Voloshko was Grade 1 Minister of The Hammer Syndicate. The Man in Command, 1ic. Hell. Slick was in trouble!
Konan produced a photograph on a
thin piece of photo-plastic. He held it before Slick’s face. It was set to
[cycle]. Slick watched the images impassively as blood drained ever further
from the already undead flesh of his face.
The statics depicted Slick
linking arms with a beautiful woman, and they were both laughing// they ate in
a restaurant, Slick complaining about the soup, the woman touching his arm in
an intimate fashion// walking to a plush hotel, arm in arm// taunting one another
with fresh strawberries in the lift // Slick moaning with need, eyes fixed on
her face, lips wet and gleaming// the woman dancing provocatively as she
undressed, face lit with an open, primal animal lust// squirming naked
together, bodies writhing on sweat-streaked sheets// the woman’s face, a parody
of pain, mouth open, tongue firm against teeth in a deep sex-need hypnotism of
repeated moaning shuddering gun-shot multiple-orgasm// [end].
Slick’s eyes stared at nothing.
Then, his gaze sidled carefully to the
Man, when I get out of here I’m
gonna seriously fuck you up, ran Slick’s internal dialogue. He composed
himself and lifted his bloodied face to meet the man’s iron gaze. Despite Slick’s
pain, and his beating, he made no sound of weakness. He focused with turquoise
eyes.
“I’ll start again.” Slick spoke,
voice slow and measured. “I’ll start at the beginning. Do you know who I am?”
The bull-necked gangster nodded,
once, a curt movement. Then he smiled, and it was the smile that did it. Messed
with Slick’s brain. It was the smile of the knowledgeable. The accepted. The
Big.
“My name,” came the bass rumble, “is
Mr Konan.” He paused, a long and arrogant pause.
“Never heard of you.” Slick was
satisfied to witness a twitch at the corner of Konan’s mouth.
“I am the avatar of Mr Voloshko.”
Slick’s heart skipped a beat. He
felt the temperature of his skin plummet. His balls shrivelled to pips. Slowly,
he allowed a breath to exhale on a jet of apprehension. He took a tentative
lick at bark-smeared lips.
“OK. Voloshko I have heard
of. Can you tell me what I’ve done wrong?” Shit. Now it made sense. Slick
became finally and terminally aware he was in some pit of depravity for a crime
he did not comprehend. He was in what had become notoriously nicknamed Voloshko
Cellars. Torture Cellars. Down south in The Dregs.
He chuckled—but the chuckle fell
from his soul. This was serious. This was bad shit.
Mr Konan sighed, stepping closer.
His boot squeaked in a puddle of blood Slick’s flesh had deposited when his
head connected with stone. “Up there, Mr Guinness, up above us elevates the
perfect world, glass and alloy, gleaming, an immaculate rejection. The
Tek-World. The City. It is a pinnacle of human and alien evolution, an entity
of organic construction over natural chaos, a mish-mash blend of organics and
genetics ruled by money, ruled by the biomods, ruled by NanoTek. But down here,
Mr Guinness...”
He frowned, heavy brows
darkening. The henchmen approached from the shadows; they carried helves and
steel truncheons. One—the most intimidating, in all his slim ferret-faced
efficiency—carried a steel-panelled briefcase. Somehow, this was even more terrifying
than any obvious weapon.
“Down here, NanoTek doesn’t give
a shit what The Seven Syndicates do. We rule, Mr Guinness. The Dregs, the
Sub-City Catacombs. They’re ours. Our Land. Our World. Our Dominion.”
Slick nodded, heart racing. He
agreed. I agree, he thought, I agree! Just let me out of here...
You did not mess with The
Syndicates.
You could not mess with
The Syndicates.
The Seven Syndicates ruled. And
Mr Voloshko was Grade 1 Minister of The Hammer Syndicate. The Man in Command, 1ic. Hell. Slick was in trouble!
Konan produced a photograph on a
thin piece of photo-plastic. He held it before Slick’s face. It was set to
[cycle]. Slick watched the images impassively as blood drained ever further
from the already undead flesh of his face.
The statics depicted Slick
linking arms with a beautiful woman, and they were both laughing// they ate in
a restaurant, Slick complaining about the soup, the woman touching his arm in
an intimate fashion// walking to a plush hotel, arm in arm// taunting one another
with fresh strawberries in the lift // Slick moaning with need, eyes fixed on
her face, lips wet and gleaming// the woman dancing provocatively as she
undressed, face lit with an open, primal animal lust// squirming naked
together, bodies writhing on sweat-streaked sheets// the woman’s face, a parody
of pain, mouth open, tongue firm against teeth in a deep sex-need hypnotism of
repeated moaning shuddering gun-shot multiple-orgasm// [end].
Slick’s eyes stared at nothing.
Then, his gaze sidled carefully to the
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