Read Online Going Shogun by Ernie Lindsey - Free Book Online Page B

Typical weapons of the drug-rich and responsibility-poor. 
    Shoppers of Gangs Unlimited. 
Patrons of Thugs ‘n’ Things.  Discount card-carrying members of Hoodlum-Mart. 
    Thank the Triumvirate upstairs that
every gun was supposedly rounded up over the past twenty years and disposed of
due to Rule 381.23 and little Henry Thomas.
    Except for Board Agents.  As a means
to Preserve Control, they’re the only individuals allowed to have guns, the
only ones that even have access to them. 
    “To preserve life and the integrity
of the human race,” The Board says.
    I haven’t seen one up close since my
dad handed his .22 pistol over to the Collection Committee, back when I was a
kid.
    However thankful I am that we won’t
be bullet bait, I can’t help but gasp at what’s coming our way, and when I try
to step backward toward the car, I trip over my own baggy pants and yelp on the
way down. 
    Fear shown.
    They break into a run.  Their
collective war cry could shatter glass.
    I don’t have to yell for Forklift
because Bingo does it for me. 
    Even though he was halfway proven wrong
years ago by theoretical physicist John Wenger, Einstein still has a little
hold on the theory of relativity.  Time travel isn’t possible (yet) but we must
be approaching the speed of light at that very moment because time slows to a goddamn
crawl as I struggle to my feet and watch the highboys careen toward us in a
flipbook-style blur of pumping arms and piston legs.  If they were an engine,
we could harness the power they’re generating to light up half of Urine Town.
    Bingo is screaming, screaming, screaming
for Forklift and yanking, yanking, yanking on Machine ’s passenger handle
so hard I’m afraid she’s going to rip the door off its hinges.  I’m in a
half-crouch position, arms out, legs bent at the knees, scuttling from one spot
to the next, desperately looking for anything to use as a weapon. 
    I’m thinking, Where, where,
something, anything, grab, no, SHIT, where, where, grab, NO DAMN IT, hurry,
hurry, hurry.  Heartbeat.  Heartbeat. Is that my heartbeat?  That’s loud.  Can
I use that? What is it?  NO, hurry, hurry.  A stick, no, no, no.  Not strong
enough.  Look.  Something.  Gotta be something here.  Where is Forklift?  Wait,
wow, is that a nickel?  I haven’t seen one of those in fifteen years either.
    CONCENTRATE.  Weapon, weapon,
weapon.  There!
    Salvation comes from a beer bottle
so old that I can only make out – rona on the side.  I figure it’s my
only hope in taking advantage of the last two minutes Bingo and I have here on
Earth.  I smash the end on the concrete to make some jagged edges, stand up, run
over to protect her where she’s now a sobbing mess on the sidewalk, and then I
get ready to go shogun on the first Roxyhead that comes the closest.  It might
be the last act of a chivalrous idiot, but I’ll go down trying to protect the
woman I...really care about.
     

Chapter
6
    Every breath I take puffs out of me
in a fine mist, like the fear inside me is escaping in miniature clouds.  Only
I wish that were true.  I wish the fear was leaving, but it keeps regenerating
itself, over and over and builds and builds inside me with each repetition of
nature’s eternal, subconscious attempt to keep us alive.  I’m wondering where
Forklift is, why he isn’t here yet, why he hasn’t come running, where he is at this
unbelievably prolonged moment to open the car door and get us out of this
wasteland that would make T. S. Eliot proud.  It dawns on me that it’s April,
which is apparently the cruelest month. 
    I’m going to die in April.  Forklift
isn’t going to make it in time.  April...  April.
    Weird what pops into your mind when
you know you’re about to die.  April was my first girlfriend, during
Pre-Level.  She slept on the mat beside mine when we had lights out for
naptime.  My parents did it and they were married, so at the time I thought we
were too.  Married .