It’s riot season. Somewhere downtown a chopper opens fire. There’s a ripple of rubber rounds and the fat-mouthed thunk of gas bouncers. I was hit by one of those fuckers once, dislocated my shoulder. Hurt like hell. Bruised up like a rotten fruit. Once the defamation suit against me clears I plan to sue the corporation. From up where I am the chopper’s muzzle flare is distorted by the heat from the engines, sparks of light crackling above the dark and orange of the streets. I think of Halloween. It’s always Halloween here and you’d better watch out for ghouls.
I’m trying to see the place where I’m heading to, the place where I think I can get a lead on the Bitches. Yes, that’s fucking right, the Bitches. I got a tip from a cop I know. He said there’s this place called the Cunt and Razor where I might be able to find the intel I want. I took the cop’s cock out of my mouth long enough to tell him he could fuck right off, but he insisted it was legit. He even gave me a natty passcard to get in. Who was I to disagree with the strong – ahem – of the law.