Maxwell Levenberg

'Starlight, Star bright.'

She's perfect in every way. Her body is to die for; her intelligence is off the charts. She's a gorgeous actress, a marvelous writer and a beautiful human being. I want her.

I need her.

I wish, oh how I wish she would notice me.

I'm always there for her, at every celebration, every birthday and every achievement, I am there for her.

I'm also there for every heart break, every tragedy and every misstep, I am there for her.

Why won't she notice me?

How I wish I knew what to do to make her notice me. I've written a few letters and gotten no replies. I managed to get her phone number from her friend and left a voicemail or two but she never calls back.

I sat by the phone for days, waiting for a call the first time. The second time I had to struggle through my day, acting normally, just to keep others from noticing how badly I was affected.

I love her, and I know she'd love me if she just would give me the time of day.

I think of her every night, right before bed. I wish I could roll over and there she would be. I could kiss her gently and whisper good night, or if she were in the mood, maybe a bit more than a kiss, not that I'd be put out with just the good night.

All I want is what everyone else wants, peace and happiness in my life. And those two are distinctly absent without her. I have to figure out how to make her notice me. There has to be some way. I just want to know that she realizes I exist, that's all really. I'd be happy with that in all honesty, because I really can't fathom how she'd ever accept me as the monster I am.

The wall is starting to fill up though, with ideas. Every time I come up with a new idea to make her notice, I put it on the wall. There must be a dozen letters there, never mailed, that I deemed too shoddy for this. Only the best prose and wit for her.

It's morning now though, she'll be busy I suppose, so I'll just have to head for the office right now, I have to make money somehow.

Work isn't my true passion though, it never has been and it never will be, but it suits my needs just fine. Working in a morgue isn't the most glamorous of jobs but it pays the bills and I don't have to really deal with other people.

Well, other living people that is.

The dead can take a joke, unlike humans. They also don't try to torment me or make inane conversation. They just, are.

Work is what inspired my letters really, I was trying to figure out the best way to send a message and as I came upon a stiff, I notice how much it looked like her. It had been a burst of inspiration that almost blinded me really.

The police didn't like it much; but some suffering has to come before my true art will shine. I heard she didn't even try to guess at who was behind the first, or the second. It wasn't until the fifth that she actually really made any response, and that was just a half-hearted plea for me to reveal myself.

But that's not part of the game. Our game. A little cat and mouse type of challenge. If she really loved me, she'd know it was me and she'd just admit it, but not yet. More persuasion is required.

I'd already figured out the next message, this would be the first real one. The first true message of my heart and soul. I'd prepared for ages, bought the supplies as discreetly as possible and set it all up in an abandoned place that no one dared go. It was all set, now all I needed to do was write the message.

But, first, work. I was a regular guy really, just a bit socially deficit. Luckily I knew it, so I could counter it enough to maintain a normal air during my time amongst the rabble of life.

Tonight would be the first message in almost two weeks. The twelfth one and hopefully the last. Hopefully, she'd finally sit up and take notice.

Oh how I wish she'd notice, and then I'd be happy and content, even if she didn't say the words back at first.

As the day wore on, my patience grew short. I started snapping at any interruptions and I think I might have reduced one widow to tears, I apologized but my boss had glared at me any way. Clocking out would come soon and then I'd begin my letter to her.

'First star I see tonight' The time has finally come. I've found my canvas and prepared her. She lies naked on the table, nowhere near as ethereal as my love, but blank enough for the work I need to do. The room is cold and stark, a simple table and a separate tray lay in wait under a bright fluorescent light. Her chest rises slightly, and then falls, simple deep breaths of a drugged sleep.

I stare down at the canvas, watching as the letter takes shape in my mind. I can feel a smile under the surgeon's mask I've donned. I had also taken the precaution to wear a full surgeon's outfit, even the goofy looking cap had been included. I sighed as I came to the simple conclusion that this would be the perfect canvas. Taking a scalpel, I slit her throat, no need to let her suffer the pain of what I'm about to do.

With meticulous precision born of long hours of practice, I retrieve the tattoo gun and set the ink. All laid out in rows, with separate little cups for each color. I smile again as I noticed I'd inadvertently chosen the same colors as my first letter to her. A coincidence, but a happy one.

I began to write my letter, starting just under the breast, I'd composed it properly so it would fit the material I had been so lucky to acquire. I'd already left my signature within her, now it was just a bit of times work to leave the message and then I'd be set. After that it'd be a waiting game. The ink takes properly and sets quickly. I wipe the excess off every few minutes to keep the letter fresh and stain free.

The work of art took a few minutes to complete and as I step back I can admire my calligraphy. Mother had always said my handwriting was pretty. It had been odd to know that this was a word that could be applied to boys but then, I could see now that she was right. This was perfect. This would get her to notice me.

It confessed my love and admiration, my devotion and adoration. It was a love poem in the style of Chaucer and Shakespeare and all the great writers of love and affection. It would have to get me noticed.

I carefully pushed the canvas into the transport box I had acquired and snapped the opaque box shut before lifting it onto a wheeled gurney for movement to my truck. I stripped myself of the surgeon's costumer and dressed in my usual jeans, jacket and a knit hat as well as gloves for my hands since it was supposed rather chilly tonight and I didn't want to catch a cold before I met her. It wouldn't do to make her sick.

The gurney moved with oiled quiet to the truck where I lifted the box onto the tarp I had laid in the trunk. It settled with a quiet thunk and I threw the gurney back into the building. I grabbed a few bright orange cans and proceeded to cover the place with gas. I didn't want to be caught before I could get my message to her. I lit the place and moved on. It would burn to the ground in a blaze of old rotted wood and condemned insulation. I'd be safe long enough.

'I wish I may, I wish I might'

I had delivered my message and gone home to watch the news in anticipation. It hadn't been quick but within a day or two it had hit the media. A picture of the canvas from before she had been used was shown. That was infuriating. I wanted her to know that the message was meant for her, not for the media to just report her dead. I growled and threw the remote, something I never do.

I waited.

Days went by.

Then a week.

After two and a half weeks of waiting, a knock sounded on my door.

It was her, it had to be her. I couldn't quell the rush of excitement that swelled in my stomach as I raced to the door. I smoothed my hair, set my shirt and tie just right to look suave and dashing and opened the door.

It was two men in jackets. Hard looking men, with her nowhere in sight. I grimaced and went to shut the door.

“Sir, are you Deacon Homes?” The shorter one spoke. I nodded.

“We're NYPD, we'd like to take you down to the station to ask you a few questions about Amanda Fresno. Can you come with us?” He asked, as if I have all the time in the world.

“No.”

“Sir, we can either bring you in as a relevant witness or we can bring you in as a primary suspect, it's your choice really,” the taller one this time.

“Fine,” I consented to letting them haul me off. I'll see what they want and then I'll be back her in time to greet her. I grabbed my jacket and hat and went with them. As we reached the car they'd come in, I noticed it wasn't a normal police cruiser. Was it possible they weren't really NYPD. I hadn't seen a badge, but then I hadn't asked really. I disregarded it for the moment.

We came to the precinct and I stepped out slightly. No one grabbed me, no one tried to arrest me, they just kind of guided me to the nearest interrogation room. I smirked, they had nothing but the signature and even that was explainable. I'd only done that to allow for her to finally know my name.

“Do you know why you're here Deacon?” the short one asked me. His tone was all wrong though, too nice, much nicer than back at the apartment. And he sat across from me, a small file on the table. I didn't trust my voice at this stage, if I was caught and sent away, she'd never know it was me. I just shook my head.

The detective removed a picture from the file; it was of the canvas, from before. I gripped it slowly and peered at it, trying to write confusion on my face. From their looks, it was working.

“I think, yeah I did. I met her a while back. But we just met for coffee and,” I hesitated, trying to make myself sound nervous and a bit embarrassed, “we also, um,” I drew out the word a little before falling silent.

“Did you have sex with her Deacon?” The taller one asked, his voice was harder than at my apartment. I tried to play surprised and shame. He seemed to buy it for now. I nodded this time, again worried that my voice would give me away. They shared a look.

“What happened after?” The gentle voice prodded for more details.

“I just, thanked her for her time and we went our separate ways. I didn't see her after that. Then I saw her on the news, but I didn't want to call or anything because I didn't want to be a suspect or arrested. I didn't do anything, it was just sex. We met on an online chat room and agreed to meet,” I started babbling, “next thing I know we're in bed and it's amazing, but that was it. I didn't know what to do.” I let a small choked sound that could have been a sob. I was really just biting my tongue.

“And you have no idea who she was going to see afterwards?” I shook my head.

“Thank you for your time Mr. Homes. Have a nice day,” I stood, my heart beating like a drum. I couldn't hear much over the rush of blood in my ears, but it had worked. I was getting let go. I'd be able to actually go and see her finally. I smiled.

As I left the station I ran straight to the subway and caught a ride home, my chest quivering with relief. I'd done it, I'd sent the most perfect message and I'd gotten away with it. Now I could sit back and relax and let her come to me.

'receive the wish I wish tonight'

Only she didn't. She never sent any response. I quickly became morose, depressed, unkempt and distressed.

'She just hasn't seen it yet,' I thought to myself, 'they're withholding it until they have more evidence. If she'd seen it, she'd have come here by now.' I paced the apartment. I didn't go to work, I stayed home, just in case. The wall began to slowly fill up as new letters were thought of and discarded.

Then, I turned to the news. There was a new one. A new letter. But I hadn't done it, it wasn't my hand that wrote this letter. The canvas was all wrong. It was a man. The reporter droned on and on about the canvas' life from before. Then a picture was shown. He looked a little like me. I could feel confusion sweeping through me.

It took forever, but I finally the message that had been written onto the blank canvas was read aloud.

”I love you too.”

*Prologue: title of Prologue here.*



I could feel the blow resonate in my jaw; each tooth felt like a miniature tuning fork. I'd have been surprised if none of them were cracked after that. I fell backwards, the dusty light from the overhead fans temporarily blinded me. Liquid copper was spreading in my mouth, metal tastes like shit, I spat it on the floor and shakily made it to my feet. I grinned at him, his face contorted in a grimace. I think the laugh might have put him over the edge; because he pulled back for another strike. I saw my reflection in the long mirrored shelves behind the bar. My smile was eerie to say the least. Time resumed its normal speed, I caught his fist, and flipped him into a nearby table that just happened to strike my fancy. Cracks spiderwebbed out from under his back, but it held, pretty damn sturdy for a bar table, it seemed.

A hand grabbed my shoulder, it wasn’t quite girly, but it definitely wasn’t a lightweight either, not quite enough to hurt but I can tell it doesn’t belong to a trained fighter, when another one grabbed my other shoulder.

The ground disappeared from my feet and the next thing I knew, I'm inhaling dust.

Huh, That's the third time this week I think.

Fuck that guy staring at me - not like he's any better than me. I flipped him the bird as I dusted my...duster off. Quirky and ironic, that's me, baby. I checked my pockets, and my holster, to make sure everything's there.I wouldn’t be too surprised if one of those punks had tried to steal my gun or my wallet. Or knowing my luck, they might have just fallen out. II glance around, making sure nothing was lying on the ground.

My hat.

I was missing my hat, which was probably in that “cultured” and refined establishment I had so elegantly been tossed out of.

Damn. This was going to suck.

I sauntered back up the stairs, and one of the brutes outside of the door stopped me with a shove to my chest..

“I seem to have forgotten my hat as I was escorted out of this fine establishment by you gents. May I please have it returned?” I tried. A look of confusion crossed the gorilla’s face.

Right, I forgot. They're not hired to think, they're only hired to do.

“Can I get my hat back please.” I tried again. I made sure to slow my words down and pronounce them as clearly as I could. They still weren't budging.

“Oh, look over there - tits!” Of course, they looked. Even a Cro-Magnon would have been ashamed at this point.

Now to grab my hat and get out of Dodge before anything else could happen. Ah hah, there it was, right where I left it, on the floor, half-crushed. Ah well, that can be fixed. I grabbed it and scrammed before I could be “escorted” again.



*

*Welcome to my Town – Now, Get Out*

My little slice of heaven; my neck of the woods, my paradise. Ain't much, but it's home - and I love it. That's what Fencetown is to me, home; I can't much say for the state, country, or even the planet, but this town, well, it’s comfortable. I'll be damned if someone says anything bad about it but me, and I'll kill the first sumbitch that says otherwise.

Fencetown is a desert hideaway, a place to be free and happy whether you have, a little money or no money. Here, we have a little saying; “If you're rich, you're out.” We don't abide those haughty rich folk who try to make us look bad. But, secretly, each and every fucker in this town wants to be one of those millionaires. Each, and every single fucker, myself included.

I run a service. Oddjobs, smuggling, findings, pretty much anything I can get my hands on that makes me a few dollars. The only currency that's really valuable anymore out here is either pre-det cash or gems and precious metals. Credits are worthless out here and mostly just paint a damn big bulls-eye on your ass for the knife or bullet that’ll go in your gut. Either way.

The detonation changed everything. It changed the world over. The line that separated rich from poor was shattered, everyone was poor, and everyone had a chance to strike it rich again. The big cities were hit hardest but also bounced back quickest. The men who run those cities are the richest and most powerful people around, and they can all suck my dick. Each and every single one of them pricks.

The Master of New York is the closest to Fencetown, and he's a downright dick in the vids. I don't ever want to meet him without a loaded gun and a ten minute head start. But, I digress, he doesn't really affect us folks out in the wastelands of Pennsylvania. He only sends his forces out every once in a while as a show of force to make sure we're “properly reminded of our place.”

There was a war, I should say - and it was nasty. All the Cities were fighting for dominance. New York came out on top, but the had a little problem in the form of the Cowboy Revolution. The people of the desert rose up and fought to remove those in power. Fat lot of good it did them. Hell, they wouldn't have even known what to do if they had succeeded. My kind of people, if you can see where I'm going with this.

Forget all that, though. This ain't about a war, and it ain't about the past. It's about the biggest score of a lifetime, and how I managed to fuck it up so well that I'm sitting here in podunk, bumble fuck nowhere, even though I managed to pull it off. It starts the same as any other story. A stranger walks in and says they got a job for me. I usually say, “Sure, I'll take it!” and that's that.

This one was different.

*

*Sexy Strangers and Crazy Ideas*

There was a loud bang, woke me up from a perfectly good dream about a woman in a red dress. Sexy long legs, beautiful auburn hair and a body to die for. The dress had just been unzipped when the door opened and woke me up. Damn.

“What the fuck do you want?” I yelled. I couldn't see who it was, as my hat was doing it's part and shading my eyes. I would have been more inviting but I’d finally gotten comfortable, dammit.

“I was hoping to find Ken Morris; they said to look here, but from what I see it's just a dingy little office in Shitsville, Pennsylvania.” Damn, why did she have to have a sexy voice, with an old Southern drawl to boot. Dammit all to hell.

I tilted my hat back to get a good look at her. Well, what do you know - a looker. Long legs, good hourglass figure, and a face and sweet rack to match.

Wait.

Oh, shit.

Freckles.

I'm a sucker for freckles; always have been, always will be. Sonuvabitch. Well, a story's gotta start somewhere, doesn't it?

“How can I help you, ma'am?” I asked, changing tactics to sweeten her up. She merely glared at me, but not in the arrogant way of the Citylanders - more like the exasperated look everyone usually gives me. I like frustrating people, I guess you could call it a hobby. She seemed to be evaluating me, almost. What the Hell?

“I'm looking for Ken Morris to do a job for me. I was recommended a guy the name of Greg Sanders, but he's out of my budget, so I decided to settle on you since you're the closest to my price range.” I fucking hate Sanders, he's a piece of shit on the bottom of Fencetown's shoe.

“Well, my prices are lower but my standards are higher, miss. That I can guarantee.” I said, throwing my pitch line out there just in case she was still on the fence. Heh, I'm punny today.

“That sounds like what the others in town say, along with other things. Let's get something straight here, mister. I pay you to do a job, you don't give me any lip and we're golden. Got it?” God she's cute when she snarls.

“Got it, miss. Now, can I get a name?” I think she was confused, but I wasn't going to risk a paycheck to mess with her too much. Besides, once I got the upfront fee I could do whatever the hell I wanted to her ‘til I've completed the job. Besides, she's cute, -I should keep her around for a little while, at the very least.

“I need you to retrieve someone from the Desert.”

Fuck.

Again.

**/



“Well, going into the Desert costs extra miss, I hope you were made aware of that fact before you came here. Many a wanderer gets lost in the Waste, and I'm not being arrogant when I say I'm one of the few who can go in and come back.” She withered. Then, my weakness, puppy dog eyes. Why does every single pretty woman have a set of puppy dog eyes, it's like a universal trait.

“But sir, I don't have much left. I don't know if I could afford it with the extra fee, I'm living on the generosity of others now as it is.” She whispered. Then she whimpered, and my heart broke. I can't say no to freckles, puppy dog eyes, and whimpering. Especially one as cute as her.

“Alright, how about this. You pay me an upfront fee, just something to help fund the beginning of this job. If I finish the job you can pay me the rest, we'll figure out the Desert fee after. Now who am I getting?”

“My father. He's been lost for thirteen years now. The last I heard he was spotted in the Eastern quadrant, near New York,” she said as she pulled out a small map. It wasn't the most recent version like the holo hung up on the wall behind me, but it was accurate for the most part. She had circled a spot on the map that was within spitting distance of New York. Look like I'd have be careful, they don't like Cowboys near the cities.

“Well miss, you go on and get. I'll go ahead and get started.” I shooed her out of the office and then began cursing up a storm. Damn my weaknesses, damn this world's women and damn freckles all to hell.

*Ride 'Em High Cowboy *



I had all my shit together, for the most part. The upfront fee from the client had covered the starting supplies but I'd probably have to scavenge in the Wastes. That wasn't really a problem, it was just an annoyance. I'd finished packing my motorcycle, a relic from the pre-detonation era. I'd retro-fitted it to run on solar power like everything else nowadays. It had it's original sidecar too which allowed me to pack everything. I loved this thing more than anything on Earth. It was unique and stood out in the cities where everything was streamlined and pretty, but out here in the dirt towns, it was just another piece of the landscape.

“Hold up boy,” a voice called me from behind. I turned to face my partner, Abe. He was going to hold down the fort till I got the job done. Abe was a good man, but a little simple. He had no talent really for the physical aspect of the job. I kept him on though to keep the commercial side of things going, he was amazing at doing the books and such, I'd never had anyone miss a payment since I hired him. He wasn't good for much else though, even general conversation to be honest.

“You need to make a profit here or you'll start losing money at a rate too fast for you to survive.” He said, slowly and methodically like everything else he did.

“Whatever Abe, I'll be back in hopefully a week or so. Have fun, don't get crazy, and for god's sake, stay out of my scotch.” I said as I hopped on the bike. I cleared my goggles, stowed my hat and revved the bike.

“Later Fencetown,” I whispered as I gunned it out into the Desert. It was time to hunt down a father I'd never met. The things I do for a pretty face, eh?

* * *



Dust was getting everywhere. Dust, grit sand, it gets everywhere and destroys everything. This is why I hate the forsaken Desert. I had been forced to stop for a break when the air cooler on my bike had broke down. The auto-inflatable tent had done it's duty and erected itself. No mess, no hassle. I had laid out the tools necessary for the job, including my revolver that sat within easy reach. I don't trust anyone out here in the Wastes. Whether they be Bedouin, traveler, or survivor. I ignored the niggling feeling in the back of my mind, knowingly ignoring the tacked on words at the end of that sentence. Zombies.

Nightmares is more like it.

“Gotta get this shit fixed. Too damn hot for this.” Oh great, now I waus talking to myself. Wonderful. Fan-fucking-tastic. I could put a sailor to shame.

A loud “whump” resounded as the bike vibrated and cold air blasted out of the four vents.

Ah, blissful. I packed up and holstered the revolver. This big-ass piece of hardware had saved me more times than I can count and I treasured it more than any other thing in the world. Except maybe a good lay. I had just finished pack when I heard it. A low moan.

“Shit.” I muttered. I drew the revolver back out, cocked and ready. I slowly turned and blinked. About 20 feet away was the nightmare. Rotten flesh, open wounds, a missing eye. I swear it looked more like a skeleton than a dead person. It smelled like a dead person though, which was the truly unfortunate part. I pulled the bandana around my neck up over my nose. It smelled slightly bitter from the filter I had put into it. No one understood how the zombies were made, some said it was only by chance, others claimed simply smelling them was enough to start the transformation. I like to be on the cautious side.

Plus it smells better than the zombies do, that's for sure.

“Come on pretty boy, let's dance.” I snarled, taking aim for it's head. One shot, one undead kill. Taking out the brains was the only way to end them for sure, and I desperately wanted to end every one of them for dead sure.

Heh, like I said, I'm punny.

His head exploded out the back like wet cardboard. A red mist accented the grey and brown that went flying. The body took another step or two and then sagged. I was ambling towards it as it fell to its front, head turned sideways. I kicked it a few times for good measure before checking the pockets.

Blasphemy some called it. I just called it a job. Besides, I've found some interesting stuff on other dead people. Granted, not all of them were zombies, but a man takes what he can get in this world.

There wasn't much, a bullet or two and a nice fancy piece of paper with one word on it, “Crimson.” So useful. I slid the bullets into a hip pouch, tossed the card over my shoulder and stomped on the ghoul's head for good measure. Double-tapping is everything out here in the Wastes.

I packed everything up and climbed back on the bike and headed in the direction the zombie had come from. It wasn't much, but he had to have come from somewhere so I figured that would be the best place to start. Hopefully this would be a simple case of find the dead body and go home.

The dust wasn't helping my vision, even with my fancy goggles. So, when the tower suddenly rose out of fucking nowhere, I was very taken by surprise. I almost wrecked the bike. If I had wrecked it, I wouldn't be this coherent, let me tell you. The tower was kind of imposing. The giant spiky bits at the top really didn't help any, but it's paint scheme is what set me off. Red and black together is never a good thing. It usually means bad guys in the movies and books, or at least, not the good guys.

I like to think of myself as the good guy. Sometimes I wonder, but at least I don't dress like the creepy evil guy. At least, I don't think I do. Ah, damn, now I gotta reevaluate my wardrobe after this job. I hate when I do this to myself.

I rode around the perimeter of the tower, there wasn't a fence or any type of guard post. It seemed to have just sprung out of the ground. I hadn't been this direction before so it's not like I could say when it was built.

Wait.

Yes I could, I was being stupid again. There was the founding stone clear as day. 2023. Only 7 years ago, no wonder I hadn't known it was there. I hadn't been out into this part of the wastes in a good 12 years.

The tower was bare along the outside, the only real decorations being the spikes and the paint job. I was debating driving up to the front door and knocking when it suddenly shuddered. I quickly covered my face, even with the goggles. All of a sudden the world became an oven and then it slowly dissipated. The world stopped shaking and I dared a look. The tower had exploded.

Then I looked up, it hadn't exploded. It had taken off, like a rocket. It was soaring upwards, like a giant flying spiky cock of doom.

I really need to come up with better metaphors.

What the fuck had just happened. A tower had just up and fucking rocketed off into space. An evil, doom-ey looking tower with spikes had fucking shot off into space. What the hell.

Clearly, I had been missing some very big things. The town I lived in barely saw traffic from the cities despite how close we were to New York. However, I would like to think that even we would be aware of giant towers blasting into space even by word of mouth. Obviously this wasn't City tech. This had to be something from either beyond or some unforeseen technology from another City far off in the wastes. I had heard that Tokyo had built crazy stuff, but I didn't think it could be this crazy.

What the hell had happened to the world while I'd been sleeping?

I decided to firmly ignore the giant crater that had just previously been a tower of doom and kept driving the way I had been headed. It wasn't my business, my business was to find this guy and haul him back for some money and maybe a piece of ass if I was smooth enough.

It must have been at least four hours before I saw any sign of life. A single, lone water pump sat on the side of a dusty road. I pulled up beside it and gave it a few pumps, nothing happened. I can't always be lucky. I shrugged off the mild disappointment I felt and kept moving. It wouldn't be good to get caught out here in the wastes at night. Too much shit happens at night. I needed to find a cave or something like I had the last few nights.

As I was driving I noticed a dip in the horizon. It was almost like someone dented the horizon with a huge fist. I was slowly getting closed and it getting widening. What the hell was I looking at?

It just kept getting bigger and bigger, and it was starting to scare me. I finally made it to the edge of the Huge Fucking Hole only to realize that it wasn't an empty Huge Fucking Hole. There was an entire town made of corrugated steel, cardboard and other scraps of humanity. There was a city in the Huge Fucking Hole.

At least I might be able to sleep under a roof tonight. Or get real food. Or a real drink. Or maybe even a pot of gold.

I have to quit doing this to myself. I get my hopes up only to have them dashed.

Shit, the wastes were dampening my undeniably suave charm and indomitable spirits. I sounded like a whiny teenager for a second there. Have to watch out for that.

I rode my bike into town and locked it to a nearby hitching post. I guess the town didn't see too many “normal” folk to require a parking lot of any kind. Luckily I carry a chain and padlock everywhere for just such an occasion.

*Your money's no good here *

The fist came in slow motion.

Again.

How do I do this to myself? Really, my second pub brawl in the past two weeks. What was I doing to myself? Seriously. Maybe it was my genius. Maybe people were frightened of how smart I am.

Or maybe it's my smart-ass mouth speaking before my brain can come up with a good reason not to say what I say.

I wonder if there's a class for that.

Oh, here it comes.

Pain. My jaw feels shattered, but it's not because I can feel it clenching against the pain. My teeth are grinding, unpleasant sensations rattle through my skull, I would probably be on the floor if two pairs of arms hadn't been holding me up.

“Thanks for the support guys,” I managed to mutter through the pain. A chuckle escaped me.

My brain is full of fuck right now as it tries to figure out why my mouth is still working. My mouth is full of not giving a fuck as it spouts off obscenities that I didn't even know I knew. The hand rears back for another strike and that's when I take action.

I let myself go boneless, surprising the two holding me. The sag is just enough to give me space and time to sweep my left leg out. I catch the support pillar by surprise and he goes toppling to the ground. I swing my elbow around and catch the other in the face by surprise. He goes down with a bloodied and broken nose. I can feel the grin spreading across my face.

Time speeds up and I turn to my attacker. He seems surprised that I managed to down his supporters. I rear my leg back and give him the most civil and gentlemanly response to be attacked that I know. His voice goes falsetto as his testicles are forcefully slammed into his pelvic bone.

Ahh, sweet victory. It's either win or lose out here. There's no honor in the Wastes, only survival. I'm not proud of my amazing ability to almost always connect with a nutshot, but by god sometimes I think I have a gift.

The rest of the establishment stared at me like I'd grown a second head. I was used to that, it happens every time I successfully connect with my target. I smiled back. The noise slowly started up again as I sat down and picked up the cards I'd been holding. The other players had been right, I had been bluffing, but they didn't have to take the retaliation so far. I mean, yeah their mothers came into it, but they'd started it.

I guess some things are meant to be sacred to everyone no matter the the personality. I threw down the cards and quickly grabbed the cash that had been put on the table. It was more than I usually made in three weeks of solid work. I was happy.

I walked up to the bar and signaled the bartender. He walked over.

“Hey, keep, I'm looking for a this guy,” I said quietly, motioning to a picture I had been given by Legs McTits in my office. He screwed up his face as he stared at the photo. Finally he looked at me, then the table, then the photo again.

“Oh, I get it,” I muttered as I slid a few of the coins I had won over the top and he deftly swiped them into a mug he had been cleaning. It disappeared, a clattering sound rang out and then the mug came up empty. He nodded towards the end of the bar and motioned me to enter a door that had was situated just on the other side. I strode over and walked through the open door frame.

The room was nothing like I'd imagined. It wasn't a store room, it was an I-don't-know-what room. It was also nothing like something you'd find in the Desert. The walls and ceiling were covered in chromed metal, a cushy space-age couch sat in the middle of the room But it wasn't sectioned for multiple people, it was one long cushion with a rest on one side which looked more like a pillow than an arm rest. He motioned me to lay down and turned to smack a button on the wall. A door whooshed out of the wall and the room was sealed.

I had my revolver out before he even turned around. He gazed at me pretty damn calmly for a guy with a gun pointed at his forehead. He motioned at the couch again.

“Not until you tell me what the fuck's going on keep.” I snarled.

“Your money's no good here. I deal in information and goods. I only took the money because I know that the others will want some of it back. You managed to take down three of my crew mister. Now lay down on the couch, I promise nothing bad will happen.” He pointed at the cushion.

I hesitated and then sat down. It was comfy I guess, for a space-couch. He snapped his fingers as I lay down fully. An electrode patch snaked out and attached to my temple, then one to my forehead and another to the other temple. I lay perfect still but my gun was aimed at the man's belly so that if something happened to me, no matter what, he'd get it too.

The room's light faded and everything fell into pitch black. Then pinpoints glowed all over the ceiling. The motes grew and grew until they were the size of a fist to my eyes.

“What you are seeing I can not see. These images are being transmitted directly to your brain. Each of those 'stars' is an entry. Each entry is everything I know about a certain person. Hold up the picture and allow the computer to run it's facial recognition software. It will find the entry I made of the man since I never caught his name.

I held up the picture with my right hand, my left still firmly aiming at the man's belly. The computer let out a musical tone and one star got really bright and began to grow steadily larger. Soon, the man's face came into focus and there was a small description under his name. It simply read: 'passing through, looking for TowerCorp. Towers. Found one, but it left before he could enter. Left behind a daughter and a shop.' As soon as the computer registered I'd finished the description it shrank and the room came back into view. The man hadn't moved and I felt the electrode patches detach. I sat up.

“Thanks for the information. Is there anything you can tell me? Like who TowerCorp is maybe?” I could feel the glare he was giving me. Maybe I deserved it for trashing his bar, but I didn't care. He stared at me and his jaw seemed to clench slightly, I could practically see his mind working out what to say. Finally he reached into a pocket of his jacket and pulled out an envelope.

“I was supposed to give this to the post office a long time ago to be sent to his family but I haven't gotten around to it what with all the idiots trashing my bar and forcing me to do repairs at odd hours of the day. You can take it, I'm sure you'll find the time to look at it before it gets to the post office.” The envelope was slightly yellowed and had a bent corner or two. The handwriting was scratchy. Maybe the guy was a doctor because I sure as hell couldn't read what was on the damn thing.

“What's it say?” I asked, holding it out to him. He merely shrugged and turned away. I guess he was done helping me. He poked the wall and the door slid back, revealing the bar again.

“Thanks for the help keep.” I mumbled as I walked out. I grabbed a glass and slugged it back.

Eugh, whiskey.

Can't anyone be civilized enough to drink scotch anymore? I wiped my lips and slammed the glass down. Everyone watched me as I walked out. I smirked a little more than I probably should have but damn the crowd was funny. They had left the three ruffians still on the floor in a heap. About time I left town I think. Continue west, in the direction of the zombies.

My bike was right where I had left it, all chained up to the hitching post. I pulled the shotgun out of it's holder by the left leg rest and checked it. It was full, I cocked it and stuffed it back in the holster. The trigger guard and the safety would keep it from firing while by my foot. I'd learned the hard way when I left the safety off. My big toe twinged at the thought.



*Daddy Issues *

The bike was sputtering every once in a while. I had gotten used to it, which is why when it backfired and completely died, I was caught by surprise. It was close to midnight. I couldn't afford to stop here. Not now, not in the wastes. I turned on the small array of lights I had welded to the bike. There were a few on each side to create a ring of light around my bike. I pulled the shotgun out and rested it on the seat. I also pulled out a high-tech bow that I usually kept slung around my back. I trusted my revolver, but only in town. Out here in the wastes, anything could be waiting for me.

I hopped off the bike and put the shotgun on the side car. I lifted the seat to get at the engine. One of the pistons seems to have come off. I'd have to put it back and tighten the nut holding it in place. An easy, but laborious task.

Dammit.

I reached for the wrench and began to remove the panels necessary to reach the piston when I heard it.

Just like every goddamned scary movie or story, just when the good guys busy, shit starts to happen. Fucking Christ. I snatched up the gun and released the safety. The noise had been pretty vague. I couldn't tell if it was another zombie or an animal. Animals usually ignored or avoided the light but zombies tended to wander right for it.

The noise came again, but it was more of a moan. Definitely not animal. Hopefully not zombie.

What the fuck am I thinking? It's either one or the other.

“Water,” a voice moaned. Do zombies talk? Wouldn't brains be more appropriate?

“Please, water.” The voice moaned again. A hand slowly crept into the light. The haggard looking man that followed was unexpected. There was never a living person out in the wastes. I lowered the gun and held out my hand. He grasped it, his grip strong for such a dessicated looking guy.

I lowered him against my sidecar and held out a canteen. He drank most of the damn thing, asshole. I put my shotgun down and un-holstered my revolver and pointed it at him.

“Who the fuck are you guy?” I tried to sound gruff and burly. He just stared at me.

Wait a second.

I grabbed the picture from my coat and held it up.

I'll be damned. It was him. The guy from the picture. The scraggly beard hid it, but it was definitely him. Holy shit. Easiest fucking job ever. Nothing ever falls into my lap like this. I was elated.

Then I went and jinxed myself like a fucking idiot.

“That was easy.”

Foot, meet mouth. You two are good friends from what I hear these days.

*The Boy is Back in Town *

I hit the town in a fury. The stupid bike had crapped out on me about two-thirds of the way back in. Luckily I had been able to finagle a quick fix for the bike but it was going to need a real repair in the next day or so. I hated paying Greg the Mechanic. He always seemed to charge me triple what he would charge anyone else.

While waiting outside the garage, I pulled out the card with the word “Crimson” on it and held it up to the sun, I could just make out the next word, something about towers I think. It was burnt to shit for the most part, I couldn't make out the rest. I threw it back in my pocket, a mystery for another day. Probably something to do with that bullshit in the desert and the Cities. I wasn't exactly going to volunteer myself for that inglorious death though, let some hero do that shit. Unless the pay is right, of course.

I pulled up outside my shop after Greg finally fixed that thing. The piece of shit tried to charge me more than four times what the parts themselves cost. I hopped off and pulled the old man out of the side car. The geezer hadn't woken up the entire ride or through out the repair and it was starting to be a pain in the ass. I didn't think I hit him that hard to be honest. I was going to make that girl pay extra for all the heavy lifting. That's the first thing I grumbled out as I threw him on the couch. The resounding smack from his head hitting the couch was a little justified in my opinion. The man was supposed to be rescued and he hadn't been awake for any of it.

The door slammed behind me. I sat down and relaxed in my nice, comfy chair. Fuck the world right now, I just wanted to drift away. I reached over and turned on a Pre-Det stereo and popped in a CD. Classic rock was soon flowing out of the speakers as I leaned back and pulled my hat over my face. I had earned a nap.

It wasn't even two minutes before my door slammed open again, I didn't move. I was playing the nonchalant card to the hilt here. Fuck people for trying to fuck with me. Don't they know who I am?

“Good, you found him,” came that sweet voice I remembered from before. I pushed my hat up a bit to see Ms. Freckles-and-Tits. However, she looked much different from last time. She wore a skin tight black leather suit with a bright red duster over it. I could see two pistols, modern makes, on her. One on her hip the other in a shoulder holster. Locked and loaded, just the way I like 'em. I smiled slightly, right before an envelope hit me in the face.

I pulled the envelope off my face and opened it, there was more then my usual rate, approximately three times more than usual. They were paying for something other than the job. I looked up at her and she made a zipping motion with her fingers over her lips and I nodded. The old man was slowly coming around finally as he was jerked off the couch. He realized what was happening as he was pulled towards the door.

“You can't let them do this! I won't go back. They're doing monstrous things, terrible, horrible things! You can't let them take me,” he shouted at me. I looked at his eyes as he was dragged out, the terror was distinct. I resisted the urge to stand and shoot everyone else in the room. My knuckles were white and my wrists were starting to hurt from the force I was using to keep myself in the chair. I looked down and stared at the envelope of money. I needed that, it was what was keeping me alive.

“I'm sorry,” I whispered. He was dragged off and the woman nodded before she also left. I slumped in my chair, it felt like I was sitting on glass now. I had sentenced a man to cruelty for my own survival.

Fuck.

This.

Shit.

I walked out the door behind them and pulled my revolver from it's holster. I took quick aim and shot one of the men in the back of the leg. He collapsed instantly, shouting in pain. I could feel my face stretching into a shit-eating grin.

“You don't want to keep doing that Mr. Morris,” the woman screamed at me, both weapons drawn. I simply aimed and fired at her while diving behind a barrel, no sense in using words to do say what my bullets were shouting at her, “fuck you bitch.”

I crouched behind the barrel as bullets splintered and pierced the wood, thankfully my coat was thick enough to stop that shit from getting through.

Pain, white-hot and searing sparked in my lower side. Bullets are made of sterner stuff than wood splinters apparently. I pressed a hand to my side as I aimed over the side of the barrel and fired twice more. Another shout of pain, this one more feminine but, as I glanced over the barrel again, I realized it wasn't Ms. Freckles-and-Tits, it was her other partner. He was a falsetto now if my guess was correct.

More shots fired at me, the bullets were starting to break the barrel apart, I was going to have to move soon. I looked around for a suitable place when I heard the click of dry-fire. She was out, I jumped up and unloaded the last three in my revolver in her general direction. A loud grunt followed by the sound of sweet ass smacking ground rewarded me with the sight of her lying on her back. Her jumpsuit must be bullet proof or something because she was still alive if the groaning was any indicator. I stood tall and yelled at her.

“You little bitch, I want you out of my town, but the guy stays here.” I waited for her to get up, calmly reloading my gun. She struggled to her feet, one gun was lost somewhere, no doubt a street urchin would claim it. She shakily raised her gun towards me so I did what any other guy would do, I shot her again. She grunted in pain as she fell backwards again. I walked up to her, grabbed her by the shoulders and pulled her close to me.

“What the hell are you doing in my town, and what does it got to do with anything else?” I growled in her face. She smirked even as she coughed at me, I felt a few flecks of blood and spit hit my face.

“That's between him and the Crimson Tower Employ. If you got a problem, shooting me ain't gonna fix it. Now I'm leaving, he's coming with me and there ain't nothing you can do about it. Got that mister?” She coughed again and stood once more, this time she holstered her weapon. She pulled out a communications device of some kind. I shot one more time in their direction. They all flinched, I grimaced. They looked around, feeling themselves for another hole, the woman laughed and was about to say something incredibly stupid, when she noticed the guy. He was dead.

“You idiot! You just killed the first test subject to be successfully brought back. You just killed our only hope at a cure. What the fuck are you thinking?” What the hell was she talking about?

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“The zombie that you just shot was our only chance at a cure you dumb shit,” one of the guys yelled.

I shrugged, “didn't look like much of a cure to me,” I said as they disappeared in a cloud of dust, ash and particles. Stupid fucking teleporters.

I started to walk forward when a slip of paper came wafting over towards me from where the man's hand had been before he disappeared. I snatched it off the ground. It only had two sentences.

“Look to the skies, and ye shall fear. The Towers that approach bring the end near.”

What the fuck was going on in Fencetown?

Truth from Max Levenberg on Vimeo.

Did you ever hear the tragedy of Darth Plagueis The Wise? I thought not. It's not a story the Jedi would tell you. It's a Sith legend.The dark side of the Force is a pathway to many abilities some consider to be unnatural. He became so powerful… the only thing he was afraid of was losing his power, which eventually, of course, he did. Unfortunately, he taught his apprentice everything he knew, then his apprentice killed him in his sleep. He could save others from death, but not himself