The Eggman Chronicals III (cont)
ACT II
When Shit Hits the Fan
Midnight of the seventh night. The moon was full and clear above us, a veritable discoball with the twinkling stars as it's dancers on the dark floors of the sky. It had only been twelve hours since our encounter with one of "them", but change had somehow taken hold. Neighbours have fled their homes in fear, leaving money on their porches for when "they" should come along to collect. Cars were packed with the necessities and left screaching down the roads, children crying out the open windows of the back doors. One girl even dropped her dolly in the hasty exit of her family. They did not go back for it.
I was beginning to worry about Mr Roberts, more than I had before. While he had proven countless times that his courage and honor was not something to be taken lightly, he was now beginning to lose his sense of control. Ever since the encounter of the Paperboy "Bradley", the man of many nervous and anxious words had been reduced to only a handful of statements. In the shadows of the living room, he sat with his arms folded over his chest, fighting off a cold that I could not feel. But what about me? What did I feel? Something big was going down soon, something that set me in center stage. I didn't like it - the more I thought about it, the closer I got to feeling the cold that Roberts was being victimized by. I didn't like it one bit.
Outside, an unmarked black delivery truck had been slowly idling down the road. Tires made near silent crackles on the pavement, tail lights pooling the red of crimson blood behind it. Tinted windows reflected the street lights above, the discoball moon and dancing stars, the faces of the remaining neighbours that were peering out their windows. On sight of the truck, a hundred doors locked in unicion ; a hundred blinds were shut in rhythem all down the road. Me and Mr Roberts were oblivious.
It was only moments later that I had registered something was happening - by then, it was too late. I had perked my eyes up just in time to catch the living room window shatter inwards in an explosion of sparkling glass and jagged shards. A projectile had flown in and impacted with a coffee table, sending pages of newspaper fluttering in every direction at the collision. Mr Roberts did not budge, I had lept out of my seat, looking wildly through the drifting newspaper that floated about. The face of President Bush looked at me on one fluttering page, an ad for Future Shop swept by it. The seige had begun.
Three paperboys had surged through the broken living room window, sweeping past the fluttering newspaper, charging at me and the ignorant Roberts. The one in lead, with a mailbox helmet on to sheild his head, was yelling random obsenities at me, waving a rolled up edition of the Daily Star above his metal encased head. As he swung it for my face, I leapt back against the wall and reached out for a table chair. Getting a firm grip on the back of it, I swung the wooden antique at the paperboy's side. Wood broke and splintered on interception of his head and shoulder, sending the kid sprawling down on the floor to my right with a dull 'clang' from his mailbox helmet. Two more were charging at me, now, one bounding and leaping off the coffee table as the other went for the side. I scooped up a broken chair leg, spun it in my hand, and awaited their attack.
Upstairs, two more windows were breached as more paperboys flooded in. Drawers on dressers and desks were yanked out, clothes and boxes were tossed out of closets, in search of the two dollars. Mr Roberts was still frozen, still fighting the cold, becoming an unwilling audience to the conflict between me and the two. One of the advancing paperboys, a larger kid with two mailboxes cut off at the top for shoulder pads, was swinging his bag like a ball and chain above his head. A lamp got in the way of the weapon and was cleanly bent in half. Shit. I backed into the kitchen, kicking over a table and using it for cover between me and them. The other paperboy, however, had tackled me in the escape. We both fell to the tile floor with teeth clattering.
The kid with the bag swung it down, nearly hitting me and breaking through the floor instead, with ease. For a split second, I saw more paperboys in the basement below through the hole right next to my face. They were after the money. Shit, I thought, before I took a punch to the face with a fist armed with rolled up loonies. Tax payers money, I realized. He was crouched over me, reeling back for another punch as the larger kid was swinging his bag for power. With the chair leg still in hand, I slashed the splintered end for his throat. He reeled back, just enough to take the swinging bag behind him in the face. I managed to see the bastard paperboy's shocked expression seconds before it was swept off his shoulders.
I couldn't let them get the two dollars, this I realized. I couldn't. Scrambling up from the scene, I started for the stairs leading up to the next floor on hands and knees. The punch to my face had left a fine blood gushing out that dripped a crimson trail behind me. One kid coming down the stairs, armed with two rolled up papers in his hands, spotted me and threw one for my head. It lodged into the wall, quivering, as I dove ahead and tackled his feet, sending him flipping over me and falling down the stairs face first. Pulling out the rolled up paper from the broken plaster of the wall, I scrambled up to the second floor with the large kid and his swinging bag bellowing behind me.
That was when I saw "Bradley". Directly ahead, in the bathroom, pulling medicine and the sort out of the mirror cabnet above the sink. When his piercing blue eyes spotted me through the reflection, he spun around on his heels and charged for me. I charged out to meet him. Our footsteps swept us over the carpet, wardrums echoing our assault, taking us past the rooms, past the turning faces of the other searching paperboys. I raised my weapon, the rolled up newspaper, over the other shoulder. Bradley had a plunger in his hands, raising it up and past his head. We almost became mirror images of each other, just altered by age, but fueled by the same driving agression for one another. And then, he stopped running and threw the plunger at me, wooden shaft and slightly discolored rubber suction spinning, spinning, oh how she was spinning - before hitting me between the eyes.
It all went dark. I dont even remember hitting the floor.
When Shit Hits the Fan
Midnight of the seventh night. The moon was full and clear above us, a veritable discoball with the twinkling stars as it's dancers on the dark floors of the sky. It had only been twelve hours since our encounter with one of "them", but change had somehow taken hold. Neighbours have fled their homes in fear, leaving money on their porches for when "they" should come along to collect. Cars were packed with the necessities and left screaching down the roads, children crying out the open windows of the back doors. One girl even dropped her dolly in the hasty exit of her family. They did not go back for it.
I was beginning to worry about Mr Roberts, more than I had before. While he had proven countless times that his courage and honor was not something to be taken lightly, he was now beginning to lose his sense of control. Ever since the encounter of the Paperboy "Bradley", the man of many nervous and anxious words had been reduced to only a handful of statements. In the shadows of the living room, he sat with his arms folded over his chest, fighting off a cold that I could not feel. But what about me? What did I feel? Something big was going down soon, something that set me in center stage. I didn't like it - the more I thought about it, the closer I got to feeling the cold that Roberts was being victimized by. I didn't like it one bit.
Outside, an unmarked black delivery truck had been slowly idling down the road. Tires made near silent crackles on the pavement, tail lights pooling the red of crimson blood behind it. Tinted windows reflected the street lights above, the discoball moon and dancing stars, the faces of the remaining neighbours that were peering out their windows. On sight of the truck, a hundred doors locked in unicion ; a hundred blinds were shut in rhythem all down the road. Me and Mr Roberts were oblivious.
It was only moments later that I had registered something was happening - by then, it was too late. I had perked my eyes up just in time to catch the living room window shatter inwards in an explosion of sparkling glass and jagged shards. A projectile had flown in and impacted with a coffee table, sending pages of newspaper fluttering in every direction at the collision. Mr Roberts did not budge, I had lept out of my seat, looking wildly through the drifting newspaper that floated about. The face of President Bush looked at me on one fluttering page, an ad for Future Shop swept by it. The seige had begun.
Three paperboys had surged through the broken living room window, sweeping past the fluttering newspaper, charging at me and the ignorant Roberts. The one in lead, with a mailbox helmet on to sheild his head, was yelling random obsenities at me, waving a rolled up edition of the Daily Star above his metal encased head. As he swung it for my face, I leapt back against the wall and reached out for a table chair. Getting a firm grip on the back of it, I swung the wooden antique at the paperboy's side. Wood broke and splintered on interception of his head and shoulder, sending the kid sprawling down on the floor to my right with a dull 'clang' from his mailbox helmet. Two more were charging at me, now, one bounding and leaping off the coffee table as the other went for the side. I scooped up a broken chair leg, spun it in my hand, and awaited their attack.
Upstairs, two more windows were breached as more paperboys flooded in. Drawers on dressers and desks were yanked out, clothes and boxes were tossed out of closets, in search of the two dollars. Mr Roberts was still frozen, still fighting the cold, becoming an unwilling audience to the conflict between me and the two. One of the advancing paperboys, a larger kid with two mailboxes cut off at the top for shoulder pads, was swinging his bag like a ball and chain above his head. A lamp got in the way of the weapon and was cleanly bent in half. Shit. I backed into the kitchen, kicking over a table and using it for cover between me and them. The other paperboy, however, had tackled me in the escape. We both fell to the tile floor with teeth clattering.
The kid with the bag swung it down, nearly hitting me and breaking through the floor instead, with ease. For a split second, I saw more paperboys in the basement below through the hole right next to my face. They were after the money. Shit, I thought, before I took a punch to the face with a fist armed with rolled up loonies. Tax payers money, I realized. He was crouched over me, reeling back for another punch as the larger kid was swinging his bag for power. With the chair leg still in hand, I slashed the splintered end for his throat. He reeled back, just enough to take the swinging bag behind him in the face. I managed to see the bastard paperboy's shocked expression seconds before it was swept off his shoulders.
I couldn't let them get the two dollars, this I realized. I couldn't. Scrambling up from the scene, I started for the stairs leading up to the next floor on hands and knees. The punch to my face had left a fine blood gushing out that dripped a crimson trail behind me. One kid coming down the stairs, armed with two rolled up papers in his hands, spotted me and threw one for my head. It lodged into the wall, quivering, as I dove ahead and tackled his feet, sending him flipping over me and falling down the stairs face first. Pulling out the rolled up paper from the broken plaster of the wall, I scrambled up to the second floor with the large kid and his swinging bag bellowing behind me.
That was when I saw "Bradley". Directly ahead, in the bathroom, pulling medicine and the sort out of the mirror cabnet above the sink. When his piercing blue eyes spotted me through the reflection, he spun around on his heels and charged for me. I charged out to meet him. Our footsteps swept us over the carpet, wardrums echoing our assault, taking us past the rooms, past the turning faces of the other searching paperboys. I raised my weapon, the rolled up newspaper, over the other shoulder. Bradley had a plunger in his hands, raising it up and past his head. We almost became mirror images of each other, just altered by age, but fueled by the same driving agression for one another. And then, he stopped running and threw the plunger at me, wooden shaft and slightly discolored rubber suction spinning, spinning, oh how she was spinning - before hitting me between the eyes.
It all went dark. I dont even remember hitting the floor.