The Chronicles of Forgotten City
Keeping Vigilant
The massive moon partially appears behind thick grey clouds, giving off its great white light while it has the freedom to do so. A concrete terraced project over-shadows the tarmac streets below. While a chrome alloy surrounded by a large black tire splashes and then grinds to a halt in the middle of a puddle. The water shimmers a flow of orange lights, like fire flies reflecting the few street lamps that remain intact.
Soft drizzle begins to fall, the puddle becomes distorted and drops of rain can be heard banging off the metallic surface. The metal culprit is a brilliant white Fourth Generation Toyota Hilux, with the headlights dimmed waiting in secrecy.
Through the front window a tiny amber light appears and then vanishes just as quick. The light appears again. The burning amber is from a cigar tip and just for a moment or two the glow shows a face, with a red-tinted sandy-brown beard and ronnie, both trimmed very neatly. The ember tip reflects off a pair of black shades, sitting above a neat little nose and covering whatever mysteries lie in the man’s eyes.
The hypnotic sound of the trucks engine humming, along with the trance state formed from the red glow of the fag are broken by the sound of “Swoosh,” as the window wipers are turned on.
The drivers door on the 4×4 opens casually. Suddenly and frightfully it emits the busting sounds of hardcore rock, a few notches above the recommended decibel level. To be more precise the music coming from the car is, “There Goes the Neighborhood” by “Body Count”.
Simultaneously the engine, music and the wipers are turned off from the ignition, just for a moment the silence now grabs hold of the surroundings. That is until one’s hearing re-adjusts itself and the sounds of not too far off conversing can be heard. Nearby chit chat, possibly some over zealous laughing and friendly shouting, nothing clear as it all comes across as muffled babbling and the noises could have travelled longer distances in the still of the night.
A black military boot laced tightly up to the shins comes downward from the opening of the car and is set down into the middle of the same pool of water. The boot is followed by another identical piece of footwear and now the pair of boots stand side by side, they have churned the water into a non-reflecting murky puddle.
With a tranquil thud, the man closes the car door behind him and he Steps forward. Walking under the direct light of one of the dull street lamps, he becomes illuminated. Tucked into the military foot gear of the bloke is a pair of tight-blue jeans, showing off a curve at his calves, thigh’s, buttocks and a bulge at his crotch—to the envy of any sad self-conscious man, hoping beyond hope it has been stuffed with a sock. Tied around his waist is a brown belt and it is fastened with a buckle made of pewter. In the centre of the belt buckle it adorns an eagle in flight, it is in the colour of bright grey along with the rim, while the surround is a dull grey almost black. Slipped inside the right hand side of the belt is a tomahawk, the slim silvery hatchet head is against his jeans and glimmers in the light, the long skinny wooden shaft points down and away from the rear of the man.
The shirtless adult male has a leathery belt with yellowish-brown leather straps, they flow over each of his strong sloped shoulders, then criss-cross over his broad matted chest and travel down his toned abdomen, before reconnecting around his back, fixed on it is a multitude of huge brass coloured shell casings with silver arrowhead bullets.
In his steady hands he holds the deathly gun for firing the four inch long rounds. A Remington Model 700 bolt action rifle, with the mahogany butt tucked in under his right elbow and the loose strap hanging down over his toned biceps and brachioradialis.
He is not a muscle-bound freak, but solid and shows obvious signs of athleticism. He also shows obvious signs of body hair, as his arms and chest are furnished in this light-brown fur, along with his facial growth, the hairs all glisten from the moisture that has dribbled down from the dark grey clouds above.
The hair on his crown is longish, bushy with the same red-tinted sandy-brown, it’s held back away from his forehead with a double flagged bandanna, causing his hair to stick up like it is full of static or holds an inhumane amount of gel. One half of the bandanna bears a tricolour of green, white and gold, while the other half has the stars and stripes in red, white and blue.
The occasional sound of sizzling can be heard, as a few droplets land on the red hot tip of his cigar, which sits proudly in his mouth, perched slightly to the left between his narrow lips.
Standing by his truck, which is parked across the entrance to another road, blocking any access or exit by vehicle. He mysteriously stares down this uninviting dark confined cul-de-sac, named Bossfield Derringer, locally referred to as Bossfield Drive-By, due to the large number of rival families co-existing on this little deathly road of barely two dozen houses. The result is violence and lots of it, this hostility leads to an overdose of daily and nightly drive-by shootings, hence the nickname.
The main body of terraced houses stretch down his right side, all the way to a grass verge that borders a main road, this road travels around the perimeter of the estate. Directly in front of these houses is a large grassy field, caravans are parked on the far side away from the houses. Another body of houses are to the man’s left, numbering less than a dozen they flow until they reach the large green field.
The street and field are filthy, lying scattered around are used nappies, empty beer cans, food cans, potato and banana skins etc. Some are heaped in bundles with the black bag they once inhabited clinging onto them, some of these bin liners that have been ripped open are the victims of hungry stray dogs and crows. While plenty of the other black bags remain full, intact and littered all over the vicinity. Previous burnt out cars and bonfires have left the field in rag order with blackened earth, this forces a few piebald horses that reside here to seek out refuge on the few patches of grass still available.
One street lamp remains undamaged and gives the almost pitch black street some well needed light, another source of light is a large fire at the end of the cul-de-sac, on the grass verge. The bonfire gives off a harsh and familiar smell of burning, it composes of a concoction of metal, plastic, rubber and petrol.
The armed man’s muscle of his chin flexes through his whiskers, as he grinds his teeth and grimaces at the anti-social activity taking place.
He ponders to himself, “Of all de god forsaken places in this shithole, this is one bastard of a street.”
A crowd of a dozen or so yobs, nearly all male, congregate at the very bottom of the street by the grass verge—drinking cans and smoking. About half the young reckless baseball cap wearing youths are chanting, howling and dancing around the fire, which is two cars in flames, one has been stacked upside down on top of the other—a traditional way of burning cars in these parts. The wild dancing is in no doubt partially drug enhanced, possibly hash, ecstasy, acid or maybe horse tranquillisers and the cheap cans in their possession are spilling without any care, as they flail about.
“What a waste of delicious golden nectar,” he grunts to himself, while gripping his cigar in his pearly white teeth, directing his anger at their reckless consumption of beer.
The other half of degenerates are mixed between lads and lasses, they sit upright in the damp grass, a couple of yards away from the burning cars. The youngfella’s are obviously trying to woo the youngone’s, with laughing and general flirting taking place. One of the hooligans must have been successful in his courting, as his trousers are down to his knees, white runners wedged into the grass for support and what looks like a pair of females legs wrapped around a big bright face with a long hairy nose. On a second and more accurate glance at the face moving like the clappers, it reveals to be in fact two pasty bum cheeks and a hairy arse crack.
Halfway down the main body of houses, there is another separate gathering of youths. This cluster of about eight sit mainly on one of the remaining ankle high pebble dash walls, these walls once surrounded every garden, but now most are gone after being demolished from joyriders crashing into them.
A small few of the gouger’s stand in the front garden of the same premises. They are much more relaxed, enjoying cans and smoking while listening to thumping dance music emitting from the gaff, doors and windows remain wide open to create a better amphitheatre.
The bearded man has no doubt in his mind that this group have also been dabbling in narcotics and he is aware most of these two groups will carry weapons from knives, tap hammers to sharpened screw drivers and less common but possible, pistols as well.
The drizzle is becoming more intense and has now transformed into proper rain. His bandanna becoming waterlogged results in fluid streaming down his face. The cigar has gone cold but remains intact gripped still by his pure white teeth.
The two groups of bowzies scatter like vermin looking for shelter, most find solitude indoors or in the porches of houses, while others find high walls to stoop behind or under the odd tree that rises up from within a garden. Three of the lads who grooved around the burning cars stay behind, discarding their tops to the bare-skin, they howl and dance like intensified mad-things.
“Gobshite’s,” he says to himself, while wiping the rain water from his brow.
Suddenly the rain dies down to a trickle.
“Just a shower,” he speaks allowed, looking up to the heavens as if waiting for an answer.
The bearded man is suddenly distracted, as his nose twitches and he inhales a familiar odour that has just crossed his airwaves. Clutching the rifle even tighter with anger or what could be excitement, he swings his body anti-clockwise to face the local shop Jimmy’s Stores. Pulling down his rain droplet covered sunglasses, he peers over the rim with two smiling green eyes and sees four belligerents smoking and sharing a bottle of what looks like liquor.
“More than likely up to no good,” his gravely tone whispers to himself.
Huddled in the shadows on the ground to the right are two of the youth’s, all that is visible is four lower legs up to the knee’s, two indistinguishable pale faces and a half full naggin of whiskey sitting upright by their feet.
The other two stand leaning against graffiti covered steel shutters of the closed shop, partially sheltered from the rain by the two storey premises. The youth on the left is tall and thin, with a long black t-shirt over a grey hoodie, he has long brown hair hanging down over his face. Hunched over and with artistic flair he delicately rolls a cigarette between his gangly fingers.
Standing beside him with her shoulder rested against the same shutter, a teenage girl, tiny in height in comparison. The slightly plump young adult’s artificially enhanced snow white complexion stands out a mile against her black attire, with black hair and even black piercings. She watches under her dark fringe while smoking away as the bearded man approaches them.
All that can be heard is slow footsteps tapping on the wet tarmac, he casually walks right up to the group. Stopping and facing the lanky bloke, with his rifle leaning against his right shoulder. He pokes at his extinguished cigar, investigating its smokability. The verdict to his displeasure is that it is unsmokable. Smiling like a tourist out on a sunny day, he puts the lifeless cigar back between his pearly whites.
The young man pauses from his expert fag rolling to acknowledge the military boot wearing individual. Looking up, his long brown soaking fringe clings to his face, he tries gently to blow it out of the way, but to no joy. His face is soft and youthful, hard to put an age on him anywhere from sixteen to twenty. What’s most noticeable is his smile, a contagious bright grin that can change the mood of a room when he enters. The tall chap is about to speak, maybe to welcome our bearded mortal or to offer a light for his cigar, but before any words manage to escape.
“Crack,” is the sound that comes, as the beautiful red mahogany stock of the rifle is smashed off the centre of the young lads face, causing his nose to explode and splitting it right down the middle, revealing the white cartilage underneath. In the midst of the young girls screams, the lad collapses in a bloody heap, along side of him a bunch of cigarette papers fall scattered on the ground like leaves. A brown substance drops from his hand and lands at the feet of the bearded man.
As slow as a sloth, the rifle carrying warrior crouches down to investigate the brown substance. Picking it up, he smells it and then with the nib of his tongue tastes it.
“Hmm, I knew it was ganja,” speaking with an aura of enlightenment.
At that moment the milky faced girl weights up her options, she drops her belongings including her spliff, and as fast as her platform boots can carry her, she pegs it for safety. Stumbling along the path she manages to get several feet away before the bearded vigilante reaches for his tomahawk and fires the razor sharp throwing axe after her.
The beautiful weapon soars through the air like a majestic silver-bird gliding, its accuracy perfected when the shinning bladed edge lodges into her spinal cord and shatters several of her invertebrates with a loud crunch. She then falls face first into the concrete pavement and receives a little irritating splash into her eyes from a small dirty puddle. The impact of her face hitting the rock like footpath doesn’t go unpunished, as her teeth spill out onto the walkway like popcorn kernels spilling from a discarded cinema carton.
The mysterious vigilante strolls over to her twitching corpse and leans down to pull out his tomahawk. Struggling to rip it from her body, it crunches as he forces it left, this causes her right leg to jump with a spasm. He then shifts the axe right to more sounds of crackling, this time it causes her left leg to leap with a fit. Finally after a fight and bracing himself with his two military boots lodged against her shoulder blades, he pulls the hatchet free from her spine. Using her thick black hair he wipes his axe clean of her blood and the little dangling bits, what can only be described as red snots—they are possibly tendons or blood vessels.
“There, as good as new,” he casually says to himself, while he meticulously picks off a long black hair from his axe head.
Strolling back in the direction of his truck, he whisks up the naggin of whiskey from the feet of the huddled two and sets off. About a yard or two away, he suddenly swings back around to face the two huddled teens, both have been as quiet as a mouse through the entire episode, they have been frozen stiff with fear and are barely able utilise their lungs to breath, as they brace themselves for the worst.
“If by some chance you don’t know who I am. De name’s HoundDog and I’m keepin’ these streets a drug-free zone. I am confiscatin’ de whiskey as yous both are under-age,” he informs, with a hint of grandeur and slightly muffled, as his speech is hindered by his cigar.
Then calmly and politely he asks for a light for his cigar.
A match is somehow struck after some shuffling and shaking, a yellow flame leaps vigorously, as the hand that clutches it is in total terror.
HoundDog leans down and the glow reveals his face, not of anger or that of a psycho, but mystifying with a hint of politeness. He re-ignites his cigar and taking a well earned drag, thanks the individual who acted upon his request.
He climbs back into his Hilux, takes off his shades and looks into the mirror at his smiling green eyes.
“Pat yourself on de back Mr Monroe, you’ve earned it.” His mood then switches to disgust, as he peers down the cul-de-sac, fixated on the burning cars. He muses to himself, “That god forsaken street, spawned by de she-devil whores of hell. You have evaded me today by chance, but I will be back to sort you out and with my rifle as my witness, I will come down upon you with a belly full of laughter, as I burn de bones of your unborn to nothing more than dust”.