Mother Nature. That’s a laugh. She died years ago, along with any sense of human decency in this God forsaken concrete wasteland.
It was still dark outside as I slammed down the window – my only barrier from the outside world, bent on revealing everything about my shattered soul. Morning, evening. Who knew? Steam arose from the sewers down below, the source of scum for the dank alleyways filled with crackheads and streetwalkers.
Lucky bums. If only my life was that simple.
Sirens echoed through the rotting neighbourhood, a constant reminder that no one is safe. No one can survive.
They’re all out to get me anyway.
I picked up a ragged cigarette from the debris strewn about the floor and struggled to set it alive with my dying lighter. The only source of warmth left in this entire building was breathing its last breath, and I needed a hit. A hit to keep me going for one more day. It’s always one more day – then it seems the world is toying with you, leaving you alive to struggle for another 24 hours.
Before I could barely take one draw, the cigarette was already gone. The eternity spent in yet another moment of fractured disappointment was ruptured by a crash from downstairs, and the following rumble of footsteps.
She’s coming.
The bane of my existence, a femme fatale of incomparable seduction. This, this sure-fire sequence of events, premeditated to cripple me even further, I did not need. Time to make monkey use of the trusty external plumbing, a golden shiny wire of hope.
If, by golden and shiny, I mean icy and grey. Time was a blur while exiting via the very window I frequently condemn as my undoing, and I became self-aware as the golden shiny wire rejected my cry for help and let me down. Hard. Another blur. A crash. A scream. The stench of the street hit me before the pain did, and jolted the senses out of a hazy bliss.
Throw some more destruction at me, see if it sticks.
I could feel the shadows of the street demons bearing down from every angle. This wouldn't stand for a second. Rising and shaking, a bing-bam-boom of strength, and the street life scampered. They don’t play with fire, and whatever part of me extinguished but two minutes prior, they need not know about. To escape and unwind, gather thoughts and feelings of just who I was gonna be for the night, there was only one option. Birdland Jazz Club.
A low-key venue of Oldtown. Creaking trumpet stumped the ears, broken neon raped the eyes, and burnt tobacco snuffed the nose. Sliding smoke slithered a slippery slope sideways, squeezing softly sans stationary spaces. Super duper.
The best part of a tenner was spent en route, without sight nor sound of another lost soul. Sometimes the only way to make sense of my life is assuming I’m the only on doing what I do. Those pushing 100 K, they’ve long since left any resemblance to being human.
Same fate for me, right?
Neon pink marks the spot. No heads turning, no acknowledgement when slipping through the door that life forgot. Just the way I like it, and just the way the rest prefer it. The Bebop Band was swinging a smoking version of Davis’ Crazyology; cool, smooth and slick. Like me on a good day.
There are no good days anymore.
Barkeep slung me a Manhattan, 4:1 style – leave the sweet vermouth at the door and give me bitter. Sharpen the tongue for what’s coming. That’s right, a lone wolf stalking the hunting grounds, a man feeding on the pain and misery of the Birdland set. The blues isn’t about making yourself feel better, it’s about making others feel worse – and here’s a guy who takes the concept and twists it for his own.
Jimmy Sly, a private eye. That rhymes. Swing it with a beat and see it squirm. Pop it with some pills and watch him take you down. He sidled up real close-like, a buzzard looking for an easy meal.
Cheese it, cool cat. The feds.
Not this time. If a direction needs taking of a night, those in law and order lay it out smartright. You need a hit, they got the fuel.
“Evening, E. Word on the street is you bustin’ up some bums on Colchester.”
Fishing for a rise, a trick older than the book.
“Save it, Sly,” I says, “what’s tricks?”
“You don’t play around.”
“Playing is my life. But a life needs its numbers. Pushing six K now. Gimme a lead.”
“I know you, E. You dropped the Queens on the double 180, now it’s all you got. You know you’ll mess up the mind without a hit.”
Waking up in that icy room once more…he was right. I needed more lines of grey and green, and he held all the cards. And I ain’t talking about Texas Hold-Em. That game sucks.
“So hit me.”
“I shouldn’t. But I like you. And you treated me right when I feathered the fuzz for stealing those accounts.”
Sly pushed a square along the bar. What’s written on that paper makes or breaks my life. So I say. And the winner is...
...four letters. Four letters and a location.
Sly follows up the jive with the jazz. “That’s all I can do, but it won’t help you nonways. You got exactly thirteen minutes. It closes its doors at eleven, keeping out bums like you. Making it in time would be an Act of God.”
So it was night after all. Time’s a-wastin’.
“Acts of Man are better than Acts of God.”
I turned and bee-lined the doorway. The Manhattan came with, one for the road. Almost there. Two more steps. And there she was, standing in the doorway, blocking my passage to the big easy. No golden shiny wire this time. Following me all this way ain’t like her, she’s got tricks stashed all over Oldtown. Something is wrong, and it sure as hell isn’t the music. Smooth sailing tunes for rough water.
The desperation shined from the eyes as she spoke. “I’ve left the Baron. He’s transpiring for tracking, and I’m the target. Let’s get out of here.”
The Baron was a wannabe thug-turned-pimp, a real bottom-dweller. Did I fit that description? Don’t wanna compare, really.
“I can’t do this no more, doll-face. There’s too much to unlock, and you’ll just slow me down.”
“Baby….baby just be with me!”
“…..no.”
“I can’t take it anymore! You’ve changed! It’s those goddamn Achievement Points, isn’t it!?”
Snap.
“YOU LEAVE ACHIEVEMENT POINTS OUT OF THIS!”
The glass in my hand shattered, not able to withstand the vice-like grip of its angered possessor. Blood began streaming from my veins. I flung the shards coated in my bloodied remnants against the wall and let out a futile roar in protest. Protest against everything. The vision of beauty just stared. I stared right back, draining life and limb into the look of the century. She eventually buckled, slumping to the floor like a burlesque rag-doll. Nothing I could do, nothing I could say. She’s a good kid at heart, but there’s bigger fish to fry. I touched her lightly on the shoulder, and slipped out into the darkness. I never saw her again.
Sly’s tip and the tumultuous encounter left nine minutes on the clock. Sometimes a man runs like the wind, but on this particular night, I ran like lightning. Corner after corner, the meaning of life drew ever closer. The whiskey had gone to my head, and most of the pilgrimage was yet another blur in a night of haze. Plenty of fallen that night, and none too wiser for my mild wild child influence. Semper Fi, comrades.
I could taste the fluorescent iridescence as the doors to the scratch factory slid open. One minute to go, and someone mentioned they were closing. Whatever. I was there, I made it. Aisle after aisle, I needed the prize of the night. And, like the most determined grasshopper, I was hopping like mad. A mad hatter. Hater. Hating what I do, loving why I live.
The aisle was then found, the end goal located. My hand trembled as I reached for it. As I took hold, the trembling stopped instantly. I was saved. I was going to achieve something. The final step was the narc at the front, slipping me sass for late-night lounging. Closing my achin’ ass – I was leaving with this plastic piece of fantastic, through him or no.
“I’d like to rent this, please.”
As the case slid from my hands, the letters TMNT faintly registered in my burnt-out retinas. Another crappy game, another hit of easy points, another 24 hours of success. After that…who knows?
I’m addicted. I’m an Achievement whore.
+1 | +2 | +3 | +4 | +5
phil@palgn.com.au
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This is a satirical piece of fiction. Thoughts and opinions expressed in +6 Dexterity remain those of the author alone, and do not reflect the views of PAL Gaming Network, its advertisers, sponsors, and all other related parties.
Massive thanks go out once more to Adam Rudd for his superb image and art direction!
Well done dude 
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