by J.P Jackson
*
The bell chimed above the liquor store door. A soot-faced hobo known as Stabby Steve squeezed past Taylor with a quart in his hand. The pungent scent of faeces and sweat that rose from Steve used to make Taylor retch, but no longer. Either Stabby had cleaned up his act or Taylor had dirtied down his.
At the counter, a balding, bear-like man in a wife beater was engrossed in an episode of the popular game show, Life or Debt.
"No, out!" the bear snarled, noticing Taylor. "I told you last time! Didn't you get my phone call? I left you a message."
Taylor raised his palms as he approached the counter. "Charlie this is the last time you'll see me. Hand on heart, fingers crossed and all that shite."
Charlie twitched as if there was a bug in his ear. "They say you're smart but you never get the message. You're cut off, Taylor. Now I've been respectful the last few times on account of your brother, but enough is enough. Fuck off!"
Taylor shrugged as he leaned an elbow on the counter. “I'd go across the street but I figured a man of the world such as yourself would appreciate my goods."
Charlie laughed through missing teeth. "You got nothing I need, Taylor. Your shitty books don't sell no more."
Charlie appeared more annoyed than threatened, and reaching under the counter, he pulled out a baseball bat with nails embedded in the head. "Now you're making me miss my show."
Taylor bent over the counter to squint at the programme. People were cheering. There was a gladiatorial ring and a young woman fleeing from a blood-thirsty lion.
"That shit for real?" he asked, disturbed.
Charlie chuckled. "If this fatty makes it to the exit then all her debts are cleared, wiped out for good. What show were you on, back in the -" Charlie grimaced from the screen as the lion snared the girl and bit into her head. The crowd applauded, a tamer took the lion and the next contestant was introduced.
"Anyway," Charlie continued, eyeing Taylor. "If you don't have anything trade-worthy then you've got ten seconds to make it to the other side of my door. I'm cutting you a break Taylor. Trade up or fuck off."
Taylor reached deep into his left coat pocket. "One thing," he said, with hope. "You won't have seen anything like this before."
"I've seen it all," Charlie groaned. "Last week a guy traded his prosthetic for a six-pack. Don't need legs to drink, eh?"
Taylor carefully placed the gold medallion onto the glass counter. "I want a bottle," he said, pointing to the shelf behind Charlie. "Scotch."
Charlie lowered his bat to scrutinize the medal. On one side was the Egyptian Goddess, Isis, emerging from clouds cradling a cornucopia. Around her was the inscription: Inventas vitam juvat excoluisse per artes.
"What's it say?" Charlie asked, still unconvinced.
Taylor's face glazed over as he repeated from memory. "And they who bettered life on Earth by their newly found mastery."
Charlie picked it up and tested the metal between his rotten front teeth. "Gold is hard to move, Taylor. They all wanna know where it comes from nowadays. Too much heat, not worth the hassle."
Charlie slid over the medal and Taylor pushed it back. "It's not the gold that's worth anything, but the man on the other side."
Charlie turned over the medal and peered at the profile of a bearded old man.
"His name is Alfred Nobel,” Taylor said. “Get this in the hands of the right buyer and you're laughin'."
With a reluctant nod, Charlie slid the medal into his pocket. "One bottle!"
Taylor rubbed his palms as Charlie reached for a cheaper brand of blended Whisky.
"A single malt!" Taylor spluttered. "Fuck that medal is -"
"You leave with the cheap stuff or a medal nobody wants. Your call."
Charlie glanced at his baseball bat and Taylor snatched the neck of the bottle.
"Un-fucking-believable."
The bell chimed and outside, Taylor hailed a yellow cab as the rain pounded against his parka. He threw himself into the back seat, shook off the drizzle and set the whisky beside himself. The cab had a plastic shield separating the passenger from the AI navigation system driving the vehicle. A Jersey accent emanated from the rear speakers, prompting Taylor to place his thumb against the pay-pad. When he did, he was startled by an annoying buzzer.
"Payment rejected!" the speaker blared. "Insufficient funds. Exit the vehicle immediately."
Taylor groaned. "I'm in the red but there's enough in my account for a lousy fucking cab ride!"
"Insufficient funds," the voice repeated. "Exit the vehicle immediately."
"I need to go a few blocks!" he yelled, slamming his fist into the shield. "I have enough banked for that. It's pourin' fuckin' rain!"
A repeating red light flashed inside the cab. "Violent aggressor! The authorities have been dispatched to this location! Please wait patiently inside the vehicle until your arrest!"
"Fuck you!" Taylor baulked, tugging at the locked door handle. "Let me out!"
"The police will unlock the door. Please use this time to reflect on your behaviour!"
In no mood to spend the night in a cell, Taylor lay on his back and drove his boots into the door. The thin aluminium crumpled and the door broke free from its hinges, clattering onto the wet street. "Made in Somalia bullshit!"
Once Taylor had climbed out of the vehicle, the cab accelerated into traffic, warning others of criminal damage and a nearby aggressor.
Taylor raised his middle finger and yelled. "Forgot your fucking door!"
He smiled, kicked the door aside then patted his hands against his pockets. The smile transformed to sudden shock.
"My fucking whisky! Hey!"
The cab out of sight, he wilted to his knees, soaking his lower half in a puddle. Unsure whether to laugh or cry, Taylor covered his face with his hands and took a minute to decide.
"There he is! Over there!”
Taylor searched between his fingers to see his face amplified on a 300 ft wide electronic billboard. A televised broadcast followed, announcing Hamilton Taylor as a wanted man, and for the public to avoid contact with the fugitive.
"For kicking a taxi?"
"Police. Don't move!" howled a man over his shoulder.
Taylor straightened his coat and turned to face the authorities. Two masked officers, weapons drawn, ordered Taylor's hands behind his head.
"Well done lads!" he said, applauding slowly. "Now the perp has just made off with my whisky. It's no single malt mind you but beggars can't be choosers. She was yellow, stocky, four wheels. I have a door here that I removed from the suspect. Hopefully we can recover the bottle before -"
Without warning, an officer slugged Taylor across the jaw with the butt of his gun. He hit the pavement, blood drooling from his bottom lip. Before Taylor could regain his senses, the second officer kicked his supporting arm out from under him, knocking Taylor to his stomach.
"You're coming with us!" he yelled over the rain and gathering onlookers.
The first officer knelt and locked his forearm around Taylor's throat. Eyes watering and airway closing, self preservation got the better of him. Taylor threw his hand between the officer's legs and squeezed his nuts as hard as he could. The cop howled and dropped like a ton of bricks. Standing with a wobble, Taylor tore off the second officer's mask and launched his forehead into the exposed face, breaking the cop's nose with a spray of blood and bone. The gathering crowd stood back and gasped as both officers writhed in a puddle.
Taylor staggered into a dark alley and slid behind the burned-out shell of a car. He gazed at his trembling hands, wet with someone else's blood. Beyond the alley was the roar of the city’s riotous evening rush hour and more cops coming for him.
Taylor noticed a half-filled beer bottle in a trash pile. Hoping to relieve some stress, he gulped down the contents then gagged at the taste of piss. He tossed the bottle aside, breaking it. He picked up one of the larger shards of glass and looked at the skin of his thumb, a tiny personalized tracking chip
was flashing red beneath the skin. The only way to get lost was by losing the chip. Taylor could cut it out and disappear, but after a moment he thought better of it and tossed the shard aside. Simple curiosity brought him back to the streets. Why was the military at the hospital? Why were the cops on him so fast for so little? Why was this day so exceptionally shitty? He knew it wouldn't take them long to find him, and it didn't. A spherical silver drone no larger than a tennis ball appeared like a silent assassin over Taylor's head. He waved at its multiple cameras before calling out to the two officers he had just assaulted. Pedestrians avoided him like the plague as a half dozen drones formed a hovering cordon around him.
"On the ground!" announced the robotic voice of a drone. “On the ground now!”
"Just a sec..." he answered, smiling through bloody teeth and tucking his shirt into his jeans. "Take me to your leader!"
"Face on the fucking ground," screamed the officer with the broken nose. "I won't tell you again motherfucker!"
Taylor wiped his chin clear of piss and blood when the officers opened fire. An electric arc bridged the distance between them, consuming Taylor and causing him to writhe in pain and foam at the mouth. He dropped, and with smoke rising from his twitching body, a few swift kicks from the officers' boots sent him into unconsciousness.
— CHAPTER THREE —
