04-24-2012, 10:56 AM
The 'tec looked at the moon. He bit into a candy bar. It tasted like a morphine death. Slow and relaxing and painless. He walked and passing a newsstand saw his reflection in a dime novel's cover. This time Dave Stringer was looking for a blonde (weren't we all?) charged with shooting a bishop. He leaned on a bar nursing a whiskey while the blonde smoked in a weird white aura behind him. The guy running the newsstand was a sad and overweight Italian. He looked like a wife and needy kids.
The 'tec turned a corner and put his key in a door beside a laundrette. He climbed a flight of stairs. Arriving at another door he opened it and stepped into a small room where a blond man sat smoking. He kissed him and threw the candy wrapper away then took out a pint of whiskey.
The 'tec turned a corner and put his key in a door beside a laundrette. He climbed a flight of stairs. Arriving at another door he opened it and stepped into a small room where a blond man sat smoking. He kissed him and threw the candy wrapper away then took out a pint of whiskey.
"We believe that we invent symbols. The truth is that they invent us; we are their creatures, shaped by their hard, defining edges." - Gene Wolfe