Coitus Interruptus

"Mmmm, that’s good."

"Baby, more"

"Oh oh"

[Crash]

Don’t get me wrong. It wasn’t because I couldn’t have seen it coming. It was simple apathy that meant this idiot got the drop on me. To put it simply, I don’t care anymore. When death wants me, he can take me.

[Bang]

But not without a fight. I was rolling long before he pulled the trigger. It is, however, a shame she wasn’t. Now, I don’t know which came first: the female scream as a bullet crashed into her, or my shoulder smashing down against the bedside table, sending the contents flying into the air.

I could see him now, standing in the doorway. His skin was pale and he had that wild-eyed look of a desperate man. His hair was dishevelled, and looked like a wig anyway. Blue eyes, chipped tooth. And a gun, still smoking - its evil barrel already moving across the bed towards me. Yes, I saw all that as I fell off the hooker - try being shot at sometime. It does wonders for your perception.

My hand flew upwards after my skyward bound gun as the idiot recovered his aim. My hand closed around the stock as his forefinger began to move. Now, I know you have seen the movies in which the hero can pull off shots whilst hipshooting with a gun he's just snatched out of the air. Trust me, that’s strictly for the movies. Fortunately for me, at this range even a movie star couldn’t miss. I winged him, and he staggered backwards, his good hand going to nurse his leaking shoulder.

I stood up.

"What in blazes are you doing?"

He just looked at me, those desperate eyes getting skittish and scared. I could hear her breathing clearly. It was the sort of rasping, gargling sound of someone drowning in their own blood.

"What are you doing?"

I used my calm, controlled, you-dumbass-jerk-you-just-interrupted-my-shag voice. It’s the kind of voice that demands an answer.

"You bastard. You asshole. You..."

"What are you talking about?"

"You fucking sold me. You sold my soul to the company."

"Damn straight I did. And your life now is a whole truckload better than it was. If you don’t believe me, I better pull this trigger."

Now, I don’t know if he believed me or not, but his gunhand started moving up. Idiot.

There didn’t seem to be a whole lot more I could do here, so I grabbed my coat and trousers and left. Alex was standing in the corridor outside waiting for me.

"He had an accomplice."

Alex wasn’t much given to long speeches. In one short sentence he had managed to say not only why he wasn’t there sooner, but also ‘sorry’ and ‘I’m not your damn bodyguard anyway’. I don’t know what he had to apologise about, after all it had been him who had shot the idiot when he moved his hand. Just because he beat me to it, you understand. Alex was the kind of man who would.

I just shrugged and walked towards the car, crushing some hophead's discards under my hobnail boots. That’s right, I fuck in hobnailed boots. You never know when you might have to leg it.

"Death follows you."

There are a few things I don’t understand about Alex. His religion for one. I mean he obviously has one and it gives him some kind of weird spiritual strength. But I couldn’t understand it if I tried.

"It follows you like a jackal, and preys on the weak."

"Do you think she will make it?"

Alex shrugged. It could have meant that he didn’t know, or that it didn’t matter. And probably meant both.

"Is the Spriggan ready?"

The Spriggan is my boat. Once upon a time she was a long haul ferry. Then some genius thought that she would make a great salvage vessel. Now I run her as a tramp ship.

"I think so. She should have the last of the cargo on board by dawn, and has a full tank now."

I nodded and rooted around the glovebox for an energy drink. I could have sworn I put one in here this morning.

"I drank it."

Oh well, that was the end of that. How was that suit’s meeting going? He looked a little green to me, but that’s how they made them these days. Live fast, die young, good looking corpse, etc, etc. Still, we were ready to go if he was.

"Some townie wants to talk. About radioactives."

There I am, thinking about multi-million cred corporate espionage and terrorism, and Alex changes the subject.

"Uh-huh," is the most suitable reply I can think of.

Lots of people have accused me of lots of things. I think the most common, and most inaccurate, is the accusation that I don’t know the value of life. I do. Between five and twenty-five grand to be precise. Trust me on this. I am an authority. You see, I am a slave trader. But let me tell you something else. Once upon a time I was on the side of the angels. I got disillusioned.

Kev Gilmore, 10/10/00

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