Moonshine Avenue [APWC]

The heat of the day was bearing on the uncomfortable as I made my way through the town center so I headed for the local park center and took advantage of the shade provided by the trees dotted everywhere. I had no idea of where either Sexten or sirE had gone and was thinking about contacting the Head Office to wire more money into my account, this assignment had already put me in two perilous situations and demanded hazard pay in my opinion.
I had just sat down and quenching my thirst with soda pop when a quick streak of grey squirrel hurtled down the trunk of the tree towards me and dashed into my head causing me hurl myself into a defensive panic uttering foul curses that would cause even mighty Cthulhu offensive.

'I'm late, I'm late' the squirrel recovering from the collision spoke to no one in particular and began haphazardly dashing to and thro.

That triggered a flashback back to when I was running operations with the White Rabbit, smuggling four-leafed clovers across the borders of Wonderland for a very high profit back in the mid eighties. It went bad after the operation was busted by the snazzles and it was the last thing the White Rabbit was screaming as they dragged him into a unmarked black van as the rest of us ducked for cover to avoid the maniacal gunfire they kindly offered.

By this time a shabby looking cat, wild eyed and purring roamed up to the scene and attentively eyed up the unfolding situation asking '?You think I could pounce and savage it'.

I could tell that cat was wired on catnip and sensed things could turn ugly so I muttered something about fishes and quickly moved on and away. I ended up at Zilly's Gaff and took in a refreshing tropical fruit beverage mixed with Russian Standard and made the call but only got an answer message telling me that their offices were no longer in business. Sweet evil, I thought the situation was becoming dire. The deadline loomed in 3 days and I still had no interview, only a half filled notebook full of unworthy gibberish that not even the magazine would touch.

There was a notice on the far wall next to the bar advertising tonight's gig list and recognized the band name of Wet Her Spoon, the political punk trio formed sometime in the mid-sixties whose lead singer Diamond, an explosive crow who had been involved in the Zimmerman scandal a few years ago that exposed the corruption of the sickly import export of bath salts involving CIA operatives supplying local gangs to distribute the genetically modified drug that would've begun a zombie apocalypse and the excuse to install a total police state that would have extended worldwide.

After a couple of hours I felt ready enough to make one last attempt to find them and made my way out and headed over the local amusement arcade where the bustle of patrons and the familiar audio assault of recognizable video games provided the right chaotic conditions which was their usual kind of haven hangout.

A mouse of no small size seemed the right kind of creature who would run a place like this and scuttled over to me introduced himself as Sid and struck up a conversation about cult movies and popcorn - ideologies of western horror directors and the recognition of film festivals in the development of the industry which, incidentally prompted me to write the award-winning piece entitled Movies and Massacres for the now pulped Ghastly magazine.

So there I was hanging my hopes that they would eventually show up at some point, passing the time furiously feeding the machines to play old favorites - Tron, Gauntlet, Galaxian, Galaga, Star Wars and Final Fight. I was lost in a haze pixel enjoyment when I happened to glance up when I saw sirE on the edge of my vision who saw me and dashed out of sight behind some arcade machines. I jolted forward after her and in my haste cracked my leg on the steering as sped out from advancing Tie-Fighters and remember yelling out something about owed dues as I bounced and crashing into another arcade machine, this time my head took a hit and I collapsed stunned on the floor. I remembered Bad Day at Black Rock, that and why I had got into this whole rotten assignment in the first place.

I still had a bum jaw from a hack dentist when I took in this little number like an uppercut from nowhere.

The wrong street, that's where I was. But the right time apparently. Otherwise I wouldn't have caught this sweet little neo Hammetesque nostalgialator of a SS.

I rubbed my jaw, laughed, and slipped the word jockey a quick S & F and helped myself to the door.

Hey Tindalos,

I really like your story (S&Fed a few days ago) and I really dig your writing style ever since I read a story of yours in the not too distant past - Liber Discordia. Totally my level of weird...

Nice to see your back (though I now notice you've made a few other contributions which I have missed) and look forward to seeing more