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Sne-aks

Leon
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Drip...drip...drip...

I am walking down the hall.  Wait, this isn't my house.  Where am I?

Drip...drip...drip...

Wait.  I know this place. 

The familiar creaking of the cherry finished hardwood floor under my bare feet brings back waves of nostalgia.  I run my fingers down the yellow flowered wallpaper as I walk down the hallway.  It's well lit, like early morning.  I hear noises coming from what I know is the kitchen up ahead and to the right.

Drip...drip...drip...

I look to my right and left along the walls.  Photos of myself, my mom, and my dad scatter in various frames along the walls.  I can hear the TV in the other room.  The hallway gets brighter as I patter down the hallway.  I hear sizzling coming from the kitchen. 

Drip...drip...drip...

I turn the corner into the kitchen to find my mom making breakfast.  My dad at the table reading the paper.  They both look up and smile.  I look around the familiar kitchen.  The oak cabinets with the glass doors decoratively holding our various plates and glasses.  The granite countertop with the...the...

Something isn't right.

Drip...drip...drip...

My dad is dead, not reading the paper.  Shot down by the military during a peaceful protest against the government that turned into a full scale riot.  My mom institutionalized after the death of my father and my court marshaling. 

I look back around the kitchen.  The light has turned greyer.  My mom gives me a sad smile.  The countertop holds a large chunk of meat I didn't see before.  The blood of it congealing and plopping to the floor.  My dad is face down on the table, unmoving.  Wet droplets are falling on my face.  I look up to the open sky through the hole in the roof where the debris from the bombings attempted to level the neighborhood to quell the civil unrest.  The rain spatters against my face.  My mother still giving me that sad, sad smile.  Flies buzzing around my fathers rotting skull.  I smell blood.

I scream.

Drip...drip...drip...

 I startle awake, bolting upright in my makeshift bed.  Or attempt to save for a large weight is on my chest.  A sticky liquid drips down my face, mixing with my own cold sweat.  I still smell blood.  And wet dog.

Wait.

I try to shake the images of my dream from my panic stricken psyche.  Why do I smell dog?  My eyes go wide as I come to the realization:  They found me.  I struggle with the weight on my chest, tangling my feet in the moth eaten blankets as I try to establish some sort of control over the situation, awaiting for the inevitable gunshot or Whop stick to the head, ending my need for survival.  This thing is heavy.  And...breathing? 

I look down at the large canine staring back at me, a dead rabbit in its slobbering mouth, blood pooling on my chest and neck.  That explains a lot.  I look left and right, and relax as I find no Imps in my room.  Cognitive function returns to my mind as I remember the events earlier that night. 

"Okay dog, you can get off me now" I tell my new and unwelcome bedroom guest.  It gets up and jumps off the bed with a loud thump, leaving the dead rabbit on my chest.  "What is this, a gift?"  I pick up the rabbit.  It's a clean kill.  A bite to the throat to close off the windpipe.  When was the last time I had seen a rabbit around here?  I look to the large beast with the wounded leg sitting down and looking at me.  He is soaked.  Like he had been swimming.  I look at the rabbit in my hand, and back at the fury hound.  What am I thinking?  Don't these things have GPS chips embedded under the skin?  And yet I can't help what I'm thinking.

"Fine, you can stay.  It will be nice to have another set of eyes around here.  But don't get too close.  I know who you used to work for."  I get up, taking the bloody carcass with me.  "Let's get some breakfast.  The sun's almost up.  Afterwards, we will try to find your chip.  You are not going to like that."  The tracker eyes me as I move towards the door, lazily standing up to follow.  I have to admit, having a well trained tracker around could come in handy.  I just hope it doesn't suddenly turn me in.  I'll have to keep him out of sight.  Having government property without authorization or a license is frowned upon in the legal system.  Punishable by death.  I'll have to be careful.

My newly found, and unlikely sidekick follows me into the kitchen as I grab a self-made skillet and start the fire in the stove

My life has just got a little more interesting.


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The sharp retort of a single gunshot broke through my subconsciousness and startled me awake.  Years of boot-camp and combat training had me reaching for the rifle next to me that was not ever there.  My sense came into sharp focus at the sound of another gunshot in the near distance.  I slip from the moth eaten blankets of my worn out and dilapidated bed.  Barefoot, I pad across my makeshift bedroom and head down the stairs of the dwelling I had been squatting in for the better part of five years. 

I peer out the boarded windows, the sliver of moon like a fingernail in the sky, barely casting enough light to give chase to the shadows across the tree filled landscape.  I pad along the dew covered grass, leaving little sound over the wet ground.  I pick up a nearby pipe from the discarded scraps of metal from my weld work as I pass the warehouse where my shop and grow house are located, and proceed into the trees to the direction of the gunshots.  Someone is dangerously close by, and with the latest "accidental" deaths of two Imps a few weeks earlier, I didn't want to take any chances as to who could be snooping around.  And since the government strictly enforced who could own what, I couldn't risk someone finding my current dwellings, or my highly illegal greenhouse.

A pair of flashing beams of light direct me towards the location of my mysterious shooters.  I silently slip amongst the shadows of the trees, zigzagging closer towards the lights and the voices of the individuals who so rudely awakened me from my semi-peaceful slumber.  As I get closer I detect the copper stink of blood in the air and I hear...whimpering?  The shadows are still too deep and I am still too far to get a good look as to what has happened.  The men appear to be arguing as I move behind a copse of trees closer to the scene in question, my makeshift weapon held low in both hands, ready to swing at a moments notice.

"What choice did we have?"  A man in a dark trench coat asked the man next to him in the cowboy hat.

"IDIOT.  Shots draw attention.  Attention we do not need right now."  The man in the cowboy hat yelled back.  It was clear that these two were not part of the military crackdown of law enforcement.  "This was supposed to be a quiet and clean job.  Now there are two...TWO bodies to take care of."

Trench coat's voice retorted.  "They had a dog.  Someone had to do something or we would have been discovered." 

Shit.  A dog.  Not a good sign.  I found myself looking around in a sub-state of panic for any tell tale sign of the furry monsters.  For years the military had been genetically experimenting on various domesticated animals to make them more useful for combat and other oddball purposes.  Horses could run further without getting tired.  Cats were bred as mobile spies fitted with sensor equipment.  Dogs were the favorite.  The aggressive nature of breeds long used for guard dogs were enhanced for combat roles.  Bigger and stronger than even the bull mastiffs used for years by local law enforcement for taking down difficult suspects, these animals would not hold a prisoner until their handler bade them to let go, but instead became hunter-killers, four legged assassins let loose into a compound so the Imps didn't get their hands dirty.  Other breeds long used for tracking and hunting were genetically engineered to not only sniff out certain smells, but genetic codings as well, making them impossible to shake once they got your scent.  Either way you were dead once a dog was on your trail, weather it be by your throat ripped out by the "attack" dogs, or the "trackers" leading the Imps flawlessly to your doorstep, guns blazing.

"Besides, we can just blame it on the welder anyways.  We will just plant the bodies at his warehouse, take what we came for there, and let the Imps figure out the rest."  Trench coat continued.  "An anonymous tip should help speed the process along and he will be out of our hair for the remainder of our days."

Really.  If these two are not military, then I can't help but wonder who I managed to piss off enough to want to get me out of the way.  I crouch low and inch my way towards my would-be life wreckers, pipe held tightly in my hand, the stench of blood still thick in the air.

Cowboy hat rests his blunderbuss on his shoulder and kicks something in the shadows.  "Let's get to work then, we have a few hours before dawn and the Don wants this wrapped up and the packages in his hands by morning."  The two of them bend over to start moving the bodies onto some sort of makeshift sled.  The flashlight beams give me a good look at the bodies.  Imps.  Two of them.  Blunderbuss holes in both of their chests from what looks like fairly close range by the way I could almost see through them.  That would explain the bloody mist in the air. 

As they bend to pick up the first body I quickly move in, striking trench coat in the knee, dropping him to the ground as I spin around and clock cowboy hat in the face.  The pipe makes a satisfying ping as it caves in his sinus cavity, laying him out, never to awaken me from my slumber again.  I turn towards trench coat, bloody pipe in my hand.  He just stared at me, pain wracking his face as he holds his shattered knee.

"Who sent you and why?" I ask.

"F..F...Fuck you."  He stammers.

There is a sharp crack as I shatter the other knee.  "I am tired.  I am irritable.  I am not going to ask again.  Who sent you and why?"

"No.  H...He will...k...k...kill me."  Trench coat explains.

I sigh.  "If you don't tell me, you will die tonight, by my hand, not by your Don's.  Understand?" 

He was crying.  He was seriously crying, weeping like a small child.  "I'll tell you.  Boss wants...sniffle..Boss said he wanted something you had.  A package.  He didn't say what it was, only that it was in your shop.  "

"What package?  Who is your boss?" I asked, poking his knee with my pipe.

Screaming and backing up against a tree he started to reply, before a large, sleek fur covered creature shot out of the shadows and latched onto his throat, ripping it out while I watched, dumbfounded, my pipe dropping out of my hands in surprise.

It looked up at me, blood dripping from its maw as trench coat gurgled his last breath through his mangled windpipe.  I slowly backed away from the beast.  By the look of the breed of dog, it was a tracker, trained and bred to locate its target from anywhere and in any kind of conditions.  It had my scent and I was in trouble...and I knew it.  I glanced around for my pipe or one of the blunderbusses.  Hell, I would settle for a tree branch with a rock tied to it.  Anything to use as a weapon at this point.  It limped towards me, and I realized it was injured.  Bad.  A glancing blow had destroyed the use of one hind leg.  Not a gunshot though, no blood.  It was probably swung at like a baseball over home plate.  At least I now know what Cowboy Hat was kicking in the shadows.  Bastard should have killed it.

It got about halfway to me before just lying down ten feet in front of me.  It was just staring at me.  Every instinct I had screamed to grab a blunderbuss or branch, anything, and kill it before it caused me some serious problems.  The last thing I needed was an army of Imps knocking down my doorstep, or just firebombing my current residence and writing me off as a terrorist.  Slowly I worked my way over towards the bodies, looting them for anything useful, piling them on top of each other, all the while keeping an eye on the tracker.  It just continued to stare at me while I piled branches and leaves on top of the corpses, hoping local predators and scavengers would rid the evidence for me before morning.  I picked up the blunderbusses and my pipe, put it with the few useful items the Imps and my rude guests had on them, rolled them up in one of the shirts, and headed back home. 

Much to my dismay, the tracker limped along and followed.
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Lost in my own thoughts I hardly registered the red and blues flashing behind me.  I glance at the cracked rear view mirror, the multi-faceted reflection of colored lights guiding my mind back to reality.  I shake my head, sighing as I pull over my rusted heap of a pick-up to the side of the road.  I stare straight ahead with both hands visible on my steering wheel.  

This would be just your typical pull-over-and-harass-the-populace maneuver the local enforcement likes to pull when they get bored.  I am not overly concerned.  Everything on me is legit.  Everything except the twenty, dust covered bags of fertilizer in the back of the truck, payment for the custom watering system I built for the Golden Bouquet.  My heart begins to race as adrenaline pumps through my veins and thoughts of severe beatings and harsh prison sentences engage my fight or flight response.

A sharp knock on my window and my muscles go instantaneously rigid.  I take a deep breath and crack the window.  

"Can I have you step out of the car sir?" he leans over, the red and blue lights reflect off the shiny letters of his badge.  M.P.  Military Police.  District 16.  One hand on his G16 auto pistol, the other holding his Whop stick.  Out of the corner of my eye I see his partner scanning the truck bed as he approaches the passenger side, M16 in hand.  I hate Imps.

I turn off my engine and open the door, slowly removing myself from the cab, keeping sure that at least one of them can always see my hands.  This isn't my first rodeo.

The sudden thump to my solar plexus and a kick to the knee dropped me to the ground, gasping for air.  I lay in the dirt, coughing and wheezing for air as the bastard who whopped me laughs at my helplessness.  I can hear the other one rifle through my busted glove box for my papers and anything incriminating.  

"What do we have here?" cries his partner as he emerges from my cab.  He throws a small sandwich bag to the ground next to me.  A small sandwich bag with an ounce of weed contained within.  Damn.  Forgot about that.  "And there isn't any permit here for fertilizer.  Where did you get it?"

I'll be damned if I will throw an old lady under a bus like that.  What are my odds that these two are educated?  Roll the dice.  "I have 'cough' a small garden at home."  That's it, keep it vague.

"Twenty bags for a small garden?"  A sharp kick to the gut has me piled over on the ground.  "What kind of idiots do you take us for?"  Damn.  Snake eyes.  I really hate imps.

"Hey Sarg.  I say we confiscate everything here.  Show this shady bitch who's in charge."  He picks up the bag of weed and walks to his partner, the sergeant.  I hear them mumble some inaudible conversation over the welfare of my belonging.  

"Look, sirs.  I mean no harm.  Take what you will, but leave me and my truck please.  I am not looking for any trouble, and it is a long walk back home.  Please."

"He does have some valuable things in there.  Are those gas cylinders full?"  The sergeant asks pointing at my spare welding tanks.

"Yes sir.  Take them.  They are yours.  And in my wallet are sixteen crows.  Take it as well."  My lungs begin to function normally again and my head clears.  "I'll help you load everything even.  Those tanks can be dangerous if mishandled."

I am jerked forcefully to my feet and prodded with the sergeants Whop stick.  "Load it up.  Make it quick though, I have to be at the hall at nine."  I can almost hear their greedy gears grinding.  I load up the fertilizer, empty my wallet into the sergeants hand, and buckle the canisters in the back seat.  

"I wouldn't want them tipping over breaking the valves, causing leakage."  They nod in approval.  I make some final adjustments to the valves before closing the door.  "Thank you sir.  I really appreciate this."  I climb into my rusted truck, start the engine and grind the gears into forward momentum.  I need a drink.

                                                                           -------------------------------------------

Sitting at the bar of the Jamaican Mule, I clank glasses with Joe over my near miss with the local imps.  "You lost a lot of Crows and some expensive merchandise in that heist, yo"  Joe takes another drink.  

Oh right, that reminds me.  With a quick hand I swipe Joe's scotch from his lips before socking him in the mouth.  "What is the big deal with setting me up with wannabe modern day Robin Hood's man?"  I scream at him, the incident from a few days ago still fresh in my mind.  "You on the hook?"

He rubs his jaw, looking at me, then at his glass of scotch in my hand.  "I didn't know, yo.  He seemed legit and his money was good."  He reaches for his drink.  I 'carelessly' drop it to the ground and watch the glass shatter on the rotted, worm eaten boards.  "Hey, that was the good stuff, yo.  I swear I didn't know!"  

"Fine, but if this happens again..."  I leave the threat hanging as the latest breaking news sounds through the old TV.  

"This just in.  A fire has ripped through a local MP hall, injuring dozens of officers and killing two, including Sergeant Jack Gallpan.  Investigators say the fire was started with an explosion caused by a mixture of Ammonia Nitrate, Acetylene, and Oxygen.  How these chemicals got inside the hall has investigators baffled."  I tune the rest of the story out and finish my scotch with a smile.

"How the hell did that happen?" Joe's face contorted in that you-had-something-to-do-with-it-didn't-you look.

"Maybe they forgot to check to see if their valves were closed before they started smoking."  I signal the barkeep for another round with a smile and a Crown.  

God I really hate imps.
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Something brushed up against my foot.  I kicked instinctively, my worn combat boots sending the rodent squealing and scurrying into some dark corner to lick its new found wound.  The dim lights buzzed noisily overhead as I made my way between the steel benches filled with scrap metal monstrosities towering over the piles of slag and debris.  

"That is one hell of a door man!"  my new found customer exclaimed as we approached the back of the room, snaking our way between the maze of steel pipe and empty canisters of ascetylene.

"One of a kind, custom made.  My own design."  I never even glanced his direction as we approached what looked like a large blast door, used in military ammunition depot bunkers.  "I picked this fucker up at an old military abandoned military base back when I was salvaging for scrap metal.  It was a bitch to bring home though and I had to call in a few favors to bring it here."

I removed my glove from my hand.  Sometimes the lock was tricky, requiring a bit more finesse than any glove would allow.  My fingers whirled the combination lock, the tumblers faintly clicking into place.  "Sorry babe, no foreplay tonight" I whispered quietly as the lock released.  Something clicked in the wall and a hushed release of pressure escaped, barely audible over the cheap buzzing lights of the workshop.  Despite the size of the door, it swung open easily and quietly thanks to some careful engineering and to well balanced, hydraulic hinges.  My companions eyes grew wide and he licked his lips hungrily at the sight of the large steel benches filled with row after row of the green he so desperately wanted.  

"How do you keep so much weed a secret man?"  He asked, never taking his eyes off of some 400 plants towering an average of 6 feet high, the grow lights illuminating the room brightly, making his eyes water.  A faint mist hung in the air as the overhead sprinkling system kicked off, the musty smell of recycled water hovering in the air.

"I have my ways."  I replied, leading him to a large filing cabinet.  "14 Crows and a bottle of scotch for a kilo" I said opening the cabinet.

"I have a new deal man" He screeched excitably as I heard the unforgettable click of a peace at the back of my head.  Not again.

I sigh, rolling my eyes as and shaking my head.  

"Are you sure this is something you want to do?" I ask as I turn around, the bag of weed in my hand.

"Why pay for what you can get for free, man?"  He laughs, his body shaking with the surge of adrenaline.  

I slowly reach out, holding the bag in front of me.  I grin as he reaches for it, crushing the bag in his filth encrusted fingers.  He is so entranced by the bag he does notice me grinning.

"Idiot."  I lead with my foot, kicking him in the junk as I grab his peace with my other hand, spinning it over his wrist, elbowing him in the throat in the process.  He drops to the ground, clutching his throat and gasping, the bag dropping to the floor, forgotten.  I point his peace at his face, the barrel pressing into his forehead.  

He looks up at me.  "Please, man, don't do this" he pleads.

"You are not the first person to try to rob me, you probably won't be the last.  I am not stupid.  You are."  I pull the trigger, painting the grungy green tile floor with blood and brain matter.  This seems to be happening more than it should.  I think I need to pay a visit to Joe about his references.  I check his gun.  Four bullet?  This guy has been saving a while.  I put the gun inside the cabinet and turn to the corpse on my floor.   "Nice coat."  I remove his black leather trench coat and lean it over a nearby chair.  "Needs a washing though.  I wonder who you stole that from"  I rummage through his moth eaten articles of clothing, piling the contents on the floor.  I decent butterfly knife, three cigarettes stuffed with what I can only assume as a bit of hash, a book of matches from The Black Seal strip club, and 17 Crows.  The bastard never had my scotch.

I kicked his sorry ass corpse into the storm drain and watch it disappear with a rush of water into the darkness.  Just another junkie that nobody will care about, not that anyone ever asks questions anymore.  Leaning against a table I light one of his cigarettes and take a drag.  Coughing, I toss it and the remaining cigarettes into the trash.  He didn't even know what the good stuff was.  I pocket the Crows and pick up the matchbook, turning it over in my hand.  I may have to pay a visit to this place and see if this was a fluke, or a setup.  I run my fingers down the blade of the knife.  I seems to be in good shape, although dull as hell.  I can barely make out the markings through the grime embedded in the hilt.  S. P. R.  Huh.  I pocket it and walk from the room, closing the blast door behind me, hearing the faint click of the lock and the hiss of pressure building behind the wall of the custom security measures I installed.  

I walk to a steel bench and turn on the nearby cylinder.  Picking up the welding torch I begin working on my latest custom job for Rosanne, the owner of the local flower shop, The Golden Bouquet.  She's a nice old lady, maybe I can convince her to pay half up front in Crows, and half in fertilizer.  I'll ask in the morning.
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