Crimson Rain - Pt 1: Night City

Found the original hand written version so now I'm rewriting them and entering them into Word..

This is the beginning of the story introduced in Crimson Drought a while back for those wondering..
More as I get it written - I'll place it in small chunks I promise..
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Crimson Rain

Chapter 1: Night City

Johnny Hazzard was a star. Rising and falling on the love of the underground rock scene. A poet of rebellion. A hero of the counterculture and the object of so many young girls lustful drives. He enjoyed his position in the world. He enjoyed that people would pay him money to get up on stage and sing songs of open rebellion. Johnny knew he was no prophet of change, he’d seen far too much of his slowly decaying world to be ignorant to the people who pulled the strings.

His dusty tan complexion, close cropped hair with extended bangs bleached peroxide white in a swoosh contrasting his naturally brown locks. His arm and leg of smooth polished chrome shone in the ambient light of his rented apartment. Halogen bulbs gave it all a sickly green cast no one could stomach for long. The hovel served as home, hub and liter but most importantly it was a sanctuary from the world outside with its red hazed sky and constant acidic rain.



When he played the room exploded with power. His music drew them in, enthralled them and for as long as he blasted his songs he was the master pushing them with his will. This room however was silent and empty. Right now Johnny Hazzard was no one, one of a million people with no power and no will. Right now Johnny Hazzard was hungover.

“Night City” he thought and the light of the neon green optical cable slotted in at the base of his skull carried his words – in his best processed and programmed voice – to the digital recorder strapped on his wrist.

“One of the most desolate cities still thriving in the west. This was California once. One of the great United States of America. Sure today we call it that but the republic for which we stood is long gone.”

“The Southlands are still a writhing mass of despots and anarchy. People suffer daily under the yoke of corporate directed stooges all vying for the last verdant crops in the new world.”

“The US lost control years back, in my fathers time and no one seemed to give a damn. Guess its all the same now. Cities run by corporations. Schools built to educate the select few while the masses exist on the corporate dole in some hope of crawling up the ladder and into one of the safe, secure archologies.” Johnny paused and closed the recording. In his minds eye the words grew soft and muffled and an invisible folder swallowed them up. He labeled the folder memoirs and pushed the file aside. Jacked in as he was, Johnny could see rows and rows of ordered files and images all floating neatly in his view.

The real world around him suffused the virtual one and he snapped back to full awareness. The euphoria of leaving a cyber state – even one as simple as the construct used on the little recorder brought with it an addictive quality but Johnny had long ago learned to resist it. Soreness crept into his fleshy left arm and he could feel the pin and needles creeping in as he slid sideways off the utilitarian bench that served as his bed.

The room was dark and musty. Johnny had been out late last night and the sealed synth-glass blocks offered little in the way of a view of the outside. To his right was the small closet the landlords called a “Fully stocked shower and bath”. There was a click as the electronic locks on the apartment door slid back. The door began to open slowly.

“Come on in. It’s clear” he blurted somewhat groggy at the unseen visitor.

“Ready?” A flat female voice asked. No sense of emotion, not even a variance in pitch you’d expect from a simple question.

“Sure. Let me throw on my jacked and we’ll jet.” Johnny rubbed his left index finger over his teeth in a futile effort to remove the stale taste of last nights drinks and grabbed his worn leather jacket. A moment later the pair walked down the ten flights of dreary concrete steps to the street exit. Moaning, crying and cries of demented ecstacy greeted him on the trip as he passed a hundred stone coffins like his – each one populated by people looking for some way to survive and many seeking carnal pleasures to forget themselves or pay their way.

“Single tracked this morning on the underground charts Blackie. I think we might have a shot with this one.” A wail pieced the air as a hovering ambulance flew past followed by the sounds of ricocheting bullets bouncing off its armored hull a second later. The Street dwellers scattered like roaches exposed to sudden light but Johnny and his partner continued a leisured walk through the chaos.

“No more nights at The Mortuary. Soon we’ll be moving up to bigger and better. I know it.” He smiled and stopped a second to see if she was even listening.

“Mirror.” She came to a halt a second later. Her movement measured for quick action if necessary. Deep curly black hair and a smooth olive complexion betrayed her Greek heritage. Strong yet imminently feminine and attractive, Mirror used her body as a weapon and only her most obvious gifts were martial. Her lithe, toned muscles slid subtly beneath her skin like a coiled panthers and her perpetual wrap-around shades hid the sharp jade of her natural eyes.

“Yes?”

“Something up? You’re seeming even more iced than usual.”

“Somethings up.” She repeated flatly.

“Mind clueing me in?” Johnny was beginning to get annoyed.

Comments

  1. Any connection to gay porn star Johnny Hazzard? Just curious.

    ReplyDelete
  2. Actually I didn't realize there was a Gay Porn Star using that moniker.

    Time to come up with a different name.

    ReplyDelete

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