Noir Control, Page 2

renegade. What do you think about that?” Pyppi asked.

  “Well, it was unexpected. I don't know why someone would do that, he wasn't that bad.”

  “I'll have to agree with Rachel. His policies were just, and...”

  “...Sebastian, please, before you go on an insanely long lecture about politics.” interrupted Pyppi.

  “As milady commands.” he said in a posh voice with a small bow. Pyppi punched him. “Ow. Hey, we're at the pub.”

  Rachel looked up at a neon sign: THE RED GUNMAN, below that was a small cowboy with a red bandana. Inside was a long room with several tables and a long black bar counter with lit up rims and high stools.

  Pyppi ran to the counter. “Beer please, Max.” she said to the barkeep. The T.V. on the wall was showing the news; the same report with General Grimmleif as earlier. “In light of the sudden loss of President Goldberg, the emergency council has granted me, General Arcticus Grimmleif, emergency interim powers whilst an election is organised...”

  Pyppi scoffed. “Goldberg wasn't that bad. I mean this red-bearded oaf is claiming that somebody else has authorised him to take control, but the bastard has probably just done it himself.” Pyppi took a sip of beer and placed her thumb on the payment reader.

  PLEASE WAIT :

  BIOMETRIC-WALLET SOFTWARE UPDATING...

  “Actually,” Pyppi continued. “If you think about it, Goldberg was an asshole; cruel and unjust, maybe this Grimmleif fellow is better.”

  Sebastian raised his eyebrow. “How could you say that? Did you honestly just change your mind that quickly?”

  “Yeah, make up your mind!” Rachel joined in.

  Sebastian ordered a beer and placed his thumb on the machine. Updating. “Actually, Rachel, I've given it some thought, I can see Pyppi's point.”

  Rachel dropped her jaw and stared at the two of them. “You too, Sebastian? What is the matter with you two!?”

  Pyppi laughed and said, “You should listen to Sebastian. He’s the brains of the outfit.”

  “Not on politics he isn’t.”

  Sebastian put on some comedy anger, pointed his finger and growled, “Shut up, you!”

  “You shut up,” Rachel said. Then to Max the barman she called, “Can I get beer too, please.”

  The drink appeared.

  She placed her thumb on the machine.

  A sharp pain shot through her neck; an electrical spark came from underneath the skin. She fell backwards, convulsing and clutching her neck.

  “Ah! Shit! It burns! The wallet chip, it's burning!” her fingernails clawed and dug into the skin as the chip burned into her flesh like a hot iron. “Sebastian, help!” He looked at her neck, touching it. He drew his finger back immediately, snapping it up and down.

  “It's burning red hot!”

  Rachel’s hands were in fists and she was whining through gritted teeth.

  “Sebastian, use this!” Pyppi pulled out a flick knife.

  “Do it!” Rachel yelled.

  He made an incision of about a centimetre below the red mark and slid out a wafer of electronics the size of his thumbnail. It was smoking. “Max, some ice please.” The barkeep handed him a cloth, bulky with ice. Rachel placed it on the wound. Pyppi's arm was around her shoulders.

  “I'm going to have to go to the bank to get a new wallet now,” Rachel whispered shakily. The chip gave off a slow wisp of smoke. The barkeep placed six glasses of beer onto the counter next to the chip.

  Pyppi placed a hand on Rachel’s shoulder. “There, I bought you some drinks. You just sit and relax. Does it hurt?”

  “Oh no, it’s not like my neck was burned, or I was cut with a knife, oh no! Of course it hurts you idiot.” Pyppi grinned. Rachel turned her head and looked at the TV yet again, General Grimmleif's fat head on the screen. “Ladies and Gentlemen, we are now confident that the gunman responsible for the tragic death of President Julius Goldberg was acting alone and…”

  ...The TV story broke to a helicopter view with a newsroom commentary… “You’re watching live pictures now of a standoff with the gunman police believe is responsible for the death of President Goldberg.”

  Everybody in the pub watched the screen. A man was running through the streets, being pursued by the police. He fell in a hail of gunfire and the Black-Coats rushed in to put the cuffs on his corpse. There were whoops and cheers in the pub.

  Grimmleif came back on screen and talked more uninteresting rhetoric. “In absolute honesty, I can say that Goldberg was a tyrannous ruler. Having worked closely with him for many, many years, I observed that his methods and policies were in every way unfair to the people. Goldberg was a despot, to say informally! As a promise, the new government will work in the favour of society! Such a tremendous moment in history has never before occurred; this truly is an occasion to celebrate!”

  Rachel drank her beer quickly and held the cold glass against her neck. She noticed people starting to rise from their seats and move to the dance floor. The president was dead and people were dancing. Some idiots fell over, too much to drink already, but it made others laugh and there was a slowly building party mood. She took another beer and downed it.

  “Hey, Rachel, Sebastian, I’m going to go dance.” Pyppi said.

  Sebastian downed his drink quickly and said, “Count me in.”

  Rachel watched as the two made fools of themselves. “Humph. They're happy, at least.” she muttered. She pressed another beer against her neck to cool the wound. The president was dead and her neck was burned. What a shit night.

  ----- X -----

  Rachel sat up in bed and held her head in her hands, rubbing her temples. She looked around. Her flat was a two-room shoebox; a bedroom with an en-suite bathroom and a kitchen-lounge combo. She had an age old jukebox loaded with heavy metal music, all purchased from second hand shops over the years. Posters of foreign countries were scattered across the walls; countries that she and her friends could never afford to go to. And, of course, there were the photos of her with Pyppi and Sebastian… All of which seemed to be taken in the pub.

  She clenched her stomach and ran to the toilet, vomiting. She looked at herself in the mirror and was wearing nothing but underwear and a worn out vest that was too big for her. “A beautiful morning wreck.” she jested to herself. “Jesus, how much did I drink last night?” She walked to her fridge. The racks were empty except for some old leftovers and curdled milk. “That's it!” she said placing a finger against her forehead. “I need to go to the bank and get a new wallet. Ugh!”

  There was a knock at the door. Rachel groaned and stumbled towards it.

  “Okay, okay, calm down, my head’s killing me.” She opened the door to an old woman. “Oh, it’s you, Ms’ Landlady.”

  “I’ve told you countless times that it’s Missus Grundy, to you, and not, Ms Landlady,” she shouted. “You’re overdue on your rent.” She pushed a payment reader onto Rachel.

  “It won’t work.” Rachel pressed her thumb to the machine. It did nothing. The landlady looked confused until she tilted her head, showing the blister on her neck. “My wallet chip got fried so I can’t pay you, let alone pay for food. I’m going to the bank in a bit to get it sorted. Okay? Now can you leave me alone please?” The old woman frowned and walked away.

  Rachel shook her head and went back inside.

  ----- X -----

  The streets were busy with people shopping or travelling to work. Litter was scattered all across the pavement. Party casualties nursing hangovers staggered home, rubbing shoulders with people wearing business suits and expensive watches. Women in fine clothes drank overpriced coffee. By contrast, a homeless man asking for food was slumped against a cafe, his clothes splashed in paint and a bony dog by his feet.

  “Come on you! Out of here, it’s time to go home!” The police officer was lifting a drunk by his collar. The guy looked ready to vomit but was holding it in like a trooper.

  Rachel looked up at the advertisements on the digital billboards that covered
the surfaces of almost every building.

  STRONGBOY VODKA: MAKES YOU STRONG LIKE OUR BLACK-COATS!

  Memories of the vodka flowed from her head to her throat and stomach. Advertisements of nearly naked women showcasing underwear. Muscular men in depressing cologne adverts.

  There was a new addition to the billboards.

  General Grimmleif. A studio portrait in his uniform with medals, looking heroic. “What the hell is this for?” Rachel mumbled. There was no reason for it. What were they advertising? This guy was posed like the dictators of the twentieth century. Men who had their faces painted as murals on every wall. “Feeling proud of yourself, Herr General?” she lamented.

  ----- X -----

  Rachel walked into the Metro-credit Bank and joined the queue. The bank had high ceilings and chandeliers, but the people in the queues were all from the lower districts. Everywhere Rachel looked, people in rags, dirty clothes, or old and torn outfits, huddled and clamoured.

  Rachel listened to a short woman speaking to an older man. “Damn wallet doesn't work,” grumbled the man tapping his walking stick against the floor.

  “I know,” the woman replied, “I can't feed my boys if the bank doesn't sort the problem out.”

  Rachel heard a voice that she recognised and spotted chefs from her diner, Oyster and Ginger. “Goldberg wasn't too bad,” Oyster commented.

  Ginger nodded. “Exactly. This Grimmleif sounds like a bullshitting asshole. At least with Goldberg, crap like my wallet going into