A wall of static silhouettes the man as he stands on the deep red carpet. His hands are clasped behind him and he waits. The static is a buzz in the background, the tiny whispers of a thousand noises being encompassed by the overpowering din of silence. Formless images yearn to take shape within the sea of silver-gray, a stark contrast against the crisp lines of his suit. He watches the screen, thoughtfully. An aide comes up on his right, leans forward, and whispers in his ear. He sits down and holds out his left hand, saying, "It is done." A slender hand places a glass of wine in his and the amber-haired woman in a red silky dress brighter than the carpet replies, "So it is." She pauses, "Thank you." "Think nothing of it," he goes back to watching the static, "And thank you."
The sharp gray scent of gunpowder and ozone stung Nigel's nose as he made his way to Jerrig's flat. The drizzle had made the streets slick. His bike's roar echoed off the buildings. This part of the CZ was for the most part abandoned by the gangs. "Probably nothing worth having", he thought eyeing the trash strewn streets, broken data-terms, and lonely street lamps. The distant thunder spoke more of rampaging than of thunder and the sky stayed a dim orange with black overtones. Probably more because of the distant fires than the neon. It had been a couple of years since he had seen his old mate. He grinned as he drove his bike up the stairs and into the dilapidated building. This always drove Jerrig up the wall. He rolled into the caged lift and pressed the fifth floor button. He let the bike idle while he slowly rose. "Nice place," he thought to himself as he eyed the rust and litter. But he was comforted by the fact that he didn't see the hollow eyes of any feral children. "Little buggers are getting organized over in Liverpool - fucking union over there" he thought, the scar on his left cheek itched absently at the memory. Nigel rose about 2 floors (very slow, he began to contemplate the stairs) and the itch still persisted until he irritatedly scratched at it. His finger touched something wet and sticky. His hands went for the shotgun as he looked up into the darkness above him. Nothing. Something kept tickling his cheek. Steadying the shotgun on his leg, he made a left handed grab for the item. It was a thin chain. He tugged and a head came down. It rolled across the floor and bumped against the wall of the cage. Her eyes were still open and her long blonde hair was wet and matted with blood. Niger looked up and away and saw him. White yellow hair topped with a deep light blue like he was some gas flame. He was wearing purple overall and a surgeon's mask as he meticulously peeled her skin of her thigh and began to roll it up. "WHAT THE BLOODY HELL ARE YOU??!!" Nigel screamed as he pumped the shotgun and squeezed the trigger, still holding the slain girl's necklace. The guy looked down, unconcerned of the explosion of shrapnel as he dropped the roll into a pouch, and started to leave the lift. Nigel fired right under him and the guy fell through the hole Nigel made in the upper wire. On impact the guy tried to roll, but Nigel had bailed off his bike, releasing the brake and gunning the engine. The bike slammed the guy into the wall and pinned him. Nigel pumped another shell into the barrel and took aim. The guy looked up and through his bloodstained mask, Nigel could feel a smile absent of sanity. He pulled the trigger and was clobbered from the right. Nigel got up quickly and looked. A hole big enough that his front tire was hanging out lead to the emptiness of the shaft, but no evidence of the guy or what had struck him from the right. Nigel grabbed his bike before it went over and hoisted it up. He turned off the engine and put down the kick stand. He turned and was thrown across the length of the cage. A fist was snaking its way back across the floor, it's owner standing in his ridiculous overalls and grinning as his wrist snapped back into place. The room reeled a bit as a blood trickled down the side of Nigel's face. "drugged..." he weakly realized. His body began to stiffen as the guy came closer. "No, No," said the freak, " No drugs for you. You're suppose to watch." "Butcher pants. .... he's wearing a butcher's pants." Nigel thought with horror. He never realized this was a way to die. Like some horrible slash flick. The guy grabbed Nigel's hair and straightened him up a bit. "There we go, "he said in a sing-song way, "Now waaAAaatch." He slowly inserted the scalpel into Nigel's sternum and dragged it down like an artist with a paintbrush drawing a thin red line. Nigel tried to scream, but he was transfixed. He couldn't even increase his breathing. The guy then started a new cut from the line and drew under his ribs, then down his side to his waist on both sides. He leaned in close to Nigel's face and spoke, his breathed smelled like peppermints, "Let's make you a tie." and thrusts his hands into Nigel's stomach. He pulled the stomach out a bit and set it to the side. He rummaged around like a repairman in a toolbox, almost comical, all the while keeping up a monologue. "The clothes make the man, they say. I say the Man should make the clothes. Well, we did in the beginning. Now the Chinese do it. HA!! HA-HAA!!!" He reached in and tugged, all the while Nigel feeling dread despite his detachment. He was afraid of feeling again. Out came his intestines in slow plops. The maniac continued. "But I digress, really. We are an innovative society. Why? Because we always try the unusual and take things one step further. Some say it will be the death of us." He fashioned a perfect hangman's noose from the gray rope of Nigel's intestines. He placed it almost gingerly around Nigel's neck and patted his cheek. "Well, experience that for me when you have the time." He stood up and cocked his head to the side for a moment. Nigel barely moved his head up to look. "Ah! It's wearing off. Niiiice constitution. Here's the antidote. There, you've earned it." He sprinkled the white powder all over the open wound of Nigel's torso. Nigel watched the powder drift down like a silent death and he knew dread. The guy reached down and grabbed his wallet. "Nigel, huh? Well I guess that all your plans have been canceled - eh?" He laughed and left, singing the refrain from XTC's We're making Plans for Nigel over and over. Nigel stared transfixed at the powder as it drifted and soon he felt it cover him. He felt it.
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Jerrig heard screams from his apartment building down the block. He took his time walking home, not wanting to get involved but not wanting to be outside anymore. He just wanted home, his vidscreen, and maybe tonight he'll hit his stash from Amsterdam - the Rainbow Bag. The screams continued and he could hear people shouting for the guy to shut up or cum already. The screams continued as the guy's voice got hoarser and hoarser. Soon, it didn't exist anymore. It was still trying to scream in a rather eerie sound as Jerrig made his way through the boarded up doors. The lift appeared to be stuck up on some distant floor, but that didn't matter because no one took the lift anymore. He climbed the stairs. Every time he heard the sound, he hustled a little faster up the stairs. He rounded the corner of the 5th floor flight and no longer heard the noise. He opened the door and saw that the lift had been locked on his floor. A motorcycle was wedged between the floor and the lift, keeping the doors from closing. The alarm was going off as a very weak buzz. Jerrig couldn't help himself and looked over the wreck. His eyes widened and he cried out, "GOD NO!!!" Nigel looked up at him with dimming eyes, still clutching the necklace of the slain girl in his hand, the ghoulish noose drying out around his neck. "Hi … ..hiya .. m, mmate" he croaked. Jerrig clambered over the bike, pawing his own jacket for his trauma team card, "God, Nigel! Hang in there!" Nigel looked at his friend, "Good ….to ……seeeee.. you." He spoke no more. Jerrig's Trauma Team card slipped from his hands and plummeted through the grating of the lift. "NOOOOOO!!!!!!!" echoed through the shaft. *******