A Vulture's Requiem

“For those about to kill, we salute you”

It was a hottest day of the year when a trident burst out of tawny man's chest, sending an arc of gore & splintered bone out onto the dusty ground. A roar echoed up out of the baying crowd as the robo-cameras of Channel Lurk-1 whizzed & honed in on the deadly spectacle like wasps to jam jar. The kraken of the mob was awakening at the first kill & unfurling its tentacles of desire. Old Lurk Colosseum hissed with the malicious electricity of legalised termination & every thing began to smell heavy. In the centre of the ring the two

teams of warriors tore & ripped into each other as adverts for Kuku Kola strobed into the brains of children from the giant screens either side. A savage show that tamed the souls of each man that saw it. Not every citizen of Old Lurk gets their daily bread, but their circus is as cheap as the life being taken inside it.

I was on the hunt & did not have the chance to savour the murderous mirth going on around me. I was in the cheap seats with the Lowlifers as it gave me a better view of the herd. I scanned the drooling audience seeing the Odds Makers with their jerky hand movements that gave or took money away frenetically. Mobile phones hanging around their necks in tens like the severed ears & fingers that adorned the cannibals of a liberal's nightmare. I stared over the poorest of Lurker families whose bitter arguments & domestic abuse stopped with each round of a Mexican Wave that unleashed the boiled ham stench of ten thousand exposed & unwashed armpits into the already volatile atmosphere. A beer glass flew past my blind side as a fight broke out, as they always do, between the supporters of the South Side Spartans & the Docker Machetes. A throat was sliced just two rows behind my left shoulder. A severed hand glided by like a macabre butterfly, a drop or two of the red splatter stained my white jacket.

Another damn dry cleaning tab to pick up.

For Spartacus' sake.

The cheap seats are always the most fun.

Then, through the chaos of blood thirsty cawing Crowes I spotted my prey & moved faster than a speeding bullet train.

“I spy with my little eye”

Kirk Vulture.

A carrion bird at a place of murder seemed natural enough & he had sucked the marrow out of enough bones of illicit information to justify his street name. A scraggy necked one-time informer for H.A.D.E.S. who, for a guilty complex childhood indoctrination combined with a natural grasses greed, had begun siphoning precious info to the LUX. It was he who had told The Sisters Of The Neon Cross about my meeting with Brother Barcode & had almost caused my friend to become sliced Peking Duck. Mother Superiority Complex had confessed all after a very poor attempt at a deadly honey trap. A blessed Colt .38 under the pillow. She had ended on her knees with her day-glo rosary wrapped tightly around her neck. My hands had pulled the cord to its fatal constriction.

Nuns.

Can't bloody trust them.

I edged my way clumsily towards Vulture as the mood of the mob ebbed & flowed from blood lust, to that after-slaughter coolness that helped them gave them enough courage to get up in the morning to do whatever shitty job awaited them. He was down in the good seats with his arm around some bought for Kaputchick, no doubt spending some of his hard earned cash on a day & a night's entertainment. I entered the V.I.P. Area, flashing my H.A.D.E.S. badge at the rich folk's security who knew me by rep & did not want any of the kind of trouble they knew I would rain down on their Neanderthal skulls.

I had not taken my eye off my quarry & was in ten feet of that scrawny neck that I so wished to snap when un-luck hit me. A rauchy blonde & spoilt Sexophant, two seats to my right, decided it was high-time she pulled off her itsy-bitsy vest with the words “Cock Tease” emblazoned over her hooters & give the brave sweaty & downright funky warriors a titty distraction from their toil. Her taut nipples flashed glittery in pink & green & electric blue on that burning afternoon as she bounced up & down on her seat. To my complete dismay, the pumped up daddy's money males around her began a-woofing & Vulture's head turned a glance in my direction.

I was terribly vexed, it has to be said.

A comedy double take followed, then a look of panic crossed his over his slashable face. He threw the Kaputchick off him & dived out from his chair.

“!!REKCUF, ERA UOY EREHW YATS”, I bellowed at him in Astron Boy font, hoping the futurist type would be strong enough to hold him as the silver words shot out of my mouth. He squawked a high squeal & dodged my words, pushing the poor Kaputchick into my verbal assault. She went as stiff as an erotic ironing board & I made a mental note to come back after my job was done & revive her. She would need a good massage to get the blood flowing again & so would I.

Vulture dashed head first into the mash of Gauchy wearing fashioniks & pinstripe advocates causing a stifled show of emotion, a ruffled pinned yellow carnation & the odd tipping of a cherry molotov cocktail. There was no stopping me as I moved mechanically towards him drawing my old Luger to show those around me that they should just sit down politely & let me get on with the job in hand.

He was at the railings that separated the audience from the murdering going on & the security had seen me coming & scarpered like the good little dogsbodies that they knew themselves to be.

I stood still & faced the weasel off.

He gulped & his Adam's apple moved like his drinking a quart of Kook & the rich folk stood entranced at the real life TV drama unfolding in front of them.

“Vulture”, I spat quietly into the air.

“You're coming with me. Just turn yourself around so I can gets the cuffs on ya & we'll take a walk down to H.Q. & you can help me with my inquires into how much of a two bit dirty rat you really are”

The weedy fucker squeaked again & began scrambling over the railings screeching, “No, no, no … Blake you gots it all wrong!”, as he went. It was at that moment that his body recoiled & a flurry of arrows pierced his heart & stomach. His body fell back in a groan as a single scream escaped from the perfectly made up geisha lips of one of a group of posturing Ga Ga Clowns. The scream lasted an instant, until her natural indifference took control & her face went back to feigned unconcern.

I gingerly made my way to the railings & saw what was left of the gladiators of both sides standing down there, grinning from ear to severed ear. I gave them the thumbs up & they resumed their carnage.

I could almost have jumped those barriers myself myself & given those big teddy bears a hug & a peck on the cheek.

“Now”, I thought to myself. “About that Kaputchick”