~Unplugged.~
"...... When I see you cry, yeah, it makes me smile, yeah, it makes me smile."A solitary form stirs, emerging listlessly from its cocoon of bed sheets, as the evening sun melted into its last orange hues. Sitting up, dark eyes flitted about the dark confines of the cluttered bed room. A fallen lamp flickers, rolling slightly. Shaking the last vestiges of sleep from its raven curls, its pale hand reached for the plate of half-eaten pizza on the floor beside the crinkled mattress.
"Uh, breakfast ......"
Unbuckled boots shuffled across the unkempt floor to an antique mirrored dresser. Deft strokes with an eye-liner had the pale [natural, unpowdered] face gouged with dark streaks; it was ritualistic --- much similar to the traditional Red-Indian tribes whom colored their faces for battle. Thin lips stretched with black lip-stick smiled, a visage of death painted ready for war; a war with conventional society. Full of normal people like you and me, and hidden daggers behind every smile.
A shirt is pulled on [black, of course], shrouding the slim torso.
"...... See you messed up my mental health; I was quite unwell."
'Click!'
Unplugged.
Fingers closed about a guitar, and a door slams locked behind a bellowing jacket. A window is opened, leathered legs and unstrapped heels vaulting out into the dusk. It was symbolic. Emergence. Escape from a claustrophobic shelter. Walking down a street of unfriendly stares and frightened bawling monsters [little children].Atop the tallest apartment in the precinct, sound systems and amplifiers rigged by fervent hands with black nail polish blared their loudest; the treble and bass both toggled at maximum.
This is the good Shire
There is no place for desire
There is no oppression
Only closed repression
Here
Justice brings recrimination
And solemn discrimination
There is no Ku Klux Klan
Only Black, White, Mundgen and bland
This is the good Shire
They call New York City.
A fire-access door is kicked open, ruining its hinges even further. Burly men with eclectic hair-dos, nose studs, wielding bike chains and crow bars, crashed the live performance. The one with the entire left side of his face pin-cushioned in silver shouted.
"I thought we told you before, keep your bloody opinions up your own tight ass, because nobody actually gives a flying fuck about them? Let's educate the squealer on the consequences of noise pollution, boys."
Pin-head got no further than 2 steps forward when the edge of an electric guitar dislocated the right side of his jowls, the emblazoned skull and crossbones motif smiling gleefully. A strangled howl issued from the floor. Several faces growled, feet advancing, but a lashing cable held back the teeth. The remaining 3 men fanned out, trying to seek an advantage by surrounding the lone figure.
"Come and get it one on one, if you have the balls."
"Hah! We fight to win, and if we can't win one on one, we will win with numbers. And we have 3 of us, which gives us more balls than you'll ever have, unless you can't count how many testicles you were born with, freak."
"I never knew you people were actually literate enough to be educated. Freak? Yeah, I'm one. It means being different --- from people like you. It's a plus, trust me."
"You fucking think you're that great, huh? You ain't nothin', pussy."
"Yeah, I'm something better than the shit that stinks the roof now."
The knuckle-duster came fast --- the guitar was faster, PVC strap trapping the arm before it ever got close. The man was reeled in like a fish on a hook, a hob-nailed boot kicking up between his legs. He went down, mewling, clutching a split scrotum. The other two, seizing the opportunity, grabbed onto the gangly arms, pulling fistfuls of hair.
Struggling to avoid the crow bar and cosh, the knees inevitably came through, jamming up the abdomen. Staggering, arms freed themselves by slipping out of the oversized jacket, and feet kicked out, driving one brute backwards, back through the fire-access. Strained cries of pain followed every bump down the stairs, which ended with a loud crunch.
The crow bar missed by a hair's breath [literally], landing where the back of a head had been a split second before. Retrieving the dropped guitar, an uppercut snapped a cracked chin backwards. Before the thug [now on all fours] recovered, the guitar dived down, driving his lower spine unto the concrete. He tried to get up, but the next blow thudded between his hackles, beating him down again like an animal. And it was a while before the punishment ceased.
Shattered bones splintered through every joint of each limp limb. An unstrapped boot, hungry for more, stepped slowly, purposefully, upon the man's broken fingers. A harsh scream of torment sent the nearby birds from their perch into the skies.
The exit from the building was welcomed by a cage of car sirens and uniformed personnel. The skull leered in satisfaction, mouth full of sweet red sauce.
"Drop your weapon and put your hands up, fuck-face, or it's gonna get uglier. You're now under arrest on accounts of brutal assault on law-abiding citizens of the state, and, creating a scene."
It raised the guitar, the skull grinning in defiance. Shinny badges and truncheons closed in, outraged that the little prick that disrupted their coffee-and-donut break dared to resist captivity. It would have to be done the hard way then. A T-baton bashed through the fingerboard, caving in the last line of defense. A rain of sticks followed.
Cold steel cuffs grasped broken wrists together. A bruised shoulder is pressed hard into the road, bitumen matching the eye-liner upon the mis-shapened cheek bone. A tattooed arm wiped the wet truncheon upon the torn leather jacket.
A familiar face came into focus momentarily.
"We told you to keep your fucking opinions to yourself, bitch."
And the world went dark.
