Tinker leaned Poke up against the pub sign, its old oak posts like a gibbet. The faded oil painting displayed a fighting cock tugging against a restraining hand. "The Cock and Hand", popularly known to its regulars as "The Wank". He didn't bother with the mithral chain; only the compulsively suicidal would try to boost a regular's bike from outside the Wank—fighting cocks still hung out here.
Pushing his way through the fug and babble, Tinker made a bee-line for the pumps. A blackboard announced the guest beer as "Plague Pit Porter", an ale whose treacle-like depths matched his mood, thick and black. Tinker had just caught the harried barman's eye, when a shell-casing stein appeared at his elbow. It was held in thick knuckled fingers tattooed with a time blurred H.A.T.E. all criss-crossed by scar tissue.
"Anuvver," growled Red the Ted, hulking over him and the suddenly attentive barman. "The wimps' shout."
Tinker nodded, saw more ticks joining his slate before turning back with a sigh. Red had never been known to put a hand in his velvet-trimmed pocket except for a weapon. His ginger jelly roll may have gone platinum after decades of decibel rock, but there was nothing between it and the steel caps of his blue suedes except hard, street-fighting muscle. Tinker shrugged and wet his throat; at least he'd have a captive audience to tell his troubles to.
"Coulda told yer there was no future in screwing schoolgirls," said Red, swilling down his second gratis pint. "Green fruit always gives you gut ache."
"You did," grumbled Tinker. "And Sarah's a third year art student."
"Same difference." Red emitted puffs of Capstan full-strength. "Orra find yerself a proper old dutch like my Shirl."
Dutch plate, mate in rhyming slang: stripper, psychic, barmaid, brawler, gals like Shirley Diamond didn't grow on trees even in East London. Wife of thirty some years and the only living creature Red feared--could strop a straight-edge with her tongue. Childless, like all practitioners of the old arts, her maternal instincts had glommed on to Tinker. In his own, heavy-handed way, Red watched out for him too. They were as close to family as Tinker had.
#
Returning from the gents, he noticed Red staring intently out the window.
"What's up?" Tinker asked, knowing his pal's tastes. "Scrap happening?"
Red smiled broadly, exposing porcelain-white incisors alongside their deeply nicotined neighbours; like new headstones in an old cemetery. He stood aside from the window. "About to, some flame-brain's fuckin' with Pocahontas."
"What!" Tinker's depression was burning up fast as he barged out the door, flexing his fingers. Party time.
The red-haired man bending over Poke didn't even turn his head as Tinker stamped up. There was a strong smell of petrol and a spreading pool beneath the little Indian bar-hopper.
"That's my bike," Tinker growled. "And it's not your night."
The bearded redhead straightened up; he was very tall and massive-chested, not that Tinker cared by now. Poke's petrol line was in one big hand, a lighter in the other.
"Burn me and I'll burn you," Tinker snarled.
A wide, toothy smile split the red beard. "Ah, and you would be the Tinkerer, of course. I rather thought a beacon might smoke you out."
Tinker paused and quickly checked about him, suspecting a set-up. The scrape of flint on steel jerked his head back and, before the thought, his boot lashed out to kick the lighter high in the air. He made the mistake of following it with his eyes.
Whack! Tinker bounced off the side of some big parked car, to fall face down on the tarmac spitting up blood. He forced himself to his feet; stay down in a street fight, you might never get back up.
Tinker glimpsed a blur of movement and threw himself to one side. The car window shattered, showering him with cubed glass as a red-haired arm plowed through it. Tinker swung a haymaker right with two-hundred bench pressed pounds behind it, zeroed in on his opponent's left ear.
It should have dropped a horse, instead it nearly broke his hand. The man just laughed, and buried a fist into Tinker's solar plexus. Tinker doubled over, spewing beer, only to be abruptly straightened by a knee to the chin.
A scream of challenge tore from Tinker's split lips. That gut punch had awakened Iain, Tinker's internal ancestor, a flint-hard Pict possessing of great contempt for pain and easy familiarity with death. He hated to miss a fight.
Tinker's fingers were driven into the red mane and jerked their adversary forward to meet his rapidly descending forehead. The nose-shattering 'Glasgow' kiss.
The impact sent Tinker reeling back, clutching at the car for support. Half stunned, he had no defense against the iron fist that crashed into his short ribs like a galley's ram. Then, through a thickening veil of pain, he heard a familiar voice.
"Give over you, e's 'ad enuff." Red, lisping slightly with the front teeth in his pocket—a bad sign lost on the unlucky stranger.
"M… my fight," gasped Tinker.
"My fuckin' car," snarled Red, slipping on an outsize set of brass knuckles. Red the Ted would give a rabid gorilla pause, and that pause would be all he'd need. Oblivious, the big man put hands on his hips and smiled his last. "Well now, Edward Diamond. Aren't you getting a little old for this?"
Tinker winced at the crack of brass on bone, but the stranger didn't even blink.
"Blurry 'ell," Red roared, straining to tear the collapsed 'knuckles from off his trapped fingers. A backhander sent him flying against the pub wall with incredible force and Red collapsed in a heap, blood staining his silvered 'duck's arse' do.
Tinker straightened up with boot knife in one hand, clutching broken ribs with the other. "Don't know who you are, or what you got against me," he gritted, "but this here sticker has a molecule edge that'll cut carbide like cream cheese."
The man, who clearly wasn't, stepped almost within striking range and waved an admonishing finger at Tinker. "Archibald O'Toole, of woman born, fine fool to show my sister scorn."
Before Tinker could restrain him, Iain struck fast as a snake--he didn't like being pointed at. The blade screamed, turned red hot in his hand, and dropped hissing into a pool of beer and blood. Tinker stared down at it, his battered brain couldn't figure. This terminator is Sarah's big brother? Wait a bit, she's the one dumped me.
A boot in the bollocks refocused his priorities, back down on the deck again doing no-arm pushups. A kick in the slats slammed him over against the car tire.
Christ, Tinker realized, this fucker's gonna beat me to death. He dragged himself under the car like a ruptured spider, thankful Red favoured big old V-eights with lots of clearance.
A creak of metal, crash of glass, and the sudden return of light disabused him of sanctuary. Hands like grapples tipped the heavy vehicle over on its side. Tinker was lifted up against the exposed undercarriage, his arms hooked over an exhaust pipe to hang in greasy crucifixion. Hard, tireless fists pummeled his body, jerking it like a puppet.
At least Iain will be gratified, thought Tinker, barely holding on to consciousness. Always wanted me to die on my feet like a warrior.
Another relentless blow drove Tinker's stone Willendorf Venus pendant hard against his sternum, nearly stopping his heart.
Suddenly Tinker felt a terrible force rip through his body as if a high-tension cable had been stuffed up his arse. Hair stood straight as porcupine quills and his face twisted into a hideous travesty. Eyeballs bulged out in rage and teeth protruded like tusks. The seams of his leather jacket burst apart in an explosion of writhing muscle and gross deformity.
The warp-spasm, All-Mother's gift to her champions in extremis. Iain roared like a were-beast and hands become bestial claws ripped the exhaust system from off the block, swinging it in a wide arc. Axe fighting was Iain's forte and not lightly does the favour of the goddess fall, yet it might have been a reed for all the effect.
Tossing aside the crumpled pipes, Iain plucked a lamp post from the pavement. Thick cast iron shattered upon a red-maned head with chthonic force, and equal effect. Iain closed to grapple. For all the arms of magnus mater are stronger than oak roots, the stranger cast her warped-one down. Iain bounded up undaunted, warp state is the apotheosis for Pictish battle-smiters, no greater honour exists. Fists hard as gneiss pounded the redhead back to the wall, near misses turning brick into powder. Yet no matter what was thrown at him, the stranger came back swinging and with the light of battle laughing in his eyes. Like ancient Celtic champions, they took turns knocking each other down, warrior style.
Customers stared horrified from the windows as the battle raged outside. None thought to call the police, what the hell could the fuzz have done anyway?
Finally, great freckled hands gripped the remains of Tinker's leather jacket, lifted the warper off the ground and held him up over his head. Even the Mother current couldn't pass through such concentrated resistance; this stranger was not of her substance.
Iain's violent struggles faded, deprived of any contact with the generative earth his body deflated like balloon. A broken doll tossed over the side of the capsized car.
Tinker felt all hope leaving him. His nose twitched, Silk Cuts. He recognised a voice-- never thought he'd be glad to see Magic John.
"Nil desperandum, Tink," he drawled. "The cavalry's here."
Tinker blinked the blood from his eyes. John couldn't punch his way out of a piss-soaked paper bag.
A great guffaw of laughter greeted this patent bravado. "Think your poor magic can save this rogue from Destruction, little Johnnie?"
Realisation drove the red fog from Tinker's brain. Destruction, brother to Despair, who he'd tricked into amnesia and kicked in the arse. Big brothers don't buy self-defence. He was for it now.
"Destruction's right," Tinker gasped, feeling his broken jaw shift. "S… save yourself, you c… can't stop him."
Magic John took a deep drag. "'Course not, Tink," he said. "So I brought along someone who can." He released a great cloud of blue tobacco smoke, and out of it stepped…
"Di-Di!" gasped Tinker. A girl in punk threads stood chewing a black fingernail while a confused halo of small iridescent butterflies circled her rainbow-locked head.
"This matter is not of your concern, little sister," warned Destruction.
Di-Di skipped over to Tinker, sprawled across the car. "Uh, uh. It sorta is my fault he's all broke 'n yucky. Well, my sisters are to blame really."
John nodded. "'S'right, squire. Beware the green-eyed monster, worse in women."
Di-Di was playing nurse with Tinker, and to miraculous effect. She helped him to his feet and then turned to her brother. "So now I'm all mixed-up again, and it isn't as much fun as being my true self."
His assorted broken bones having knitted at her touch, Tinker figured to stand up for himself. "Bet they never told you Desire channeled a poor girl just to break my heart, next thing I know Despair shows up to rack me over it."
Destruction shook his head in perplexity. "But why would they do that?"
"Because of me, silly," wailed Di-Di. "Tinker won a wish and made me all delightful again. It was like… fizzy!" She went back to sucking her thumb. "'S gone now, broken."
John ground his fag-end underfoot. "Twisted sisters couldn't take the competition, y' see; delirious, lil' sis ain't a threat. C'mon, you know Desire can't resist corrupting innocence and Despair always feeds off the result." He shook his head. "I dunno. Dysfunctionals and wish-breakers. Some friggin' family."
Destruction swelled up and took a menacing step forward. "My sisters don't belong in your dirty mouth, mortal."
Di-Di slipped in front of Destruction and looked up, pouting. "I'm your sister too, you know, the little one. Big brothers are meant to look after me." Tears welled up in her mismatched eyes and spilled down wan cheeks.
"Now see what you've done," said John, and gestured at the gawpers in the pub window. "In front of the hoi poloi too. Never does to wash family linen in public." He passed Di-Di a none-too-clean hanky, then looked up at Destruction. "'Course some people would rather break heads than mend hearts."
The big man's cheeks colored up to match his wild hair, however truth is truth and writ clear as day's dawning on Di-Di's face.
"Reckon the twins have been pulling yer plonker," said John, retrieving his hanky from Di-Di, who'd had a good blow. "But that's Desire's whole shtick, innit?"
Destruction placed a heavy arm around his sister's narrow shoulders. "Come, little sister," he said grimly. "We have family matters to attend to."
With a flash and thunder that shook the pub's bottle-glass panes and scattered all the rubber-neckers; in an eye blink, both were gone.
Red moaned, stirring at the noise. Tinker hastily scooped up his knife and cut the crimped knuckles off purpling fingers like the brass was a soft pretzel. With John's help he got the big teddy-boy to his feet and checked the back of his head.
"How many fingers?" John asked, cheekily holding up two in front of Red's piggy eyes. Yanks use one.
"Enuff to stuff up yer arse," growled Red, slapping them away. He was fine.
John looked with some concern at all the pools of blood and vomit. "How about you, Tinker?"
Tinker was tutting over his notched blade and torn-apart jacket. "I'll live."
"Yeah, thanks to yours truly… again," said John. He patted his breast pocket. "Still, tears of the Endless must be worth something, eh?"
Muttering, Tinker located Poke's petrol line and got it back in place. There'd be paybacks forever on this one if he knew his Johnnie.
Just then, Red focused on his beloved V-eight.
"Hoi!" he bellowed, staring at the crumpled-up exhaust system. "Who wrecked my bleedin' motor?"
Tinker got Poke started smartish.
He'd live to fight another day. Right now, he needed to ride.