The David Lynch Blues
Hellhound On My Trail
By Machiavelli
The cops have finally decided to turn up. They have at least three patrol cars cordoning off the area; it's another five minutes before the ambulances arrive. Overhead, a helicopter begins a slow, careful dive through the skyscrapers and down into the street below. From it a full assault team springs out and hustles into the subway tunnel. Heavy artillery, considering only six people are dead.
He watches from the roof of a nearby building. Waits until they begin to haul out the corpses; notes the life support system attached to the Hispanic's body. As the medics peel off into the east he turns away from the scene. In his left hand he has a tape recorder; in his right he has a phone.
He puts the phone to his ear and dials.
The advance pretty much evaporated over the next few days, mostly thanks to Spike, who kept eating the leftovers. Jet spent the last five bucks on a Sunday, on an small serving of chicken parmesan with a side order of soy sauce.
"I'm broke," he said to Spike, as he walked in the door.
"That's nice," said Spike. "Somebody called for you while you were out." He tossed a memo pad to Jet.
Jet caught it, reluctantly. "Since when do you take messages ?"
"His voice sounded familiar."
Jet glanced at the pad. On it was written, in Spike's mostly illegible handwriting, Udai Taxim called. Recommends you leave Mars as soon as possible. Still has your other phone, will give back to you when you next run into him.
They ended up splitting the chicken parmesan sixty-forty. Jet took the forty and the soy sauce, which he tried mixing with the last of the instant coffee. The coffee refused to dissolve; the concoction looked like crude oil topped off with ground asphalt. So he threw it over the side and had a beer instead.
Spike was still hungry after the chicken, so they wandered down to a convenience store a couple of blocks away. There technically was no point to it, as Jet's total net value was roughly equivalent to the half-empty pack of cigarettes in his pocket. But it's the sort of thing you do when you're broke, so he went along with it.
The store had a no-smoking sign up, so Jet waited in back while Spike chatted up the moderately attractive girl working the register. He finished up the smoke just as Spike came out the back door. Spike was holding a cup of coffee. "Managed to get an ex -"
And that's as far as he got, because that's when Jet sucker-punched him. With the metal arm.
Spike still had it. Even as Jet made contact, he was shifting upwards, taking the blow in the stomach rather than the lower ribs. And then Spike was down, lying on his back a couple of feet away from Jet, the coffee spilled across the pavement.
There was an awkward silence.
"Ow," said Spike.
Jet flexed his wrist. "Always wanted to do that," he said.
And abruptly Spike was upright, crouching on the ground on all fours. "You know, I was going to give you that coffee," he said.
And then there was kind of a blur, and Jet was staring into the pavement. He tried to get up, but for some reason his legs refused to work. It was also abruptly harder to breathe.
Eventually, he managed to flip himself over on his side. Spike was sitting on the other side of the alley, his back leaning on a dumpster. He was clutching his stomach with one arm. To Jet's disappointment, he only looked slightly pissed off.
"You could've just asked me to take the fucking soy sauce, you know."
Jet managed to prop himself up on his arm. "Shouldn't you be kicking the shit out of me right now ?" he managed to gasp out.
"Maybe once the people with the guns have left."
Right on cue, about three rounds' worth of automatic fire went through the alley at chest height. A second later, Jet found himself sitting next to Spike, the dumpster screaming as the bullets pounded into it.
Shit, he thought. Thought I had him there for a second.
Four rounds later, the gun at the other end of the alleyway fell silent.
"Six at the end of the alley," said Spike in a low tone of voice. "Probably more going through the store."
"Great," said Jet.
"Where's your gun ?"
"Left it back in the ship."
"Did you now."
"Where's yours ?"
"I lost it."
"Huh." Behind them, the alleyway was blocked off by a tall metal fence. Climbable, technically, but in his shape they could kill him thirty times over before he even got halfway up. Then there was the end of the alleyway, where the people with the guns were waiting.
Then there was the door back into the store, right across from them.
"You know, if I had a gun, I would tend to carry it around with me," said Spike.
"Would you now. Guess I'm just getting old."
Noise at the end of the alley. Someone reloading his gun. Assault rifle from the sound of it.
"So what do you think ?" said Spike.
"What do I think about what ?"
"The fence or the door ?"
More sounds now. Not reloading. Some kind of mechanical clicking. Can't put his finger on what it is.
"Door," said Jet.
"I said they probably have people in there."
Jet's grinning now. Has been for a while, it feels like. "All right. In that case. Fence."
Spike doesn't say anything.
The sound's stopped at the end of the alley. Nothing now. No sound.
There's a click beside him. Spike's lighter - he's lighting a smoke. "Here," he says.
Jet glances over. Spike's holding the coffee.
"There's a little bit left in the bottom," he says.
"I hate expresso," says Jet.
And then, just for the hell of it, he jumps to his feet and charges down the alley.
After that, everything got a little fuzzy. Spike was down the alley only a couple of seconds after Jet, he remembers that part.
And then Jet's just standing there, at the end of the alleyway, and he's alive. He's got an assault rifle in his hand, he notices. There's blood on the stock - hasn't pulled the trigger once, he's pretty sure. His chest hurts, he notices. Actually, feels like his lungs have been torn out and stuffed back into his rib cage.
Footstep behind him. Jet turns and aims the rifle before he even knows what he's doing, then loses his balance and collapses back against the wall.
Anyway, it's Spike, walking out from the alley. Smoking his cigarette, submachine gun held casually in his other hand. "Four more in the store," he says.
Jet tries to nod, but for some reason that hurts too. So instead he just lets himself slide down to the pavement.
Spike's rummaging through his pocket. He pulls out a handheld minidisk player and a pair of earphones.
"All of them had these," he said. "Same disk, too. Only one track." He drops the earphones into Jet's hand and hits play.
Out of the earphones comes a tinny chorus. It takes Jet a moment to make out the words:
oh bla di oh bla da life goes on ra
la la how the life goes on
It repeats over and over again, like a broken record.
"There's one more thing," says Spike. "One of the guys in the store was wearing an expensive suit. He had this in his pocket."
He's holding a red minidisk in his hand. Printed on it, in neat letters: JET BLACK.
Jet reaches out for it before he even knows what he's doing. "Let me see that." Or at least that's what he tries to say; the way his chest is at the moment, he can't quite get the words out.
But Spike gets the point. "Are you sure ?"
Jet keeps his hand held out. Spike looks at him for a moment, then drops the disc into his hand.
Jet pulls the disc in the miniplayer out. That disc is white, and has printed on it Fu-xi Turing #3. © United Music Interests, Inc., 2071. He throws it to the side and puts in the red one; he holds the phones up to his ear with his left arm.
It starts out slow. He recognizes it after a while; it's an old song. Something about looking for America, and car lights on an open highway.
He barely hears Spike ask a question in his other ear. Something like, "Any idea who they were ?"
"Who gives a shit ?" Jet hears himself say back.
Then he shuts his eyes and turns up the volume. And disappears for a little while.
Hellhound On My Trail
By Machiavelli
The cops have finally decided to turn up. They have at least three patrol cars cordoning off the area; it's another five minutes before the ambulances arrive. Overhead, a helicopter begins a slow, careful dive through the skyscrapers and down into the street below. From it a full assault team springs out and hustles into the subway tunnel. Heavy artillery, considering only six people are dead.
He watches from the roof of a nearby building. Waits until they begin to haul out the corpses; notes the life support system attached to the Hispanic's body. As the medics peel off into the east he turns away from the scene. In his left hand he has a tape recorder; in his right he has a phone.
He puts the phone to his ear and dials.
The advance pretty much evaporated over the next few days, mostly thanks to Spike, who kept eating the leftovers. Jet spent the last five bucks on a Sunday, on an small serving of chicken parmesan with a side order of soy sauce.
"I'm broke," he said to Spike, as he walked in the door.
"That's nice," said Spike. "Somebody called for you while you were out." He tossed a memo pad to Jet.
Jet caught it, reluctantly. "Since when do you take messages ?"
"His voice sounded familiar."
Jet glanced at the pad. On it was written, in Spike's mostly illegible handwriting, Udai Taxim called. Recommends you leave Mars as soon as possible. Still has your other phone, will give back to you when you next run into him.
They ended up splitting the chicken parmesan sixty-forty. Jet took the forty and the soy sauce, which he tried mixing with the last of the instant coffee. The coffee refused to dissolve; the concoction looked like crude oil topped off with ground asphalt. So he threw it over the side and had a beer instead.
Spike was still hungry after the chicken, so they wandered down to a convenience store a couple of blocks away. There technically was no point to it, as Jet's total net value was roughly equivalent to the half-empty pack of cigarettes in his pocket. But it's the sort of thing you do when you're broke, so he went along with it.
The store had a no-smoking sign up, so Jet waited in back while Spike chatted up the moderately attractive girl working the register. He finished up the smoke just as Spike came out the back door. Spike was holding a cup of coffee. "Managed to get an ex -"
And that's as far as he got, because that's when Jet sucker-punched him. With the metal arm.
Spike still had it. Even as Jet made contact, he was shifting upwards, taking the blow in the stomach rather than the lower ribs. And then Spike was down, lying on his back a couple of feet away from Jet, the coffee spilled across the pavement.
There was an awkward silence.
"Ow," said Spike.
Jet flexed his wrist. "Always wanted to do that," he said.
And abruptly Spike was upright, crouching on the ground on all fours. "You know, I was going to give you that coffee," he said.
And then there was kind of a blur, and Jet was staring into the pavement. He tried to get up, but for some reason his legs refused to work. It was also abruptly harder to breathe.
Eventually, he managed to flip himself over on his side. Spike was sitting on the other side of the alley, his back leaning on a dumpster. He was clutching his stomach with one arm. To Jet's disappointment, he only looked slightly pissed off.
"You could've just asked me to take the fucking soy sauce, you know."
Jet managed to prop himself up on his arm. "Shouldn't you be kicking the shit out of me right now ?" he managed to gasp out.
"Maybe once the people with the guns have left."
Right on cue, about three rounds' worth of automatic fire went through the alley at chest height. A second later, Jet found himself sitting next to Spike, the dumpster screaming as the bullets pounded into it.
Shit, he thought. Thought I had him there for a second.
Four rounds later, the gun at the other end of the alleyway fell silent.
"Six at the end of the alley," said Spike in a low tone of voice. "Probably more going through the store."
"Great," said Jet.
"Where's your gun ?"
"Left it back in the ship."
"Did you now."
"Where's yours ?"
"I lost it."
"Huh." Behind them, the alleyway was blocked off by a tall metal fence. Climbable, technically, but in his shape they could kill him thirty times over before he even got halfway up. Then there was the end of the alleyway, where the people with the guns were waiting.
Then there was the door back into the store, right across from them.
"You know, if I had a gun, I would tend to carry it around with me," said Spike.
"Would you now. Guess I'm just getting old."
Noise at the end of the alley. Someone reloading his gun. Assault rifle from the sound of it.
"So what do you think ?" said Spike.
"What do I think about what ?"
"The fence or the door ?"
More sounds now. Not reloading. Some kind of mechanical clicking. Can't put his finger on what it is.
"Door," said Jet.
"I said they probably have people in there."
Jet's grinning now. Has been for a while, it feels like. "All right. In that case. Fence."
Spike doesn't say anything.
The sound's stopped at the end of the alley. Nothing now. No sound.
There's a click beside him. Spike's lighter - he's lighting a smoke. "Here," he says.
Jet glances over. Spike's holding the coffee.
"There's a little bit left in the bottom," he says.
"I hate expresso," says Jet.
And then, just for the hell of it, he jumps to his feet and charges down the alley.
After that, everything got a little fuzzy. Spike was down the alley only a couple of seconds after Jet, he remembers that part.
And then Jet's just standing there, at the end of the alleyway, and he's alive. He's got an assault rifle in his hand, he notices. There's blood on the stock - hasn't pulled the trigger once, he's pretty sure. His chest hurts, he notices. Actually, feels like his lungs have been torn out and stuffed back into his rib cage.
Footstep behind him. Jet turns and aims the rifle before he even knows what he's doing, then loses his balance and collapses back against the wall.
Anyway, it's Spike, walking out from the alley. Smoking his cigarette, submachine gun held casually in his other hand. "Four more in the store," he says.
Jet tries to nod, but for some reason that hurts too. So instead he just lets himself slide down to the pavement.
Spike's rummaging through his pocket. He pulls out a handheld minidisk player and a pair of earphones.
"All of them had these," he said. "Same disk, too. Only one track." He drops the earphones into Jet's hand and hits play.
Out of the earphones comes a tinny chorus. It takes Jet a moment to make out the words:
oh bla di oh bla da life goes on ra
la la how the life goes on
It repeats over and over again, like a broken record.
"There's one more thing," says Spike. "One of the guys in the store was wearing an expensive suit. He had this in his pocket."
He's holding a red minidisk in his hand. Printed on it, in neat letters: JET BLACK.
Jet reaches out for it before he even knows what he's doing. "Let me see that." Or at least that's what he tries to say; the way his chest is at the moment, he can't quite get the words out.
But Spike gets the point. "Are you sure ?"
Jet keeps his hand held out. Spike looks at him for a moment, then drops the disc into his hand.
Jet pulls the disc in the miniplayer out. That disc is white, and has printed on it Fu-xi Turing #3. © United Music Interests, Inc., 2071. He throws it to the side and puts in the red one; he holds the phones up to his ear with his left arm.
It starts out slow. He recognizes it after a while; it's an old song. Something about looking for America, and car lights on an open highway.
He barely hears Spike ask a question in his other ear. Something like, "Any idea who they were ?"
"Who gives a shit ?" Jet hears himself say back.
Then he shuts his eyes and turns up the volume. And disappears for a little while.