Ghosts

Why is that? What's that ticking? Are there rats there? Little clockwork fuckers, running up the walls. Scratching out the spiders from their tins.

Imagine that, you're wired down inside a Faraday cage, force fed a Turing tape of instructions in the nasty dark, and then the light come on from above, and the last thing you see is the happy eyes and teeth of that about to eat you.

I'm wired myself right now. I've been running and I'm out of breath and I have no instructions in my head. Every sweeping light angling past the end of streets this late night makes me duck and cover, protect and survive.

How will I get out of this fucking city now?

I still have the jar and the tightening ankle band restricting me to a radius. So if those uniformed assassins have half a brain, they know I've got nowhere to go, and they can quarter each road and avenue out of here.

So I double back, and go to the criminal scene.

It's burning now, and there are onlookers. So I mingle, not looking for canapés or the wine waiter, just wanting to be less tall, less foreign right now.

There are police there, and a big spider automaton standing over, and lit from underneath by, the burning wreck, pissing water into the fitful flames.

Now I want to kill someone.