Safe

[Termital]

Um.. first of all, I'm not quite sure whether this belongs in SAC or OT, so feel free to move the thread around where appropriate.

"Safe" is a mystery story inspired by reading a translation of a translation of a not quite good collection of Japanese short stories. It's been a while since I wrote any fiction in English, so I thought I'd share. It will appear in about 10 installments, on a rough daily basis. I hope that you enjoy it, and perhaps share with me:

• your thoughts, suspicions and comments on the plot.
• your literary critique. Harsh but incisive tearing apart beats collections of blithe emoticons any day of week, except when it rains .

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_{Better ways to push & pull!}

[Termital]

Safe

I can make out sketches of dense clouds by electric discharges over the glare of overarching neon signs. I need a little under fifteen minutes to return to the precinct, and around twenty minutes to the end of my shift; I start walking back, hoping to avoid having to return home soaked in the middle of the night. I tend to walk by pavements' edge, but, when I discern thunder over the noise and music, I move close to the shop fronts. I know those streets well, and I cut across the I. Empire block using the service alley. I am about to exit to the main street under a barrage of thunderclaps when I am knocked off my feet, landing face down.

As I turn about, I see people running around me; some punk jumps over me. I get up and move towards them; I draw my baton and yell at them to stop. They do, half-under a incandescent light; they appear to circle some garbage barrels. There are four of them; two cheap suits in their thirties, an older fat guy with a weeping whore tattooed on his back, and the punk. I call for backup, then notice that I lost radio batteries when I was dropped; it is this call that diverts their attention to me.

I enquire as to what's going on - I recognise the suits from the shop across Dune parlours, and expect them to be armed.
SHORT SUIT: "We're getting back what's ours."
The fat guy is moving forward.
ME: "Who has your stuff?"
SHORT SUIT: "The *** retard in the *** trash, ***. Came in and just started pushing stuff off the selves and into his *** duffle bag"
I move in a circle keeping distance from them; there is somebody moving in the barrel alcove.
ME: "Sir, will you get out, sir? Can you get out, sir?"
The punk chortles; his pupils are dilated; he wears poorly applied black lipstick. The guy in the trash is cowering, trapped.
TALL SUIT: "He's not coming out on his own."
Tall suit tries not to look pleased; the fat guy is re-orienting towards me. I start to climb over the refuse. As I reach back, trash guy becomes agitated. A booming discharge signals rainfall; I twist around in reflex towards the thugs, only to have trash guy hit me in the back of the head.

The blow does not connect solidly, and I clobber the assailant with the handle over the head, then across the ribs. His bag is slung over his front. He's big, much bigger than even the fat guy, and probably a foot taller than me. His face reveals "retard" as fact. I smash his mouth and draw blood, but I'm not appearing to have nearly as much effect as the weather. Eventually, he retreats whimpering, hands covering head.

I figure rain will dampen any thugs' amusement from the show pretty quick - I unfasten one bag suspender, pretend to have trouble, then I crouch and pull it clear off, facing no resistance. I peek inside: stuffed octopi in garish colours, ornamental combs, Lovegettys, an electric razor lie above typical bum belongings. I am pleased "stuff" was legitimate. I traipse back but stop short of clearing the refuse, and extend out the bag to the fat guy; the rest have stepped back trying to cover themselves form the downpour. He grabs the bag.
ME:"Is this what was taken?"
FAT GUY: "That's ours."
ME:"It is yours. You can take it"
We stare at each other. His chest bears a serpent coiled in the shape of a woman.
FAT GUY: "What about him?"
I think the tattoo could well depict Michelin man's wife; most appropriate for the bearer, but right now a most inappropriate distraction.
ME: "I'll calm him, take him out of the trash and throw him in jail" I say loudly enough to be heard by the suits.
Fat guy looks towards short suit; short suit nods, and they walk away currying their stuff along with the bum's belongings.
_________________
_{Better ways to push & pull!}