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The Old Aeth Grail: The Forgotten
Posted By: Neil Yudsponwy<mark_price@hotmail.co.uk>
Date: 19 July 2007, 10:24 pm
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It was the oceans of sweat that told the tale, John didn't need to dwell upon the dream: the subliminal commotion was saturated in every toss and every turn. The ex-spartan's right hand throbbed while his bedside table lamp sobbed: shattered, scattered and lying in pieces across the bed and floor. The unlikeliest of sparring partners unable to object to John's pugilistic whims, unable to take anymore.
Whomever the old man had been rucking with in his somnabulistic daze had obviously escaped, leaving the lamp to bear the brunt of John's retaliatory punches. He felt sure that come tonight, the nemesis deep in the heart of his mnemonics would send out another assassin for revenge of her unsung masses. The old man's doctor had foretold as much.
"John, if you continue abusing alcohol, I will have to suspend your medication. The compound of toxins you're creating in your body will only serve to make the nightmares stronger and more lucid."
Trouble was: John loved the nightmares.
They hustled sketchy memories, invigorated daydream malaise and hooked up with the furore of John's heyday. The whole delerium was ecstasy compared to the geriatric antics of his current state. Something that as a fifty-nine year old, working part-time as a meet-and-greet in a city-based branch of a major Do-It-Yourself chain: he had plenty of spare time to contemplate.
Dodging sniper arralites had been infinitely more exhilirating and rewarding than avoiding traffic on busy roads. Suddenly, in a world where vehicular machines were more integral to the capitalist vision than human bodies, the chicken crossing the road seemed a tad more philosophical and lot less humorous; especially with crack-high Bungie wagon drivers trying to make their quotas and pay for their next hit.
The war John fought against the Covenant was done, but his battles with old age and skirmishes with the velocity and ferocity of metropolis had only just begun to materialize. The new world he'd saved had a tendency to harass him by honking horns and lobbing obscenities from the comfort of glass-roof cars. But despite these routine hazards, the cool veteran never returned fire.
Today was tuesday, and tuesdays and thursdays were his days off, sabbath days whereby a sodomising from the man was a definite no-no. No smiling at posh imbeciles returning mowers they'd used to cut the lawns of their entire street for neighborhood kudos, returning the piece cluttered by a dozen different species of grass and still demanding a refund. No watching the collective intelligence of village simpletons wander the aisles in search of garden accessories, oblivious to the massive, pointy flashing arrow with a sign underneath saying: 'garden accessories'; despite epochs of refinement and cultivation to the laws of Natural Selection, a few throwbacks still managed to get through the theorising net. Thankfully today was tuesday, and for John's enthusiasm, that meant one thing, a good Covenant blitzkrieg.
The old man hit the street hard running, strutting to the whirr of a thousand donut-hunting sirens. He turned from the wind and continued to walk backwards at the same speed, strafing a mindless couple locked at the tongue and communicating through hand and tit while he lit a fat brown baby cradled gently between his thumb and forefinger. The ex-spartan smoked cigars to take the edge off losing one of his three loves, a mild compense that soothed the wounds left by a suit which had packed its guns and run out on him years ago. Probably for a pretty flyboy, either that or for someone who could hold a conversation for longer than several sentences and smattered with multi-syllabled sayings beyond the anal expository of: 'boo'.
He kept the helmet as a memento of their relationship but it wasn't the same: it represented only a small part of who they were together. Every time he looked into the golden visor, he saw mere glimpses and fragments of his former self. A swirling montage of heroic deeds, screaming prophets and a war that never felt won. It was a size sixteen lifestyle that no other shoe had managed to fill since; he even stuck to plain black plimsoles as a pretense to portray the perception he didn't care. He did, but caring never looked good holding a battle rifle the way he did.
The old man kissed the Colorado maduro widowmaker in the torpedo vitola of a Montecristo number two, paying lip service and engaging in lengthy foreplay of the femme fatale's mind that would lead to scintilating chemical sex with her sultry body. Sex that begun to slowly burn her heavenly sculpted frame and kill an hour of his mental time; at least til the next impatient urge for a high-class Habanos whore.
Murdering her on the street was a kerbcrawling crime with a ten credit fine or a five credit bribe, either vibe were easily covered by the ex-spartan's hefty pension fund. For what it was worth, saving the earth had some benefits after all.
While the UNSC were away in space keeping the peace, the UNEC were at home playing nursemaid to the capitalist beast. Together they were a law that was a law unto itself. A commodity bought by the rich and paid instalments by the poor. Right across the board from enforcers that roamed the streets to the judges that roamed the courts; none were on the level, they all had a price that left them looking the other way or banging a feathersoft gavel.
The city John rushed ignorantly by was a composite giant of metal, glass and concrete, meaning her hair was rusty: her mind transparent and her wit slow moving; a dull mistress that filled the gaps between her colourful inhabitants. When she was dressed up and lit at night, beer vision took off ten kilos and made her look pretty. The next morning, your front door couldn't open fast enough for you to put her back on her own street. John upped sticks under her spell and took an apartment close to her thriving business block, believing their love affair would last; eventually, he realised she was a notion and a hussy belonging to anybody that lived in the area.
The corner store was his first port of call for the day's fixtures, a blaze of german Blonde bottles to help him induce the mood and roll out the red carpet for the Covenant's first wave. He dropped the small crate that was big enough to cave a Kig Yar's skull in down onto the counter surface. The scanner taking several seconds to put together the read of his handcode and his poison.
Every business, retailer and property developer had barcode DNA scanners that were regularly updated with personal information, which meant you couldn't take a piss in a public urinal without the intrusive bleep of a chemical analysis and the patronising tones of a toilet construct telling you to cut back on your salt intake. Handy for those wishing to enjoy a long and healthy life, bad news for those that enjoyed life in the moment, those wishing to 'fly' as it were, from the seat and zip of their pants. Those that liked salt. No nosy programs ruminating over your stool and plucking a clump of anal hair for a more thorough sample. Fancy programmes and programs twenty-four-seven with celebrity endorsements telling you how you should be feeling and what you should be enjoying. Life the old fashioned way was slowly being outmoded.
Now, in the free world, if your doctor had prescribed you lay off curry dishes: no spice stockist, let alone restaurant would sell or serve you rather than risk losing their licence. The ruling bodies were finally onto a winner in keeping you alive to pay your taxes. Dead people were the only folks that didn't pay them, a corpus headache the government was busy remedying behind the scenes.
Everyone alive was already paying a death expectancy tax. If you had a genetic predisposition, a family history of suicide, maybe lived in a rough neighbourhood or just plain out had a death wish: you were paying a higher premium to a government that squandered your tax credits on silk fabric toilet rolls and rentboys. The former being a soft option that eased the pain and prevented the bleeding of you, the citizen, the raison d'etre for their piles and the rubber-rings that lined their parliamentary pews; the latter was simply to lick them better.
The scanner beeped a negative sounding 'beep-beeeep'. John smiled.
"I'm sorry Mr-"
Before the counter facist could speak his last name, the former one-one-seven was already voting with his feet and ringing the exit bell on the door.
John's credit was exiled on main street. Disgruntled but undeterred, he jumped on a hound breaking free from the hubbub of the city and heading for a low road. A little known district contending for top dog in the premier league of crime statistics: The Old Aeth Grail.
A boon town for men in the prohibition know and an undiscovered gem for those without sense.
The city's buzzards and parasites buzzed and scurried by in power shirts and powered suits, pretending to have its vested interests at heart. Waiting to sell the vacant-minded vagabond the pants they stole the night before. Waiting to sell a toothless bearded hag a toothbrush that moonlighted as a comb. Commercial animals robbing all and sundry to reach the highest credit score and attain the illustrious prestige bestowed upon only the most innovative of scumbags. The sort that had their mother's ashes taking a toilet bath ten seconds after the gold lining her urn tripled in value.
Meanwhile, the reflection in the bus window forced an audible sigh from John's lungs. The face that stared him down was a wrinkled and scarred old man: age quickly turning into his greatest foe. A cruel one that would stiffen his joints at night while he was away fighting Covenant forces. Hide socks behind underpant drawers, empty his bladder in the bed without his orders. Change the dates regularly to get him into trouble at work. It would coerce him into thinking he knew someone in the street and even give him memory of serving with them until the police arrived, then the memory would run off and leave John to explain. A sinister game of knock-door-run with the old man answering the door eagerly everytime. Age was a foe that did not know defeat, no matter how many defence creams and miracle pills were in the mirror cabinet.
The trip down false memory lane was interrupted by the realisation that the bus had just passed John's stop.
After a mile walk and the charring of another hooker, the old soldier rested his eyes upon the glorious site that was Cory's. A bar on the outskirts of reason and sanity, smack bang in the middle of The Old Aeth Grail. Neon blue insignia professing to all the love of a bygone era. Live music on tuesdays and thursdays: today was wednesday but John was yet to cotton on. His cell was at home ringing furiously, but it wasn't like he needed the soul-destroying job anyways. He broke the airtight seal that separated the inside from the rest of the world and was sucked headlong into another realm.
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