Here's the brief fiction interlude, right at the start of the book--Enjoy!
It’s always raining here. A cold wet drizzle pours down, desperately trying to wash away all of the filth and shame that seems to work its way out into the streets. Even the streetwalkers have decided to pack it up, going back to whatever hovel their pimp has them sleeping in tonight. The gangers are still out, trudging through the rain-slicked streets, but even they’re quiet.
I took out four of them earlier, down in New Corinth. They were hassling a push-cart vendor, because someone didn’t like his pita bread. I broke one’s jaw, and at least one of the others won’t be walking for another three months. Fucker deserved it. He pulled a knife on me. The other two were smart enough to run away—I let ‘em go. They didn’t get into the poor guy’s cash register, at least. Achmed gets to take home his cash box for another day.
I headed back up Sixteeenth Street, and then climbed the Grandview Building. One of those bastards must have gotten a good shot in; my shoulder felt swollen and tender. At least that one didn’t have a knife. I was out of commission for almost two weeks, when one of the Rojo Bastardes caught me in the back with a switchblade.
I think I’m going to start carrying a gun. It’s worked for Double-Tap. Hell, we’re all criminals anyway. The Nornsby Act’s seen to that. When they catch me, I’m looking at 10-12 in Solitary. Double-Tap will probably get life—he gunned down a cop, trying to get back to headquarters. Serves them both right: Double-Tap for being stupid, and the cop for trying to take down one of the good guys. At least the cop lived—he’ll just be in a wheelchair for the next few decades.At least the gun will mean a little more protection. This Kevlar plate only goes so far, and it’s kind of hard to punch a guy when he’s pumping off .38 rounds into your chest. After all, I don’t have to use it…right?