archive note: This version has been successful in conveying the narrative, tone and intent of the story. However, it is written in a rather literal and expository manner that doesn't do the story enough justice. It is preserved here in recognition of its merit.
First published on Genesis Planetary on 24 Jun 2017.
[This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.]
The city was filled endlessly with these streets. Wide-built, marked by a row of towering commercial buildings on each side, most of them dilapidated or on the verge of becoming heritage sites. The pavements were rough and filled with potholes, not that anyone noticed. The ground levels of the buildings often contained small stores, most of them in the business of convenience stores, selling basic necessities. But some stores were dark, filled with rough, dark and questionable people. I didn’t want to find out what they sold.
I was in Yodoya. A new district built to house millions upon millions of the poorest, weakest, sickest and most unfavourable people in the city. However, Yana-Min Shrine, a famous tourist attraction was found in the middle of the district. This side street was a lot quieter than the main road, which was filled with the sound of traffic. I walked past the old man. He was standing at the corner smoking a cigarette. This street looked dangerous. Groups of tattooed men stood outside the doors of similarly unrespectable looking shacks. Their eyes followed me as I went along. There were peddlers hoping to get tourists to drop their money: enticing many of them with clearly fake jewellery and watches; as well as terrible replicas of famous monuments and figures, and certain old men and women who were dispensing an unknown concoction to equally distasteful patrons. I never dared to purchase the solution but from walking past the trolleys and staring into the iceboxes, it can be said that it must’ve been an incredibly rancid and disgusting drink.
To the left, there was a distinctly noticeable building, noticeable because of its disreputable function. There was a large fluorescent sign flashing Chinese characters, which from their appearance alone made me shudder. The establishment appeared to be a hybrid between a speakeasy, an escort service and a brothel. Regardless, it must have been operated by the mob. Enforcers stood outside its doors dressed in tailored suits. As I was watching them, and was subsequently watched by the enforcers, a flood of people left the building, stumbling and tumbling their way around. Evidently, they were drunk. They consisted of a few men dressed in suits, smoking cigarettes, surrounded by a mass of screaming, clinging women, who were all in short dresses and hidden under a mask of makeup.
The boss was an intensely obese man. Every step made the marbles of fat bulging under his shirt rumble. His hair was greasy and slicked up into a very solid protrusion from his head. Beads of sweat dripped down from his forehead, into his eyes, down his neck and onto the ladies surrounding him. His suit was soaked, large wet patches surrounded his shoulders. It was a hot June day. His left leg wasn’t too strong and he walked with a limp that made his short demeanour ever more disgusting. His associates, tired of the incessant noise and mortifying act of consulting with him, lead each of their escorts into the respective limousines and drove off.
The brochure had said that the Society was a utopia and indeed it was. From the airport to the glistening skyscrapers lining the skyline, it was a marvel to look at. But it hid a dark and deadly underbelly of criminals who filled in as regional administrators. Poverty was incredibly high outside of Old and New Taipei, and crime and dissidence were just as high. I had been told that the law was incredibly harsh in the Society but it was nothing compared to what I was about to witness.
The old man began to weave his way through the crowd. A few metres back, I followed him. He was rugged and grey, and despite his aged weary appearance, was a very fit and powerful man. He wore a dirty brown trench coat, laden with holes, patchwork and dried blood stains. The ownership of weapons is illegal in the Society. But he holstered a very familiar weapon. A rusting silver modern Beretta M9 complete with electrical safety mechanisms, the facility of a charged stun and a single non-removable X52 lithium cartridge. It was almost identical to the Keeper standard issue. The Keepers are essentially the police in the Society, but many of them are also soldiers, officers and various other government agents.
The old man walked up past an enforcer, flipped him and pushed him to the ground. Then, with the other enforcers alerted, whipped out his pistol, and shot each enforcer one by one, defeating them using military techniques, before turning his weapon on the Fat Man. The Old Man used to know the Fat Man back when he was young. A troublemaker who was stopped multiple times for selling drugs (illegal in the Society), distributing pirated media and stealing. The Old Man used to think that he would straighten himself up until one day, the Fat Man and his gang broke into the house of the Old Man, held his wife hostage and threatened to kill her in order to find out where their seized drugs were. A goon accidentally shot the wife, causing the Old Man spurred by trauma to use his training and brutally execute anyone who failed to escape from the room.
All the escorts immediately left the Fat Man except for one, who was obviously his mistress. She stood in front of the Old Man and begged and prayed for him to stop, tugging on his coat, crying and screaming, “Oh mercy! Oh mercy!” A crowd had now assembled in a large circle around the group. The old man stood a few feet in front of the fat man. He pushed the mistress away and she fell onto the street, crying and gasping. The fat man was paralysed. He could do nothing. More sweat beaded down his neck and his fat fingers were shaking beyond recognition. I stood watching from afar.
“What the f* do you want, man?”
Despite his age, the Fat Man still acted like a child. He dropped to his knees, crying and sniffling begged the old man from mercy, then crawled over and kissed the toe of his shoe. The Old Man pulled him up to his feet, pushed him away and pointed the gun back at him. Desperately wanting to stay alive, the Fat Man grabbed one of the escorts and held her in front of him. But she slapped him and quickly ran away. There was no noise from the crowd. Not a single word. The old man pulled out a pack of cigarettes, removed one and replaced his pack. Then he took out a single match, struck it on the barrel and lit his cigarette. The smoke bounced off his face and the glow lit up his red eyes.
“I’ll give you anything you want man. Just leave me alone.”
The Fat Man took out his wallet, hand covered in sweat and still shaking, pulled out a wad of 1000 KHRONOS bills throwing them to the ground. The old man smiled. I could tell that what he wanted wasn’t money, it was something else. He continued smoking. And it started raining. The mistress cried louder and louder as her expensive Versace dress was soaked. The Fat Man’s face changed. Instead of misery or fear, it was filled with a smirk.
Shuffling happened in the crowd and I watched as the Keepers surrounded the Old Man. They were dressed in their regulation white trench coats, with their visors over their eyes and their weapons trained on the man. One of them, probably the Captain, spoke.
“Zhang Shi-Ming.”
The Old Man turned slightly. He recognised the face. It was his son. The face was filled with a deadly look. He looked back to the Fat Man. He smirked and laughed heartily. I was later told that he knew what his son had become, a Keeper corrupted by money and bought into the pocket of the Fat Man. The person who told me this was their neighbour and we chatted very secretively whilst pretending to survey the myriads of trash collectables of a peddler.
Another Keeper, a woman spoke in Chinese. The Old Man ignored them. The street was filled with tension as they stood there for a good ten minutes. And as his cigarette was dying, the Old Man spat it out, ducked and shot at the Fat Man. The ringing sound of a gunshot filled the street and the crowd shrunk. The Old Man was on his knees. There was a gunshot wound in his left leg. An escort lay dead on the ground. The Captain walked over to the Old Man whilst the woman collected the KHRONOS. He asked the old man what his last words were.
Then the sound of a bullet pierced through the silence in the street, resonating, just like the echoes of his last words
Social Justice.