Green Thumb
The young man held an arrogant smile on his face as he crossed the street. The concrete was cracked, split in some places, bits of gravel everywhere and some chunks of rock jutting up from the ground—the wreckage of several large impact crashes, no doubt the work of two bikers booking it at the speed of sound. He flicked his green cyber shades down from the top of his head. A line of digits flashed before his eyes and––
“WATCH OUT FUCKER!” someone yelled at him, but since the angular hover bike was racing at the speed of sound, the flash of blue metal roared just above his head before the curse reached his ears. Hardly fazed, he raised his hand out to the stream of light left behind by the rider—all fingers bent except for the forefinger, which pointed up to the heavens, as if calling down God. The universal sign for: Do I look like I give a fuck? Or something along those lines. He continued towards the club, and the multicolored lights folded around his pale skin.
The man couldn’t have been more than 20 years old. It’s really not possible. His long hair was dyed dark green, pulled back in a messy ponytail. The rest of his attire followed chromatically—his near black leather pants gleamed green in the flashing lights from Paint; his rugged army jacket had the sleeves ripped off and hung loosely; a half-face gas mask hung below his jaw, spray painted neon green. And down his bare arms, green ink twisted itself in decorative symbols and patterns of a crazed tattoo artist.
He just couldn’t be an adult. The kid was so flamboyantly Green that he probably has a few flunkies of his own; he might have even been a gang leader. And there’s just no way an adult would be allowed in a color gang, even if they were the voodoo master guru of their color. The fact is, once all those raging teenage hormones leave someone, their color just flickers, fades, and dies. Even for this guy, even though this cat has a green aura on him so thick that it could actually be pea soup.
Of course that could just be the colorshock. No doubt if this kid was in some gang business, he’d also be shooting up a bit of condensed light. The twin short goat horns curling up the top of his head are a clear give-away of his color-chi abuse. Colorshock tends to do that stuff to you. Deadly abuse. But as he would say, Death and drugs, it’s all part of the play. Crash and burn!
The gangster walked up to the front of the club, nodding at the bouncers absentmindedly. They let him pass, but shared a nervous look. One of them touched his ear and whispered, “Trouble’s coming.”
As the punk stepped through the doorway, through the smoke, mirrors and strobe lights, only a few notice him. By the time he sat down at the bar, everyone knew he was there, his name on their lips, his reputation in their minds. A tap on the rim of his cybershades and he felt the stream of artificial intelligent bitmites swarm past his eyes, settling across the surface of his brain and latching onto the flesh of his mind. At once, a hoard of text scrolled over his eyes, or perhaps it was behind what he saw.
“Hey, Rook,” he said, taking the can the bartender placed before him. Snap he opened the top, and took a sip, scrolling down the green-tinted screen before his eyes, pushing away the unwanted text with his mind.
Hey, Darc, you’re here finally. The whole gang’s been waiting. _Jade
Darc!! Darling, call me! _Alycia
Fucking snot head _Anonymous User
I’m coming for you, fucker _Deth
“How’s it going, Darc?” Rook asked over the sounds of band, sliding a few more drinks down the smooth tabletop to his customers. Darc closed his mind to the text, sending a quick thought to Jade.
Well we might have to book it,
Deth’s here _Darc
“Good enough,” Darc yelled, crushing the now empty can with one hand. A few green sparks lit up from his fingers. “Give Spade my best, the summer harvest was kickin’.”
“Okay friend. Don’t look now, but trouble’s coming to chat a bit.” The bartender Rook nodded at something over Darc’s shoulder, looking grim. Darc took his glasses off. At once the world around him looked slightly orange, no longer tinted by the green lenses. With almost pitch black eyes, he looked up at the mirror behind the shelves of glasses and bottles. A group of three in red walked up to him, the one in front had a familiar fire in his glare, and he raised his hand to point at––
Darc spun around on the stool, and whipped his hands forward, poised like guns before they snapped back with a flash of green light that collided with the burst of red headed towards him.
“Hi Deth.” Darc shoved his index finger in the other’s face, the pantomime of a gun. The tip of his finger glowed with light, Gives a whole new meaning to phrase ‘green thumb’ Darc thought.
“Darc,” Death growled, clenching his fists by his sides. His clenched fists spit red sparks and the two gangsters behind Deth held up glowing hands. The people at the bar had already rushed away more with annoyance than fear.
“Hey boys, not at the bar!” Rook cried, but it was too late.
Fog machine smoke lit up brilliantly with red and green. Below on the dance floor more flashes of color joined the fray—not just green, red and blue, but every color imaginable, every color in the whole fuckin’ rainbow and then a few…
“Crash and burn baby!”
The young man held an arrogant smile on his face as he crossed the street. The concrete was cracked, split in some places, bits of gravel everywhere and some chunks of rock jutting up from the ground—the wreckage of several large impact crashes, no doubt the work of two bikers booking it at the speed of sound. He flicked his green cyber shades down from the top of his head. A line of digits flashed before his eyes and––
“WATCH OUT FUCKER!” someone yelled at him, but since the angular hover bike was racing at the speed of sound, the flash of blue metal roared just above his head before the curse reached his ears. Hardly fazed, he raised his hand out to the stream of light left behind by the rider—all fingers bent except for the forefinger, which pointed up to the heavens, as if calling down God. The universal sign for: Do I look like I give a fuck? Or something along those lines. He continued towards the club, and the multicolored lights folded around his pale skin.
The man couldn’t have been more than 20 years old. It’s really not possible. His long hair was dyed dark green, pulled back in a messy ponytail. The rest of his attire followed chromatically—his near black leather pants gleamed green in the flashing lights from Paint; his rugged army jacket had the sleeves ripped off and hung loosely; a half-face gas mask hung below his jaw, spray painted neon green. And down his bare arms, green ink twisted itself in decorative symbols and patterns of a crazed tattoo artist.
He just couldn’t be an adult. The kid was so flamboyantly Green that he probably has a few flunkies of his own; he might have even been a gang leader. And there’s just no way an adult would be allowed in a color gang, even if they were the voodoo master guru of their color. The fact is, once all those raging teenage hormones leave someone, their color just flickers, fades, and dies. Even for this guy, even though this cat has a green aura on him so thick that it could actually be pea soup.
Of course that could just be the colorshock. No doubt if this kid was in some gang business, he’d also be shooting up a bit of condensed light. The twin short goat horns curling up the top of his head are a clear give-away of his color-chi abuse. Colorshock tends to do that stuff to you. Deadly abuse. But as he would say, Death and drugs, it’s all part of the play. Crash and burn!
The gangster walked up to the front of the club, nodding at the bouncers absentmindedly. They let him pass, but shared a nervous look. One of them touched his ear and whispered, “Trouble’s coming.”
As the punk stepped through the doorway, through the smoke, mirrors and strobe lights, only a few notice him. By the time he sat down at the bar, everyone knew he was there, his name on their lips, his reputation in their minds. A tap on the rim of his cybershades and he felt the stream of artificial intelligent bitmites swarm past his eyes, settling across the surface of his brain and latching onto the flesh of his mind. At once, a hoard of text scrolled over his eyes, or perhaps it was behind what he saw.
“Hey, Rook,” he said, taking the can the bartender placed before him. Snap he opened the top, and took a sip, scrolling down the green-tinted screen before his eyes, pushing away the unwanted text with his mind.
Hey, Darc, you’re here finally. The whole gang’s been waiting. _Jade
Darc!! Darling, call me! _Alycia
Fucking snot head _Anonymous User
I’m coming for you, fucker _Deth
“How’s it going, Darc?” Rook asked over the sounds of band, sliding a few more drinks down the smooth tabletop to his customers. Darc closed his mind to the text, sending a quick thought to Jade.
Well we might have to book it,
Deth’s here _Darc
“Good enough,” Darc yelled, crushing the now empty can with one hand. A few green sparks lit up from his fingers. “Give Spade my best, the summer harvest was kickin’.”
“Okay friend. Don’t look now, but trouble’s coming to chat a bit.” The bartender Rook nodded at something over Darc’s shoulder, looking grim. Darc took his glasses off. At once the world around him looked slightly orange, no longer tinted by the green lenses. With almost pitch black eyes, he looked up at the mirror behind the shelves of glasses and bottles. A group of three in red walked up to him, the one in front had a familiar fire in his glare, and he raised his hand to point at––
Darc spun around on the stool, and whipped his hands forward, poised like guns before they snapped back with a flash of green light that collided with the burst of red headed towards him.
“Hi Deth.” Darc shoved his index finger in the other’s face, the pantomime of a gun. The tip of his finger glowed with light, Gives a whole new meaning to phrase ‘green thumb’ Darc thought.
“Darc,” Death growled, clenching his fists by his sides. His clenched fists spit red sparks and the two gangsters behind Deth held up glowing hands. The people at the bar had already rushed away more with annoyance than fear.
“Hey boys, not at the bar!” Rook cried, but it was too late.
Fog machine smoke lit up brilliantly with red and green. Below on the dance floor more flashes of color joined the fray—not just green, red and blue, but every color imaginable, every color in the whole fuckin’ rainbow and then a few…
“Crash and burn baby!”