Angry Jasper-One

CHAPTER ONE

The World Sucks




ONE
The sun was just coming up, blood red through the dusty haze of a pitched battle on the horizon. Bright orange and red laser arcs chewed the sky at unseen targets. The long low continuous rumble of distant war shook the dusty streets of that little Texas town, somewhere south the ancient city of Dallas, which was now a deep and lifeless crater. The rectangular silhouette of a Corporation freighter rose silent across the oblong disk, running for hard mars. Ships went far more frequently than they came these days. It left an undeniable impression that the earth was being abandoned to the Rebel alliance, and that the last Corporation enclaves might be overrun at any time. That sense was fully evident on the deserted streets of tiny Crawford.

The freighter climbed quickly, keeping just ahead of two rebel rockets that raced skyward before tumbling impotently back to earth. The rebellion was problematic enough on earth, but they had taken their cause throughout the solar system. Their operatives and saboteurs were woven and concealed within every level of the Corporation. For now they were a latent cancer, biding their time and waiting, even as the Corporation hunted them relentlessly.

The freighter threw a shadow momentarily across the wood plank floor of an all night tavern. The ship and fat red sun were neatly framed by the tavern’s only window. A rusting metal sign reading THE SANCTUARY creaked on rusting hinges, a few decibels louder than the encroaching battle. There were three bullet holes in the window. All of them went out.

The place was empty, almost. Its wood blank wall were sooted from decades of tobacco smoke, spattered blood and filth. The tables and chairs were simple, adorned with cheap white doilies and tea-light candles in yellowing shot glasses. Much of the furniture appeared to have been repaired many times over, the legs broken or shortened so that some leaned precariously. The floor was worn to bare wood. Faded centerfold harlots, most torn, or sporting obscene scribbles were tacked to the walls at odd angles.

The bar reeked of stale beer, sweat and ammonia fighting to conceal the biting stink of vomit. It gave the place a dark and dangerous quality, like a back alley crime scene. A Hank Williams’ song was playing from a small and ancient radio behind the bar. It only confirmed the languishing desperation of the place.

A lone figure sat at the end of the bar, half consumed in shadow. He could see the door from where he sat. Not that he was expecting anyone in particular, just in general. He had his fair share of enemies, and was a fugitive a dozen times over, from Jupiter to the moon. He'd come to Earth in a halfhearted wish to join the rebellion. Not because he cared a wit about their cause, the so-called Earth-firsters who clung to the fool-hardy belief that man's place was on the home planet, the place of mankind's birth and evolution. They believed that abandoning Earth for the stars was an abomination, a denial of the very essence of our humanity. If nothing else, the fugitive figured, he'd get to kill someone and get paid for it!

Naw, he didn’t put much faith into all that Earth-first tripe. The fugitive didn't buy a lick of it, nor did he give a Titan-sea-slug either, but he figured it was the last place in the whole god-forsaken solar system where the Corporation could touch him. Only problem was, he’d have to go and fight if he crossed to the rebel side. Not that he ever ran from a fight, but he preferred them where when and with whom he chose.

Even the Corporation had long ago forgotten his original crimes. Not that he would admit any guilt, not often anyway. He bragged about them when he felt the need to bend the ear of a fellow drinker or some hybrid trollop he was momentarily smitten over. Didn’t much matter what those crimes were anymore. All that matter was that they felt like part of a larger process that was quickly coming to its conclusion. Just what that conclusion was exactly, well, who could say?

He was a huge sod, with arms the size of tree trunks. His mis-formed face was folded with a feverish scowl betraying a murderous mood. The deep lines of his brutish forehead overlapped, shadowing deep-set black eyes. A huge double chin and crooked jaw line protruded almost grotesquely outward. Scars, odd lumps and strange patches of hair covered his face.

That massive head sort of lolled back and forth to a rhythm of short, grunting breaths, like a mad dog that ought have been put down long ago. Drinking only helped focus his nasty mood. He’d gone through a bottle of vodka already, and was well into his second. Giant hands wrapped fully around the bottle, as though he meant to crush the thing, or that he might just swallow the whole damn thing, bottle and all. The ashtray before him was filled to overflowing.

The guy stunk something awful, a putrid mixture of sweat, turned liquor and death. The kind of stink that chased flies away, made hogs bury their nose or made maggots gag. But it was his expression that told the lout’s story best. It was the face of a man who knew he was done for, and now it was just a matter of how many he would take down with him.

He lit a cigarette and looked up through a cloud of smoke at a figure striding down the center of the street. Tumble weed bounced between the approaching stranger and the tavern, chased by a dusty gust of wind. The fugitive grinned and crumbled the lit cigarette in his palm. When life becomes a cliché, he thought of the tumbleweed, then its time to get out. But he was damned to leave this world easily, and certainly not alone!