a SLA Industries story by max.rock

Frantic and his friends were getting into position. Randall and his brother were on the other side of the street, while Wire and two other guys were closing in behind the approaching Slop.

They had received word from the owner of the bar, a double-crossing piece of slimy scum they had befriended some time ago, and now every time someone was having a major run in some of the backrooms, they got a call - and the owner five percent of the stash as well as not receiving major injuries. It had taken some time to convince the bastard to cooperate, but when his kids suddenly got lost on the streets of DownTown, he was more than happy to help. It had been a great time and by now they had a thriving business.

The Slop walked along the streets, trying to use their natural cover as often as possible and it seemed as if he had some well-developed paranoia. This was surely to be expected from an operative living in DownTown - and, of course, it would make this more interesting for all of them.

Frantic gave Randall the sign and as planned, both of them disappeared in a narrow alley. The others were closing in now more rapidly. He drew his shotgun and moved slowly towards the Slop, starting to smile when he saw the Slop beginning to get real nervous. Seemed to have seen the three behind him.

It worked nicely as usual; the prey got pushed into his direction - right into the killing zone, that Randall together with his brother on one side and he on the other side were building up.

Suddenly the Slop looked into the direction where Randall and his brother were hiding. What the fuck? They had started the usual bickering about who may shoot first. These bastards were blowing it all, fucking junkies. He raised his shotgun, but it was to late, the Slop too fast, diving into the next doorway.

"Get the bastard!" He started running. This was their home, no way he could loose the Slop around here. He saw Randall pulling up his brother, pushing him through the alley to the next parallel street while Wire and his buddies were sprinting into the next street to cut the Slop off before he could leave the house through the backdoor.

He arrived the door which the Slop had broken down - nice work, wouldn´t save him - and sprinted into the hallway. Outside he heard the shouts of his friends. They were in hunting mood and crazy for blood. If they blew this again, he would have to take more severe measures. Shooting Randall's brother, perhaps, would be a good start.

He sprinted up the stairway, looking directly thorugh a broken window at the top of the stairs. Bad luck bastard, ouside the others should have arrived by now. He carfully moved to the window and looked outside.

Then he was hit into his back by what must have been a drop ship. While realizing that there was pain, major pain, the force of the blow smashed him against the wall, his vision blurring, alternating between red and black. And then there was the floor.

It was cold and he was freezing like hell, shivering. He didn´t know how long he had been out, but the liquid all around him was still warm. He tried to stand up and nearly fainted again. What the fuck had happend? Thorugh the window, he heard voices and slowly he got up, using the window frame as a rest, keeping close to the wall.

He couldn´t see much with his vision still blurred, just the grey, dark street and some figures moving and talking. He head the voices, but couldn´t understand the words. Why were they talking? They should have killed the Slop by now.

Slowly he began focus on what was happening on the street, trying to ignore the pain that was rushing thorugh his body while his blood was flushing out at the same speed. He had to get to a doc very soon. Perhaps Jackal and his pet Ebon could help out.

Something was strange out there. He counted the shapes ... seven. One too much. Concentrating on the scene, he could make out the new arrival standing next to something like a bike, strangely coloured in urban camo, listening to the hectically talking Slop, while Wire and his guys were approaching with drawn guns, Randall and his brother just standing there, acting as backup. What kept them from killing them both?

He was still trying to get some sense into all of this when suddenly all hell broke loose. Randall's brother started shooting at the Slop and the other freak, strangely missing both, only hitting the bike. Frantic could see how the relaxed figure of the bastard suddenly straightened and tensed.

Something was definitely wrong here.

The strange one was suddenly a blurred shape, swirling with action, kicking the legs of the Slop away, the RainMan Duster sweeping around in a circular motion. Completing the circle, there were suddenly two SMG´s in that bastard's hands, which had not been there erlier and before Randall or his brother could react, both were showered with bullets.

Frantic had the sensation of seeing it all in slow motion; bullet for bullet hitting the bodies of his friends; everything in perfect synchronization: the corpses' dance, bloody fountains streaming out of craters of flesh and broken bone. And slowly the hits were wandering upwards, seeking the head.

The stranger kept shooting until the heads were completely blown away and when his SMG´s bolts clicked, he just dropped them, the metallic noise of their impact on the ground ringing through the empty alley at the same moment as Frantic's both friends' bodies dropped dead on the dirty street.

Desperate, Frantic wanted to help, wanted to warn, but all he managed to do was holding to the frame, standing upright, watching the events unfold.

Not realizing what had happened, fear beginning to creep into their eyes, Wire and the others were starting to fire back at the stranger - all of them blazing furiously away with shotguns or SMG's.

And the sick bastard was just walking into their direction, right into the fire.

They kept on firing. Frantic couldn't believe what he saw. This guy was walking right through a wall of lead, unscratched, as if he was walking through rain. Slowly a creepy feeling started to worm through his spine. What was happening here?

He watched the stranger arrive in front of Wire - who was frantically pumping shots into the the freak's body, but to no avail - drawing two pistols, pressing one right gun under Wires chin. Frantic could see Wire's eyes go blank.

And while the one, single shot splattered most of Wire's brain into the steamy air the rest of his friends turned and started to run, but before Wire's dead body even could hit the floor, this crazy piece of shit opened fire on them.

And again, for the last time, Frantice watched the shots leaving the barrels of the freak's guns in perfect unsion, he bullets hitting their marks, like pearls strung on a precious chain. Spraying blood, splinters of bone and brain raining all over the street, the bodies of his friends convulsed a last time and then dropped dead onto the rainy, silent street.

His grip to the frame was getting weaker and he began to slip down, leaving a crimson stain on the mouldy tapestry of the wall. Together with his blood, the last of his strength had left his body.

Cowering at the top of the stairs, his back to the wall underneath the window, he saw the stream of blood slowly creeping down the stairs.

It all faded to grey and then to black. He wouldn´t make it.

The pain slowly fading, his body beginning to feel as if it would start to float, he couldn't see, but he heard the voices from underneath the window, only whispers to his ears, but perhaps someone would find him in time, some of the rest of his gang. Perhaps they could get him to a doc in time. There was hope, someone had just to find him.

The whispers again and this time words.

"Thank you, sir, but ..... how? Impossible."



"Departement of Stigmartyr, thank you for your cooperation."


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