Subject: TCP: Street Fighting Years Date: Fri, 14 Feb 97 00:00:07 +0000 From: "Ian Foster" To: untold-l@netcom.com (wibble junk) * * * * * * * * Disclaimer - this is a story for The Common People project - for more info see the Common People homepage. http://www.geocities.com/SoHo/4234/common.html It uses a few concepts we've temporarily borrowed from the Marvel Universe, apart from that all ideas/characters etc are mine. Except for the bits that aren't. Rating - not sure what the set rating standards are so I'll just warn you that this story has some reasonably graphic violence, a fair bit of swearing, and no jokes in it. If any of these things seriously offend you then I'd go read something else. * * * * * * * * Free plug - this story is also being archived, along with the rest of my stuff and the Mighty Marvel Mutants Parody Page at http://www.geocities.com/SoHo/7746 (gotta love those free web pages, eh?) * * * * * * * * The Common People Street Fighting Years By Phil Foster And don't you think that I don't care And don't you think that I don't know And don't you hear them calling out In a place not far from here And I hear big wheels are turning Some things are not to fear They say this is the time and place They call street fighting years Simple Minds - Street Fighting Years It was dark, and the shadows easily covered the large, powerfully built man striding towards the closed doors of the warehouse. But then again it wouldn't have mattered if it was broad daylight and the place streaming with people. Dean Carter had never been a subtle man. He'd never needed to be. He moved over to the closed entrance, reached up, put his fingers through the corrugated iron barring his way and pulled the doors easily away from the hinges. The clatter of iron and shattered chains rang round the inside of the large warehouse, startling those inside into action. A sudden burst of energy filled the air with noise as he walked steadily into the center of the open floor. A crowd of men surrounded him, effectively cutting off all chance of escape. He ignored them, staring intently at the large black man who he imagined to be the leader. "Where is it?" he asked. He was angry. Earlier on that night he had discovered his flat burgled, and something very important to him had been taken. He knew who had taken it - few people would be stupid enough to steal from him - and he wanted it back. "Hey, man, who the fuck you think you are? You lookin' ta get fucked over?" "Where is it?" He knew they had it. "Fuck you." The black man gave a signal to the men surrounding Carter, and they responded. Two large men moved forward to grab his arms, the intention being to pin him down while the rest did him over. They grabbed hold and tried to twist, but his arms were immobile. Briefly. In a swift movement he lightly brushed the two men away with the backs of his hands. They hit the walls hard - the sickening sound of shattered bones echoing off the cold metal briefly filled the room. In an instant the black man pulled out a small gun and, confident that his shot couldn't miss at such a range, fired off three shots at the large figure in front of him. Carter stood there and gave a slight grin as the bullets rebounded off his chest, ricocheting off into the darkness. The black man's mouth worked for a second, his mind stuck in disbelief before he gave a yell and turned to run. Carter turned round, and some of the more intelligent of the men ran. The others came at him, either too scared or too stupid to do anything else. Still grinning he went to meet them. A large, tough-looking man got within reach first - he grabbed the man's arms and pulled them off, getting drenched in the warm, thick jets of blood that spurted out of the ruined arm sockets. A jab behind, and his elbow went through someone's skull, mashing the brain underneath. A young man, no more than eighteen years old, was holding a gun at him. He grabbed it and crushed it, mangling the youth's hand into the crushed metal. He got two more before the rest had run, leaving the warehouse ringing with screams and the smell of blood thick in the air. Seeing the last one leaving by the door he ran towards the nearest wall and jumped straight through it, ignoring the thick wood and metal that made up the wall. Looking round he saw the slower ones running only a few feet away from him. A quick, powerful jump and he reached out to grab a skinny, unhealthy looking youth by the scruff of the neck. "AAAHHH! SHIT, MAN! DON'T KILL ME!! DON'T KILL ME!!!DON'T..." Carter moved over to a nearby fence and smashed his catch painfully against the wall. "I ain't gonna kill yer," he said, the tone of his voice shutting the man up instantly. "If yer tell me where it is." "What, man? What'dya want?!" The man's breathing was hoarse and fast in the cold night air, audible over the screams of the surviving few in the bloodbath inside. "You took somethin' from me tonight. Where'dya put it?" "Tonight?! Oh man, I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I'll never touch your place again, man! Just...UUgh!" Carter smashed him into the iron fence again, breaking his nose and several teeth. "Where'dya put it? Last time of asking." "B - Back o' th' warehouse," came the reply, muffled under the fresh flow of blood into the man's mouth. "'S where we store stuff. Behind the cars..." Carter dropped him to the floor and returned to the warehouse, again breaking through a wall. The screaming had stopped by now - the injured men either unconscious or if they were lucky, dead. He moved over to the back of the warehouse and saw the row of cars being fixed or altered there - most of them up on jacks with the licence plates being changed, and fresh paint being applied. Before moving out the back he paused for long enough to pick up one of the cars and use it to smash the other vehicles to pieces. "Smash up my place, I'll smash up yours," he muttered to himself while brushing the broken glass off of him. 'Shit', he thought, noticing the rips in the shirt and jeans he was wearing. They'd been torn up by the glass and bullets. That's one thing he'd forgotten about. He'd always worn tougher clothing when he used to do this. He ripped away the wall at the back to reveal a small room stashed with what were obviously stolen goods waiting to be fenced. TV's, videos, Hi-Fi's, computers - the usual junk for small-time thieves who only wanted the money to pay for their next fix. The light from outside was enough for him to see by, and his eyes were good anyway so he got to work going through the stuff. Throwing the TV's and stereos out of the way he got to a pile of smaller stuff - jewelery, mostly, and piles of cutlery that the stupids gits must've thought was valuable. Most of it wouldn't cost more than a tenner, he knew. Sweeping through the stuff he found what he was looking for - a small wood-and-gold letter rack. One of the few things he had that was remotely valuable anymore. Hardly worth much money, but the stupid bastards were probably so pissed off at what little stuff was in his place that they took them anyway. Stupid for them - that was the only thing Carter had that he would have bothered to come looking for. 'Course it wasn't the letter rack itself he was after - he couldn't care less about it - but they'd taken the letters that were in it as well, and one of them was important to him. He flicked through the pile of letters there until he found the one he was looking for, slipped it into his pocket, and left. * * * * * * * * Carter wandered through the back streets of the council estate, making his way back to his flat. He checked his watch - 10:43, so the off-license would still be open. He looked down at his ripped clothes. Funny how the violence came back so easily, yet he forgot something stupid like that. It'd been long enough ago that he thought it would have been strange, but no. Old habits die hard, and that was one habit that was older than most. He'd given up a lot since then - the jobs, the drugs... even the money hadn't bothered him that much. But not alcohol, he thought as he neared the off-licence. He didn't think he could ever give up the alcohol. That was mostly what kept him off everything else. The electronic bleep of the off-licence door stirred the bored attendant behind the counter, who looked up at him without much of a reaction to his bloodstained clothes. The boy behind the counter was young, but had been working here a while and knew Carter's reputation. "Evenin'" he said carefully. "Evenin'" Carter replied, giving a look that dared the boy to comment on the state of his clothes. "The usual?" "Yep." The boy turned and reached up to the whisky rack, getting down two bottles of Famous Grouse. Cheap and rough, but it did the job. Carter had slapped down two tens and a five by the time he turned back. He gave the change in silence, and watched Carter leave the shop. Once outside Carter broke the top off one of the bottles and gratefully swallowed a large mouthful of the orange liquid inside. He carried on to his flat, feeling the familiar warmth of the whisky flow through him, and by the time he'd reached his door had finished half a bottle. Holding the two bottles in one hand he fumbled with his keys, trying to fit them into the small lock on the door. The whisky was beginning to blur his vision, making coordination difficult, and he had trouble getting the key in. 'Fuck it,' he thought, and smashed the door down with a light tap of his hand. He'd fix it tomorrow, maybe. Slugging down more of the whisky he moved over to the window, slid back down the wall and sat on the floor, one arm supported on a raised knee and the other holding the bottle on the floor. Furniture had always been tricky for him, since only the sturdiest of chairs could support his weight. One of the downsides of who he was. 'No curtains,' he thought, leaning his head back against the wall. He hadn't bothered to turn the lights on, so the glow of the full moon shone down on him and spread its light through the threadbare living room. He felt strange. Normally he'd be celebrating by now, thinking of all the money he'd earned by the night's activities. But that was a way back. It'd been a while since he'd done that sort of damage to people for money, and far far longer since he'd had to do it to survive. He'd spent a long time working the streets, doing jobs for anyone who'd pay him - scare tactics, mostly, but he'd killed for money enough times that he could still do it in his sleep. He slipped the letter out of his pocket and unfolded it. Angling it against the light of the full moon coming in the open window he re-read it for what seemed like the hundredth time... * * * * * * * * "Hey Dean, Bet this is a blast from the past, eh? At least it will be if it gets to you... Where are you nowadays, anyway? I've had a hell of a time trying to track you down, but I'm hoping this'll get to you. So what have you been doing with your life? Got a steady job? Wife? Kids? You realise I haven't heard a thing from you or about you for ten years now - last time I saw you was the night before we all left. God, do you remember that night? Some of them bruises lasted for weeks..." Carter swallowed another mouthful of whisky. Yeah, he could remember that night clearly. A night of celebration - the last time the four of them would be together for a while. It had been good. As things turned out it had been the last really good night he'd possibly ever have. Carter thought back to that night, remembering the friends he'd spent two years of his then-young life with. Andrew had always been the sensible one - his sandy-blonde hair, short beard and tall figure making him look years older than he was. A sharp contrast was Jack. His untidy black hair, wild grin and generally tatty look matched his hedonistic personality. Usually, if anyone got them into trouble it would be Jack. Matt was the quieter one, usually content to follow the others round and do what the rest of them did. They'd spent the evening pub-crawling, following the usual route 'round the local pubs, starting at the quieter ones and moving onto the louder ones as the evening wore on. The unspoken rules were simple - a pint or a double at each pub, and keep moving on 'till closing time, so by the time the four of them were queueing for the club they were well and truly slaughtered, the noise they were making as loud as the thudding bass-line pumping out through the club's walls. The music had been good - high energy dance interspersed with hip-hop and the occasional jungle track - and the club's beer prices were cheap. They'd fallen into the usual pattern of moving between the bar for shots of whisky and onto the dance floor for the music, occasionaly stopping to chat or eye up the women on the dance floor. As the night had worn on the conversation turned to thoughts of the future, couched strongly in terms of who was going to hold the first University party. "Can't be me - I'll be far too busy working," Andrew said. "Bollocks. Too busy shagging women, more like," Jack replied with a grin. Andrew looked wistful for a moment. "Chance'd be a fine thing..." "Ah come on, mate. This is the first year at Uni. F.A.F. and all that." Dean looked quizzically over at Jack. "F.A.F.?" "Fuck A Fresher." "Maybe this Uni bollocks ain't such a bad idea after all..." "'Nother whisky?" The evening ended as it always did - too early - and they piled out at the end into the cold night air, ears still ringing with the pulse of the music. As usual they were still high on the beat, full of energy and alcohol, oblivious to the driving rain pouring down on them. As usual they knew the night wouldn't end there. And as usual it was Jack who started the fight. It had been outside the local chippy where Jack, kebab in hand, had started arguing the relative merits of the local football team with a crowd of Londoners - his favourite target. True to form it had only taken a couple of minutes before his target had thrown a punch, landing him on the ground with a broken nose. The Londoners had crowded round as Dean, Andrew and Matt had moved up behind Jack. The fight lasted barely a minute - a confused mass of bodies striking out almost at random, adrenaline and alcohol thick in the air. Jack received a few good kicks before Dean's large bulk persuaded the other side of the error of their ways, and the four of them stood panting for a moment, clearing their heads of the rush of blood. Dean moved over to where Jack was crouching down, hands on knees spitting blood onto the pavement. He put his hand on Jack's shoulder. "You alright, mate?" Jack looked up, blood welling up from cuts mingling with the rainwater streaming down his face. He grinned. "Fuckin' _A_, mate!" Dean grinned back, threw back his head and yelled, still high from the kick of adrenaline and energy rush of the fight, alcohol and testosterone mixing into a powerful drug in his body. The four of them ran off down the street, jumping on cars, running along walls and making as much noise as they could. They were young, free and above all having a bloody good time. Jack had left for Cardiff the next day, eagerly looking forward to the opportunities of life at University - "Women, beer and... hell, who needs anything else?". Andrew had gone the following day, moving down south to Southhampton University. Matt was the next to leave, heading off to Gloucester to start his apprenticeship in an insurance company. Dean was the only one left, having had no plans and still unsure of what he wanted to do. "Anyway, onto the reason for this letter. In a couple of weeks time it's the fifth anniversary of my wedding - yeah, I'm married! Five years ago I asked the most incredible woman I'd ever met to marry me, and the gullible lady said yes! ('Course I'd gotten her drunk at the time, but hey, it worked...). Tina's her name, and you'll love her. Bit of a turn-around, eh? Me, the original die-hard bachelor getting married. Well what the hell, I suppose we've all got to grow up sometime, and I'll tell you this much, mate, she's the best thing that's ever happened to me. I've been doing pretty well on the work side too. Started my own company repairing computers when I left Uni (graduated with a 2:1!) which is doing well at the moment. It hit a rough patch a little while ago, but I think we've cleared it now, and Tina's given me so much support I think the company's about to really take off. How about you? Last I knew you hadn't really got any plans and was just gonna hang around for a year or so. What did you end up doing in the end? Did you take up on your ideas to go to University?" Carter drank several more mouthfuls of whisky, almost laughing at the idea of going to University. Nah, things hadn't gone quite to plan after that night. After finishing his education he'd had no real plans for what to do next, so he'd just intended to stay at home and get a job until he sorted out what to do with his life. But that hadn't really worked out. Since most of his friends had moved away for one thing or another the only person he had for social contact was his dad, and Carter Sr. had never really recovered from the death of his wife several years earlier. After a few weeks Dean had realised he didn't want to spend the next year watching his father wasting away and had moved out. He hadn't had anywhere in mind so he just picked a city at random, packed his stuff, and left. He'd got enough money to tide him over for a few weeks, and after he'd got a flat and a job things started to look pretty good. He was still spending a lot of his money on alcohol and spent most of his evenings drinking himself to sleep in front of the TV, but his life was slipping into a comfortable routine with little need to change it. Then it was changed for him. Carter stopped reading the letter and held his forearm up in front of him, looking at it in the cold light of the moon. He wondered briefly if Andrew would even recognize him as he was now. He could remember the shock he'd experienced, seeing his body for the first time after he'd changed; even now, nearly ten years later he still wasn't used to what his genetic structure had done to him. He'd always been big - years of exercise as a child had given him a large build and strong muscles, but his mutant genes finally kicking in at the age of nineteen had taken his strength and bulk far beyond what he could ever have normally achieved. The change had been painful; he'd spent a week or so lying on the floor of the flat, utterly exhausted and doing nothing but eating in an attempt to satisfy the incredible hunger he felt. Afterwards he'd hit the bottle seriously. The changes in his body had hurt for weeks afterwards, rendering him unable to do anything but drink himself stupid. He'd lost his job by being unable to attend for over three weeks, and he'd started to rack up debts. His new body was difficult to get used to; his strength had increased to incredible levels - he found a small tap of his hand was able to bring a brick wall down, and his skin had become dense enough that the sharpest knife he could find did no damage at all. The debts began to escalate as his drinking got worse. He didn't realise it, but the changes in his body essentially made him far more resistant to the damaging effects of alcohol than any normal person, so he soon hit the point where he was drunk all the time he was awake. In the end the bank had refused him any more money, and no legal loan agency would touch him, so he'd gone to a private loan shark to pay off the bank debts and pay for the drink. It was then that he'd met his first new boss. "So anyway, it's our anniversary coming up soon, and since it's been a _long_ while since we've all seen each other I thought I'd try and get everyone over to my place to help us celebrate. Hey, it's been ten years since we were all together, and that's far too long if you ask me. Jack and Matt are both coming - you're the only one I haven't heard from, so do us a favour and reply soon? It'd be good to see you again. Speaking of the others I guess you haven't kept in contact with them, either. So to catch up - Jack and me have kept in contact on and off over the years. He's married too. Met a girl at University and they got married when they graduated. They've got a kid, as well. Three year old baby daughter - beautiful little kid. You're not gonna believe this, though - the kid's a mutant! Yeah, you must have heard about them on the news, y'know, people born with a weird genetic structure that gives them all sorts of powers. 'Course Jack and Alice were both pretty worried at first, but the doctors said the kid's gonna be fine. According to Jack, the kid (Rachel, she's called), started growing little lumps on her back after a few months, and get this - they've developed into wings! Yeah, little tiny wings sticking out of her shoulders. It's weird to think about, but when you see her she's such a cute kid, it almost makes me want one. You'll get to see her when you come in a couple of weeks. One thing about Jack - he really has changed. You remember how wild he used to be, always the one to go over the top and take things too far? Well I reckon being a father has really made him grow up. He's calmed down a lot, and for the guy who everyone thought would get into trouble he's really done well for himself." Carter had done pretty well for himself as well, only not in the same way as the others. He'd borrowed money from a loanshark, and been unable to pay it back. When the loanshark had discovered Carter's abilities - after failing to beat the money out of Carter - he'd prudently decided to offer the young mutant a job. So Carter had started working as hired muscle. The initial arrangement was simple - Carter did what he was told and in return he was supplied with as much money for alcohol as he wanted. Of course the loanshark - a small time black market business man named Merlin - had saved large amounts of money on hired muscle, and Carter was far more effective than any number of other people. After a while Carter had learned how the black market worked, and started hiring himself out to other people. Merlin had tried to stop him doing so, claiming exclusive right until Carter had paid his debts, but in the end there was no way Merlin could stop him doing what he wanted, and he'd just left. "Matt has done all right too. His apprenticeship worked out well, and he got a management position in Lloyds. You remember he went into international insurance? Always had a head for figures. Well his job at the moment involves flying round the world several times a year negotiating with clients in countries from the US to Japan. Lucky bastard..." Word soon got around and Carter found himself able to charge high prices for his services, usually involving property damage or scare tactics on dealers. Initially things had been pretty low-level, but as his financial status grew so did his opportunities. The alcohol addiction had been joined by a crack cocaine addiction, and to finance this he had to work on a larger scale - namely professional killings. He thought about quitting the lifestyle often, particularly as he spent more and more time using the crack, and couldn't remember being sober for a long time, but routines were easy to fall into and like most people he found money a very easy thing to get used to. Three years ago his life had changed again. The job he had been on was a simple one, just some scare tactics against a new group of pushers who were trying to make their name on someone else's patch. Carter was being paid good money to convince them to go elsewhere. Tracking them down had been easy - they were all clearly inexperienced and young, which would make this job even easier. He'd cornered them outside a nightclub where they were busy selling small time drugs to small time drug users and had separated them from the crowd. Out in a back alley he'd given them the usual speech and was about to do a little damage to press the point home. "Look, kid," he'd said. "All you gotta do is cut yer losses and clear out. Yer on someone else's ground here who's been around a lot longer than you have. Got it?" "Yeah? And what'ya gonna do about it? Gonna make us, eh?" The smartmouthed one at the front moved forward slightly. Carter gave a small inward grin as he moved forward to teach the little sod a lesson. Then he'd stopped dead. The other three had moved in behind the first one, ready for a fight. Not a threat to him at all, but there was something about them that made him stop as a flash of memory flooded through his head. He had become an expert on the body language of violence over the years, and he recognized something in these four that triggered a change in his head. They were all flushed with adrenaline, hearts pounding in anticipation of the fight, ready and almost eager to do some damage to someone. Yet there was something special there that he hadn't seen in a long while. Not since he'd done the same thing himself... They were all ready to fight for each other. All willing to put everything into defending their friends. Drug dealers they may be, but he could tell that not one of them would run until the rest were safe. In a flash he could see an image from years ago overlay itself. The four drug dealers changed and became Jack, Andrew, Matt and himself, that last Tuesday evening, ready for a fight outside the club. Ready to fight not only to defend themselves, but to defend each other. Ready to fight for their friends... Carter had felt his heart lurch as memories washed over him. In a sudden burst of lucid reason he had remembered what it was like, what he used to be like, and he felt a wash of incredible guilt and anger over what he'd become. He'd suddenly seen the waste he'd made of his life, compared to what he could have become, all the realities he'd been hiding from suddenly came to life infront of him. He had stood back, looking at the four youths for a long moment. "Fuck it," he'd said, and turned back out of the alley. He wouldn't be collecting the money for that job. He wouldn't be collecting the money for any job any more. "So anyway, get in contact soon, let me know where you are and I'll give you more information about my anniversary celebration. I mean it - call me _soon_. I'm really looking forward to hearing from you, and we've got a hell of a lot to catch up on. Like I said, it's been ten years since we were last together. That's too long. All the best, my friend Andrew Collins PS - you owe me a bottle of whisky..." Carter carried on drinking the whisky, down to the last half-bottle now, and stared at the letter in his hand. This was the opportunity to get back on track. Go and meet his old friends, renew his old lifestyle before things had got messed up. Go and see how they'd made successes of their lives, congratulate them on settling down, creating families and lives for themselves and hope that somehow he could do the same thing. But could he? Could he go and fit back into that lifestyle that easily? There were ten years between them all now, ten years of drinking, of violence, of taking the easy path out. Andrew, Jack and Matt had all made something of themselves, gone on to create a life worth living, become people worth being. He hadn't. Could he go back and fit into their lives with what he'd done, what he was? Jack had a kid now, and what father would want their daughter to grow up with any connection to a drunk failure like him? But he wanted to. He'd kicked the drug habit, dropped out of the black market lifestyle, moved away and dropped all traces of his former life. He'd stopped doing the easy work - an addiction just as strong as the crack - and was living a life within the law now. He had enough money left to support him for some time. Maybe now was the time to finally kick all habits - the drink habit, the anti-social lifestyle, and above all the near lifelong habit he had of taking the easy option, going for the path of least resistance just because he couldn't be bothered to put in the effort it would take to make his life the success it could have been. Yeah. Maybe it was time his life changed again. He stood up carefully, moved over to the shabby desk on the other side of the room and sat down on the reinforced chair. Taking a deep breath he picked up the phone, read the number off the top of the letter, and began to dial... * * * * * * * * As usual comments, praise and money all accepted at - -- ****************************************** Ian Philip Foster | ianf@cogs.susx.ac.uk 'Moines a point 'o scrumpy!' If we aren't supposed to eat animals, why are they made of meat? ******************************************