Don’t Go Fly A Kite

The bastard children of carnivale ran the street in animal masks – through the cultural delineation zones, chasing their balls, their hoops, their friends. Kids orbited each other and the gravity wells of society in a different way – their maps weren’t the solid things that adults were trapped in; they ran free through the back-alleys of imagination and the landscape of dreams … and they saw no difference between what they fantasised and the waking world. Because they willed it, it was so.

Jerome stood on the cross streets of Gabriel Garcia Marquez and Ennio Morricone and flew his goldfish kite high in the air. He was being scoped by two cops, suspicion bred into them from the moment they dropped from the maturation chambers – was he flying an aerial for a pirate radio station? They’d been trying to  shutdown Bluebeard Pirate Zone for the longest time but it was like trying to nail down jello.

Out here Jerome chewed the Smoke Gum and never popped  the Skull Smokes in his mouth … anything vaguely out of sorts and you’d be on a one way trip to the kerb with a trepanned skull, night-stick wielding cop stood over you, espousing the Creed of Decency. He hadn’t thought flying a kite was dangerous, but he was being seriously eye-balled. He tap-tapped the All Porpoise in his pocket and and traced the sigil that he’d short-coded to get Heela , his ride to pick up quick-smart. The AP buzzed twice – the number of buzzes signifying how many minutes Heela was away from him. Not far, but in two minutes he could travel to a world of hurt, if Fascist Cop and his buddy decided to walk over.

These streets were usually safe, but introduce certain elements and the day would start to see-saw on a hair trigger regardless of a place’s usual disposition. Jerome was reeling in his kite, bringing it down from the beautiful blue sky that had said to him this is going to be a good day; now looking at that sky he wondered if he had just been reading misleading omens in the clouds. He hoped not.

Heela pulled up in her Green Bug Taxi.

‘Jump in, bro.’ He did. And they peeled out. He looked over his shoulder and the cops had thankfully become disinterested.

‘Thanks, Heela, you really pulled my fat out of the fire.’

‘Why you sweatin’ it?’

‘Two cops checking me out.’

‘For what?’

‘Flying a kite.’

‘Oh, shit, man – you’re out on the edge; original punk rocker status confirmed.’

He smiled: ‘Crazy fucking city.’

‘You said it, dude.’

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