Figures appear in the distance. We live and die by the glint of iron on the distant horizon. Larry catches two in the head and gets the blood absolutely everywhere. The rest of the crew try to shoot back while I make a break for it. Someone swings at me but I tase him and his gimmicked fingers malfunction into knives easy enough.
"To explain: there is a vast network. A whole ocean of possibilities. Now these here amulets will protect you from curses both witchcraft and voodoo in origin, up to three demonic possessions, malignant sigils and scabies. They'll be expecting a full report in the offices and I for one do not intend to get written up again."
The firefight switches into the high-noon showdown. They bring out the old cliches. In the red corner, weighing in at one hundred fifty pounds and packing a Ruger Bearcat, Theodore Rosenstein my collaborator and neighbor from the flat downstairs. In blue, of mass only detectable with a particle accelerator and wielding authority roughly equivalent to the energy output of a neutron star is the unnameable presence behind this whole thing. It's gonna be a hell of a fight, kid. The dusty street goes quiet. Tumble weeds beam in over the shortwave unconvincingly. Three cold seconds under the desert sun. For a moment everyone has fixed themselves in the world. Then Theodore moves - too soon - and it's all over in an instant. He screams as the big hands come down. The new rules are read forth briskly and terribly by every roided up goon of the right and established order of Goons and any fucker tries to shirk his union fees is subject to a beating at full cost.
