Gallows Humour | Watty's 2023

The After Market

The After Market bustled to life at dusk in the wake of the usual trade day, stretching like a cat. Skittish like one, too, always skulking around the underbellies of cities with both eyes peeled. Sandwiched between the dangerous dim hours of dusk and witching hour. In daylight, the degrading cities were pocked with markets and caravans passing through. Civilians and merchants traded amongst each other. Food, clothes, trinkets, medicines, passed from hand to hand. But things got used up or worn down, and there were precious few people left with the skills to make new supplies. More than there had been at the peak of the starvation years, but not enough to keep up with demand, yet.

That was where scavengers and the After Market vendors came in. They went places no one else was willing to go, they took things no one else was willing to take, and as long as they were quiet about it nobody turned up any noses when fresh material appeared in the trade stream.

Almost nobody.

True narrowed their eyes at a medic's symbol, the sign of the Red Faction, spray-painted to the face of a crumbled garden wall. The red paint had drooled down the brick in places, whoever had plastered it there had held the spray can too close to the surface. Those things were getting too close to the After Market.

All are welcome. Read a line of drooly paint under the symbol.

Except Scavengers, True corrected it in their head as they passed by. A Factioneer would rather catch black lung than offer their medical service to a Scavenger.

It was less of a rumour and more of an open secret that the Red Faction abhorred scavenging and thought everyone else should, too. It was dirty. Yeah, well, the dead weren't complaining and there were way more corpses than Factioneers to defend them.

Must be nice, True thought, to have enough food and clothing to consider the After Marker optional.

Five blocks later, they wound a path through thin After Market crowds, not sparing a glance at any of the dozens of ramshackle merchant stalls. Sickly kerosene lights offered the bare minimum visibility, the tiny flames wavering in anticipation of being extinguished at the first sign of trouble. True's boot sole sk-flped carelessly in the wind, their loot bag, now retrieved from deep inside their pack and fastened to their belt, bounced on their thigh. Hushed conversation hummed in the air, a dull buzz in True's ear. Most people tried to keep the noise down, what with it being a secret black market and all, but there were simply too many of them for quiet. The human race would never be silent.

After an age and a half sk-flping through the crowds, they made it to the vendor they'd come for. Finally. They crouched to the dirt for a moment and, popping back up, strode up to the makeshift counter. They dropped their boots on it with a resounding thunk. Mud flaked off onto the tired cloth draped over the counter. Before the last flake had drifted to its resting place, the vendor had glanced once, twice, her beady eyes locked onto them, at once gleaming with fury.

"You get those mucky atrocities off my table, True." She descended on them like a snarling cat, shoving the boots off. True snagged them before they hit dirt. They paused a moment while the scavenger customers the vendor had been chatting up a second earlier figured out how to shut their gaping maws.

"I need new ones," they said, dropping the boots back on the counter.

"Too bad," the vendor snapped, spittle flying from her gummy mouth. Fixing them with a glare, she pushed the boots off and turned back to rescue her conversation with the other patrons. Unfazed, True drew the dentures from their sack and set them on the counter, hard. The fake teeth clacked. It worked like a charm. The vendor's ears practically twitched. True lifted their hand, giving her a good look at their prize, and waited out her feigning disinterest routine. She sucked her lone, grey front tooth, which produced a sort of squeaky wet fart noise as any part of her lip not supported by the tooth flapped. She refused to spare the dentures a second glance. Continued her conversation. But True saw the way her cheek twitched from the effort of not snatching up those shiny new teeth.

"Galya," they said, just loud enough to reach her ears. She pointedly ignored them and gummed the inside of her hollow cheek. True smirked. They had her. Pocketing the dentures, they waited for the other customers to wander away with their own goods traded and pocketed.

"I've said it before and I'll say it again. You're a shit barterer, True."

"I get what I need," True replied. Kicking their old boots, they grumbled, "hurry up, it's too fucking cold for bare feet."

It was Galya's turn to smirk. Thin lips stretched into a shrewish pretense of a grin.

"Gimme those chompers."

"Boots first."

Her withered head ducked under the counter, where she made a show of shuffling her crates of junk around. As if size ten shoes were hard to find. True let their attention wander briefly. A fog was beginning to roll in, dimming the already dim lamps. A pair strolled by, scavengers, judging by the size of their packs. One too tall, lean, and shockingly pale. The other was more compact, with darker colouring and a streak of white sprouting from her forehead. The shorter one had suspicious eyes that scanned True once and again. Lingering first on their bare feet, then on their bandana. True made a point of staring back as the two of them passed, letting the shorter one catch their scowl and holding it until she leaned into her partner and muttered something. True kept scowling at the pair's back until they vanished into the crowds. Nosy bastards. They re-adjusted their bandana.

"Pay up." Galya dropped her ware on the counter, rattling the unstable construct. Dismayed, True picked up the lone, brown work boot by its frayed laces.

"Where's the other?"

"That's all I have." She splayed her fingers, palms up, as if to say 'what can ya do'.

"Bullshit," True grumbled, "these dentures are worth more than a pair. I'm giving you the best trade you'll see all month and you're ripping me off."

Galya scoffed. Fuming, True flung the boot at her and stalked away.

"Where ya goin' in bare feet, nutbag?" Galya shouted after them.

"To trade with a hag who won't cheat me!"

"Nobody else wants your dirty stolen dentures."

"Wanna bet?" They stuck a middle finger high for her to see. They made it a few more good strides before Galya called again.

"I'll give you licorice."

True slowed to a stop. They tongued the point of their canine, daring to waffle for a moment. The crowd began to close in on their unmoving body.

"I got a whole bag," crowed Galya.

A few stomps later and they were back at her counter.

"At least give me one that matches my other boot."

Galya pulled an old, crumpled chip bag from the depths of one of her bottomless apron pockets and laid on it on the cloth by the boot.

"Don't got any others in your size," she said. Swiping the licorice, True made the dentures magically reappear.

"This is extortion."

Galya snatched the dentures a moment before they completed the arc toward her chest. The pearly whites vanished faster than a hummingbird's muscle spasm.

"Pick words you can pronounce."

"Bitch."

"Yeah, like that one."

Yanking on their newly mismatched boots, True tromped off into the fog and unwashed bodies to trade the rest of their harvest to someone who would afford them the usual ogling and pinched lips instead of Galya's overfamiliar bullying. She never failed to ruffle their feathers, like they were a damn chicken. Stupid extortionist vendor.

... No more sk-flp, at least.