Tevun-Krus #70 - Punk Wars II

Demon in Gaslight - A Short Story by @thisisRoy

Johan stroked the steel barrel of the shotgun with the oilrag, his index finger locked behind the trigger to keep it from firing. He had angled it in way that the stock rested on his lap, and the muzzle pointed at the surface of the river Thames.

"You hunt birds, Masser Schultz?" the canoeman said, an unbuttoned coarse shirt stretched over his lean body, ribs showing through the pale skin of his chest.

Behind Johan, Rickter snorted. He was sitting on the edge of the canoe with his feet dangling over the black waters of the Thames, a cigar clenched between his teeth as he flicked the wheel of his Zippo lighter. "Birds. Right. Yes, yes he does."

"I suppose my brother has answered the question for you," Johan told the canoeman. "I do it for the sport, but the free meat is a pleasant side effect."

The canoeman had a coarse laugh at that small jest.

As they neared their destination, the factories by the riverside became bigger and more frequent, black fumes rising from the giant chimneys at the top. The water reflected the color of the sky and looked like tar, painting the entire world in monochrome, save for the few garishly colored advertisements plastered on the walls of said factories.

Johan's finger touched the trigger of his gun. He wanted to pull it, perhaps aim the gun at the paddler. No. He couldn't kill anyone from his dimension, he knew, or people would find out.

"I don't have enough money to go huntin' everyday," the canoeman said, and Johan watched as the strokes of his paddle became slower as he became more engrossed in his words. "But when I do, I go to them Blackwoods' forest. Doves there are fine, I'm telling ya, real fine, and them Blackwoods don't care about them, so they're free to everyone. You oughtta visit Blackwoods' forest someday, Masser Schultz. Them doves make for real fine dinner."

"I suppose I might someday. Alas, this gun--" He pointed to the two barreled shotgun lying on his lap. "--is not made for hunting birds. This will probably vaporize the poor bird, which is a problem if you're thinking from the dinner angle." Inside, however, Johan felt repulsed at the thought of going to Blackwoods' forest and mingling with the proletariat masses.

The canoeman had another laugh, though, too hard for such a small joke, and his paddle strokes slowed to a snail's pace. Johan was rapidly losing his patience, and the first hint of annoyance had started to show on his otherwise placid face.

He took his hands off his gun for a moment to adjust his wire rimmed glasses, then adjusted his tie and finally his hands started to brush off invisible lint from his black coat. These were all warning actions, things that he did when his need was not fulfilled. This time it had gone unfed for over six months, owing to business travels to Germany.

Rickter noticed this, and said, "Holla there, paddler, would you mind going a bit faster? I and my brother have some important work to discuss, and we'd rather be in the Augury House than flapping about in the Thames."

Johan nodded to Rickter, his finger brushing on the metal of the trigger. His need was building. If it was delayed any longer, he'd end up shooting the paddler, he knew.

The paddler nodded, and they moved faster.

#

"Johan, slow down, brother," Rickter said.

Johan walked briskly, stepping around piles of horse feces and puddles as he barreled through the particularly smoky and begrimed street of London.

It was a strange sight, seeing two lords in expensive attires walk through this part of the city. Their pristine white shirts and spotless suits made it clear that they did not belong.