🚀 go-pugleaf

   Mandy winced as the coffee hit her tongue - the taste of toothpaste
still clinging to her mouth.  Elizabeth and Heather kidded her about
brushing her teeth after she got to work -- couldn't they understand
that when you got bad McDonalds breakfasts on the way in, you either
brushed your teeth when you got there or spend the rest of the day
with teeth that felt oily?
   Apparently not.  At least Trudy hadn't ever seen Mandy do it.
   And Trudy was in her office as she walked in.  "Morning," she said.
   "Manderific!  Good to see you, pal o' mine!"
   "You can't borrow against your 401k until you pay off the last debt
against your 401k."
   "Now Mandy -- come *on!*  Think about it -- this isn't a debt for
some meaningless frivolity!  This is money that is being put to the
greater good!"
   "All right.  What do you want to buy?"
   "An M-1 tank!!!  I can get one cheap!"
   Mandy blinked.  "You want... to buy..."
   "Good morning, Mandy," the boss said, stepping in.  "Don't mind me.
The coffeemaker up in the Control Room's out again.  It looks like
someone tried to make coffee with Jolt cola."
   Trudy began whistling idly.
   "No problem -- there's a fresh pot.  Oh, and JOEL passed a fax from
some law firm in Dark City over to me yesterday.  I expect it's
another unnecessary force lawsuit, so I stuck it on the shelf.  If you
want to check it--"
   "Not a problem."  He stepped over to the IN slot, and scooped up
the fax.
   "Anyway," Trudy said.  "You're not looking at the big picture here,
Mandy.  An M-1 is more than a tank.  It's a solid investment.  We're
talking about one *heck* of a customizable--"
   "Trudy?" the boss asked.
   "What?  C'mon, Brubeck!  I'm not asking for A.L.U funds--"
   "Nor am I getting into this conversation.  You're on duty at four,
I believe.  Please arrange coverage for my midnight to eight a.m.
shift on the board for the next few days."
   "That must be some lawsuit," Mandy said.
   "It's not a lawsuit.  I've simply been asked to give a series of
lectures on proper dental hygiene to Dark City's youth, and expect it
to go a hair late over the week.  Excuse me."  Picking up his coffee
cup, he left the office quietly.
   "Dental hygiene?" Mandy asked.
   Trudy rolled her eyes.  "Translation -- he's going to be breaking
teeth.   Don't wait up."

   As the night fell, the street denizens knew something was amiss.
If nothing else, there was no changing of the guard as daylight
tenants hurried to their shabby but intact homes before the hoodlums
came out. No points of conflagration when predators made a token grasp
of the prey.  Not even a hint that it wasn't just merely a community
going peacefully to slumber.  That was what worried people the most.
   In the area around Water Street, the only signs of activity were
focussed around a decrepit warehouse over by the bay?.  Scouts kept an
eye from the rooftop; occasional flickers from lighters carelessly
giving their positions away.  Inside, the rabble that comprised the
main group of the Boyz mulled about like lazy bees, or perhaps angry
wasps.  In the center of it all, the head of the gang conferred with
his lieutenants.  Judging his expression, the news he was getting was
not to his liking.
   "So....  Repeat got jumped by them.  Did he get the message
through?"  The head gang member looked on as one of his cronies nodded
unhappily.
   Matching sync solemnly, the leader then broke into a manic grin.
"Well, then I guess he'll have to learn the truth when we WHUP HIS ASS!"
   The entire gang broke out in warwhoops and cheers as the last few
words carried out across the entire group.  Some of the inner circle,
though looked a bit less enthusiastic.  Most of them made only a token
effort, it seemed.  One of the scouts moved through the rabid mob to
get close to the leader.  As soon as he caught one of the lieutenant's
attention, he started yelling over the noise.  "Yo, Razor!  Candyman's
coming!"
   The member addressed frowned.  "Y'sure?"  The lookout nodded.
"Well bring him in."
   The leader looked over.  "Friend in need, eh?"
   Razor grinned.  "Right...."  He turned away so the boss couldn't
see him mutter under his breath.  "I think."
   People started to make a corridor as a rather overweight individual
ambled forward.  The immaculately white leisure suit and white panama
hat quite frankly hideous on the gentleman in question.  The broad,
gleaming smile on his face wasn't too reassuring, either.  For all his
roundness, the smile would have fitted a shark more than any gentleman
with an ounce of kindliness.
   Didn't matter a bit to the Boyz.  Especially the leader.
"Candyman!  Your timing couldn't be better.  We could use an extra
helping of your sweets."
   "Of course, my good fellow.  The Family is ALWAYS happy to oblige
filling someone's sweet tooth.  Why, it just so happens I have a good
share of candy in my ---"  The dealer didn't finish his statement as a
loud bang silenced the chatter in the room.  A new source of light
illuminated the warehouse.  Tiny clinks of metal against metal could
be heard as pieces of the car clattered against the rusted loading bay
doors.  Smaller explosions happened in series as the flames penetrated
the fireproofing surrounding some of the "treats" the Candyman was
going to offer.  One of the lookouts rushed in at the same time a
grating laugh echoed over the still mob.
    "Candy is dandy, but poison can be sweet too.  I think you boys
should cut down on the sweets before you choke on them."  The grating
laughter faded as whoever left.  Razor motioned to another member.  He
had a good idea what they'd find on the roof.  Pity he and his leader
missed the look on the Family member's face before the mask went back
on.
    "Well, that's a minor setback, but I'll be back tomorrow with my
OTHER little supply of small treats."  He grinned.  "I am SUCH a
hoarder of sweets.  Ta."
    The Candyman ambled out in the relative silence, reaching for a
celphone he had in a coat pocket.  Now things were getting personal.
And revenge, indeed, gets sweet.

   The filth encrusted streets of Dark City weren't often cleaned,
especially in this neighborhood.  That might be one reason why so many
gangs wanted to bathe them in blood.  Especially tonight.  Tonight was
different.  Tonight was war.
   There were the usual shouts before they started.  The wars were
ritualized things, really.  A few defiant cries back and forth over
who started what.  The rattling of the sabers.  The rule of the
streets. The Sonz shouting about a hit, this time.  The Water Street
Boyz about a frame.
   Someone gets mad enough, and they break, and the street gets quiet
for a long moment.  And then motorcycles roar in and gunfire starts --
shotguns and automatics are popular.  They charge, and the streets
become a war zone in fact.  Something the gun lobby never seemed to
acknowledge.
   He watched from the third story window quietly.  The point wasn't
to keep them from hurting each other -- no one died in the first ten
minutes of these things.  These kids were killers, but they weren't
mindless.  And if one was stupid enough to fight a war for no reason,
one deserved a flesh wound for his trouble.
   The point was to get them together... let the chaos start, but let
them all still have the illusion of control.  Then take that illusion
from them, before the damage got too great.  Before innocents got
hurt.
   There was the explosion of a shotgun.  One of the Boyz was
panicking. He missed -- which took real skill with a twelve gauge
sawedoff, but you had to have faith on these things.
   From the third story he smiled.  Time to remind these children
whose streets they were fighting a war on.
   He pressed a small button on the coveralls he wore, and slowly
shifted the window open.  They were close together, the street was all
them--
   The timer went off, and the floodlights on the Trashmobile blasted
them.  Right on target, no windage.  Secondary halogens went off in
the alleyways to either side, and the mortars fired.  Clouds of tear
gas ripped into the air, burning eerie green in the floodlighted sky.
The effect was applauded by sudden screams and panicked gunfire.
   There was a ping on his collar, and the man smiled.  The speakers
were live now.
   "Good evening, boys," he said, his voice ricochetting off walls
from the overpowered speakers throughout the concrete canyon.  "So
nice of you to come out on a school night.  Shall we discuss Civic
Duty?"
   "Oh *shit!*" he clearly heard from the sudden mass of panicked gang
members and tough boys.
   He killed the speakers, and triggered the concussion charges from
the Trashmobile.  No reason to disappoint them.  The loud booms should
keep them nice and scared, while he made his way to the ground.
   On the ground, the Boyz and the Sonz were shouting, massing --
forced together into the center by the tear gas, frightened by the
lights blasting at them from everywhere (nowheretorunnowaytohide).
Blood oaths got forgotten in the sudden sheer terror of the moment.
The game *wasn't* *played* *this* *way...*
   And there he was... walking from one of the lights.  Striding, like
he couldn't care less if they saw him.  The trash can lid was held
easily in his right hand.  He stared at them with burning eyes barely
perceivable from the bottom of a filthy cap, with the old torn logo of
the Dark City Sanitation Department on it.
   "Trashman," Spitz whimpered, shaking enough so that his gun nearly
went off.
   "*Ace* him!" Tobias shouted, his voice unifying the Boyz and Sonz
together.  They snapped out and fired a hail of automatic bullets and
shotgun blasts....
   They did each other quite a lot of damage.  Trashman threw himself
up, the lid sweeping around himself, reflecting in the floodlights and
naturally attracting their eyes and aims, reflecting the bullets off
and away, and then he threw it, ricocheting it off the heads and
backs and chests of his enemy, falling into the middle of them in a
handspring and sweeping his legs out into a double kick.  Rolling, he
threw -- eggs that shattered into concussion blasts that stunned and
maybe cracked bones, but kept them off.  The bullets had slowed -- he
caught one in the shoulder -- powerful, but the uniform held.  Be a
bruise in the morning.
   Motorcycles roared, as people fled or attacked.  The one who was
fleeing he threw a spike that slipped out of his sleeve, nailing the
Sonz's spokes on the front wheel and sending motorcycle and rider into
a twisting flip, right into the brickwork of old Miss Madison's
tenement. The one who was attacking, he watched come, even as others
fled into the tear gas, where they were brought low, coughing and
gasping.
   At the last second, with inches to spare, he threw himself into a
flip and forward kick, slamming the rider in the chest with both feet
and throwing him from the bike, three ribs cracking.  He grabbed the
handlebars and accelerated the motorcycle, lying on the seat for a
half second before he forward rolled into a skid, driving the cycle
into a crowd of the remaining brave.
   Trashman smiled as he stood, and scooped the can lid back into his
hand.  The fun had just started.

   The figure watched silently as the the fireworks started going off
near the bay.  Slowly, the vigilante turned away and looked back at
the stakeout area.  The wait wasn't long.  About ten minutes later,
two rather nondescript vans  pull up in front of the stakeout point.
the figure nodded.  The info was right on the money.  If there was
even the ghost a smile on the person's face, the darkness and the
black fabric covered it admirably.  The figure bent over and pulled
out a pneumatic pistol from the floor of the roof.  A cursory glance
at the cable for tangles, then careful aim toward the lower roof 100
meters away.  A small bang, covered mostly by the racket being
generated a quarter mile way was the only hint as the black nylon rope
traversed the distance and wrapped about the large dish on top of the
roof.  A few tugs on the line, and then the enigmatic person launched
down into the darkness of the building.