Bursts of amber starfire erupt across the dark and silent earth, a chain, a trail leading to an overwhelming climax, a grande opus of fluorescent white. The tiniest sliver of shadow is expunged. The cracked dull grey concrete lies fallow, it's banality exposed by the unrelenting radiance of phosphor. Engorged serpents hang patiently, their filthy snouts pointed up into the air. Prepared, always, to spew forth the lifeblood of the earth.
A boy sits behind a cash machine. He is drowsy, for it is late. He is hungry and he is high. The sandman makes preemptive strikes and the boy is almost cowed, almost beaten before the start of the battle. But every time his neck begins to wilt he is shocked back into his stark, overlit reality.
Headlights sweep across sheets of glass. There is the sound of rubber tires compacting on asphalt. A purring motor dies. The boy is fully awake, watching with suspicion these late night marauders, dreamers come to life. A snake is unhooked, it's jaw unhinged. Clear venom pours forth, but it remains hidden. Contained. Fumes of toxicity linger, like morning mist. Their incendiary nature seems to be contagious.
There is a man and a woman. Their mouths flap open in turn, their faces reddened and flushed respectively. It is an argument. They gesticulate wildly, too dramatically, the boy thinks, for it not to be an act. A living play of dream put on for his benefit, pieces of himself given different function and form. He is no longer tired but he is still high.
"Winstons."
The boy looks away from the pair and is startled to find the man in front of him. He is obviously short on patience. A quick, bewildered glance back outside informs the boy that the woman has packed herself back into her carriage.
"Winstons," the man says again, this time with an edge of violence in his voice.
Eyes back front. Instinctively the boy's hands grope upwards, grasping a cartridge of cigarettes. He pulls them loose. He places them on the counter where they are swept up, greedily. The man scowls as he begins to pound the pack against his hand.
"Whadoo eye ohya?"
For a moment it seems as though the man is speaking some kind of nonsensical babble, some kind of twisted caricature of language. The boy is stunned. He stands stock still, barely breathing, praying that the strange phantom before him might simply disappear.
"How much?!" The man's anger is palpable. Smoke and cinders accompany his words. The sterile white fluorescence begins to dim. The air begins to redden. The boy looks desperately at his register but instead of numbers he sees four blotches of color. Yellow, blue, green, blue. The boy shuts his eyes. He knows what this means. Yellow, blue, green, blue. It isn't always this difficult but he is having a hard time concentrating. Yellow, blue, green, blue.
"Twenty three sixty three," the boy finally stammers. He waits expectantly hoping for the worst to have past.
The man scowls again, an unlit cigarette hanging from his lip. He places a twenty and a five on the counter and stabs them with his index finger, sliding them across the counter. Change. Change is always easier. As the boy scoops up the money, other colors flash through his mind. White, blue, purple. So much easier.
"A dollar thirty seven is your change!" the boy exclaims triumphantly as he places a neat pile of coins on a single bill. The man swipes at them with a meaty paw. The paper crumples in his grip. He stalks out the door. The redness leaves with him.
A motor fires to life with a stormy haze of exhaust. The boy shivers at the sight of red eyes receding back into the darkness beyond. Once again he feels the sandman making steady circles around him. Once again the soft symphony of his dreams beckons to him. He is tired. Tired of this eternal vigilance. Tired of watching over the way to the dark and silent earth. Tired of watching all these lost and angry wanderers as they seek out the missing pieces of their souls.
The road beyond leads always back to him. He is the guardian of the gate. He is the arbiter of sullen and sluggish truths. He is a vessel. All the fragments of our past reside within him, still vigorous, still alive, not yet condemned to the far reaches and empty corners and forgotten as they are with us. Creatures of the city have no eyes for such things. We mutants of metropolis rove blindly beyond that bitter trail of amber starfire, for it is a savage land and untamed.
