This body is a hotel and a shrine. You can have it when I die.
Hoxton separatists with Romanian AK-47s and grenades, probably bought wholesale somewhere south of the river in a little place you’ve never heard of. My trousers were uncomfortably soaked in petrol as I was pinned down by small arms fire, hiding behind a black cab.
I’d explain, but I’m jonesing for my next double macchiato. My muscles are hurting and I’m sweating rivers. I’ve been here an hour, and the retro coffee house on the corner won’t bring me even a long black on account of the tossers in camouflage cardigans. I’ve called them a dozen times to ask, but they won’t relent. Last I called, I suggested they tape the lid on tight and use a belt to slingshot it to me. They suggested I keep my head down.
If someone could just take out the robin reliant machanical, maybe I could sprint to the tube entrance. The .50 cal mounted on it seems to be keeping everyone at bay. My legs are starting to cramp and I feel like someone is trying to hammer an ice pick into my eye socket. Caffeine withdrawal is really kicking my ass.
I stand up and tell them where they can shove their revolution. I shout at them that they’re ridiculous, that they should just accept the offer of a sitdown with Boris. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. I sit down. I must be bleeding. I guess. Just a sip of Jamaican Blue Mountain would make it all OK.
It was probably them, but could have been one of our boys getting jumpy too. They draft them at fifteen now. It’s not like I could file a complaint, so doesn’t matter much. I’d suck on a used coffee filter if I had one. The jonesing would stop if I bled out.
So long, I’ll see you soon.
The reliant turns over in a fountain of shrapnel and chunks of tarmac. Falling debris look like a shower of extra dark roast beans when they come tumbling down. Windows rattle and rumble with return fire. The bot trundles down the street towards me, bullets pinging paint off its exterior. My heart beats like a car crash, ragged and violent.
A few more steps and it looms over me, scoops me up, cradles me gently and asks “extra shot?”. “Make it two”, I say as the burr grinder sings a loving, throaty duet with my heart. My heroine in the cockpit tamps seven grams of powdered joy into carbon steel and loads it in. She lays down a streak of napalm while she pre-heats my cup.
The whoosh of burning flesh and hiss of steam is the sound of my rescue. I won’t be checking out today.