"...The fuel-injected Holden HSQ V6 in 2nd gear tore out of a side street and turned right into Middleton road. Three men were in the black vehicle which had the front part of a body kit on it, and darkened side and back windows. The pair of fluffy dice hanging from the rear-view mirror danced about, alive..."Adjusting the black plastic visor on his silver coloured bicycle helmet and lowering his elbows, the figure crouched low over the handle-bars of his 12 speed road bike. Though well over 30 years old, the bike still held together nicely, the front brakes needed a bit of alignment to stop them rubbing against the wheel. The gear change in between the handle bars, and the white tape handle-bar grips peeling off a bit, losing their stickyness. A decent quantity of a mixture of oil, dust and dirt coated the axles of both wheels, the chain, and the back sprocket. Despite the lack of attention and care it's rider gave it, the bike handled some fierce torque on the cranks.
On his feet, the cyclist wore a pair of “Roman” jandals. They had had a hard life, but considering that they had only cost $9.99 on sale at The Warehouse, you'd understand why they were now beginning to fray and come apart in places. If you asked the cyclist, he might reluctantly admit that, yes, they were actually his brother's jandals, on a permanent loan, - and without permission. In a very original combination, the figure on the bike wore a pair of navy Faded Glory jeans, bought at WallMart, now starting to rip up the backs of the legs. Size 32, and really too long, “hipsters” wouldn't be the word, but try to picture him walking along, constantly pulling up the belt loops to stop the jeans falling down. Underneath his 3/4-zipped up navy hoody that a mate from Spain had given him, was his tee-shirt. Given to him by a friend who ran a computer shop, it was a black tee-shirt with the AMD logo on it. A pair of last-gen iPod earphones, with only the right ear-phone in his ear - completed his costume.
Contrary to the common held belief that “anything portable that plays music is an iPod”, held by such people as his parents, and the old ladies who conducted the exams at the end of term and semester at University, the object plugged into his head-phones was not an iPod. Rather, this was the 30gig Toshiba Gigabeat (Music sounds better in colour). “World wide suicide” by Pearl Jam was playing, and from time to time the cyclist mouthed some of the lyrics, a pained expression on his face.
Though it was against the law in his home-land of New Zealand, the character on the bike had a Sig Sauer pistol in a chest holster, under his L size tee-shirt. One of his Mum's “long-lost” victronox kitchen knives, - the one with the red handle, was strapped to his right leg just above the ankle, wrapped in a piece of rough but thick fabric. Aware of the fate of Russian soldiers running into the square with only one round, the man on the bike had two spare cartridges, one in each front pocket of his jeans (which made them harder to keep from falling down), each one loaded with 13 shells, ready to clip into his gun when the previous magazine ran out.
If you were standing on the sidewalk, you would have found it strange to see the swiftly moving cyclist reach up under his tee-shirt, deftly pulling out his automatic hand-gun, and concealing it under his arm-pit with his right hand while he held the handle-bar with his left. Cycling down the fairly quiet Middleton Road, heading up to the intersection with Ilam Road and the notoriously busy Riccarton Road, the man on the bike threw a quick look over his shoulder. As he brought his eyes back to the horizon in front of him, he heard the sound he knew was coming. The fuel-injected Holden HSQ V6 in 2nd gear tore out of a side street and turned right into Middleton road. Three men were in the black vehicle which had the front part of a body kit on it, and darkened side and back windows. The pair of fluffy dice hanging from the rear-view mirror danced about, alive.
The deep voice of the short but solidly built Scottsman in the back resounded within the walls of the speeding vehicle. “We'll nay try this time orright? This taime he goes down.” The driver of the car kept his eyes on the road, while the slender young man in the passenger seat let forth a string of swear-words. What this young guy needed was just a kick up the backside, and a hair-cut. He'd fallen into the wrong crowd during his last year of high-school, and he was wearing the same pair of jeans that he had been the day he met the other two in the car. “Billy, will you please just kill the lad, then we can be on our way?” The man in the back-seat adjusted his collar, too tight around his neck.
Billy had never killed a man before, let-alone fired a real gun. But he had convinced the other two that he was the man for the job, convincing them with the excellent kills/deaths ratio he had once got when playing the Half-Life mod, Specialists with his mates back in the day. He picked up the mini-uzzi that was cradled in his lap, pulled out the magazine and then clipped it in again. “Right, let's do this.”, Billy nodded.
The figure on the bike, who went by the name of Darren – felt a shiver run up his spine as he heard the car close behind him.
As the front bumper of the black holden came into contact with the slim back tire of the road-bike, Darren performed the lightening fast move, bringing his legs up and sliding onto the bonnet of the fast-moving vehicle. The slipstream over the vehicle propelled Darren's body up the windscreen, and he slid over the top of the car, leaping up, facing forward, running in the air, prepared for the impact with the tar-seal road. As you will know if you have tried this, it is impossible to stay on your feet after jumping of a fast moving vehicle. Bringing his right hand over his head, and using his left hand to take some of the impact, Darren rolled once, and coming forcefully to his feet, stood in the center of the road, as a huge canvas-sided truck advertising Pam's peas passed by, missing him by inches. Still holding his trusty SIG in his right hand, Darren rested it on the wrist of his left arm, taking aim at the black holden which had spun round and was beginning to acclerate towards him. At 4 lamposts distance, approximately 200 metres, Darren pulled the trigger twice. The first bullet went through the middle of the front windscreen, and into the shoulder of the Scotsman in the back of the vehicle. As a scream of pain errupted from his lips, the second bullet ripped through the front right tire of the holden.
The windscreen shattered, and impossible to see through, the cool-faced driver struggled to apply the brakes, spinning 90 degrees, passenger door facing Darren. The rim of the wheel which had been hit cut into the hot tar-seal, and the caved-in front windscreen reverberated as the car came to a stop. Billy's arm reached out through the passenger window, holding his mini-uzzi.
Darren heard the bullets biting through the air, thudding into the ground behind him and to his right. Swerving from side to side, running low and jumping, Darren crossed the road. Biff. A bullet embedded itself in the back of his left thigh and he roared in pain. Taking cover behind a glossy black VW Polo, Darren forced himself to concentrate, to ignore the pain. He pulled himself underneath the VW until he could see the petrol door. He aligned his pistol just a bit below the door, where he knew the tank would be, and then emptied his magazine, moving his gun slightly towards the front of the car as he fired.
11 bullets impacted with the car in quick succession, and with deadly accuracy. A sheet of flame burst out from where the line of bullet holes had ruptured the petrol tank. Pulling himself out from underneath the car with a good deal of effort, his right leg beginning to throb. Sitting with his back to the rear tyre, and facing the footpath, Darren dropped the first cartridge, and pulling a new one from his pocket, quietly inserted it into his hand-gun. “Dear Lord”, he prayed “help me get through this one”. Holding his weapon with both hands, muzzle pointed towards the sky, he listened, waiting for the sound he was sure would come.
There it was, the sound of a car-door being opened very slowly and cautiously. This was going to be touch and go, as Billy was very trigger happy, and though the min-uzzi was not the most accurate of sub machine guns (SMGs), the short range and heaviness of fire would render it deadly. The horrendous sound of the mini uzzi shattered the silence that had prevailed for the last few seconds, drowning out the faint sound of two police cars that were speeding towards the scene. Billy did not know where Darren was, only that he was behind the car somewhere, and that he needed to die. He emptied his new magazine into the car, bullets thudding into the ground, shattering the windows, and several hitting the tank of fuel. Darren heard the big rush of air, as air was sucked into the tank to provide the oxygen required to produce a decent burst of flame, followed immediately afterwards by a terrific explosion.
Acting only by instinct, the hunted, still crouching low, ran forward towards the fence of the house he was facing a few steps. Turning on his heel, SIG in his right hand, and his left arm shielding his face, Darren ran towards the vehicle he had been sheltering behind. Leaping, right leg first onto the bonnet, he jumped through the sheet of flame that suddenly shot up. Landing hard on the ground, Darren fell onto his right shoulder, trying to lessen the impact on his left leg. With perfect aim, Darren fired two bullets – one hit Billy's weapon, rendering it useless, the other impacted with the hand in which the SMG was held.
Out of the corner of his eye, Darren saw the grenade, speeding through the air towards where he was. His left hand instinctively grabbed the grenade before it hit the ground, and, sweat clouding his eyes, he counted: “1, 2”, and then threw it back to where it had come from...
From 10:30am til 11:30am every Friday, Clayton Cosgrove parks his big old red van in the main street of Rangiora, just down a bit from ToyWorld. Mum had come upon this piece of information somewhere, and when I suggested that we go out there to have a chat with him about Section 59, she agreed. This morning's Press had stated explicitly that "Clayton Cosgrove is coming under a lot of pressure, being inundated with emails" - and by reading between the lines, it was possible to go away thinking that he might just be shaken from his current stance on the issue, - supporting Bradford's ridiculous bill.