Hi folks..

For the time being this story has moved to a new home, thanks to Leo's tireless efforts to make a more personalized logging utility.

Check it out:

http://www.creationshop.net

You'll find this story under "Bronakken" of course.

Not sure I will bother updating the Blog version anymore. :)

Mark

Part 7

The front door of Fast and Loose swung closed with an unheard creak, the pulsing sounds of late-decade techno boucing off of the walls. The bartender looked up from his cigarette and watched a disheveled man shuffle over to the bar, frowning. Something was wrong with the way he walked, or stood. His posture was unnatural.

“What can I getcha?” asked the bartender, leaning against the far side of the bar.

Pale eyes looked out at him from under scraggly bangs. He felt himself judged in those moments, the repetitive thumping of the music softly accenting the long moments that passed. “I’m looking for someone,” the man replied.

“Aren’t we all?” shot back the bartender, losing interest rapidly. “Look buddy, you want a drink, or what?”

Again he fell under the scrutiny of those pale eyes, beginning to see in them someone he most definitely wanted to leave his place of business. When no answer was forthcoming, the bartender nervously inched his hand along a shelf under the bar, towards the sawed-off he kept there for just such a case. He was interrupted in his movements by a belated reply.

“Brofnakken. He and his bitch woman were here. I smell them. Where did they go?”

“Brof—“ the bartender began, a confused look on his face. He never finished his sentence. The stranger snapped his arm across the bar almost instantly, fingers closing around and crushing the bartender’s throat. The bartender gurgled quietly, eyes bulging in terror for a moment before his windpipe collapsed.

The stranger discarded him like a rag, turning to greet the stunned looks on the faces of the few other patrons in the bar. “Where is he?” He yelled, lurching to his feet. When no answer was forthcoming, his rage blossomed into something pure and red; Something which none of the hapless souls who had made the mistake of stopping by for a drink would ever live long enough to describe to anyone else.

Sometime later, the door of Fast and Loose swung open again, expelling the stranger back out into the night like vomit, creaking back closed for the final time. He stood for a long moment with his head tilted, like a wolf listening to the sounds of the darkness.

Hunting.

Part 6

Bands of darkness whipped across the two as they fled down the alley, dodging around dumpsters and piles of shipping crates. Downtown was a filthy place, and footing was difficult even during daylight hours. With no certain way to know if they were pursued, Brofnakken and Winter made their way onto the next street and looked frantically around.

“Shit. I know this street,” said Brofnakken, looking down along the brick storefronts. “We can head into the basement of the 2600 Zone over there.” He pointed to a dimly-lit receding stairwell across the road with a line of brightly-dressed club-hoppers just as the sounds of footsteps reached them from the alley. There was no time to argue. Winter followed him as he dashed across the street and down the stairs. Pushing past the surprised bouncer and the line of hoppers, they entered the club.

The 2600 Zone. It was a fringe club riding on the coat-tails of other, more expensive counterparts. Retro was always popular, and the 2600 Zone catered to the roots of electronic entertainment in many forms. All around the pair, hoppers dressed in primary colors bearing logos of oversimplified stick-men and various ancient video-game characters danced to the annoying shrill of computer-generated music underscored by an invasive, repetitive synthesized bass drum. Screens hung from the ceiling in clusters, showing footage from antiquated games, computerized test patterns and swirls of 8-bit color. It was a perfect place to lose a tail.

Brofnakken stood for a moment before spotting his target, a service door next to the bar. Fighting his way past the enthusiastic hoppers with Winter’s hand firmly clenched, he was jostled repeatedly until they reached the bar.

“Order,” commanded a man behind the bar who was easily seven feet tall. Clad only in a white tee-shirt and jeans, his dark black skin reflected the pulsing club-lights in a confusing miasma. Frowning when Brofnakken made no immediate reply, he leaned across the bar, lifting white eyebrows.

A frantic glance back to the door of the club revealed someone pushing past the bouncer. It was time to go.

Brofnakken grabbed Winter by the hand again and pulled her through the service door, narrowly avoiding the sweeping grasp of the giant bartender, who cursed under his breath as they vanished into the dark corridor. Moments later, a heft man in a dark trenchcoat tried to pull the same stunt, running after the two, and received a meaty fist in the side of the head, sending him sprawling out into the dancing crowd. A gun clattered across the floor, lost in the tumultuous noise of the music and the shifting, undulating bodies of hoppers.

Cold night air washed over Brofnakken and his companion as they exited a service door on the side of the club. Without hesitation they ran over to the nearby subway platform and onto the waiting train, the faint chime of the payment detectors kicking in as they were automatically billed (and fined) for bypassing the ticket counter.

“What the hell is going on?” Winter demanded, wrenching her hand out of Brofnakken’s strong grip and scowling at him, eyes alight with irritation and fear. “Who was that?”

“Wish I could tell you, baby,” said Brofnakken. “The bad guys, I guess.”

A deep chuckle answered this comment, drawing their gaze to the side. Brofnakken’s jaw dropped open a little as he recognized the same old man who had vanished from the previous subway car, sitting with his back propped on the car divider. As they listened, the old man chuckled again and said, “The bad guys, baby. Would you listen to this guy? He doesn’t even know who he is half the time and he tries to play macho.”

Brofnakken crouched near his seat and looked up, eyes intense. “Old man. You know something that might help us?”

Tired eyes regarded him, brows lifting. “Us?”

Brofnakken nodded, “My friend and I were being chased.”

Again Brofnakken sat through a period of scrutiny as the old man watched him and then replied, “Ain’t nobody but you and me here, Broffy.”

Brofnakken blinked, turning to look for Winter. She was nowhere to be seen. Looking back at the old man, he took a step back in shock; Winter was sitting in the seat instead, clutching the handrail as the train kicked into sluggish life. “Sit down Broffy, who knows if that guy is back there aiming at us!”

Part 5

Brofnakken turned slowly around on his stool, lifting his eyes to a radiant, delicate face framed by dark black curls. The woman who had touched his shoulder was stunning, her bright green eyes cutting through the dim light in the bar like emeralds, searching his own for traces of recognition. She wore a dark trenchcoat which might have been purple, but the lighting made it a guessing game. It hugged her like a second skin.

"I'm Winter. Do you remember me?" She asked in a soft voice.

Brofnakken stared for long moments. "Of course I remember you. I see you have my package."

She nodded, offering him a nondescript brown box. It felt empty.

"So tell me, Carolyn, was it hard to find me?" He asked, opening the package. Inside was a single folded sheet of paper. He did not immediately open it, instead looking up to the stunning woman. If she was surprised by the use of her real name, she did not show it.

Emerald eyes judged him again for a moment. "It was. You're not an easy man to find, Broffy. Hell, you're not even an easy man to look for. Where have you been?"

Brofnakken slipped a finger into the note and opened it, stalling his reply, since he had no memory of his recent past.

Father,

Please come to the house in Oak Ridge as soon as possible.
I heard you were back in town.
Are you forgetting things again?
I bet you are.
I can help, but only if you come quickly.

"We have to go," Brofnakken said, slipping some bills onto the counter to pay for his untouched Red Rat and standing up. Winter blinked at the abrupt action but said nothing, following him out into the night again.

"Want me to catch us a cab?" She asked, lifting an eyebrow slightly.

Just then, a scuffling noise at the mouth of a nearby alley caught Broffnakken's attention. He grabbed Carolyn by the arm and pulled her aside just before the sharp report of a handgun cracked through the darkness, gouging a chunk of concrete from the wall behind them with a protesting whine.

"Shit. Come on!" Brofnakken growled, tugging her down another alley into the shadows, kicking up a small storm of papers as they fled.

"Who the hell is that?" Carolyn shrieked at him, stumbling to keep up before she found her stride.

"If we're lucky, we'll never know!"

Part 4

Across the city, under the pale glow of a streetlight, a disheveled man stood, swaying gently. His hair stuck out crazily in every direction, matted and uncut. His suit had once been expensive and sharp-looking, but was now little more than a rumpled rag on his body, stained and torn in several places. People walking past averted their gaze and hurried along their ways.

Under the apparent state of disrepair, intense, cunning eyes darted about, forever seeking something which had long been lost to the man. His tongue would sometimes escape from his lips for a moment, running over them with a dry, rasping sound and then retreating again. Slender fingers twitched almost constantly, as if longing to continue some unfinished business.

He was close. He knew he was getting very, very close now. Signs had presented themselves; The torn article, the ticket receipts, the growing sense of impending conflict. And the closer he got, the more his mind and body came back into focus, repairing themselves and awakening senses he had long forgotten how to use.

I'm going to catch him at last, he thought with a feverish grin. He had no idea still who it was he was seeking, but there was no way to miss the signs.

Signs such as the one he passed before entering a subway car, which read, "Downtown Limited Service Access - Route 45."

It was going to be a satisfying night for Bob.

Part 3

Fog curled around Brofnakken's feet as he stepped down from the subway car, feeling more than slightly confused. Night had set in for good now, broken apart here and there by the surreal glow of sodium lights recessed into the terminal roof. As the subway pulled sluggishly away from the station, he turned and made his way through the exit gate.

Brofnakken's fingers curled around some random coins in his pocket as he walked down the terminal stairs, and he pulled them into view. About a buck fifty. A flash of red danced across the quarters, drawing his attention up to the neon signs before him. Fast and Loose. It was a bar, and a questionable one at that, but it was as good a place as any to go waste a little time. He clearly felt a compulsion to enter.

The interior of the bar was a strange reflection of the outside. It was dark, muggy, and poorly lit, with random signs promoting beer and sex. Brofnakken sat at the bar and ordered a Red Rat, his favorite cheap beer. A crudely drawn sketch of the named animal curled around the long-neck bottle. Dim memories were triggered by the image; Nothing substantial enough to go on.

As he took his first sip, a hand with delicately-painted and manicured nails settled onto his shoulder, and a soft voice whispered into his ear.

"Broffy. Just the man I wanted to see. I've got your package."

And the memories came rushing back.

Part 2

Brofnakken jolted from slumber as the subway rattled across a particularly worn-down section of track, screeching into the night like a mechanical dragon. He looked around the poorly-lit car, vision unfocused but slowly clearing.

Had he just been asleep? It had felt so real! It always felt real, though, every time. He looked down at his hand, sure he would see burns there from the intense contact, but nothing was apparently wrong.

Across the aisle, the only other passanger on the train, an old man wearing a brown suit, watched him warily.

"Excuse me sir," said Brofnakken, "Have I been here long?"

The old man blinked, eyes widening a bit. "What do you mean, son?"

"Well, I mean, did I just appear out of thin air or anything unusual like that?"

"Can't say as I'd noticed," the old fellow replied, his gnarled fingers flexing slightly against a walking stick. "Been there the whole time I was watching you, anyway."

Brofnakken nodded and turned to look out the window as the streets of the city sped past. He still felt unsettled. The metal seat he was occupying didn't feel warm enough to have been his sleeping place, and he could not remember getting onto the train. Then again, he didn't remember many things for very long. He tried to remember if he'd been to see a doctor at any point, but everything was too hazy.

"I must be going crazy," he muttered aloud.

Across the aisle, the old man chuckled as he overheard the comment, and said, "I've been crazy for a long time, Broffy. Nobody ever said it would be easy."

Brofnakken's eyes widened. "How did you know my name?" He asked, turning to look across the shuddering car.

The old man was nowhere to be seen.

Gone.