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The air in a hidden city called Halburton, bottled by a trilling blue chrome dome, hums loudly through the night like cicadas in a bone dry field of yellow grass. A man sitting in his repo truck, eats a fat tuna sandwich with pickle chunks so big you could hear them burst and crunch as his iron strong teeth chomped away. Savoring the creaminess of the mayo, and the tanginess of the pickles' brine, he taps the jutting holographic radio display. It turns on with a symphonic jingle. A woman with an angelic yet sentient voice says:
"Hello all, and welcome to Neon Eye News. Where we bring you stories that pull you gently yet urgently through the city in its magnetic ocean waves and sand ridden winds that whisk through buildings and every bit of greenery beyond the city's body. First up tonight, is a story about a man who lost his way through Lemon Candy. The strongest, deadliest, and most addicting syrup, barkeeps vowed to never sell ever again.
In 2042, Hank Bilson, owner of Jade's Bar, had a falling out with three soda and two liquor companies. None of which have permitted us to use their names. However, Vinny Fuzz Co., creators of Lemon Candy, had permitted us to share a recording of a private interview, divulging the truth behind the end of Lemon Candy. But first, a word from our sponsors."
As the ads played on, a message popped out of his clear plated screen on the dash.
Hello Nick Bolte,
You have a new pick up at 1743 Gene Ave and 72nd street. Vicky Channelle is 2 months behind on payments. License suspended 2 days ago. Car in possession is a 2005 Green Honda Civic with a left white quarter panel on the driver side.
"Naughty, naughty little chicky. Ol' Nick comin' for yeh lil hondy."
He shoved the rest of the sandwich in his mouth, and started up his repo car. Selecting ghost mode on his steering wheel.
"Mr. Bolte, would you like ghost mode on for the duration of your trip? Or near your destination?" asked a robotic voice.
He pressed an icon of an androgenous man and speaking ripples then said:
"One mile out darlin'."
"Thank you for specifying, Mr. Bolte. Ghost mode will be activated one mile from destination. Panic mode at the ready upon entering neighborhood. I see in my database that there is a history of gang violence near the property. Trip is approximately twelve minutes."
He cleared his throat then crept his way out of an alley void of any light or life. Throttling him into the city's sea of neon lights and the few who live the nightlife as his truck passes the threshold of the shadows.
This street, 72nd ave, has always felt...sickly green. As if it was born with poisonous spores of mold and mushrooms that could dissolve flesh or invite boogeymen to an acid party. Except you'd feel every warped vision scratching thorny circles along the walls of your eye sockets as they Donkey Kong punch your eyeballs.
The night sky, the musty humid air, did not reach him, but looking down the street with the few stragglers driving far away from him, he, as always, could feel the city's underbelly run its grubby hands through his thick salt and pepper mop of wavy hair. Sometimes, when he comes to an intersection, he would stare intensely at the stop light. The brightness of the firetruck red light buzzing into the nerves behind his eyes as time stretched. There was something haunting about a stop light at nighttime for him. He could care less about buildings' lights, or crack heads swimming in their own melting minds.
But there was some unyielding grip a singular, stable light who's only function is to tell drivers: Go, yield, or stop. As if the system behind traffic control had some third sentient hand who's presence magnetized drivers' eyes into its nerve endings.
The light turned green.
He pressed on. Drunks, ladies of the night, men a whisper away from the kiss of death, all danced the dance of tar dripped pain. But as he got closer to his destination, the night's hysteric beat slowed down. For when he entered the neighborhood he had to brave through, the beat changed. One of dry dread. He could feel static pushing on the tips of his fingers as his car entered ghost mode. Like he was being swallowed by a blanket laced with biting fire ants.
"Turn left on dead sea street," directed the GPS.
He turned left, while quickly seeing on his map the red dot overtop where the Honda was located. In which it pulsed green. He looked forward again, seeing the car just at the tale end of his eyeline. It sat in the driveway. Buried by an enormous oak tree hanging over it. To the owner's misfortune, it was visible to him by a blue lantern light at the end of the driveway.
"I gotcha now lil' one."
Though he was a two minute drive away, he slow crawled his way to the enigmatic shadows of her driveway. Looking around for lookiloos across the street. Thankfully the house across from this crap box homemade Honda, had no cars parked in the driveway. A notification on his console screen said: Lemon Candy story going live in 10 minutes on Neon Eye News.
His eyes left the notification as quickly as the mamma racoon and her babies crossed the street from the house next to the Honda. He chortled then began to turn into the driveway across from this car that clearly didn't want to be spotted.
As he backed into the driveway, the backup camera turned on. The arms of his hitch that hooks the car on and locks into place unfolded quietly then snapped around the front wheels. He placed his hand on the scanner and swiped for the VIN number. Which wasn't needed in the past since VIN was displayed below the front windshield. But as he could see in his backup camera, this one, despite its age, was a QR code in the center of the front grill.
Before he could put his truck in park, the backup camera showed someone moving around in a bedroom on the second floor. Seeing that they were entering a bathroom in complete oblivious canter, he put the truck in park and got out. Letting it run while he walked to the car with his scanner.
He passed the scanner over the QR code. A soft clinking sound and blue pulsing light on the scanner logged the car's info and matched it to the one he was scheduled to pick up. Satisfied, he clipped the scanner on his belt then walked over to the y of his hitch then pressed a green button that read: Chain Lock. Chains poured out the metal braces around the wheels then locked on like a snake eating its own tail.
He hopped back in his truck, put the scanner on a stand with a shiny gold chrome plate. To which a message popped up on his screen reading: 2005 Green Honda Civic, Licence Plate 4V2 7G1, belonging to Ms. Channelle, logged in system for departure to Neevon Repo Cor.
"Mighty wonderful, lets boogie."
"Mr. Bolte," said his little sentient helper, "The backup camera has picked up movement in the house. Ms. Channelle seems to have left the inside of her home."
He looked in his rearview mirror. Not seeing a thing.
"Bah, I'm sure she's just drunk or something. Got up for some box wine and found herself in the yard and not her bed. Not my problem to clean up winos."
He put the car in drive and took off just fast enough to not hit any posts or wreck some rich pricks precious grass.
A few minutes later, he turns on the radio.
"Welcome back to Neon Eye News. The following recording is an interrogation taking place April 13th, 2042 at Platinum Dolls Factory. Which shut down 5 years previous to this date. Private Investigator Harold Tinkerson is first to speak as Vinny Bambuko kept quiet."
He turned the corner leaving the neighborhood, feeling a sudden thunk on the bed of his truck. At a glance he swore he saw black hair fluttering in the rearview mirror. He kept his eye on the bed, hoping it would flutter back. But his truck beeped repeatedly, faster and faster the longer he looked away. He looked forward again, seeing the word BREAK! on his dashboard. His size 11 work boot slammed on the breaks just in time to avoid crashing into a woman driving a suped up Harley.
"Watch it dick bag!" she shouted in a harsh American accent.
Nick put his hand up apologetically but he hesitated to put it down. For the streetlight on this T road leading back into the city, casted light on her jet black hair that reflected blue into his eyes. She turned her head to him. Mumbling something he believed to be along the lines of: "Just wanted to see the kinda jackass yeh are."
She peeled onto the road and Nick crawled forward. Scratching his beard.
"Who the hell was that bat out of hell?"
His stomach grumbled, he petted it in hunger then merged on to the road.
