in the back of a flashing car. ele.

Holy shit.

Holy shit holy shit holy shit-balls on a spike.

"Mister Fenwick!"

Rat-a-tat-tat, I'm the rat and hooooooooooly shit I think I might be dreaming. Blood on my knuckles and the crook of my elbow still aches from choking out that Keeper at the door. Chest heaving, head racing, a shit-eating grin with my tongue flicking between the gap in my teeth. 

"MISTER FENWICK!" I shouldn't be here this late, not when the air's still got that February chill at this hour. There's steam coming off of my knuckles, huh, ain't that funny? Anyway-

Rat-a-tat-tatt! Tatt tatt! The urgent knock, it means business. "MISTER FENWI-ahh!"

The yelp tumbles with me onto the floor. Dysphoric, I grumble and find my footing - no time to be a klutz today, even if the door did open suddenly and I fell over my own feet. "Thanks!" I grin, brushing my jacket down of frost and dirt, rubbing the last of the blood on my jeans. That's the great thing about wearing all black. No blood stains!

Just don't wash 'em with the whites. Then it stains! HA!

"I need to see Mister Fenwick-"

"We gathered that, Rat," the stranger grumbles, spitting out my nickname. Always a new doorman, never the same one twice. I wonder that Fenwick does to 'em once he's finished, then I shudder - you know what? I won't ask. I'd rather not know.

This guy looks particularly fowl-looking, all snarly and furrowed eyebrows. He probably knows what I'm guessing to be true. Poor bastard. 

"It's Fox, actually - and it's urgent."

The man tsk's at me, almost smiling. Like I amuse him. Like I am predictably laughable. "It's always urgent."

This is the part where I snap, grabbing the fucker by his collar and pushing him into the wall. Never mind he's got a gun and I've just a knife in my shoe, never mind he could probably snap me in half with his massive hands, never mind I'm only an inch taller. Every bit of height counts lifting him gently to his tip-toes, snarling in his face, spitting and roaring.

"I SAID IT'S THE MOST URGENT FUCKING THING THIS COUNTRY HAS EVER SEEN SINCE THE GODDAMN DARK DAYS, GOT IT?"

He actually trembles a little. ha! That hardly ever works! What a wuss. He nods, "okay, okay," spluttering and forgetting all about the gun strapped to his hip as he reaches for his keys with shaking hands. 

"Excellent!" I let him go and spin around, the jingle of metal music to my ears. "That wasn't so hard, was it?"

A whistle tune filters from my pursed lips as I stroll into Mister Fenwick's office. I want to say something like 'Love what you've done with the place!' even though the only thing that's changed is the fabric colour of Fenwick's suit. 

Instead I just clasp my hands behind my back and swing in my step, already half-forgotten what the hell I'm even here for- "OH!"

Then I squint at my palm and frown.

When I first heard the news I'd written it down on my hand in black ink, one of those fancy tipped pens architects used - I think I stole it from an architect come to think of it - anyway, not important. I'd had to write it down because I was damn sure what'd I'd heard was so shocking I'd forget it on my way here. 

It's a good thing I know me so well.

"Snow's dead," I read aloud, glancing up at Mister Fenwick - then double-take at my own half-legible, sweat-smudged letters. "Snow's dead?"

Huh. That sounds about right. Yeah, those Keepers on his porch, climbing down three apartment landings, the smell of something spicy across the block in the air. The men with grey hair in white suits and fancy lapels and all those badges. 

"Snow's dead."

"What?"

"He's dead."

"Mother of Ripred... you sure?"

"Of course I'm fucking sure. Pressed my fingers to his neck and all. Look, here he comes..."

And I'd nearly pissed myself as his corpse rolled past me on a gurney, hiding behind some sort of barbeque grill in the corner of the balcony. Who knew the old bastard liked ribs, huh?

"Yep," one final squiz before I lower my hand and nod. "President Snow is dead, sir."

Then I grin, two small thumbs pointing to the roof for good measure.