Young Writers Society

Fuck it. Listen.

There’s a rainy street down the half-flooded part of New York. There’s glowing neon signs and the stink of cigarette smoke in the air. People are walking down the cracked pavement with their eyes cast downward, stepping over faded advertisements for the latest body modifications and the latest robot hookers. Down this street is an inconspicuous-looking building, and outside the building is parked an inconspicuous-looking car. At the door to that building are three people – or two, depending on how you digest this next bit of information. One of the people there is a young-looking guy in his twenties, and he is white. Whitest guy you’ve ever seen. White eyes, white hair, white sweater covering his thin white body. His name’s Christopher Silverstone, but that’s a secret. Next to him are Claire Holt and then newly-born Amy Holt. Their names are a secret, too. Amy is Claire’s clone, which is why she’s currently hiding her face with Claire’s hoodie. Amy is who Claire used to be, or would have been. She’s got neatly-cut brown hair, a worried face, and a tendency to look at anything that moves. Claire, by contrast, has a Nix cigarette between her teeth, a bird tattoo on her right shoulder blade, and a violently punkish hairstyle that can change into any colour of the rainbow thanks to the wonders of sci-fi technology. For sale in the distant future for the low price of ten bucks and a contract kill. Available in a range of textures and lengths. Braided styles now 20% off.

Now why, do you ask, is the world’s whitest person and a generic punk chick (and her clone) standing outside this inconspicuous-looking building? It’s because they gotta talk to the people inside, duh. Foul Dagger, “specialist guild” for hire, also known as a bunch of hitmen living together in a shack. Why are they called Foul Dagger? Hell if I know. Sounds like a terrible name. Anyway, back to business.

Claire knocks on the Blue Dagger guildhouse’s door, which has a nice sign sticky-taped onto it, saying “FUCK OFF” in big red letters. The door’s opened by a woman named Mallory Fynn. She’s got long black hair and a resting bitch face.

Amy, Claire’s clone, does her best to hide herself from Mallory. This was a wise action, but at the same time an unnecessary one. Why? Because Mallory’s a bitch. Mallory sees Claire and shuts the door before Claire can even groan. A moment passes in which Claire groans. Then she knocks on the door again. When Mallory Fynn refuses to show her resting bitch face to the small group a second time, Claire says aloud, “Mal, open the fuckin’ door.”

A voice from within the guildhouse can be heard saying the same thing, and Mallory opens the door again, clearly in dire need of a tampon and love.

“What do you want?” Mallory snaps.

Claire gets right to it. “Where’s Jackson?” she asks.

“Why the fuck would I know?” Mallory replies.

“Because he fucks you in the ass every other weekend, dickweed,” Claire shoots back, showing absolutely no regard for Mallory’s dignity or reputation. Christopher – remember him? He’s the white guy. Christopher stifles a giggle. Amy’s face goes red. “Where’s Jackson?” Claire repeats.

Mallory, to her credit, does not immediately shoot Claire in the face, instead settling with closing the door again.

Chris now has to cover his mouth. Amy is still blushing like mad. Claire, being very tired of Mallory’s shit at this point, kicks the door open. For the uninitiated, kicking a door open is quite a feat of strength. Not many people can do it – but then again, not many people have techno-bullshit reinforcing their legs. The Foul Dagger’s (Daggers’?) door swings open, and Mallory, having deftly stepped to the side to avoid it, is now very peeved.

In view beyond the Foul Dagger doorway is a messy kitchen, a 21st-century coffee machine, and a dude sprawled on an assortment of beanbags.

“Yo,” says the dude, “I ain’t fixing it this time.”

Claire ignores him and repeats her question to the peeved Miss Fynn. “Where is he?”

Mallory sighs for dramatic effect and decides to delay just to spite Claire. “Why?”

“Need him for a job. Where is he?” Claire repeats.

Mallory finally gives an answer. “Where he always fuckin’ is. Fighting ring down the subway.”

Claire gives Mallory a finger gun as a reward for her information, throwing in the world’s most transparent smile for free because she’s generous like that. “Thanks, bitchtits,” Claire says. “Ciao.” Our punk rock anti-heroine turns and walks to the inconspicuous car from the first paragraph, Chris and Amy in tow. They get in and do a U-turn to the beat of DJ Reisz’spop hit Get Fucked, Cunt blaring from the car’s speakers.

Not really how you’d expect the beginning of the end of the world to go, but hey. There it is.

a/n: i wonder how many writing styles i'm gonna jump through before i get bored of doing this stuff.