2012 07 09

Mon July 9

A brown dusted T-Bird downshifts over a back corner of the Warrens, casting shadows over the ramshackle urban hodgepodge. The bird pops ECCM signals, landing gear, and home made tin foil bombs to frag with nearby Sat-Links easing down onto a makeshift landing pad. Big Moes on the outer end of the pad waiting with a trio of men in slick street apparel. They look nervous. Big Moe especially. Fat greasy dollops of water coat the inside of his armored jacket.

The women, bad back alley surgery jobs made look Japanese and Korean are drug blitzed and led off the platform of the Bird and into waiting cars like shy foals. The trio of men smack their gums and speak in hushed accented voices. The kind of voices that belong to men who carry out violence with grim ease. They pay Big Moe and leave in a hurry. Big Moe pays the T-Bird driver who in turn pays a percentage to the supplier who then uploads credit into a bank account for someone CFS side. One big circle of trafficking refugees to be used as husks for men wholl pay good money for cheap, awful thrills. It doesnt stop.

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