Part 10 – Full Extent of the Law.

Wind blew through my hair as my Condor sped down the road, painful screeching having ended minutes ago when the end tip of the wing totally worn away. I rode with the top down, enjoying the fresh air as I tried to track down every last Quafe truck in town, and my driving buddy Colt .45 sat in my passenger seat, armed with (ludicrously enough) Antimatter bullets.

Idle contemplation, my other constant friend soon set in. Why on earth was firing an antimatter bullet barely more powerful than shooting someone with a brick of lead, or iron? One would imagine that being pasted with antimatter, resulting in an explosion rather like that of a nuclear blast would hurt signifigantly more than getting pasted by a lead bullet.

In fact, why on Earth were there nuclear bullets on the open market, being sold to civilians? Life was tough these days, and it didn’t need the ability to commit a war crime being easily available at your local Wal-Mart. Hell, I had even bought a Kevlar vest off the store shelves, like if it was a box of candy.

I stopped thinking about such trivial matters as I drove into a new area for a break. I pulled over to a rest stop, and filed in for a break, looking over what they had. There were of course, ‘Widowmaker’ Spicy Thermal Snack Chips on sale, my favorite. Munching upon them, and ignoring the T2 Snacks that cost ten times as much for only 5 percent more flavor, I walked outside.

Suddenly however, my ‘LocalSenses’ began tingling as I felt my prey had entered the immediate area. I knew without a doubt that my target was here, and I would not question what I felt.

Acting upon this supernatural warning, I leaped into my Condor, revving up the engine and dashing out to play. That’s when I saw him, about to pull up to the store down the street in that damned Quafe truck. I smiled. My LocalSenses never failed when coming to find out if people were about. I parked and hopped out, dashing after with my gun waving in the air, as many people tended to do.

“Hey you!” I called out angrily, speeding by a CONCORD officer too busy stuffing his face with donuts to notice someone charging at another citizen, waving a gun in hand. I ran over with my newly purchased Y-58 Hydrocarbon Sneakers to close that precious distance. I brought myself closer, where my antimatter bullets would be of use as the gun store rated them as being only usable at distances of five meters or less.

As I arrived before him, I knew it. It was the same face as the man who shot me; this hollow-cheeked Frenchman, in but a delivery service uniform and condescending smirk.

“You little bastard, why the hell did you have to shoot me? I just took a ****ed soda from you…” I said, closing the distance. I of course, hadn’t a clue of the law in the books that allowed vigilante-style executions if someone takes an item out of a container you lying around, but that was beside the point. The Frenchman just looked bored and walked on, shrugging.

I grabbed him by the collar, holding him in place to prevent any escape. My knuckles grew white about his shirt, as I stared into his eyes with anger. My vengeance was at hand.

That’s when CONCORD shot me.

And they shot me again. And again.

The officer even called his friends up to come and shoot me.

Not only did that damned donut-eating CONCORD pig spin around with the speed of a Ninja hopped up on Amphetamines, he fired with an absolutely massive gun in one hand, the other to the radio happilly coordinating my impeding doom. I jerked back painfully, a round entering my Kevlar-vested shoulder as I let go of the Frenchman and did the most sensable thing I could have done.

I ran for it.

Before I even managed ten paces, two SWAT vans swerved into my way from out of nowhere, one knocking over a newsstand and the other crushing some kid’s unattended bike. Ranks and legions of armed policemen stormed out and blasted at me, while helicopters strafed the street around me. One of the officers casually kneeled down and fired a rocket launcher into the hood of my parked Condor, blowing the venerable vehicle into a fine dust.

I screamed horribly, and fell to the ground. I saw the Frenchman just standing there, laughing by his unmarked Iteron all while I held the largest remaining piece of my poor Condor in my hands, part of the cup holder made from a single piece of injection-molded Isogen. It was pathetically enough my most valuable surviving asset.

Having being beaten to a pulp of course, the noble CONCORD officers, keepers of law and justice stopped their shooting to look at me while I lifted the cup holder close to my chest, cradling it miserably. “Please leave me alone?” I whimpered.

“Look out! He’s an aggressor! He’s got a module!” one of them shouted. Carnage began again with a renewed fury and explosions. The Frenchman just walked away.

In the resulting graphic violence, I couldn’t even tell if I blacked out before or after the mortar hit me. Contemplating the failings of the modern judicial system was hardly a good use of my time, but I couldn't help but think of it as darkness enveloped me once more...

(Is this the end? Will our narrator survive? To be continued!)