Berlin 2039: The Reign Of Anarchy by Karsten Krepinsky (smallest ebook reader .txt) 📗

old man with a twirled mustache is sitting on the stoop on front of the bar. He takes a sandwich from his pocket, eats a bite, and puts it away again. “You need to enter 222.wellwin.de,” he addresses me. His head is turned in my direction, but he’s staring into space. “Then you’ll get activated,” he expands on his tinfoil-hat theory. “Everything will be visible. And everybody. All that’s hidden.” Crazy old geezer, I think. However, he’s not the only one around here whose synapses aren’t wired properly. A woman grabs me by the arm. “Satan is a cheat!” the drugged-up human wreck warns me, eyes wide. I smile at her. Oh, how I love this crazy atmosphere in the ghetto. Madness, concentrated in an area of 2,000 acres. When I push open the door of Furuncle, the pounding of heavy metal music assaults my ears. Four booze-heads are sitting at the bar. A woman is gyrating around a pole. She’s overweight and will never see forty again. In her tight latex outfit, she resembles an overstuffed sausage. Some members of the Aryan Motorcircle were already around when there still was an East Germany. Most of them, of course, need an oxygen tank by now or soil their diapers in some nursing home. And it’s definitely not the music that made their bodies go to hell. Tom is at the bar, a whiskey bottle in front of him. He’s in his early thirties and skinny and has been a Prospect for ten years now. A Prospect with the Aryans, that is. Prospects are the rookies, you know. Guys who still have to prove they’re worthy and are bossed around by the regular gang members. Those of you who have served in the army know the hazing rituals of all-male communities. Tom will remain at the bottom rung of the ladder forever, I think, when I now look at him. A permanent rash covers his face. Each time I see him it blooms in yet another place. Today it’s his nose, that’s afflicted. He must be breaking some kind of record, not to have been promoted to Member for such a long time. But he can also be sure that the gang will never send him packing.

You simply gotta love working with Omegas. They’re grateful for a pat on the shoulder and excellent providers of information. The physically weak make good listeners, I can tell you. They keep their eyes open and their ears to the ground. When Tom notices me, he gets up and shakes my hand. “Great to see you again.” He really seems to be happy. He’s by no means an idiot. His eyes are alert and he’s as sharp as a tack. It’s simply beyond me why he puts up with all the abuse. He’d be able to get a Job in the City, where brains count more than brawn. He’d have a realistic chance to get out of the Ghetto, if he only wanted to. I’m wondering why he doesn’t even try. Why he endures being humiliated by his so-called brothers. Maybe he just gets off on pain. We sit down at the bar and he pours me a whiskey. After we clink glasses, we both empty them in one gulp.

“How’s it going?” I ask, pushing my last three units of coke in his direction.

“Oh, well,” he slowly replies. “Not that great.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Thor hasn’t shown up at the last parade.”

The music drones out his soft voice. “You need to speak up,” I tell him.

Tom leans over, until he almost touches my ear. “The filthy Arabs want to finish us up,” he hisses.

“Yeah, yeah, so I’ve heard.”

“Fucking fuckers.”

“And what’re you going to do about it?”

“Whaddaya think?”

“Get even?”

“Keep on dreaming. It’s twenty of them against one of us.”

“I know.”

“What do you think, we can do?” he accusingly adds. “We’re lucky if we don’t lose our street.”

“Yeah, I got it,” I try to calm him.

Canned applause ends the performance of the overweight dancer. She comes over to the bar and has the bartender pour her a plum brandy. I look at Tom, twirling my empty glass in my hand. I need to find out if he knows anything about the ace-of-clubs-crucifix murders. “You guys are not on a crusade, you know what I mean?” I ask, all the while carefully studying him from the corner of my eye.

Tom bristles. “Why do you say something like this?”

“Why do I say what?”

“The thing about the crusade.”

“No special reason,” I claim.

Tom bangs a tattoo on the bar with his storm lighter. “Must have something to do with the sun spots, that’s why everyone’s suddenly going nuts.”

When I smile at him, he doesn’t meet my eyes. He always avoids eye contact. Like we were animals and he was a subordinate male. “What, if the tables could be turned and the Arabs would be grabbed by the balls for a change?” I insist.

A pensive nod from Tom. “I wouldn’t mind.”

“These guys will finish them up, you think?”

“What guys?”

“You know who I’m talking about.”

“What do I know?”

“What they’re saying on the street.”

“About who? The roof-runner?”

I slam my hand down on the bar. “Then you do know what’s going on,” I blurt.

Tom points at the badges on his vest. “Being a Prospect doesn’t mean you’re blind,” he declares.

I bend closer to him. “Speak up! Who’s behind it? Who’re the Arabs scared of?”

Tom refills his whiskey glass. “It’s just talk.” A dismissive wave with his hand.

I put my arm around his shoulder, pulling his upper body closer to me. “Tell me,” I urge him.

“Abdul,” Tom starts, struggling to shake off my arm.

“So what?”

“Abdul who lives on Revaler, I sometimes have a chat with him. He’s told me something,” Tom explains.

“You’re chatting with an Arab?”

“Yes, why not? Not all of them are bastards.” Tom lowers his head until it almost touches the bar. “Abdul’s scared shitless,” he continues. “He’s told me he was just dragging his ass down Revaler early one morning, when he saw this... hell, I