It started bad. A bad move, a bad plan. Or a good plan, which is known to be the best kind of plan to turn against you. Surprisingly, it has quite gone well after that. Well, yeah, for a while.
My partner had it rough, way more than me.
"We won't double cross the Sunday Black Market this easy"
He was right, should've been listening to himself more. I replied
"We are better off on the run, you know that. We'd be on the run both from the Federals and from the Market, yeah. But remember: both have laws we don't wanna live along. And this is our opportunity to get the money to buy our way out."
"To buy our way." he said.
When he was a kid he found a dollar adrift in the open space.
But to me it was way more than that. Actually, it wasn't about money or anything in the future, it was about the present.
It... I was about... I think I knew that back then, don't think that I still got it. Maybe I wanted my dollar from the space too.
Or maybe I was even sillier than her.
The code worked. It got us out alive. We had to do our charade with real bullets though, my partner has lost an eye, I just bled my share, but nothing more than some glass of booze can't refill.
Tony waited for us on the ship, with the others. They hid behind the comet tail, which jumbles up the trace of the Star Engine.
She says comets are evil.
So we went by. It is a slow route, but the safe one. We got a buyer waiting for us on Titan, at the Ol' Ash's Saloon.
So, in the end, I betrayed the Sunday Black Market and she betrayed the Federals, and whatever agency she is really working for.
And now, we are all traitors. But not for long, no more. Like she said - like you said - even though no one no longer cares, we have that old uniform to wear, just for ourselves. We'll be our own army.
credits
from Ol' Ash's Saloon,
released April 12, 2012
Dario Mambro - piano, noises
Marco Di Vita - guitars
Federico Bernacchi - bass guitars
totally self produced
The circus burns. The audience fled at breakneck pace. The stands are empty, the big top full of smoke and flames. The clown
is alone on the track, his sequins' costume shining in the glimmer of the fire. His face is white as lime, under the left eye shines an obliged tear, the crooked hat on the head. With a flashing trumpet he plays the farewell's great melody, sublime and ridiculous.
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