unbelievable2

Title: URBAN WILDLIFE BLUES

Or, maybe not the tail you thought it was.

Part 7 of 9

Pairing: Howard/Vince

Author: Unbelievable2

Rating: PG13, probably.

Word Count: 5,520

Summary: What starts as a new departure for Howard and a surprise for Vince swiftly turns into a [nail-bitingly terrifying/ridiculously overblown*] race against time to thwart an old enemy.
*delete as applicable

Warnings: For story as a whole, some nastiness, violence, drug refs and swears, talking animals, character death (oh, and some s/ash ;) here and there)

Disclaimer: Sadly I own neither the creators nor their characters, and I will not, nor would I ever wish to, profit from either.

Notes:

A long chapter here – strap in for a bit of a bumpy ride……
My thanks forever to the glorious themogwai – beta par excellence .Only one more to go, mate!

Part 1 here:

Part 2 here:

Part 3 here:

Part 4 here:

Part 5 here:

Part 6 here:

Part 7

The hours were taking their toll on Howard. Wrapped from head to foot in plastic, he found breathing difficult. He felt he had sweated out his very soul. The light in the cavern had changed. Now it was the eerie glow of growing moonlight that sifted in. But Howard saw little of his surroundings. Now drifting in and out of consciousness, a whole pageant of light and colours paraded in front of him.

Blue sea and palm trees from long ago; the turquoise gleam of a glacier and a bevy of polar bears wandering through. At one point the bin-bag cavern transformed itself with neon signs in red, blue and green, and a bit of funky music piped in – Howard was even glad to be back in Black Lake. Except he wasn’t.

He was beyond movement and trying to escape. He had no strength left. In his lucid periods he reflected on his end – not the one Howard Moon, Man of Ages, would have chosen; left to rot under a pile of rubbish, undiscovered, unmourned.

He couldn’t even summon up the strength to panic anymore. There was no point. Whatever dreams he had still harboured about his life, the loss of Vince cancelled them out completely. He had never consciously registered the necessity of Vince. But it was absolute. The moment the Crack Fox had told him what he’d done, Howard Moon had stopped caring.

It wasn’t that he didn’t believe in an afterlife. Sadly he’d been there, done that, and knew that it was likely to be just as incapable as this earthly life in living up to expectations. He only hoped that somewhere between Monkey Hell and Wannabee Rock-star Heaven there would be an astral plane where he might meet Vince again; see him dance, see him smile.

His visions were as real as any of his fantastical life with Vince had been. Vibrant colours, bright lights, like a party for the end, except that he’d had no choice in the guest list (another familiar feeling). Naboo and Bollo were wandering around the back of the cavern, arm in arm, singing out of tune. At times there were flying carpets in the air, circling in a holding pattern. Zoo animals trotted past, gazing at him with quiet curiosity, as if he were an exhibit.

Periodically, Bob Fossil would appear, in various guises – the hideous blue suit, in even more hideous nipple tassels, as a fisherman, as a psychiatrist with a clipboard – looking like he was rapping fit to burst, but Howard could hear nothing but a buzzing of blood in his ears. He would gyrate through the cavern, stopping to speak soundlessly to Howard, or dance a bit. And then suddenly he’d be gone, the cavern seeming bigger for his loss.

But most of all, most of all, there was one person drifting in and out of Howard’s vision. Sometimes in the glitter suit he’d worn at the Jazz Club; sometimes in that diaphanous kaftan that had swirled about Howard and along with so much else had captivated him on the night of his birthday party. And sometimes it was Vince, unclothed, his skin glowing in the harsh shop lights or in the blue flash of lightning.

He saw his arms outstretched, dancing, or pulling his beloved shapes, or gesturing madly to illustrate some wild story or elaborate excuse. And always smiling, the blue eyes wide and warm and engulfing Howard. Sometimes he’d speak to Howard, looking sad when Howard didn’t respond. Howard in his dream state could neither speak nor hear Vince’s voice – but he never took his eyes off his friend as he illuminated Howard’s personal darkness.

An old song, long loved but almost forgotten, now gently filled Howard’s head, as if someone were slowly turning up the volume. He heard the warm growl of a great poet’s voice, and the glorious words filled him as he watched Vince’s silent dancing in his mind’s eye.

Dance me to your beauty with a burning violin

Dance me through the panic till I’m gathered safely in

Lift me like an olive branch and be my homeward dove

Dance me to the end of love

On and on, to the lovely song. Vince drifting closer, his hands reaching out to Howard’s face, and Howard could almost feel his friend’s fingers running through his hair, across his brow, his nose, his cheek…..

Let me see your beauty when the witnesses are gone

Let me feel you’re moving like they do in Babylon

Show me slowly what I only know the limits of

Dance me to the end of love

He was overwhelmed with the memory of the night on the roof. Vince’s lips on his mouth, along his jaw, his hands gently stroking, holding.

Anything, he thought, anything to know that feeling again. If he were ever lucky enough to see Vince Noir one more time, he knew what would be the first thing he’d do….

Vince filled his mind. Vince in the kaftan; Vince in a skin-tight red jumpsuit; Vince at his most debonair in a velvet jacket embroidered with moons and stars. Vince in a blue silk shirt that matched the colour of his eyes, draped languorously over cushions, looking sultry.

And Vince as only he could pose in underwear and boots, the delight of a crimp showing in his face. No pretence, no fashion disguise; just the man, his hands out to Howard, his face lit by the soft smile from years ago that Howard had seen once more in the dancing.

Vince, Vince, Vince…..

The image wavered and dissolved, Howard making an involuntary gasp of pain at the loss. Colours faded, the cavern was back and there was noise and movement. His consciousness returned unbidden, unwanted. The Crack Fox – reality not hallucination – was shuffling back on his crutches, followed by a small group of stuffed bin-bag acolytes, some of which dragged themselves across the floor, some of which floated a little above its surface.

The Fox loomed over him, the twisted grin in evidence. He poked Howard with a crutch.

“Jes’ come to say goodbye, binman sir. Jes’ come to tell yo’ your friends don’t wan’ you back. They don’t bring Crack Fox no Shaman Juice, binman. Ain’t that a doggone shame? Ain’t you sad, binman?”

Howard moved his dry lips. At first there was only a hoarse croak but he forced out the sounds. The Fox, grinning all the while, seemed to delight in each painfully enunciated word.

“You got it … wrong, Fox. Me? I’m … nothing, no-one. You could… you could have had the world … for Vince Noir. You killed the wrong man….”

The Fox giggled.

“Ain’t no problem for me, binman! I got me a new supplier! Crack Fox’s rule’s about to begin! “

He stepped back, raising his crutches in a gesture of triumph.

“You will behold ma power! You humans got a treat in store, yessir!

“Gonna tear you all apart, and you won’t even notice!

“Gonna tear you all apart!”

“No!”shouted Howard, defiantly helpless to the last. “We’ll stop you!”

The Fox cackled delightedly at his distress, shaking his head, spittle flying from the mangey fur.

“Don’ you worry, binman sir! Ain’t gonna matter to you…

“You here for ever!”

He turned and started to shuffle away. Howard summoned up his final ounce of strength.

“We would have stopped you! Me and Vince! Together!”

The words had a mocking echo now.

The Fox had reached the corridor opening. He looked back over his shoulder.

“You can’t stop nuthin’, binman! You jes’ on ya own. There ain’t no pretty Princey Vincey anymore to come for ya!

“Tore you apart, binman, like you tore ol’ Cracky Fox to pieces…

“Tore your heart out!

“Crack Fox wins! Behold ma power!”

And as he left the cavern he flicked out a paw in a gesture of dismissal and disdain, a signal for his bin-bag entourage to rise up and throw themselves onto Howard, burying him for good and all.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

First there was no air to breathe. Slimy black plastic smothered his mouth and nose, a huge weight of rubbish crushed his chest. On his legs, for some strange reason, the greatest weight of all pressed down. He struggled, but he was slipping away now… his mind was all darkness and pain.

And suddenly the suffocating blackness was gone. Bin-bags were flying in all directions, hurled off his body. All but one. One that crouched now over his hips and thighs.

A taller bin-bag than most. One that wore silver boots…

There was the sound of muffled cursing. The tall bin-bag tore from top to bottom, and a familiar face emerged, far from happy, still effing and blinding, with the stink of rotting rubbish all around like a swarm of bluebottles. No vision this, with its sweaty locks, profanity and, bizarrely, a Cost Cutter carrier bag attached to its wrist. It made a final struggle, a ragged butterfly emerging from a garbage chrysalis, and toppled out to fall onto Howard’s chest, driving the last remaining air from his lungs.

Vince rolled off him and Howard drew breath, a great ragged gasp. And squeaked the only thing possible in that situation.

“Vince! You’re alive!”

Vince was on his knees now, rid of the bag, leaning over him and plucking at the plastic bonds.

“Bloody hell, Howard! What did I tell you about solo missions?”

The huge grin on his face faded quickly as he felt the brow of his gob-smacked, soppily- smiling, gift-wrapped friend beneath him.

“Howard! You all right? You’re a bit hot and sweaty!”
“Being… wrapped in plastic … a bit… exhausting,” rasped Howard.

He felt Vince’s hands gently touching his face, his neck.

“Ooh, there’s blood here! You’ve had the needles too…”

Needles…

Memories. The panic began to surge back.

“Vince!” he began. “The… Fox…!”

“S’okay, Howard! He’s long gone.”

“No! Antidote….” he struggled with the words. The distress was evident on his face.

Vince still stroked his cheek lightly. All Howard could do was move his face against the touch, craving more.

One last time….

“Anecdote?”

“Antidote… He said… there was an antidote. For what he…. he did to you.”

Vince smiled happily.

“Yeah, I was a goner, Naboo said. But he worked it out. So I’m all right now. Genius, eh?”

Vince’s smile faded as Howard shook his head distractedly.

“ I came … to find it… The antidote…..”

“Yeah, but I’m all right, Howard, honest!”

But his hand stilled as Howard’s feverish words sank in. He gazed down, his brow now troubled.

“You….?” He tried again. “You….? To find…?”

Then saw the parched lips, the dry tongue.

“Hang on, Howard! I’ve got something that’ll help!”

He delved into the Cost Cutter bag and produced a flask of yellow liquid, uncorked it and smiled delightedly at his brainwave and Howard’s good fortune.

Even in his bin-bags, Howard recoiled.

“Vince!” he rasped. “Are you insane? Whose wee is that?”

Vince spluttered.

“It’s Lucozade, you fruit loop! Here….”

He lifted Howard’s head gently and placed the flask to his lips. Howard gulped it down in ecstasy. Vince supported him as he drank, watching carefully.

”Here, that’s enough for now.”

The liquid was a god-send.

“How the hell,” gasped Howard, “did you arrive with Lucozade?”

“Lucky swap.” Vince was still grinning, but there was worry in his eyes.

“Come on, Howard, let’s get you out of this thing, and we can hightail it out of here.”

He started to rip the plastic at Howard’s neck, cursing again as it resisted his grasp. Howard gazed with wonder and disbelief at the black hair swishing across his face, the intense expression in the blue eyes that spoke of the huge mental activity involved in working out how to rip plastic. Wonder, and a kind of resigned amusement.

“Vince, only you could come on a rescue mission armed with Lucozade and without a weapon of any kind. Now you know why I always carry my Swiss Army Knife…”

Vince looked up, cocking an eyebrow.

“Except now,” Howard confessed, “as I think I’ve still only got my underpants on…”

Vince grinned , wrestled a hand down into the front pocket of the skinnies and extracted a pair of miniature nail scissors. He brandished them in triumph in front of Howard’s eyes.

“I’m always prepared, Howard. Though they were a bit uncomfortable in there…”

He began to snip carefully at the layers of plastic, frowning with the effort of concentration.

Snip, snip, snip. The pace would have had snails doubled up with laughter.

“Vince, you think there’s a chance this might be over before Christmas?”

“Shaddup, you.” The voice was muffled. “It’s a delicate procedure. I just got your skin under here to guide me. Don’t forget that…”

Howard’s eyes crossed slightly as he tried to look down.

“Okay, be careful then, little man…”

The face looked up again, a wicked grin still in place.

“Just remember that, you jazzy freak! You’re in my power!”

As if I didn’t know that already, thought Howard, as he watched the slow progress resume, feeling a welcome coolness as Vince peeled back the enveloping plastic with the snipping away of each inch, exposing Howard’s torso.

In his strange state between collapse and elation, there was no room for ‘Don’t touch me!’ interdictions. He had never in his life so much wanted this touch - this touching. The ebbing of terror, the welling-up of immense relief at his rescue by the man he thought had been lost forever, made him drunk with joy.

And drunk like that, his inhibitions were cast aside. He felt he could lie there forever with Vince straddling him, the welcome pressure of his body against Howard’s thighs, his hair trailing down ever more of Howard’s bare chest as the plastic was stripped away, his breath cool on Howard’s sweating skin, his hands exploring, stroking, tentatively feeling….

“Aaaaaah!”
Vince’s cry of triumph brought Howard back to earth with a start. The scissors had just cut through a particularly difficult section of plastic and suddenly Vince was pulling back the black folds and dragging them away from Howard’s shoulders. He reached inside and helped Howard’s cramped arms out of their bonds, his hands stroking down Howard’s upper arms in an unconscious gesture of comfort and reassurance which could have been for either or both of them, it wasn’t clear.

And Vince was taken completely by surprise as those arms folded around him, hands on his shoulders, pulling him close. By the time their faces had met and Howard’s mouth was over his, Vince’s surprise had turned to delight. He allowed himself to melt into the kiss, his own arms slipping around Howard’s back, fingers splaying over the broad shoulder-blades, and submit to the hard, desperate press of lips and the scratch of Howard’s moustache and stubble.

Wasn’t it all he’d ever wanted, after all?

They broke apart simultaneously, both panting, staring at each other with not a little wonder and quite a lot of uncertainty, for all the sudden conviction of the kiss.

Vince broke the silence.

“What was all that for, then?” he asked, as lightly as he could.

Howard gave an awkward little smile.

“Ummmm… thanks... for rescuing me…?”

“I’ve done that plenty of times, you nana. You’ve never thanked me like that before. Come to think of it, you’ve never thanked me…”

The words were meant to sound joshing; in fact they came over as hesitant and questioning.

“Well, that was the … er… first time I’ve … been in plastic bags,” Howard tried gamely.

“Oh, all right then…” Vince opened the scissors again and bent his head to the task. There was the merest hint of disappointment in his voice. The scissors snipped away.

Without thinking, Howard reached down and ran his hand over Vince’s hair. The other man stilled, as if waiting for something.

“I promised myself, if I ever got to see you again, that it would be the first thing I’d do.”

Vince still didn’t move. His head was bowed. When he spoke his voice was studiedly neutral.

“What you said… you’re wrong, you know. You’re not nothing. Not to me, not never.”

“What?” Howard gazed at the hunched form. Vince struggled to continue, his words still muffled, the attempt at nonchalance painfully obvious in the strained voice.

“You aren’t nothing. Not to me. You’re as far away from nothing as something that’s everything can be far away…” He stopped and suddenly looked up, puzzled.

“I think that’s what I mean. Only I haven’t had much time to think about the words….”

Howard couldn’t speak. Could only stroke the black head again. He realized his hand was shaking. Vince still didn’t smile. It was difficult to see properly in the cavern, but his eyes seemed to be gleaming, and his expression now was quite open, unguarded even.

“I thought you were dead.” Howard could only whisper it. “I thought I’d lost you.”

Vince stared at him solemnly for a moment, and then his face broke into a wide grin.

“As if that’s even possible? Haven’t you worked it out, Howard? We’re a team! You can’t break up a winning combination!”

“Yeah,” said Howard, still stroking, suddenly able to breathe again. “That’s right, a team…”

“A team that better get a bloody move on, if it wants to get out of here alive….”

And Vince was back on the job, so to speak - snip, snip, snip - muttering imprecations to himself.

Howard shifted in the remains of the cocoon, trying to loosen it from inside. The plastic slid obscenely across his skin, the inner surfaces of the bags full of his sweat. He felt drowsiness envelop him. The soothing hands on his exhausted body, the gentle murmur of muffled expletives - they lulled him into a reverie where danger was far away, where it was only him and Vince… him and Vince….

Vince’s audible inner monologue chose that moment to pick up in volume.

“… and I tell you what, Howard. If there’s any justice in this world, then the next time you’re this hot and sweaty and slippery we’ll be in my bed – not yours, mind, it’s way too uncomfortable - and you’ll be on top of me…”

Both men gasped, Howard’s intake of breath sounding like a little yelp.

A heavy pause.

“Ummmm.. … did I just say that out loud, or was it in my head?”

“Well, I wouldn’t actually know, sir, as I’ve … ummm … been hallucinating quite a lot today. But, ah, I would ask if you’d be… umm… extra careful where you put those scissors at the moment…”

Vince pulled back in clear embarrassment.

“You should… er … have the rest of the Lucozade.”

Howard gratefully took advantage of the distraction, and drank.

“You still haven’t told me properly how you got this. Or how you got in here.”

He gave the flask to Vince to gulp at, too. It was hot work, all this… debagging.

Vince smiled around a mouthful of fizzy drink.

“I tried to get some shaman juice. Naboo… well, he couldn’t get any, apparently. But I got conned and ended up with Lucozade.” He shrugged, happily dismissing it all.

Howard looked stunned.

“You tried to get… for me…?”

Then he frowned.

“How much did you lose?”

“What? Oh, my amber ring.”

“But you loved that ring!” Howard sounded genuinely moved, though by what, it wasn’t clear. Vince grinned again.

“Nah, Howard. I didn’t, not really. And anyway, I got the Lucozade, which was a lot more use to you in your baggy state.”
“That really was fortuitous, Vince,” Howard agreed.

“Bloody lucky, you mean. Looked like you were about to peg it from thirst when I got here.”

“And how exactly did you get here?” Howard was relaxing again in the heady delight of banter with his friend. The horrors of the night seemed to fall away.

“Oh, some foxes showed me the way.”
“Foxes?”

“Yeah, real ones, normal ones. They don’t like the Crack Fox. But they were a bit snooty, like. Thought they were a cut above me, they did.” He pouted; Howard couldn’t suppress a smile.

“But they showed me where the tunnel entrance was. We’re in the Council dump, underneath great piles of stuff. Imagine that! Yuk! How good is that for my image? Frankly, I’m amazed we’re not suffocated by stink. What I’ve been through…”

He shook his head, reflecting.

“…And when I got in, the first thing I saw was the mangey mutant cat, so I had to leap into a bin-bag for disguise.” He looked sternly at Howard. “I don’t think I’m ever, ever gonna get rid of the smell…

“Anyway, long story short, I can get us out again, as soon as you get your northern pins in action.”

Howard frowned, realising two things. One was that he could, in fact, now remove the rest of the plastic without undue embarrassment. Which he did, Vince helping him to wriggle free and supporting him carefully as he took some tentative steps. And with uncharacteristic tact making no reference to his friend’s almost complete lack of clothing. Howard himself might have been more embarrassed by the situation – there, in his underwear, weak and helpless, being propped up by Vince’s wiry frame - had he not been concentrating so hard on walking without falling over, after such a long period of confinement.

But his other realisation had a wider impact.

“Vince, we can’t just leave. Crack Fox says he’s got some more shaman juice. We have to stop him.”

“Howard,” Vince raised his hands, palms outward in protest. “Howard, it’s not our job. Let’s just go home, safe, and call the Board. Please?”

“But Vince, no-one else knows what he’s done. The Board may be too late. We have to stop him! We have to save the world! Or at least Dalston…”

Vince looked doubtful.

“So the world’s gonna be saved by two men – one in his underpants and the other in dire need of some hair product - armed only with a mainly-empty bottle of Lucozade and a pair of nail scissors. Okay, explain to me how that works…”

“Vince ! This could be our moment!”

Vince looked pained.

“Our moment? I got a better idea for that…”
But Howard was wearing that broad, broad grin. It was hard not to be enticed.

“Okay, so we save the world. After that, home? Maybe Jazz Moves? Please?”

The tone was hopeful.

“That’s right, Vince. We just need an order of priority, then everything falls into place. World salvation, cup of tea, Jazz Moves, and by then it’ll be time for bed...”

His smile froze as he realised yet another double entendre had clattered to the ground, to join the many others that littered the floor of the cavern.

Vince grinned widely.

“All right, Howard! You’ve won me over with that!”

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

It turned out that even Howard baulked at saving the world wearing only his underpants. The second-best satin cloak barely covered his modesty. By happy coincidence one of the conquered bin-bags thrown aside by Vince had split to reveal a bundle of old material, and they tiptoed out of the cavern with Howard draped in a length of sacking.

By unspoken consent they retraced Vince’s steps as a bin-bag, heading back to the other cavern where the Crack Fox had gathered his court together. It was, after all, the tunnel down which he had last shuffled away.

They edged apprehensively between the crazily-angled walls, Howard leading with a bravado that was paper-thin, once they’d actually started on ‘Phase 2 – Save the World’. Vince as ever was at his back, but with his hands lightly pressed to Howard’s waist, comforting, encouraging.

It wasn’t long before they could hear voices and music, of sorts - harsh and discordant. The sounds got louder, and they shrank to the tunnel sides. The tunnel was widening out into the other cavern. It was lit by pale blue-white light, the glow of the full moon getting stronger even though the moon himself wasn’t yet visible. Crack Fox sat on a battered chair in the centre of the cavern, and, in front of him, on a kind of pedestal made of breeze-blocks, stood a flask of greenish liquid.

And there was another figure on the scene.

The golden dealer stood facing the Crack Fox. He was clearly nervous and edgy, shuffling from foot to foot, trying to keep an eye on all corners of the cavern, as if expecting attack, whilst still focusing on the Fox. His voice was high and reedy against the harsh background of the banjo, which the Fox was plucking idly. The Fox’s gaze on the flask never wavered. Lazy bubbles were starting to rise from the base of the liquid. But the moon’s light was still too weak to achieve much.

The dealer was repeating his case.

“Look, we had a’ agreement, right? I need payin’ for this, man. You agreed payment…”

The Fox flicked a paw idly at him.

“Ah said you get your reward, golden shinin’ man. What Cracky Fox says, Cracky Fox means…”
“Well, c’mon then, man. Need my payment.”

“Oh, you gonna get what’s comin’…”

The dealer seemed oblivious to the growled threat. He waved his hand in front of the Fox, who slowly put down the banjo, eyes now fixed on the dealer.

“See, last guy tried to buy dis joose, he give me dis. See, shaman joose is da tip-top, high cost shit, man. You gotta pay me what I iz owed….”

In the shadows at the back of the cavern, Howard pressed closer to Vince, if that was indeed possible considering the way Vince had now enveloped him, his arms now tight around Howard’s waist. Howard leaned his head back.

“Your ring!” he whispered hoarsely in Vince’s ear. “That’s your ring, Vince!”

He could feel Vince’s grin against his cheek.

“Sod the ring! Look at that bottle!”

Vince was now completely absorbed in the excitement of the chase.

“We need a distraction, so we can grab it and run…” continued Howard in a whisper, plan-making coming to him as easily as that, sir.

“Okay, you’re distractin’, and I’m grabbin’”

“No! No!” hissed Howard. “You’ll trip in those boots! I’m grabbing and you’re distracting…”

“You’re too slow, Howard! I’m nimble on me feet…”

“Slow? Slow? I could beat you any day, sir! My legs are powerful and sleek...”

“Give over, Howard! And don’t argue! You’re too old for this! You’re distractin’ and…”

“No! You distract for a living! Bloody distract now, will you?”

As it happened (and just as well, perhaps) the distraction came along on cue to disrupt the whispered conference in the shadows.

The dealer just wasn’t going to shut up, was he?

“Okay, man, but I need payin’. Now, man! Like, now! I got places I gotta be!”

The Fox drew himself upright.

“That right, oh pretty shiny man? You goin’ places?

“You going nowhere…!”

Even as he growled, the Crack Fox rose up in the air, his forelegs outstretched, and flew at the dealer, knocking him flying. They tussled on the floor, the dealer screaming obscenities, flailing with his arms against the onslaught of filthy fur, claws and needles.

The Fox was dominant though.

“Needly dee, needly dee….”

Howard, watching aghast at the horror that could have only one outcome, was suddenly conscious of a lack of arms pressed around his middle. And an absence of….

“Vince? Vince!” he hissed, looking around distractedly, only to see a dark shape and the blur of silver. Vince was on the move in the centre of the cavern, one eye on the fight, the other on the flask, now bubbling in earnest as the moon’s rays crawled over the lip of the roof and started to pour in.

Howard wanted to shout “Be careful!” or “Come back, you idiot!” Or even “Okay, I’m the idiot! Let’s run - now!” But all he could manage was a whispered word of panic.

“Vince!”

The dark figure turned back towards Howard. A moonbeam hit him full on, catching the broad planes of his face, the angles of his cheekbones, the quirky grin of absolute delight.

Howard saw him mouth the words.

“Just watch me!”

Vince, tongue poking at the corner of his mouth with the effort of concentration and balance, reached out and plucked the flask from its pedestal. Given the tussle on the floor, he might have been forgiven for thinking that he, the perennial getter-away-with-things, was going to get away with it one more time.

But he was wrong.

To Howard’s horror, the moon slipped into full view at the opening of the roof. The cavern lit up, and Vince was caught in the spotlight, on his tiptoes in the middle of it all, the flask of agitated liquid in his hands. The Fox gave an angry cry and leapt off his prey, flying instead straight at him.

“Vince! Look out!”

Howard leapt out of the shadows, yelling with all his might, running too. Towards what, he had no idea. Vince wheeled, dropped the flask to the ground, and ducked.

His timing was perfect. The Fox sailed right over his head to land, a bundle of fur and bones, on the hard floor, and roll over and over into the shadows.

“Good call, Howard!”

Vince was on his feet in an instant, grabbing the flask by its neck and brandishing it aloft.

“Got it! Now let’s… oooff!!!”

The dealer had launched himself from the floor, arms outstretched for the flask. He caught Vince in the small of the back, sending him flying, and his hand came up to grasp Vince’s on the flask, pulling it away. The two men rolled, but the dealer was no match for Vince. A cunningly rammed knee had the dealer yelping in pain, and he let go of the flask, doubled up.

Vince leapt to his feet.

“Howard! I got it!”

But the Crack Fox was already dragging himself out of the shadows.

“Ol’ Cracky Fox needs his juice…

“Die, mothafucka!”

Howard saw the foreleg with the hypodermics rise. He didn’t have time to think it through. If he had, he might have been tempted to write a philosophical treatise entitled ‘Self or non-self: the abnegation of the ego in the face of overwhelming odds’ just to avoid doing anything. But indecision had been left behind in the Nabootique. It didn’t currently form part of Howard Moon’s all-round package, no sir.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw the Fox’s paw flex and the sudden flash as a needle shot out, flying across the room, heading straight for Vince. And he saw Vince’s confused expression as he stood holding the flask, rooted to the spot.

Howard threw himself forward.

“Move, Vince! Move!”

Something grabbed at his back, checking his flight and ripping the sacking toga from his shoulders. But even so his hands connected with Vince’s breastbone and he shoved his friend bodily backwards, registering only blue eyes wide with shock and a dropped jaw. And Howard himself was still falling forward.

Something flashed into his line of vision.

Something exploded in his head.

Everything stopped.

Vince had hardly had time to process any of this. So much had been happening all at once - the dealer kicking and clawing at him, Howard shouting, the flask spinning away, Howard flying through the air like a demented rugby player to shove him clear, the flash of gold as the dealer hurled himself forward in his own attempt to regain the flask, colliding with Howard in mid-air. And through it all, he heard the Crack Fox’s voice - no longer giggling, just jagged with hate and anger.

He sprawled on the floor, gasping for breath after the impact of Howard’s blow to his chest and the fall. Suddenly, he saw the flask, still miraculously intact, rolling towards him. Once more it was in his grasp. He scrambled up.

“Howard! Come on! Run!”

And froze at the sight before him.

There was a huddle of forms over the breeze-block altar. Crack Fox sat on top of it all, panting hard, his eyes glowing red.

“I won! I won! Funny funny game!

“I got him bad!”

He splayed his hypodermic hand out, rattling the needles, leering at Vince, who stood in shock, his eyes never leaving the jumble of limbs on the ground.

The needle … Oh god, no.

There was blood on the breeze-blocks.

Howard lay there, stretched out on the ground. His forehead was red. Blood trickled along the line of his brow and ran past his eye to drip onto the floor. Shining material was spread out over his long body. His face was blank, empty.

This was all wrong….

“Howard…? Howard!”

But Howard didn’t move.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Footnotes:

In case anyone doesn’t know it, here’s the song. The video is a bit depressing, so you might want to avert your eyes, in case you might think it gives a clue to the last chapter (I couldn’t possibly comment...)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7pA5UhNaYw0

And that last chapter will take a week or so. It’s gonna be quite difficult to write ;)