The Vintage Kid was sweating like a pig on cocaine. He looked uneasily around at the last blank remains of Lower Dogtown. Only three weeks ago he’d floated down these silken streets like the plague with Vicky Vulva on his arm. He had been King Groover then, now the hollow scent of her head lice was all that remained. And an aching hurt to eek revenge on Billy Hologram and his Molecule Men.

Pulling up at the intersection between Purgatory Drive and Memory Arcade he panted wearily. A child fell from the sky, as the Kid leered into The Pheromone-a-Go-Go Club for one last shandy of delight. He knew now that his final stab at mediocrity had failed, and that only the Gargoyle Gang offered one last chance hope of a better life.

The Gargoyle Gang, those bitter failed bonehead lovers of the Nearly Ladies, dining on the scraps weary wasted hand-jobs. Mealy Men, each and every one. Surely there was a better arrangement that could be made, surely a better deal to be dealt at the Fish Pound?

But too late now. Too late for time. The door sheared open, and Captain Tearaway of the Indigo Police wretched out the echo of a command. One shot rang out, and pain puzzled his temple.

His whole stupid life flashed before him, like a badly lit cigarette in a hurricane, as The Vapours of Infinity played ‘Hollow Song’ on the juke box. His heart paced, reared, and gave up its empty gift.

And there would be no more tomorrows for tea.

From the Dogtown Diaries Vol I, work in progress.

Colin Bradshaw-Jones online