Tunnels 01, Tunnels

innocent wares when all around the big companies were promoting their brands so relentlessly on the billboards.
    "Imago."
    The name drifted toward him as a breeze picked up and a battered car swerved recklessly around the corner, its wheels squealing. He shivered, and looked suspiciously at an old man as he struggled along the pavement with his walking stick. The man's cheeks were covered with spiky gray stubble, as if he'd forgotten to shave that morning.
    As the girl selling the heather brushed past with her basket, Imago looked away for the old man and studied the people at the tables again. No, he was just a little jumpy. It was nothing. He must have imagined it.
    He put the bowl of whitebait on his lap and helped himself to another handful, washing it down with some beer. This was the life! He smiled to himself and stretched out his legs.
    Nobody saw as he was thrown back against the wall by a sudden spasm and then pitched forward from the bench, his face locked into a grotesque contortion. As he hit the ground, his eyes swiveled up into their sockets and his mouth opened, just once, then closed for the last time.
    It was all over long before the ambulance arrived. Because he might have rolled off the stretcher, the two ambulance men decided instead to carry the rigid corpse, one on each side. The crowd of onlookers gasped at the spectacle, muttering among themselves as Imago's body, frozen like a statue in a sitting position, was manhandled into the back of the ambulance. And there was absolutely nothing the paramedics could do about the bowl still grasped in the corpse's hand, so tightly they couldn't lever it out.
    Poor old Reggie. A pretty insensitive bunch when it came to the welfare of their clientele, the bar staff were genuinely disturbed by his death. Particularly so when the kitchen was closed and several of them lost their jobs. They were later told there'd been an obscure lead-based compound in his food; it was a freak occurrence, a poisoned fish in a million. His body had simply shut down, his blood clotting like quick-setting cement due to overwhelming toxic shock.
    At the inquest, the coroner wasn't too forthcoming about the nature of the poison. Indeed, he was rather baffled by the traces of complex chemicals that had never been recorded before.
    Only one person, the girl watching the ambulance from across the road, knew the truth. She took off her scarf and threw it into the gutter, shaking out her jet-black hair with a self-satisfied smile as she put on her sunglasses and inclined her head toward the bright sky. As she walked away, she began singing softly, "You are my sunshine... My only sunshine..."
    She wasn't done yet...

     

THE ROOKERIES PRESS

    -- PRESENTS --

    * for your delight and delectation *

    * for the Uninitiated *

    * and with WARNINGS
    for the unadvisedly curious,
    the ill-informed, and
    the downright stupid *

    MR. NEMO'S UNOFFICIAL OCCASIONAL ON THE WORKINGS OF THE COLONY

    -- OR --

    If you find yourself here in this forsaken hole of a place, then you are here to stay, my friend, and our glorious masters, the vicious, white-necked, black-haired devils known to all and sundry as the Styx, will rip out your kidneys if they catch you reading this.
     

The Styx

    -- If you do nothing else, then at least heed the words of warning writ on this page --

    Do NOT doubt that the Styx are our Lords and Masters, and as such must be treated with the respect one affords the most poisonous of vipers. There follow some vital tips for those who don't desire a thoroughly unpleasant end.....

    1. Be advised not to look upon the face of a Styx unless addressed directly by one. It's best to avert one's eyes, but do so in a respectful manner.

    2. Be advised not to loiter by the Styx compound or any other edifice occupied by the Styx. Keep yourself to yourself if there are Styx about.

    3. On no account should you ever trust a Styx. And if one acts in a friendly fashion toward you, be afraid, be bloody terrified. Indeed, it's probably time to pack your bags for a journey to the Deeps.

    4. Our brethren who are in the pockets of the White Necks, namely the Governors, the scientists, and the police, are to be pitied and should be ashamed of themselves. If you dance with danger, the dance don't stop.

    5. Be advised not to reproduce the name of the Styx nor allow any graven image of them to be contained in any printed matter, for any purpose whatsoever. And if furnished with such, thou must report