Issue 2
Fist City Misfits Part 1

Spanner Stilson emerges from the lady’s house. She calls in sick and says he should go to work or it’d look bad. He leaves in time to get to work and does not go.

He turns instead, the wrong direction, away from the train he should take.

He enjoys the birds of this residential morning of treelined blocks. A neighborhood of brick sidewalks and lush canopies where members of families make their way leisurely by. Toward the local business district. Away from where Spanner Stilson is going. All the rowhouses have variations on planters and pots in lieu of a yard or garden. Their sod is stone.

He keeps through streets lost in the particulars of each yard and home. Most make an effort here for plants, living things in front of the house to signify the presence of living things within. If that be what be there. Else these plants are all a clever ruse. Camouflage. Hedge. Duck blind.

Spanner is amazed by a particularly ornate garden on a corner.

Primarily the surface of the yard is cement. There are two beds, gaps in the concrete floor, on either side of the yard. In one grows roses. The other, tomatoes.

In the center of the yard stands statue in a fountain. A seeming shrine. All around pots and troughs overflow with flower and foliage.

The fountain is a statue and a birdbath. Spanner cannot identify the saint. Its gender in flowing robes remainhs indeterminate. Call it her then if you can’t tell. That’s more polite. It strikes Spanner he’s never seen a saint’s statue so sensual and androgynous.

Spanner falls into a hole like an absent-minded rabbit. An actual, physical hole in the ground. The fall seems longer than it should be and the landing dryer than expected falling underground where there’s always water creeping in.

Manholes aren’t usually in the sidewalk and there was no sign of construction.

Spanner lies in a bruised and befuddled heap on soft dry earth like the bottom of a well.

He rolls onto his back to take a mental inventory of his body. He can’t seem to think of anything that’s seriously wrong. He opens his eyes up and sees a yawn of sky above. The exact shape is hard to tell.

Spanner feels each hand and arm with the other. His left wrist is tender. He feels his face. It seems the same. Everything in place. He feels his shaved head. It is smooth like a helmet or a golden mask. His torso is in order. A few ribs are bruised.

He sits up to feel his legs. He keeps them straight out in front of him and reaches out in a stretch the length to his toes. The count comes up ten.

Spanner Stilson wanders through tunnels in complete darkness.

They are dry. No signs of sewers. Isn’t that what’s usually under a city? Or a subway? He hasn’t seen a train or heard its low rumble.

The original room is ten feet square. All soft floor. The walls give no purchase toward footclimbing. He finds an exit. The floor remains level. The walls are cold stone. The floor is more sandy than the soft of the room where Spanner arrived.

His eyes acclimate to the total darkness. He sees nothing. Progress is slow. Each next step in the darkness is uncertain.

He walks and feels the stone wall; cool but dry. His feet navigate the darkness of the floor as if it were delicate metaphysical surface tension that held him atop the dark water. Walking on water wasn’t built in a day. It is sand as he feels it through the soles of his shoes; black water as he feels it with his soul. Potent, harmful, sapient safety.

The tension, conflict of darkness, holds him together and bonds the particles of the floor (sticks quick the grains of sand) lest he slip through.

-What is that?

His voice creaks. He is thirsty.

He sees light. Not whiteness of a light source but up ahead he feels the radiation. Luminescence. He can sense a slight blueing to the blackness. It could be hallucination or hopefulness. He must believe in it. Having the faith to keep afloat in a blackened labyrinth is a trial no one should endure til he becomes the rock that did not float.

He decides to take each blind step as though sighted. It was his sight got him in this hole to begin it.

Hallucination or not the blue intensifies. He holds his hand in front of his eyes and he’s just sure he can see a shadow.

He turns a corner and almost runs into a door. It is ajar and light leaks from the cracks around the door. He takes a step back and looks at the door. He listens. Confident it’s safe to proceed he opens the door. As he steps forward he stumbles on the welcome mat he missed before. He smacks his shining right temple into the door and curses. He gets through the door and leans on the wall.

The light is very bright. He might not know if it’s from a light fixture or his right temple.

Hand to his head he leans back to the wall. It is very bright. He slumps to the floor.

Around a few bends of well-lit corridors in the underround complex. Two members of the Fist City Misfits stroll hand in hand. It is band leader, lead singer, fiddler Jocelyn Tenebreux and badass bassist Tiffany Epiphany.

Jocelyn is a beautiful dark haired french girl who seems a thousand years old. The depth of sadness in her eyes could make anyone fall in love. Those closest to those green eyes are most susceptible to their sad but benevolent spell. Her english sometimes deteriorates. Singing exemplifies and amplifies her ability to please.

Tiffany Epiphany is a lusciously boyish lesbian with short blond curls & tilted style.

The duo strolls leisurely and discusses the previous evening’s show.

Tiffany: Those three new numbers are great in the middle of the set.
Jocelyn: I think they should be spread out.
Tiffany: They’re musically spread out. We don’t want to mix them in with that
crummy old material.
Jocelyn: Zee hits are very imporant. Without these no fans.

Jocelyn looks down the hall as they’re passing and sees the slumped figure there.

Jocelyn: What are you doing here?
Tiffany: I think he’s hurt.
Jocelyn: Oh... Somebody lef ze door ope again.

Tiffany rushes to the aid of our slumped hero. His last conscious thought was that you’re supposed to stay awake when you’re concussed just as he passed out. There is a bruise and growning lump on Spanner Stilson’s right temple. It is the worst of his injuries.

He wakes on a couch in a plush livingroom. A beautiful girl daubs a cool rag at his brow and coos sweetness.

Spanner opens his eyes and looks up at Tiffany. She leans over him and makes to whisper in his ear. She blows hot breath seductively into his ear. He can see readily down her baggy tanktop.

Spanner makes a great attempt to speak.

-Water.

She bites his earlobe.

-Oh, coming right up.

Her breasts graze his chest as she leans away from him. She grabs a tumbler from a table beside the couch with a curly straw and brings it to his parched lips.

He drinks.

-Thank you.

Again she leans close to him.

-You’re welcome.

He reaches an arm around her slim frame and pulls her closer for her warmth.

She kisses him on the cheek. Then the other cheek. His forehead and nose. She licks his lips just as she gets up from the sofa.

Tiffany: I’ll be back.
Spanner: Where are you going?
Tiffany: To lock the door.
Spanner: Who are you?
Tiffany: I’m Tiffany. I play bass in the Fist City Misfits.
Spanner: But this isn’t Fist City.
Tiffany: You haven’t met the other girls.
Spanner: Am I underground?
Tiffany: We both are.
Spanner: I found a door in the darkness
Tiffany: Everybody’s looking for a crack to slither into.

She turns away from him and crosses the room.

Tiffany slips through the door.

Spanner: Where are you going?
Tiffany: To get Some.
Spanner: You don’t have to go anywhere for that.

Tiffany sighs audibly and locks the door behind her. Spanner waits.

Flirt, he thinks as he ponders the handful of ass he’d been able to grab... err... gently caress. Firmly squeeze and practically pinch to be perfectly honest.

Maybe she’s bringing the others or about to set a tiger loose in the room from a secret entrance. She and the other Fist City Misfits will watch his demise on closed circuit TV.

He almost has himself believing himself. He takes pause and realizes strange days are no tragedy. Just strange. He has no allignment other than his own direction, something elusive.

He hears the door being unlocked.