From the bones of the city they fled in an ancient gasoline vehicle. Its decals had rusted out and the engine howled something fearsome. Putrid smoke lingered in their wake.
Nimble fingered as ever, Gyre had lifted it from the man who held conversations with himself in the garden, Gimble scrambling into the passenger door as they rolled. The topic must have been arresting, the company delightful because the man continued gesturing and speaking even as the air filled with gunshot mingled backfires.
Gimble was the better driver. As soon as Gyre got it rattling across the shattered tarmac, Gimble slipped over his brother’s thin legs and teased it towards a speed long forgotten by its moaning transmission.
They were fleeing the ancient but formidable constabulary. Lovingly maintained pistols filled their rheumatoid hands. A few used extreme terrain Segways to traverse the litter choked rubble that passed for roads in their city. The way they were pulling at the triggers suggested either senility or plentiful ammo. Gimble, whooping, figured it was both.
Gyre had pissed off the city Seward by breaking his old lady’s favorite vase. Gimble excaberated the situation by taking the virginity of the man’s only daughter.
“It’s like eating a ripe fruit halfway to rot,” Gimble said. “For the love of Jah, she was 45!” Gyre shook his head and said, “Don’t you mean vintage wine? The older it is, the more pleasurable the moment? Have some class, brah!”
The car went off a small rise of ruptured concrete and its tyres tasted air. The landing rattled their teeth and bullet holes ventilated the rear window, too close for comfort. Gimble swerved and floored it. He said moodily, “It was nice. You know I was never good at analogies.”