Not a second more.

Not a second more

Scattering soot grey mice, the tube ploughed through the empty subway,
chased by a train of dancing litter. In the window nearest to the
driver's van Daz scratched the name, 'Slammer' into the glass with the
tungsten point of a tile cutter. The words to their new song churned
through his head even as he scored the final letter of their
name.

'In the tallest block you sit closest to the sun.
You hold your heart another deal done.
As you hit the floor, I see you fall
six feet underground.'

A man sitting opposite frowned at him and just as quickly continued to
read an article in his newspaper about a possible new cure for
AIDS.
High above the subway roof the Jackson Highway stretched out of town
into the distant West. A beat up winnebago reflected the sun so
brightly that it hurt your eye. Rex Kingcome winked into the driver's
mirror at the girl sitting beside Spike. She tilted her head again and
all he could see were her sticky red lips. The cassette had just
finished and it was time to change it.
'Hey Spike, you wanna sing a song?' He called out over his
shoulder.
'No mate I'm just pissing in a bottle'.
'You're sick man,' then as an afterthought, 'hey wipe any mess up with
this.' Rex hurled a folded newspaper over his shoulder. Spike didn't
bother replying.
Seconds later the bottle bounced and burst along the freeway in a
shower of golden drops. Hours after that the next car behind them would
twitch slightly from its path to avoid the dusty remnants.
Rex continued to watch the cherry lips as the girl started to chew a
piece of gum. It was funny how everyone's lips looked pretty much the
same, but when it came to singing only a few people hit the right note.
Rex resented the fact that he would always remain in the shadows as
Spike took the spotlight. He was the one with ideas and the tunes. He
changed gear a little too sharply and the winny groaned quietly. His
hand rummaged in the glovebox for another cassette and soon after
Silver Bullet's most recent album began to spool in the stereo.
Rex shouted above the opening track, 'Hey anyone read that Ludlow
thing?' No reply came from the back of the van. Rex continued, 'Some
town in England they sealed off in the Middle Ages because everyone
living there had the plague. Yeah the Ludlow Massacre Union - normally
doctors 'n churchmen would have visited and the healthy people would
have got out of town. But these people didn't want to spread it - they
preferred to watch the whole town die.'
Spike's stubbly jaw-line filled the space in the mirror - he was
evidently leaning towards the girl. Rex went on, 'Yeah like nearly all
of them died one by one a slow and painful y'know.'
Spike suddenly called out, 'Shut up man I'm listening to the
radio'.
Rex didn't care what he was listening to. 'I think the inside of your
mouth swells up and you bleed to death. Anyway not everyone did die.
The people in Ludlow have the highest immunity to the plague. It's in
their genes. You or I would die if we came into contact with the plague
but they wouldn't. Y'know they must be quite inbred to have not diluted
the genes.'
'Hey Rex, have I ever told you how boring you are?'
Rex swung the wheel as they pulled round a curve in the road. Some dry
brown hills came into view on their left. He squinted as the sun beat
through the windscreen due to the change in direction. He dropped the
sun shield and lit a rolly he had stashed there earlier.
'Anyway at the time they thought they wouldn't get the plague because
some guy drank warm bacon fat and this became used as a cure. It wasn't
a cure that's why loads of stupid people died drinking it.'
Spike was kissing the girl in his rear mirror. His stubble was trashing
her lipstick. His eyes moved to the hills in front instead. The trees
looked all dry like dead spiders. That was the kind of thing Spike
would say and put it into a song. Twat. He continued his story.
'The importance of these people in Ludlow is that they aren't just
immune to the plague they are immune to HIV. By examining their genes
they might find a cure for AIDS. Now the really interesting
thing?'
'Shut up, you are doing my head.'
'No she's doing your head. I was saying the really interesting thing is
how did they know everyone in Ludlow was immune to AIDS. Hey do this
whore and see if you get AIDS. I wouldn't. They are weird in
Ludlow.'
'Shut up about Ludlow. That's all you know man - Ludlow, Ludlow. Fuck
Ludlow man.
If that bitch back there gives you AIDS you'll wish you did fuck
Ludlow.'
'Hey what you talking about,' muttered Spike.
The smudged lipstick suddenly changed into a snarl and joined in, 'Yeah
shut the fuck up, shut the fuck up. Just fuck yourself. What the fuck
do you know about me? You don't even know me. Asshole.'
Rex ignored her, 'It's like playing the bass you either know it or your
don't, you either do it or you don't.'
'You don't.' Spike said.
'No I do, I make the music you just sing the words.'

Back in the tube train the man reading the same story about Ludlow
written in a different way in a different paper, had departed on the
next leg of his journey. Daz had also got off at a previous stop. He
had stopped singing that song by Slammer in his head now too. Somehow
the tune had fuzzied and he was thinking about something else.

The tube had pulled into a depot now. A train manager was discussing
with a transport services operative how they could clean up the very
carriage that Daz had been sitting in. The conclusion of the
conversation was that they decided that they should dry vacuum the
furnishings and perhaps replace the window that had been scratched.
'Why do people graffiti things? I just don't get it.' Said the manager.
His colleague simply shrugged in reply and ticked, 'Replace window,' in
a box on his clipboard. A clock struck twelve and Slammer's fifteen
minutes of fame finally reached their end.