word by Sam Fresco
colour by Burkhard Müller
Chet looked down at the bushy red fox. The fox looked back.
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You have to get home, Chet – you don’t belong here, said the fox.
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Chet stumbled back: his head was spinning. He ducked out of the crowd, standing over him. He ran past the counter and into the lift.
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The doors closed. No buttons. It started going up – the lights above the doors showing it near the roof. 39, 40, 41, 42.
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As he came out on the roof, a man in an ill-fitting brown suit was panting, hands on knees.
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Celeste, where the hell have you been?
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Why do people keep calling me that, he thought.
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Here now.
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The small man lit a cigarette and offered one out. Chet hesitated because he didn’t smoke.
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Johnny, come on, what’s the matter?
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And Johnny now?
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He took a cigarette although he felt he had never smoked before.
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OK, so we got your little shit. Now you just, y’know, you beat him around a little and we’re all down here. OK?
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He looked down to the short and balding man. No: a teenager.
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A man held red gloves to Chet. He took them. The teenager spat out a tooth with a clump of blood. He couldn’t help feeling that he himself looked a lot like the teenager.*
word by Sam Fresco
colour by Burkhard Müller
wordandcolour 