FEATURE: Butterfly Street Blues pt.6

by Juno Lister
   Guard Hunt-Fawshaw had returned to the guard room at the barracks and washed his bloody hands. It was as if he'd just done a menial task like putting the bin out or cleaned up after the barracks' cat, although looking at Fluffy and his dislike for any beast other than a cat that is no menial task either. Hunt-Fawshaw however had carried out his orders to the letter. Slim Rick was a member of the "terrorist" group The People's Front of San Pedro. In any Guard's eyes there is only one thing to stop such an organisation, kill its members. As I watched the blood run away with the water into the metal grate under the tap I realised that I had been with Guard Hunt-Fawshaw when he acted as judge, jury and executioner. I was going to San Pedro that night on an overnight Good Yarn Airship to cover the Premiership Bloodbowl match between The Rams and The Imperial Purples the next evening. I was a little worried about how I was going to report that incident for fear of repercussion. I'd soon forgotten the incident. We were soon out and about again; we set off along Butterfly Street towards the docks, now in full morning swing Butterfly Street pulsated like a giant heart within Valroma City. Pumping, circulating “life” blood and all that’s good and bad with it. The Guards are spewed out with the rest of that “blood”, but they act as the antibodies, the thing that keeps us safe.
   The rest of the shift was a little uneventful. As you reach the end of Butterfly Street the cool breeze of River Erm breaks the somewhat claustrophobic closeness of The Street and as you suck the air in you can smell….fish! Valroma’s fishermen were back in from the night’s catch, countless boats were moored against the stone walls that separate the estuary from the river side road. It was a bright sunny morning and I wondered why people travel to the coast when they can look at the splendour of the Erm …..Then I smelt the fish again and I reminded myself why. This was a working river that leads out onto The Big Pond. Although there is an esplanade type wall and road it was all about the fishing industry here really. We walked alongside the boats as they off loaded their catch. I looked on to one boat and a stereo typical fisherman dressed in Mac and rain-hat and boots was waving to us from the deck. Sporting a snow white beard and leather face in which was stuffed a smoking pipe. He moved closer to us and leaned over the side of his boat. This old boy was a hardened sea dog I made a point I would sit beside him in the Goat and Troll quay side Pub by Gruff’s Bridge and write down his old tales of life on the Big Pond. He was about to say something when he leaned over the side and vomited into the water.
     “Captain Atsey still not found your sea legs? “ Hunt-Fawshaw shouted to the green faced old sea dog.
     “Blasted job, quite happy selling carts …blurggggghh” He let off another load of carrot filled puke. You see not all is what it seems. Up to a month before Captain Hugh Atsey was a used cart sales merchant. He was doing a roaring trade until a competitor Mrs Dot Com opened a large store called ‘We Buy Any Cart’ and priced him out of the market. So he took over his ill brother-in-law’s fishing boat and to be honest he spends most the time relieving his stomach of its contents over the side. We tried to have a conversation but the vomiting just got in the way…literally.
   I cleaned my boots and we walked along the Quay to Roland Stream the extremity of the beat which borders with the Darby Lane’s Garrison area. This stream runs under the city and out into the Erm. There is an old wooden bridge that traverses the stream which is a hang-out for young Skaven who occasionally clash with drunks coming out of the Goat and Troll pub that is on the other side of the bridge. It was as we reached the bridge that Hunt-Fawshaw's eyes lit up. Staggering along the bridge which was no more than 20 yards long was a well known tramp swaying to and fro in a drunken stupor.
     "Your next arrest Isaac?" I said inquisitively.
     "No way  ...that’s Mr Waschtinschitz…..its tramp tennis time"
   I was confused. Here was a drunk and incapable tramp by the name of Waschtinshitz walking towards Hunt-Fawshaw. He was obviously an Ostburg ex-pat. He wore dirty lederhosen and long socks and sandals. He had dirty unkempt grey hair and beard and had a bottle of beer in his hand as he tried to cross the bridge. I noticed that the bridge had seen better days, it has long been a bone of contention for the Darby Lane Residents Association and the Butterfly Street District Council, each of them claiming that the other had responsibility for its upkeep. It had several gaps in the railings and in places was quite rickety. This fellow’s journey across wasn't without peril. Across the bridge on the other side I saw two guards with white scarves looking as excited as Hunt-Fawshaw, oh no! I thought more Darby Lane Butterfly Street rivalry. As Waschtinschitz got close that burning question had to be asked ….." What's tramp tennis?"
   Hunt-Fawshaw looked at me smiled and winked”Watch and you will learn"
   Waschtinschitz was close now, he smelt of cabbage urine and dog sick. Hunt-Fawshaw marched up to him and said " Now then Didier! You know you will get slung in the cells if you carry on in this state but as I like you I'll tell you that the Darby Lane lot are short in numbers on the ground so you'd have a better chance that side of the bridge so off you go " with this he span Didier Waschtinschitz around and he started weaving back over the bridge. 
     "Zank you Guard!” He managed to utter as he set off across the bridge.
   We watched his journey over, narrowly missing falling through the railings. As he reached the other side the Darby Lane guards could clearly be heard to shout at him to go back over to The Butterfly Street side otherwise they were going to arrest him. He was spun around and he again started his journey back across.
     "Darn" Hunt-Fawshaw shouted it was now time for getting dirty. Waschtinschitz was nearly back with us when Hunt -Fawshaw walked up to him and said something in his ear. Waschtinschitz eyes flew open span around and walked as fast as he could towards the Darby Lane side..."I threatened to give him a bath” Hunt-Fawshaw chuckled;
   The tramp had reached The Darby Lane guards again. They had actually managed to get him to turn around and back he came …..This time with two bottles of beer in his hands. We thought Waschtinschitz was going to make it then to Hunt-Fawshaw's glee he tripped and fell toppling to the floor. He rolled and teetered on the edge of the bridge near a gap in the railings, one more movement and he'd splash into the water below.
   Hunt-Fawshaw rather concerned told me  "If he lays where he is I'll have to arrest him, so I lose, if he rolls into the water he's out, I win and they have to fish out the body" ….then Waschtinschitz  rolled one more time and with a groan rolled off the bridge, he toppled into the water. Hunt-Fawshaw jumped and punched the air, the Darby Lane boys looked unhappy. I looked over the bridge and there laying on the bottom of a very shallow stream was Didier Waschtinschitz still clutching his beloved beer bottles…..We walked off with Hunt-Fawshaw chattering away about how he beat Darby Lane again. Over my shoulder I could see the Darby Lane guards fishing Didier out of the water and dragging him off to the cells. He was singing an old Ostburg song as they dragged him and chuckling to himself.
   Then from under the bridge we heard a voice sneer “Dat was bare wrong“ another equally sneering voices added “yeah bro  dem Fedz iz bang out”
   Hunt -Fawshaw rolled his eyes turned and called “Out you come boys“
   From under the bridge out swaggered three young skaven. They all wore dark glasses and blue bandanas, the tallest skaven (a fine grey haired male) threw his hands out to the side, pointing down and said...
     “What you be wantin widda Bomb da Sewer Crew? We be rinzin and rhyming, copied by thazands, aint scared o you …stop yer asslin and aggin and leave us be…coz we live inda sewer we’ is young and free….”
   The other two proceeded to make drum noises with their snouts and interjected at various points with harmonies...they carried on.
     “Ma main rat is Da Robbie he cuts like a knife we shank, you for dissin, we shankin yer wife, we ……”
   Hunt-Fawshaw walked up to ‘the Main rat’ and in a calm voice said  “Will you please shut up!”
     “Isit  cos I is a rat innit! You is ratist….”
   Hunt-Fawshaw rolled his eyes. The Bomb Da Sewer Crew are from under the city, they occasionally come out from that dirty sleazy world of grime but usually at night where they create havoc fighting against fellow Skaven gangs or any other gang for that matter. It was early in the day for them to be out under the bridge. Hunt-Fawshaw inquisitive as always disappeared under the bridge to see what they’d been up to. The trio looked guilty, when Hunt-Fawshaw emerged he said ….
     "Why have you written ‘BDS FARTs’ on the wall under the bridge?"
     "Tis Bomb Dem Sewers Friends Against Rat Traitor Scum…dem Skaven dat rat on rats to you guards in fact we aint’ chewin it wid you no more."
   With this they ran off back down the stream into the sewers leaving the two of us chuckling at the little ‘farts’.
   It was time for me to go to catch my airship. Hunt-Fawshaw walked me to the airship field I had my bag with me on my shoulder and as we reached the field I could see the giant San Pedrian airship with Good Yarn Air written on its huge balloon. A trip I had done many times before the five hour’s flight to San Pedro is usually uneventful other than the bard that constantly entertains on the flight and the outlandish San Pedrian piloting skills but this trip was going to be one I'd never forget.
   Hunt-Fawshaw shook my hand “Have a great trip old fellow” he said.
   I stepped into the airship. I noticed that Hunt-Fawshaw was trying to say something to me but the San Pedrian steward ushered me in to take my place. I looked out the window and I couldn't see him, I presumed it was nothing and reclined my seat and got comfortable bracing myself for the San Pedrian pilot to throw us around.