Concrete yellow.

Tomohawk ran, brown fingers pressed against the mottled brown cardboard of the package. The black address scrawled in fresh marker — the scent stung his nose, and made his eyes water.

Too many people. Too many bodies pressing packing filling the streets – the mad streets, sick and full and press packed full. He felt battery acid in his legs and human acid in his throat and the buzz buzz buzz of the people, and the press and the fingers, his fingers pressing on the box so tight, and the people like fingers on his brown skin pressing pressing pressing down. Tomohawk ran harder.

The thick faces, and eyes swimming in haze — the green lime sherbet vomit of a scarf on a blue woman’s neck, the yellow dragon moan of taxi — it was too much, and too late, and he was late and they were late and all the late in the world was his, and he ran and the fingers. The fingers pressed, down so hard and Tomohawk ran. He ran harder.

Concrete yellow, black, yellow black — his white shoes slapped and the concrete moved faster and he moved faster, and still the people-fingers pushed and stank, and the horns and the pressing and he ran faster.

His toes dug into the concrete, simple white plastic puncturing the rhino hide of the city and he ran faster. The people moved slower, and he ran faster — and the fingers pressed, less and he ran faster — tearing gouges in the street with his speed, and people were running and screaming and moving away away away, and Tomohawk ran faster and faster.

He was so fast, his feet obliterated the street. He moved quicker than the fingers, but the cardboard box and black sting still was in his hands, and his fingers and he laughed. He threw the package away, and it vanished. The box was gone the people were gone the streets were gone and the fingers were gone and he was gone.

He was gone. Tomohawk ran.

[Story on Demand for Jared — now wander over and fondle his site for a while. Thanks for the idea!]

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