14
« on: 22 November, 2013, 12:43:30 PM »
In 3rd place:
Forn Devil by Alski
The bar was called Joyce’s, so Joyce couldn’t in good conscience walk past without sampling a little of what Mega City had to offer. Back in the Emerald Isle, Judges were encouraged to stimulate the local economy, at least the brewery part of it, so he didn’t see what harm it would do. After all, it was his night off to get acclimatised before Dredd turned him into a Mega City judge.
Mindful of his new status, he contented himself with a sythi-beer, (as non alcoholic as a leprechaun’s fart), mainly because he had a feeling that Dredd was watching his every move. He supposed all Mega City judges felt that way, and it tasted pretty good so what the feck.
“What the sneck’s THAT?”, snarled a voice, accompanied by a rough tap on the shoulder.
“Huh?” replied Joyce. “What the what’s what?”
“Your tatt. Looks a bit foreign, buddy,” said the large, drunk cit, forcing the words through teeth filed into points.
Joyce realized he meant the green tattoo on the back of his neck.
“Oh, that’s me lucky shamrock, so it is,” he replied genially. “Keeps me safe and sound as a Brit Cit pound it does.”
The cit digested the information, the process quite slow.
“So I was right!” he exclaimed triumphantly. “You’re not from round here, are ya boy?”
“You’ve got me there, sir,” admitted Joyce. “I’m over from the old Emerald isle, Grud’s own country.”
“We don’t take kindly to foreigners in mega City,” said the cit, pronouncing it ‘Forners’. “If ya ain’t noticed, boy, we done had a little plague problem caused by foreigners.”
“Oh yes,” agreed Joyce. “Terrible business, so it was. I can’t blame you for not liking foreigners. Good luck to you, Sir.”
With that, he turned back to the bar and sipped his synthi-beer. Nice fella, he thought. Next thing he knew, instead of a tap on the shoulder he got a proper shove in the back, hard enough to make him spill his pint. The knowledgable amongst you should be aware that this is a VERY serious crime in the Emerald Isle, often punishable by a good kick in the knackers.
Joyce turned round again to find the pointy toothed cit, joined by six of his friends, all of similar appearance and disposition. He noticed one had a patch on the front of his jacket, proudly stating his membership of the “Mike Tyson Block Biters Association”.
“Good evening, fellas,” he said with a smile. “I’m guessing you don’t like foreigners either?”
“Damn straight,” growled one.
“Then why the feck are you in an Irish bar?” Joyce asked, genuinely curious.
As confusion spread over their faces, Joyce got his retaliation in first, and as his elbows, knees and head flew left right and centre, the Mike Tyson Block Biters Association went down for the count.
“Jeez, mister,” the barman said afterwards. “You’d better split, else the judges will cube you for sure.”
“No worries,” said Joyce. “I’m a judge meself, off duty as it were.” He finished his pint. “When they wake up tell ‘em to be a little more tolerant in the future.” With that he left the bar, a smile on his face.
Watching on the spy in the sky, Dredd was both impressed and doubtful about his new recruit. Those cits should be in the cubes by now, not let off with a beating. “Joyce's knowledge of Mega-City One Law is poor but he displays considerable courage" he thought. "I can work with that… "
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