((OOC: I need to go to bed, but you can have the not so important bit? :P SORRY!!! I'll finish the post tomorrow! Hold on until then! I'm half way through the second part, literally at the nightmare! This is just to tide you over! I'm so sorry Domichii!  !scared  T_T )<br/><br/><div style="margin:20px; margin-top:5px"><div class="quotetitle"><input class="button2 btnlite" onclick="if (this.parentNode.parentNode.getElementsByTagName('div')[1].getElementsByTagName('div')[0].style.display != '') { this.parentNode.parentNode.getElementsByTagName('div')[1].getElementsByTagName('div')[0].style.display = '';      this.innerText = ''; this.value = 'Hide'; } else { this.parentNode.parentNode.getElementsByTagName('div')[1].getElementsByTagName('div')[0].style.display = 'none'; this.innerText = ''; this.value = 'Show'; }" style="text-align:center;width:100px;margin:0px;padding:0px;" type="button" value="Show"/></div><div class="quotecontent"><div style="display: none;">Cramming his book back into his shoulder bag and the all consuming clutches of the stray hoodie, he checked his wrist.<br/><br/>Three.<br/><br/>Well, three-twenty-something, but Chrissi could hardly afford the precise hour, what with half of his watch screen smashed in. The cracks in the plastic looked like little manufactured spider webs. Fuck it. That'd do! It was three-twenty-spiderweb when his train rolled in and he squeezed out onto the platform, struggling the same way you imagine a sardine would if it ever decided to up and leave the can along sides twenty other sardines all with the same idea fighting for the same small gap to freedom. <br/><br/>After a little jostling, none of it too friendly, he skipped the escalators, separated from the flock and hauled ass up the numerous flights of tightly wound spiral fire stairs. Hurrying wasn't in his nature, but he had to catch the family before they left. <br/>His brother had his MP3 player.<br/> These ways weren't common use and were practically invisible unless one day pointed out. They were made up of burning ether-y smells, yellow painted edges, soot speckled white tiled walls and flickering sodium tube lighting, traits shared in common with every other underground station and probably numerous circles of Hell. At least it was quieter here. You lost the usual nasally intercom announcements and the barks and chittering of a thousand passengers a minute dulled to a muted hum. When the trains shook by, all signs of life were lost completely, you were in the labyrinth intestines of  a metropolitan beast listening to it's urban muscles shifting.<br/><br/>Sexy. <br/><br/>Reaching the station hub something <span style="font-style: italic">terrible</span> caught his eye... <br/><br/>It was on rare occasion that the commuters of New South Gate underground station ever spared more than a glance to the decrepit and suffering, let alone change. They didn't so much extend the arm of charity for the good of the ill as they used it to veer the vermin, low lives and homeless clear off of the platforms. <br/>Briefcase violins, begging cap and all.<br/><br/>Not that Chrissi blamed them.<br/><br/> 'City living', as the glad rag magazines called it, was a jading experience for most. Only the few that had slipped the cagey call of the rat race, and also developed a lax outlook, could ever really afford to take in so much of their concrete and neon forest surroundings. To anyone high strung (like most, for they are driven to be. What with all the business meetings, predatory taxi's, newspaper headlines screaming rape and bloody muggings, shrill hissings and acid stench of fast food, the endless commercials tallying up reasons why your life would be AND IS dreadful without the purchase of product X, clueless tourists milling around so slowly they could be going backwards, deadlines, parking wardens, you name it! It was a wonder any poor soul functioned without slow cooking their blood pressure) yes, to anyone high strung London was a drain on the senses and a battering to the emotions. Your best option was to shut yourself down, set your priorities, run on motor functions and otherwise drown that, god given, gut instinct with a dote of aspirin and half a shot of fruit smoothie. The doctor said you needed that daily recommended allowance of 'fun' and there it was. Bam. All in a neat strawberry and banana package, no laughing involved. Easy! <br/><br/>As far as Chrissi's memory stretched (mind you, it got thinner the further you went, like a reluctant length of gum stuck to the underside of a boot. Forgive him if he's wrong!) he could recall no real feat of generosity towards the homeless and sick, no matter how tatty their sleeping bag or worn their shoes. One time he even caught a guy making such an effort to avoid their sunken gazes that he tripped clean over a fellah who'd been making the dip between the escalators as homely as humanly possible. <br/><br/>But this...<br/><br/>â€¦ this was an absolute joke.<br/><br/>Dead center of the station, just beneath the vast board with all the travel times winking out at you in orange LED, stood the most frightening cry for help he'd ever witnessed. This figure was twitchy, like a neurotic let loose for the day, jaw jut in a harsh grit, feet turned in until the toes pointed towards one another, one arm crossed over his chest, nervously picking at elbow, but that wasn't it. It wasn't it at all! Jesus H Christ!  <br/>The man-- if you could call him that any more-- had no fucking face!<br/><br/>Or he <span style="font-style: italic">had</span>. Once. <br/><br/>The guy, who looked agitated and ready to take off in a heartbeat, was dressed in nothing but a pair of off-white, long boxer shorts and a manky grey hoodie, sleeves so chewed they fanned out around his bony wrists like fish fins, regardless of the run-up-to-Christmas chill to the air. <br/>Most of his bedpan skin was on show and that which was could have been part of an 1800's freak show repertoire... Large chunks of muscle looked as though it had been eaten away, the skin flaked in ghastly scales around the rot, a patch of flesh on his chest roughly resembled a threadbare carpet, dipping away to such an extent there was a tiny peek of white that left the brain reeling and only registered as a glimpse of actual rib after what felt like an age. Shit, it was like the glistening eye of an animal staring through the bars of a cage. <br/>Then there was his face.<br/>Most of his nose had been lost, cartilage all eaten, all that was left was a portion of struggling, scarred sinewy skin stretched over bone and the deep enclave of nostril still desperately looking to heal itself, his lips were split and haggard, his eyes so sunken that the shape of his skull blazed out from beneath his skin.<br/><br/>Like a fucking zombie. <br/><br/>And yet people milled past him.<br/><br/>Mothers let their youngest stream right by and didn't turn their heads, elderly women purchasing their oyster cards let this gruesome stranger fly...<br/><br/>But it spotted him alright. For a heartbeat the two locked gazes, its dark eyes, glistening with street cunning, like beads on a rosemary, shark eyes, locking on Chrissi's lanky figure and narrowing irritably. The creature descended on it's prey. <br/><br/>â€œYou'rrre let,â€ it spat across the crowded room, making a beeline for Chrissi, no less confident than before, hugging its eaten up arms across its chest, eyes flitting awkwardly around the hall as it went, skipping a little curved path to avoid contact with the numerous patrons keeping the station alive. Not that, Chrissi knew in his heart, it needed to. <br/><br/>If you dissected its thick Russian accent, it translated to <span style="font-style: italic">'you're late'</span>.<br/><br/>Chrissi snorted out his nose, meeting it half way, no more startled by the creature/guy/thing than he had been by the packed tube carriage, both were a day to day necessary misery.<br/><br/>He threw up his hands either side of him, bags and coat still hooked over the crook of his elbow, like an exasperated Italian, a 'who-knows!' gesture, â€œAnd you're ugly, but what can I do fer it!â€ he hollered back, a crooked grin dimpling his cheeks.<br/>THIS, however, attracted attention. <br/><br/>A portly businessman glanced over the top of his paper, brow knitted. A bored young woman paused from her group conversation, cocking her head, trying to figure out who in Gods name this loony was talking to. Most ignored him, blissfully tuned out of platform dilly dallying.<br/><br/>No alarms and no surprises here. Zombie-boy was what his quack doctor had described as Chrissi's own personal drug anxieties given a human persona in an attempt for his head to get a handle on the emotional understanding of blah blah blah. Basically he'd made it up.<br/>Poof.<br/>Out of thin air.<br/>Just like that.<br/>But you try telling IT that! <br/>Crazy, huh?<br/><br/>â€œAh,â€ quickly, he ploughed through a pocket in his blazer and fished out a hands-free ear piece to take the edge off his apparent one sided conversation, give the already stressed bystanders less reason to want to fling themselves onto the tracks. Or just edge away. You know.<br/><br/>â€œEh,â€ It scowled blatant distaste and settled with his-- sorry-- <span style="font-style: italic">it's</span> usual, very Russian, stern and disassociated greeting; the name exchange, â€œChreessee,â€ no hugs or warm smiles, just a respectful nod and coming to a halt at arms length. <br/><br/>â€œKrokodil,â€ Chrissi humoured him, but could hardly hide the grin, â€œHanding you bags is out of the question, huh!â€ they started towards the exit, Chrissi taking the lead in a leisurely stride, glancing over his shoulder excitably every now and then, the polar opposite of Krokodil's uptight, flitty tread.<br/><br/>Krokodil either missed the banter or was purposefully ignoring it, the latter more likely, â€œHave you not got vatch?â€ it scowled, raking his fingers across it's jawline, through the early days of a auburn beard, eyes only matching his for a split second then darting away like scared animals. Krokodil didn't appreciate eye contact. Never had, not even before it... well... ended up like this... <br/>It shot a purposeful glance at the battered time piece on Chrissi's wrist to accompany the question. It was more of an accusation anyway. <br/><br/>â€œSure I do! Look! Says quarter to hairline-crack! Tha's early by me, mate!â€ He laughed, skipping a curb and lurching out onto the road and into the rain, shooting a taxi an English salute (two-fingers up) for nearly taking his toes off, â€œHey! Wanna grab a coffee? Warm ya bones? Were told you got a nose for good coffee!â€<br/><br/>Krokodil faltered, suddenly distracted from the busy street, paling for outrage, tension ringing through its copper jaw. And, if it had them, Chrissi was sure it's nostrils would be flared, â€œ<span style="font-style: italic">You think zis is game!?</span>â€ <br/><br/>Chrissi cracked up laughing, suddenly channeling a seemingly infinite fondness for his half-there friend, a friend he hadn't seen in months, â€œYeah! Yes actually, I fucking do! Ha! What a game! Shit me, I missed you, you commie bastard!â€ fishing out a loose, crooked cigarette he sparked up, the picture of casual. <br/><br/>â€œI vas glad for ze distance,â€ Krokodil retaliated coolly, not missing a beat, taking the opportunity to walk sulkily ahead.<br/><br/>Krokodil was like the rest of his delusions, long deceased, although this one knew it. Yeah, yeah, laugh it up, <span style="font-style: italic">'I see dead people,'</span>, how very sixth sense! It wasn't funny, it was goddamn horrifying and it was breaking his brain, but that was a story for another night!<br/><br/>Krokodil knew he was dead because as he kicked the old mortal bucket, as he was being sucked into The Terminal Void, he was aware and paranoid enough to convince himself (probably for the umpteenth time) that this was it. This is the end, my only friend. And look who was right! <br/>He probably had that carved on his gravestone (IF it existed); <br/>'Here lies ___ <br/>Born ___ Died ___. <br/><span style="font-style: italic">He told us so</span>'.<br/><br/>Six year old Chrissi had found the ginger Russian wandering the streets outside of Soho's Casino's and like most of his stray animals, coaxed it over with gentle conversation and brought it home. Krokodil was relatively new at that point, it didn't know it's history, how it got there, even struggled with it's own name. The only words it knew to be associated to it's past life were whatever stayed afloat in his struggling consciousness during his final gasps of breath. They were, <span style="font-style: italic">'I died', '42 Bord Street', 'Sveta, my motherrr,'</span> and <span style="font-style: italic">'krokodil'</span>, which Chrissi child had warmed to very quickly because it sounded like crocodile and Chrissi liked crocodiles very much!<br/><br/>They'd clung together, Krokodile taught him to play jazz piano, to speak a little Russian, to count cards, gave him life lessons on dealing with family, girls, bullies, money, anything! He had his own personal guardian angel, falling to bits as he was, although Chrissi was at the time confused as to why. <br/><br/>It was simple. <br/><br/>When Krokodile died they'd buried his body but forgotten to bury <span style="font-style: italic">him</span>. Time stopped, someone had hit pause on those big, ol' tapes in the sky playing his death scene and forgotten to press play again. Except he couldn't remember his role any more, someone had lost his script and every other 'ghost' carried on with their own personal shows like they were still airing, unaware. The young man was alone. <span style="font-style: italic">He</span> ceased to exist, doomed to become <span style="font-style: italic">it</span>. <br/>No birth name, it was The Creature Krokodile, this was something he was grimly starting to understand with age, a reality Chrissi wanted no part of.<br/><br/>â€œDistance makes the heart grow stronger, darlin' Krokodilian!â€ Chrissi balled up a receipt from his jeans pocket and flicked it in Krokodile's miserable direction, watching the ghoulish critter swat it away like a fly.<br/><br/>â€œCapuh-chin-uh, Chreesee.â€ Krokodil ordered still fingering its stubble agitatedly. It couldn't digest or taste for that matter, but it enjoyed watching other people chow down, eyeballed them hungrily, probably rekindling a long lost memory of coffees past and the sandwich shop over the road was smelling awful tempting. <br/><br/>Between it all some sucker was wrestling with 'House of the Rising Sun' on a slightly out of tune guitar. <br/><br/>â€œ'Ang on, mate,â€ Chrissi dashed over and emptied his change into the bums guitar case, the old boy gave him a nod and carried on singing as he was.<br/><br/>Krokodil was already in the doorway, picking at the lining of his hoodie pocket, stern gaze giving the busy London corner a once over, like a guard dog in a new yard. Just as Chrissi opened his mouth to ask him something-- lord knows what now-- it nodded subtly to the space behind the boy.<br/><br/>Chrissi spun on his heel.<br/><br/>â€œSorry, erm,â€ a stranger pressed something into his hand, blushing like the good Samaritan they were, â€œYou dropped your change!â€ <br/><br/>â€œUh?â€ a quick glance over the strangers shoulder confirmed his fears; there was no guy playing a guitar. Never had been probably. Chrissi paled and then social instinct kicked in, â€œSorry, cheers mate!â€ he shook their hand and let them get on with it.<br/><br/>Shit!<br/><br/>He pinched the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger, what a headache... not again... <br/><br/>â€œWhy didn't you tell me he was...â€ Chrissi struggled for the phrase suddenly feeling awkward and thoroughly rattled, he HATED it when they sneaked up on him, even if they were benevolent as rabbit fluff, it left him feeling... like a name tag belonged on his wrist and a room with the padded wallpaper, â€œ... why d-didn't you mention he-he was one of you?â€<br/><br/>Krokodils torn lips pulled into a tight line, which was a shocking display of sympathy on his part, â€œI know no better than you Chreesee,â€ it stepped asides, hand gestured towards the door with the tinkly bell and tacky logo, typical greasy spoon, â€œIf iz any consolation, 'e vas looking legit?â€ <br/><br/>â€œYeah,â€ a long, guttural sigh rattled up from his lungs, he swallowed dryly, hiding in what little sanctuary he could salvage from behind his eyelids for half a moment, â€œLegit enough,â€<br/><br/><br/>Before he knew it the two were catching up via a comfortable silence over Chrissi's breakfast, lunch and probably dinner, fry up, enough grease to choke a deep fat frier, a heart attack on a plate his father called them. Neither aware that this would be the last carefree meal they'd enjoy.</div></div></div><br/><br/>DON'T REPLY YET AND WATCH THIS SPACE! I'm editing this post tomorrow! Night night! Take care and take it easy! xXx