The man on the Bus, Under the hat
#1 of A Bushman's Lament
The Man on the Bus, Under the Hat
The hydrogen bus serving Route 515 rolls around Sydney town bathed in the dusk, From Manly over the Harbour Bridge up to Bondi across to Parramatta and back again, the route existed for the past 100 years. 2220 is though a lonely year, as it has been for the past two hundred for the man in the far back right hand seat, clad in the long, brown Driz-a-Bone coat under a wide brimmed Akubra hat.
When he could he rode that bus route. Drivers never knowing his name, he is a legend among those drivers, talked about during coffee breaks, who he his, why he is 7'10", what is behind those welder goggle covered eyes. He knew about these conversations but he never confirmed nor deny when he was asked boarding the bus, just he passed by the driver with a nod then he sat at the back, sometimes all day, just riding the bus. He would eavesdrop on the conversations of the passengers, some black, some white, some with fur and without, a more common sight now humanity achieved interstellar flight and diplomatic relations with the animal-like aliens. He listens to their small talk, the "did you hear about such and such getting it on in the supply room" and the "guess who's got a new baby", other such idle chit-chat, he listens and wants to know what it would be like, such familiarity and banter, he did once, long ago. But now he rides, feeling more outcast each passing year.
Among the idle banter the bus stops at the Central station, a grand old ornate building as old as he serving as a station to the new mag-trains that ran the length and breadth of the tracks of the city, and a new load of folk get on when the others get off, humans mostly with the odd anthro-fox, wolf and reptile thrown in. But one particular fur catches his eye, a young arctic fox, a teen really with the low slung pants and hoody, Low slung for the tail, at least he has an excuse unlike some of the human "Hipsters". His clothes kinda mucky like he's been living rough for a few days, on the streets.
But this is not why the 230 (looking like he's only 30) year old 7'10" man under the hat notices the white fox, it is the subtle but minute twitch of the teen's muzzle towards the buses cash box that only he notices, the twitch towards the box and it's full load of Earth Standard and Australian currency, the Royal Easter show patrons providing the bulk of it.
The bus moves on with the Arctic Twitcher sitting down near the front, the idle chatter starts again, but the man under the hat focuses his attention to Twitch up the front, the white fur on the fox standing on end, he is hyped up and ready to go. And go he does, up like a shot he whips out a plastic bag in his left hand and a 357 snub nose revolver in his right. Screams does he "No body move or be a hero and you'll all live", a snort from under the hat, the man thinks, 'This kid has watched to many movies'.
The driver reaches for his radio but its gets blasted by the nervous fox, waving the gun around like a fucking loony. Screaming to the driver, "Stop the bus and fill up the bag with the dosh", as he does the driver trips the emergency distress beacon under the dash board whilst the kid grabs an old mans cane and jams it into the doors handlebars, preventing an external or remote opening. 'He trapped us', The man thinks, 'He's not as dumb as he looks'. The White Fox, fur bristling now, whips out another bag while the driver looks back, fear evident in his Pakistani face, with a pleading look towards the man under the hat. He responds with a little tip of his hat's brim and a confident smile as the Fox shouts at the fearful passengers, mainly elderly and a family as well, to "Put your fucking valuables in the bag or I'll blow your fucking brains through the fucking windows".
Coming up the aisle towards the man in the hat, the Fox stops in front of him, bag open, gun waving and a insane gleam of power in his eye, "You too bushie", "No" came a deep voice from under the brim.
"No, WADDYA FUCKING MEAN NO" shouts the arctic fox, in a voice violent but slightly uncertain now, "I mean I don't have anything you can take from me" the deep masculine voice replies with the calm confidence of a fine tuned V8.
The fox, a little startled from such calm a response, not like the fearful pleading of his other victims, responds by pointing the gun at the mans head, cocking the hammer of the gun. But with the cock the mans head looks up and stares at the fox's eyes, burning through him with eyes concealed behind the mans' Riddick-Style welders goggles,
The slightly less confident fox, with a voice wavering now, says to the hidden eyes, "I'll take what I want when I want" shaking the gun with every second word, as if he his trying to convince himself of his guns superiority. "Very well then white fur", the man responds, "but be prepared for consequences".
"What consequences" the fox replies with a menacing growl, moving the gun nearer towards the black panes of the goggles. "This one", the man says.
What happened next was an event that left the occupants of the bus, except the driver, more frightened of the giant Akubra wearing man than the arctic fox with the gun. With a speed greater than a striking cobra, the man under the hat, grabbed the foxes gun hand at the wrist with his right hand, forcing the gun past his right shoulder, the gun going off and shattering the window behind the man from the jerked finger of the fox, whilst the mans left hand shoots up, palm facing towards the arctic fox's white face, and from the sleeve a 1 foot six pointed blade deploys from under his wrist faster than a blinking eye and stops a hairs breadth from the fox's pupil of his right eye. The man under the hat notices the sudden shift of the gleam of power being replaced by utter terror in the fox's eyes, his evaluation of the sudden shift of power and his disadvantaged position evident from the large wet stain forming on his crotch. "Now drop your gun" comes the mans voice in the same calm V8 confidence.
The fox doesn't, "I'll ask again, drop it",
"No" comes feebly from the frighted arctic fennec, In response the man triggers his right arms' electrical organ, causing a most painful surge of electricity into the fox's right arm and the hand released forcibly, dropping the revolver.
The man commands "Now fox, I'll let go of your arm and your going to sit in the seat in front of me in the left hand part of the seat", knowing he has nowhere to run with the doors of the bus jammed, and fearing more electrical pain, the urine soaked fox does so. Retracting the blade back into the sleeve the man grips the back of the hood on the fox's head, pulls it down and holds the fox's head with the left hand, almost encompassing the entire round surface of his skull does the man's large hand.
In the same V8 voice but now with a hint of evil malice, the man in the hat whispers in the right ear of the near catatonic fox teen, "Now little white fox, the hand holding your head has a blade at it's wrist, the same blade your right eye nearly was raped by, it has the power to punch through steel plate, and if you move, twitch or even breath wrong before the police arrive, that power will punch through the base of your spine and pulverize your face on it's exit. Do you understand", The fox, so bloody terrified, responses in a yes by the way of shitting himself, an evil chuckle from the man precedes the harsh sadistic whisper of "Goood" from his throat.
"Driver", the man says in a most cheerful manner, as if he wasn't holding a terrified, shit-stinking fox captive, "Could you please allow the passengers to disembark and remain congregated outside for any police interviews required by them when they arrive".
"Okay mate", was the driver's response, he felt relieved and quite lucky to happen to witness this event, and it would be a hell of a yarn to tell to his co-workers. As he helps the passengers off the bus, the man under the hat whips out a harmonica, playing a song called 'Sixty Seconds to What' that he heard from an old Sergio Leone spaghetti western.
The bus emptied and with the police at least another fifteen minutes away, the man under the hat, with his left and most dangerous hand gripping the fox's head, stops playing, and says to the terrified prey, "You know mate, I never was like this, I'm two hundred and...thirty, however I have 'lived', so to speak, for the last two hundred years and each one makes me more bitterly lonely, oh sure I have had company and a couple of wives or life-mates as you might call them, but I knew I would soon be lonely again, as you're my ‘captive audience' so to speak, I would like to tell you about myself".
The man plays a few more notes, then says to the arctic fox, now admittedly a little intrigued by a tale perked his ears up from the submissive flat to the slightly perked in interest despite the threat of that deadly blade at the back of his head, "My name is The Bushman, well a codename really, but a name nonetheless and I want to tell you a little bit of my long and lonely life..."
Fin