The Tel Aviv Dossier by Lavie Tidhar; Nir Yaniv

Author:Lavie Tidhar; Nir Yaniv
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Tags: Horror
ISBN: 9780980941050
Publisher: ChiZine Publications
Published: 2009-07-14T20:00:00+00:00

SAM: TWO

They’d been waiting for me on the Kibbutz Galuyot Interchange. It was my first indication of how bad things had turned out in Tel Aviv, of how far civilization can collapse, and how quickly. They had surrounded me before I could pull out the Desert Eagle. Hands frisked me, stripped me quickly and efficiently of everything I had. Then they turned me over and I got my first look at them.

“Who dis bird hia?”

“What colour gang him wearing? Me no know dem.” They spoke a language of their own, a Tel Aviv argot of the sewers. It was a mix of English from bad Hollywood portrayals of Pacific islanders, and net-speak, and the sort of Hebrew teenagers use. There were about ten of them.

They were all mounted on scooters.

The scooters were painted in slashes of red and white. The men sitting on them had similarly painted their faces. The scooters all had 50cc engines. As I watched, two of them ran to the jeep and began emptying its oil tank. “Dis hia, like, million dolla!” one of them said.

“You, me, everyone rich,” the other one agreed. They were very efficient. The oil was transferred into two-litre plastic Coca-Cola bottles, and these in turn were distributed amongst the riders.

I said, “Listen, you’re making a mistake. I’m from outside. I’m here to help you.”

“Outside! He one crazy mathafucker. Outside. Why he go tellem outside for? Making the boys dey are crazy. I think kill him.”

“Kill him!”

“Kill him for sure, or — ”

“Yes?”

“Sell him to the Templars?”

“You fucking crazy, man? They’ll — ”

“Sure, but — ”

I said, “Hey,” and didn’t get any notice. “Hey!”

“What you want, crazy man from outside?”

“Who are you people?” I said. None of them was over twenty-five. Spotty faces. Red and white uniforms. A horrible thought invaded my mind and I said, “You’re delivery boys?”

“Who you go calling that, boy!” someone kicked me in the ribs. “We is de nambawan gang, Ayalon Highway Chapter, the Street Racers Clan. Why you go talk rubbish like dis, you don’t know is dangerous? Close-up you dead, man.”

“Look,” I said. “Can I stand up?”

“Stand up, sit down, soon you dead same-same.”

I stood up. They watched me. I said, “Don’t you people speak normal Hebrew?”

One of them, on the far left, young kid with glasses, raised his hand. “Actually,” he said, “well, of course we can speak the old language, mothafucker. If only to establish a working relationship with the tradespeople.” He smiled at me. “But we choose not to. Do you have a problem with that?”

I said, “No.”

“It really is quite easy to pick up, you know,” he said, smiling. “There’s even an old guy from the university who comes around every once in a while to talk to us. He says he’s a linguist, though I think” — and here he switched to their pidgin again — “he like look of boy hia, name of him SpeederManTwo, he want to take boy hia for ride, you savvy?”

“Fuck you!” a boy on the right said.

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