HIGHER CLASS

BUSTED

The pub went wild with this one, everybody had seen it.

It was a visible representation of who they were—an angry conglomerate of nut jobs in bed with their city, and no earth-bound structure was going to take it from them—at least not while they're still breathing.

We came down to the building before 8 a.m., just in time to perceive bystanders pause and stare.

What had ordinarily begun with two art enthusiasts gazing morphed into a hive mind of brilliantly dressed men in suits looking up.

They were dazed, hardly by the sheer length of the tower of Babel, but mostly by the large imprint of afro-futuristic graffiti plastered on the building.

I must confess, it is not my finest work. It was a rough design hurriedly embalmed, but it was sufficient for the job.

Little stars twinkled—no, flashed lights, then shutter sounds filled the air.

Everyone is taking a snapshot. They all wanted a piece; they all wanted to herald the message that their city wouldn't go through this meltdown in silence.

It would be one hashtag after the other, every single one of them expressing how they truly felt, till everyone, in unison, would unconsciously adopt the hashtag takeover insignia.

From that moment I could foretell a sensation was brewing; it would awaken the deviant spirit in those who cared enough for their city to fight for it. To usurp it from this earth-eating corporation.

But they had half the idea where the fun part lay.

It didn’t take me by surprise, nor did it spook the corporation any further; as the days went by, the city was shot into the past—maybe the future, depending on what you see as progress.

Skyfall was covered in more graffiti art than paint; it was free for all, everyone desperately trying to match talents; it was anybody's game now.

It was another evening at the pub, and the whole place was a madhouse, as usual, but this time it tilted slightly even more to the crazed aspect.

Tough guys arm wrestling, some shooting darts—the air was plagued with the smell of cigarettes, gin, cheap bears, and dried wood. Sweat! And most confident guys had done what was only in their nature—engendering a pissing contest.

Each of them bragged about his own graffiti art and how much on the “most-wanted scale” they'd climbed up to.

My phone brightened up again, and amidst a visibly endless scroll of notifications was Alex's message.

Alex was the kind of guy to bicker and b***h and p***y his way down a building.

Shaving his hair in protest and cursing all through in a bid to show he was irritably displeased.

He was largely insecure and, for the most part, employed passive aggression as a way of communicating his displeasure. But he was a good friend.

He had loosened his ties with me after the whole building incident, but it didn’t take a day before he came back crawling.

He was tired.

He had buzzed me up, checking to see if I was free.

He wanted to meet at the old bell house.

For some reason, I could feel goosebumps crawling all over my skin all the way to my neck;

The distance to the bell house wasn’t far off.

I got out of the pub, hailed a cab, and sat quietly in it while it ate up the road leading to the old bell house. In a matter of minutes, I saw myself racing up the stairs.

“What's up? You're done being a cry baby?!. I asked, teasing him.

“Oh, come on, both of us know well; what we did was bad enough to make a full-grown man start crying.”

He responded as we shook arms.

“So what's the occasion?” I asked curiously.

“I must confess, the building art was extreme and stuff. I want to... like even more.”

"Well, look who decided to be a grown ass man... That’s the spirit, Alli.”

I said, teeming with excitement. At this point, I was glad that I wouldn’t have to drag his sorry ass along anymore.

“Funny You. But this time, it’s lightweight work... No climbing skyscrapers, no defacing countries, and please, school buildings are off. Okay?”

I chuckled

"Jeez, you take the fun out of everything…

But okay, no handcuffs and emergency spaces, just simple stuff.”

Alex arched his eyebrows. “Fine, I promise.”

"Would you blame me if I said I'd grown to doubt your integrity?”

he retorted.

“Jeezz, will we ever get past this? Fine. I accept, I am grossly flawed and imperfect."

“And narcissistic too,” he added.

“Yes..and that.”

“And toxic,” he said, grinning.

“Are you done?” I responded, slightly annoyed. “

Yes. Yes, I am, and I am profoundly satisfied with myself.”

He said, his grin breaking into a full-blown smile.

“Alright, then so what’s the plan?” I asked, feeling the curiosity in me proliferate.

Alex pulled out his phone, placing a couple of his fingers on it and zooming in on the Map of Skyfall.

“We’re storming the Riverwalk passage. It’s a well-pronounced environment. And I’ve got the perfect design that’d make a statement.”

I nodded, impressed.

He smiled

“We’re bringing the movement to mainstream baby!” he said, flinging his hands against the ceiling as he approached the large sack bag full of spray cans.

“Let’s roll,” he uttered to me as he led the way out.

We arrived at the tunnel; the evening cloud had created the perfect cover for anything coated in black.

Alex untethered the large sac bag from his shoulders, pulling out two overalls and a gas mask. He tossed one over to me, and we quickly masked our appearance with it.

Alex took the lead; he brought out a couple of spray cans, shaking them vigorously before he began spraying. He wouldn’t tell me anything regarding his art; according to him, “it was a surprise, perhaps the most profound statement to ever be made.”

Of course, I wouldn’t touch his resolve, not even with a ten-foot pole. I walked towards the mouth of the tunnel; it was newly installed.

A long, hard-backed thing. Like a giant sea turtle beached under the sun.

The very hard concrete I stood on was once grass. On an evening like this, the moon would ordinarily peep through the clouds, embellishing the environment with its silver glare.

But ever since, the moon has grown shy. Whenever it skirts out, all that glimmers are the iron poles used in net-fencing the tunnel.

I grabbed my spray bottle, tugged it, and pressed the trigger thingy; it coughed out a blue gust, and the steely white concrete started giving into the powder dust.

I had visualized spraying a giant blue wave washing over a miniature snow globe to illustrate how much Omnicorp had influenced the beauty of skyfall.

But at that moment, my heart stopped, and sweat dripped down from my face. I could feel the infrared rays of the torch pointing at me.

"Freeze,” the man called out. His voice was rough and loud.

He was all blue, fully bearded, and buffy; at least the large jacket he donned made him look so.

His partner ran down, gun pointed at me, blocking the entrance into the tunnel, so I didn’t skirt into the shadows and disappeared.

The spray can hit the ground. I grew conscious to notice my arms were high above my head, facing the sky.

“Don’t move, lad. It’s over,” the man called out.

I could see Alex from my stance; he was aware of the commotion brewing already. He slipped deeper into the tunnel, blending in completely with the darkness, even so much that when the man moved in stealthily to inspect the tunnel, all he saw was spray cans and a large backpack.

“So you're the infamous spray slinger?” he questioned as he muscled me to the ground, one knee above my L4 vertebrae.

His hand tugged against mine ruggedly, placing one above the other as he cuffed me.

His partner is still pointing the muzzle at me. My tongue was stiff. Was I really busted?

I generally lacked the required experience to engage in this situation. My eyes widened in fear as I fully comprehended my situation.

The man raised me ruggedly, accidentally groping my breast. He would jerk back in awe.

“You’re… You’re a girl,” he said, surprised.

The gas mask was dislodged from my face by his partner, lips quivering.

It was at that very moment that Alex came charging in; he rammed through the first cop, tackling him with his shoulders, sending him flying against the second.

He was stealthy; he was fast. So that when they heard his footsteps racing towards them, they were sloppy in pulling out their firearms.

They were rookies on patrol—it was obvious; they had issues managing this level of conflict enough to know that they shouldn’t have dropped their guards.

Every night it was their function to drive through the city and hopefully catch a couple of bad guys. It was good for their credit scores. Tonight they came close.

“C’mon, let’s move,” he ordered, dislodging the chain of keys from the buckle of the cop.

We raced along the Riverwalk, breezing past the police car, only for Alex to halt by and attempt to break the lock.

I could feel the air roil. It was disturbed by a piercing sound followed shortly by a projectile rippling through Alex's skull, stopping right in front of his brain.

He dropped to the floor. My knees buckled, and I met his still eyes, growing lifeless by the minute.

I froze. Too scared to speak, too scared to think, too scared to move. To scared to believe

The man raced towards us. Shortly after, his partner running by his side. He tucked in his gun and shoved me against the car bonnet, cuffing me.

It was hard to believe. Alex had killed a cop, and his body was left at the scene.