Capital City Chronicles: The Island Read Online Free

content she seemed despite the intricate, jeweled collar she wore. On her hand was a stylized, high quality tattoo of a pigeon, signalling to authorities that she was permitted to travel alone on her owner’s behalf. She was traveling now, probably handling million dollar negotiations while her owner was enjoying a cocktail party somewhere. Despite the celebrations tonight, some of us were still working.
    The conductor’s voice scratched over the ancient PA system.
    “Green line, leaving 2nd Ave. Next: Gabrielle Square… Market District… Interstate Junction, Nerve Town…”
    Two stops before NerveTown. My pack on my lap, I leaned back and watched the city rush past. I had ridden this line hundreds of times, and as the bohemian opulence of my neighborhood fell away, and the rundown, crumbling tenements took over, my eyes slipped closed.
    The sudden cheering and string of spanish curses jerked me awake. Over the noise of insults that traveled up the car toward the doors, the conductor’s voice spoke again.
    “Gabrielle Square,”
    One gang followed the other to the doors, berating and slapping at them as they ducked through and out onto the platform. The small group of winners then cheered again and ran back the length of the car to yell insults through the windows, triumphant that their superior knowledge of TV commercials had carved them a new turf. I exchanged a look with the woman across from me. She shrugged and rolled her eyes, as if to say, “until next week.” I smiled and shook my head.
    I leaned back again, the train now mostly quiet. Staring out the window, thinking of nothing in particular, I noticed a small piece of graffiti among the usual obscenities, gang tags and crude drawings of genitalia. It was new, and of higher quality and effort than the rest that smudged the window. About the size of a large coin, it was stamped on top of the rest. A red dog’s head, the mouth open wide, bearing long, curved spiked teeth. The dog was framed by the outline of a hand. It was an unnerving symbol, and somehow I realised I had seen it before, in alleys, on curbs and the sides of post boxes all over Capital City. Below the symbol was printed in red:
     
    BITE THE HAND
     
    I had indeed seen it before. Like most graffiti I must have ignored it, only picking up on the repetition subconsciously. The slogan, “bite the hand,” was familiar, like a song lyric I couldn’t place. As I realised I was staring at the dog, I felt the pressure of someone’s gaze. I looked at the slave woman, and found her watching me. Her expression was blank, but I knew she was interested in my noticing the stamp. Before she looked away, her tattooed hand crept up to her face. My heart began to race, certain she was trying to tell me something. I felt silly and paranoid when she merely extended two fingers and relieved an itch below her eye. She looked away as she did it, and I knew I was, as I sometimes did, connecting dots that weren’t there.
    I turned again to gaze out the window but that paranoid feeling wouldn’t let me go. The blood red dog’s head on the window was now impossible to unsee. I looked again at the vicious teeth, and as they became outlined in familiar blinking, colored lights, I knew we were approaching the next stop.
    “Market District, Doll’s Row.”
    The train lurched to a stop, the doors hissed open. Her briefcase in hand, the slave stood. I stared down at my pack, unable to look at her. She wasn’t handling million dollar negotiations as I had fantasized. She was purchasing slaves. Dolls to be exact. I looked again out the window, to the ever bustling Doll’s Row below. There was no vehicle traffic here, only throngs of pedestrians and rickshaws. Dolls stood and sauntered outside their respective shops, waving and slithering, yelling and singing, a constant dissonance of desperation as they worked to be sold. The glowing, popping neon that silhouetted their bodies shouted each shop’s