Bipolar Bash

A mass of Black Cloaks queue along tube line tracks at Hackney Station, in pitch black, waiting to get to a seventeenth birthday party for some bigged up captain. I didn’t realise how many people Hans had under his thumb. We edge along towards security, having made it to the middle section of the queue. More guests keep joining up behind us. Closer closer we edge. Nearly at the rung ladder leading to the Black Market. Bored Frankie and Mi jostle each other like a couple of kids.

“Too bad Prince can’t fit down the grate,” says Kay.

“Yes, I expect he would enjoy a party. I think he’s circling Hackney, above the barrier. Do Black Cloaks have many parties?”

“When in a scheming mood Hans puts one on.”

“We’re next!” whoops Mi as he bounces over to a desk home to one single oil lamp. Weapons are piled in a mishmash on top of the table.

“Weapons please,” says security, looking bored as he rocks on a stool beside the table.