Still Falling UP

Status: 1st Draft

Still Falling UP

Status: 1st Draft

Still Falling UP

Book by: m w mccoy


Genre: Science Fiction

Content Summary

This is a work of Experimental Grammar based on short stories from the late 1960's. Please don't try to make it contemporary. Just read it is it is, and show me the holes. Thanks for your time.



Content Summary

This is a work of Experimental Grammar based on short stories from the late 1960's. Please don't try to make it contemporary. Just read it is it is, and show me the holes. Thanks for your time.

Author Chapter Note

This is experimental grammar, because that's what sci-fi is for. Find the wet spots that make hic-ups. Thank you.

Chapter Content - ver.1

Submitted: January 04, 2020

Comments: 3

In-Line Reviews: 1

A A A | A A A

Chapter Content - ver.1

Submitted: January 04, 2020

Comments: 3

In-Line Reviews: 1



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Still Falling Up


(1) Scene 1

Experimental  Grammar 1.0

Mike W McCoy


Version 1.0


<>1<>  Being sneaky.

“Phsst, stupid.”

The hunter’s flash was a slim sideways grin following a back-swinging original styled Bowie knife.  The victim, a half-naked slum-dog kid, crumpled completely.  His albino-white, child-sized hands fumbled neck-ways blindly at the gurgling crimson sputters.  Only a single verbalized grunt escaped from the Gothic pale-painted mouth.


“I’m not sure,” the response drifted back.  Tagging the question was confusion.

Kneeling to keep quiet, the killer’s fingers played in the pooled blood, while both bloodshot brown eyes focused not corpse-ways, but on the cracked cement of parking level-3.  Backstage, some shadows were slipping free, and floated as haze into the engulfing gloom of downtown Los Angeles.

The Soundtrack seemed to stutter sideways, echoing between the fortress sized walls of the failed Foreign Financial District.  Fast flying drones buzzed like bugs above the old freeway, a distant dog barked, and a car door crunched close. Seconds stretched the silent bits.  Sliding sideways smoothly, a few rows over, a dented delivery van swayed from Night Moves inside.  The professional personality angled the approach, low and slow, towards the back bumper.

More shadows sluggishly slipped clear, rubbing off the reflections from the latest crop of abandoned vehicles.  The buffed, clean surfaces, showcased side-realities with odd details, like how the smeared prison-issue ink on both his muscular arms seemed to change on its own. The immediate images shown were a sexy style in dark denim, polished steel-capped boots, ceramic kneepads, and a bright-black nylon windbreaker.  Several thick gold chains, and a blank black baseball cap, completed the Mexican retro-gangster costume.  The character core-concept radiated concrete and correct, a killer, an executioner, a grim Reaper Man.

The dented delivery van awaited as a trap does, silent and spooky.


The sudden violent swing of the van’s backdoor banged bone bruising hard.  Startled, the hunter quickly darted backwards.  While on the same time-stamp, a shirtless, thickly tattooed Filipino mini-hulk bounded out the vehicle. The pale bleached-skinned man’s eyes twitched with medicated excitement while he brandished a massive kukri knife.

Screaming something in trash-talking Tagalog, the large banana shaped blade danced danger-close, and a battlefield was defined between them.  The Mexican scoffed at the effort, but habitually assumed a defensive stance.

“Ao, some nice moves.”

“Maraming salamat,” the Filipino smiled back. 

The response went off-script as a palpable vibe of maleficent menace radiated from the retired Reaper Man’s eyes.  “C’mon you pussy.”

The taunting teetered the body-building thug into immediately whip-cracking the kukri knife underhanded. The Mexican darted back and beyond, avoiding a seriously sharp shave, but losing his hat to the same stroke. 

Hiding behind an appreciating chuckle, the Reaper faked left and right, before striking a vicious snap-kick into the mini-hulk’s leading shin.  The pain of the solid steel-toed boot slowed the young man’s returning knife swing, but it too somehow sliced a strip of windbreaker.  The old man’s face changed, but not the eyes.

“I see some skill,” the Reaper’s vowels stretch and scratched the Soundtrack.  “Good training, fast arm, but not enough.  I say.” 

“Ha, ha, you funny,” slashing out the words.  “You too old, you double-plus slow now.  I say.”

“Ao, punk, challenge accepted,” sheathing the Bowie knife.  “I going to break your arm.”

“Big words.” 

The gone-Gothic styled Filipino slowed a second, then stopped, before squeaking out with a manic cocaine 2nd-hit-edge on the tone.  “B-big words from a dead man.  No matter how this hand deals.  The end-game has you die.”

“How so?” stopping the pose on a corporate-casual stance.

“Babi Aura say to make the Mexican 3rd-strike dead!”  The kukri swings swift S-swishes.  “That means you, Reaper Man.”

“Babi Aura?  For truth?”

“I not sorry, but say direct-in-flesh.”

“I need talk to Babi.  Where is she?”  

“She ‘round,” tapping the blade against the thumb-sized electronic cyber-box stapled to his skull.  “She always ‘round.”

“This contract or personal?  What say?” no smile.

The kukri knife stabs the words.  “Big contract, must make you dead.  She say.”

The attacking swing show started short and sweet, with dancing elbows and flying feet.  The action circles them both towards more empty cars, no blood, only bruises of ego, and flesh colored commentary. 

The hand slapping patty-cake game ends abruptly as the retired fighter sighs, and dashed to a vandalized 2-day-dead green sedan.  The Filipino followed like a hungry dog, too enthusiastic for his own good.While limping fitfully forward, favoring the bruised leg, the back-stage Soundtrack volumes-up.

The Mexican’s voice stayed calm and confident, almost disarming, almost.  “FYI, I’ve been dead before.  No wait,” warding off mosquitos.  “Twice before.” 

“Make no diff no more, executioner.”  The kukri knife swings slower.  “You a double-stop work order.”

“Thank you, really think that?” a huff on the end.

“I was told new player moving on the game table tonight.  A big insurance policy play?  You bet, but I got a piece.”

“Tell me,” deflecting a weak knife stab, and fronting a sweep to the crippled limb. “Know the why of it?”

Both men slow to a near standstill.  The Filipino assassin is still hobbled, so the professional personalities stalk each other by eyes only.  The cinema showdown punishes then with a silent framework, and a maxi-pad of weirdness.

“Babi Aura already traded you away,” breathing thru the pain. “I say true, Reaper Man.  I say,” with a pivot to the weak side, and another close stab.

“Maybe, but you is nobody,” the taller man declares, and delivers a quick attack.

“Believe, you on Babi Aura’s marker,” recovering fitfully from the Mexican’s sharp elbow strike.  “You alone, you got no crew, yo-”

“Talking about yourself.” 

“Babi Aura playing in all hands tonight,” the bodybuilder bravado steps sharp, as the pale skinned man swings the boomerang sized blade.  “They say Red Top Yakuza got a sure thing going on.”

“Red Top Yakuza?  Who’s that?” the Reaper grunted back, holding his position. 

“Big Boss Lord Akira.  His son, Tetsu’s sex secret not secret no more.”

“Tetsu?  Wait, he’s that retarded Tarashima kid?”

“Not now,” blurting the words.  “GeneCo. gave him murder madness procedure.”

“How you know?”

The Oriental thrusts a tight practiced pattern under the words.  “Babi Aura on all junior’s boyfriends.  I got one.  Now a Red Top crew coming for me.” 

“Now, that is funny,” the old man scoffed back.

They shifted into a series of grunts, thrusts, and deflections that dominated the audio for what felt like minutes, but was actually less than half of one.  As if sensing the end, more dogs swiftly joined the background noise, forwarding the fighting rhythm faster and faster.

“Ao,” retried martial art master tried again.  “On your knees.  I promise, you live.” 

Ignoring him, the knife lashes out, but overreaches.  Reflexively securing a vice tight wristlock behind the kukri, the executioner drops with a practiced twist that breaks the Filipino’s arm.  Cries of pain suffocate the young assassin’s reality as he collapses. 

After picking up the fallen knife, the Mexican kneels down beside the thug.  “Told you, I would break that arm.”

“Crazy ulol.”

“Don’t get personal, keep it contract.  Or?” threatening back with the kukri.

The Reaper’s breathing calms during a steady scan of the set.  His expression shows a confidence that no one would be concerned with a double murder, except that now barely barking 1st dog.

“What insurance policy?”  The old man wonders, pressuring the blade into a trickle of blood from the mini-hulk’s jugular.

Both glance towards the edge of the plastic evidence bag squirming out the Filipino’s front pants pocket.  The one containing the severed finger.



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