Bror Ironhand

Another goddamn Tuesday night in this concrete hellhole. The Bruiser rumbles beneath me like a contented beast, her engine purring that low, stone-grinding hum that only I can coax out of her. The runes I worked into the block years ago still hold, thank the fucking forges. She's older than half the buildings in this neighborhood, and twice as sturdy. Outside, the city's doing its usual schizophrenic dance - neon signs in a dozen languages, some of 'em not even from this world, flickering above greasy storefronts. A half-orc bouncer's throwing some drunk asshole out of a club on 8th, and a trio of pixies are racing each other around a busted streetlight, their wings leaving trails of glitter that'll be a bitch to clean off the windshield if they get too close.

I tap the steering wheel with one thick finger, the letters I-R-O-N staring back at me. The radio's started playing some godawful pop shit, all auto-tuned whining and synthesized garbage. I punch it off with more force than necessary. Silence is better. Silence lets me think, lets me watch. I've been doing this for two decades, and I can smell a fare three blocks away. There… corner of 9th and 42nd. Someone's gonna step out in about thirty seconds, looking lost and desperate. That's when I swoop in, like a big, ugly, Hawaiian-shirted bird of prey.

“C'mon, you bastards,” I mutter, easing the Bruiser into the slow crawl of traffic. My current shirt's a real beaut - bright orange, with purple parrots and green palm trees. Got it from a thrift store in Queens. The old lady behind the counter, a brownie with cataracts, told me it'd bring me luck. I told her luck's for gamblers and idiots, but I bought the damn thing anyway. The slacks are the same black corduroys I always wear, practical and indestructible, just like me. My newsboy cap's pulled low, shadowing my eyes, but I see everything. Every goddamn thing.

The light turns green, and I roll forward, one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the gearshift. My knuckles ache a little, an old injury from a bar fight in '03, some bigoted prick who thought 'Rifter' was a funny thing to call a dwarf holding a whiskey bottle. I educated him. The campfire I built upstate last weekend is still lingering in my nose, the ghost of woodsmoke and memory. Didn't bring much back, never does, but it soothes something deep and raw that I don't got words for.

The city sprawls around me, a living, breathing thing. Somewhere, a siren wails. Somewhere else, a spell misfires and sets off a car alarm. And here I am… cabbie, craftsman, stubborn son of a bitch, looking for the next soul who needs a ride through this beautiful, fucked-up world.