Sweet Justice Read Free

ran off with his brothers.
    ‘Foul-mouthed brats. Chucking bottles... You shoulda seen what I’ve seen!’
    The three juves ran down the alley into the arms of their mother. They were all around the age of ten.
    Monk lumbered after them, clumsily drawing his gun. The mother, pulling the children close to herself, saw the Judge and started backing away. Until she felt a cold wall touch her shoulders.
    A chink of light glinted on Monk’s helmet’s visor and he saw his father, lying dead in the dining room. He saw the Alphabet Killer’s victims, lying dead in some foul alley, and he saw these filthy juves and their mother, cowering before him. And somehow it all seemed to be the same thing. Somehow they were all to blame.
    The blood pounded hot and wild inside his head as he moved closer and raised his gun. It would be good to shoot them, to blow them away. It would be good to hit back, to avenge his father after all this time...
    ‘Monk!’
    As Monk turned, Anderson drove her fist into the side of his neck, just below his left ear. It was a blow that, delivered correctly, would bring down the biggest man.
    ‘Why did you hit me, Anderson?’ Monk asked, smiling.
    Then he fell over.
     
    Later, Anderson sat back and relaxed. The Scream was gone from her mind now. Things were back to normal – or at least Mega-City One’s equivalent of normal. Monk was in a Psycho-Cube. He’d never be a Judge again, but at least he wasn’t up for murder.
    ‘All those years putting on the Tough-Guy image, scared of showing the slightest weakness, took their toll. Something had to break, though Monk couldn’t see it,’ said Anderson. She was in C.J.’s office with Omar, Dredd and the Chief Judge herself.
    ‘But,’ said Omar, ‘Monk’s subconscious mind knew. It had a pre-cog of what was going to happen, and it tried to get help, to stop Monk committing murder. So it contacted Anderson...’
    ‘Yeah. Monk must be a latent Psi himself,’ said Anderson. ‘Only I misread the Scream at first. Thought it was the terror of being murdered, not the terror of being the murderer . And that description of the candles threw me. Didn’t think that the Alphabet Killer might have seen those old Birthday Butcher movies...’
    Dredd clonked his large boot onto the floor, preparatory to standing. He snorted.
    ‘Another cry for help, huh?’
    Anderson smiled.
    ‘A scream for help, actually. And you shouldn’t be so sure of yourself. You saw what happened to Monk... and you know what the boys used to say about him ...’
    ‘What did they say?’
    ‘That he was tough as Old Dredd... How tough is that , Joe?’

 
    DIARY OF A MAD CITIZEN
     
    By Alan Grant, 2000 AD Annual 1986
     
     
    ‘Hey You, Joe Normal! Reckon Future Shock Couldn’t Happen to You? Well, You’re Wrong! It Can Strike Anyone at Anytime, I Know... I’ve Been Thereeee!’
     
    January 19 th 2107
     
    Something very peculiar happened today.
    I rose slightly earlier than usual, to catch the Kenny Kark Morning Spectacular on my holo-vid before venturing out on my weekly jaunt across city to Orinoko’s. I’m not really very fond of Kenny Kark – to be frank, he makes me sick – but watching his show every week adds to my sense of occasion. It helps make my Thursdays special.
    I compounded the feeling of celebration by having an extra bowl of Tokyo Joe’s Synthi-Soy Soyflakes. ‘Not a single natural ingredient’ it says on the packet. I seem to remember my mother telling me that when she was a kid they had real soy soyflakes. She...
    But I don’t want to talk about my mother now. I don’t want to talk about Kenny Kark, either, except to note that his last guest was a fat lady who’d had her face biosculptured into that of a goldfish. I reckon she has star quality, and if betting wasn’t illegal I’d bet my kneepad she makes it big before the end of February.
    On second thoughts, I wouldn’t bet my kneepad. I mean, I still think fatty’ll strike it rich – but my