Escape From New York

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He was a cat. He was an iron bar fistload in a hard right hand. He was rough like a chisel and relentless as a jackhammer. He was Snake Plissken and he was running for all he was worth.

The hallway stretched out long and dark before him; neon script crawled the walls in patterns as complex as spider webs. Dizzying patterns. Insane patterns. Symptoms of the nerve gas madness that dipped out of the sky to touch everyone’s life from time to time.

Plissken wasn’t crazy, though.

He was motivated.

His feet slapped the fake marble floors, echoed hollowly back down the hallway behind him, and he pulled the blue satchel that he carried a little closer to his chest. Just a few minutes more. He was almost safe.

His bad eye throbbed under its black shiny patch; shooting tentacles of pain back through his head, inflaming his brain straight down through his spinal column. But that was okay; the pain was always there, reminding him, pulling his still-youthful face into a tight-lipped grimace that made most people leave him alone. And Snake Plissken liked that just fine.

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