Moral Zero

by Set Sytes

  What about do unto others as you would have done unto you? suggested Mr White timidly.

  That old maxim. That old maxim presupposes that the “other” is equal to the “you”. It’s wrong in that. It’s an unproven assumption. I ain’t no other. I’m me. I ain’t the same kind of human. There’s no reason that I should treat them as I want to be treated. And even if I were the same, the maxim still holds no reason. Why should I do unto them as I would have done unto me? Because I’m told to? I’m expected to? It don’t make me a hypocrite if I never expect something mutual out of relationships, out of connections with others, and why should I?

  Mr White stayed silent. He didn’t know. He knew that some things were just wrong, but he couldn’t explain why. They just were. But that feeling itself was fading, slowly. Blacks and whites were turning to greys. There was some vague concern within him that he may end up fighting with his own sense of morality, and perhaps losing it entirely.

  Red had turned to face away from them both to better peruse the growing crowd, and became intent on analysing an attractive twenty-something woman who had just walked in. She wore a leather dress, skin-tight about her chest and loose past her thighs, and her face was assured and smirking. As Red was thus engaged, a middle-aged woman in a scarf and a long beige overcoat tripped over his outstretched boot. She sprawled onto the floor. Red uselessly tried to stifle a smile, and then said he was sorry. He was about to add that it wasn’t his fault, but stopped himself.

  Johnny stepped forward, and leant down and took the woman’s arm. Let’s get you up, he spoke kindly, and lifted her to her feet. She looked at him, smiling, and then losing the smile as she looked into his eyes. She mutely nodded her thanks, her eyes on the floor. Red’s boots now withdrawn to hook on the stool.

  You take care of yourself, ma’am, Johnny touched his hat respectfully.

  She nodded again and managed a faint smile, and she scooted off, gathering her coat about her and not looking back.

  Red looked at Mr White, grinning, his head back. Did you hear that? Ma’am. I ain’t never heard someone say ma’am in real life. Does he think he’s in some black and white movie or somethin?

  Mr White didn’t say anything but pursed his lips and tried to smile with his eyes, wanting to humour Red without insulting Johnny. Johnny ignored them both, pulling the brim of his hat lower over his eyes and sipping his whiskey.

  You gonna kill her later, J-man? Mr Polite? Red raised his eyebrow and curled his lip a little. He continued to be ignored.

  You like the older girls huh? Her tits weren’t that big you know, Red sneered. I seen bigger.

  These women ain’t your objects, Red, said Johnny coolly.

  I never said they were.

  Their curves ain’t for your attention.

  Well they got it. Red peered at Johnny cockily. I know you look too.

  Know much, do you? drawled Johnny.

  Red ignored this, and pressed Johnny again. What’s the matter, don’tcha like big tits?

  Johnny blew a ring of smoke and said nothing.

  What, ain’t you gonna answer?

  Another ring of smoke.

  I’ll take that as a yes then.

  You’ll take what I give you. The question is both impertinent and irrelevant to my concerns.

  Ah. A fancypants cunt answer.

  A more clever cunt than you, Johnny smiled meanly, and drew out another cigarette and lit it.

  More drinks passed along with the time. Mr White went to the bathroom while Red wandered through the crowd, making cheeky comments to random patrons and trying to find the most interesting girl in the room.

  Johnny was standing with his back to the bar when a short girl came up to him. She was dressed in a black corset over a black frilly dress, with pink fishnets and knee-high strapped red boots. Glitter was on her face and her hair was in pigtails, decorated in pink lace. Her breasts were pushed up obscenely by the tightly tied corset and the top of one was tattooed in little hearts. She wore a dog collar that sparkled.

  Fucking hell, said Johnny under his breath.

  Is that your friend? He’s hot. The girl looked in Red’s direction, twirling her hair between her fingers flirtatiously even though Red currently wasn’t facing her.

  His name’s Kidd Red.

  Do you think he’d like my pussy?

  Johnny put his hands to his face and then removed them. No.

  No?

  He prefers assholes.

  The girl giggled. Oh, really?

  Johnny didn’t say anything.

  I hope he’d like my asshole, then.

  You talk like him.

  Is that a good thing? The girl finally turned her face to Johnny, but he wasn’t interested in eye contact.

  It’s a thing.

  Mr White came back from the bathroom and as soon as he returned Johnny left wordlessly. Mr White stood uncomfortably by the girl in the corset and looked at Red as he walked unsteadily off with the woman in the leather dress, navigating through the other patrons and stumbling into a table as he passed.

  Why do all you women go for him? Mr White ventured. He’s, well, he’s an asshole.

  The girl at his side watched Red too and smiled. Yeah, but he’s a fuckable asshole.

  You sound like him.

  The girl looked at the back of Red wistfully as he departed the bar with the woman. We’re all the same breed, she said, and walked away from him.

  STREET

  It was three and a quarter hours later and Red was in an alleyway near the bar getting fucked.

  His hands splayed on the wall, dirt creeping into his fingernails, crumbling down as though the wall was the decaying state of the world and the fierce, half-pained pressure of his stance was that which was taking it down.

  He heard the slap before he felt it, and the pain was quick and white. He yelped. Other things came, and he felt claw marks, felt savaged by animals.

  Do you fucking like this? The woman’s voice snarled in his ear and his hair was wrenched tight.

  He said nothing.

  I said do you fucking like this, slut?

  He grunted. He was loathe to answer her. He did not want to hear his own voice. To hear it would be to come back, to acknowledge who he was and what he was doing here.

  She mauled him and he murmured yes, as low as he could. It replayed in his mind a hundred times on a loop, over each other, forming a dumb chorus, a cacophony of yeses. He shuddered.

  It wasn’t enough for her. She thrust harder, and commanded him to tell her what he wanted.

  Silence.

  Slap.

  Fuck off!

  Slap.

  He grit his teeth. Fuck my ass. His body felt a warm wash of shame. He covered himself in it like a blanket and his head swam and his body prickled and he stiffened and leaked.

  Louder.

  He shook his head desperately and then, Fuck my ass! The full length prickling again, like pins and needles all over. There were spikes in his brain. Thin fleshy spikes, probing and stimulating.

  Good boy.

  He was clutching hold of his masculinity as though a drowning man on a lifebelt, but it was slipping, slipping wet and sticky through his fingers.

  His body was on some new switch, feeling the extension of her inside him, pulsing, unnatural. For moment after long moment he was one of his toys, one of his conquests.

  But no, he was hers.

  His breath was staggered, rushing, coming all at once or not at all. His insides were full, too full, as though the thing was going to burst out his throat in a fountain of white blood. Every instance of retreat he was hollow, an empty cave, an oblivion waiting for the universe to come in. In that half a second he lived a lifetime as a thing without filling. A vacant lot. An uninhabited hovel. Some stretch of desolation waiting for its purpose, its fulfilment.

  The next half a second the world would move in. His body would explode, a shuddering apocalypse, an end of times that tore him apart. He was ruptured
, intestines to jelly, organs died, and still the thing mushed his body up. He felt like he was backed into a tree, feeling it split him, use him, bouncing on the thing as the smallest ragdoll.

  He felt fucked in his very soul.

  The hammering continued as endless cycles of the universe born and dying, a rebirth from every death. The claw marks were near lost to him now, but the insults volleyed back and forth like rocks in his head, clanging against the insides with boundless energy. They dropped into his gut where he nourished them with his intestinal jelly, and they jumped up and down like a stomach ache.

  He made as if to vomit, but nothing came, not even a retch. After a few seconds a thin hang of drool stole from his lips and ran to the floor, the only part of his soul that could escape the bombardment.

  The rest stayed for the show. The final denouement was at hand. One could not leave before the curtain call.

  He was a lost thing, and nothing was blocked out, everything was integral. The woman groaned and the augment inside him began to release. He was flooded, a reservoir to her pleasure. He was infused.

  Good boy.

  BAR

  We need to decide on where we’re going next, said Mr White. They were all sat back at the bar. Red shifting in his seat.

  Who says I’m done with this one? Red mumbled around a straw as he blew bubbles into his drink.

  We’re going to District Twelve, said Johnny. We got to keep moving.

  Who says? Red shot up, taking his mouth off the straw.

  I do.

  We can vote on it. Make it a democratic decision. Mr White crossed his arms.

  There’s only three of us you cock, said Red. How’s that gonna work. Unless you side with Johnny like a goddamn kiss-ass.

  Mr White went red and Johnny snorted. I don’t believe in democracy.

  You’re joking? Mr White looked aghast.

  No.

  I mean, I know it’s not perfect -

  You can say that again.

  - But still.

  Still nothing. Every man woman and child should have their full right of choice. Any democratic decision leaves out the minority. Those figures in the minority might have some pretty damn good ideas on the world.

  And what if they don’t?

  And what if they don’t? Johnny echoed. It’s still their choice and they should be free to make it. Take that away and you rob a man of his autonomy, his will. He is no longer his own person but the person of the Majority. Every figure should be able to live without having to slink along in the footsteps of some pitchfork armada, should be able to live without someone else breathing down their shoulder and steering their knife and fork as they eat. When you’re a minority, you’re nothing. Everybody who’s been a minority knows that.

  But the world would be in chaos! Mr White protested.

  It already is, and we’re still no more free. It don’t matter where the state of the world goes, the first maxim is to allow a man his choice, and give him the personal responsibility of each and every one of them. Don’t make him ride on the coattails of others and have to put up and excuse and apologise for what others decided and counted him out on. It don’t matter if the world goes crazy with all doing their own mad thing. That’s the first tenet of the world. Once you got autonomy, then the rest follows. But that has to be set in place first.

  And this means what for us? Mr White said helplessly. We all go our separate ways?

  Johnny smoked and said nothing.

  So wait, what about when someone’s rights infringes on yours?

  Don’t say rights, Johnny sighed. It means nothing. It’s law speak. As if you’re supposed to be expecting to be protected by someone else and have them stand up for what you think you deserve. It’s a soundbite. We don’t need that. Human choice is an inalienable fact, is what it is.

  Alright, so what about when someone else’s choice infringes on yours.

  Let it infringe. I can infringe back. If you ain’t got the strength to fight back then maybe someone somewhere will make one of their choices be protecting the weak.

  So maybe a group of people, murmured Mr White, tentatively, Maybe a group of people want to make that protective choice, or any kind of choice that they all agree on… and they as a group, maybe a really big group, infringe on you . . .

  Johnny didn’t say anything for a moment, just stared at the wall smoking, and then he grinned widely. Alright. Alright Mr White. I see where you’re going. Then how about we got free reign over our choices up to when they infringe upon another’s.

  You mean the choice not to be killed or tortured? Mr White said quietly.

  Johnny grinned again. Aha. He beckoned to the bartender and she came over.

  Yeah?

  Whiskey for my friend here.

  I don’t - started Mr White.

  Whiskey for my friend here. He laid coins on the table and she went off.

  Thank you, said Mr White sheepishly.

  Yeah.

  You called me your friend.

  Johnny closed his eyes. No I didn’t. He fixed Mr White with a Look that made him go red.

  We’re friends now? said Mr White hesitantly, after a long pause.

  When did I say we weren’t?

  So that means we are?

  No.

  You respect me now though.

  Johnny coughed and leaned his neck back as if looking to the sky. Lord. What do you want my respect for?

  Mr White shrugged, embarrassed.

  The whiskey came and Johnny pinged it with his fingers over to Mr White. Drink up. And we can talk. But don’t get any funny ideas. There ain’t no me-and-you. There’s just me. And then there’s you.

  Red had been flicking his eyes from one to the other without saying anything this whole time. Finally he ruffled his hands through his mess of hair and put his hand on his chin, blinking wearily. If you’re gonna go back to all that then I’m outta here. I ain’t got no truck with this shit.

  With what shit? Johnny turned to Red, as if he had forgotten he was there.

  With this political shit.

  Johnny raised his eyes to the ceiling and down. Lord. All shit is political, Red. You can’t avoid that.

  Like hell I can’t. I just get on with my own life. I do. Not. Care. About any of this otherwise shit. I just want to live my life.

  Your life may well be affected by it.

  Whatever. I’m still livin it. I’m doin it my way, by myself, with whoever wants to come along for the ride.

  Of course. Johnny turned back to Mr White, causing Red to frown. I think me and Red might share not completely alien views, but perhaps his are less . . . erudite.

  Whatever, muttered Red, and stood up. I’m gonna go find me some girls. He walked off with a thumb cocked in his belt and the other running his hands through his locks.

  I don’t think he’s interested, said Mr White, looking after him with a slightly concerned expression.

  It complicates his world view. Johnny didn’t watch him go, but sat at the bar and smoked.

  His world is pretty small, Mr White observed.

  Of course it is. It’s only got him in it.

  Johnny had been gone for an hour. He hadn’t said where he was going he had just up and left. Red was half laid down in the far, shadowed corner of the bar, blowing blue smoke from his mouth. A thin trail of blue wisped its way from the end of his cigarette.

  What are you smoking? Mr White sat down beside him, back from the bathroom.

  Blue snake.

  What’s that?

  XE. Red blew another big cloud of blue.

  Okay.

  It’s a drug, said Red helpfully.

  I know what it is, said Mr White. Then, after a pause, Why’s it called blue snake?

  Red shrugged.

  What does it do?

  Red shrugged again. Somethin. Not much. It’s just, like, a relaxant, y’know?

  Yeah.

  You want a puff?

  No thanks.

 
Johnny returned a short while later, his head down as he approached their corner. Red stood up like a jack-in-the-box.

  Johnnyyy! Red stumbled forward and, before Mr White could put his hand out, wrapped his arms around Johnny’s frame, right around his dark jacket for his hands to clasp each other at his back. He was leaning forward a little, his head pressed against Johnny’s chest, his eyes closed and a wide cat-like grin slashed across his face.

  What are you doing. Johnny looked down at the beaming figure pinning his left arm to his side. His right arm was holding a black cigarette, the lit end trailing the thinnest smoke signal up into the air.

  I’m huggin you man. Red squeezed a little.

  Johnny lightly tapped the end of his cigarette on Red’s head. A crumble of hot ash fell into the nest of hair but went unnoticed.

  Why?

  Because we’re friends and I like you. Hombre.

  Oh dear. Johnny took a couple more draughts and once again used Red’s hair as an ashtray. Please stop.

  Nope. Red buried his face in Johnny’s chest.

  Johnny grazed the end of his smoke onto Red’s bare arm.

  Fuck! Red yelped, instantly letting go and spinning off. Goddamn!

  It appears I’m free now, said Johnny dryly. He moved his drink over a few inches to the right.

  Is that drink for me? Red rubbed his arm, distracted by the movement and the slosh of amber nectar inside polished glass.

  It is if you want it to be.

  Red grabbed the drink, the affront of being burnt forgotten. Does this mean we’re friends?