He holds the needle more tightly against his arm.
“But that needle will just take you inside? Why…”
“I found my way out of the slave cities, but they’ve sent him to take me back. I might have a chance to get away if I go back inside.”
A moment later, the lot begins to swarm with blattella, black shapes pouring out of the car. I want to close my eyes, to run, but there is no place to go now.
They spill out over the window, coming from those buildings, their bodies swirling in a mass of jointed limbs. I look down at the stranger. He’s hunched over now, the syringe pressed all the way down. A moment later, his body begins to fade away, until all that’s left is the faint outline of his body in the dirt.
There is no time to pull out my own needle, so I take his, hoping there’s enough inside, and watch the world fade. The black swarm vanishes. Cities pass by in a flash of violent motion, a blaze of burning buildings, humanity bound in chains, the choking dust of wastelands.
I try to remember why I came, but I know I’m not ready. I never will be, but I arrive at Ersatz, where my friend promised he would be.
I’m back to where I had been a month before, with my 30 day chip on the ground, lying next to a needle and an empty syringe.
“You made it,” a familiar voice says behind me. “How long has it been?”
“A month,” I say, turning the chip in my fingers.
“It feels a lot longer than that,” Al says. “Thank you for coming for me.” I feel a hand on my shoulder, but I can’t turn around. It had to be Al. I feel his fingers pressed down into my shoulder, and that sound…it could’ve been the rustle of a paper, the hissing of someone nearby. It could’ve been anything, I tell myself, trying not to think of the interstate and the writhing black mass of those shapes.
In my pocket, I can feel the hypodermics crossed against my chest.
Wax Worx
—Roger Lovelace
Marco opened the museum like he did every morning. If it weren’t for the tattered yellow banner swaging over a fractured revolving door, no one would ever have suspected there was a wax museum in the building. Wax Worx was a cramped space, between The Love Silo and Insertions, another hole in the wall catering to the popper heads. The door didn’t revolve anyway. It was a series of broken glass panels you had to step through.
<~~O~~>
Nona finished her coffee, threw the Styrofoam cup to the sidewalk and crushed it under her foot, except she stabbed it with the spike of a red stiletto. “Shit.” She leaned up against the bricks and slid the offending cup off her heel and back onto the sidewalk.
The cup joined up with some plastic bags and yellow newspapers and flew off down the street, carried by the wind that blew through the decrepit urban canyons of Ersatz. Laughing paper. That’s what Mary called the trash that constantly fluttered in the streets. Nona stepped off the busy sidewalk through the broken semi-circle doorway.
Inside Wax Worx, even the dim ponds of light seemed to have a stale odor. “Hello,” she called out. No response came from the depths of the building. Nona continued on. She had an appointment. Her pimp, Oatie, didn’t like his girls showing up late for appointments. The mildew carpet muffled her steps.
Her nose stung, violated. Wax Worx smelled like a sex shop. A light flared from a recess. Under it Marie Antoinette’s head rolled out from an overturned wicker basket, her face contorted by the throes of orgasm. The basket was too small to contain her ratty hair, and her body, dressed in a voluptuous green grown, lay provocatively next to the somber guillotine. Christ.
“Marco! Where the fuck are you?”
“Polo!” Marie’s dress flew up and Marco popped out, from between her legs.
“You little shit,” Nona said. “Still playing with your wax dolls?”
Marco scrambled over the guillotine’s rusty blade and waddled up to Nona. His head, covered with slick black hair, came to her waist. His suit, except for the tartan vest, matched his hair.
“You’re a creep, Marco.” The short man laughed and fingered the hem of her bright yellow skirt made from a discarded raincoat. Her fishnet hose had a tear in them above the hem. She swatted his tiny, birdlike hands. “Not until you paid, little man.”
“Why do you do it, Marco?”
Marco walked in his odd gait—short legs, huge-dick stride. Nona took short steps, staying at his side.
“There seem to be so few laughs,” someone said (no idea who it was.)
Something black and large moved. Nona had a quick glimpse out of the corner of her eye. Nothing there, she thought.
Lights popped on and off as the two of them walked down the narrow curving hallway flanked with exhibits. The Marquis de Sade loomed with a feathery quill sticking out of his ass. A wax maid with a feather duster teased him from across the thin space.
“I can imagine what kind of tourists get turned on by the atmosphere,” she said.
“They pay well enough to keep my Wax Worx going.”
“Where are we going to do it?” Nona wanted to do the trick and go home.
“Right here,” the tiny wax master said.
They stopped at a non-descript door, except it had two padlocks. The heavy-duty kind. Marco pulled a ring of keys out and unlocked the door. He followed her inside his workshop. The door, closing behind him, made a melodramatic noise, worthy of any thriller.
<~~O~~>
“Oh my Gawd! That tickles.” Nona laughed. She would have clutched her sides except her arms were tied. After tying her up, Marco had gone to retrieve the Marquis’s quill, and then had dressed in Inquisitor’s robes, cut down to conform to his size.
“What did you do this morning?”
“Nothing!”
“Liar!”
Marco ran the feather over the sole of her feet. Nona howled with laughter. Her eyes were tearing and there were sharp pains in her side. A shadowy gallery of wax figures with pale moon faces looked on.
“What did you do this morning?”
She sang like a bird, through gasps.
What a demented little man.
<~~O~~>
Nona had offered that morning to take the money to their pimp, Oatie. Nona even begged through the closet door, where she was kept locked. Mary finally relented and unlatched the closet that served as her Immitant’s cage. Nona walked out, fresh as a daisy in her yellow dress.
“Here,” Mary said. She jammed a wad of bills into Nona’s purse. “Get this to Oatie.”
Mary hurt and she was tired. Last night had been a rough trick. She lay in bed, bruised and sullen. That sick psycho, shit! A couple of stray xylacotins waited on the red nightstand and she grabbed them and washed the capsules down with a warm glass of toilet bowl julep. She hoped, whoever in fresh hell had invented trampoline sex had been eaten by the dog.
“You know. I was so excited when I finally got you,” Mary told her Immitant. “I even had your factory virginity reinstalled. It was almost like having my own back. ‘She’s fucking full-fetish capable.’ Those were your maker’s exact words. The perfect gynoid, according to him.”
Nona stood still and quiet in her listening pose, but she wasn’t listening to Mary. She heard the words as a background rabble to her own thoughts. She sometimes wondered who had built her. It meant a lot to Nona—being factory approved.
“I should have sent you out last night. So you could bounce around on a dirty trampoline. Then it would be you in this bed. I had you made to be bruised.”
“No,” Nona said. “I would still be in the closet, praying to Saint Gold Tooth Jack.”
Mary flung the empty glass at her Immitant. The swollen eye loused up her aim and the glass burst against the wall.
Nona went out of the door, her red heels acting like springs, propelling her, clickity-click, out into the streets.
Mary’s words followed her. “You better have your ass back in time for that daddy and son party!”
<~~O~~>
Everything had gone well with
Oatie. Nona had delivered him his money and a peck on his unkempt cheek.
Oatie smiled. His closed circuit TV was airing a live, frenzied gang-bang in a room at the Love Silo. He wanted to get turned on but couldn’t.
“Jo-o-ohny-y, I need a hand in here.” Oatie used his one working hand and arm to back his wheelchair away from the desk, where his TV sat.
Johnny came from the back. He had the build of a boxer, and his nose was crooked and looked to be out of synch with the rest of his face. He carried a brick of butter and a towel. Johnny put the items down next to Oatie’s chair and rolled up the sleeves of his white work shirt.
Nona stood up and headed for the door. “Marco’s waiting. Don’t bother getting up.”
“Yeah, Johnny. Just like that,” Marco said. “Spar with it.
Just another sick bastard, Nona thought. An ice cream truck pulled up to the curb.
<~~O~~>
It took about an hour of tickling and interrogation before Marco took his rather large business out of his robes and finished in front of Nona. They dressed and sat at the Mad-Hatter’s table. A waxen, buxom Alice lay on the table with a large white rabbit that was trying to retrieve his pocket watch from under her blue skirt.
Marco slapped his thigh and howled with amusement at the thought of Oatie Vanzand getting a handy from Johnny Galahad. “I just thought he was as limp as his legs.” He appreciated the work he put into this Immitant. Mary had gotten her money’s worth. “Want me to reset your virginity?”
“Are you certified?” Nona asked. She rubbed the white rabbit’s foot. It looked soft but the softness was an illusion.
“Immitants’ private parts aren’t that much more sophisticated than my waxbots.’”
“So tourists come here to actually screw your wax?”
“It’s a novelty for the out-of-towners. The backwater Shell County folks, especially, seem to like it. You should have seen what two farm boys did to Marie last week. I can’t wipe that look off her face.”
“Would you want me in wax, dawling?”
The little man looked at her with his professional eye. Her legs, breasts, arms and face. He was probably thinking of lunch. Nona suspected he knew her more intimately than she dreamed. If gynoids dreamed.
“You could be Wax Worx’s Cleopatra,” he finally said. “Those bumpkins from Shell would love to party with the Nile Queen.
Marco was right. In a week’s time, Nona found herself wrapped with gauzy linen and cheap costume jewelry. Her eyes were framed with azure paint. The men from Shell were appreciative. Marco borrowed togas and breastplates for them from the Dead Christian exhibit, and they tag-teamed the queen under a blue light, on a plywood barge and promised Marco they would be back.
“They crossed a lot of swords,” Nona said. “I wish I had taken pictures.”
Marco whistled through his clenched teeth. “I wish I had a Ramses to throw into the mix.”
<~~O~~>
“Come on!” Nona wrapped the Cleopatra gauze around Mary as tight as she could. “Suck it up.”
“Fuck you. You don’t have to worry about stray inches.” Mary let all of her air out and sucked in her gut. Nona tightened and fastened the thin linen with pins.
“You won’t have to wear it long,” Nona said. “The Johns practically eat it off of ya.”
“They’re going to need pliers to get this thing off.”
Nona stepped back and looked at the finished product. Mary made a classless Cleopatra. It was the cigarette and yellow teeth. “Now pose like this.” Nona demonstrated and Mary tried to imitate her. And be careful of the barge,” Nona added. “It’s plywood that Marco put together with spit and prayers.”
There were voices coming down the hall. She heard Marco spiel the magnificence of each figure and their sexual specialty. Nona left Mary and ducked into the shadows. She raised her camera toward the fake Nile.
It didn’t take long for the Shell County boys to strip and pleasure the queen, once Marco cut them loose. The wax master disappeared into the shadows. Nona’s camera whirred and snapped continuously. On the barge, a sail became unhinged and covered the wallowing group like a striped tent. She stopped and put her camera down. Damnation!
A blue light popped on, bathing a small plaster altar. In the island of light, a large black dog stood motionless, staring at a distant horizon. The striped canopy stopped moving, but only for a few seconds.
Marco appeared from the dark like a magician and tugged the stripped sail from the pile of bodies. Two of the orgy clambered to their feet. Still hard, with a confused look on their faces. The two others, and Mary were dead from the sudden onset of dread and apathy. Oh, Black Dog. Nona walked out of the shadows and raised her camera. The Immitants of the recently deceased, asked her for copies of the pictures. They weren’t that shaken up.
In Ersatz, laughing paper flew through the streets. People streamed into and out of the Love Silo. Techno music blasted from Insertions, every time the door opened and closed. Johns got their kicks in alleys and flop motels. Oatie watched TV with Johnny Galahad, who snapped on a latex glove with a variety of French ticklers on the fingers, over his beefy hand. The black dog howled.
Customs (Welcome to the Slave State)
—Dale McMullen
Katie hated waiting. She always travelled light; she despised lugging around heavy cases and waiting at baggage carousels. Travelling in this day and age was easier, no passports or check-in. Everything was done automatically with scanners and fingerprints. The only human part was customs, and unfortunately for Katie, she had been “randomly selected” for questioning. So now at half six in the fucking morning she was here, stuck in this fucking queue. Her body language made it clear that she didn’t want to be there. She slumped and sighed at every opportunity, rolled her eyes and tapped her toes.
Up ahead she could hear the officer. She wore a pale blue jumpsuit with some sort of utility belt.
“Sir! Please do not step over the line until you are instructed to do so… Please do not reach into your pocket sir!… Ma’am? Ma’am!!”
Katie snapped out of whatever daze she was in, apologised and stepped forward.
“Put this on please, Ma’am,” she slid the glove onto Katie’s right hand, “Do you promise to answer all questions truthfully today, Ma’am?”
Katie sighed, shook her head and eventually said, “Yes.”
“I’m sorry Ma’am why did you shake your head? Do you intend not to answer the questions truthfully today?”
Katie replied, “I’m sorry, I have somewhere to be, I’ll answer all questions truthfully.”
“I’m sorry, Ma’am, but I now have reason to doubt that. By the powers vested in me by Baroness Un I must inform you that you that a full search and further questioning is the only safe way of moving forward, of getting to the bottom of things.”
Katie protested, “Getting to the bottom….? Listen, I said I was sorry I will an—”
“Ma’am,” shouted the guard, unclipping a baton from her belt, “I have full authority to detain you. I suggest you do not resist further!”
Katie piped down and was led to interview room 3C. A balding man with a serious look on his face waited inside. He didn’t look at Katie when she entered. He was busy looking at a file and filling in forms.
“Sit please, Ma’am.” He had a thick Shell County accent.
Katie sat with her hands on her knees.
“Hands on the table Ma’am. In the gloves.” Katie followed the instructions, placing her hands inside the gloves. The sponge inside felt old and she could feel the presence of the many hands placed in there before hers.
“Do you understand your rights, Ma’am?”
“Yes,” said Katie. She didn’t really understand but wanted out of there.
“Good then I will begin with questioning and then we will search both your luggage and person. Do you understand, Ma’am? May I proceed?”
“Yes, I think so,” said Katie carefully.
�
��You think so, Ma’am, or may I proceed?”
“Sorry, yes, you may proceed.”
“Now, at this point, Ma’am, I remind you that you must answer all questions and answer them to the best of your ability. Is that clear, Ma’am”
Katie thought to herself - god, are you a fucking Immitant? - but replied pleasantly, “Of course, yes”
“I’m afraid to inform you, Ma’am, that some questions may be personal in nature.”
“That’s okay; I have a thick skin.” Katie smiled, now nervous. Her skin wasn’t that thick.
“Excellent, I shall now begin…” He picked up his pen and pressed a switch on the desk.
“I am here with passenger 2-16 in interview room 3C. The time is 0704hrs and Passenger 2-16 has agreed that she is fully aware of her rights and is aware of what this interview slash search procedure entails. Can you please confirm this, Ma’am, by giving a verbal agreement of I do.”
“I do,” said Katie.
“Thank you, Ma’am.” He clicked the button again.
<~~O~~>
“That concludes your declaration. I will now begin questioning. What is your reason for travelling today Ma’am? Business or pleasure?”
Katie stammered slightly. “Erm… business.”
“Go on,” he prompted.
“I am making a documentary,” she said hoping this would be enough.
“Yes,” he said looking at her flatly. “And what will you be documenting?”
“I will be visiting the Slave State shanty towns to discuss the quality of life within the labour camps.”
“I see,” he said, taking a long time to write down the details. The silence and the bright lights were starting to grate on Katie.
“How long will your visit be?” He asked again without looking at her.
“I’m not entirely sure. I was hoping to be done within the month”
“Yes, and who shall you be staying with?”
“I have been offered a room by a family within the town, the Williams family.” She fumbled in her pocket to find the address.
“Ma’am! Please keep your hands on the table, inside the gloves…” He looked her directly in the eye.
Slave Stories Page 9