Biohell

by Andy Remic

  “Pardon?” said the stunningly stunning creature, tilting to observe the little ginger squaddie.

  “Argh,” said Franco, and spat a mouthful of beer down her cream silk&satin digitally enhanced blouse.

  The woman stared coolly at the regurgitated beer.

  “Sorry,” said Franco, taking a napkin offered by a skull-grinning Jed and patting frantically at the beer stain until hot shit, he realised he was patting all over her bouncing breasts and oh my God of Gods he was actually bloody mauling her tits and groping her and abusing her in public!

  Franco whirled about, face a platter of crimson shame, and fixed his eyes stoically on the back of the bar. He ground his teeth. Grunted a deep and disturbing grunt.

  The woman plucked the napkin from Franco’s shaking fingers and continued to pat at her stained blouse; she seemed unperturbed. “It’s OK,” she said, smiling with neat little teeth. Franco glanced at her. “Don’t worry about it. Second hand beer?” She laughed like a tinkle of wind-chimes. “Absolutely no problem.”

  ‘“S very kind of you,” mumbled Franco, staring dejectedly into his murky pint.

  “Hey, actually, wait a minute; you’re Franco... aren’t you? Franco Haggis?”

  Adrenalin soared through his veins. Joy stampeded his mind into slurry. Hope clattered across the dusty plains of a wooden subconscious. Was this, perhaps, some ex-girlfriend he didn’t remember come to re-engage his services as an amorous suitor? Or perhaps an admiring fan, high on the lust of seeing his picture in a newspaper some years earlier and intent on hunting him down and ravishing his weak and vulnerable rugged exterior? Or maybe maybe she was a long-lost childhood sweetheart returned to reclaim what was rightfully hers and sweep him away in a flurry of wealth and fast cars, penthouse suites and skiing with royalty?

  “That’s me,” swaggered Franco. “Franco by name and, um, Franco by... nature?” He faltered. That had sounded better in his head. Damn that dirty beer!

  “My name is Melanie. Mel.” Melanie held out her hand.

  Franco shook it. She had tiny intricate paintings on each elegant finger nail; entire scenes that wouldn’t have been out of place in a gallery of fine art. Class.

  Franco beamed, feeling an incredible urge to nod and drool. “Hi again,” he said, oozing sophistication. He leant back on the bar, an action he thought damn it he KNEW made him look totally über-cool and available and goddammit a downright hunky horny stud-muffin. It didn’t help when his elbow connected with a slice of stray gherkin and his upper torso slid two feet across the bar making Franco recline like a heroin-chic model on a first-day porn-shoot.

  “I’m employed by the Quad-Gal External Revenue,” Mel said, the smile still on her face but now, now Franco noticed a dark gleam in her eyes and something shrunk and died in his breast as realisation kicked him. “I’m here to talk to you about your tax returns.”

  Franco shuffled upright, still beaming an optimistic smile as he peeled the gherkin slice from his elbow with as much panache as he could muster. He muttered through clenched teeth, “But... I haven’t made any tax returns.”

  Melanie reached over, and shook his hand. “Exactly,” she said.

  ~ * ~

  “You’ll have to excuse the place. It’s a bit of a dump.”

  Franco forged ahead, into his apartment as Mel negotiated the final staircase (numbering 68 out of 69), red in the face and wheezing like an asthmatic donkey.

  Franco’s eyes cast manically across the nightmare shit-hole he inhabited. It was, perhaps, worse than a dump. At least in a dump scavengers took the rotting food. This, however, was the place he called home.

  It had seemed a good idea.

  “I’ll need to see your paperwork,” Mel had said, back at the bar.

  “Hey, come back to my place,” swaggered Franco, ever the optimist. “I have all my documentation in my wardrobe. I can show it you. All of it. I can. In triplicate.” Only... only now his home was one step away from fumigation and Franco hadn’t really thought through this attempted seduction with clarity.

  Ten seconds, screamed Franco’s brain. You’ve ten seconds to clean, tidy, mop, brush, vacuum, and generally turn a sloth-pit for sloth-slobs into a pristine bachelor pad worthy of any dream-girl’s amorous lust. Yeah, I can DO THIS!

  “Sorry about the lifts,” called back Franco, and taking a deep breath he dived on in like a blind, confused lesbian in a fish market. He leapt, scooping a plate of mangled week-old spaghetti in one hand and three pairs of rigid y-fronts in the other, landed on an old skateboard with three wheels, careered across the apartment, squeaking, as one outstretched sandaled foot hooked a crotchless PVC gimp-suit (used, don’t ask) and the other strained to keep a wobbling half-drunk Franco upright. Three wheels jarred against the rim of the kitchen portal, Franco frisbeed the spaghetti mess into the sink, shot-putted the boxers into the overflowing laundry basket and stuffed the squeaking squealing PVC gimp-suit into the washing machine. With a stamp he flipped the skateboard into one hairy hand and whirled, skimming it sideways into the living room where it connected with the contents of the coffee table and efficiently blitzkrieged the surface of fifteen fungus-filled coffee cups, a pirated SONY Playstation 1000 Platinum with half its optic-wiring hanging free, and a pair of plastic devil’s horns, in red. There was a clatter and crash of smashing cups. The table was clear. The skateboard landed neatly on three wheels and squeaked into a corner.

  Franco put his hands on his hips and grinned. He nodded to himself in appreciation. “Looking good, looking fine. Hey hey, they don’t call me Franco ‘Efficient House Husband’ Haggis for nothing!”

  Melanie the tax inspector arrived at the door. She looked fit to be sick. She was pale and red-faced at the same time, and her knees wobbled beneath her finely-tailored bamboo-strand suit. It was only then Franco noticed her rather smart briefcase was in fact a rather smart SIM-skin briefcase. SIM-skin! Triple-class.

  “Sixty-nine floors, and no lift?” panted Mel, attempting to regain her lungs. “Are you insane?”

  “Keeps me fit.” Franco puffed out his chest. “I’m a very fit bloke, I am. Not many men get to my age and can do the things I can do.” His voice dropped to a conspiratory level. “It has been said in some circles,” he paused, for effect, “that I’m a sexual athlete.” He beamed again, stepping back, as one sandal nudged a vomit-stained cardigan under a cupboard.

  Mel wheezed, leaning against the wall. “What was that squeaking sound? Like... rubber, or something?”

  “Mice.”

  “And the crash of crockery?”

  “Neighbours. Would you like to sit down?”

  Franco hurried to the sagging, split, bulbous example of his colourless stain-riddled settee. He grabbed the three porn mags (“Inside This Month’s Issue We’ve As Much Praxda Pussy And Alien Ass As You Can Pan-Handle!”) and stuffed them down a crevice filled with old crisp packets. Franco sat down, back erect, hands on his knees like a naughty schoolboy. Mel stared at him, long and hard, suspicion gleaming in her eyes, then hobbled to the settee and took a seat at the opposite sagging end.

  Franco’s eyes scanned his apartment in horror. It was the first time he’d ever truly looked around. And he’d never realised he lived in such a dump.

  Mel clicked open her SIM-skin briefcase. Shuffled through a ream of metal documents. Then looked sideways at Franco. He beamed amiably at her.

  “By my calculations, you owe rather a lot of money.”

  Franco frowned. “But... I’ve been off the grid for a long time now.”

  “I’ve estimated. We’re good like that.”

  “So... you don’t know where I’ve been, don’t know what I’ve been doing or what I’ve been earning—but you can still estimate my annual income and taxation on what you think I may have possibly might have earned?”

  “Yes. I extrapolated from your early army career earnings, plus those monies accrued whilst in Combat K. Earnings which you also failed to declare and pay relevant tax.” She smile
d. It was neat.

  “How do you know about Combat K?” Franco’s voice had dropped low, and to anybody who knew him, levelled out at a dangerous tone. His brain was already working out distances to the nearest gun, bomb, or gun/bomb combo. Survival instinct was using his brain as a punch-bag. Sobriety ripped out his kidney and beat him with it.

  “I’m from the Quad-Gal External Revenue.” Mel smiled a teeth smile. “I know everything.”

  “Combat K is classified. Top level.”

  The gun which appeared in Franco’s hand was small and black, and completely non-menacing. But to anybody in the know, the Heckler & Koch Kat.5 anti-terrorist microlite was a savage weapon. It could clean remove a person’s head. Hell, a single round could remove an entire torso.

  “I’ve been assigned to track you down,” said Mel.

  “For a mission?”

  Mel frowned. “No, Mr Haggis. For you to pay your tax.”

  “We’re in The City. Nobody pays tax in The City!”

  “But you worked for the Quad-Gal Military. Quad-Gal Government. Gov6. And that had nothing to do with The City. You are in arrears, Mr Haggis. Franco. And, yes, whilst there are no official laws here, QGM can have you extradited. You owe what you owe. And that sum is very large indeed. I suggest you co-operate, or I’ll be forced to initiate my PAB.”

  “PAB?”

  “Panic Attack Button. There’s a flier with twenty Battle SIMs just a couple of blocks away.” She eyed the gun. “I believe the punishment for attacking a Quad-Gal Tax Inspector is, oh, instant death.”

  Franco deflated.

  “OK. OK. I admit it guv’nor. It’s a fair cop. I never paid my bloody tax to the bureaucratic penny-pinching, money-skimming daylight robbers we call the System. Go on. Hit me with it. How much do I owe?”

  Melanie told him.

  Franco went pale.

  “However.”

  “Yes?” He raised an eyebrow above a face filled with despondency.

  “There... might be a way out of this.”

  “Yes?”

  “You were Combat K. Right? The best of the best. Elite. A super-soldier?”

  “Yeah. Right. Fat lot of good that did me! Hah! Save the world, nay, the damn galaxy, and the bastards still expect 33%. Where’s the justice in that, I ask you?”

  “Do you... still have your uniform?”

  Franco frowned. “Um. Yee-ees?” It was a long drawn-out answer. Wondering. Questioning. Cow-fused.

  Melanie smiled. It was a wide smile. Very wide. Very... friendly. She stood up and moved to Franco with undulating hips. She reached behind herself, undid the molecular zip, and stepped lithely free of her one-piece business suit. Full breasts filled a Glitter Web bra. A flat stomach greeted Franco’s slack-jawed awe. Athletic legs rose from diamond shoes up to a micro-filament thong that could only be called underwear because it was under there. Franco stared at something slick and inviting.

  Mel reached forward. She licked her lips. Her eyes were gleaming. She patted his arm. “Go and slip into your uniform,” she said. “There’s a good boy.”

  ~ * ~

  Mel had hunted Franco down for tax purposes— initially. But she’d volunteered for the job after seeing photos of him in his Combat K uniform, admittedly a few years younger, and a few pounds lighter, but still proud and erect and strong. As it transpired, Mel had a thing about soldiers. Especially uniformed soldiers. And especially Combat K uniformed soldiers. She acknowledged this was a character defect, but she was willing to work around it.

  However, on that first evening, despite stripping from her bamboo business suit and dancing with Franco in his uniform, she had refused to “rush things”. She left after an hour with a coquettish smile. Franco was left with an erection that could drill hull steel. Melanie departed with the promise she would return that night... with something special.

  As Mel began her arduous sixty-nine floor descent, Franco, in his eagerness to please, like a puppy with a wagging tail, shouted, “I’ll cook us a meal! I’m a good cook, I am!”

  Mel laughed. “OK then.”

  As she disappeared, the enormity of what he’d said sunk in. A meal. Cooked. By. Franco. Shit.

  Franco liked to eat. Hell, that went without saying. A gourmet chef, however, he was not. And he so desperately wanted to please! At first he thought about buying a fine meal from a restaurant and passing it off as his own... but he reluctantly admitted that a) his funding was limited, i.e. he had none, and b) his oven was darker than the fabled Black Black Hole of Black Sinax. He opened the oven optimistically on squeaking hinges, and poked around with a stick, but when something in that dark and greasy mess grabbed the stick, snapped it in two, growled, “I’m tryin’ a sleep in here,” and tossed the stick onto the floor with a clatter, Franco resigned himself never to venture into the oven again.

  And so, with little option left, Franco decided that the one thing he could cook, something he was good at cooking, something which would be easy-peasy, a breeze... but which might well be his curse as well as his saviour... was chilli. A good, honest-to-goodness, wholesome fresh cooked chilli. Made to his own aged family recipe. With his own cleanly scrubbed hands. And with the freshest ingredients his little money could conjure from an InfinityChef. And he knew, wow, it would blow her little socks off. It would knock her sideways. And, hopefully, guarantee him a shag.

  Most people, when faced with this dilemma, would have simply summoned a meal from a local street-corner InfinityChef. But in reality, everybody knew the molecular-reconstituted food tasted like crap; the best way to cook was to beg and borrow as many fresh ingredients as possible. After all, only the poor or the desperate ate from a public Level 1 InfinityChef.

  After a whirlwind stealing spree, which bagged Franco most of the ingredients he needed, he set to chopping leeks, onion, garlic, adding beans and strips of fresh beef (or as fresh as organo-construct auto-expanding meat could get)... and then moved on to the crème de la crème of his homespun dish. Chillis. Fresh chillis. Franco had to concentrate really hard, now. Because Franco liked chilli peppers. He liked a lot of chilli peppers. He liked the kind of amounts you could use to blast open a bank vault. So, careful not to overdo this culinary adventure, Franco chopped and chopped, and removed the seeds, and added the chillis to the bubbling pan.

  Fast forward two hours.

  A whirlwind cleaning of the apartment, good scrub in the bath, best silver glitter suit, neatly trimmed beard, (stolen) Elvis Aftershave dabbed at precise intervals about the body. -

  Franco was ready. No. Ready, babee.

  The knock sounded exactly on time. Franco grinned. Tax inspectors, huh? Precise to the point of anal bureaucracy. It was in their nature. In their damned blood.

  Franco flung open the door, half-expecting the whole thing to be some huge practical joke, half-resigned to seeing some fifty stone Blubber Stripper leering down with only half her own teeth and a spool of saliva connecting her from tongue to floor. But no. It was Melanie. Wearing a quite ravishing simple black dress, neck to ankle, tight as a body-stocking and showing off her perfect curves in a perfectly perfect curving way.

  “Hi,” said Franco.

  “Something smells good.” She held up a bottle of wine. Franco looked at it carefully. It was Chateaux du Tek-Paris. Thirty years old. Very select. “Come on, I’m ready for a drink. It’s been a long week.” Wow. She liked a drink. A girl after his own heart! Could it get any better?

  Franco opened the bottle. Poured two glasses. They sat, a little awkwardly, one at each end of the sofa (newly covered with a quite garish floral covering which had, until recently, been next door’s curtains).

  They sipped the wine. It was divine.

  Franco savoured the flavour, and didn’t dare quite look at Mel. She was stunning. She had little silver flowers woven into her long dark hair. She smiled at him.

  “You have a good—um—climb?”

  “The stairs?” Mel laughed. Tinkling sunlight. “Like you said, it’ll ke
ep me fit.”

  “You look pretty fit as it is.” Franco bit his lip. Blushed. Don’t be too eager you dumb-arse little fool if you’re too eager she’ll run a mile like they all do. Play it cool. No. Super cool. Sophisticated. Charming. Like James Bond, that most eternal of action heroes, 578 films and counting. Yeah. That’s it. A ginger James Bond. You want ice with that sir? Ye-arse. Shaken. Not stirred.

  “What is that smell? It’s sumptuous?”

  “Chilli. Homemade. I nicked... borrowed all the ingredients fresh from the market. My mom used to make it.” Franco beamed. “An old family recipe. You want to eat now?”

  “Sounds good.”

  Franco disappeared in the kitchen, and when he returned with two plates of chilli, rice and tortillas, Mel had switched off the lights and lit two candles. Flames crackled. Soft yellow light cast pastel shadows over the walls. And, despite its designation as shit-hole, in the softening ambience of candlelight, Franco’s apt was transformed into something quite romantic.