by Andy Remic
Franco sat down, a little closer this time. The plates steamed on the table.
Mel took a small, dainty mouthful.
Franco waited... if he’d made it too hot, it’d blow her damn head off! And bang would go his chance of a... well, he frowned. Not just a shag. No. This was... something more. Something different. Something special. His heart thudded in his chest. He felt different. This woman was... divine. Franco’s face broadened into an almost relaxed smile. For once, sex didn’t matter. There was no urgency. Franco— and he hated to admit this—well, he liked Mel too much.
They ate.
“So how did you find me?” said Franco.
“Quad-Gal External Revenue work closely with all other Government Agencies. I’m used to tracking people down. I’m efficient. I’m good at my job.”
Franco placed down his fork. “Can I ask you something?”
“Be my guest.”
“This isn’t a wind-up, is it?”
Mel stared at him from behind long dark eyelashes. “Why would you say that?”
“Well, I’m only a little fella, but I’ve got a big heart. I don’t like being messed about. And I’m not exactly...” he wrestled... “what some would consider a good catch. I’m not wealthy. I drink too much. I can be crude, or so my friends tell me.” He sighed. “What I’m trying to say is, well, look, well, the thing is, just look at you.”
Mel laughed. “You think I’m such a great catch myself? Franco, I’m a tax inspector. We’re like the toilet bacteria of the Quad-Galaxy. I’ve known war criminals get a better reception at a party-than I do. The minute people hear where I’m from they usually run a marathon... but not you. You... you showed me kindness. You invited me back here, and despite it being a sixty-nine floor climb, I appreciated that.” She shuffled a little closer on the couch. “And... I do like a man in uniform.”
“Ahh.” Franco himself shuffled a little closer.
Mel reached out. Put a hand on his knee.
“Ooh.” Franco put his hand on her knee.
Again, they shuffled a little bit closer... until they were inches apart.
In a husky whisper, Franco said, “I really, really want to kiss you.”
“Why don’t you, then?” breathed Mel.
Franco leaned close, and their lips brushed. Franco’s heart soared. It popped and crackled in his chest like an open exhaust on a 5000cc Harley.
They kissed in candlelight for long, long minutes. A gentle caressing of tongues and lips. A merging of inquisitiveness and building lust. A soft and sensual connection.
Mel’s hand stroked Franco’s leg, working its gradual way to his groin. Franco groaned. His own hand traced a delicate trail down Mel’s arm, then came to rest on her flank. It was marble smooth. The dress was soft as fur under his fingers. He groaned again. Their kissing increased a notch. Mel’s hand came to rest on his ramrod erection. Franco’s hand found her leg... then worked down to the hem of her dress and his fingers walked their way up her calf, then onto the marble-smooth skin of her thigh. “Touch me,” she breathed, a husky hot breath and they were kissing and breathing and moaning and Franco’s hand slid up the inside of her thigh as she massaged him through his ragged combat shorts. She unbuttoned the torn shorts, tugged them free and Franco stood proud and huge and true. Her hand curled around him. They lay down together on the sofa, a mutual floating of magic, their meal and expensive wine forgotten. Melanie gave a little sigh as Franco’s hand moved and he found the soft slick hot place. “Do it.” He massaged her. Gentle. Firm. She squirmed in his hand, hot and wet and thrusting.
“Oh Melanie,” breathed Franco.
“Oh Franco,” said Melanie.
“Oh Melanie!”
“Oh Franco oww Franco oh, ow, ow bloody hell Franco, it’s burning, it’s burning!” She sat bolt upright, horror acid-etched on her face as she peered frantically down at her throbbing raw genitalia. She leapt up and ran for the bathroom.
Franco groaned in horror. “What? What happened?” Idly, he reached down and toyed with himself, keeping his proud Roger erect in the hope that whatever was burning his true-love’s chuff would bugger off and allow him the pleasure of consummating their relationship with red hot fiery sex.
Suddenly, a shiver washed over him. Something was wrong. Something was very wrong. Something was warm. No, not warm, but hot. No, boiling! Burning! His cock and balls started burning furnace-hot. Throbbed, as if pounded in a door. Pain smacked him with waves of raw screaming heat and he kicked himself free of his shorts and ran feet-slapping to the bathroom where he stood side by side with Mel and together they splashed cold water on their bits, ululating soothing ums and ahs, and then, in a flash of inspiration, splashing water on one another’s genitalia with cries of easing cooling soothing relief... until, after long and torturous minutes the hot and fiery sensations finally, ultimately, abated.
“What happened?” panted Mel. Sweat glistened on her brow.
“Well,” scowled Franco, calming his breathing, a now very limp Roger in his hand, “I’d like to have said we were both on fire with lust, but it was something much simpler. I used fresh chillis in the cooking. I chopped them—by hand. Obviously, chilli juice doesn’t wash off that easy. I am so, so sorry.”
“So... you gave me a vaginal injection of red hot chilli peppers?”
“Ha! Only the best for you, my sweet.”
Mel laughed long and hard. “I can see life with you is going to be far from dull!”
“Life with me?”
Their eyes met.
“Come to bed,” she said, taking his chilli infected hands.
And for the remainder of the night, they really did experience a union of hot and fiery lust.
~ * ~
It was later. Much later. Four days later.
Franco lay on his back, in the dark, staring at the ceiling. Beside him lay Mel, curled up against him, snoring gently. She was naked, and he touched her flank. Her skin was cool. Gently, Franco reached over and grabbed the thermal liquid-marble blanket, pulling it over Mel’s exposed flesh. It hissed like a river over pebbles. Mel sighed in her sleep, and turned a little.
Wow, thought Franco.
Just... wow.
Said it would never happen. Love’s for schmucks. Never happen to me. Take ten or fifteen girls to pin down this ol’ wanderer. No single woman could possibly have all the attributes this old dog’s looking for in a gal. Never happen. Never ever ever happen. Shit. Well, it had. And now it had, Franco was over the moon. He’d become a walking cliche. Now, he brushed his teeth every morning because he didn’t want to be stinky for his new true-love. He even had a regular bath. And that was not Franco. In the scheme of reality in the universe, as all his friends knew, Franco did not do baths.
But it got worse.
Now, the air smelled sweet, fresh, alive, despite the toxic ash. Birds twittered in the trees and their annoying squawking was birdsong. Franco felt lighter. There was a spring to his step. He felt younger. Fitter. Stronger. Leaner. More handsome. When he walked with Mel, he walked hand in hand. Their faces shone with radiating love.
But it got worse.
Franco started to go shopping. He’d push the trolley, whilst Mel filled it with titbits for them to “snackle” on whilst watching late-night movies, curled on the floor of Franco’s apartment in a liquid-marble blanket, scented candles lighting the air with romantic harmony. In the past, a supermarket was a dark and foreboding gateway to Hell as far as Franco was concerned. The only time he ever dared venture into a supermarket was to purchase a trolley of beer, much to the tutting soundtrack of mothers ‘n babies and the disapproving scowls of smiley-uniform clad staff. Franco shuddered. No. Supermarkets had been a place of mystery. And misery. Until he met Mel.
But it got worse.
Now, Franco was prone to cleaning his apartment. He owned... wait for it... cleaning products. He had a nice set of marigolds. He did his washing up after they’d eaten, not on a six-monthly rotational basis whe
n the mould threatened to take over the asylum. He cleaned the toilet. Not just that, but every bloody day... or even, even, even after he’d used it in response to a bad case of Vindaloo-arse! Franco had once thought a toilet brush was something for de-greasing his motorbike chain. But no. Mel taught him the error of his ways with a smile and a wink and slap to his rump. Now, Franco washed his clothes. In a washing machine. Dried his clothes. In a drying machine. He even ironed his fucking shirts. Franco never even used to own a fucking shirt, never mind iron a fucking shirt. But there he was, whistling along to the radio, applying steam here, squirting a jet there. Ironing, man, fucking ironing.
But it got worse.
This was the conversation as they sat out in the BubbleCrane which arched from Franco’s apartment balcony on its skinny alloy arm, like the distended, synthetic limb of some giant old crone.
“Franco, my squeezy love?”
“Yes, sweetie pie?”
“I’ve been meaning to mention something.”
“Yes, my angel flowerpot?”
“It’s a bit personal, honey wunny.”
Franco strained, peering down at the thick ribbons of flesh which filled the streets far below, winding like an albino snake between towering sky-blocks. Millions of people. Thronging. Weaving. Jostling. The noise was a dull roar, muffled by the BubbleCrane’s aural.field. “That’s OK, chipmunk.”
“It’s about your tooth.”
“My tooth?”
“Your missing tooth.”
“Oh, my tuff. Yeah. Got it knocked out in a bar brawl hmm hmm not that I do that sort of thing anymore oh no I is a good boy now a reformed character a man of improved moral fibre. Oh yes.” He smiled. It was a noticeably gappy smile.
“Well,” embarrassed pause, “I thought you might like to get it done.”
“Get it done?” The smile froze and cracked Franco’s ice-lake face. Below, a tiny percentage of The City’s vast titanic population seemed to be laughing, and not just laughing, but laughing at him. The sound of a trillion organic life-forms from a thousand different planets chuckled in parallel with his horror.
“Yes. You know. A cap. A false tooth. A denture.”
“Why, in the name of Hades, would I want to do that?”
“To please little old me?”
“Oh. That. Yes. Aha. Haha.”
“I’ve arranged for you to visit the dentist.”
“The dentist?”
“Yes. The dentist.”
“Why would I want to visit a dentist?”
“To get your tooth done.”
“Ahhh. Right. I see. OK. No problem. Grasped that idea. Got it.”
And so, like a good and wagging dog Franco went along to the dentist. He sat in the sterile room sniffing the sterile dentist stink and when the needle slid into his gum, Franco’s 9mm H&K nudged under the dentist’s chin. The man’s eyes bulged, tongue sticking out alarmingly from between perfect white teeth.
“Fuck this up,” growled Franco, “and I’ll shoot out all of your teeth. Yeah?”
Franco didn’t like dentists. Never had. Never would.
“Yes. Yes. Yes yes!”
“Good boy. Get on with it.”
He’d walked home a new man. Smiled a full-tooth smile. Mel had hung on his arm and giggled as they planted flowers in a window box on the balcony (she’d made him shift the old 3250cc Ducati engine he’d been restoring, which had sat there on the balcony for a good two years, untouched, sump full of old stinking oil, a project that’d never be) and as the sun shone across the vast, jagged-tooth skyline of The City, life seemed suddenly oh so idyllic. So perfect. So goddamn nice.
But.
It didn’t last.
These things never do.
~ * ~
“It’s The Quantum Carnival in four days.”
“Yeah. TQC is magic!”
“It was in the paper. Loads of people are getting married!”
“What a romantic time to get married! Perfect!”
“Yeah, that’s what, y’know, I was thinking.”
“Is this a proposal, Franco Haggis?”
“I, um, suppose it is.”
“Oh Franco! I’d love to! It’ll be perfect! It’ll be wonderful! It’ll be a chance of a lifetime! My answer is yes!”
“I love you.”
“I love you too.”
~ * ~
And so the day and the time were set—for the final, explosive finale of The Quantum Carnival. Mel invited her family with pink flowery invitations. Franco sent out two messages. One to Keenan asking him to be his best man, and one to Pippa, asking her not to kill anybody. Franco bought a ring and a wedding-bind suit. Mel bought a dress. It was big and white, and looked like a meringue.
~ * ~
“Do you think I’ve got a big nose?”
“What?”
“My nose,” smiled Mel. “I’ve always thought it was too big.”
They lay in bed amongst sex-scrambled sheets. The sweat was still cooling on Franco’s back. Like a true bloke, he wore nothing but his socks. “No no no,” he said, hoisting himself onto one elbow. “Your nose is perfect. Your nose is beautiful.” He tweaked it, as if his tweaking would give her beauty more emphasis.
“I’ve never been happy with it,” she sighed.
“Well I think it’s lovely. Like a pixie’s. Scrumptious.”
They lay, listening to the sounds of roaring city life. In The City—even at night, which only came once every three days—it was never quiet. 112 trillion people made sure of that.
“I’ve been thinking of getting it done.”
“Done?”
“Via biomod. For the wedding. Apparently I’ve got just enough time to sort it out before everything shuts down for the parties! And I’m sure you want me looking my best.”
“Whoa! I know you’re on good money working for the Quad-Gal External Revenue—we all know you tax inspectors are loaded, minted, greased—but NanoTek are fucking extortionate love.”
“Franco!”
“Sorry.” Sheepish. Mel didn’t approve of swearing.
“I know it’s a lot of cash. But... well, it’s something I always wanted, it’s all the rage now, and it just seems the right time. After all, you only get married once. Ha ha ha.”
“Yeah. Once. Ha. Ha.”
“I never fancied going under the scalpel of a surgeon before, but now this biomod technology has come of age, it’s as safe as safe can be!”
“That’s a line from the TV ad.”
“So? Everybody’s raving about it. Biomods are cool, now, hun. Hip. Happening. Even Sylvester Slyvester, the famous heart-throb actor, has had his penis done.”
“His penis?” Franco raised an eyebrow. He was 10% interested.
“A biomod size reduction. Said he owed it to the ladies. Said they shouldn’t have to suffer so much pain during pleasure.” Melanie swooned, eyes fluttering.
Franco shivered. “No bollocks. Well, I’d rather go under the knife than take a biomod. Personally speaking.”
“Would you? Really?” Mel was staring at him. Watching him in that way that freaked him out just a little. Monitoring him. Reading him like a book. Shit. Trust him to get an intelligent girlfriend. Why couldn’t she be dumb as a doughnut?
“Listen love, I don’t believe those NanoTek boys know what they’re doing. Letting millions of bloody little robotic buggers run around inside your veinstreams. Urgh.” He shivered. “It’s unnatural. Alien. Freakish.”
“They’re called nanobots. They’re harmless!”
“Harmless? Hah! How can something that rearranges your molecular structure from the inside out be classified harmless?”
“You are such a backward heathen, Franco Haggis! Nanobots help people,” said Mel. “All the hospitals use them now. Our Jenny’s cousin’s boyfriend’s mum’s stepfather had a new heart built for him—inside his body—by the nanobots... by an injection of biomods! It was a pioneering operation! Everything was perfect! Newer than new, th
e adverts say. Grown or grafted from your own DNA. And now, NanoTek are filtering it down to smaller stuff!”
“Yeah, I heard.”
NanoTek’s rise to power had been incredible. An awesome stampede across the world known as The City... a thundering onslaught on the Empire of Finance... a left uppercut against the chin of every Global Corporation which had existed before it.