The Italian girl, Luciana, was beautiful beyond belief. She stood there in front of him completely naked. Her breasts were simply magnificent. For a moment Jarrod could hardly breathe. They were in a small room behind the display window – just large enough for a bed and not much else. Jarrod was sitting on the edge of the bed, also naked. He stroked her thighs and then her breasts. She smiled back at him, brightly, but with an underlying sadness she couldn’t quite conceal. She moved past him and onto the bed. She lay on her back, spreading her legs slightly, motioning for him to move up onto her. But Jarrod wasn’t impatient – he wanted to linger over her beauty and enjoy her fully. He tried to get her to roll over. She started to but then stopped with an embarrassed giggle and rolled back onto her back. Jarrod was surprised by this but then he remembered hearing that Italian girls – even professionals – were often remarkably modest when it came to the visibility and implied availability of their bottoms, specifically their anus. This was due no doubt to being trained since childhood to try to avoid encouraging the unwanted advances of predatory priests.
He looked at her lying there. He wanted her, desperately. He ached for her. But there was a basic moral principle here – ‘don’t be an asshole’. He said out loud
“Sorry, I can’t do this.” She laughed out loud and said
“Yes you can, look! It’s enormous!” - taking hold of his erect penis in order to make her point more effectively. He mumbled something, pulled away, got dressed quickly, gave her another hundred euros as a tip, apologised quickly and then left. When he got back to the show the doors had just opened and the patrons were starting to move in. He rejoined his friends. Andy Sullen and Bruce McKenna were still arguing and hadn’t even noticed that he’d been gone. Robert looked at him curiously.
“That was quick, how was she?” Jarrod looked back at him blankly
“Fuck off.” Robert shrugged
“Whatever.”
***************
Luciana could hardly believe what had just happened. Moralistic, hypocritical prick! What an asshole. So fucking English! She didn’t care in the slightest about him specifically. The incident itself was just so fucking aggravating. She got dressed and went home for the night. She had had enough. Her pimp could go fuck himself as well. As she walked back to her cheap rented room she found herself getting both angrier and sadder at the same time - more and more – almost unbearably. She came up to Amsterdam most weekends over the summer – sometimes for a week at a time – to try to make some extra money. She worked for a security firm in Naples. They paid her a pittance, it was never enough. Her debts kept increasing. She had always wanted to study music but that dream was rapidly fading. She loved the Opera. She knew many of them by heart. She always imagined herself in a starring role singing heart aching songs of true love lost. And here? An unending sequence of unknown mostly older men sticking their dicks into her for a handful of euros each time – of which she was allowed to keep only a fraction. She hated it. She hated them. Now this asshole who thinks he’s too good for her. Well who fucking cares what he fucking thinks. What a fucking asshole!
When she got back to her room she started drinking. She turned on the TV but wasn’t really watching it. She drank some more – cheap vodka, straight. Her misery just kept increasing beyond all bounds. This wasn’t the first time but it was by far the worst. She had no future and her present situation was insurmountable. To the world she was worthless - just another whore – and it was increasingly impossible for her to dispute that conclusion. She started crying, holding her face in her hands and shaking. What was the fucking point of anything? She had no one. No one cared whether she lived or died. She decided to kill herself, then and there. She’d thought of it before but now what other course of action was even possible. It was something. A decision. A statement. She had some rope. She made a noose and put it around her neck. She got up on a chair and tied the other end to a beam on the roof, then she kicked the chair away. She dropped. The rope cut into her neck and throat instantly cutting off the air. She gasped for breathe but there was none. She started to kick and struggle but there was nothing she could do. It was too late. A minute later she was dead. Several minutes after that, she met the demon Asmodeous, face to face - on the plains of Desolation, just outside the city of Dis at the centre of Hell. Being exactly his type she was immediately taken down to the thirty seventh chamber and secured in place.
***************
Back on the Voorburgwal, Jarrod and the other three had filed into the sex show and taken their seats. The small hall was quite crowded, with more than a hundred spectators. They were a diverse lot, from all over the world, all ages and at least a quarter of them female. There was a large group of Japanese tourists, mostly couples. They giggled all the way through the show. Jarrod found them hilarious. He found the performances mildly shocking - more nudity than he’d seen before and there were even couples fucking live on stage. But overall he found it tedious, repetitious and boring – not at all erotic. The only amusing performance was the conga line at the end. Male members from the audience were invited to join the line – alternating with beautiful nude girls. There was no shortage of eager volunteers. But the final girl to join the line, waiting until then behind a curtain, was not a girl at all but a large gorilla, a man in a gorilla suit, with an impressively erect phallus. He nestled in behind the last male volunteer, pressing up against him trying to poke him with his phallus. The young man looked around genuinely shocked. This was not what he was expecting. The look on his face was priceless. He tried to run off and the gorilla gave chase, its amorous intentions abundantly transparent.
They came out of the show half an hour later still laughing a bit at the final act but mostly unimpressed. Robert shook his head
“What the fuck was all that?” Andy Sullen replied
“Ooh Ah Ooh Ah. What a joke! God is up there laughing his ass off.” Jarrod smirked
“Yes, his divine omnipotence must find us all highly amusing - smug voyeuristic prick that he obviously is.” Bruce McKenna clearly disapproved of these comments but said nothing.
They started to walk back along the Voorburgwal, eager to get back to the far more serious and satisfying task of smoking dope. Just ahead of them on the same side of the canal Cassandra and her friends were walking towards them. They moved closer to each other and for a few moments the Universe itself held it’s breathe. Adrienne and Marianne were talking to each other; Cassandra was looking about – feeling apprehensive. Andy Sullen and Bruce McKenna were arguing. Robert was scowling at them. Jarrod was quiet, looking ahead. But as they came closer and passed each other Jarrod and Cassandra both looked the other away – apparently by chance. Jarrod looked to the left and Cassandra to the right. Each of them had had the sudden sense that someone was staring at them and looked to check – but found no one there. Jarrod caught a glimpse of Cassandra from the side and behind as he turned back. She caught his attention but not enough. He felt slightly compelled to turn and approach her but quickly dismissed it as nonsense and continued walking on with the others. They both felt quite strange and were quiet and uncommunicative for some time afterwards.
***************
The gnome stood across the street – on the other side of the canal - watching all of this with rapidly exploding frustration and rage. He watched them walk off down the street – in different directions. He could hardly believe his eyes. This defied all projections. After all of his careful plans and manipulations this just couldn’t be happening. He started to curse and stamp his feet.
“God dam, fucking, dam, dam, fucking ...“ He still hadn’t noticed them but the four northerners were still watching him carefully and had moved closer. The older man, clearly the leader of the group, walked across the sidewalk and stood next to the gnome. With mock concern he exclaimed
“What’s the matter little man?” The gnome looked up at him, glaring. A knife appeared in his hand.
“I’ll show you what ... “ B
ut the older man casually slapped the gnome in the side of the head sending him rocketing across the street, over the canal, and slamming him into a brick wall on the far side. Somehow no-one else seemed to notice what had just happened. The gnome picked himself up, staring across belligerently at his assailant. But he recognised him now and knew he could do nothing. Looking down, cursing some more, he slunk off.
The older man watched him go with clearly evident distaste. His three companions – the two younger men and the woman - came up to him. He turned to them.
“I could never stand that slimy little turd. It sickens me that we’re helping him.” He was the one who had projected the distractions that prevented Jarrod and Cassandra from meeting. He was the Nordic God Odin – Lord of Asgard. One of the younger men spoke up
“I don’t understand my Lord Odin. We just stopped him.” Odin looked at his companion impatiently. He might be a God but he was a long way short of omniscient.
“We’re not ready yet. We want them to meet, but not now, not yet. It will take place in London, next summer – one year from now.” The younger man, Bragi, God of Poetry, nodded his head
“I understand my Lord.” Odin sighed
“I doubt it. Hmm! I suppose now we have to go back north. I hate that place. So fucking cold all the time!” The other younger man - Thor, son of Odin, God of Thunder - spoke quietly.
“Sire, we don’t have to leave right away. Let’s get half a dozen hookers, a ton of weed, some food, lock ourselves in a hotel room for a few days and get totally fucked up.” Odin looked back at him, proudly.
“An excellent suggestion my Son. Bragi, are you in?” The God Bragi was enthusiastic
“Certainly my Lord.” Odin exclaimed loudly
“Good. Let’s go them.” The three of them strode off together. The woman – Freya, Goddess of Love and Battle – had been completely ignored in the conversation and was now left just standing there. She was furious. Her face red with rage, she stamped her feet, barking out
“Fucking men! Fucking, fucking men!”
***************
Putting on a sufficiently sweet expression completely out of sync with the heaving rage in her heart Freya set out to find someone to pick up. It didn’t take long. She found an American, a tall handsome man from Texas. She stood before him and pushed her chest forward in a way that emphasised her magnificent breasts. She said to him
“Hey baby, want to fuck me.” They were back in his hotel room only minutes later. The Texan was eager and impatient and tried to wrap his arms around her and kiss her the moment they entered his rooms. Her face was again openly full of rage but the Texan was too obsessed to notice. She pushed him away slightly and then punched him in the stomach so hard that he dropped to his knees gasping for breathe. Ignoring him for a moment, she looked about for some kind of music player. She found a remote control and flicked through some channels before finally finding the right one. Harsh loud rock music flooded the room drowning out any other sound. She went back to the Texan, grabbed him by the back of the head and pulled him back onto his feet. Though still gasping for breathe he made some effort to resist but she was superhumanly strong and his feeble efforts made no difference. She half dragged, half carried him into the bedroom and then on into the adjoining bathroom where she stood in front of a large mirror, still holding him. For the next half hour she smashed his face into the mirror over and over, all the time screaming maniacally. Fragments of broken glass, covered in blood, scattered about. She screamed harder every time she bashed his head into the mirror
“Fucking men! God dam, fucking men!” She’d had enough of them. Whack! She was just sick to death of them. Whack! With some satisfaction she heard the sound of the front of his skull cracking. She stopped suddenly, not at all finished with him, but he was already dead. She screamed at him
“Useless fucking asshole!” She flung the body to the floor and looked around – more glass and blood everywhere. She turned and walked out. A wave of her hand and all of the blood on her clothing vanished. All trace of the carnage instantly removed. She was still unhappy. She went out looking for another victim. She found and killed four more in the same way before calming down sufficiently.
When she was walking with her fifth victim, back to his room, she had passed the four philosophers, Jarrod and the others, making their way back to their own hotel room. They were stoned out of their brains and barely capable of standing much less walking. One of them though saw her and her intended victim walking past. It was Robert McDowell. He could see her anger and her very obvious very hostile intent. He looked at the man beside her and started giggling.
“Oh man you are in so much trouble. Run away dude, run away.” But they walked on by and her victim hadn’t even noticed him - lost as he was in fervid anticipation of lust fulfilled. He was dead now. Good riddance. She didn’t know where those other bastards were but this wasn’t over - when she met them next she would certainly give them a piece of her mind. Fucking bastards! She turned north, took a few steps and then vanished.
***************
A few hours earlier, after just missing Cassandra, Jarrod and the others had made their way back to Bulldogs. It was crowded now but they came in just as another group left and so managed to get a table. Robert quickly took out another large joint of the legendary Purple Haze, lit it, took a long drag on it and then passed it around. Jarrod sucked on it greedily, craving the anticipated effects of lethargic vacuity. He was feeling greatly disappointed in how the night was turning out – without fully understanding why. Andy Sullen and Bruce McKenna were still arguing. They were almost too engaged to partake of the joint as it was passed around – but not quite. Andy was staring at Bruce with obvious contempt. Jarrod actually started listening to them. He felt like he needed a distraction. He felt somehow as if he had just lost and lost badly but he didn’t know what. The sense of anticipation he’d felt earlier had gone completely flat. Andy was saying
“When you’re dead you’re dead, that’s it. Your brain decomposes. All of the information is destroyed. You cease to exist. Sorry. That’s the way it is. Universe goes on without you. You think you’re so fucking special, so vastly important that you get to live forever. The universe got along perfectly fine without you for billions of years before you were conceived.” Bruce seemed to be a bit smug in his reply. This was familiar territory to him he’d heard and rehearsed every position, every argument. He was fatuously patient
“Not live as such. But continue to exist in some form.” Andy Sullen practically exploded
“How?” Bruce replied quickly
“I don’t know how, but you think our current materialistic science is the final answer on how it all works.” Andy sighed, that old line. There really was no use talking to these people. He replied wearily.
“Of course not, but it works well enough.” Bruce continued urgently
“No it doesn’t. It is fundamentally limited. How do you even begin to explain consciousness?” Andy didn’t reply. He spent his days writing memos and papers for the AI project trying to explain it away or arguing that it just didn’t matter. He sighed
“What’s wrong with saying ‘don’t know’?” Bruce was triumphant
“Precisely, don’t know.” Andy groaned, this one was as slippery as an eel. He tried to say
“Yes, but ... “. He stopped, exasperated. Jarrod and Robert watched on with growing amusement. The weed was starting to kick in again. Soon they would start laughing at them. Hopefully they would join in. Bruce wouldn’t let it go though
“If our existence was finite, and we ceased to exist at death, it would be an obscenity, a mockery of everything and everyone. No morality, no value, no purpose, no meaning, nothing.” Now Andy was amused
“Ah the penny drops. You are not arguing from the facts you are imposing a religious constraint, top down so to speak. Admit it.” Bruce looked back at him sanctimoniously.
“I make no attempt to hide my faith. I am a member o
f the Anglican Church in Sydney. I have been all my life.” Andy sneered, another closet Anglican, and he definitely had made some effort until now to avoid mentioning it. He was sceptical
“So doesn’t this somewhat predetermine your views on all of this.” But Bruce replied
“No. Not at all.” Andy was feeling increasingly aggressive. The weed wasn’t working properly for him any more. He raged
“So that’s how it is for you lot. Faith. Dogma. Believe in me. Follow me if you want to live forever. You know they’ve been peddling that crock of shit for six thousand years in one form or another. It works – for them. Power, authority. Status. And when their followers die they never get to complain that they were lied to - because they’re fucking dead.” Bruce was forming his reply and started to speak when Robert McDowell broke in
“Ladies, Ladies, we’re on a break. Stick to the basics for fuck’s sake.” Jarrod cried out
“Dope.” Robert added
“Tits and ass.” Jarrod looked back at him and smiled sweetly
“How is Wendy?” Robert replied gracefully
“Very well thank you. She’s still mad at you by the way. She thinks you were rude to her back at the Golden Cat.” Jarrod was surprised, he asserted
The Department of Hate - A Love Story Page 15