by Brian Parker
His nose erupted with new pain and florets of blood and mucus exploded as he was brought down just outside the ring in a clatter of broken furniture and debris. As he was brought back to the ring screaming like a madman, assorted hands gathered up the various items his fall had scattered ringside: towels, spare gloves, dressing gowns of the competitors, oranges, and their water bottles.
While Hal was restrained he heard the announcement apologising for the delay, but could not make out the meaning of the words. The entire scene seemed to be relayed to his mind from under water. Shaking and convulsing some of the fog seemed to clear as new waves of fire coursed along his veins and once again he was thrust forward into the ring to face Porter, who flung his water bottle to the assisting guard and moved to engage with the staggering Hal.
Porter shook his head as the world slowed down and rings of light encompassed everything, he stood and blinked as a brief inconsequential punch grazed his face, but it was unimportant. Before him stood the phantom shape of Officer Mortenson, hands outstretched and pleading.
“You’re not dead, you’re in the hospital.” Porter hissed.
“Hospital?” Hal swayed on the spot trying to make sense of the swarm of colours and this new information.
“Hal didn’t kill you, he can’t have,” Porter replied, puzzled.
As his heart muscles brought him his last moment of clarity and fresh agony, Hal took decisive action and played his last gamble. He moved in quickly to Porter and dodged around a half-hearted grapple.
“Indeed, I am dead, my friend. Killed not by Hal, the poor fool, but by Broker to make you do this. You are being played. Even as I disappear here, you’re letting justice escape you. Avenge me, my friend. Take the life of the man who killed me, do it now,” Hal hissed into the ear of Porter as he held on to the shoulders of the stricken guard.
As Hal fell for the last time to the canvas he heard a bellow from Porter and rolled to see the enraged prison guard charge out of the ring making a beeline for Broker. As the darkness closed Hal heard a barrage of shots ring out. As the cold embrace of that sweet dream he had so long feared claimed him a narrow smile entered his final rictus.
Guard on Drug-Fuelled Rampage at State Pen Kills Prisoner.
Prison Warden Kills Himself with Service Revolver as His Career is Considered Over and Criminal Charges Pend.
“This inquest is now in session, prisoner. Please keep your comments restricted to fact and not wild speculation. Now, what happened in Louisiana State Prison that culminated in the deaths of Officer Stanley Porter, Hal Chetfield, Chad Broker and the suicides of Warden Walter Forest and Officer Andrew Bertram?” the tribunal panellist asked the hapless prisoner brought before him on the third day of the inquest. “Mr. Marc Batailler, you are reminded that you are under oath and as such must tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth.”
“Well… T’was a dark and stormy night…”
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The Set-Up
By. C.T. Phipps
The john woke up in a daze.
He’d been incredibly drunk when the entire ordeal had begun and then crushed a set of three joy tablets. A stamp covered in a performance-enhancing drug hadn’t helped matters. Something about Easytown brought about the absolute worst in the male species. Women tended to order their prostitutes delivered to their homes or apartment buildings rather than go traipsing through the New Orleans’ Red Light District.
To be honest, watching him look at the two sex bots he’d ordered for his night of fun, and the big, shit-eating grin which followed, was amusing. It never ceased to amaze me how dipsticks like him, a high powered lawyer working for the Mayor’s office in this case, thought their manliness was proven by ordering off the menu. It was akin to heading down to MickeyDees and thinking yourself a great hunter while chowing into a Big Mac.
The john took longer than I expected to notice me, which felt like an insult, despite his being in bed with two women designed by nerds to be as appealing to the lowest common denominator as possible. It was irrational of me to be annoyed, especially since I knew my own body had been heavily modified during my younger, more stupid days to resemble “Mila Jovavich circa 2017—meets Brianna Koltos circa 2032.” I still looked like I was in my early thirties, which turned out to be a disadvantage when you were in charge of the whores rather than one of them. Today, I was wearing a crimson business suit dress and high heels that made me look like a professional of another kind.
There’d been a time when I’d been on the other side of this room, being one of the girls which the master or mistress of the bordello used to get juicy material against the rich and powerful of the city. That had been almost a decade, and the city had changed. Not for the better in my opinion either. When I’d been a working girl, the hookers had still mostly been born rather than assembled or grown in a lab. That’d been before the backlash and before Easytown had become the collective dumping ground for the worst of the city-—hell the worst of the country—while everyone else pretended they weren’t indulging in all of its vices behind closed doors. That’s what made men like the john, the Honorable Justin Blackwell Senior, vulnerable to what I was here now to discuss.
“What the hell do you want, Belle Jeanette?” Justin asked, sitting up. He used my stage name, so to speak, which pissed me off. I’d been Jean Poole for almost ten years now and hated being reminded about those days—which happened about three times a day no matter how many times I corrected people. I didn’t mind it when it came from my friends; Justin Blackwell was anything but.
“We need to talk,” I said, patting my crimson hair buns absently. They were a slightly more realistic take on Princess Leia’s style. I’d used to dream of being a princess, back before I’d ended up becoming the farthest thing from it.
“I’ve got nothing to say to you.” Justin clenched his fists. “Wait, is this a shakedown?”
“It’s a matter of business,” I said, directing the two ‘girls’ from where they were lying in the bed to get dressed. “Specifically your proposed Morality Tax that I understand you have the support of the city council in passing.”
Justin sneered, defiant for a man caught naked with two sex bots and a bit of red dust underneath his left nostril. “The Morality Tax is designed to benefit the city as well as dissuade—”
“Regular people rather than the super-rich from frequenting the establishments here in Easytown,” I replied, having heard his speech before. “Like taxing cigarettes or alcohol to keep the dirty, poor people from enjoying the fine establishments here.”
Justin glared. “Easytown is a cesspool. The Morality Tax will drain the swamp of some of its filth. I’d heard you provided discretion for discriminating clients. Clearly I was wrong.”
Wow, it took balls to be this much of a hypocrite. Perhaps I’d underestimated the man. “I also know it’s designed to run the smaller businesses out of town past the city limits. A few months to a year and a lot of the strip clubs, sex clubs, and narcotics bars will shut down. Then your corporate friends can swoop in, buy up the place, and turn Easytown into a place purely for the tourists. A Thailand for the whole family.”
Justin’s lip curled. “You can’t stand in the way of progress.”
“Oh, on the contrary, I can,” I replied, rolling my eyes. “Your plan won’t work. Thomas Ladeaux is a silent partner in most of the small businesses here.”
Justin paled. “Tommy Voodoo?”
“He is corporate, as well as a criminal,” I said, sighing. “He’s already informally taxing us all and, unlike the rest of the city government, legitimate or otherwise, he keeps his promises. Even if your plan were to succeed, he’d buy us out first and your friends would be left high and dry.”
Truth be told, I was rather surprised Ladeaux hadn’t done that already, but I had the sneaking suspicion that he preferred to keep all of New Orleans’ scum under one nice little umbrella where it could be controlled. Here, he could make sure the gangs
played nice and anyone that got themselves mugged or murdered had made the decision to let the buyer beware by coming into the city’s red light district. He also got a piece of every bit of the action, from card games to drug deals, which the corporates wouldn’t have access to.
“What do you want?” Justin asked, looking troubled.
“Just to drop it,” I waved my hand. “Not reverse your position. That would be too obvious. No, just make it untenable. Hold out for bigger bribes, equivocate, offend people, delay, and so on until the end of your term. Eventually, they’ll get the message.”
“And why the hell would I do that?” Justin scoffed. “Do you think you’ll survive a day once it gets out that you’re trying to blackmail me? I assume that’s what this is about; you posting pictures of me with sex bots?”
“Yes and yes,” I answered. “You pay for discretion when you come to Easytown, but most people are smart enough not to shit where they eat. I do favors for my friends, Mr. Blackwell, and you trying to drive me out of business is not the action of a friend. Indeed, one would think you would’ve been smart enough not to go to a woman who owns three middle and working class bars, as well as two strip clubs in addition to the nicer establishment you currently reside in.”
The Red Queen was my crowning achievement from years of saving, lying, cheating, stealing plus managing the routine life and death situations which were a part of life in Easytown. It was one of the nicest brothels in the city, if not the nicest, and a firm rebuttal to the old maxim that crime didn’t pay. My only regret was that people like Justin Blackwell and his cronies invariably frequented it. The thought of the entirety of Easytown becoming purely a place which catered to their whims offended me perhaps more than it should. At some point, I’d apparently developed a perverse pride in being a working girl.
Blame Julia Roberts.
“Go ahead,” Justin said, projecting more bravado than he hopefully felt. “Pictures can be faked. I may even go up in some people’s estimation—the politician being attacked by the dirty sluts of Easytown.”
I wanted to claw his eyes out, but kept my cool. “Except, of course, the information can be taken directly out of my robots’ CPUs. It’s time stamped and uploaded to the cloud where it will remain, nice and safe until needed. The miracles of modern technology, Councilman.”
Blackwell’s bravado vanished in an instant. I had him.
“Ah take it Mr. Blackwell didn’t enjoy his stay?” Pretty Polly asked, her Creole accent heavy, as the blue haired cybergoth fiddled with the back of Angela-3.
Polly’s workshop was located in the former garage of the Red Queen and it was where she did all the maintenance on the sex bots. I’d found her as a fifteen-year-old runaway and put her through vocational education to keep her from having to make the same choices I’d made. It paid off in spades as she was probably the best independent techjockey in Easytown. I saved six figures in repairs each year, thanks to her.
Still, seeing all the undressed, nonfunctional sex bots and their parts spread around the room, I couldn’t help but get the willies. As useful as the machines were in providing for my clients’ every need and were considered cruelty free compared to the work I’d had to sometimes engage in, they gave me the creeps. My grandmother had collected dolls growing up and there was something about their empty, glassy eyes which had been like icy cold fingers against my skin. The worst part, really, was the sex bots lost that emptiness when they were activated, but they were only simulating life. I couldn’t understand why men and women wanted to be with them instead of hiring a human to fulfill their needs and desires. Well, I did, I just didn’t want to acknowledge it. Every whore is a liar, my old manager had once said, and if they weren’t they’d be spouses.
“You could say that,” I said, keeping my gaze directly on Polly as I answered her question about Blackwell. “Tommy will be quite pleased with what we’ve done. I suspect we’ll even get a break on the Black Tax this year.”
Polly lowered her gaze then reached over for a soldering iron. “I don’t know why you’re happy being under him. It seems like you’d do well with a corporate-run Easytown. Maximum Entertainment offered you three million for the Red Queen alone. You could get six for all of them together and that’s just for the space.”
“I know a sucker’s bet when I see one,” I said, shaking my head. “There’s a war going on between the city fathers and Tommy Voodoo. And it’s just heating up. He built an empire out of gambling, girls, and guns, but it’ll be robots which will make or break him. I chose a side in this war; that’s why I invest every bit I can in his company. Six million may sound like a lot, Sugar, but that’ll be nothing the way the companies nickel and dime you for medicine to look after your family.”
“Family,” Polly replied, her voice low.
I grimaced. That was something of a sore point between me and my surrogate daughter. I couldn’t have children thanks to the modifications my pimp had done to me before my escape. Polly, however, had gotten involved with a good for nothing street hustler named Levar. I was perhaps too harsh on Levar but he’d been too naive and good for Easytown. Eventually, he’d gotten himself killed by the 3rd Corner Arabs.
But not before knocking Polly up.
“Marigold has a good future ahead of her,” I tried to console her.
“Does she?” Polly asked. “How can anyone have a good future in Easytown? Rich or poor.”
I didn’t know what to say to that. Marigold was almost two now, and things had changed with Polly. “Is there anything else I should know about?”
A bitter look passed across Polly’s face. “Mister X wants to see you tonight. He also passed on a warning.”
“A warning?” I asked, surprised.
Shaun X was, at least as far as a brothel madam could define things, the love of my life. He was also a hitman. Tommy Voodoo had introduced the two of us years ago and it was well known even then he was a contract killer who’d since graduated to general Fixer. You wouldn’t think the two of us would have much in common but he was a far deeper soul than I would have expected from a man in his position—plus, it also helped to have someone of his reputation at my side. Polly hated him and pretty much accused me to my face of having gotten too comfortable with the monsters. Yet another sign of our relationship falling apart. I’d have to do something to mend that rift, but I wasn’t going to give up the person who was making my life as bright as it had been lately.
Polly nodded. “He said Maximum Entertainment has sent down a Mr. White to negotiate. Is that bad?”
“Yes,” I said, feeling sick. “It means the corporates aren’t screwing around anymore. Mr. White is a euphemism for their Fixers. They kill, bribe, and turn people against one another in order to get what they want.”
“And that’s different from us how?” Polly asked, shutting the back of Angela-3.
I stared at her. Polly was starting to annoy me with her cracks. “Get over yourself. We do what we have to do to survive. Have you got that unit working again?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Polly said, giving a mock salute. “It’ll be back with Angela-1 and Angela-2 so the customers with favorites don’t have to wait for them to be disinfected—assuming they don’t rent them all for a triple special.”
“Good,” I answered, deciding to let it slide. “Remember, this is your livelihood.”
“How could I forget?”
I didn’t live in Easytown. Only a fool, the very poor, or those who didn’t mind constant danger lived there. Instead, I lived in a nice little two-story house in the suburbs. My neighbors didn’t know I was a madam and I wasn’t about to tell them. Mind you, I wasn’t exactly attending PTA meetings either but it was a place I could call my own that allowed me to let my hair down. Pulling up in my driveway, I left the groceries inside while planning to tell X that I wasn’t in the mood for a home cooked meal unless he was preparing it. That was the one good thing about Cajun men; they tended to be a lot better about preparing meals than most.
Unfortunately, no sooner was I through the door than I noticed there was a dead body lying on my living room carpet. It took a second to recognize the body was Justin Blackwell Senior, he’d been shot in the back of the head, and there was signs he’d been killed fairly recently. Acknowledging I might be in danger and that someone was very likely trying to frame me, I immediately turned around, only to smack my face into the chest of my boyfriend—who was my immediate suspect for the murder that I was now a party to.
Shaun X was a tall, immaculately dressed man of mixed racial heritage. He kept his head shaved and wore nothing but the finest in suits. There were stories that he was a clone, but I refused to believe them because he was far too intelligent and good-looking to be a cheap knock off of a real person. I wasn’t a fan of robots or reproductions, even if a lot of the city was rethinking their prejudices against the latter, given the whole torture tourism scandal that got the mayor fired last month.
Stupidly, I tried to scream.
Shaun put his hand over my mouth, which resulted in me shoving my knee toward his groin but he blocked it with his other hand before spinning me around in one easy gesture and covering my mouth again.
“I did not kill him,” Shaun said. “He was dead when I got here. You could scream but that would involve drawing attention to the fact there’s a dead city counselor in your home. You aren’t guilty, but do you actually trust the NOPD to not prosecute you? Especially with your association with Tommy Voodoo, me, and the real estate the city so desperately wants—one of those investors is the D.A.”