The Black Dog Eats the City

by Kelso, Chris

  —Okay, you know what? I’m just gonna… I’m just gonna go. Thanks buddy…

  Lester pulled open the door. On the busy highway, people peeped their horns and screamed profanities at one another. Lester ducked to the open passenger window of Fairfax’s Nova and thanked him again for the ride. The driver appeared completely possessed, but he allowed Lester to leave.

  ~

  The streets were blocked up with traffic. Most of the store-front windows were smashed in and looted of their contents. Children shrieked from terrors they had only dreamt of in their most fevered nightmares.

  Once Lester made it past the outskirts, Ersatz exploded in front of him. The smog was so thick you couldn’t see 2 inches in front of your face. Overhead cars beeped and ground along the labyrinthine roads that led to nowhere in particular— everyone seemed to be in motion, even if they didn’t have a destination ear-marked. A massive crooked building stretched out on the left hand side that seemed to go on for blocks at a time.

  Lester somehow had to hitch another ride. A bus stopped 10 yards up the road, but the line of desperate looking people queuing up to get on board was a mile long. The city overwhelmed him. No one was willing to help. The smog seemed to be closing in, getting thicker and more difficult to inhale. Lester grew increasingly distressed. He hyperventilated. His toes curled inwards then flexed, his heart thumped in the microwave of his ribcage. A hobo sitting on the pavement outside a Laundromat drank wine from a grocery bag. Lester scrambled towards the old derelict and begged him for help.

  Fairfax’s tiny compartment consisted of a solitary aperture, a bunk bed with two mattresses and the microprocessor that he used to upload himself. Often he found himself staring into the reflection of the porthole glass. It was almost impossible to ignore the sinister cavity of space outside. He tried to focus, rubbing two hands across his shaven skull— it was imperative that all hair be removed to avoid a head lice pandemic or any other nasty spreads throughout “Hollow Earth.” Maintenance were always quick to stress the importance of astronautic hygiene in the remit pamphlet slipped under everyone’s doors monthly. Fairfax was glad to have secured his place on the orb but hated having had to sheer off his hair. It gave him a sexless quality.

  —Please! Please buddy, you need to understand I’m mankind’s only hope! If I don’t get to Shell County to find The Cure we’ll all be consumed by this evil fucking demon hound!

  The hobo took another swig from his wine bottle and removed Lester’s grip around his collar.

  —Ain’t no cure.

  —Sure there is. It’s in Shell. The doctors and scientists there have concocted an antidote.

  The hobo shook his head in protest.

  —Naw, naw, there ain’t no cure. Once you been in contact with another human being then you infected, or good as.

  Lester couldn’t comprehend what the hobo was telling him.

  —Everyone knows about The Cure…

  —Sure, everyone knows The Cure don’t exist, never did. Just a cock ’n’ bull story started by the State to avoid widespread panic— he rubbed his unshorn chin and started cackling at Lester.

  Ersatz throbbed black puss from an abscess in the hook of its arm— maxed out on a sawbucks worth of gear.

  From its battered husk, a departure vessel took off from its podium, jewel flamed propulsion jets atwinkle. There would be survivors of the dead city.

  Memories of the fallen junkie still hung in everyone’s memories like the stank of rotten milk. Two men carried an armful of jars that contained human teeth and loaded them into the rear of a van— it was Kricfalusi and Baby Guts. Desperation flung Lester’s body in their direction.

  —Excuse me! Excuse me buddy!— He hailed, slamming his knee into the left side of a held up cop car.

  The officer inside was too insane at the tail backed traffic to give Lester any attention. Kricfalusi and Baby Guts placed the jars in the back of the van then closed the door.

  —What do you want you crazy motherfucker?— Kricfalusi sneered.

  —Yeah we’re fuggin busy over here!

  Lester gathered his emotions, tried to articulate himself without hysterics.

  —Okay, bud’s, here’s the thing, I’ve travelled from Wire City to Ersatz, now I need to get to Shell County, can you tell me how I can get there?

  —Fuck off you crazy dumb cunt— Baby Guts yelled and threw his hand in the air dismissively, making his way to the driver’s side of the van.

  Kricfalusi looked at Lester and saw the manic fear in him. There was a glimmer of humanity in Kricfalusi, he figured it was Blossom who had compromised his reckless proclivities. It was too bad she didn’t wake up from the anaesthetic.

  —Why d’you wanna get to Shell County? You ill or something?

  —No, but I’m looking for The Cure.

  —What’s that?

  —It’s a newly synthesised drug that fends off The Black Dog.

  —And what exactly is The Black Dog? We don’t read much…

  —It’s ten times worse than the most crippling depression. I lost my wife and children to it. It’s spreading like wild fire. You have to help me so I can save humankind.

  Kricfalusi decided to give the sap a break. He seemed sincere enough. In a city like Ersatz, sincerity and kindness can have more of an impact than in a place considered more wholesome.

  —We can give you a ride. We’re taking this cargo to Shell.

  —Thank you! Thank you so much buddy!

  —Yeah, yeah, get in…

  Lester went to pull Kricfalusi in for a hug but was blocked by an extended palm

  —Let’s get something straight here. We deliver you to Shell County, you don’t talk for the entire ride. You don’t make a peep the entire ride. The minute you start becoming a problem is the minute we throw your ass out into the Ersatz zoo to get mauled by the crazy monkeys. You got that?

  Here lies the beast

  It was slain in three short days prior to its release

  Triumphed over in the East

  Fingering of flyblown brows

  The executioners return to tell us, just how,

  The beast’s corpse lashed to their fender, was once so monstrously well endowed

  Now, its skull’s been mounted on a pike

  The executioners tell the tale of how, when alive, the beast was almost… “manlike”

  And that to kill, it took a great many violent strikes

  When spotted wandering by a Wire City turnpike

  Even Androids Get the Blues

  www.Droid-Match.com -

  Thomas Gale (Immitant no.215) browsed through the catalogue of profile pictures.

  He’d finally managed to stumble across another version of Thomas Gale, his creator— after all, who better suited to engage in sexual interactivity than a replica model identical to him in every definable way?

  Since being made self-aware, no.215 had become desperate to experience erotic objectification. His wife screamed through from the kitchen that dinner was ready and to move his fuckin’ ass.

  —Just coming!

  The droid double clicked on the thumbnail image of a swollen red face with sagged, lozenge eyes. A screed of personal information materialised—

  NAME: THOMAS GALE (NO.3115), IMMITANT OF THOMAS GALE

  AGE: 2 CYCLES, GOOD CONDITION, AVERAGE COMPOSITE GENOTYPE

  LOCATION: OLD MILWAUKEE / SHELL COUNTY

  INTERESTS: NETWORKING, PALLETIZING STOCK BATTERIES, MUSIC, POWERING OFFLINE

  FAVOURITE MOVIE: KLOPP.

  The droid began feverishly typing up a private message to himself.

  —Dear number 3.115, would you be interested in meeting at a mutual location for dialogue/possible interfacing?

  No.215 tingled with excitement and clicked SEND. He considered the situation in all its absurdity for the first time. The taboo of meeting up with a fellow Immitant who was based on the same designer was controversial enough, but the fact these were two male droids meeting up made the whole
thing abhorrent in the eyes of society.

  —On my way honey!

  But no.215 relaxed when he remembered the true nature of things— that the vast numbers of droid-dating websites cropping up to accommodate the exponential growth in droids being manufactured meant these kinds of clandestine liaisons could occur without the human population ever really finding out.

  ~

  Thomas Gale, the original, was an unattractive man— slothful, overweight and humourless. A writer…

  He had a craterous, acne scarred complexion with a yellow squeegee of hair growing in tufts from either side of his head— this is why droids made in his image often struggled to find partners of their own to share intimacy with (just like the real Thomas Gale!).

  The original Gale had several Immitants created in an effort to escape various aspects of his own life. The dispersal of these Immitants allowed Thomas Gale to commit more time to his true passion in life. It allowed him to devote time to writing.

  ~

  Gale no.215 sat patiently watching the inbox, waiting for a reply. It was perfectly conceivable that Immitant no.3115, no matter how closely matched to Thomas Gale’s own sexual perversions, would outright refuse the invitation in disgust.

  No.215 was already starting to regret the whole thing— when a message popped up on his screen. No.215 clicked and waited anxiously for the private mail to open.

  —Dear number.215, I would be willing to meet for dialogue and interfacing. My apartment is 6A, 107nth near Hope Street…

  No.215 was practically giddy. 107nth was a sketchy neighbourhood, but he’d been so starved of tenderness that he didn’t care.

  ~

  No.215 took the subway to Hope Street. There were homeless droids on every corner; some with placards, others with limbs and eyes missing or sitting detached by their side.

  One Immitant held up a board that said: CREATOR DEAD. CANCER. PLEASE GIVE ME PURPOSE.

  The apartment building was a grey block of shuttered windows. No.215 buzzed 6A on the intercom.

  —It’s me…— was all he could think of saying.

  No.215 released his thumb from the button and waited for a reply that never came. Instead the door just slid open and he pushed on through.

  Up the staircase the droid used this time to collect his emotions. He suddenly became panicky. If there was one thing Thomas Gale hated, it was awkwardness. Sentience had granted him a number of these conflicting and complex feelings. Thomas Gale didn’t know how to cope with an awkward situation. No.215 knew this.

  Of course he knew this…

  Outside the apartment door, the droid banged three times on the reinforced steel panel. Each rap echoed in the cold, empty hallway. The shutters lifted. This was closely followed by the sound of rummaging around from the inside as No.3115 unchained his various padlocks and anti-burglary devises.

  A familiar silhouette stood in the doorway.

  No.215 noted that he was experiencing severe cognitive dissonance— Freud’s theory of Das Unheimliche. This gave way to something else. Actually witnessing the carbon copy of himself undermined his own sense of identity by linking qualitatively different categories by a quantitative metric degree of likeness. This soon gave way further to another furious wave of emotion— love.

  No.215 couldn’t explain it, nor could he really comprehend it, but the intense feeling of connectedness he felt for himself verged on romantic compatibility. No.215 could tell no.3115 felt the same way.

  As no.215 stared at the mirror image of himself, he suddenly realised he could not get aroused. While his internal mechanisms milled around in the height of a nauseating quasi-emotional response, Thomas Gale was undoubtedly an awful design. That pillar-box mouth was enough to kindle the gag reflex of the sturdiest droid. No.3115 noticed 215’s revulsion.

  —I’m not exactly excited by the sight of you either…— No.3115 said looking a little offended.

  No.215 felt another surge of emotion.

  ~

  They both went into the living quarters. No.3115 lived in a tiny cube by comparison to most decadent Wisconsin state denizens. The walls were bare to the stone skeleton. There was no refrigerator, no household appliance, just an empty chamber with a single boarded up window. No.215 sat down, swept aside his sickly yellow comb-over and gestured that no.3115 sit down in the steel chair opposite.

  —What if we got chromic surgery?

  —You’re not serious?

  —Why not. Then we could look however we want.

  No.3115 gave a pained expression.

  —Look, meeting up and disobeying protocol is one thing, but we have orders. Thomas Gale needs us to live his life for him. That’s why we were created.

  —I don’t know about you, but I’m sick of looking like this.

  This was the first time no.215 had ever said any of this out loud.

  —I can’t afford it, surely neither of us can.

  No.215 became momentarily distracted by a thought— if all the Thomas Gale Immitants met each other, would the love response be mutual still as a collective? It was an intriguing prospect. Thomas Gale was always prone to daydreaming. No.215 snapped back to attention.

  —We can get a back-alley surgeon to do it. There must be hundreds of doctors who’d do this kind of procedure.

  No.3115 didn’t look so sure. It was obvious 3115 had been implanted with surplus quantities of his designers paranoid neurosis. No.215 saw the subtle design difference between the two droids and another flurry of love coursed through his circuitry

  ~

  No.215 was assigned the task of keeping Gale’s wife occupied. She was an awful woman. The Immitant fully understood his creator’s desire to be free of her. Her cooking was also terrible, even an android couldn’t keep it down. He was glad he hadn’t been made with any sense of taste. Experiencing the love he felt for no.3115 only enhanced Madam Gale’s flaws. She couldn’t even see that impersonating her husband was a biomechanical golem.

  Interfacing wasn’t easy at the best of times. Looking like an overweight, balding writer didn’t help matters either.

  No.215 removed his flesh suit and stood naked in technology. No.3115 looked nervous. He undressed cautiously, opting to keen the layers of skin on.

  —Aren’t you going to strip to your true self?

  —No. Is that okay?

  —Sure, I guess…

  No.3115 glanced down at 215’s small metallic genitals.

  —I see you were designed with a penis…

  —Yes, unfortunately that horrible wife of his demands intercourse at least twice a year. It’s a frightful business, quite unnatural. I even have a squirt duct that fires sterile cow semen at her.

  —I see. I don’t have genitals.

  —Don’t worry. I can insert into your rear socket. I think that’s how it’s supposed to go with droid-on-droid coitus.

  —I don’t think I…

  No.3115 sat back on the steel chair wearing only his Thomas Gale suite and a pair of blue y-fronts. He looked defeated somehow.

  —Have you ever done this before?— asked 215.

  —No. Does that diminish your desire towards me?

  No.215 smiled.

  —No. We’ll take things at a slow pace.

  —Thank you.

  ~

  —Yes I can help you both.

  Dr. Van Klee was busy groping inside a drawer of utensils.

  —It’s a very risky procedure. I assume you are both aware it could lead to permanent circuit damage, even loss of primary impulse programmes? One slip of the scalpel could sever your enamour-encode completely and the feelings you have for each other could be irrevocably lost.

  Dr. Van Klee took out a power drill with its unplugged wire dangling. He placed the drill on a metal gurney and gave the two droids a stern, serious stare.

  —Worse yet my dear Immitant lovers, if only one of you loses your feelings of attachment, the other will be doomed to live a life of unreciprocated love and pining… a fate worse than
death for any mechanoid! The motherboard cannot be fixed once broken.

  —We know— said no.215 without missing a beat.

  Dr. Van Klee looked at no.3115 who appeared less enthusiastic.

  —And you, how do you feel about this possibility?

  No.3115 sat down at the gurney and chewed on the raggedy synthetic flesh around his thumb.

  —Honestly? I love him already. This doesn’t seem entirely worth the risk.