Cyberpunk Trashcan

by Randall P. Fitzgerald

  We opened the door and were greeted by a smiling woman who started into a gratuitous welcome, squeezing her breasts together beneath a thin silk bathrobe as she spoke.

  “Oh my, master. Welcome back to—” She stopped when she saw Marine. “You.” She frowned, immediately dropping all charm from her voice and posture. “What do you want?”

  Marine’s voice was razor sharp and irritable. “I want not to get talked to like that by a prostitute. Take me to Graver.”

  “He said he don’t wanna be— Hey!”

  Marine started walking off down the hallway just to the right of the greeter’s little podium. Her heels clacked as she chased Marine down.

  “I said, you ain’t— oof.”

  She ran into a wall trying to stay at Marine’s side around a corner. I kept myself a few feet back as we came into a communal bath area. People were getting hand jobs. At least five people. I saw a lot of dicks. There were tits too, but it was like walking through an old man boner factory and honestly, I don’t know what the appeal was supposed to be. None of them seemed to notice us and the greeter prostitute didn’t say anything. Maybe it was a rule or something. Make sure not to kill any erections when passing through the hand job buffet. The publicly available cock garden really made me wonder what possible appeal there could be to getting a hand job in a room full of other people also getting a hand job. Maybe I just didn’t see the true joy of orgasming within moaning distance of a guy who was going to have a heart attack in a few weeks. It just wasn’t the sort of thing that screamed “enjoyable shared experience” to me.

  The prostitute flattened herself against a door, with her arms spread out across it to stop us. I looked at Marine to see what her plan was for bypassing a wall of hooker and it was actually a surprisingly simple one. She punched the hooker wall right in the gut. The large heels wobbled and the woman’s ankle twisted as she went down, clutching her stomach. My first concern was that I would be blamed. Surely there were cameras though. I could probably prove my innocence. Concerns abated, I followed Marine into the room where entirely new concerns arose.

  Across the room from us sat a fat man, tanned to the point of it likely being a psychological disorder with a thick head of silver hair over a thick beard. He wore a white kimono which shifted to pink toward the bottom where the design sported large cherry blossom petals. He was shining, covered in more oil than a person should be and was being pawed at by no less than three women, one of whom I recognized from the signs outside. Around the room were a dozen obvious henchmen, each attended by their very own prostitute.

  I won’t say I don’t understand the appeal, I’m just not exactly sure how either side gets signed up for this whole deal. Like, where do you go to join? Did he put up fliers? How do you start a gang? Do you have to know people?

  The man I assumed was Graver raised his head. “Little chinky girl back in my den. Looks like you finally came to your senses and decided to put those holes to use.”

  “I’d expect a greasy bag of old trash like you to know better than that. Or maybe your old cock’s so desperate for a real set of tits you’ve finally lost it.”

  “Ha! Bad enough you brought those itty bits in here, but now you’re bringing sausage to the party. What’s the little twink got to say for himself? Why you in my den, boy?”

  I get it. I see what’s going on here. A little bit of the back and forth, eh? “Well clearly I’m not here for the food or I’d have come about fifty pounds too late.”

  Graver roared up from his seat. “What the fuck?!”

  I heard a dozen guns come out and get pointed in my direction. That’s not the best way for this whole thing to start. But the joke’s on doughboy. I’ve got a secret weapon.

  I turned to the side and leveled my hand at him, pointing my finger. Graver’s eyes narrowed and he turned his head, just the slightest bit, expectant.

  “Hnnnn.” I closed my eyes and strained every muscle I could manage. Nothing. “Hnnnnnn.” I tried it again, apparently not even remotely close to activating the iris or the laser behind it.

  Graver boomed a laugh and I opened my eyes.

  “Marine, you feisty little bitch. You bring an ugly, skinny little halfman in here and he tries to kill me.” He laughed again. “I love it.” He sat back down slapping the arm of his chair. “Put yer goddamn guns away, boys. Jesus.”

  I put my hand down, not really sure how I managed that outcome, but happy that’s what it was.

  “Now. Really. Why the fuck are you here? I’m busy.” He plunged his pinky into his nose and began digging around.

  Marine breathed out heavy in relief. “I need something. A tool.”

  “And I’d guess it’s an expensive one, especially if you’re headed back to Vircore.”

  “It is. And I am. And I know you have one.”

  He pulled his finger from his nose and wiped it on the kimono before cupping the breast of one of his doting attendants with the same hand. “Well, nothing’s free in this world, girl. You want tools, fine. But you don’t eat if you don’t work.”

  Chapter

  THIRTEEN

  Graver stood up and it turns out the guy is massive. Not so much fat, entirely, as massive in every other sense of the word. He was well over six feet tall and I could see muscles ripple in his legs and chest. He was still an impressively rotund guy. I wanted to make a sumo joke but I felt like the gun thing might recur and I just couldn’t really go for that. Boxer shorts and an open kimono wouldn’t have really inspired much respect on most other people, but here they were surprisingly effective.

  His hooker retinue seemed pretty bummed out when he walked away from his deep red, wooden throne— it’s a throne, cut me a break, it’s not just a big chair— to lead Marine and I to a side door. Once we were in the hall, he let out a deep breath and hunched a bit.

  “Good god, that’s exhausting.” He turned, clapping a massive hand onto my shoulder. “Hope I didn’t scare you, kid.” He gave a short belly laugh. “Gotta keep up appearances, right? The boys love that sort of shit.” He turned his attention to Marine. “And you. Bringing this kid here. You’re smarter than that. And that hand’s new.” He shook his head, disapproving. “Tsk, tsk. And going after Vircore.” He gave a shrug and leaned against the wall of the hallway. “At least tell me you’re eating properly.”

  Marine rolled her eyes. “Graver, come on.”

  “Hey, no. Nobody else bothers, so you tell me whether you’re eating right or not. I don’t have to give you the work, you know?”

  “I’m eating fine, Graver.”

  “Yeah, bullshit you are. When’s the last time you ate? And what was it?”

  “I don’t know, a hamburger. Yesterday.”

  “Yesterday?!” He looked around in disbelief. “Marine, you need to eat better. And a hamburger? Fries, too?”

  She had a childish annoyance at the whole thing. “Yeah, fries too. A whole basket full. And I’m going to have some more later. Jesus, how is this any of your business?”

  “The sarcasm isn’t impressive. And maybe it’s not my business, but you could show a little appreciation.” He looked at me. “You care about her right? You get it?”

  I nodded, not really sure what to say.

  “See, this kid you’re fucking gets it. He wants you to live healthy too.”

  “I really doubt he does.”

  He looked at me again. “See how she is? Impossible.”

  “Graver.” Marine had an edge to her voice.

  He sighed, defeated. “Fine, fine. I’ll give you your work.”

  He turned his broad body back into the hallway and continued toward wherever it was he was taking us. I’d never been inside an establishment that actively sold sex before. It was honestly far more disgusting than I had pictured it based on… wishful thinking? I think the part where I would probably differ with other people on
that is that I didn’t so much feel bad for the women.

  It’s the guys who had this air of desperation about them. Sim suits were pretty cheap anymore. A few hundred bucks for a bottom end, used model. I mean, steam cleaning would do the trick on one of those. Though, I met a guy who cleaned them and I asked him what it was like. All he’d say is “neoprene never forgets.” So maybe I’m wrong on that one. But there was just something about sitting in a moist room full of other dudes getting handblasters that rubbed me the wrong way. Eh?! No? Nothing? Fine. Joyless shits. I guess the body suit deal was basically the same thing, but at least then there was no risk of making eye contact with another dude while he ropes out a load onto his own leg hair. Or worse, making eye contact with an overeager hooker with too-bright lipstick. Her lips all puckered and eyes rolling around in her head like touching your prong is the best thing she’s ever done with her life. Like she’s jerking the fucking Jism Venus De Milo out of you. And the fucking sounds, my god.

  “Eeeew yuh behbie. Ewwww yuh givittumahmeeeee.”

  Who could get off to that? Look lady, I don’t want to give it to mommy. That’s fucking weird. I paid for a hand job, not conflicted feelings about my own state of arousal. If I’m going to have horrible regrets, they’re going to come immediately after climax, not during. That’s a firm rule. I don’t pay strangers to slap my dick around so I can spend the whole time reflecting on the curious nature of parent child relationships. At least not during. Never during! I mean if that’s someone’s thing, fine. I’m cool with that. Hey, jerk off to super accurate renderings of horse cooch, I don’t care. Do your thing. But it just seems like there’s really only one sort of catering going on around here and that was the sort of shit you’d see in the search history of a guy who wears a bandanna and a mesh basketball jersey like they were the divinely inspired fashion of some religion that worshiped lite beer and verbally abusing anyone who fucked up anything in shouting distance of a checkout stand. “Latina jugs milk cock.” That sort of thing.

  We got to the end of the fairly short hallway and opened the only door there after Graver put his massive hand on a vein scanner that didn’t even come close to fitting it. He had to bend his fingers to get the thing up to his wrist without hitting the backplate. It did its little scan and beeped the door. It was a pretty normal looking wooden door but opening it revealed that to be a facade, the real core being steel with sliding bars to join it to a steel reinforced wall.

  Graver went in ahead of us, the hall continuing before giving way to an opulent bedroom. There was an immediate sound of cooing hooker words when he made it into the room.

  “Aw, Gwavy baby. You know I get wonewey back here all by my wittle wonesome.” There was a real pier-based amusement park quality to her voice. “I want somma that sugar, Gwavy. We—”

  She was stark naked, I noticed. Nearly flat chested with extremely puffy nipples larger than the rest of the breast. The sort of thing you see once online and you forget to save it and then you try to find it later and your life falls to pieces because you can’t. She had frizzy red hair and a trimmed bush to match.

  “Who the fuck is these guys?”

  She pointed at us, dropping the cutesy tone for something obviously much more authentic to her personality.

  “Oooh, thas that little have chinky girl, ain’t it. And who’s the twink? You know I don’t like sharin’ Gravy.”

  Graver grabbed a terrycloth robe from the top of a dresser as he passed and threw it at her face.

  “Get fucking dressed, Cincy. Time for you to work.”

  “But I jus’—”

  “Real work.”

  She straightened immediately and the accent disappeared. “Yes, Graver.”

  She scurried off into a bathroom to dress herself and Graver turned toward the dresser, grabbing a thin cigar from it and putting it into his mouth to light it.

  “Sorry about Cincy,” he said pulling air through the cigar as an electric arc lighter snapped away at its end. “She’s… committed.”

  He blew the awful, smoky fragrance of stale ass into the room.

  “Is it short for Cincinnati?”

  He laughed. “I have no fucking clue, kid.”

  Cincy came back out dressed in a business suit, her hair straightened and put up into a professional bun. She’d put on glasses that had no appreciable magnification.

  “You good?”

  “I am prepared to oversee their work, Graver.”

  Graver nodded, happy with the answer. “Good. It’s the software job. I got shit to do.” He looked at Marine. “Shouldn’t be too much trouble for you.” He laughed, but not in a way that I found entirely confidence inspiring. He started to leave, stopping by my side to clap me on the shoulder. “Take care of ‘er. Else, I’ll cut your fucking skin off.” He bellowed another laugh and walked from the room.

  “Well, then. If you’re both prepared.” Cincy held an arm out, motioning at the only door on the far side of the room. “The car is waiting.”

  Cincy opened the door and held it for us. Marine went out first and I followed. There was a limo waiting for us inside of a long, single car-width garage. I might have stared at it like a moron for too long because Cincy passed me and suggested that I please enter the vehicle. I’d never been in or near anything worth as much money as a limousine. There were old junker ones, but the self-drivers ran in the hundreds of thousands. The doors sat open, waiting for me to enter and so I finally did.

  The inside was unnecessary in its detail. Purple velour with black trim and silver adornments lined the entire inside of the seating area. The seats themselves were leather. Not the stiff sort. Insanely soft stuff, but still thick enough to be obvious underneath the weight of my body. The interior was rimmed at head level with screens that played much the same sort of simulated scenery as you’d expect from a CleanlyCar, but at much higher resolution.

  Cincy had made her way to the far end of the cab, well away from the doors. Marine had sat just inside the door, opposite Cincy, so I sat next to her.

  “Drive.”

  Cincy spoke and the car smoothly rolled out, waiting for the garage door to open and then pulling out into an alley. The screens turned themselves clear when she spoke and then back to scenery in a wave as we came clear of the building.

  Graver’s… whatever she was turned her attention to a screen projecting itself onto the air in front of her. Small lights emitted from the sides of the vehicle showed the source to be a holographic projector. The usable ones were insanely expensive, but compact to an insane degree. The cost was largely poured into atmospheric sensors to detect air composition and density and the like so the projectors could be calibrated to catch the air to form the image. I turned to Marine, pointing subtly with my mouth open. She did not share my enthusiasm.

  The screen was slid away with a gesture and Cincy addressed Marine.

  “We have a software problem. To put it bluntly, there is a firm who has rolled out tracking software to people we would rather not have it. Very sophisticated software. It uses thermals and electrical field cams on the drones to form a trackable database of people, particularly people with unregistered augmentations, naked and skinned. You understand how this could prove a considerable problem to our operation.”

  “Graver’s what? Eighty percent metal at this point? I get it.”

  “You’ll refrain from offering information on Graver to people who did not previously have it.” She meant me. “But yes. Along with our considerable assets which stand to be tracked by the software otherwise. We had intended to pay you double your normal rate since the work required access to the target physically, but I understand you have an agreement with Graver. We have confirmation that the only operable version of the hardware package is being tested as a pre-sale demonstration at the location.”

  Marine crossed her arms. “So, what do you have for me? Cleaning company?
Office hours? Names? Phone numbers?”

  Cincy pushed her fake glasses up her nose and turned her head to the side, looking at the window-screens. The car began to slow and maneuver itself. “I’m afraid you lack the time to make use of that. Which is just as well, as I doubt it would have done much good.”

  “So you’re fucking sending me in—”

  “We are.” The door beside me was the only one that popped open. “I’m sure you’ll manage.”

  I stepped out of the car and stood there staring up, not at all happy with this turn of events. Marine joined me on the sidewalk, looking up as well. We found ourselves, me with an exposed robot arm, standing in front of a police station in broad daylight. The limo pulled away behind us. Marine said what we were both thinking.

  “Well, shit.”

  Chapter

  FOURTEEN

  I thought maybe we were going to go around the back side of the building or something so I was taken somewhat by surprise when Marine grabbed me by the arm and dragged me through the front door of the police station. At the far end of the spartan entry hall were a few alcoves cut into the wall. Once we were inside, Marine turned to face me. She pointed aggressively across the hall at the alcoves.

  “Grab my tits.”

  “Uh…”

  She stomped her foot and pointed at the alcoves again, the female officer seated at the middle one was definitely watching us.

  “Grab my tits, you fucking asshole. Now.” She got louder, shouting the second half of the sentence.

  I hesitantly reached my hands up and she leaned forward into them, grabbing my wrists and jamming my hands against her body as she started to struggle around like my hands had magic sexual powers that drove her wild with gyrating pleasure. As a quick aside, her boobs felt just tops. Just… just real great. Super plush. Whoever put her together did a bang up job on those.

  So, this is the shit part. She screamed.

  “Raaaape! Help! Rape! Rape!”

  Oh boy. I get what’s going on here.