by Ubukata, Tow
Since then she had lived only for her work. For revenge. On her deathbed, she dreamed of all the bombs that she had spread, hoping they would explode in a fiery blast inside the men to whom she had successfully passed on her disease.
Then there were the girls who worked in groups to ensnare the big earners.
Not just ensnare, either—often their behavior would descend into blackmail, forcing their marks into handing over increasing amounts of money under the threat of public disclosure. The gangs often ended up getting sucked into larger criminal organizations—some girls went voluntarily, others in order to protect themselves from the backlash from the disgruntled blackmailee. The girl who told Balot this story was one of the former group, having joined a large criminal gang by choice, but she had run away shortly after realizing that she had made a mistake. Men do understand on some level that women feel pain too, she said, but what they don’t realize is that the pain we feel has just as much impact on us as it does on them. Pain couldn’t fight gravity and always flowed downhill toward lower ground, finding the path of least resistance. However bad life at the Date Club was, it wasn’t as painful as the alternative.
Well, at least nothing like that ever happens here. This was the platitude so often used as the moral of one of the girls’ horror stories—so much so that it became a cliché. The man at reception said so. The girls, who had grown so used to their jobs, said so. It became a mantra, an inoculation; so long as you spoke those words, no harm would ever befall you. But danger came in many shapes and sizes. It wasn’t just the unknowable future that could be dangerous—sometimes danger came in the form of shadows from the past that had finally caught up with the present. Danger could grow and expand to fill any void.
There were teenage outcasts from society, man-boys with no place in the world and at their wits’ end, who abducted middle school girls to use as their slaves. There were middle-aged, outwardly respectable government officials who walked past children’s playgrounds at the same fixed time every day, hoping to catch a glimpse of the young children that they were sexually attracted to. There was the Peeping Tom who had focused all his attention on one girl, and when the object of his affection failed to show any gratitude for his solicitude he raped the ungrateful bitch before dragging her to the local registry office to forcibly marry her, at which point he was promptly apprehended by the police.
A seventeen-year-old did some babysitting on the side to earn some pocket money, and she committed unspeakably cruel atrocities to over ten different children before she was caught and the alarm raised. When asked by the district attorney what could have possibly motivated her, her honest reply was that she thought that was what love was. Such was the reality of how her own parents had treated her.
People who labeled themselves as sadists or fetishists operated a network. Some of them were out in the open, appearing in the media, proud and unashamed of their otherness, and were recognized as outcasts. Different, maybe. Alien, definitely. But not necessarily dangerous per se.
But then there were the other aliens—the ones who didn’t go out of their way to call themselves sadists or fetishists. Not because they weren’t, but because they considered themselves to be absolutely normal. They had no more humanity in them than a giant shredding machine: flick their switches in the right way and they’d rip anyone to pieces without a moment’s hesitation, whether a complete stranger or their own flesh and blood.
These people weren’t particularly complicated, not in terms of what they wanted out of life. Their motivations were really quite straightforward. The only thing that was at all complicated was the process that they needed to go through to get what they wanted.
Sunny side up—the good life: no worries, no boredom, no contradictions.
A desirable goal for people from all walks of life, rich or poor. Ask a child why she had run away from the Welfare Institute, ask a rapist why he repeatedly committed the most horrendous of atrocities, and the answer would be the same: I wanted to be happy. It was the only answer there could be.
On the program Balot had watched about the aborigines, they didn’t actually show the moment the animals were slaughtered.
As is always the case on live television, they showed you up to the moment the machete was held high in the air, ready to strike. Then they cut to the scene straight after that, in which the cow was already engulfed in flame, the part where the blade ended the animal’s life being excised in order to preserve the viewers’ sensibilities.
Or was it to say to the viewer You see this sort of thing every day anyway, so why should we bother showing it to you now?
It was no more than what the viewers did—and had done to them—on a regular basis, after all.
Why did Ashley deliberately choose to enter the trunk of the car his brother died in?
It was to know the hand that brought the machete down. To understand the truth about the scene cut from the television program. To understand what had been lost.
The thing Ashley needed to know most of all was whether he still had the will to carry on living, even after the blow had been struck.
If the whole world took to arms against each other, brandishing their machetes, would he be able to survive?
There came a point in all people’s lives when their fundamental belief, their trust in the basic decency of human nature, was challenged, shattered. What Ashley needed to know was whether he would ever be able to pick up the pieces.
Balot realized that she now held a machete to her own heart. In order to discern exactly what she was made of.
And to determine which way the blade was heading. If people lived their lives under the vagaries of fate and fortune, then Balot would be the one to challenge her destiny—by working out for herself which way she needed to strike.
≡
“Why…why are you doing this?” Shell groaned. He couldn’t keep it in any longer.
His eyes were wavering between two points: Balot’s face and the third million-dollar chip, which had just been placed in the pot as Balot’s next bet.
–Never doubt. No need to trouble yourself with questions.
After Balot said this she waved her right hand. Lightly. Goodbye. Then she mimed closing the door on him. Just like Shell once did to her. Shell didn’t understand what any of her charade meant, exactly. But he did understand, in a vague and uneasy way, just quite how serious was the crime he had committed.
“Are you saying that I somehow took advantage of you? Used you? For what, exactly? This is crazy! I’ve even forgotten your face, what you look like…”
Balot tapped the table to show her impatience for her next card.
She knew that Shell had just spoken the truth. She had no problem with that. If Shell wanted to believe that he was innocent, let him believe that he was innocent—for now. All Balot knew was that she had to do what she had to do to this man who treated his own memories as so many bargaining chips.
The upcard was a king. Balot’s cards were 5 and 6.
Balot hit and drew an 8, at which point she stayed.
Shell just shook his head and turned his card over.
Another ace. A glorious victory for Shell.
“I… I just wanted to help you. I gave you what you wanted. I even had a proper citizen’s ID made for you, one with a decent past, not the one you had. I saved you…”
This was Shell’s last-gasp effort at explaining his actions. It was his lawyers who had come up with this plan. Just as the Doctor had come up with Balot’s. Shell was very satisfied with this story as an explanation. Balot’s very existence was a thorn in his side; she was like the one viewer who burst out laughing at the most inappropriate moment at the screening of a serious movie. She was ruining everything!
How was he to deal with such a person?
There was only one possible answer. Silence her. That was the reason Shell kept a permanent roster of assassins in his pay.
Shell yearned for drama, romance, to fill the gaping hole that wa
s left in him when he obliterated his memories. He wanted someone to console him, soothe the pain of the death of that part of him, to make the whole sordid process seem beautiful. And he had chosen Balot for this role.
The problem was that Oeufcoque had also chosen Balot. So that Oeufcoque could fight. To find meaning in his life—to fight in the hands of someone who needed to use him.
The little golden galloper of a mouse needed a jockey to ride him, someone who would accept him warts and all. A rider who could use him properly and at the same time appreciate him as more than just a mount to be used.
To Shell, on the other hand, Balot was no more than a sacrificial lamb to be offered up on the altar of his ambition. Balot had no intention of ever returning down that path.
The last of the four million-dollar chips was finally released to return home to the other side of the table. Balot threw it into the pot like she was tossing a coin down a wishing well.
The golden chip was retrieved and slammed shut into its holding box just as the red marker appeared. Game over.
Balot rose from her seat and handed her one remaining chip—a ten-thousand-dollar piece—over to the Doctor beside her.
The Doctor rolled the chip around in the palm of his hand thoughtfully, as if he’d fallen foul of the classic gambler’s cliché—If only we’d stopped when the going was good.
A solitary ten-thousand-dollar chip. At one point they’d managed to swell their seed money of two thousand dollars by a factor of two thousand, and now this was all they had left.
The Doctor did the only thing that anyone with an ounce of adventure in them could do. “I wonder if we could keep this chip as a souvenir?”
Ashley smiled. “Well, since you’ve come this far…” He glanced at Shell’s face to get the house’s permission. He gave it, and as he now had his hands full with a reinvigorated Cleanwill John October instead of the feared nuclear meltdown, he was now radiating electricity.
“That should be fine, sir. Do feel free to take it as a memento of today’s great battle,” Ashley said respectfully, and the Doctor clutched the chip tight in his hands for all on the floor to see.
The Doctor’s act, and indeed the whole play, was now brought to a close. This was the climax.
“I wonder if I might be permitted to walk you to the casino entrance?” asked Ashley. Bell Wing stood beside him, silently asking the same question.
Balot accepted their offer wordlessly and graciously. The Doctor, too, gave his tacit consent.
The four of them left the VIP room, watched by a throng of other customers and dealers.
“Do you have any concerns about finding your way home?” Ashley asked. Shall I show you another route? he was asking. A hidden escape route?
“Thanks for the offer, but we had all that double-checked before we arrived.” The Doctor confirmed that it had all been cleared in advance with the limousine company, and that Ashley need not worry. Ashley shrugged his shoulders, impressed as ever with the thoroughness of the Doctor’s preparations.
“Really, anyone would think you were a pair of professional bank robbers,” he added.
Eventually the four of them stopped in front of the somewhat surreal intersection between the casino and the hotel.
Balot looked straight into Bell Wing’s face. Her eyes asked whether they would ever be able to meet again.
“I’ll still be a croupier and I’ll carry on spinning the wheel. Not here, but some other casino. That’s not for you to worry about. If you do feel like it then I’d welcome a visit from you anytime.”
–Thank you. And goodbye.
“Sure, goodbye,” said Ashley.
“Goodbye,” said Bell Wing.
03
–Just wait a minute!
Shell’s voice was on the other end of the cell phone. He sounded like a swimmer confronted by the sudden appearance of a fin right in front of his face.
Boiled was pressing down on the gas pedal so hard that it almost burrowed into the floor of the car. He sped down the highway, one hand on the wheel, the other holding Shell’s voice to his ear.
“You’ve had your capital returned to you, haven’t you? You still have the source of the trade you’re planning?”
–It’s not that. Something’s wrong. How can I put it—I don’t feel any better.
“Better?”
–It’s as if they deliberately gave it all back to me for some reason…
“I need their location. Set someone on their tail, and I’ll take care of the rest.” Boiled’s voice was as unconcerned as ever, and he spoke with crushing finality. I know all I need to know, he was saying.
–Please. Boiled. Make them disappear. Make everything disappear. I want my flashbacks gone.
“I understand. That’s my usefulness, after all.”
Boiled cut the call. With the same hand he activated the FrontView Screen. Normally it wouldn’t come on except to warn him that he was over the speed limit, but now a translucent light display flashed up, displaying a map of the casino and its environs and Boiled’s current location.
“I know your escape route—Oeufcoque.”
A red line extended from the casino to display a predicted route. A blue line extended from the marker signifying Boiled’s location, and the line stretched ahead until it intersected with the red line, running parallel with it thereafter.
Just then the other side of the FrontView Screen was splashed by a drop of water. For one moment Boiled’s attention turned not to the screen nor even the highway beyond it, but up to the skies.
Scattered droplets of rain soon turned into a sheer downpour, millions of lines streaking down the windshield.
Boiled’s eyes turned back to the road. Unconsciously, his mouth started forming words.
“Curiosity—that’s right. I wanted to use you, to see what it would be like…”
It was hard to believe, but true. Boiled’s hand went up to his chest, as if he were trying to physically suppress the confusion rising up inside him.
For a moment, he couldn’t cope, and the bewildering sensation of not knowing himself spread across his face.
The unstoppable feeling rose to his throat, stuck there, and then eventually erupted out in the form of a thunderous laugh. There was no trace of humor in his voice, no sign of the milk of human kindness showing in his face, and yet he laughed and laughed and laughed.
The windows trembled. The roaring laughter continued. Real thunder, now, and lightning could be seen on the other side of the windshield, amid the ever-thickening downpour.
Boiled continued to laugh, the primeval sound echoing into the night. “Oeufcoque! I wanted to use you! Just use you!” He was exploding. Every bit as terrifying as the thunder outside.
And unstoppable. “That’s my usefulness! That’s right, that’s my usefulness! To get back what I’ve lost in life, to make up for everything I’ve done! Come back to me, Oeufcoque. I’m going to give you my own usefulness!”
≡
“Let’s go home.” Oeufcoque spoke from Balot’s right hand after she’d put the gloves back on.
A gentle shower of rain fell on them. Balot felt the rain through her gloves. What she didn’t feel was any strong sense of victory. All she felt was a shaky sense of relief.
The red convertible’s sensors had picked up on the rain, and by the time Balot arrived at the car park the car was covered by the roof that had automatically emerged from the rear side.
“You haven’t forgotten anything, have you?” the Doctor asked with a gentle smile, and Balot waved her hand to say she hadn’t.
Inside her gloves, pressed against her flesh, were the four chips, safely packed away.
“We don’t touch the whites or the shells. Just the yolk,” the Doctor said, inserting the key into the ignition. Balot fastened her seat belt.
The car drove off. Balot closed her eyes and tuned in to her surroundings.
No one was following them. All pursuers were scattered. That much was confirmed
.
The Doctor had prepared a triple-layered smokescreen to throw any potential tails firmly off their scent. The first was the airport hotel, the second the limousine.
The third was the complimentary passes to the hotel suites. The tickets they’d won when Balot hit her royal straight flush at poker. They had checked into their free rooms, then Balot and the Doctor had taken separate elevators, Balot saying she would head straight to the room to rest, her elevator heading up, and the Doctor saying he’d kill a little more time wandering around the amusements below, his elevator heading down.
In reality, though, neither elevator moved at all. Balot had snarced the controls of the elevators to make the display lights move, but when the elevators “arrived” at their respective floors, what really happened was that both elevators opened back up exactly where they had started, and the Doctor and Balot emerged together to head straight for the car park.
Shell’s hired muscle might have been looking for them, but just as the contents of Shell’s mind had proven so elusive, the Doctor didn’t intend to be tracked down easily.
Protected by their multi-layered smokescreen, Balot and the Doctor sped off in the red convertible, taking a direct route to the official rendezvous point with the Humpty.
Balot was drifting about inside her own boundless consciousness. Her body was starting to itch all over, and whenever she touched the source of the irritation her skin would flake off in silver flecks. It was as if her body were trying to shed its shell. Her body wanted to get out of its own skin.
“Hey, do you need to take it easy? You can put the seat back and rest if you need to, you know.” The Doctor’s voice was noticeably concerned.
Balot didn’t even answer. She just did as he suggested. She lay down, closed her eyes, and felt the warm breeze from the car’s heaters wash over her.