by John Bruni
“But also by then, he was starting to age. Technology had advanced enough so that implants were a routine matter. He started by replacing his hair and teeth. When his organs started going bad on him, he had them easily replaced. By then, 3D printing had advanced so far that getting replacements was pretty easy. Shit, according to the medical records I found, he even had his dick replaced with a porn star’s.”
Steve barked with laughter. “You can’t be serious.”
“He’s serious,” Jimmy said. “Imagine if you had all the money in the world, and your dick shriveled on you. Tell me you wouldn’t get a new dick.”
“Why not have it 3D printed, though?” Steve asked.
“The problem is, 3D printing, when it comes to biological items, is it’s only good for making copies,” Jack said. “He’s like any of our fellow Americans. He wants bigger and better.”
“That’s . . .” Steve couldn’t continue.
“He doesn’t use a porn star’s dick anymore, now that stem cell tech has been combined with foreign DNA. He’s literally got a dick farm now.”
Jimmy glanced at Steve, unable to say a single word.
“Anyway,” Jack said, “when he realized he just couldn’t beat the aging process, at least not without replacing his entire skin, which still isn’t possible, he decided to accept his role as a monster. That’s when he had the eye implants. That’s when he got the metal fangs. That’s when he let himself go a little. But he still kept the important shit up and running. The dude’s heart isn’t even his own.”
“Jesus,” Steve said. “If he keeps this up, he’ll never die.”
“He’ll die, all right. That’s what we’re all here for. I’ve wanted to put this spooky fuck in the ground for a long time, and I think I’m finally going to succeed now.”
Steve looked to Jimmy. When he didn’t see any moral objection on his friend’s face, he felt like he had to say something. “Do we have to kill him? We could probably find a way to—“
“Don’t bother,” Jack said. “I know where you’re headed with this, and there’s no fucking way. He’d only buy his way out of prison.”
Steve sighed. “Fine. I guess. I was just, you know, hoping.”
“Don’t. He’s not worth your hope.”
They sat in silence for a moment. Steve wanted to say more. He knew the value of killing someone who needed killing, but at the same time, his Catholic upbringing tried to pull him back from that idea. Did he really want to risk his soul for something like this?
Jimmy broke the silence. “What can we do, then?”
“First thing we have to do is cut off their connection with Steve,” Jack said. “They can also probably hack into us, if they needed to. They’ve got the money for something like that. I don’t use my LiveStream. In fact, I have a device implanted in my head so that any video footage of my face will be scrambled. I suggest you shut your social media off, Jimmy.”
With a flick of his eyes, Jimmy did just that.
“What about me?” Steve asked.
“You can’t shut yours down. Whoever worked on you made sure that you would constantly broadcast back to them. It’s pretty simple for you. Hold on.”
Jack stood and went to the back room. Steve and Jimmy heard something rattling back there, and then something fell and clattered all over the place. Jack cursed loudly, but when he came back, he handed two things to Steve: an eye patch and a set of ear plugs for people who liked to practice shoot.
“The LiveStream works through implants in the right eye,” Jack said. “Cover it up, and you’ll cut off their visual. Audio comes through the right ear, so plug it, and you’ll cut them off entirely. But don’t plug the other one. You’ll need to hear.”
Steve nodded and followed instructions.
~
“Aw,” Edward said. “Not another one.”
William grunted and glanced at Coppergate. “It’s not like we could have enjoyed that feed, anyway.”
~
It took Steve a moment to get used to 2D vision and not being able to hear out of one side of his head, and he really didn’t think he’d ever get fully used to it, but he felt like he could handle it.
“Now what we really need to do is find the other competitors,” Jack said. “If we can get them together on our team, we’ll have the numbers to take on Wingate’s mansion.”
“And how do we do that, exactly?” Jimmy asked.
“I can track them,” Jack said. “Which reminds me, we’re going to have to remove Steve’s credit chip.”
“Uh . . . why?” Steve asked.
“Because they can track you through it. If they know where we’re going, they’ll know our plan.”
“Well . . . what about your chip?”
“I don’t have one,” Jack said. “I’m off the grid. I can launder any transactions I might need.”
“Oh, come on,” Steve said. “You don’t need—“
Jack produced a knife and flicked his lighter beneath it. “You don’t seem to understand. Those rich fucks might call this a game, but it’s not. Your life is at stake. That chip has got to go. Don’t worry, I have drugs. You won’t feel a thing.”
Steve felt the color drip from his face. “Put the knife down, Jack.”
“Jimmy, go in my drawer and fetch me the syringe and the topical anesthetic. Steve, I wish I could knock you out for this, but we need you awake and alert. A topical will have to do.”
“Goddammit, Jack. I need that chip.”
“You’ll get it back when we’re done with Coppergate and his cronies.”
“No, and that’s final!”
5
Samuel steered his motorcycle around the car parked on the dirt path. As he cruised his way down through the woods, he marveled at some of the traps he saw. Whoever lived back here didn’t fuck around. These traps weren’t here to scare anyone; they were here to kill. How did the cop know someone like this?
Then, he saw the house ahead. He turned off the motor and got off the bike. He thought it might be a good idea to bring the jet pack for this one, in case he had to make a hasty retreat, so he strapped it to his back, dropping the quiver of guns next to the motorcycle. He selected the shotgun from the pack and made his way to the house.
As he came closer, he noticed the racial epithets, and he wondered about the kind of man who would not just live back here, but who would also leave such graffiti up. He had to be dangerous, no doubt about it. His blood moved a little faster through his veins, and he looked forward to meeting the guy.
Chapter 14
1
By the time Wayne and Stacy made it to the east side, the cops had blocked off the neighborhood. Over the barricade, they could see the chaos of punks, riot police, fire and violence. Neither of them had seen anything like it before. They could hear screams and smell death wafting on the air, acrid and dull.
“How do we get through that?” Wayne asked.
Stacy didn’t need to think about it. “Put the shotgun under the seat. Let me take care of this.”
Wayne followed orders, and Stacy looked at the dash computer. The display showed that the riot area had been blocked off, and no cars were allowed in. She thought that maybe if they got close enough, the car would lock on the tracks, and she couldn’t have that. She switched to manual and felt the wheels pull away from the track. She stayed on it, though, just for appearances.
She pulled the cab up next to the guard and rolled down the window, giving him a clear view of her.
“You can’t come through here,” he said. “You’ll have to turn around.”
“But I have to get through here, officer,” Stacy said. She used the best cute-little-girl voice she could muster, the one that her daughter-issues clients liked so much. To sell it, she pouted her lips out a bit.
The cop didn’t look impressed. “Out of the question, ma’am.”
Stacy moaned in mock disappointment. She pushed her chest out and pretended to scratch her belly, but what she r
eally did was use that hand to pull her shirt down a bit, revealing a perfect cleavage shot. “It’s an emergency.”
This time, the cop’s eyes darted down to admire the view of her gorgeous valley, but he didn’t do more than furtively glance, as if he thought himself to be a master of stealth. “I’m afraid I can’t let you through, ma’am.” But now, his voice had softened a little.
“Why not?” The neck of her shirt stretched just a little bit more, showing off the inside curve of her right breast completely. If that didn’t get him hard, and stupid, she thought, then he probably liked to suck cock.
The cop breathed through his mouth. “Uh . . .” He forced his eyes away from her. “There’s kind of a riot, uh, going on down there.” He nodded down the road. “I wouldn’t want you to, you know, get killed or anything.”
Stacy wondered if maybe she would need to grab this guy’s dick to get through the barricade.
The cop looked into the back seat and saw Wayne. “You need to be down there?”
“Yes,” Wayne said.
“You don’t look like the type of guy who needs to be in that neighborhood. What’s wrong with your face?”
“My doctor lives here,” Wayne said. “I need to see him. Now.”
The cop turned back to Stacy. “Sorry. I can’t let you through. Turn around.”
This time, Stacy pulled sharply on her shirt, and one of her breasts popped out. The cop’s jaw dropped, and though he tried to act casual, his tongue just wouldn’t stay behind his lips.
She reached out and touched the growing lump at the front of his pants. Four inches. Nothing much, but she could definitely work with it. She massaged him, cupping her palm so that it fit around as much of his dick as it could. Smiling, she looked up at his shocked face and saw his nostrils flaring almost enough to make his nose hairs shiver. Bulging fish eyes stared down at her hand.
“I love a man in uniform,” she said.
He moved his mouth, but nothing came out. He licked his lips and reached down his head, as if to kiss Stacy. Just as he caressed her breast, pinching her nipple between his middle and ring fingers, another cop approached. “Yo, Nick! What’s with the fucking cab? Get rid of it, pronto!”
Nick drew back right away and looked over the roof of the car to his partner. “I’m—“ But Stacy chose that moment to dig deeper and cup his balls. She wiggled her fingers in the damp, sweaty mess of Nick’s taint.
His partner’s eyes narrowed. “Jesus, Nicky. There’s a fucking riot going on.”
“I . . .” Nick trailed off, incapable of finding the right words. This was his second day on the Job, and already he’d scored his first handy from a blonde knockout. He’d read a lot of porn stories that ended up like this, but he never thought they could be true, and that they could happen to him.
His partner, Groboski, walked around the cab and slapped Stacy’s hand away. “Listen, lady. We’ve got a riot on, and we don’t have time for this touchy-feely shit. Get this fucking cab turned around, or I’ll book you on obstruction, comprende?”
“No need to be hard on her,” Nick said. His cheeks flared up when he realized he’d just said “hard on,” and he clasped his hands together over his crotch to hide his excitement.
“Goddammit, Nick. Get your hands off your cock. And yes, I need to be rough on her. This is a fucking riot!”
While Groboski ranted at his partner, Wayne leaned in close to Stacy’s ear. “Gun it,” he whispered.
Stacy didn’t question him. She stomped on the gas just as Groboski turned back, a finger pointed at her, ready to reprimand her more.
“All right, lady—“ And then the cab lurched forward. Its back tire rolled over his right foot, flattening it and shattering his bones. At first, he didn’t feel pain, he just knew something had happened to his foot. When he understood, he clenched his jaws, waiting for the pain to set in. When it registered, he howled, falling to the pavement, holding his ankle, afraid to grab himself any lower.
Nick’s hard-on vanished magically as he knelt down next to his partner. “You all right, Charlie? Huh? Did she get your foot?”
Groboski didn’t want to look at his foot, and he guessed he wouldn’t be able to until a doctor cut his boot off. He didn’t want to respond to Nick’s stupid question, either. He only wanted to be in bed, dreaming all of this.
Neither of them looked up to watch the cab as it sped away.
2
“Shit, did I get his foot?” Stacy asked. She looked up into the rearview mirror, watching the one cop on the ground, screaming.
“I think you did.” Wayne peered out the back window. “Yeah, I don’t think he’s on the ground because he likes it there.”
“Didn’t mean to do that. But, he did slap my hand.”
Wayne grunted. “Nice rationalization.”
“Shut up and get that shotgun out from under the seat. Keep an eye out for fuckers.”
3
Roberto sat in the driver’s seat of the limo, accompanied by two punks they’d picked up along the way. They were F and U, still unaware of their bassist’s death. In the back, Randall and Skank sat surrounded by four other punks with Pisser on the floor. They felt packed in and claustrophobic, and they all fidgeted, fighting with limbs that were starting to fall asleep.
They’d already driven around to reassign some groups to take on Drake and Taylor’s houses, so now they were on their way to the Wingate mansion. No one said a word, as if they were paratroopers in a plane waiting for the Jump.
Outside, the world went crazy with screams, gunfire and just plain old fire. The riot police stalked the neighborhood, trying to contain the violence while firefighters did their best to snuff out the ever-growing blaze that had started somewhere on the southeast side. Every once in a while, something struck the limo. Nothing big or dangerous, but it never failed to make its occupants jump just a little. Randall reassured himself that the limo had bulletproof glass and the chassis was reinforced to protect high profile customers.
In the front, Roberto had to steer the limo manually. A while ago, the cops locked down the tracks, so he had to disengage to get the job done. As he tried desperately to not run anyone over, he kept reminding himself of the money Randall had given him. He took comfort in the fact that it would buy a metric shit-ton of weed for him to relax with after his shift.
But then, he noticed the man standing in the middle of the road. The guy held a Molotov cocktail.
“Rich fuckers!” the man yelled. He lit the cocktail and reared back.
“Isn’t that Kelly?” U asked.
No one had the time to answer. The cocktail arced toward them in a fiery blaze.
“FUCK!” Roberto screamed. He tried to swerve out of the way, but he just didn’t have enough time. The Molotov cocktail struck the hood of the car and exploded. Fire zipped up the front of the limo and completely obscured Roberto’s line of vision. He tried to keep control, but the limo wasn’t built for maneuverability. As soon as he’d turned the wheel, they went into a skid, and then gravity took over.
The divider was up, so no one in the back knew what had hit them. They remained quiet as the limo jerked first to the right and then started drifting across the road.
Pisser slumped forward, hitting his head on the door. “What the fuck? Keep this fucker straight, asshole!”
Everyone else felt their guts slop around in their bellies as the limo toppled over and rolled onto its roof. They screamed as the limo flipped over and over again. None of them wore seat belts, so they all tangled up with everyone else as they banged their heads against the ceiling and windows.
Finally, the side of the limo hit a tree and came to a halt. Silence, except for a soft ticking sound as the engine cooled off.
Randall groaned as he shook his head. Blood trickled down from his nose, but otherwise, he felt fine. Skank, on the other hand, had fallen across his lap, unconscious. He could feel her blood soaking through his jeans.
“Oh shit,” he said. He pulled
Skank up to see her forehead had been split open, most likely from the ceiling light. A large cut now bisected her FUCK YOU tattoo, showing the bone of her forehead. She still breathed, though, so he shook her gently. “Wake up. Come on Skank. Wake up.”
“What the fuck?” Pisser. He moaned as he sat up. His flattened nose looked right at home on his fight-ravaged face. One of his legs, however, had been twisted at an unnatural angle. He didn’t seem to notice either injury, though.
The punk who had been sitting by Skank’s side had gone halfway through the window, his battered body broken and twisted, his head split open and filled with glass. The three on the other side of the limo weren’t so bad off, except the one nearest the smashed side. His body had been pierced by glass, metal and wood, and his face looked more like sloppy joes instead of something belonging to a human being. Still, he breathed.
Skank shuddered and her eye popped open. She rubbed at the other one under the patch and sat up. “What the fuck just happened?”
“I don’t know,” Randall said. He could smell fire, though, so he had a pretty good idea. “Let’s get out of here. Fast.”
Pisser screamed when he saw his leg. The bone poked out, but for some reason, Pisser’s mind refused to recognize it. He thought something unusual must be stuck in him, so he reached down to pluck it out. When the shard didn’t move, and pain shot through his body again, he realized the truth.
Randall tried to open the unscathed door, but it didn’t budge. “Goddammit! Open, fucker!” He kicked at it with all his might.
Skank moved over, and they timed their kicks together. Once. Twice. And third time, lucky. The door fell off its hinges, and the hot scent of fire wafted in at them.