All together, they did everything. Drinking, merrying, even fucking, sometimes they did that together. The women decided if they were in the mood, and they invited handsome men or curvy women into their marital bed. There was no jealousy involved, for they always picked well.
Never Fiske, of course. Never him.
Fiske got up to the bridge. Touching the controls, detecting warrior DNA, they came to life. He started to breathe harder. Excitement! Why had he been waiting all those years to do this thing? Why was he feeling devoted to a peoples that did not love him back? No one would miss him. No one would mourn for him. They'd miss the ship, for certain. And the fuel. But they wouldn't miss him, so why should he think about hurting them?
He closed the external hatch. The ship still needed repairs, he could see it from the outside, but it told him the same, in the form of Helpful Thor, a pint-sized hologram next to his hand.
"Ship is undergoing maintenance," Helpful Thor said.
"Shut up," Fiske replied, looking ahead. He flicked the startup sequence, the ship whirred top to end.
Smiling wide, Fiske made a little dance and then sat back down on the captain’s seat.
“Ship is scheduled for ten days ahead,” Helpful Thor said again. “We will go to the far quadrant, there’s treasures aplenty.”
“I don’t want treasures,” Fiske said.
“What else would a Viking want, other than lootin’ and a glorious death?” Helpful Thor asked.
“I’m only Viking in name,” Fiske said and felt shame.
Then he held his hand over the button that would take him away. From his peoples/not peoples, away. From the grave of his mother, away.
“From my years wasted, away,” Fiske said and slapped the button.
The ship roared. It farted a plume of flame, sputtering jets of methane.
“What’s wrong?” Fiske asked, pressed down on the seat.
Helpful Thor propped himself up on his minuscule Mjölnir. “We are setting sail.”
“Yes, but what’s wrong?” Fiske screeched, his face going pale.
“This is how a ship sails,” Helpful Thor said again.
The ship took to the air, lining the night’s sky like a light made of hair. It rose and rose up and away, having no real destination but awaiting input anyway. It flew into the night, kicking Vikings with its might. They woke up to the last man, and got out and gawked at the flare.
The Viking ship blew up, in a mighty explosion. And the Vikings eyes shone, and there was a lot of commotion. Pieces kept falling to the ground, simmering red. And they all felt relieved, because the raiders could have been dead.
Helpful Thor’s hologram debriefed the Viking Chief.
The was-to-be pilot said, "He saved them, that pesky old thief!"
A Viking pointed up and said next to him, "Two thousand raiders would have gone on that flight."
And the woman agreed, "That useless ol' Fiske finally did something right."
The end.
Chain Inaction
Benny finished his coffee, then threw the coffee cup away. Images flashed before his eyes.
Coffee cup> Passer-by throwing his next to it> Thousands of passers-by throwing theirs as well> Little piles of trash> Garbage man fired> Murder ten metres away from that very spot> Bad neighbourhood headlines> House prices go down> New ghetto.
He grunted and picked up the discarded coffee cup. “Okay, okay! Fine,” he mumbled to himself, wincing in pain. He crushed the paper cup in his hand and stuffed it into his pocket.
“Psychopathy is a popular subject of research. We can all understand in some way what psychopaths are and that they need to be treated. Their crimes usually make headlines, making it even easier for researchers to get funding. But it’s not all black-and-white in psychopathy, as recent findings have proven.”
Benny went home. There was a bicycle tossed right in the middle of the corridor, the teenager’s size, muddy and well-used. No matter how many times he’d asked the neighbour to get her son to park it properly, it didn’t seem to take. He stood next to it, pissed off. He kicked the damn thing, then pushed it to the side, bending the spokes on the stairs’ railing. Images flashed before his eyes.
Bicycle> Teenager trying to fix it> Tire breaks> Teenager gets under the wheels of an incoming bus> Miraculously survives> Extended surgical operations> Physical therapy that doesn’t really take> Mother in tears> Teenager angry> Father in debt> Father shoots himself.
“Aaah!” Benny screamed, holding his head. He cursed out loud at every step, went inside his apartment, brought out his toolkit and instead of taking a much-needed rest, he spent an hour repairing the bent spokes of the bike. Once he was done, he put the bicycle in the corner, where it wasn’t in the way.
“We used to think that psychopaths never regret their actions, that they simply don’t have that capability. What we’ve learnt is that some of them are not true-psychopaths, that they can feel regret, remorse, all those usual emotions. But, and here’s the kicker, they’re unable to predict that they will feel that way. There are treatments for true-psychopaths with varying degrees of success, but for those soft-psychopaths, a different approach is needed, I believe.”
Benny took a shower. His arms hurt, especially from all that fixing and tightening. He stayed there for a long time, feeling the hot water on his back. It was somehow an absolution of sin, it washed away everything bad he had ever done.
When it went cold, he stepped out and dried himself up. He got dressed in his sweater and slacks and went for the fridge. He glanced at the water heater button. Alice would be home any minute now. She’d want to get a hot shower too, and he had used it all up. But he was hungry, he couldn’t think of such things now, Alice could take care of herself. He went for the fridge.
Images flashed before his eyes.
Water heater light off> Alice comes home> Lets her hair down> Opens the shower faucet> Puts her hand in the stream> Complains to Benny about it> Benny shrugs and belches on the couch> Alice curses him under her breath> Alice sits on the toilet seat, crying> Alice meets up with her best friend for a coffee> Best friend introduces a blond man to Alice> Alice and the blond man have sex on the dining table while Benny is at work.
“Fuck! Fuck! Fuuuuck…” Benny spat out and went towards the shower, leaving the fridge’s door open. He felt the images coming, so he hurried back and slammed the fridge door shut. Then he turned on the water heater. “There!” he said to nobody in the room. Then he finally went to fill his stomach.
“For example, you have two boys, one of whom is a psychopath. It is worth noting here that a lot of children’s behaviours can be interpreted as psychopathic ones, but let’s say that this one is a true psychopath. Now, there are two chocolates left in the kitchen by their mother, one for each. They’re out playing, and the boy runs back in the kitchen and eats a chocolate. His brother leaves it for later. After a few minutes, the boy is still hungry, so he eats the second chocolate too. He will get a tummy ache, and that will make him feel physically bad. But we’re interested in the emotional toll. The true psychopath will not care when his brother comes crying to mommy afterwards. He will feel no remorse, and perhaps he will learn to fake it so that he slips away from social awkwardness such as this. Now, if that boy was a soft psychopath, he too would eat his brother’s chocolate. But, and herein lies the difference, he would feel remorse afterwards, when he’d see his brother crying to mommy. He simply couldn’t predict the remorse his action would have inflicted upon him beforehand, like a neurotypical person would.”
There was a Tupperware in the fridge, with a post-it saying ‘Alice’ on it. He opened it up, it smelled delicious, and he was hungry. His belly grumbled. He picked up a fork and started eating the braised meat.
He felt the images coming.
Empty Tupperware> Alice coming home> Alice takes a warm shower> Alice finds her prepared meal gone, complains that she was on a diet and what will she eat now> Benny apologises, but what would he eat,
there was nothing in the house> Alice points out the sandwich materials in the fridge> Alice slams the fridge shut> Alice quits her diet> Alice gains weight> Alice dies of a heart attack in five years.
“Woah, there, that one’s a stretch,” Benny said to the room. “Come on, it’s one lousy dinner. It’s not even warmed up!”
The room said nothing.
Benny shut his eyes, then breathed in deeply. Breathing out, he put the Tupperware back in the fridge, then took his time to make a sandwich for himself. He made sure to put it on a plate so as to not leave any crumbs on the couch, and he cleaned up after himself.
He sat there on the couch, remote control in hand.
“My research uses advanced simulation software with some supercomputing time to render out plausible scenarios from a patient’s life. The implant would simply show him or her the consequences of their actions as they take them. Hopefully, that way we can train them to think before they act, to consider the other person. It’s a forced form of empathy, sure, but some of these individuals live normal lives that can be improved by this simple crutch.”
There were so many choices on Netflix, he had no idea what he wanted to watch. He always liked to watch something while snacking, it was his thing. He’d grab something to eat, and put on a show to watch, didn’t really matter what. He scrolled through the options, never deciding on anything. He never had that problem before.
Every time he thought about committing to one choice, he thought he could feel the images coming. It was like a migraine that was rushing your way. What if he chose to watch a cop show and some kid on Argentina died? What if he chose a documentary, and his view count was the one that tipped the algorithms over, making the filmmakers successful, and they all went and died in pursuit of more thrills to show on camera? What if he chose a cooking show and Alice came home, saw those juicy recipes and decided to tear out her own eyes?
Could anyone guarantee that these butterfly effects wouldn’t happen? Benny didn’t know. Nobody could know.
He put the plate down. He put the remote control down.
He did nothing.
He was unable to decide anymore.
On anything.
The End
Adiadne's String
Ariadne put her string on his head, making sure it wrapped around his ears. He breathed in her pussy’s smell on the tiny bit of fabric that went on top of her crotch. He could feet the wetness of the cloth with the tip of his nose.
Then she went downwards, kissing him on the naked chest all the way. When she reached his erect cock, she jammed it all in her mouth, the tip pressing against the back of her throat.
She wrapped her lips around him and sucked with such an immense under pressure that made him cross-eyed and gasping for air.
He came within the minute, of course. Ariadne kept suckling on his tip, even as he emptied inside her mouth. The feeling was sensational.
She left him there, stoned, basking in the afterglow, behind a restaurant in Chinatown.
When he came to his senses he felt chilly. He looked around, pulled his pants up, and then unwrapped the string from his face. “That was the best damn blowjob I’ve ever had!” he mumbled to the night, feeling groggy, his mouth dry.
He managed to get up and steadied himself. The string held tight in his hand, he set out to find his love-at-first-blowjob.
“No, Mr. T, I don’t know any street-girls called Ariadne,” the little Chinese man told him.
“Damn. Thanks anyway,” Mr. T said and bought noodles from the all-night shop. He wolfed it down, it was very hot but very delicious. After that brief stop, he walked the streets again.
Chinatown was like a maze, the roads never made sense. Even if you had a specific address for your destination, the GPS would take you through alleys and dead-ends, making you backtrack and take another route at least three times before you got there. That’s if you were lucky. It wasn’t just him, everybody said so. The streets were a maze. Most of the locals knew their way around, but even a Chinatown-born person got lost every now and then.
He put his hand inside his pocket and gripped the string, feeling its texture, rubbing it like a rosary. He looked around, she had to be somewhere, right? He couldn’t just lose such a woman like that. He needed to find her again. But how?
All he had was her name, Ariadne, and her string.
He found a hooker on top of a ridiculously high pair of garish heels. “Hey, handsome, looking for some fun?”
“No, I’m looking for a girl named Ariadne?” Mr. T said.
“Are you a cop?” The hooker pulled back, looking around.
“No. I met her earlier tonight and I lost her, wanted to find her again, get her phone number, you know…” Mr. T shrugged and clicked his tongue.
She pointed a finger with a ridiculously long painted fingernail on it. “My dear man, if a girl, a working girl, doesn’t leave you her number, take the hint,” the hooker squinted and turned away.
“Please. I like her…” he pleaded.
She tsked audibly and slowly turned around. “True love, huh? Well, I’m a softie, what can you do? Okay, tell me what you know about her.”
“Uh… All I know is her name…”
“That’s not much to go on, dog!”
“Oh! And her string.” He pulled it out and offered it to the hooker.
“Eww. But that’s actually more useful. Lemme see,” the hooker leaned in close. “Hm. Did she put it over your eyes?”
“Yeah! How did you know?”
The hooker tsked. “Dog, she wants you to look for her.”
“Okay, great!” Mr. T perked up. “But how?”
“Load up your veil and see what’s up with the string,” she said.
He did so. Indeed, the veil loaded up Augmented Reality information about the string. Make, shop, buy online buttons. And then a glitch. “What happened?”
The veil flickered and she suddenly saw an ARO, and Augmented Reality Object, which looked like an illuminated path. It looked like those guiding lights in cinemas for when the lights are out.
“Awesome,” Mr. T said, “you were right, babe.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Can’t you see it on the veil?” Mr. T asked.
“No. Can you?”
“Yeah, it’s right there.”
“Okay then. Good enough for me. Now shoo ‘cause a girl’s gotta work for a living.”
“Thank you.” Mr. T didn’t need any more encouragement to get going. He followed the string of blue light across Chinatown. He walked around corners, into alleys, rounded back into an avenue, then dove right in to an alley again. This was taking him somewhere, he could feel it. But where? Definitely to Ariadne’s place. Gods, he would see her again, hug her, tell her how much he liked her.
Then they’d go out on a proper date, buy her a nice dinner and some expensive wine. They’d talk, he’d listen to her hopes and dreams. He’d kiss her softly on those amazing lips that could suck his medulla out of his boner.
Ah… Any minute now.
He walked into the night. He walked past cop cars, past hookers, past kids staying up past their bed-time, past old ladies giving him the stink-eye for being different.
In the end, the string led him through the maze and into a butcher’s place. The shop was closed but there was light inside, so he went to the door. “Hello?” he shouted. Then he knocked on the glass door. “Hello, is anyone inside? Ariadne?”
Someone cursed at him in Chinese from a balcony above. “Shush! We’re trying to sleep over here.”
“Sorry!” Mr. T said, wincing.
He pushed the glass door. It was open. He looked around if someone was looking at him, and got inside. The butchery was what you’d expect, that acidic smell of raw meat. The refrigerators hummed, operating 24/7 just like they were supposed to. In the dark, the knives hanging on the wall were very ominous, especially the meat cleavers. He hesitated, then gulped a few times. Then he thought about Ariad
ne, and how much he wanted to meet her again.
He stepped forward. The display fridges were empty, cleaned out after the shop closed for the day. He walked all around them, they extended for quite a bit, all the way to the back of the store, and he went behind, to the employees-only area.
There were shiny metal hangers too here. All of them at eye-level, he noted. If someone tripped over here he’d poke an eye out. Then he remembered that he was a bit taller than most Chinatown folks, so the danger presented only to him.
He went inside the door and checked out the back.
Meat storage, quite chilly actually. The door to the massive walk-in fridge was shut and locked. There was one hook that was occupied, though. That of a big cow, he could tell by her head. She was sliced open, her ribs exposed, her innards removed, her skin flayed.
That was the only thing in there. Mr. T reached out to touch the hanging meat, there was something behind it.
He felt a blow to the head, and everything went black.
He opened his eyes, only to realise many things at the same time: He was cold, he was bound, and he was getting the best blowjob of his life, again in a single night.
Ariadne sucked him with her powerful lungs. He moaned in pleasure despite feeling dizzy and uncomfortable.
“I love you,” Mr. T said.
She looked up, her mouth still around his cock, her eyes meeting his. She popped the tip in her mouth as she released it. “What are you talking about?”
“I love you, Ariadne. I wanna be with you,” Mr. T said.
She tilted her head to the side. She looked a bit ugly, as girls went. Her nose was a bit too wide, her nostrils permanently flaring. And she was thick for a woman, with strong arms and legs. She was definitely feminine, just not that pretty.
But he didn’t care.
“What do you mean you love me?” Ariadne asked.
MOAB � Mother Of All Boxsets Page 113