Things Were Always like This; You Just Didn't Notice E-Book

C. James Taylor

• Herausgeber: WS
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 346

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2021

Beschreibung

Do you like it when terrible things happen to bad people? Of course! Who doesn’t? But it does not happen often enough, so fiction needs to step in to correct the imbalance. In this anthology, poetic justice takes place in a variety of unpleasant, satisfying ways. Innocent characters get sucked into the grinder too, but remember it is okay not to feel bad for them, because deep down they probably had it coming... And also they’re not real.

The stories in here are both humorous and shocking. They leave an impression with the reader, whether by making them laugh or lay awake at night. From to sci-fi comedy to horror, there is not one exact genre, but also not a single boring story. People are abducted by well-endowed aliens, get tortured for a living, have their hearts explode, find forbidden love, and there is even a talking dog!

Leseprobe

Things werealways like this;you just didn'tnotice

C. James Taylor

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2021 by C. James Taylor

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or used in any manner without written permission of the copyright owner except for the use of quotations in a book review. For more information, contact me at: [email protected].

Book cover by Rebeca-Ira P

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ISBN: 978-1-7777989-1-8

CUT AND DRY

REFILL

LONG DISTANCE CALLS ON A ROTARY PHONE

SCRATCHY

UNDER THE BROWN HOOD

TASTY!

THE DAILY GRIND

THE NOTHING BOX

TIMESHARE

SEVENTY-NINE

SOMETIMES THEY POP

HEADPHONES

LOOP

CLICKIN’

FUTUREMAN

A SURE THING

AFTERWORD

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

CUT AND DRY

George, a pudgy bald man wearing a backpack, entered the ‘Happy Day’ Clinic and demanded to see a surgeon. Upon being told to have a seat, he swung the bag around and produced a pair of diet, caffeine-free cola bottles. Clasping one in each hand, he began pacing across the waiting room, taking long swigs, alternating left and right.

It was a Friday afternoon and he had not expected such a long wait. He scowled as he passed the other patients—people quietly staring at their phones or attempting to read six-month-old news magazines. Mothers pulled their little ones close and looked at George warily as he became increasingly agitated, marching up and down the room, groaning and shaking his head while chugging pop and belching.

Ninety minutes and four bottles later, George was admitted and now free to fuss-about in the small examination area—hopping on and off the bed, looking through drawers and cupboards. He noticed an anatomy diagram on the door and was reading intently when it suddenly swung forward, smacking him in the nose. George hollered in pain and stumbled back as the doctor stepped in.

‘Oh sorry, about that; didn’t see you there. Are you alright?’ Dr. Lisa Sexton asked, gently closing the door. George shook his head, nose cupped with his left hand.

‘Why in the world does the door swing inward? It’s such a tiny room, it should open into the hallway.’ he said.

‘Sorry again.’ she said. ‘You’re right, maybe we can swap out the hinges. Can I take a look at your nose?’

George waved her hand away and checked his palm for blood. Finding none, he hopped on the little bed. ‘It’s fine; we’ve got more important matters to discuss.’

Sexton glanced down to her chart as she spoke. ‘Alright sir, what seems to be the problem?’

‘I need you to remove something.’ George said, rubbing his gut and unbuttoning his shirt.

‘Ok. What would that be?’ she asked, eyeing his swollen belly.

‘We’ll get to that. How much would it cost to cut me open and take something out?’

‘Umm. Well, that depends on the nature of the procedure of course.’

‘Let’s say a C-section. How much would you charge for one of those?’

‘You want a Cesarean-section?’

‘I want…to know how much it costs, and that sounds like a similar operation.’

‘Sir, as a physician pricing is not really something I have much control over. It mostly depends on the insurance policy you have. But in any case, we need to determine what the problem is, first and foremost.’

‘No, no insurance, I mean a cash payment. It has to be done in secret.’ George got off the bed, grabbed a fresh bottle from his bag, cracked it open and took a long gulp.

‘I have no idea in that case sir.’ she said, eyeing the emergency call button.

George quickly sat again, causing the carbonated syrup to overflow and dribble down his wrist.

‘Here’s the deal.’ he said, sipping up the mess. ‘I’ve got plenty of cash and something I need removed. You take it out, and I give you money.’

Dr. Sexton crossed her arms. ‘What do you need taken out?’

‘You won’t believe me anyway, so it doesn’t matter. But I know I need it done.’

‘Sir, I’d like to refer you to someone.’ Sexton started writing on her pad. ‘Whom you can talk to about this.’

George shook his head, ‘Noooope. No, stop right there, I’m not crazy. Now listen to me, this is a clinic, a business, right? You perform medical services. I wish to purchase a service; simple as that. I can pay up to fifty thousand dollars. That’s my life savings. To save my life, no less.’

Sexton pinched the bridge of her nose and closed her eyes for a moment. ‘How do you know that surgery is necessary, sir?’

As an answer, he angrily gestured toward his abdomen, rubbing what appeared to be a large beer belly.

Sexton nodded slowly. ‘I see, yes. I understand now. We don’t do liposuction here, but I can recommend a colleague of mine.’

George frowned, ‘Doctor…’

‘Sexton.’

‘Doctor Sexton. I’m not fat. I’ve got a foreign body in my...body, and it needs to be removed promptly.’ George explained, followed by a gigantic belch.

‘A foreign body you say? Did it become lodged when you were sticking it up your behind for gratification?’ Dr. Sexton spoke softly, barely above a whisper.

George yelled, ‘No! And what!? Where did that come from? That’s not—it’s a kind of...baby.’

Dr. Sexton flipped over the paper and began jotting down notes on the back. ‘A pregnancy termination then. I’m beginning to understand. Tell me, when did you begin your gender transition?’ she asked softly.

‘What in the world are you on about now? Things in butts and sex changes…’ George asked, dribbling brown liquid down his chest.

‘Well on the form here you selected male. Did you undergo any procedures? Are you taking testosterone injections?’

George shook his head and rubbed his nose. ‘I’m not a transsexual. I’m a man.’

‘Right. Of course, how you identify is not an issue, but biologically I mean. You have ovaries, yes?’

‘No.’

‘But you just said that you’re pregnant.’

‘No, I said I have a kind of baby inside me. Now cut it out.’

‘I’m just trying to understand the situation.’

‘No, I mean literally cut it out. I don’t care if you kill the thing in the process.’

Dr. Sexton leaned in and pressed her stethoscope to his abdomen, listening intently and poking around. She squeezed, rubbed and pinched his belly.

‘It’s alive.’ George said.

‘There’s no heartbeat.’ Sexton responded.

‘Well no, there wouldn’t be, or a pulse. But nevertheless, it’s in there, and growing.’

Dr. Sexton pressed firmly with her fingers and frowned.

‘Mr. Church?’

‘Just George, please.’

‘George, there does appear to be some sort of growth in your stomach. Perhaps a tumour. I can’t be certain until we get a scan.’

George shook his head and was near screaming. He threw up his hands,

‘Who cares what it is? Just say that I swallowed a bunch of marbles. You know the appropriate anatomy, slice me open and throw away anything that looks unusual!’

Sexton’s tone was stern. ‘Let's do an ultrasound and settle this once and for all.’ She gestured towards the door.

‘Is it absolutely necessary?’

‘It is, absolutely.’

‘You are a surgeon, yes?’

‘I am.’

‘Very well then.’

George downed his remaining cola, took the paperwork from the receptionist, and went downstairs for an ultrasound. He disrobed and lay down on the gurney, humming loudly as a nurse applied ice-cold lube on his bloated stomach. After forty minutes, his skin was tender and sore from the constant rubbing, while the nurse was trying a third machine and wondering aloud how all of them could stop working on the same day. Eventually she gave up and told him to head across town for an MRI instead.

***

George received a call from the clinic a few days later but refused to make a follow-up appointment, insisting on coming back immediately. Again, he paced furiously in the waiting room—stomach even more engorged than before—and was making a lot of noise. This time he’d brought sugar-free lemon lime soda, along with plastic cups and a bag of ice that clattered around during his incessant fidgeting and clomping. To top it off, he was sweating through his shirt and stunk like he had not showered in days.

Dr. Sexton opened the door very slowly this time. George nearly leapt at her as she stepped inside.

‘Alright doctor, you’ve got your scan, so how much longer till you set me right? Can it be done today? Certainly within the week?’

‘Have a seat George.’ Sexton said, nose wrinkling slightly.

He sat, grumbling ‘Everything takes so effing long, no way to run a business...’

‘George what kind of work do you do?’ Sexton asked.

‘I’m a botanist. What does it matter?’

She handed him a copy of the ultrasound and MRI results. He looked over the pictures, shaking his head and moaning, ‘Oh no, oh no, no, no.’

‘The other day you described this as a kind of baby.’

‘That’s right.’

‘Meaning a baby plant.’

He nodded. ‘A tree apparently. This would be a variation of Malus Mcintosh.’ George, face buried in his hands, whimpered softly as Dr. Sexton rested a hand on his shoulder.

‘Try to remain calm...we’ll certainly do everything we can. I’ve been reviewing these photos with my colleagues and want to schedule emergency surgery as soon as possible. When was the last time you ate something?’

‘Probably three days ago.’ George's voice was barely above a whisper now.

‘In that case we can have you prepped within a few hours.’ Doctor Sexton said, speaking with more authority now.

‘Emergency you say? Calling it that, makes it cost more?’

‘Not really.’

‘Doesn’t matter. I’ll sign whatever and cut you a cheque or transfer cash right away. Just get it out. This is my second sick day, and if I survive that doesn’t leave many left for this year. Worse, if my colleagues find out I’ll be a laughingstock.’

‘We will do everything in our power to help you. But I have to ask you George, how is this possible?’

‘I told you—’

Sexton nodded impatiently. ‘Yes, you want to purchase a service. You’ve been coy up until now George, but as a doctor the more I know the better I can help. We’re talking about invasive surgery that could be very risky. Help me understand how this started.’

George sighed, ‘Fine. As we established, I’m a botanist.’

‘Yes.’

‘More of an experimental botanist.’

‘Okay.’

‘I have been working on a strain of extremely fast growing, durable plants. Fruits and vegetables primarily, that don't require fertilizer; they can grow anywhere, just add water—a lot of water that is—and once exposed to any form of light and oxygen, they mature at ten-thousand-times the normal rate. I have a theory that smothering with carbon dioxide slows it down. And possibly cold temperatures too. Hence the uh...’ He shook a fizzing cup of ice.

Dr. Sexton buzzed the intercom and called the nurse to bring an IV. Then she turned to George.

'So you got infected by touching or breathing a petri dish? Maybe getting in your eyes?’

George shook his head.

‘I ate it.’

‘What! Why?’

‘By mistake of course!’

‘You ate experimental super-fruit by mistake?’

He took a long pause, belching lightly. ‘I was snacking on sunflower seeds at lunch. Then I brought a handful into the lab with me, in my pocket. All day long I was typing up these tedious T104 status reports and sorting the special lab seeds for documentation. So, I’m working away, going back and forth between the superfood seeds, computer, and my pocket. And I guess I popped the wrong kind of seed in my mouth because I remember thinking that a couple of them were soggy and maybe I’d gotten a bad box. It must have started sprouting immediately, but the discomfort wasn’t bad at first; I was able to finish my shift and make it home before things started getting out of hand. Once I realized what had happened, I came to you. Was hoping it had been one of the cucumbers. A melon maybe. Not a god damned apple tree.’

‘Ridiculous. I can’t even get tomatoes to grow in my garden. And wouldn’t all this stuff you’re drinking just make it worse?’ Sexton frowned.

George shook his head. `You're thinking of a normal plant. In nature, photosynthesis requires water, carbon dioxide and natural light to create sugar. It's safe to assume my intestines are supplying the moisture. But despite my sunny disposition doctor, there are no golden rays of sunshine inside me! I believe that this special plant is stealing glucose from my blood and using cellular respiration to break it down. Rather than CO2, that would use oxygen, something which I’m trying my best to keep out.’ he said, struggling with another large belch.

‘But if they grow rapidly when they touch light and air—’

‘Yes, as soon as you slice me open, it’ll expand to full size. So you’d better yank it out fast and have a vacuum-seal box ready or we’ll be in big trouble!’

***

George was prepped and given a sedative. As he slept soundly, Dr. Sexton and her assistants choreographed the procedure. They marked standing places on the floor, practiced passing equipment and arranged the tools in precise order to save every possible second. But they did not have much time to coordinate—George’s belly was beginning to resemble a large beach ball. And in the end it made no difference. The instant that Sexton made an incision across the navel, green leaves sprouted from his belly. Before she could react, thick brown branches shot out in every direction and took up the centre of the room. The overhanging lights became shrouded by leaves and a branch shattered one of the fluorescent bulbs. Dr. Sexton—in surgery gear—backed away, shaking her head at a nurse offering up a plastic container. Within minutes a thick trunk had formed, and the tree was nearly full grown; its bright green dangling bulbs quickly swelled into ripe, red apples.

Dr. Sexton shut off the lights and got on the phone with building maintenance, who in turn called the landscapers. Orderlies went downstairs to meet them and collect shears, a chainsaw and hedge trimmers. Meanwhile, a confused male nurse was dispatched to pick up ‘something to help with the lighting’ from the store across the street. But he left through the wrong exit and ended up shopping at the crafts shop instead of the hardware store. Sexton took the bag he returned with, gave a loud sigh and promptly sent him out again.

The tools were sterilized as much as possible. Then, working by flashlights and miner’s hats with bulbs dulled by wax paper—and aided slightly by linen-scented candlelight—the staff trimmed off branches and packed the clippings into large leaf bags. They stood on ladders and carefully sawed off small chunks of trunk, piece by piece from the top down. All the while, George slept peacefully as his body slurped up IVs and blood transfusions.

***

In the end, there was no way to safely extract the tree entirely from George—the roots were tangled up and fused to his innards. So, a couple inches of the base were left sticking out, the edges sewn to his belly. Fortunately, after being cut down the super tree’s growth rate began to slow considerably. Although George had to be careful with his diet and keep well hydrated, he led a normal life for the most part. He installed a special grinder in the garage to whittle and shape the trunk occasionally, keeping it trim in the summer time but letting it swell for Christmas when it was time fit in with his chubby family. Years later, after a disastrous attempt to donate blood, he quit lab work. And subsequently made a rich living selling his apple-flavored plasma on the internet to occultists and people who think they are vampires.

REFILL

Eyes still closed, sally rolled back and forth on the bed. She moaned and mumbled and shook her head. Her senses were kicking in—the smell of stale sweaty sheets and vomit flavour breath; the sound of wind slipping through holes in the walls and the feeling of chapped lips and tender gums. She started to pull a blanket over herself but it was damp and cold, so she kicked it away and sat up, back cracking and popping loudly as she twisted from side to side. She whimpered softly. The rot in her stomach was painful but dull compared to the blistering headache.

Slightly awake now, Sally got up and raised the blinds inches at a time, letting the early sun in through the dusty windows lined with dead flies. She pulled the window open and breathed in the cool air. The room was musty, and sunlight revealed the filth around her—cigarette butts, coffee cups, soda and sports drink bottles, tinfoil, crumbs and pieces of mouldy things that were edible once upon a time. She was alone. The entire building might be abandoned aside from squatters and trash. That was not unusual these days.

Sally caught her reflection in the dirty glass of the window: a pretty woman in her mid-thirties with messy brown hair, a dark complexion and two big, empty eye sockets. She leaned in to examine her crow’s feet and noticed the blood splatter on her face and hands; then she walked into the bathroom and flicked on a flashlight hanging from the ceiling. With her pretty green artificial eyes now showing up in the mirror, she washed her face with a pack of fresh wet wipes near the sink, vigorously scrubbing off dried blood. Ignoring the bathtub and the slumped shape inside, next she made her way to the kitchen.

Sally checked the time: 5:25am, and searched the cupboards for something to eat, finding only dust and more garbage. She gave up, headed back into the bathroom and approached the tub. The shape was a naked man covered in his own blood. She studied the mess that used to be his face, trying to remember a name, where they had met, anything. Sally could remember bits and pieces from yesterday—swiping the chemicals from work, mixing and taking them together; then the pure sexual lust, the insatiable appetite that followed. Not such a bad way to spend your last night—she hoped he would have agreed. Odd that she could not remember his name though. After cleaning up as best she could, Sally got dressed and sat by the window, waiting for her head to clear.

***

The mixes were not narcotics, more like powdered brain fuel. They were meant to be delivered mechanically into people who had undergone a more complete retrofitting—a top-up for the upgraded who pushed themselves to the brink with extreme sensations. But being chemicals, one way or another it should be possible to simulate the same experience, Sally had assumed. But obviously they had done too much. How was she supposed to know it would make them so horny? She had just been looking for an upper, that’s all.

As it kicked in, they had felt a heat grow like a red-hot chain that hooked inside their chests and pulled them together; an overwhelming need to be close and near painful attraction bubbled up inside. Even after hours of sex, the heat and the deep hunger kept growing. They talked about marriage, spending eternity together; fluffy pillow talk that even a middle schooler would roll her eyes at. Until suddenly the feeling was gone, the heat sucked out and replaced with an icy emptiness.

That would have been the time to separate and spend some time apart, she reflected, eyeing the bathroom. But that buzz was hard to let slip away. She remembered the feeling of his skin after the rush had dissipated―transformed from flawless silk to sweaty, pimply flab. They both became nauseous and he fled to the bathroom. But she remained in the bed, trying to make sense of the new emotions taking hold―feeling used up, humiliated; abandoned as if she were nothing, had never been anything. A dull burn turned into a full body-shaking rage. She remembered barging into the bathroom and grabbing the lid off the toilet bowl. It certainly had seemed important at the time.

***

The boy without a face was still good for spare parts at least. It seemed a shame to just leave him to rot and waste valuable tissue. Nearly everything could be recycled these days. On the other hand, parts of him were probably covered in her DNA—a difficult thing to explain if one were arrested for murder. The best thing would be to get him into the recycling dump. She eyed his smashed skull—it was a pile of dried gore, impossible to pass off as a suicide. But the road cleanup bots were known to scoop up sleeping homeless along with roadkill and beer bottles. Sally stuck her head out the window—they were extremely high up, about the 14th floor—not much further to the roof. She searched around the room for his clothes, finding some pants and a jacket. In the pocket she found a wallet with an ID: Nick Valenteen. The picture did nothing to jog her memory, so Sally yanked Nick out of the tub, dressed him and started hiking up the stairs, hoping not to run into anyone.

The roof had been turned into a little shanty town, but she counted only one vagrant among the tarps and debris. He was sleeping one off by the looks of it—curled up in a dirty purple sleeping bag and snoring loudly. There was an assortment of vacant sleeping spots. Sally grabbed a green sleeping bag and stuffed Nick inside, then double bagged him with another yellow one front to back. Finally, she sealed it up with duct tape, making a big dead-boy burrito, and glanced over the edge at the streets below. In contrast to most of the disgusting interiors, the roads and alleyways were sparkling clean thanks to the bots that patrolled every morning. She spotted one turning the corner—like a floating street sweeper with a giant vacuum mouth (blades hidden inside)—and heaved him over the ledge, watching it fall. The burrito made a surprisingly soft thud and the gooey center remained intact. Sally crouched down and waited for any sort of reaction—screams, gasps, living room lights turning on. Nothing happened. As the bot made its way down the alleyway, she tucked Nick’s wallet into the sleeping man’s pile of personal effects and calmly made her way down the stairs.

***

Sally arrived at work and snuck into the shower. She had the women’s change room all to herself and tried to get cleaned up but flashbacks—side effects from the mix—kept rolling in, making it hard to focus. She was still beat up inside. The infatuation and heartbreak had felt so genuine... she told herself while cleaning her bloody nails. I hope this wears off; I hate dwelling on the past. The real question was whether she would try it again. Up until the end it had been a lot of fun.

She changed into work overalls and emerged to find some customers already in the waiting area. Like cars parked, waiting for an oil change. She walked through reception and into her little workspace among a row of retrofitted dentist chairs. There were a lot of female customers; it was going to be a busy day. She pressed a button, and a green light above signaled that she was ready to take clients. The first girl walked in; Sally pulled the curtains and directed her to strip down to her underwear and take a seat. Then she plugged a tablet in behind the customer’s ear, skimming through the data that showed typical receptor degradation in the brain.

‘Alright, Kylie? Looks like you’re due for a standard tune up.’ Sally said as she wheeled over a large machine with tubes. She felt around the back of Kylie’s head, finding a round outline, and then yanked on her hair. A chunk of scalp came away with a pop and she tossed it on a tray then opened a drawer and took out two packets of powder, trying not to read the name on the front. She stirred the packets together with water in a mixing cup until it became a thick, purple liquid. Then using a large syringe, she injected it into a small valve by Kylie’s ear, who made no reaction—probably watching a movie in her head. Lastly, Sally gently secured the chunk of flesh and hair back into place.

On the tablet, red lights were flashing across the body diagram. Sally ran her fingers along Kylie’s shoulder in a deliberate pattern. Shoulder and wrist upgrades were common these days, particularly among the working class who were expected to move and work at inhuman speeds. Sally popped off the right arm, peeled the cover off the shoulder casing, replaced the ball bearings and oiled up the joints. Same for the other side—both wrists needed several new parts. The right one was severely worn out and would need to be completely replaced soon, Sally made a note on the tablet. What has this woman been doing?

The rest of the morning was a mad rush. It seemed that every woman in the city needed work done. The worst were the elderly rich housewives who had started upgrading long before the technology was refined, and now had problems with their aging power cores. While the newer technology could be recharged externally for a lifetime, the older ones needed to be swapped out—which was not pretty. Over time, calcium build-up made a pasty mess out of the rib cage, causing a cracking, splintering sound of human decay when opened to replace the battery. Usually considered a two-man job, it was a stinking, sticky, noisy, dangerous, and exhausting affair. A person not wanting to die is understandable, but there exists a sad, surprisingly long stretch of time where the body has naturally reached its limit yet continues to function; like a withered sail propped up with sticks, unable to catch the wind.

By afternoon, one of the crew still had not shown up and the technicians were lagging behind. The waiting room was noisy and overflowing. Things were so busy that Sally cracked open two grandmas by herself and even took on some male clients. She was still coming down from the mix and had an apocalyptic hangover by the time she punched out.

***

The next morning, Sally received a message about an early meeting and rushed to the subway station. Standing on the platform, she suddenly did not know which way to go. She stared helplessly at the route map. North? It must be north. How many stops? Seven? Ten? Why can’t I remember? Okay, no problem. I’ve got a smartphone; I’ll just check the maps. Wait, where do I work? Oh god.

After pacing and for a while, she double checked the text message from earlier. It was sent under the name DJ, and she silently prayed that it was a work phone as she selected dial.

‘Ace Bodies.’ answered a gruff male voice.

Gotcha. Sally hung up, found the address on her phone and hopped in a cab. When she arrived, the other technicians were sitting around the breakroom, waiting. DJ—who she now recognized as her manager—looked annoyed and gestured toward a chair as Sally walked in. She sat, and he asked everyone to brace themselves for bad news.

‘In case anyone wasn’t yet aware, Nick, one of our team (and the absent technician from yesterday) was found dead last night.’

Shit, we worked together?

‘Worse.’ DJ continued, ‘It’s being treated as a homicide.’

Double shit. Maybe the bots are smarter than they used to be.

‘Cops say that preliminary blood tests indicate he’d been abusing synthetic emotions.’

Triple shit.

‘They suspect he was trying to sell them as narcotics and got killed by a fellow addict. Police think he stole the drugs from work. So, from now on all mixes are to be kept locked up and inventory is to be done every night and the following morning.’

All the shit in the world!

DJ finished up by adding that there would be a memorial for Nick on Friday, anyone who wanted to attend would be allowed to do so. ‘But please understand that we’re running a business and this isn’t meant to be free time.’

Sally spent the afternoon swapping out breast implants and irradiated uteruses while trying to remember Nick. Maybe there were two different Nicks, and it’s just a coincidence. She could not find any photos of him around the office. And there was nothing in the news yet. Her curiosity was satisfied when she heard DJ drop a big milk crate full of junk onto the reception desk. ‘That’s all his stuff, can you make sure it gets to his family or whatever?’ he said to Tricia, who worked the front desk.

Apparently, DJ had wasted no time in clearing out Nick’s locker. Pretending to come out for a fresh cup of coffee, Sally hovered around the overflowing box and spotted an old ID badge. The photo left no doubt—he was her shoving buddy alright. Though either they had hung out for the first time, or she had deleted all traces of him from her phone. No one’s consoling me about losing a boyfriend. Sally snuck a few more peaks at his photo, but try as she might, she could not remember him in the slightest outside of that one night together.

When everyone else had left, Sally returned to her workstation, hooked herself up to the tablet and ran a diagnostic. As she had feared, it reported mild brain damage. But there was no way to submit herself for repairs, not now. That would reveal a spike in chemicals and get her fired for stealing, arrested for murder and scrapped before the week was out. She had to wait a few weeks, months even. Or do it in another town. There was another more pressing problem—if they were doing inventories, it would be difficult for her to steal more of that sweet brain juice. And another rush was all she could think about.

***

Sally grabbed as much mix as she could carry, along with tools and anything else that looked valuable. Using some prefabs, she swapped out her hair with a nice blonde bob and gave herself some quick other mods: calf extensions, boob job, a couple new joints and a skin tint. Then wiped out all the records and accessible security footage. She had walked in a pale, short brunette; now left out a tall, curvaceous coffee-skinned blonde.

Sally headed downtown, scoping out various bars but never staying long. As she got further north, things got increasingly seedy. Passing one particularly decrepit neighborhood, on the corner she noticed Kylie—dressed in leather and offering handjobs to every guy that walked past. Sally smiled at her and got an awkward wave in return. Kylie clearly had the same eye implants as her own, made of the cheaper synthetic jelly that did not react properly to natural light; it made them appear nearly invisible. But unlike most, Kylie did not bother with sunglasses.

Sally eventually settled on a place and plunked herself next to a pudgy older man with a long grey beard named Percy. He was already very drunk but seemed kind, regaling her with stories of being in a biker gang in his youth. A ne'er do well outlaw who was feared by men and irresistible to women. Percy was one of the rare people to have no modifications at all.

After chatting and drinking for a while, they stumbled back to his apartment and Sally rigged up an injection device. Neither of them had the proper mods, so the only way to take the mix was with a special spiked glove she had devised. It pricked under the fingernails and delivered a gradual dose into the bloodstream. For her with synthetic hands, the pain was not an issue. But Percy whined and whimpered and kept trying to pull his hand out.

‘Quiet, you big baby. Once it kicks in the sting will be gone.’ she said, pinning his wrist down. She had planned to use a smaller dose this time, but the kick was too mild. They ended up using twice as much as she had done with Nick—nearly a three months' supply for normal applications.

The mix took hold and she looked over at Percy’s pudgy cheeks as his eyes rolled back. They sat on the bed as the world began spinning; a floating feeling took over, like a tickle beginning in the feet and spreading along their arms and legs. Colours became more vibrant, the air tasted sweeter. An immense self-confidence surged inside as fear slipped away. Then euphoria crashed over them like a giant tidal wave. Sally turned to Percy, smacked him on the chest and commanded, ‘Get over here!’ They went at each other like animals in heat. In the delirium, she felt impressed—for an oldie Percy could really keep it up.

In the early morning, they collapsed in a near-coma, exhausted and sore. Sally awoke in the afternoon, sticky with sweat and aching with an intense hunger. She rose and beelined for the fridge. Like any good bachelor, Percy was stocked up with frozen pizzas. She tossed a couple in the oven and was looking for coffee when she noticed a drawer sitting open. Inside there was a large gap in the cutlery tray for a butcher’s knife. Finding another, smaller blade, she pulled it out along with a glass cutting board. With a groan, she rubbed her head and groin. Then headed to the bathroom, averting her eyes from the corner where Percy lay in several pieces.

***

Detective Mulroney stared through the interrogation room window, sipping on his third cup of coffee and munching on his second donut. A man of gigantic stature, he pressed his shoulder against the glass, letting it carry some of his weight. His knees were shot, but the department insurance would not pony up for replacements until the next fiscal year. If he sat down now, it would take ages to get back up. Also standing—especially as a tall man—commanded authority. So, he rarely took a load off during the workday. The job wouldn’t be so bad except for these damned interrogations.

Through the glass Mulroney watched a young lady in a manic state, babbling on and on about this and that. Her statements ranged from tearfully wondering aloud who she was, to declaring herself an undercover officer dispatched by a secret authority. The interrogation was mostly a formality. They had her dead to rights—security footage of her entering and leaving wherever the victims were found, and even moving bodies; plus, ample DNA evidence. She had changed her appearance a few times, but that did not fool the computers. Multiple buildings, multiple victims, same MO. Like a praying mantis always looking for a new mate with a fresh head. There were probably countless other victims they had not linked to her yet. If things went smoothly, a couple hours of questioning would mean closing a half dozen files. He could probably even punch out early.

Mulroney poured himself another cup of the strong black coffee and opened the pastry box, leisurely deciding on a chocolate glaze. There was no rush. He would let her sweat a little longer. Drugs had changed since his day, but addicts were always the same—that deep flaw inside that overran all self-control. Most had a good heart, but they just couldn’t help themselves. Shame, this one’s pretty. Blonde, nice body and apparently a bit of a sex maniac. A real waste. Mulroney dipped his donut and leaned against the glass again. She’ll be scrapped before the week is out.

LONG DISTANCE CALLS ON A ROTARY PHONE

‘You guys wanna order some food?’ Andreas asked. The other two men shook their heads and helped themselves to the whiskies he had bought for the table.

‘Well, hey, how about we see a game next weekend? Raptors are on a streak.’

Andreas thought he caught a brief eye-roll in their expressions.

‘Sure, sure. That’s an idea.’ said Ardi, looking away to the muted TV playing an old game. Marti gave a shrug and said, ‘Can we get down to business?’

Andreas dropped his eyes and nodded.

‘I don’t see what’s left to discuss. Do we need something in writing?’ Ardi asked.

Andreas noticed that they had finished their drinks already. ‘No rush, we’ve got all night.’ he said and downed his own, then stood up.

‘I gotta take a leak. I’ll get another round on my way back. You know, next week is at home against Boston. Could be a really intense game.’

Frowns and more sideways glances were the only response. Andreas scratched his head and headed to the bathroom.

‘This fucking guy.’ said Marti, after Andreas was out of earshot.

‘I know, I know. Just think of the money.’ answered Ardi, and he took off his jacket, revealing a V-neck t-shirt that showed off his extremely hairy body.

A few minutes later, Andreas was back, and staring at his companions across the room. His face was pale, lip quivering.

Marti waved at him, ‘You said you were gettin’ us a round!’

Andreas glanced over to the bar, then slowly returned to his seat, nearly slipping off the chair.

‘Wow, easy there. Maybe we oughta switch you to diet cokes, huh?’ said Ardi.

‘What a lightweight.’ muttered Marti.

Andreas steadied himself on the table, breathing deeply. Ardi shook a furry arm at him and said, ‘What’s up with you? Hello! You still buyin?’ Then he leaned away as he realized that Andreas was staring at his chest.

‘I’m sorry.’ Andreas said, barely above a whisper.

‘What for? The drinks? Just go back over and get’em now.’ Marti said harshly. But Andreas just stared blankly, muttering to himself.

‘I’m sorry, my friend. Maybe in another life. On another world...’

***

Andreas found himself on a desolate tundra. In the distance, a mountain range filled the horizon; the tallest peaks seemed to puncture the night sky, rising into the stars. Bitter winds carried snow drifts across the wide desert. Looking down, he found himself clad in a protective body suit. He could move comfortably and with a lightness in his joints, as if he were 10 years younger. The temperature was deathly cold, but he felt only a slight chill in his fingers and toes. His helmet was so transparent as to be nearly invisible and overall, everything felt snug and comfortable, though he had no memory of putting it on. Or traveling here, for that matter.

Under the light of two beaming moons, he stood in a circle with six other beings wearing similar space suits. But they all resembled insects—he could not count all of the legs, antennae, and eyes. Many had claws and pincers too, with tips exposed to the elements and already covered in a light frost. Above them, a large orb appeared and began speaking in a garbled, high pitched noise that transformed into words that Andreas somehow understood.

‘~~Garble, Garble~~ I am representing the Superiors, we are deeply grateful that you have travelled all this way to help us. If you look around, you will see the greatest living warriors from several galaxies.’

Oh crap.

‘But even still, I’m afraid the odds of survival are extremely poor.’

Andreas put up his hand. ‘Hello? Yes, there’s been a mistake.’ The orb stopped speaking, and its glowing eye (and the insectoids) looked at him.

‘I mean, I seem to have taken someone else’s place here.’

‘That’s quite impossible.’ garbled the orb.

‘Umm...well it happened...but it’s an easy fix. Just send me back and I’ll trade places. I know the guy you want; I can grab him no problem.’

‘What is this imbecile blathering about?’ hissed a giant beetle to his left.

‘He’s a human. They have a strange humour. Pay it no mind. ‘The orb garbled, and then proceeded to ignore Andreas.

‘Your suit fibers are made of a special leather, from the skin of the rare Dinemaus who live in a deep freeze on a planet 1000 light years away. That will protect you from the elements, but the strange radiation fields here cause all electronic machines to incinerate, so there are no weaponry or medical devices we can provide. However, you will not go alone. Behold your companions.’

At that, the ground around their little circle rumbled then began to shake violently. Andreas leapt aside, letting out a feminine shriek that got disapproving headshakes from the giant wasp and scorpion. Large paws shot out of the ground, clawing away the snow. Then a long snout and pointy ears emerged, followed by a thick, furry body on four legs. All around the same spectacle took place. The animals wiggled free of the snow and stood next to their ‘warriors.’

The orb spoke again, ‘These are genetically engineered Bloodgers. They are adapted to the cold, vicious in a fight and will also provide emotional support. To form a bond, place your hand on the back of their heads.’