Pollution.
Future America is archipelagos sourrounded by dykes to hold back the rising tide of climate change. It is a privatized police force. It is greater and even more politically confusing war. It is powerful, genetically enhanced drugs, mediocracy, conformity, capitalism gone wild, rampart advertising campaigns. Humans are corporate logos living alonside DNA altered tuxedo wearing, stock market bidding, great lumbering lizards.
An expose’ and nightmare expedition into the heart of our species and a survival guide for conglomerates and governments of where not to take us less we sink to join that other lost civilisation, Atlantis.
救済者はボディの山から立上がる
The Associate
1.
There it is again, the monsoon. Like clockwork, you can set your watch to it. Nothing as refreshing as an afternoon shower but this is acid rain. Steaming out of low churning sepia tone cloud cover.
We shake our steaming chimpanzee leather trench coats in the foyer, a heavy-metal vaporous stench rising as we give them to a man with a shoveled head like a flatworm. He wears an emerald velvet suit and oxblood suede wingtips. I shared a table here with him once, on his break, and he always dressed better than me, better than anybody. I remember he had gummed the claw from a crab cocktail with his bruised pink, moist mouth slit, tubular electric feelers wriggling at the corner of his lips like a bullhead catfish, most disgusting thing I ever sat still for. But I’m a politician so who am I to be critical?
His name’s Deerslayer, a gelatinous drifter capable of bioluminescence and carries a ruddish animal smell. Once a string town corpse grinder he’s now a prime mover of the seedier downtown xymposiums where he hamstrings bad accounts with an overpowering benzene stench secreted from mucus sacs under his armpits, his own personal biological war against the human virus. The johns go down in a loose heap clutching their throats.
Deerslayer moonlights as the concierge here not to undermine his unique debilitating talent but to recruit girls to dance in private booths for strange, bestial and often homicidal men,
He has a natural charm with the dames, most say it’s a potent pheromone but my own political experience tells me it was something different. The very thing that had schoolgirls lap dancing fat gangland bosses and greasy police chiefs around here. Power.
Something was permeating from him sure, but it was much stronger than a base instinct sex promoting scent, the man was veritable political timber in my eyes and that’s why I always shook his mucus slick hand, to keep up appearances.
The suicidal waifs that hit the rug here dancing in paparazzi camera flashes, the light adagios in their coke wet eyes, throwing it back from huge diamonds that hang at the end of limp wrists. They spill champagne and trip in heels, lethargic poses and skeletal pouts into the powdery flash bulbs hoping to be picked up and contracted from catwalk to film.
The anorexic and bulimic models were a potbelly market to Deerslayer and he never missed a trick.
Gelatinous, transparent moist feet squelching in immaculate wingtips as he saunters over to the insect thin girls like a bounty hunter closing in xenomorphic. They giggle distractedly and without substance, eyes rolling backward and snapping back to refocus as they lean on each other for support on the red carpet spilling champagne down loose chest cocktail dresses hooked on large erect nipples overcompensating the absence of breast fat. Dark brown nipples jutting straight out from bony translucent skin visible through the thin white of designer dresses, chests ribbed from the bone beneath like cock taught prophylactics.
A steady grey hand falling on their thighs, protoplasmic sweaty palm leaving a pink wet handprint on their dresses as in whispered conversation Deerslayer’s rubbery siphons lining a pink gummy mouth tickling a gold hoop earring in private propositions. His fingers curling gently around protruding pelvic bone as he leads them from the limelight into a darkened alcove to whisper, curling their hair seductively around a long bony finger. The hand mapped in raised blue veins that move with a conscious animation just below his delicate flesh.
Each recruit gets their own stage name and a promise of celluloid fame not knowing he means on CUNT (Continual Uninterrupted Network Television) primetime with a fat dyke making a meal of their arsehole as they scream in faked orgasm each other’s film name approved by the American Actors Guild and always named after an American town to keep it patriotic.
Beaver Dam, Crab Orchid, Mercedes, Windy Hills, Diagonal, Floyd, Pilot Mound, Sergeant Bluff, Strawberry Point, What Cheer, Bangs, Fairy, Bigfoot, Sweetwater, Big Sandy, Buffalo, Embarrass, Chocolate Bayou, Flower Mound, Concepcion, Sugar Land, Cummins Crossing, Dime Box, Water Valley, Ding Dong, Dripping Springs, Elevation, Wild Rose. Flag and cock sucking cunts the lot of them.
All give Deerslayer a private show before he will consider connecting with The Man, their new agent that will launch their career. Most of the girls overdose before they even make it to film. Combinations of hard liquor and heinous drugs, muscle-less limbs snapping like dry twigs on seminal stained carpet worn through in patches from knees and palms as the dying waif convulses in death throws throwing up a great white fountain of dietary supplement.
So we shake our steaming coats in the foyer of the club and hand them to Deerslayer. He folds them over his arm, the chemical steam rising from them over his face like a veil unnoticed as it curls across his oily features pale as a deaths hand. Stylishly pulling a WANC (World Bank) wrist account tattoo reader from his tan silk lapel he runs the dancing laser across our bar-coded wrists, logging our account details and draining the admission fee with a slow, cold lip twitch that attempts and fails to be a welcoming smile of invitation. We enter the club.
Later.
I hang in the foyer under a rusted steel awning pockmarked with silver spots and runners from acid rain. Red velvet drapes undulate slowly in the light breeze, potted plastic plants, cigarette butts litter the ground. Black chimpanzee leather trench coat flaps lightly around my ankles as I rub my tattooed face and draw deep on a Cuban. Goddamned gipsies should have rounded them up and fucking torched them all when we had the chance, now they’re a plague and my brain throbs slowly with the invading telepathy of Yutronic’s unwanted psychic touch.
But I’m feeling calm with the lights refracting from my intoxication wet eyes, plumes of heavy smoke stream from my nostrils I arch my back to stretch it, a light moan, a hand mapped in scars going up to rub the back of my neck. It’s been a long night.
I’ve given my parking ticket to the parking attendant, an impish kid with acne scars wearing a scarlet bus boy uniform and a black tractor cap pulled down low over his greasy long hair. Now I wait savouring the monsoonal acid rain hammering out the street lifting curls of fainéant steam from the silvery bitumen. It’s cemetery quiet, not a car on the road, only the occasional monkey hum of QuangoPol Officers rolling past slowly on big black motorcycles, hooded reflective visors in black helmets reflecting the green illumination of the tank mounted viewfinders, the crack and static of their receivers broadcasting downtown carnage, riots, theft, grand theft auto.
Jesus what a night.
Glad to be out of the club with the warm breeze on my face and the occasional sting of a gust of windswept acid rain I can finally gather my thoughts. I was choking in there, not just from the sweat, semen, smoke and
Has the entire city gone wild? Even as the primary politician leading the Equality Campaign I’m still only now just grasping its true power, its raw potential to drive an entire sub-species of Homo-Saurus absolutely rut-crazy and hungry for an ideal. And it’s Equality for fucks sake, equal to my own species that I don’t even want a part of due to their pathetic grovelling.
Jesus I need to get out of here.
A long plume of smoke leaves my lungs and is lifted by breeze out of the awnings covering and into the steaming rain where it spreads and disappears.
I need the company right now of someone sane enough to understand me, someone safe, someone I can relax around and let my thoughts wander rather than being crushed in the mind clamp of trying to decipher each individual’s true position and trajectory and secret motivation through long and tedious bullshit steeped conversations. There’s only one person I can think of right now twisted enough to save me from this troupe of half mad zoo sprung keeper maulers, someone I can trust to endue my abuse. Rose.
Under the flashing and scrolling bulbs of the clubs façade and the roar of the engine finally drones out Deerslayer's gummy whispered propositions just behind me, pressing lethargic models against the thick glass as he tickles their hoop earrings with hisses to celluloid fame. I don’t need to turn to see him in my minds eye leaving a sticky pink protoplasmic sucker-print on the glass of the foyer as he leans over them like a shovel-headed cobra, needle teeth saliva wet in a sinister grin. He’d be whispering about all those lonely wharfies all too eager to pay for their career transition into film, all they have to do is dance naked on a petroleum jelly gummy stage in a circle of rapists and sexual predators eight nights a week and wait to be spotted by a roaming talent scout.
When it comes to
Groan. No, I don’t need to watch him pressing the waif up against the glass with his grey gelatinous body shaking bright yellow pills with winking emoticons etched on them into her cupped palm, I’ve heard it a million times from that slimy little bottom feeder. Impassionate self-marketing routines, Neural-Linguistic Programming and flat lies that have waifs holding onto each of his sweaty translucentl grey arms giggling in shoulder slipped fur coats and sparkling short skirts on skinny legs riding high. Spilling champagne and spiking cocktail cigarettes with the heel of a stiletto heel. He herds them into a waiting brown and tan restored 1938 Bugatti T57 Gangloff Ven Ventoux limousine, bug eyed headlights and a long grill with a bonnet mounted rearing gold elk, a time frozen cast of a powerful beast hunted by game enthusiasts. Chuckling wetly he pats their bony arses through the limos doors and I watch under hooded gaze as it pulls out from under the flashing awning and smoothly out onto the street, peacock blue illuminated trim pulsating, Tone lock’s Funky Cold Medina blaring out of the slightly wound down tinted windows that trail plumes of cocktail cigarette pink smoke. Deerslayer patting their thin cocktail dress clad thighs with a wet palm grinning repulsively as they absently suck on a strawberry from their drinks while staring out of the windows at the city lights with a deep distant sadness but erupting in high pitched laughter with his every word. All watched in the rear view by the black cap wearing chauffeur through rose-silver tinted bullet proof glass with a cold animal sadism.
I don’t even have to listen to his gummy wet mouth-slit lined with black erectile hairs offering the doomed girl fame and fortune to imagine all this and it’s quickly forgotten at the revs from my automobile pulling up from the underground car park.
The lights illuminate me as I’m chuckling down at the pavement thinking about the difference of these weak models to the raw animal brutality of Rose and my complex attraction to her. My woman. Nothing official or even known about on the political circuit or my private life. Not exactly my one true love, not in this fucking city, that simply does not exist, but the only woman that truly knows me. She understands the real me. Those times when I need to shake of the political campaign, the Homo-Saurians, this city Executioner, society and all it represents I go to Rose. When something is eating me I eat her, smiling griming with her taste on my lips. Tonight, with the weirdness of the last couple of hours in this club, in this bomb rubble rebuilt town something big is propelling me toward her. I need to see my baby.
A bonnet mounted silver Thylacine, Dr. Derrick Wildcat’s corporate logo tainting anything his money touches, three headlamps suddenly illuminate me. A smooth black shadow mounts the up ramp at high speed as I crush the cigar under the tip of a whale-skin cowboy boot. Not slowing for a speed hump the sleek black automobile lifts from the concrete in a shower of sparks from the low riding sloop back end and the combination four mufflers. The beast is airborne and lit up in electric yellow flame underneath. It spins outward to point at me as it lands in a screeching half circle, a lick of blue fire puffing from the mufflers. No crash or jolt, a perfect catlike leap into the air and spinning on a dime, the revs rumbling to crescendo, the back swerves out and in as the thick pneumatic radials claw hard deafening screech at the concrete up ramp cannonballing the beast at me in deadly collision speed. Long silver grill grinning sinisterly, smooth arched hooded tyre covers reflecting the blinking lights above, red neon trim illuminated like pulsating lava.
I step back as the beast does a final lurch pulling harder toward me momentarily, I’m in a death grip of headlamp mesmerised like an animal on a highway and then the entire machine has spun hard in a squealing of tyres. The chrome bumper coming so close to my legs to ruffle my coat and warm my legs with a hot blast from the mufflers. I stand my ground stiffly and the backend slides past and around, the front levelling out so the entire machine pulls up rocking from the momentum right in front of me, my body positioned exactly in front of the driver’s side door.
The revs smooth out to a heavy rumble as smoke lifts from the concrete around me and I stare at my reflection in the black tinted window of my political campaign corporate sponsored restored 1938 Delahaye Torpedo two seater Roadster with pneumatic shift.
The steering perfect, the braking absolutely immaculate, the engine idling in grumble under long black and shiny hood and I struggle to suppress a smirk at the driver’s skills. I can’t wait to shake this fucker’s hand, maybe recruit him for the political campaign as presidential chauffeur with unlimited credit to bodywork and parts. That’s it man, feel that political influence at fingertip, feel that confidence growing, true power radiates within me to the tune of the roaring engine.
The driver’s door swings wide and my balls jag in throat at the black stockings tight over muscular thighs, skirt hitched to reveal a hint of garter strap, pudenda accentuated by the beer can held between her thighs pressing the thin black skirt to her. A plume of smoke billows out of the cars cab.
She leans back in the bucket seat shaking her long black hair from her nape as long scarlet nails massage the back of her neck with closed eyes and she forgets me in a slow self-satisfactory draw on the thin cherub cigar, expelling the smoke around it from red wet lips.
With an elbow on doorframe I watch intrigued as the Torpedo throbs under her, the beast throttling in dark purrs and she’s loving it, long legs with hard calves from depressing the pedals in rev, the green illumination from dashboard viewfinders throwing a green glow over her low, tight V-neck that accentuates her small hard breasts under a half shrugged watermelon jacket.
I could watch all night.
The revs slow to a contented grumble that I feel in my nuts and she slowly rolls her head on a lithe muscular neck toward me blowing a plume of smoke into my face as she speaks.
“This yours?”
She holds up my tattered ticket stub between two provocative fingers.
I choke back booming laughter to her absolute confidence as I fumble for a fresh cigar from my coat and light it seeing her dancing in the naked flame before my dark eyes. The smoke rolls out deep from a dry throat, a ghost apparition of cancer licking at nigger lips as I answer with a grin.
“Yeah. 1938 Delahaye Torpedo Roadster Aerodynamique Coup with Devils Eye trim and you behind the wheel, I better own it. You almost ran me down with my own car baby, now I’m a forgiving man but…”
she cuts me off by shaking herself out of her heavy automotive sensitivity into real time, arching her back and swinging her long legs out of the door as she emerges from the bucket seat and plants two red cowboy boots on the concrete in front of mine, our toes touching, her body close to mine.
Another long slow draw on the cherub, another loose shake of her obsidian hair, letting it flow loosely down her perfect back. Smoke billowing across my features from her wry grin, bottomless black eyes sparkling as she regards me steadily, her hand on mine on the doorframe as she presses ruby lips to my ear in a sensual whisper and husky tone.
“Well then, you need a tune up. You’ve got a one-quarter inch slip on the rear pneumatic differential that you should have looked at by a certified mechanic. And another thing smart guy, Delahaye Torpedo Roadsters were built to brake late at maximum speed. I was only doing seventy-five miles up the ramp and missed you by a third of an inch with the bumper and still managed to position the driver’s door perfectly for you to just hop in and drive away in case you were under fire by some neo-Nazi maniac looking to make an example of you for your political influence. Besides, a fine automobile like this, if you continue to look after it the way you do, maybe next time I might accidentally misjudge your braking, you could lose your testicles from a sideswipe, we wouldn’t want that now. Would we?
She pushes the parking stub into my lapel with a sensual look and a corner mouth plume of smoke into my features, long red fingernails trailing down my silk front as she walks past me with a little skirt swish from her hard calved strut.
I match the engines hard edged tone with my own. I can’t help the chauvinism, her sexual energy has my most primal and bestial male hungry for more.
“It’s a company car. What say you and I go for a ride, show me how fast you really are baby.”
She pauses with her back to me, a moment of silence, the watermelon jacket shrugged low on the lower-cut of her V-neck that reveals a deep olive muscular back and a small perfectly round mole at her scapular.
She’s looking into the distance, boiling inside as another plume leaves her red mouth and long fingers drop the cherub to be crushed by the heel of her boot that spins on it as she turns to stride back to me.
She’s quick, grabbing me hard on both sides of my lapel, scarlet fingers denting the material as she pushes her lips to my neck, not a kiss, no commitment, just a warm breath and then she has pulled back still grasping me as she stares hard into me with stormy black eyes.
“And you’ve got one-seventh of an inch baldness on the left rear tyre. Get it looked at in case you have to brake hard and instead flip. There’s better ways for a lizard lover to go than being peeled from the burning red velvet upholstery of a smoking roadside wreck.”
Sharp fingernails reddening my neck in stripes as she trails them hard across my skin turning from me walking away.
“Damn fine car.”
Whispered under a smoky introspective breath as she throws the beer can into a potted plastic plant and struts through the hissing sliding doors of the foyer. She’s still thinking about the car but I’m already forgotten.
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