You walk Doc. Jeffy doesn't come because she wasn't ready, and still isn't, but she's getting there. She's looking for her keys right now.
Doc was ready to walk, and still is, but he isn't ready to poop. It hasn't been that long since he ate, and he's a dog, but he's also a snake. And imagination.
You walk and walk and walk Doc and it is dark but you see many things: kids, buildings, gum, marquises, the projected image of a horse, the projected image of a waffle. You used to feel playful. You now feel weird, like a waffle: noncommittal. You turn around.
"No!" Doc says.
"Wow! Really?" you say and turn back around and walk Doc, but obediently this time. It takes a long time for Doc to answer your question: forever, and some time later you will question whether or not anyone else would have heard Doc say "No!" had anyone else been there. You almost question it right
now! but you forget to when Doc slips his collar and looks both ways and races across the street and broadsides a car, because the car came out of nowhere, or, if you like, the car came from above. It alighted neatly about a moment, give or take, before Doc made a mess of it. Now it is bent and now it is folded, and an image of the accordion-necked woman is projected inside your head. Doc is not bent or folded, but dazed or remorseful. He sits quietly staring past the wrinkled car, probably with some sort of emotion, while you refasten and tighten his collar.
Expecting to find the most coincidental personage inside the car, you peer into the tinted window next to the driver's seat only to find the most coincidental personage inside the car. The woman with the accordion neck. You pull on the handle of the door, which is stuck like car doors on wrecked cars always are, and it's late, and you're tired, so you quit, and you shrug, and you feel pretty good about the way things turned out because that woman is scary.
That woman unlocks her door and sidles out and signs, "Thanks, sugar," instead of saying, "Thanks, sugar" in chorus. She doesn't mean it.
"I'm sorry," you sign. "I thought the door was stuck." You pause to examine her neck for any potential accordion properties and find something even more interesting: a hole, from smoking, like in the posters. You breathe a sigh of relief and "I thought you were someone else," you sign.
"Fuck you," she signs and stalks off to the other side of the street where Doc was staring, which reminds you about Doc and how you aren't holding the leash attached to the collar on his neck. "Doc?" you say and you look around and you don't see him. "Doc?" you say and you look across the street where he was staring and you don't see him and you don't see the woman from the poster anymore, and where was she going? and what about her car? Can you have it? You'll come back for it, after you find Doc. "Doc?" you say and you whistle.
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
Chapter 13
'And this, roughly, is why people don't fuck with Sophie the DOG CATCHER,' you think to yourself.
The skinless Jeffy is halfway inside Doc by the time you think of re-charging your letherman's force-field instead of watching T.V., and then Doc has the cord. Jeffy stopped masturbating and just shivered watching her himself being eaten skinless, and sopping.
"This world is so fucked up," said Jeffy. "It didn't used to be this way. People used to know what to expect--people used to be able to live their lives."
"I don't know," You say. You sit cross legged and naked--sea foam puss bubbles from your wounds, and somehow it makes you feel like a god.
"Before UPMC and The COLLEGE started the joint government, and reincorporated the lawless Yinzer territories--at least progress was slower then. Destracted by war."
Doc wraps himself around you--muffled T.V. voices coming from his innards. You hear a snap as his powerfull esophogus crushes antique hardware--smoke and mercury drifting from his nostrils.
"What was it like in the Yinzer terrotories?" Jeffy asks.
"I'm not a Yinzer." Doc licks your face. You pat his head, and your eyes casually folow his blody along the floor, and out the window. He's 2ft 6.34in in diamater, and you wonder how long is he now.
"Oh. I always thought--"
"Why?"
"Well," Jeffy pauses. "You're so tuff."
You snort. "I grew up in UPMC." You drape your body across Doc. You are not afraid of Doc anymore, in fact you feel affectionatly toward him. He licks your wounds, foam sticking in his mouth like peanut butter--it makes you smile. "In the pre-management labritory."
Jeffy's eyes widen. "You mean. . . you were a bubble girl?"
"Yeah," You say. "Class 1 actually. I was bred and raised for upper level management, maybe C.E.O.." You're being so open with Jeffy now. It's pillow talk, you guess. I mean, you did enough dammage the the poor guy, the least you can do is show the girl some tenderness.
"What happened? I mean why are you out here?"
Your knuckles brush the course wood floor as you lift your hand and slowly make a fist. The motion is remenicent of dropping soap in the shower--the universal signlanguage for the slipps.
"That bad, huh?"
You sit up and Doc gives way, licking the roof of his mouth and sniffing the ground. You stand and stretch, feeling the muscles move under your skin. You unabashedly deslpay your full flexability before Jeffy.
She averts her eyes.
You flip into a hand stand and walk toward the stairs. It's going to be nice to have your home again. Sick of sleeping on lumpy couches, sleeping in the pound--always smelling like dog piss, and battery acid. You walk up the stairs on your hands and when you're near the top you let your feet hit the floor, and push with your hands, coming to an upright position like a slinki in reverse.
You're room looks ransacked and most of your clothes have been shredded by the racoons, but you find yourself a braw and panties and a bulky leather onezi that you used to wear at the pound when you were new. It slows your movements significantly, but it stopps most organic teeth and claws.
You slide down the post back to the ground floor. Jeffy is looking cauciously at Doc, "Does he look bigger?"
"Have you made detective yet? Cuz I'm willing to put a good word in."
"We should really disect this guy ASAP," says Jeffy.
At this Doc reared up, his back pressing against the cieling, razor fins rattling feircley.
"Doc," you hiss. "No."
The mutt lowers it's head guilily. He slinthers in circle wrapping himself into a pile, putting his head on his paws.
"I don't think that's going to be possible," you say. "He's pretty much industructable. Pluss, he's my dog."
"What?" Jeffy looks at Doc and back at you. "But, uh? Well what about the others."
"Gone," you say. "Eaten."
"We need those bio-tags Sophie. This could be huge."
"Well," you say picking up a plastic bag from near the alagator skin chest. "I guess it's time for a walk."
When Doc heard the word "W-A-L-K" he perked up and slithered all around the room wiggling excitedly. You giggle and hopscotch through the tangled body of your dog, and open the door. "Ready?" you say to Jeffy. Jeffy shakes her head.
The skinless Jeffy is halfway inside Doc by the time you think of re-charging your letherman's force-field instead of watching T.V., and then Doc has the cord. Jeffy stopped masturbating and just shivered watching her himself being eaten skinless, and sopping.
"This world is so fucked up," said Jeffy. "It didn't used to be this way. People used to know what to expect--people used to be able to live their lives."
"I don't know," You say. You sit cross legged and naked--sea foam puss bubbles from your wounds, and somehow it makes you feel like a god.
"Before UPMC and The COLLEGE started the joint government, and reincorporated the lawless Yinzer territories--at least progress was slower then. Destracted by war."
Doc wraps himself around you--muffled T.V. voices coming from his innards. You hear a snap as his powerfull esophogus crushes antique hardware--smoke and mercury drifting from his nostrils.
"What was it like in the Yinzer terrotories?" Jeffy asks.
"I'm not a Yinzer." Doc licks your face. You pat his head, and your eyes casually folow his blody along the floor, and out the window. He's 2ft 6.34in in diamater, and you wonder how long is he now.
"Oh. I always thought--"
"Why?"
"Well," Jeffy pauses. "You're so tuff."
You snort. "I grew up in UPMC." You drape your body across Doc. You are not afraid of Doc anymore, in fact you feel affectionatly toward him. He licks your wounds, foam sticking in his mouth like peanut butter--it makes you smile. "In the pre-management labritory."
Jeffy's eyes widen. "You mean. . . you were a bubble girl?"
"Yeah," You say. "Class 1 actually. I was bred and raised for upper level management, maybe C.E.O.." You're being so open with Jeffy now. It's pillow talk, you guess. I mean, you did enough dammage the the poor guy, the least you can do is show the girl some tenderness.
"What happened? I mean why are you out here?"
Your knuckles brush the course wood floor as you lift your hand and slowly make a fist. The motion is remenicent of dropping soap in the shower--the universal signlanguage for the slipps.
"That bad, huh?"
You sit up and Doc gives way, licking the roof of his mouth and sniffing the ground. You stand and stretch, feeling the muscles move under your skin. You unabashedly deslpay your full flexability before Jeffy.
She averts her eyes.
You flip into a hand stand and walk toward the stairs. It's going to be nice to have your home again. Sick of sleeping on lumpy couches, sleeping in the pound--always smelling like dog piss, and battery acid. You walk up the stairs on your hands and when you're near the top you let your feet hit the floor, and push with your hands, coming to an upright position like a slinki in reverse.
You're room looks ransacked and most of your clothes have been shredded by the racoons, but you find yourself a braw and panties and a bulky leather onezi that you used to wear at the pound when you were new. It slows your movements significantly, but it stopps most organic teeth and claws.
You slide down the post back to the ground floor. Jeffy is looking cauciously at Doc, "Does he look bigger?"
"Have you made detective yet? Cuz I'm willing to put a good word in."
"We should really disect this guy ASAP," says Jeffy.
At this Doc reared up, his back pressing against the cieling, razor fins rattling feircley.
"Doc," you hiss. "No."
The mutt lowers it's head guilily. He slinthers in circle wrapping himself into a pile, putting his head on his paws.
"I don't think that's going to be possible," you say. "He's pretty much industructable. Pluss, he's my dog."
"What?" Jeffy looks at Doc and back at you. "But, uh? Well what about the others."
"Gone," you say. "Eaten."
"We need those bio-tags Sophie. This could be huge."
"Well," you say picking up a plastic bag from near the alagator skin chest. "I guess it's time for a walk."
When Doc heard the word "W-A-L-K" he perked up and slithered all around the room wiggling excitedly. You giggle and hopscotch through the tangled body of your dog, and open the door. "Ready?" you say to Jeffy. Jeffy shakes her head.
Chapter 12
"You thought we...I...I wanted to fuck you?" Jeffy asks, one voice atop another, two separate pitches, one a ball--the other a strike.
"Yeah," you say, "that is until the raccoons turned your face into pizza cheese with the sauce bleeding through. But I think I can still have my way with you, if we stay in the dark."
"I'm not really interested," says the alto.
"I'd fuck you right here, dead raccoons and all."
Jeffy's male sexual half walks out of the shadows and into the moonlight, dick in hand and blood in mouth.
The other half, now clothed doubly in what Jeffy had just been wearing and what Jeffy hadn't been wearing, stays in the shadows. You take a step back, half aroused sexually and half homicidal; you don't know which half to fuck and which half to kill, even though the decision seems to have already been made for you.
"I'm not really ready for this, Jeffy--what about Doc?"
"Doc has a sexual disregard mode that stops him from imagining that the act of two violently thrusting bodies on top of one is actually Life Threatening©, which has been copyrighted by UPMC to separate sex from real violence."
"What about sex with a corpse?"
"A cut in state funding prevented those tests from being conducted; I think the money went to our Library instead," he said, looking off toward the glowing hospital on Penn Avenue whose arrival preceded this madness, slipps, pols and all. Doc sits down, heads on paws and other heads on furry remnants.
You mount a distracted Jeffy, who quickly refocuses his energy toward your advance. His penis is thick but sterile--a stainless steel dildo with human flesh; gives new meaning, or at least childish explanation, to the phrases 'Rod of Steel,' 'Metal Boner,' and "Thrusting, mechanized dick," all of which plagued your early erotic fiction like convenient slipps in an unfocused, round robin cyberpunk story.
You measure Jeffy's stalk with your digital measuring device, $98,001 installed at UPMC.
Four and a half inches in diameter, sixt--stop, length is irrelevant. Your urethra spreads and your lips gush, your penis end swallowing his prosthetic in an attempt to rid the world of robot pols with divided sexual urges in snake jaw-widening fashion. But why stop there?
"Stop! What are you doing to me?"
You say nothing, sliding your hand down your own shaft to the switch on your vaccum cock: Suck.
Jeffys hairline whips back, taking his scalp with it--the epidermis splits horizontally, mimicking what the world must see when a forest of perennials is lopped off and leveled, but with added removal of flora, fauna and topsoil. Advanced hairloss, follicles stamped out at the root.
Blink and you missed it. Of course you blinked. Jeffy's now skinfree on the floor having rabid fits, the second noticable problem (after oxygen became privatized and fortified with rabies and aids) of losing your Skin 2.0®, the first being that you're a fucking bloody mess all over the goddamn floor, ya fucking fuck.
"Uncle Frank!" is the only thing you can think to say, as you remove the penis vaccum, now filled to capacity and too heavy to wear any longer. You reach for the TV and a VHS tape.
"What, what the fuck are you talking about? Who the fuck is Uncle Frank?"
"Jeffy, have you seen Clive Barker's Hellraiser?"
"No! I don't get your fucking references? I never have!"
You reach down and grab Jeffy's stainless steel dick, now slick with his own bloodcells and lifefluid. You turn it left and pull it out, revealing a three pronged electrical outlet.
"Plug it in," requests Jeffy's other, less testoneronically driven half.
Now, with the TV playing Hellraiser from Jeffy's dick outlet (or is it an inlet?) you and Jeffy (the other one, the one with skin and outward, fairly traditional female characteristics and real sexual organs not made of steel or subject to a man's sexual blindspot) sit and masturbate until boredom sets in.
"Did I ever tell you about that one time I saw Green Day open up for the Scissor Sisters?" Jeffy asks, spreading his legs until her intentions were obvious enough that even Doc, a sexual conservative and a densely configured cyborg dog with an uninstalled sexual disc drive, takes notice.
"No, but you're going home after the opener."
"Yeah," you say, "that is until the raccoons turned your face into pizza cheese with the sauce bleeding through. But I think I can still have my way with you, if we stay in the dark."
"I'm not really interested," says the alto.
"I'd fuck you right here, dead raccoons and all."
Jeffy's male sexual half walks out of the shadows and into the moonlight, dick in hand and blood in mouth.
The other half, now clothed doubly in what Jeffy had just been wearing and what Jeffy hadn't been wearing, stays in the shadows. You take a step back, half aroused sexually and half homicidal; you don't know which half to fuck and which half to kill, even though the decision seems to have already been made for you.
"I'm not really ready for this, Jeffy--what about Doc?"
"Doc has a sexual disregard mode that stops him from imagining that the act of two violently thrusting bodies on top of one is actually Life Threatening©, which has been copyrighted by UPMC to separate sex from real violence."
"What about sex with a corpse?"
"A cut in state funding prevented those tests from being conducted; I think the money went to our Library instead," he said, looking off toward the glowing hospital on Penn Avenue whose arrival preceded this madness, slipps, pols and all. Doc sits down, heads on paws and other heads on furry remnants.
You mount a distracted Jeffy, who quickly refocuses his energy toward your advance. His penis is thick but sterile--a stainless steel dildo with human flesh; gives new meaning, or at least childish explanation, to the phrases 'Rod of Steel,' 'Metal Boner,' and "Thrusting, mechanized dick," all of which plagued your early erotic fiction like convenient slipps in an unfocused, round robin cyberpunk story.
You measure Jeffy's stalk with your digital measuring device, $98,001 installed at UPMC.
Four and a half inches in diameter, sixt--stop, length is irrelevant. Your urethra spreads and your lips gush, your penis end swallowing his prosthetic in an attempt to rid the world of robot pols with divided sexual urges in snake jaw-widening fashion. But why stop there?
"Stop! What are you doing to me?"
You say nothing, sliding your hand down your own shaft to the switch on your vaccum cock: Suck.
Jeffys hairline whips back, taking his scalp with it--the epidermis splits horizontally, mimicking what the world must see when a forest of perennials is lopped off and leveled, but with added removal of flora, fauna and topsoil. Advanced hairloss, follicles stamped out at the root.
Blink and you missed it. Of course you blinked. Jeffy's now skinfree on the floor having rabid fits, the second noticable problem (after oxygen became privatized and fortified with rabies and aids) of losing your Skin 2.0®, the first being that you're a fucking bloody mess all over the goddamn floor, ya fucking fuck.
"Uncle Frank!" is the only thing you can think to say, as you remove the penis vaccum, now filled to capacity and too heavy to wear any longer. You reach for the TV and a VHS tape.
"What, what the fuck are you talking about? Who the fuck is Uncle Frank?"
"Jeffy, have you seen Clive Barker's Hellraiser?"
"No! I don't get your fucking references? I never have!"
You reach down and grab Jeffy's stainless steel dick, now slick with his own bloodcells and lifefluid. You turn it left and pull it out, revealing a three pronged electrical outlet.
"Plug it in," requests Jeffy's other, less testoneronically driven half.
Now, with the TV playing Hellraiser from Jeffy's dick outlet (or is it an inlet?) you and Jeffy (the other one, the one with skin and outward, fairly traditional female characteristics and real sexual organs not made of steel or subject to a man's sexual blindspot) sit and masturbate until boredom sets in.
"Did I ever tell you about that one time I saw Green Day open up for the Scissor Sisters?" Jeffy asks, spreading his legs until her intentions were obvious enough that even Doc, a sexual conservative and a densely configured cyborg dog with an uninstalled sexual disc drive, takes notice.
"No, but you're going home after the opener."
Chapter 11
"Jeffy," you whisper in a most seductive voice. It's a little throaty with sweet melodic undertones. It's beautiful. Jeffy screams. There is a raccoon on your back. He's not terrified for you. There is a raccoon on her back, too. There is a raccoon boxing your right leg and a raccoon crawling up your left and a raccoon dropping from the ceiling rafters and three raccoons hopping down the spirals stairs three steps at a time. They aren't any bigger than you remember, but they are more. They're coming from the kitchen. From your room. From the bathtub. There's one on Jeffy's face and it makes his scream sound funny. You pause to chuckle before grabbing your leatherman from your pocket and brandishing it with a most intimidating air. Some of the raccoons are intimidated but not the right ones. The right ones are the ones digging their claws and sinking their teeth into you and Jeffy. They pause to chuckle before burrowing deeper into Jeffy's soft, warm, smooth skin. Also yours.
Maybe you just have the slipps again and you're pinching yourself to pull yourself out of it. Subconsciously. As hard as you can. On that place on your back where you can't quite reach. And you filed your nails to points earlier today.
"Why the fuck did you bring me here if you knew they were here?" Jeffy shrills, billy clubbing you out of your musings. He's managed to detach all of his raccoons and is now trying to pry the one on your back off your back while you scare other potential latchers-on by stabbing them repeatedly.
"Hey, that hurts," you flirt. You turn to wink but forget to when you see Jeffy's shredded, bleeding and now completely unkissable mug. "Uch" you say. Whether because of your apparent repulsion or because of the raccoon-on-your-back's apparent perseverance or because of the pack of fur hurtling towards her, Jeffy gives up on tearing the thing off and turns his attention to the pack of fur hurtling towards him.
Her eyes flash as she raises his taser majestically in the direction of the attack pack, preparing for another heroic display of self-preservation so characteristic of, and prided by, polls. The lead raccoon leaps forward. Jeffy points, aims, and Doc bounds through the nearest window and swallows the flying raccoon whole, shivering slightly when the electric dart nicks his jaw. He woofs eagerly at the quickly but professionally dispersing pack and pounces, not like a cat. He is bigger than you remember. He is so hungry. He must have tracked you and Jeffy from the pound. You must not have secured the door. Or considered taking any measures to deal with this insatiable and difficult to kill giant. You must have been really, really horny.
As Doc scarfs down the fluffy corpses you take a good long ogle at Jeffy, who has given up trying to aid in the carnage and is now reclining against the far wall enjoying the show, and wonder what the hell came over you. Why were you convinced he was your supervisor? Admittedly, your supervisor is mildly attractive--at least a good bit more attractive than Jeffy, if only because he's a classier dresser. Were you just trying to trick yourself into believing you weren't about to fuck a poll? And how did you think you'd pull it off at your raccoon infested home? There is no explanation.
"Is this place really city-approved?" Jeffy smirks.
"The raccoons didn't used to live here."
"I remember." Jeffy stands up. "So," she says, "are we going to talk or what?"
"I'm not really interested in that anymore."
"...In your job?" Jeffy seems genuinely confused.
"No... in... you know..." Still no light on his mangled face. You search for the right words. "You know... fucking."
"What? What the hell are you talking about?" Now Jeffy looks repulsed.
Maybe you just have the slipps again and you're pinching yourself to pull yourself out of it. Subconsciously. As hard as you can. On that place on your back where you can't quite reach. And you filed your nails to points earlier today.
"Why the fuck did you bring me here if you knew they were here?" Jeffy shrills, billy clubbing you out of your musings. He's managed to detach all of his raccoons and is now trying to pry the one on your back off your back while you scare other potential latchers-on by stabbing them repeatedly.
"Hey, that hurts," you flirt. You turn to wink but forget to when you see Jeffy's shredded, bleeding and now completely unkissable mug. "Uch" you say. Whether because of your apparent repulsion or because of the raccoon-on-your-back's apparent perseverance or because of the pack of fur hurtling towards her, Jeffy gives up on tearing the thing off and turns his attention to the pack of fur hurtling towards him.
Her eyes flash as she raises his taser majestically in the direction of the attack pack, preparing for another heroic display of self-preservation so characteristic of, and prided by, polls. The lead raccoon leaps forward. Jeffy points, aims, and Doc bounds through the nearest window and swallows the flying raccoon whole, shivering slightly when the electric dart nicks his jaw. He woofs eagerly at the quickly but professionally dispersing pack and pounces, not like a cat. He is bigger than you remember. He is so hungry. He must have tracked you and Jeffy from the pound. You must not have secured the door. Or considered taking any measures to deal with this insatiable and difficult to kill giant. You must have been really, really horny.
As Doc scarfs down the fluffy corpses you take a good long ogle at Jeffy, who has given up trying to aid in the carnage and is now reclining against the far wall enjoying the show, and wonder what the hell came over you. Why were you convinced he was your supervisor? Admittedly, your supervisor is mildly attractive--at least a good bit more attractive than Jeffy, if only because he's a classier dresser. Were you just trying to trick yourself into believing you weren't about to fuck a poll? And how did you think you'd pull it off at your raccoon infested home? There is no explanation.
"Is this place really city-approved?" Jeffy smirks.
"The raccoons didn't used to live here."
"I remember." Jeffy stands up. "So," she says, "are we going to talk or what?"
"I'm not really interested in that anymore."
"...In your job?" Jeffy seems genuinely confused.
"No... in... you know..." Still no light on his mangled face. You search for the right words. "You know... fucking."
"What? What the hell are you talking about?" Now Jeffy looks repulsed.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)