Vessel

by Matthew Bryant

  Vessel

  World Between Series book 3

  by Matthew Bryant

  Copyright © 2019 Matthew Bryant

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 9781703703665

  DEDICATION

  For my lovely wife, Linda, without whom I would never find the will to sit down and write. And for my friends and family who have stood by and supported my art for years.

  A special nod goes to Chris Crawford, my friend and fellow writer, and Patti Grubbs, my proofreader, who both took the time to work with me through the creation of this book, even though I made sure to fill it with enough subject-sensitive material to make them as uncomfortable as humanly possible.

  One

  The Fuzzy Ballroom isn't my first choice of venues. It's the type of place where fellow patrons never look each other in the eye, but it's a guarantee that I've been visually violated in ways that defy the limits of human imagination within five steps of the front door. Honest citizens would give the store a wide berth. Those same honest citizens curious enough to enter the establishment never return and never talk about it.

  The merchandise up front is all pretty standard. Racks of clothes range from tight-fitting bondage and lacy lingerie to full-body animal suits. I might have rented a suit or two from here, but strictly for business purposes and always returned it without necessary dry-cleaning.

  Halfway down the digital download aisle, I pause mid-stride and turn to observe a girl on the cover of one of the fantasy zines. Her ample chest is puffed out in ways that make my back hurt, but I'm entranced by her face. I've seen her before. Somewhere. Sadly, I know too many people in similar industries to place where it could be from. The name on the magazine says Burly Baum; not an alias I recognize and it certainly doesn't lend any credit to her lithe form. Wish I'd just kept my eyes straight ahead. That's gonna bug me for hours.

  Patrons around me shuffle in relationship to their peers, sidestepping behind endcaps and product display cases whenever somebody comes into range so that no two people share the same lane like some awkward masquerade dance. Some even play porno-peekaboo, raising merchandise to an uncomfortable level in front of their faces to conceal their shame. Definitely not a place for friendly banter and customer reviews.

  “Hey man, you look like the kinda guy who could use a Poonbox.” What the hell? The strangely gruff and feminine voice sends me reeling, spinning on my heels to stare incredulously at the smiling face of a man a full head shorter than myself. He must be about my age, but with a much darker coif and facial hair meticulously shaved to resemble a bunch of arrows pointing in all directions. He holds up a portable stereo about the size of a bread box. “Light, discreet, and it even plays music if that's your thing. A real bargain at only a hundred-fifty creds.”

  This has to be some kind of joke. “What the hell are you talking about?” I take a quick glimpse around, unsurprised to see the other customers scattering like roaches in the light at the sight of personal confrontation.

  “The Poonbox, man! It's revolutionizing the way people get their fuck on.” Short, thin fingers twist a dial on the radio and heavy techno comes drumming out of the twin speakers on either side of the device. “Just slip open the secret compartment here and whammo! Instant sexual gratification. Best part is, the beats totally cover any squish sounds you're making. Go ahead, man. Stick your finger in.”

  I risk a look at the hidden hole, unsurprised to find latex lady parts. The man hits a button and the bass kicks in, sending gentle vibrations over my skin. Disturbing. “That's okay, man. Think I'll have to pass. Who even goes for something like this?”

  “Horny guys on the tram. Stalkers. Exhibitionists. Nymphomaniacs... or you know... people who like fucking stereo equipment.”

  I shudder in thought of sharing a tram car with anybody sporting this kind of equipment. A thought crosses my mind. I don’t recall seeing him when I came in. “Do you even work here?”

  “Nah, man.” He slips a hand into his jacket and pulls out a plastic business card, handing it over my way. His cuticles are amazing, everything about his hands would have most ladies jealous. “I'm an official Poonbox representative. Trying to get word out on the streets. This little bad boy is all the buzz up top, ya know?”

  “Really?” I ask, tone slathered in irony, silently praying I wasn’t followed. That would mean I was pegged as a perv on the street.

  “Hey man, old lady won't put out? No worries. Just slip off for a quickie with the box. Easy cleaning with soap and warm water.” It would also mean I was worth following to try and pawn off porn products.

  “I've heard enough,” I say, turning to head to the back of the store.

  “Hey wait! Alright, I get that you're not fully convinced.”

  “That obvious?”

  “I tell you what. I don't do this for everybody, but just for you, I'll knock twenty-five off the price.” He comes up behind me and places a velvety hand on my shoulder. Instinct nearly sends my elbow into his teeth, but I settle for a deep breath to control my irritation. “I'll even let you give her a test run.”

  “Look buddy,” I say, spinning to meet his gaze. “I don't want your freakin' sex box”

  “Poonbox,” he gently corrects me, smile never fading from his face. I roll my eyes and start walking, but he keeps pace only a step behind me. “And I haven't even begun to get into the possibilities. Lookey here.” I don't. “Two side compartments open up and you've got an instant go-betweener. You and a buddy can pound the box together.” I'm gonna be sick. “Or gotta girl into toys?” In my peripheral I can make out something wiggling in his free hand. “This special attachment sets firmly into any of the compartments. Normally twenty-five creds, but I'm willing to throw one in for abso-fuckin-lutely free for a first-time customer.”

  We reach the back counter. A lone elderly man stands surrounded by point of purchase batteries, rubbers, lubricants, and over-the-counter performance enhancers. Everything I'm looking for is in the back and, to be honest, I don't want my heckler peeking at my shopping list.

  “So whaddya say, mate? One-twenty-five is a small price to pay for the bumpin' pumpin' of a lifetime that just keeps giving and giving and giving.” He slams the point home with a series of exaggerated thrusts into the poor device. The whole scene looks more like techno-rape than a business proposition. Doesn't change the fact that I need the twerp gone.

  “Fine. Fine. If it'll get rid of you, just give me the damn thing.” His unfaltering smile widens and he sets the stereo on the floor, reaching for a cred-transfer device.

  I watch casually, but something seems off. The man twitches. Either some residual shakes from snorting too much dust, or he's on edge about something. I take a painfully long time pulling up my sleeve to reveal my credsys.

  His eyes dart to the left, ever so slightly, soon followed by a flick of the tongue across his lips. There's the tell. He's looking to screw me over, I’m just not sure how.

  What he's holding in his hand isn't the standard cred-transfer box. If I was looking for a swift exchange, I might not notice the subtle difference. But there's an additional circuit board attached. At best guess, it vaguely resembles an ID scanner I've been known to use. But what would this guy want with the identities of impoverished perverts? Unless…

  My eyes scan the store. The clientele are still hiding, but not as shyly this time. The other patrons are showing far too much interest in my private transaction. “What kinda crap are you tryin' to pull?”

  “Crap? No crap?” Sweat on his upper lip bubbles and smears his mustache. Fake. Great. This whole thing is a setup. I'll just have to come back later.

  “I'm out of here.”

  “No wait!” He steps in front of my path, but a not-so-subtle nudge to the forehead clears the way witho
ut hesitation. There's a crash as he collides with a stand of refrigerator magnets displaying tantalizing images and crass puns. “Guess we need to move to plan B, guys.”

  Why can’t paranoia just stay in my imagination?

  Several of the shy customers move from their hiding spots and close in on my position. Expecting nothing more than a casual morning stroll to the land of shame and asphyxiation, I didn’t think to bring a pistol or even a knife. Instead, I reach for the nearest weapon I can find: eighteen inches of purple, floppy love.

  A quick spin around a display rack of scented massage oils and I come face to face with a goon drawing a pistol. I whip the faux penis down across his wrist with enough force, or disgust, to send the weapon clattering to the ground. I bring it around for a second go, raking fully-formed prostheti-cock across his jaw. The man stumbles back and one swift kick sends him sprawling into a bin of Glenda Goodhead blowup dolls.

  Another attacker rushes down the aisle towards me, blade in hand. I snag a doll and spin it around between our bodies, her inflated form taking the force of the stab before dropping her slender figure a few more dress sizes. Weapon safely encased in latex, my leg swoops behind his, stealing his balance and knocking him to the ground. Prone and winded, I stomp the rest of the air from his chest for good measure.

  Scooping the abandoned pistol from the ground, I slip it into the seam of my pants and charge the exit.

  Halfway to my target and another man moves in to intercept me. I leap high, gripping the tops of opposite aisles for support, and plant both feet into the man's chest. He falls, flailing, into the grips of a sex swing. Not my idea of a good time, but I make a quick job of securing his wrists into the straps. I only let him struggle for a moment before cracking a pleasure paddle across the back of his head, leaving his limbs to slump harmlessly in a not-too blissful slumber.

  Admiring my handiwork, I'm brought back to reality by a sharp pain in the small of my back accompanied by a vicious cracking sound. For a moment, I think I've been shot, then realize the pain subsided too quickly. I turn in time to block my face from the second attack, taking the snap of the bullwhip on my arm. Even through the thick material of the jacket, still hurts like a bitch and leaves my left hand temporarily tingling.

  The whip-wielder is a woman with obvious acumen, this isn't her first time. More alarming is the way she sways it back and forth, teasing the end against the sleek tile floor, and how it reminds me far too much of my mother to be considered insulting or intimidating.

  The guy who’d had the gun is up on his feet again, rushing at me from across the store. I pop the cap off a bottle of lubricant and send it spinning from my fingertips, flinging raspberry scented oil slick through the air and across the store.

  No immediate weapons as the man comes sliding towards me, I snatch a giant panda mask from the rack of costumes and slap it over the man's head before grabbing a flailing arm and using his momentum to swing him towards the bondage bitch. He takes a firm lashing, then crashes into the place she’d been standing.

  While distracted, I grab a collar and leash, slipping the studded leather around her small waist and cinching it. She turns to attack, but I bound off a steel magazine rack, gaining enough height to reach the exposed rafters.

  The force of her whip cracking into my backside is nearly fierce enough to make me drop the leash, but I manage to wrap it over the railing, gripping tightly and letting my weight sweep the girl off her feet. We meet halfway and I use the slack from the leash to bound her wrists behind her back.

  Several choice remarks about my lacking genitalia later and I put a candy ball gag to proper use. Pleasure tape and fuzzy cuffs help secure the others while I approach the Poonbox peddler.

  “Is there a plan C,” I ask with a smirk, “Or can I consider this introduction officially over?”

  “Go to hell.”

  “Gladly.” I pull a shock therapy sex kit from the shelf and unwind the wires as I walk purposefully towards him. “But not before you answer a few questions. The first and most obvious being: who sent you?”

  “You ain't gettin’ nothing from me.”

  “Sure thing, pal. Nobody ever tells me what I want to hear.” Gripping his shirt collar tightly, I give a hard yank, stretching the fabric to its breaking point and pulling it free in my grasp. Wait a second. That's not right.

  The man struggles, a bright shade of red rushing to his face. Or rather, her face. A series of thick bandages are wrapped across her chest, hiding her breasts above feminine curves. We meet each other’s eyes, hers filled with rage and defiance, mine with confusion. No words are exchanged until I continue my work, placing the first few shock pads, then unwrapping her bandages. “What the hell do you think you're doing?” she squirms.

  “Well, silly, these things aren't nearly as effective unless they're placed on sensitive regions. Though I'll be honest, this is a first for me, so you'll either be spilling your beans or calling me daddy. At this point, I find both ideas equally intriguing.”

  “You can't undress a lady in public!”

  “Not how you presented yourself. I can't be blamed for my confusion until we know for sure, can I? Besides, you don't have anything these people haven't seen on vids a few hundred times, right Carl?”

  “That's for sure,” replies the old man behind the counter, though his body language suggests he wouldn’t miss an opportunity for a more personal introduction to the finer things in life. “But I think we gotta problem.”

  I shoot up from my perch, looking around the shop. “Did I miss one?”

  “No, you got 'em all. But I got a bit antsy and called the enforcers. They're inbound. You don't have any debts to settle, do ya?”

  “Dammit, Carl.” I rub my hands across my face. A part of me knows that their ETA is probably a good hour for this part of town. Or anything on the streets for that matter. But there's always the chance that they're bored today. “Fine. Grab me a red bulb and a handle of developer fluid.”

  “You got it.”

  He disappears behind a beaded curtain and I return my attention to my captive. “Guess we're gonna have to cut our dance short.”

  “Pity.” If she's attempting to hide her relief, she's failing miserably. Though her contempt for me is coming through just fine.

  From this close, it's hard to imagine that I ever mistook her features for a man's. Even her attempts at a masculine voice were poor. “Still...” I grab her hair and yank. Her face scrunches in pain and, for a moment, I believe my instincts have led me astray. A soft tearing sound reveals the truth soon enough and bright blue locks tumble down from where the wig had sat. In an instant I realize I know her. One of the cocktail waitresses from the bar I tend at. No clue what her name is. I pull the phone from my pocket and tap the camera button. “Say 'cheese'.”

  “Fuck you.” Snap.

  “Close enough.” Tucking the phone back in my pocket, I ruffle her hair with my free hand. “If I were you, sweetheart, I'd quit my day job.” Carl returns with my order and I remove the items. “Have these losers pick up my tab and any damages, Carl. I'll see you in a few weeks.”

  “Later, Heath.” I should probably be a bit ashamed that they know me by name here, but it's honestly the best place to get surveillance gear without raising any flags to the local gangs.

  I scoop up the discarded sex stereo on my way out, slipping the bulb into the safety of one of the hidden compartments. Not the ideal bounty, but probably the best I'm going to get for having to work off-duty.

  I'm nearly out the door when questions begin buzzing through my head. Everything was too set up to be coincidence, and too random to be anything else. How would anybody know to find me here today? It's not the type of place I regularly frequent. The people after me were too ill-equipped to be any of Chauncelor's men. And what the heck does a cocktail waitress want me dead for anyway? I'm not that big of an ass at work. Or at least I never thought so.

  My hand reaches up to scratch an itch grown a bit too irrita
ting for my liking. My heart skips a beat as fingertips graze across something small, cold and sharp. With a slight tug and a fire of pain through the back of my shoulder, I pull the dart free from my skin and hold it in front of my face. Sloppy, Fallows. Real sloppy. Discoloration along the tip is enough to let me know it’s been tainted with something.

  I used to have a pretty impressive tolerance to toxins, but I don’t know if that still holds true. Truth be told I had no intentions on testing the theory anytime soon. Be it poison or something more somatic, I can feel my face growing hot and fuzzy. I’d had a few more stops to make, but if I’m about to get put under for a bit, I need to make sure I’m off the streets.

  Two blocks towards the tram station and my whole body breaks out in a sweat.

  Two

  When I was a kid, my mom always told me that people with altitude could find anything they wanted. Entire floors of the massive towers that blot out the sun were dedicated to glorious consumerism. She told me that there are places where citizens could shop and their only greatest concern was knowing where to find the best deals. These stores even have attendants whose soul job is to cater to the customer's every need. She spoke of shopping in the upper levels of the districts the same way she spoke of my someday becoming a doctor, businessman, or politician. Like the stores were built from solid gold.