by Taylor Kole
“An idea he has opposed.”
“But if he came to know the truth—especially if we taught a class—word would slip out. We’d become a circus act.”
“Until the X-file agents show up with black bags, probes, and cages.”
Marci took a deep breath and stared at her notes. “But if we trained hundreds of others and the truth became public, what could they do?”
Big if, thought Corey, but he stayed silent.
“Maybe Walt could hire scientists to figure out how to re-create this?” Marci said.
And what would we endure in the scientific quest? thought Corey.
Marci downed her beverage in six gulps, shaking her head as she wiped her mouth. “We can’t tell him how this works. We can never tell anyone, can we?”
Corey ran his fingers through the bottom half of his ponytail, the answer was self-evident.
“We have to just keep building our tiny company,” Marci said. “We have two new clients on Friday, meet Walt on Saturday, and figure out a way to convince him it can’t be done.”
“Or that we’re not interested.”
“It’s best to stick with the truth.” Her eyes locked onto Corey’s. From their years together, he knew this look of narrowed eyes, crumpled forehead, and slanted mouth, meant she searched for words to express a deeper thought. Her change to a more serious tone when she spoke confirmed his suspicion. “In the midst of a Dream Ride we are all connected, but we’re in different areas, wouldn’t you agree?”
“Yeah, I think I’m on a balcony, you’re at a conductor’s podium, and the dreamer is center stage.”
“That’s a great analogy, because from my ‘podium,’ I feel like I’m more wired into the client and that you’re more wired into the environment.”
“I think that’s accurate.”
“The more I’m down there, the more I’m convinced my control over content is absolute. I allow the client’s consciousness to guide them, but everything must be okayed by me.” Her tone continued to grow ominous, pulling Corey to the edge of the cushion. “I think if I chose… I could do horrible things to people. I get whiffs of their deepest fears and bring them to life.” She lifted the near empty bottle, swished the fluid, and returned it to the table. “My point is, you might be right. I’m not sure all the money in the world is worth that power falling into the wrong hands.”
THIRTEEN
Corey would soon inhabit Walt’s dream. He sought mental emblems to take his mind away from the sheer stupidity.
“I’m not looking forward to this either. But let’s try and act professional,” Marci said as the elevator door closed, swiping away the casino’s security guard inside the Bellagio. “And let’s not forget, we need the money. After tonight, we can pay off the car. And have our first bit of savings.”
“I know,” Corey pressed the penthouse icon, where Walt Zimbardo waited. “That’s why I’m here, and raring to go,” he said as he swung a balled fist in front of his chest like a lumberjack.
“I don’t like pushing you into uncomfortable situations, but he’s our whale, and if we can’t partner with him, we at least need him as a client. We’re one more repeat customer away from me putting in my two-week notice.”
Corey squeezed his eyes together and breathed deeply. Being unemployed, he knew a day without a mandatory eight-hour shift brought peace, but the prospect of what he’d probably experience tonight made him wonder if he’d have been better working part-time in a fast food place.
“We’ll reach a point where we can pick and choose our clients,” she said, interlocking her fingers with his. “Yesterday went well, and we have another double booking at the end of the month.”
“The couple who wants to dream the same dream, experience a Ride simultaneously?” Corey said with exacerbation. “How are we going to pull that off?”
“Maybe the connection works like an electrical current and we can service them together?” Marci looked up at the floor counter as the elevator slowed near Walt’s floor.
Corey doubted they could give multiple people group rides, but smiled at the thought of linking up two-hundred people, standing on either end, and commanding an army through the same dream. That would be some serious world-changing stuff, if possible.
“Either way, they’ve already paid, and I told them we could do it. When they get to town, we’ll get them sleeping and see what happens. Worst case, we set an alarm for us and split the night doing one at a time.”
Corey freed his hand from Marci’s as they stopped before the same door as three weeks ago. He wiped his sweaty palms on his thighs.
“Are you ready?” Marci asked.
Before Corey had a chance to embarrass himself with the truth, or steel himself to answer in the affirmative, the suite door opened. Kendra pulled it past a ninety degree angle, and welcomed them in with a series of small nods.
Cooper sat on a piano bench with his back to the keys. His hawk-like eyes focused on the new arrivals. His pistol was locked in its holster under his arm. Corey hated being near a gun. It wasn’t likely, but Cooper could pull it and shoot him and Marci right there.
Walt paced from the side of the high-roller suite, stopping ten feet from the door. He wore a two-piece pajama outfit, and leather slippers. His smile faltered as he noted their empty hands. “Where’s the duffel bags?”
Corey’s temperature rose. He had expected to ease into the topic of the missing props. With effort, he kept his face neutral as Marci crossed the distance, shook hands with Walt, and said, “It’s great to see you. I hope you’re ready for a fun night.”
“I am, I am, and I don’t want to derail us with business talk. But I have to ask if you’ve made any progress on accepting my offer?”
“We have made progress,” Marci said. “Figuring out how this all works is an enormous task. We started by creating a timeline of what led us here. We have been identifying important markers for influencing dreams and inception controls. There’s years to sift through, but once you see what it took for us to satisfy our first customer, you’ll understand our need for additional time.”
Walt grinned. “I guess I’ll have to take your word on that, for now.” He motioned to the rear of the room.
Corey knew this was the same suite as before: the room number matched, they had entered the third door from the corner, and the majority of the decorations remained. Yet the bed now rested against the back wall of the suite, with the Vegas skyline as its headboard. Glancing to where the previously frosted glass room stood, Corey found it missing. A modern desk with a curved monitor waited in its place. He had to wonder if the Bellagio was so accommodating they rearranged each and every penthouse suite to this degree.
Just thinking of the logistics that society implemented to keep people like Walt happy, Corey knew they were out of their depth. They were playing against think tanks, legal wizards, and a tight-knit team of loyalists.
Judging by Cooper’s continued gaze and Kendra’s rapt attention, only Marci thought they stood on equal footing.
However, feeling that her contingency plan—one he had considered a waste of time and money—was about to be proved brilliant, made him grin. Marci was smart.
Before Walt advanced ten steps toward the bed, Marci spoke, “Walt.”
He paused, pivoted on his toes, and parted a reptilian smile: lips spread, teeth clenched tight, brow somewhat furrowed.
“The reason we don’t have our gear is we are going to perform the Dream Ride in a different room.”
Walt huffed, looked to his help and then back to Marci. “What’s this you say?” With a stiffening of his back, and the micro-expressions crackling over his face, he understood just fine: Marci was side-stepping whatever trap they had laid in hopes of recording a Dream Ride.
Marci guided her hair behind her ears and said, “It’s nothing too complicated. We met with a new client last night. We have your appointment tonight, and another new client tomorrow, so we decided it’d be more practical to
ask you to walk down a few floors than for us to deconstruct our room, lug the equipment up here, and set it all up, only to break it down and return it to our room for tomorrow.”
They had no client scheduled for Sunday, and they had met yesterday’s client in a much less expensive hotel, but Corey supported the fib. Marci’s request would be nearly impossible to refuse without sounding crass. And if Corey knew one thing: humans were terrified of offending one another. But, was Walt?
Their host glanced over his shoulder to a China cabinet jumbled with Chinese vases.
Walt’s tongue lashed out to wet his upper lip, and again to lick his lower. His eyes flicked to Cooper, to Kendra, yet before he could muster a logical counter, Corey supported their position, “The room’s right around the corner. And with everything set-up and tonight being about you having a good time, we can have you experiencing your heart’s desire within a few minutes.”
“Rather than more than an hour of unnecessary labor,” Marci added.
“That’s unacceptable,” Walt said absent-mindedly. He then cleared his throat.
“It’s unexpected,” Marci said. “But you have to agree, relocating everything versus walking a couple hundred paces is ridiculous.”
Walt parted a sour grin. He stepped closer and inspected Marci. “I only worry there’s something more than convenience at play.”
“Whatever could you mean?” Marci asked as her lips turned down slightly and she shifted her frown to puzzlement.
“Like maybe you’re up to something, or you don’t trust this room.”
“It’s not you we’re worried about,” Corey lied. “But security does play a role in our decision.” Adding a solid argument based in truth solidified Corey’s resolve. They would either move to their established room, or end this relationship tonight.
Another few seconds passed. Finally, Walt smiled, “Hey, I don’t want to sound prissy, but I pay good money to sleep in that nice bed.”
“I checked with housekeeping.” Marci moved a few errant hairs behind her ears. “They use the same mattresses in every room.”
“So it’s your way or the highway?’ Kendra interjected.
“So much for the customer is always right,” Cooper rumbled, and then slapped each foot on the tile flooring.
“Think of it as a small concession that maximizes your vacation time.” Marci added her own smile.
Corey thought he saw anger behind Walt’s blank stare.
After a half-minute of glaring, where Corey occasionally wondered if they would be thrown out after a beating, Walt nodded. “Okay. Tonight we’ll play by your rules. Just know there is a fine line between tough negotiations and unpardonable insults.”
“That’s a line we hope to never cross,” Marci said, and held Walt’s gaze long enough to draw a grin from him.
“Well said.” Walt said with a calming wave to Kendra and Cooper. Walt eyed Marci and motioned to the door, “After you.”
Once in the secured room, with Walt sitting on the edge of the bed and Marci and Corey hovering over him, Corey asked, “Have you given much thought to what you want to experience tonight?”
A plastered smile and two-piece pajama outfit made it difficult to envision Walt as a financial powerhouse with potential psychological issues. He looked more like someone who had been surprised on his birthday with a treasured gift.
“Planning for tonight has taken up the majority of my week,” Walt said. “Presentiment dreams have captured most of my attention. There’s a famous man from Iceland, Bierg Klormein, who, in the nineteen forties, dreamed of a flood that killed seventeen people. Years later he used his dreams to predict a ship disaster that killed seventy-three, and there were countless tales of him introducing husbands and wives who lived happily ever after. His escapades were well-documented, and after the ship disaster, heeded. Seeing as how my epiphany worked, I wanted to try my predictions next. But now, with you here and the moment upon me, I’m thinking we can leave that for another day. I’ll use tonight to feel pleasure.”
Fearing an X-rated version, Corey said, “Happiness we can do.”
“What’s something specific you think will make you happy?” Marci asked.
Walt searched each of their faces, “Must I outline something, or can you just guide me using ‘pleasure’ as a marker?”
Marci pivoted and returned with an open tin of the sleeping scent. “Vague descriptions will make our jobs easier.” She offered the scent pads.
Walt leaned forward and inhaled deeply. As he eased back, he looked to Marci and said, “By the way, what’s in…” His eyes dropped.
Corey caught him before his body slumped.
Once the couple guided him to a comfortable position, Marci moved to her oversize handbag, removed a stethoscope, and placed the chest piece on the carotid artery on the neck. After a few seconds of listening, she returned the equipment and said, “He’s out.”
Marci’s attention to detail always impressed Corey, but seeing Walt unconscious caused his throat to constrict, and the muscles above his right eye to twitch. Anchors of trepidation weighted his movements.
He didn’t want to learn what lurked inside Walton Zimbardo’s pleasure dream.
Like a lookout archer standing on a stone palisade wall, Corey stepped to the edge of his dream balcony and took stock. He was indoors. A fire lit chamber waited below.
Corey and Marci had teleported themselves into five different people’s dreams. With Mr. Labarge, Janey, and now Walt as repeat customers. Evidence abounded that each person carried a mixture of emotions that identified the dreamer as surely as strands of their DNA.
Walt’s aura held the same thoughts of superiority as before, but with a greater percentage of confidence. Aggression scented the air, perhaps twanged with madness. Having learned their emotions affected, at a minimum, the audience section populated by himself and Marci, Corey willed away his increasing fear, and kept telling himself it will be fine. Stop worrying. We got this,
With his balcony clear of Jinn, comfort slowly settled on him. His hold on their environment had evolved to second nature. He considered it similar to sitting on a couch and holding a basketball with two hands while the main weight rested on his thighs. The dreamer’s anxiety or stress added weight and expanded the ball, causing a need for him to apply more effort to hold it. At any time, to exit, he only needed to widen his knees, or flick the ball away with his hands, so to speak.
The main chamber grew brighter and more detailed as Walt appeared. He wore a loincloth revealing a body as defined as an air-brushed GQ model. Two small chains trailed from his hands to leashes around the necks of a waif Hispanic female and a dark African woman, both were clothed in amorphous material that accentuated sexuality. A bear hound, formally known as a Caucasian Russian, trotted in front of him.
Apparently definitions of pleasure varied, because Corey would feel like a damn fool if he dreamed this.
Corey turned his attention from the show. He sniffed the breeze and scanned the balcony for signs of an intruder. Each passing second brought greater relief. He was going to make this without incident. Turning back to the chamber, he found the chiseled version of Walt now dined alone at a long wooden table. His women stood behind him. The bear hound sat on its haunches at his feet. A procession of visitors dressed in rags, as if from a local village, shuffled by. Each voiced a different concern—their children’s starvation, a neighbor owing them a debt, fear of stalking predators.
Corey sensed Walt’s disinterest in their problems and the “pleasure” he received from ignoring all of their pleas. As peasants spoke, Walt dunked strips of near raw meat into a bowl of dark fluid. Corey knew human blood was the condiment.
As time progressed, Walt stopped a person now and again with the lift of his finger or the flash of an eye and allowed them to continue in greater detail, only to deny their request with a similarly trivial gesture.
One woman lingered after being told to move. With the lack of continuity dreams
provided, she went from holding up the line of needy people, to being alone in a dark room, both hands covering her stomach, blood spreading under them. She crumbled and expired under the bored gaze of Walt and his two women.
Blood coated Walt’s hands, a coil of intestines dangled in his grip.
A dream shift brought them to the scene of animalistic group sex.
With the spotlight on Walt as he strolled through the Hedonism, the coupling outside his perimeter remained opaque. The emotional texture of the atmosphere informed of aggressive and rushed intercourse.
Corey couldn’t imagine sex with a stranger at zero intimacy. Might as well fornicate with cattle.
He next worried about Marci’s exposure to this. Without turning to him, she emoted her detachment from Walt’s desires. She let Corey know she viewed their situation as providing a service. She encouraged Corey to do the same.
The moment he embraced the transition from concern for Marci to being present and tending to their responsibilities, a new sensation joined the currents. A revulsion, akin to watching someone pour motor oil over a wailing infant while holding a match, washed over Corey.
Marci’s concern joined his.
With a brief inspection of Walt, Corey knew the man remained unaware of the change in the dream atmosphere.
The Jinni materialized out of a dark fog previously missing from his stone walkway. It glided to a stop three feet from Corey.
Maroon-colored whorls moved like a hurricane viewed from orbit over the mucous-green skin. Reaching his face, Corey found the ivory eyes fixed on him. He used all of his willpower to hold his grip on their world, and complete their responsibility, but he loosened his grip just in case he needed a quick retreat.
Corey’s heart beat like ceremony drums before a human sacrifice. The Jinni motioned its arm to the scene below them.
Inhuman emotions misted Corey. They reeked of confusion. He interpreted the spritz as a question: how were he and Marci here? What were they doing in this realm?
Something about a malevolent lifeform attempting to chat forced bile up Corey’s gullet. He stared at the Jinni’s waist in an effort to combat his instinct to exit the dream.
