“Beauregard isn’t any better. He was a weird kid. I guess you could say he was one of those artistic types,” Giles mentioned.
Reb rubbed her chin. “What kinds of jobs can they have? Malcolm used to be a professional football player. Beauregard calls himself a painter, but the word, deadbeat, is probably more accurate.”
“Malcolm needs to become one of those televised sports commentators. It’s the best job for aging athletes. That type of career will give him a lot of publicity too. Beauregard’s situation is tougher. I suppose he needs to sell some paintings. However, that’s not going to pay the bills or give him enough publicity,” Giles realistically said.
Reb had an idea. “Maybe Beau could become an art dealer or critic. Those are reputable careers.”
“I guess we need to keep all possibilities open. Regardless of his career choice, Beau needs to revamp his paintings. Nobody cares about his ugly artwork. He wants to make a political statement, but it goes over everyone’s heads. Beau needs to embrace Steampunk culture and artwork. After that, I’m sure people will become much more receptive to his paintings,” Giles explained.
“I hate to say it, but life is just a huge popularity contest. Beau hasn’t figured that part out yet,” Reb commented.
Giles stretched and tried to get comfortable in his seat. “That’s one hundred percent true. Sorry for cutting our conversation short, but I should catch a little bit of sleep. I have a much longer flight than you. Let me know when you reach Chicago.”
“Yeah, I’ll be in touch. Good luck with Beau. I’ll talk to you later,” Reb responded.
“We can keep each other posted. I’ll miss you in New York. See you soon,” Giles said before he exited the video program.
Eventually, Reb’s flight reached the airport. She disembarked from the plane and maneuvered through a dense mob of people. After she exited the airport with her luggage, Reb hailed a cab and took a ride through the streets of Chicago.
Like other major cities, Chicago was an industrial metropolis with steam power and other Steampunk themes. Many of the buildings were very tall and constructed out of sturdy metals. Vintage Steampunk vehicles hurried down the streets sporting decorative features like rotating gears, movable pistons, spinning propellers, and other strange items. Many of the people wore attire with Victorian influences, but she also noticed several citizens with 1950’s Dieselpunk clothing and techno Cyberpunk garb.
The cab ventured into Chicago’s slums. Reb looked through the window at the messy, rundown environment. The cabdriver dropped her off at a cheap and dirty apartment complex. She paid the cabby and then she examined the old structure. Obviously, Malcolm had fallen on hard times and didn’t live in the best neighborhood. She entered the apartment building and meandered around until she reached Malcolm’s apartment number.
Reb pounded on the door with her fist. “Malcolm! Open the door! You can’t avoid me forever and we have a lot of work to finish today!”
Malcolm rolled over on the floor inside his trashed apartment. It was littered with beer bottles, old trash, pornographic magazines, and drug paraphernalia. It hadn’t been vacuumed or cleaned for months.
He had a splitting headache from a hangover. “Go away! I don’t want to see you!”
Reb grew impatient and she broke off the doorknob with her brass baton. She pushed the door open and entered the disgusting apartment. “Ready or not, I’m coming inside!”
“What are you doing? I should have you arrested for breaking and entering!” Malcolm yelled, from where he lie on the floor.
Reb smugly replied, “You’re not going to call the police. They’ll find your stash of drugs. I don’t think you want more jail time.”
She walked over to Malcolm, leaned over, and grabbed his shirt collar. Reb examined the downtrodden man and observed his long hair, beard, and ragged clothes.
“Don’t touch me! I don’t want your help!” Malcolm complained.
Reb slammed the base of her baton on the floor and almost struck his hand. “You don’t get a choice. I’ve already been paid quite nicely to fix your damaged reputation. Your daddy is the one footing the bill.”
Malcolm rolled his eyes. “Sometimes I wish my dad would mind his own business.”
Reb roughly pulled Malcolm to his feet. “I’m not going to play the role of a kind and sympathetic agent. You need a serious makeover. Now jump in the shower and put on something presentable. I’m taking you to get a haircut and brand new clothes.”
“Are you serious? That will cost a fortune,” Malcolm grumbled.
“Your father is being very generous. Hurry up. I don’t want us to be late for your appointment,” Reb demanded.
In Paris, Gable prepared for bed on the last night of their trip. He fluffed his pillow on the bed while Priscilla was taking a shower. The idea of warm water running down her sensual curves aroused him. Gable tossed the pillow and promptly dropped his pajama bottoms. He slowly crept to the bathroom door and quietly opened it. Gable entered the steam-filled room and then slid the shower curtain open enough to sneak inside. He hugged Priscilla from behind while she bathed.
“I’m not sure if there’s enough room in this shower for both of us,” Priscilla teased.
“Maybe I can help you. Allow me,” Gable said in a charming tone of voice.
He took the bar of soap from Priscilla and slowly rubbed it across the soft skin of her back. Gable gently kissed his wife’s cheek and then he nibbled on her neck. When he finished soaping her back, Priscilla leaned against him and ran her hand across his firm abdomen. Gable ran his fingers through her wet hair and smelled the flowery soap on her skin.
The casino tycoon clasped one of her breasts, placed his other hand on her stomach, then he whispered, “I can’t get enough of you.”
She turned around and stroked the side of his face. “Prove it.”
Gable wrapped his arms around Priscilla’s body and kissed her passionately. He pressed her body against the shower wall and massaged one of her thighs. Priscilla breathed heavily, digging her fingers into his back.
He looked into her eyes. “I love you, Priscilla. All the time, not just when we’re being intimate.”
“I love you too, Gable,” she responded.
They hugged each other while the hot water rained on their bodies.
Nine hours away, Giles reached New York City. A cab drove him toward Beauregard’s apartment complex. While the cab moved down the street, Giles examined New York City’s environment. It blended aesthetics and designs from the Steampunk and Cyberpunk subcultures. There were many Victorian and Wild West Steampunks walking on the sidewalks. He also saw several people who wore dystopian Cyberpunk garb.
The buildings were huge and grafted with a variety of metals. Giles noticed numerous giant television screens that were welded on the buildings. The screens advertised many products. Giles thought the screens were more of a Cyberpunk invention than a Steampunk element. Although he couldn’t see it, the subway system had an iron Steampunk tram that ran below the streets.
Eventually, the cabdriver dropped off Giles in front of an old apartment complex. Giles paid the driver and then promptly entered the building He took an elevator upstairs and checked his cell phone to determine the exact apartment number. After he reached the appropriate floor, Giles walked down the hallway and found Beauregard’s apartment.
He knocked on the door and called out, “Beau, it’s Giles. Let me into your apartment.”
Beauregard was trying to finish one of his paintings. “Why couldn’t you call me on the phone? Flying all the way over here is a waste of time and money,” he shouted back through the door.
“That’s not the point. I need to check out your apartment, and then we need to get some errands done,” Giles responded.
Beauregard put down his painting materials. “Go home, Giles. My dad wants you to save me, but I’m not interested. There’s no way I’m joining your Steampunk culture.”
“I thought you might say th
at. Your father was kind enough to give me a spare key,” Giles gloated.
“What? He can’t do that!” Beauregard complained.
Giles unlocked the door and opened it. “Why not? Your dad is the one paying for it. I know you can’t afford this place, even though it’s cheap.”
The Steampunk attorney entered his client’s rundown apartment and examined the surroundings. It had two bedrooms, one of which functioned as Beauregard’s art studio. The apartment also had a small living room and an even smaller kitchen. It smelled like marijuana, paint, and musk. Beauregard’s dirty laundry was strewn on the floor and he apparently also neglected to pick up his trash. Giles tried not to gag from the foul air.
“You’ve seen my apartment now. Are you happy? Please, go away,” Beauregard insisted.
Giles shook his head. “Don’t give me a hard time. This will be much easier if you cooperate.”
He approached the painting and took a close look at it. Giles thought it looked like a blurry painting with too many colors, vague images, and sharp brush strokes. Beauregard didn’t look any better. Like Malcolm, his hair and beard were long. He reeked of alcohol and pot. Beauregard’s clothes were tattered and stained with paint.
“What are you staring at? This is my newest painting. It’s not finished yet,” Beauregard muttered.
Giles was not satisfied with his ward’s artwork. “What is this? It’s just a blurry image.”
Beauregard was insulted. “I wouldn’t expect a stiff guy like you to understand. This is avant-garde artwork. Only the truest and most intellectual art enthusiasts appreciate these types of paintings. My artwork is much edgier than anything the Steampunks enjoy.”
Giles shoved Beauregard. “What do you know about edge? The Apocalypse was the definition of edge! Buildings were blown up! People were slaughtered! I couldn’t keep track of how many people lost arms and legs! Entire cities were reduced to rubble! It took months to wash the blood out of our streets! When bad things happen to the United States, it affects the entire world! The global economy was rattled! That’s real edge! Your paintings cling to a time period and style that never saw edge!”
“Calm down! I survived the Apocalypse too! We just have different ways of dealing with it!” Beauregard shot back.
Giles took a deep breath and then said, “You’re very closed-minded about the Steampunk culture, but I can tell you don’t know much about it. Learn about a culture first before you hate it. That was the problem with Victor and the other Utopians. None of them knew anything about Steampunks, but they chose to hate us anyway. I guess people have a tendency to hate and fear people who are different, but you need to evolve from your primitive ideas.”
Beauregard couldn’t argue with his logic. “Change is difficult for me. I would never fit into Steampunk society.”
“Don’t give up yet. I’m the type of person who sees everything in black and white, but anyone can have second chances. There’s a good man hidden underneath your scruffy exterior. We just need to find him,” Giles explained.
Beauregard was curious. “What’s the next step?”
“A huge makeover. For starters, we need to cut your hair. I’ll take you to a barber. You also need a better wardrobe. These dirty rags aren’t appropriate for a man of substance. After that, you’re going to learn about Steampunk art and culture. It’s a big task, but necessary if you’re going to find an identity in this world,” Giles said confidently then sighed.
“I don’t have the energy to accomplish these tasks.”
Giles patted his pupil on the shoulder. “Think of it this way. I might look intimidating, but Reb is much more frightening. She’s probably torturing and beating Malcolm right now. By the way, do you still keep in touch with him?”
“Sometimes. Neither one of us has a lot of contact with people anymore,” Beauregard admitted.
“That’s going to change. You and Malcolm are going to become members of Steampunk society very soon,” Giles proudly said.
Chapter 3
Malcolm sat in a barber chair while the hair stylist cut his hair. Locks of disheveled hair fell on the floor. He felt somewhat embarrassed.
“Are you going to turn me into a freak?” Malcolm asked.
“Think of it this way; I’m going to transform you into a gorgeous man. You would be an attractive guy if you were cleaned up,” Reb replied.
Malcolm rolled his eyes. “Just make it good. If my dad is paying you a lot of money, I want you to earn it.”
“I should get paid a lot of money to fix up a hopeless case like you. Anyway, here’s what I want; The barber is giving you a short haircut, and I want your hair pulled back and slicked, to give you a classy and sophisticated image. We’re trimming that beard. I might let you keep the mustache, and some hair on your chin if it’s trimmed well enough. Giles can pull off a beard. Maybe facial hair will be okay for you too,” Reb explained.
Malcolm tried to remain still while the stylist clipped his hair. “This is really weird. I won’t recognize myself.”
“Good. The old version of you needs to have a funeral,” Reb muttered.
Malcolm glared at his agent. “You’re bossy, stuck-up, and cynical.”
Reb agreed with him, nodding and said, “And you’re a pompous, misogynistic, chauvinistic jerk who craves too much attention. Our personalities don’t match at all, but this is a matter of business.”
The barber took an electric razor and shaved Malcolm’s face.
“We’re almost done here. What are we doing next?” Malcolm wondered out loud.
Reb patted him on the shoulder. “The fun part. I’m going to find a new wardrobe for you.”
“Hurrah,” Malcolm sarcastically said.
After they reached an appropriate men’s clothing department, Reb picked out multiple outfits. She gave him Victorian suits, trench coats, boots, belts, gloves, and hats. Reb chose very fashionable goggles that were streamlined. One of the outfits made Malcolm look like a lawman from the Wild West. Another outfit had an aviation theme. Reb also found an old-fashioned outfit that had a safari theme.
She adjusted the pith helmet on his head. “I think this outfit looks good on a big, strong guy like you. You have enough chauvinistic pride to match the image.”
Malcolm thought he looked ridiculous. “I can’t believe it. The world must be filled with lunatics. Why are people dressing in stupid costumes that went out of style generations ago?”
“Steampunks have more logic than you realize. When civilizations need to start over, they always look to the past for help and influence. Otherwise, they don’t have any building blocks for the future. Our clothes evoke a sense of fantasy and science. It’s a great way to escape the turmoil of our dystopian existence,” Reb explained.
Malcolm couldn’t argue with her justification. “You make this madness sound so normal.”
Reb shrugged. “I can try. We live in a Post-Apocalyptic civilization. I don’t think we’re going to see anything normal for a long time.”
“On a different note, why are these outfits so heavy? I can barely stand up. That says a lot because I’m a pretty strong guy,” Malcolm complained.
“Modern clothing is grafted with a molecularly-modified metal. It makes our clothes dense and heavy, but don’t worry, everything will change when your body undergoes the grafting process,” Reb discussed.
Malcolm was alarmed by her statement. “What do you mean, by the grafting process? Does that mean you’re going to inject metal into my skeleton?”
“That’s exactly what will happen,” Reb answered.
“I’m not comfortable with that idea,” Malcolm bluntly said.
Reb was growing impatient with Malcolm’s protests. “Well, you’ll just have to tough it out. That’s part of my fee. Soon I’ll help you find some appropriate weapons that will accessorize your clothes. For Steampunks, weaponry is a fashion statement. Almost anything, including jewelry, can be used as a weapon. I know from experience that it comes in handy. That�
�s how my family and I survived the Utopian attack in Louisiana. First, I need to assess your physical capabilities.”
Malcolm was confused. “What are you talking about? I’m in terrific physical condition. After all, I used to be an athlete.”
“Yes, but you’re out of practice. Let’s go for a run in the park,” Reb recommended.
Within the next hour, Reb took Malcolm to a local park. He ran on the pavement, huffing and puffing along the way. Despite her bum leg, Reb rode next to her client easily on a 19th Century tricycle.
Malcolm inspected his mentor as sweat poured down the sides of his face. “That’s not fair! Why do you get a tricycle? By the way, doesn’t that tricycle belong to your brother, Gable?”
“Yes, I stole it. Don’t say anything to my brother. I haven’t gotten an angry phone call yet and that means he hasn’t noticed anything. This is going to help you put things in context after we graft your bones. This outing might not make sense now, but it will later,” Reb said confidently.
Malcolm was becoming increasingly short of breathe. “I’ll take your word for it,” he huffed.
Later during the day, Reb took her client to a quaint cafe. The server gave Malcolm a ham and cheese croissant, latte, and a side of fruit.
He was dissatisfied with the meal. “This is a girly lunch. Why are you making me eat this way?”
“If you’re going to become a celebrity again, Steampunks need to believe you have class and elegance. People need to see you enjoying the finer things in life. That means the public needs to see you eating meals like this sometimes. You might like it. Lattes are good, so don’t complain until you’ve tried it,” Reb snapped.
The server returned and gave Reb a cheeseburger, fries, and a soda.
“You’re such a hypocrite! Look at you, eating a greasy burger and fries!” Malcolm shouted.
Reb picked up a fry and ate it. “You need to earn a greasy burger and fries. In the meantime, bon appétit!”
The Post-Apocalyptic Society: A Nelson and Hyde Revolution Page 13
