by Travis Borne
Deep healing took place for Herald that day, and Ana found the one she had been waiting for. The rest of the day was perfect.
36. The Non-disclosure Agreement
In the corner of his eye, he saw the man duck out from the elevator to his right. He wore a tan blazer and jeans. Only one man he’d ever known had to duck to exit an elevator, and he knew after seeing him from behind, that curly brown hair, it had to be. But what was Jerry doing at Meddlinn on a Saturday afternoon?
“Jerry,” Jon yelled, catching his attention from behind; it was Jerry. “What are you doing here?”
“Oh, hey, Jon. Not supposed to say—a non-disclosure or whatever they call it. They said I could lose my store if I, disclose anything.”
“What?” Jon’s curiosity stumbled, his eyes popped and his mind yelled, what else? A nondisclosure agreement—with Meddlinn—and JERRY? His mind was still spongy from the conversation he’d had with Herald on the top floor minutes earlier and this further scratched at the fabric of his previously solid reality.
Noticing Jerry’s circumspect—something else irregular, surprising for his character—he mimicked, also looking around the immense first-floor lobby. It was mostly empty, usual for a Saturday afternoon. No one concerning or out of the ordinary: the usual scattered security guards dressed like ready-to-deploy Navy SEALs, a lady in a brown jumpsuit was dollying some deliveries, the doorman practiced the usual sleep-while-standing act he’d mastered, and Horice at the front desk, watching the game on his new holophone under a wall of holographic world-time clocks. A thought entered his mind, and he noticed what Jerry was looking at.
“Jon, I’m sorry, I—”
“How about a beer, Jerry? Rita’s?” Jon asked quickly, noticing the security camera Jerry was eyeballing. It crept their way, tugging at Jerry’s newfound paranoia.
But, he was always up for a beer and agreed instantly. “Sure, meet ya at four.” He nodded, flicking an eye at the camera as if to explain any discourtesy, then strolled out of the building.
Thought races commenced in Jon’s mind—something he was getting more acquainted with as of late. He had been jerked in a few directions so far: Herald, suddenly going by his real name, one he hadn’t heard him use since freshman year before they lost touch; his haunting end-of-the-world predictions; Nancy bugging him—while getting spanked oddly enough; and now Jerry, at Meddlinn with a non-disclosure agreement. He knew Jerry didn’t mess around with his business so if there was some sort of agreement with a threatening stipulation it would explain Jerry’s sudden prudent behavior. It must be one hell of a deal because his business is already booming. Then he remembered something else. Jerry mentioned lots of orders from Herald at the club. Was Herald just playing it off and actually sending other people to pick up orders for—more adult toys? That would be pretty ridiculous.
Beers have a way of bringing things out. Soon we’ll get to the bottom of this, Jon thought. But first, stop by and check on Jodi. He followed Jerry out, twenty steps behind, then went in the opposite direction.
37. Beer Discharge Blast
Rita’s had been around for decades. A quaint corner restaurant and family-managed joint, the owners were passionate about setting their clientele on fire. They were known for three things: beer and tacos, and endorphin-surging sauce. Rita’s had some of the hottest homemade salsas in the world and won numerous awards; patrons won a thumbtack—thousands of red-faced mugs polluted the photo wall. Their variations had creative and deterring nicknames but that didn’t prevent mass masochistic endeavors; their customers regularly became fire-breathing dragons. And, technology had improved drastically over the past few years, refining the processes. Crossbreeding peppers and purifying the extract was an obsession of Rita’s. The latest result and prideful claim was a new breed of chili pepper: The Kalifornia Kalamity. It boasted reaching over two million on the Scoville scale. People came from around the world to the modest and mostly unchanged cable-TV-featured establishment, many times to settle a score, or for the annual competitions, and many left in tears, or worse.
Coincidentally, they entered together. They passed the wall of tomato-faced impressionism, the awards, the library of salsa bottles with every possible torture rating, and took a booth in the back. The view wasn’t great, just a tall wooden fence strung with white lights, but it was more private than the upper deck, bar area, or round tables. A cute waitress surprised them from the side and they placed an order: a few beers and pork tacos.
“Jerry, now what is this agreement you have with Meddlinn?” Jon asked, leaning forward slightly. “You know you can trust me.”
“Right to it, Jon. Relax a bit, would ya?” Contradicting himself, he scanned the area.
Relax? Jon noticed his cautious look around. Sitting back, he grinned, releasing a this-has-got-to-be-a-joke snicker while resting his arm along the seat.
Jerry had been hanging out with Jon for over six months now and had gotten to know him well: Jon, was a square, probably the most honest guy he’d ever known, the most trustworthy guy on the planet as Rab pointed out regarding lost cell phones. And everyone realized the glaringly obvious upon seeing them together last night: Jon was the good guy, and Rab, well, possibly the opposite of Jon, his counterbalance.
A different waitress came over carrying a bucket in one hand, balancing a steaming tray in the other. She put Jerry’s eyes under arrest. “Earth to Jerry,” Jon said. He didn’t even nod, just followed her every move as if she was a magician. The white bucket tagged with the Rita’s logo (a sexy chica riding a red pepper while lassoing a swollen blistered tongue) contained red and normal ice cubes, split green limes, and six beers—she set it on the table, next the tray of still-sizzling pork tacos surrounded by colorful toppings.
Jerry saw none of it.
“Algo mas, Señor?” said the curvaceous Spanish woman. She wore tight white denim and was short, maybe 5 foot 5, with the widest billboard-worthy smile.
“Esta bien, gracias,” Jon said in his best sober Spanish. Jerry repeated the gracias politely in his thick southern accent, followed by a whopping ma’am. In response she cocked her head and smiled big enough, yet not revealing any pearly whites, and curiously noted his size, then headed back to the bar. His gaze was her prisoner and her silky black ponytail teased the top of her ass—back and forth, back and forth; Jerry was hypnotized.
“Damn,” Jerry said, like a redwood tree trembling in a windstorm. “She’s gorgeous.”
“Well?” Jon asked.
He remembered Jon was still awaiting the explanation. “Right. Well, man. Guess I can tell you. It’s, uh, actually kind of funny.” Pausing, he downed an entire beer then reached for the tacos. “I thought you ran that place anyway? Figured you would know what kinda crazy shit they’re cooking up over there.” He spun the turntable, which had about ten different sauces, ultimately narrowing it down to two, and pondered over which of the two he wanted to risk. Each had number labels representing the heat factor. He put down the #6, Intestinal Rage, settling on a #5, Colon Killer.
Jon watched, momentarily diverted, but patient enough, knowing he would’ve went for a #1, max #2.
“Rab knows, doesn’t he? He is the boss, right?” Jerry finally continued. “He sent people with trucks. They bought at least one of almost everything I have in stock. And the anatomically-correct items and molds are high dollar. They took a stockpile of movies, lubricants, and even—didn’t you notice my new signs? They cost a pretty penny, but with Rab—let’s just say business is good.”
“Quite a lot goes on at Meddlinn. I’m head of my team but there are numerous departments. Are you sure it was Rab who ordered those? Oh, and by the way he is going by his given name now—Herald.”
“Huh? All right. The checks were signed Meddlinn Technologies, so I figured since you had ordered a couple of times…” Jerry bit into the Colon-Killer-laced taco then exhibited a perplexed countenance that didn’t quite fit his brute appearance. “Hold on.” His face turned into a beet
. He finished the taco, nearly swallowing it whole, and hastily downed another entire beer. With a deep breath and a wooooo-shit, he nudged the sauce aside. “You really don’t know do you? Maybe a few more beers before I spill the beans...”
Jon sighed.
“All right, fuck it,” Jerry said. “Sex robots, man. Big penises too, some with double rods—”
Jon burst, spraying beer all over Jerry’s face and food. It was just the unexpectedness of it, the southern accent, the way he just blurted, sex robots, man, so casually, red-faced and sweaty.
“Shit, man, what the fuck?”
Jon tried to control his spasms of laughter-shocks. Others noticed, laughing as well. The same smoking-hot waitress happened to be near. She came over and leaned in to help, giving him a little wink while she wiped him down. Jerry clumsily introduced himself in the meantime, and she appeared delighted to meet him.
“Well, it’s very nice to meet you, Jerry. My name is Valerie.” She spoke English with no accent, the Spanish now obviously a part of the theme to give out-of-towners the whole shebang.
He sat still as stone while she continued to wipe him with the cool washcloth. His posture was a prize-winner, his eyes followed her every daub, and panicked by the weird slew of simultaneous events (spit beer blast, smokin’ hot waitress wiping him down, colon being killed, all while trying not to explode) his face was getting redder from the #5 and he tugged at his collar, popping a button. Valerie let out a trickle of a giggle after glimpsing the bottle with its cap off. A thought winced through Jerry’s brain, as sickly as it might be: the blast of beer and spit, her cool rag—ah, soothing. She put her face near his and smiled brightly, teeth and all. Turnip-faced, he sat as erect as his bestseller, with a botched smile, bashful-eyed, and bumped with embarrassment.
“I’m so sorry, man, I just—”
“Ah, it’s all right, man,” Jerry said, while Valerie finished dabbing his face.
“There, all set—Jerry,” she said. She commanded his attention once more as she left, this time swinging with a walk that had him rocking from side to side.
“Did you see her? I’m actually glad you did it,” Jerry said quickly. “I might not have met her.”
His country accent, just the way he’d said it really, hit a funny bone—and his red face under that curly brown wig. The day had it coming, primed and ready to blow. What else? Jon thought, wiping his mouth. He recompiled himself, mostly, and cleaned the table with a few napkins. “Ah, man. Jerry, really I’m—” he said, still holding quite a bit in.
“Why’d you blow off like that, though?”
“I don’t know, man, just sounded funny, and with the day I’ve been having—” He sighed. “—I’m on a bit of a roller coaster, I guess. Now, sex robots? I gotta hear this.”
“Yeah, they have me in there for advice. I met someone else from your company months ago, Nancy something, and she said they had an opportunity for me. I gave her some really good advice—to save her marriage if you know what I mean, and she wanted to pay me back. Pretty freaky that one—after I gave her the advice the cat came out of the bag so to speak. She spent quite a bit at the store too, for personal use. Anyway, I had to sign the contract to keep quiet about it but they paid me to advise them on making these—robots, you know, so they can do the nasty.” His color finally returned to normal and he took a swig. “Yeah, it’s pretty fucked-up shit, when you think about it. But they’re paying me—are they paying.”
“Holy shit,” Jon said and fell back onto the seat. Reaching without moving his body, he picked up his second beer from the ice bucket. Jon wasn’t into the salt and lime thing, and though it wasn’t his favorite beer, its smooth skunkiness slapped him just right this time. Another image formed in his head—what Herald had told him, combining their project with... Does Herald know about this? I—don’t think he does.
“How’d you wind up selling porn anyway?”
“My wife, Alice, she was a nymphomaniac—long story really. But the reason I moved to the big city, leaving behind country life in Tennessee, especially my hunting and fishing, was all for her. After receiving an inheritance, she used the money for our move and together we opened the store, making her dreams come true.”
“What happened to your wife?”
“In an attempt to break a world record, she…met her demise from blood loss at a sex party.”
“Man,” Jon said. “That’s… I’m sorry to hear it, Jerry.”
“It was a long time ago, Jon, three years. And we weren’t very close in the end but—well, she was quite the teacher, in ways many a mortal will never experience the pleasure.” Jerry raised his beer. Jon smirked in jolted disbelief.
“I suppose that and owning Titan’s Pleasurables for a few years—who else would be more befitted to advise? Now I see why Nancy chose you.”
“And now she’s happily married—and more promiscuous than ever, a regular customer too. She has me training her—no touching or anything—just explaining some of the things I learned over the years, mostly thanks to Alice. I give her advice on videos, books, toys, you know.”
“Nuts, I never knew. Well, you surely got your foot in the door.” Jon knew Jerry was smart and understood his business. The man might look like a huge, stupid redneck to some of these urbanites but it’s clear—he knows porn and knows it well. “So that’s it?”
“Almost,” Jerry replied. “Things up there—I think it’s on the 60th floor, top-security clearance required too—are really bizarre. They wanted me to think outside the box, you know, let them have it, all of it, what humans really want on the deepest, carnal level, things people might be embarrassed to talk about, fantasies, everything as far as sex is concerned. So, I spilled it. I offered suggestions such as those I’ve gotten from my wildest, bestial customers, and my advice has changed the shape of many of the robots’—parts. Like, why have one breast when you can have three, one penis when you can have two or more? Multi-purposed, multi-assed, there’s even vacuum super suction, but they still wanted to know more. So, I told them to throw in modular adaptability, add-ons, upgrades, even dick fists—and my ideas were absorbed by thirsty ears. Speeds on some of these things include slow and sensual, traditional rhythmic, wacky slaphappy, punch pounding, the rabbit-twerk, and supersonic to name a few. Nuts, Jon? This is just the beginning.”
“They’re going to take over the sex industry,” Jon said, finally enlightened, half listening to Jerry go on and on with the details, the other half in outer space, imagining the fucked-up future under new light. “It really is all about the money,” he mumbled. “It’ll be billions, trillions—more.”
“What’s that, Jon?” Jerry said, watching Jon’s unfocused eyes.
“It’ll work. It’ll be the largest most powerful company in the world—if it isn’t already. The sex industry is huge, worth billions, and combine that with—and when we plug in the—” He caught himself, not wanting to mention anything of the project; he couldn’t, at least not yet—although many times he so fucking wanted to. It was tough for even the most trustworthy mortal, keeping such a secret, but Jon managed; perhaps the hardest part of his job was being the only one on the team who really knows. The others—except for Jodi, it slipped with her—think the coding is a construct for a new operating system, while the true specificities have always been cleverly hidden. Then his thoughts flipped directions: the blocker device. Maybe Jerry can have one? The quick thought swept through like a gust of wind. He remembered how Herald closely examined him in Club Subterranean.
“You’re gonna plug in what?” Jerry asked, guzzling the last skunky beer.
“Ah, nothing. Well, that’s great, Jerry. Who else? I’m glad you’re their adviser and your secret is safe with me.” His thoughts stood apart from his words, lingering around a term Herald had used earlier: inevitability.
Jon raised his beer above the table, “Friends.”
“I’ll drink to that, Jon, truly glad to have met ya. Friends.” Jerry was still a bit p
uzzled but couldn’t turn down the toast, an opportunity to chug a beer.
Jon’s thoughts bounced back and forth between the atmosphere at the bar and unwinding with Jerry, to the end of the world, and people getting fucked by robots; a weird combination that oddly left him craving another beer. They finished their tacos with a bluntly labeled #1 sauce, for flavor only: This Sauce is for Pussies. Besides the jabbing name, also taunting the craven was the bottle’s graphic. It illustrated two robust women with aprons, pointing and laughing, each had a pencil-neck nerd in a headlock, while below it read: Joking Aside, You’ll Love the Award Winning Flavor! And the bucket of beers was red ice water—to be expected in the company of Jerry. But Valerie came around often; Jon noticed, quite a bit more often than any other time he’d been to Rita’s in the past.
His mind floated while Jerry flirted with Valerie; she even sat in for a while. Jon couldn’t help but wonder if Herald knew about the sexual bullseye Meddlinn was aiming for. Did he, and just never mentioned it? No. Couldn’t have. But he might, and just never said anything. Secrets ran deep at Meddlinn and there were a myriad of floors, even his clearance couldn’t get the elevator to stop at. He shrugged it off, thinking how interesting things are going to get, possibly soon. Does it even matter? Probably not, just a different approach? The initial use for artificially intelligent technology: bring sex robots to life. Jon grinned to himself. He thought about Jerry’s out-of-this-world suggestions and imagined them in homes, walking the streets, penises as fingers, asses as tits... Freakish three-legged sex bots! He returned to the moment.
“…I would love to but can’t—workin’,” Valerie replied, sitting on Jerry’s left tree trunk; it was obvious she heard a million pickup lines in her profession, but never spoken quite like that, and clear, she adored his accent. America, even LA, was quite the melting pot, but Jerry stood out like a throbbing sore thumb. She liked him right off the bat and was beginning to show it openly.
