by Garrett Cook
“Wow,” Bernard said to Chuck, “this has got to be some mall.”
When he entered, he saw that it was indeed some mall. The digital map of the entrance said there were “seventy five miles and three thousand floors of consumerific fun”. The bottom floor near the entrance consisted mostly of low income housing and competing discount hot sauce outlets.
Even in this unholy heat, discount hot sauce remained extremely popular, with Boxcar Joe’s and Boxcar Willie’s TresChic Discount Hotsauce Emporiums at the top of the heap. Boxcar had remained the one dollar hot sauce of the rich and famous but Boxcar Willie’s TresChic was the choice of the intelligentsia. The rivalry was getting wildly out of hand; Boxcar Willie was the fifth to bear the name and Boxcar Joe the third to bear his. Many of the low-income apartments had reinforced doors in case the two hotsauce giants started shooting again.
Chuck stuck close, sensing that his new friend was not particularly wise in the ways of the world, and knowing those who were not worldly or witty enough ended up facing great misfortune. There were a lot of ways this could happen; whether through the actions of rabid squatters looking to violate the “No Outside Food Rule” in a truly morbid fashion or through those of antisocial and unscrupulous merchants who would just as soon sell their customers into slavery as sell them their wares. Bernard scrolled through the floors on the digital map, but didn’t look as if he was finding anything. Chuck put a fatherly hand on the young man’s shoulder.
“Somethin’ wrong, Bernard?”
“I can’t see the way out, you know into the —“
Chuck gagged Bernard with his hand for a second.
“Don’t say that. People will hear you. They herd out the Suburbanites, but other than that nobody really knows the way out there. Folks don’t need to go to the you-know-whats.”
“I do. I need to get out there really badly.”
“Well, I know a place where there might be someone who can help you, but I can’t guarantee anything.”
Bernard’s eyes lit up.
“Really? You know somebody like that?”
“I know of somebody like that and I gotta warn you, the two things are pretty different.”
“Oh.”
“But, I know where you can find him.”
Chuck punched in Floor 360 on the digital map console, then typed in “Juliet’s” and a large, automated cart drove up to them. There was a slot on it with a picture of Ralph Nader. Bernard’s jaw dropped in disbelief. Everything here was a fortune. He inserted the Nader and they got into the cart which drove past thousands of ramshackle apartments, some too poor to afford a door so risking death in the hot sauce turf wars, homeless people roasting a pig on a pile of Boxcar Willie’s TresChic flyers, fat people, fat people, more fat people and a discount hot sauce district any large city could be proud of, let alone a mall. The cart finally parked itself outside of an elevator, which Chuck called down by typing commands on yet another console.
The two boarded the elevator, which dispensed two liquifilm syringes for their convenience as it took quite awhile to get up 359 floors, especially with all of the stops it made. Chuck enjoyed the Three Stooges short, while Bernard refused. Liquifilm could cause permanent identity shifts in people suffering from severe Objectivity. If Bernard had decided to indulge, he would have spent the rest of his existence as Moe Howard. Even the presence of the liquifilm syringe was enough to cause giddiness in the Objectivity, causing him to very much want to poke the muscular comprachico standing next to him in the eye.
After approximately another forever, the elevator stopped at floor 360. The mall must have been built ascending into higher tawdriness, for if the first floor looked tawdry, then floor 360 looked 359 increments of tawdriness worse. Its theme was The Works of the Marquis De Sade, and it was taken quite seriously. The comprachico excitedly skipped his chain of young boys into a bookstore called Passolini’s. The Objectivity sought to play a dreadful prank on Bernard but the obvious gravity of the situation had Bernard holding onto his identity for dear life.
Other red-lit boutiques and bars offered their promises of flesh and experience that the Objectivity smelled and longed for as well. It wanted to know what it was to be a cat-of-nine-tails raking across an old man’s back, the doubleheaded dildo shared by two curious college roommates, the Plexiglass on a peepshow booth. The condition which those who were bold enough to try Mud/CRAMPS variations said was a pinnacle of wisdom was like a distracted child taunted by a universe of toys and candy. It smelled potential and potential was all it cared about.
They passed the senior’s center and walked some time until they came to a black curtain that smelled of rose perfume and sweet secretions. Above it hung a modest sign with humble calligraphy announcing that behind this curtain was Justine’s. The Objectivity made supersonic screams, howled and clawed like wild baboons and flared up with solar heat. The “I am Bernard” assertion was as loud as Bernard could make it and it felt like but a whisper compared to the demands of the Objectivity. He had an odd desire to be that curtain, innocent yet wholly aware of whatever vices might be indulged behind it. Life as a black velvet curtain wouldn’t be all that awful, yet as he said to the Objectivity many times, there were things to do as Bernard now. To the Objectivity’s credit, this was the first offer since reaching the mall that actually tempted him.
When he walked through the curtain, he was greeted by a young woman whose black leather bodysuit clung to her as if it feared being blown away and never seeing her again. Bernard was reminded of the golden-haired ladies of Archelon Ranch, of the mint green girl and her tight, smooth body, of the young woman that drank him when he was a martini. They were all beautiful; all amazing in their way, but the leather girl impressed him for reasons that were entirely unique. In a world with so much suffering, she had chosen to suffer, constraining herself with a tight leather costume in spite of the desperate heat. She was wholly unlike everyone else who would rush toward the fanbreezes during cooling time. They had risked suffering only for the prospect of relief and comfort. Bernard, having suffered at the hands of his father, his brother and Professor Sagramour had wished to never suffer again, hence the drive to reach Archelon Ranch. She had decided she would. She must have possessed great power and wisdom. She moved him as much philosophically as she stimulated him erotically. What a fantastic creature!
“You must be hot in there.”
“It’s air conditioned. There are Freon jets inside it. Technically illegal.”
As she said it, she got less beautiful and fascinating. He noticed that her nose was too long and hawkish and there were blotches of acne on her right cheek. Nothing was all that impressive about her. Still, he almost gave into the Objectivity’s sudden desire to be that body suit, to be close to her, to bathe in her sweat and drink the juices between her legs. He felt as hot as he had initially thought she was and much more uncomfortable as he entered Justine’s.
The place was unlike any other place he’d been before. There were tables of various sizes here, like the restaurant, but they were different, some of them were long, surgical and steely like the table Sagramour strapped him to for experiments. People were bound to these too but it didn’t look like they were test subjects. There were upright leather cushions against the wall and people were bound to them as well. Taking up half the room was a round stage on which several women were dancing. Each felt quite special. He sat down at a table near the stage and watched.
A corseted Suburbanite, probably early in the transformation, was placing pins in the hide of a very sultry lady Harvester. There was a look of pure satisfaction in her eyes as she, who had lived a life where sensations were dulled by her chitinous skin, discovered what it was to feel pain. In gratitude, she offered the Suburbanite thirsty kisses which dripped green mud down her chin. The Suburbanites eyes rolled back in her head and she was elsewhere, somewhere exquisite and dangerous. The Objectivity yanked him toward her, but corrected itself, knowing it could not share the things Sub
urbanites knew. Bernard was relieved for he feared this would have certainly been a springboard into Total Objectivity.
Dancing beside the bizarre couple was something Bernard did not even know existed. His brother had told him about these things, but his father had assured him they could not be. There was a real live Slaughterer on the stage! As designer humans were being developed, some to survive the heat, others to be able to take in toxic substances (Bernard was an impressive variation on those), they created another strain to put mankind on par with junglecats, gilawalruses and dinosaurs. Incorporating jaguar and snake DNA, these perfect assassins were supposed to be the best line of defense humanity could muster, but the Slaughterers turned out wrong; they became almost like the Suburbanites, entities of uncontrolled libido who could think of little but utilizing their special pheromones to find prospective mates. The Slaughterer swayed in ways that human beings were not supposed to, especially human beings built with curves as thick as hers. Her jet black nipples stroked the thirsty and curious parts of Bernard’s mind. They looked all the more fleshy and tender on her spotted, silky hide. He felt something electric and she leaned down from the stage and licked him on the forehead with her long, forked serpent’s tongue.
“Mmmm…” she moaned.
The Slaughterer got down on her hands and knees, grinding hard against the stage and began to purr loudly. She pushed her soft, furry breasts into Bernard’s face rubbing hi. The purring grew louder as he opened his mouth and took in a soft, black hard nipple. The purring disappeared abruptly and the Slaughterer let out a loud growl. Bernard just barely escaped from the wide-open fanged mouth by twitching in his seat.
“Sorry, daddy,” she purred, “I promise I’ll be good. I’ll be real good.”
He leaned in once again, following the scent of the potent pseudopheromones coming off of the Slaughterer. The Slaughterer’s excited wide-open smile became a frown as Chuck pulled Bernard away from her.
“She bites,” Chuck told Bernard, in the same tone a parent explains not to touch the stove, “she’s dangerous.”
“She says she’ll be good.”
“No, daddy, I’ll be good. Real good.”
The purring was as loud as the revving of a truck as she grinded harder against the stage. Her eyes were wide and expectant. It was now no surprise to Bernard that people would deny the existence of Slaughterers. The creature was beautiful, but it was a disappointment as both killer and sex machine. On the other hand, Bernard couldn’t really mock other beings for being a scientific disappointment as he himself was not performing his initial purpose, which had been to free mankind from the Suburbanite condition and render them immune to the mud. Something like that could not be a scientific failure any more than he could. The more he thought about it, identified with her and defended her, the more he wanted to touch her again, dangerous or not. That was what this place was about, wasn’t it? The other women on the stage were wrestling, making out, letting snakes crawl all over them, but they were nowhere near as interesting as the Slaughterer.
Chuck grabbed Bernard and shook him.
“What?” Bernard’s voice was that of a teenager roused for school.
“This isn’t why I brought you here.”
“Oh?”
“I brought you here to see the guy. Remember the guy?”
The call of Archelon Ranch began to drown out the pheromones. Blue sea. No suffering. No city. Beautiful, primal, real. Archelon Ranch is calling you home. I could be happy right here. The splendors of this place are nothing. The filth, the spots, the claws are meaningless. Archelon Ranch is truth and all else is a lie. Yes, remember the guy, the reason that brought you here.
“Yeah, I remember. Can you introduce me to this guy?”
Chuck shrugged.
“I don’t know. Maybe when the waitress comes around she can tell us who he is.”
Their waitress’ name was Cindy, like the proprietor of the diner. It was a common name in food service. Bernard could tell because it was written across her bare chest in cuts that attracted almost as much attention as the vampire fangs in her mouth and the World War One German army helmet on her head.
“Something I can do for you boys?”
Bernard nodded.
“I’ll take a synth-berry carbobev.”
“Far out. That’s law, kid, fuckin’ law.”
Most people would have sighed or shook their heads knowing they were sitting with somebody who would order synth-berry carbobev at a place like this and been frustrated by Bernard’s babe-in-the-woods tendencies, but Chuck Calloway was a patient man, a man who met a terrifying city with gentle good humor every morning. He didn’t say a word to Bernard, didn’t laugh at him. He beckoned the waitress closer.
“Can I find The Whisper here?”
The waitress almost swallowed her fake vampire fangs. It was a name she hadn’t expected to hear.
“I’m sorry. Never heard of him.”
“The Whisper. Don’t pretend like you don’t know him. I know that he comes here.”
“Ooh, I don’t know if I should…”
Chuck touched her arm and looked up into her eyes.
“My friend here has been through a lot and has a long way to go. We need this guy’s help. If you could find the kindness and generosity in your heart to help him out, I’d sure appreciate it.”
The waitress tapped her foot nervously.
“Well, okay,” she said, and pointed to an upright surgical table resting against the walls. Automated hands were burning a naked man with lit cigarettes. Chuck shook his head in disbelief. “I tell you, Cindy, it takes all kinds.”
Cindy laughed. “Don’t I know it.”
Chuck and Bernard walked up to the man. He sneered at them.
“What the Hell do you want? Do I look like a man who would want anybody’s company, let alone a couple of assholes like yourselves?”
“Are you The Whisper?” Chuck asked, leaning very close.
“Yeah, maybe I am. What’s it to you?”
“We need to know something.”
“And?”
Bernard couldn’t hear what Chuck whispered in the man’s ear, but his eyes grew wide with anticipation. Bernard had a feeling he didn’t want to know.
“What do you need me to tell you?” The Whisper asked.
“The best way to get out to the west suburbs.”
The Whisper leaned forward as much as the metal restraints allowed.
“You go to any elevator, you type sub-basement C. They’ll ask for a password, which is a semi-colon. Just type a semi-colon.”
“Thanks.”
“No problem.”
Bernard hadn’t met anybody who seemed to know so much so decided to take advantage while he could.
“Have you ever heard of Archelon Ranch?”
“I know very little about it, I’m afraid. I only know that it’s a sort of paradise, but if you’re asking about it, I imagine you’d already know that, right?”
“Yeah, I know that, I think,” Bernard replied.
“Then I’m sorry, cause I can’t tell you anything else.”
Bernard finished his carbobev, sucking blue spots off the ice. He would have ordered another, but he knew it would have come across as a transparent attempt to catch more of the show. Archelon Ranch was out there though. He was sure there would be better things to look at there. They found an elevator panel and Chuck punched in the strange sequence of buttons. This elevator came up faster than the others even, leaping up eagerly to pick up the two VIPs. Chuck plunged in a liquifilm of Un Chien Andalou and enjoyed the ride, while Bernard distracted himself from the Objectivity and the pull of the liquifilm by reading one of the Jack London novels programmed into his genetic code. Between the Andalucian dog that wasn’t in the film and scrappy White Fang, the wolf dog won out.
They got off at Sub-basement C and it was not what Bernard expected. Several cooing, barking, trembling, writhing Suburbanites were magnetized to a black-tinted plexig
lass wall. Chuck and Bernard treaded lightly, careful to avoid the little pools of rotten, petrified mud that the incapacitated but deadly subhumans spat up. Because they were doing this, they were walking when they should have definitely been running, dashing for their lives instead of cautiously creeping around. Though they avoided the mud, they were not able to avoid the Standardizers that were dropping down from secret panels in the ceiling to deal with intruders and criminals.
Standardizers were the fourth and worst kind of designer human. Most of their mutations came from ratel DNA. Before the gilawalruses were created and subsequently unleashed, the ratel looked very impressive. The ratel, or honey badger, is native to the Indian subcontinent and some parts of Africa, although it could probably survive wherever it likes. Ratels attack beehives for the honey inside, unaffected by stings on account of their coarse fur. They eat turtles by burrowing through their shells with their sharp claws. They are unafraid of snakes and kill and eat them often. They are known to kill other animals, take over their burrows and surprise unfortunate members of that animal’s family and slaughter them. All of these traits were taken into consideration when creating Standardizers to cleanse the suburbs. From the way these Standardizers held Sub-basement C, it was clear they were pretty effective.
These Standardizers were not just here to cleanse Suburbanites. They glowed semaphore at each other (a product of fiery phosphorescence in their DNA) and pulled out syringe launchers. From the bluegreen color of the liquid in their syringes, Bernard could tell they had been told there was an Objective around. The syringes were loaded with liquifilm.
You are Groucho Marx. You are Bugs Bunny. You are a cartoon jellyfish. You are Claude Rains. You are battling a maneating tarantula. You are five tacos for a nickel. You are a talking helicopter. Dizzy. Stupid. Too much noise. He pulled the gun from his shirt pocket and felt for his targets. Though he was pulled by the liquifilm, he still understood the Standardizers and their place, when they’d move, how they’d move, almost why they’d move. He dodged the liquifilm that they launched and peppered them with bullets.
