In the Realm of Carnal Horror: Happy Kitten

By Asi Hart

It is the beginning of the 22. century, and Western Civilization has long since gotten over the devastation of WW3.

Peter, a University student, inherits great wealth by his father, despite him still being alive.  He is in hiding, never expected to emerge again.
The inheritance has been kept by his father's friends, and they invite him to have a party with them in Canada before they give it to him.

 

He soon learns why his father is hiding.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Asi Hart
• Release date: Sep 19, 2019
• ISBN: 9781393415145

Asi Hart

Asi Hart is the best Sci-Fi author south of the North Pole.

Book preview

Permanent

holiday

PETER SAT CALM AND waited for the customs guys to come in and interrogate him.  His eyes roamed the place.  It was a thoroughly uninteresting white room with a couple of chairs and a table.  It was probably deliberately designed that way, so as not to distract people from their horrible fate after being caught with newly expired visas, liquor, illegal aliens or whatever else there was to smuggle.

Peter had ample time to look around, scanning for bugs.  He spotted a couple of actual bugs of the biological variety, but the other kind was probably invisible.

Finally someone entered; a stern looking official.  He had a seat in front of Peter and gave him a hard look, trying to disguise his disappointment when Peter did not even flinch.

Peter Fischer, he began reading from his tablet, no middle name, born June 2082.  Parents unaccounted for.

Peter showed no reaction.

Your passport is issued 2105; this year.  Do you want to tell me why you were leaving the country with so much cash?

Is it illegal? asked Peter.

It is suspicious.

But not illegal.

We will be watching you when you return.

What makes you think I'm ever coming back?

Your bank account is here, and you can only live so long off of two point three million dollars.

I'll get a job, said Peter.

The man made a faint grin.

My files say you are a student.  Care to tell us where you got that kind of money?

My father left it to me, said Peter.

When did he die?

He hasn't, at least not that I know of.

The man glared at Peter.

The only reason you are not strip searched is that nobody smuggles drugs out of the country.

Your dog would have smelled drugs, said Peter, can I go?  Unless you guys found some undocumented people in my luggage and plan to execute me right now, I'd like to get going, the plane won't wait forever.

We'll be watching you, said the man. 

He watched Peter closely as he left the room.  He sensed that there was something wrong with Peter, though he couldn't put a finger on exactly what it was.  Sure, he'd met some really senseless sociopaths in his day, but that guy was different.

The customs reluctantly released Peter.  Since he had all the papers in order, and his answers could not be reasonably doubted, they would have to try out their interrogation gear on someone else.

Peter took his two large bags and entered the plane.  Sure, he could not live in Indonesia for long on only two point three million, but it would be enough for a down payment on a house or apartment.  And once he had an apartment, a job and a visa, he could get a bank account and have a few more million wired to him, no problem.

Peter loved being rich.  But he rather disliked how he got that way.  He thought back...

Money in

the bloodline

THE MORNING TRAFFIC on the free-way was slow as usual until Henry came thundering down it at great speed in his arty looking car.  Going that much faster than the other vehicles on the road, he had to zig-zag past them, which he gladly did.  When his car appeared in front of any car, it caused the autopilot in said car to apply the brakes rather abruptly, which again caused some of their passengers to spill their soup, coffee, or whatever they were having with their morning news all over themselves and their info pads.  Not that Henry minded that at all.

This is great, isn't it? he asked Peter, his passenger. 

Peter silently held on for dear life.

This is a driver's car, Henry continued, I actually have to drive it!

Yeah, you mentioned that.  Could you please slow down? asked Peter, holding on to the interior.

What?  Oh, you're not used to this, right, said Henry, glancing over to his friend while he slowed down a notch.

Thank you, said Peter, I am sure we can afford to be late this one time.

They were still overtaking the other cars, getting honked at by angry motorists as they did, but they were no longer travelling at double the limit.

How do you like my new car? asked Henry.

Well, it looks like something out of a museum, said Peter, still holding on to something, just in case.

This is a faithful replica of a 1960 Buick Electra, said Henry.

I don't even know what that is, said Peter.

Henry sighed.  He passed a few of the more modern, rat-shaped cars on the road at great speed.  The people in those were also just having coffee and reading the papers or talking on the phone when they were interrupted by Henry in his car.

Why can't you drive a normal car? asked Peter; that way you could read the news or have breakfast, just like all those people, he pointed at the other people in their self-driving cars.

Henry just shook his head: they're soulless, those things.  What do you drive? he asked Peter, I don't believe I have ever seen your car.

I got a Mercedes Benz.  I've had it for five years.  You have seen it, you just haven't noticed it, replied Peter.

Oh, a Mercedes Benz.  Expensive.

Not really, it is a vintage model, said Peter, the automated systems don't all work.

So it's a lot like my car then, said Henry, there are no automated systems in it.

They broke down already? asked Peter forcing back a grin.

No.  I specifically asked to not have any.  It is closer in spirit to the original Buick that way.  The original 1960 Buick was made from steel and had a four-oh-one cubic inch V-8 with a four barrel carburetor and produced about three hundred horsepower.  This here, my car, is made of an aluminium alloy and has a thousand horsepower engine that also gets much better mileage.

What's a carburetor?

You are an idiot, said Henry, I pity you.

Henry floored the throttle, and the thousand horsepower fake Buick burned rubber on all fours.  Peter grabbed the interior again.  Henry had to slow down again soon because of other motorists in his way.

The steering wheel is different from the old car.  It is similar to a steering wheel from a 1970 Buick, Henry said, pointing at the wheel.

Why don't they use the original look? asked Peter.

Because the air-bags won't fit inside it, or deploy, or something, I forget, said Henry, slowing down some more.  He thought he saw the police lurking up ahead.  There was no sense in hurtling past them doing hundred miles per hour.

Henry put the cruise control back on, and let the car roll along at a much more comfortable seventy five miles per hour.  The police ignored him.

At least it has an air-bag then, said Peter, I was getting worried...

No it hasn't, sad Henry.

What? Peter hissed, wide-eyed now that he knew that the only thing between him and a sudden stop at any random concrete structure was the four-point belt he had on.

Yeah, I removed it.  And I welded the crumple zones to make them more stiff, and the windows are bullet-resistant, and there is armour in the side panels and in front and back.  It's like driving a solid granite car.

Peter just shook his head.

Henry slowed down when he approached the city.  Traffic was getting heavier.

I'm hungry, said Peter, could you do me the favour of stopping by at MacDonald's?

You want to eat at MacDonald's? asked Henry with a bewildered look on his face.

Its food.

Since when?

Since the 20th century?

Did you know that the paper container and wrapping around a MacDonald's burger contain more nutrients than the burger itself?

That's a myth, said Peter.

Are you sure? asked Henry, I mean, they do kind of taste alike.

No, but I am so hungry I'd settle for the box.

Henry grinned. 

I always begin the day with a steak, he told Peter.

A steak? said Peter with some disbelief, isn't that a bit heavy?

Steak?  No, not really, said Henry and added: for me at least.  And it keeps me full most of the day.

Well, I'll look into that tomorrow, said Peter, hoping he would survive until tomorrow as he looked out of the car at all the grey and shiny buildings they were passing.

Henry drove to the next fast food place, where Peter ordered something that appeared edible and dined on it on the way to work. 

PETER HAD MET HENRY when they were attending college.  Henry had just walked up to him, and asked him if he was Robert Fischer's son.

Yes I am, answered Peter, how did you know?

I didn't, that's why I asked, said Henry, my father knew your father, you know?

No, said Peter.

Henry nodded; fair enough.  Do you know where he is now?

I think he's in India right now, said Peter, I get postcards now and again, but I haven't heard from him in person since I was five.

Henry nodded again.  Then he offered him beer, and that was the start of a beautiful friendship.

Henry was a very likable guy once you got to know him; always ready to help random strangers with little things.  His fondness for cats and other small animals was attracting a lot of unwanted traffic in the neighborhood.  His father ran a small catfood plant, that produced and obscure, but reportedly highly delicious cat food.  He knew several people who regularly ate