Warmaker

By Kenneth Guthrie

Living in New LA in 2050 ain't no heavenly trip of rainbows and sunshine and Nego Simmons - local menance for hire - is in need of some cash. Fortunately, a client with an unbelievably good deal (500 million for just a tiny little war) slides outta the woodwork and from there the descent of a madman into greater madness begins with the whole world left changed and shaken in the wake of it.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lunatic Ink Publishing
• Release date: Mar 26, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215276525

Kenneth Guthrie

Kenneth Guthrie is a writer of sci-fi, fantasy and crime novels.Profile image credit: Vincent Gerbouin at Pexels.com

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WARMAKER

Kenneth Guthrie

Copyright 2023 Lunatic Ink Publishing

Find more stories at Kenneth Guthrie’s Book List.

Please note that this book contains frequent sexual references, descriptive sex and self-pleasure scenes, copious swearing, tangential racism, and moments of mental illness that may trigger certain readers. Therefore, this work is recommended only for those readers who are mature of mind and over the age of majority in their country. Please see the next page for a more detailed breakdown of this cautionary statement.

PRODUCT WARNING LABEL:

Ah, well, smoking kills, drugs are bad and don’t drive and drive and so on.

Just kidding. Before you begin reading, I recommend that you take a good gander at the following:

First, I would be remiss if I didn’t point out that this book contains exactly 763 uses of the word fuck, 337 uses of the word shit, 33 uses of the word cunt, 55 uses of the word asshole and a host of creative expletives that are debatable worse than straight up using ‘fuck’ and its variations for the umpteenth time. Hence, if you are not much in love with expletives, derogatory dressing downs and bold faced shit talk then this book might not be your cup of tea.

Second, this book contains a number of descriptive, intense sex scenes between consenting adults over the age of 21 and endless references to or descriptive self-pleasure sessions. In truth, this sexual content can be pretty rough, raw and is a tad futuristic and deals with a range of interesting themes like future prostitution, adultery, masturbation addiction and just generally falls into the What did I just read? category of weird most of the time. (Note that the main sex scene contains a bookmark link that allows you to skip it.)

Third, This book contains various acts of unneeded - and sometimes REALLY needed - violence but contains very little gore. It’s a high-tech world and our main character is one heck of a tricky bastard. And, so, yeah, minimal gore, maximum carnage.

Fourth, the word holocaust is used in this book in a way that might be confusing to some people. To clarify, in this world there have actually been three holocausts and the usage in these cases is along the lines of the regular dictionary definition of a large amount of destruction and death. To be exact: World War I (1914-1918) is still World War I, but World War II (1939-1945) is Holocaust I. And, the two further large scale conflicts (not always involving all global communities) are Holocaust II (2011-2016) and Holocaust III (2025-2031). The book begins in 2050 - nearly 20 years after H-III. Note that "THE Holocaust" of our world isn’t mentioned, but did happen during H-I, and this is done simply to avoid confusing the reader too much.

Fifth, if you suffer from mental illness then this book might be a little close to home. To take a serious tone for a second, please seek immediate help if you are anything like the person portrayed in this book. Being like the MC is pretty iffy to say the least and they have pills for that nowadays you know.

Finally, not to spoil anything but this book goes deep into themes like the future of functional body argumentation, the vicious ways tech can and probably will be used for warfare, the realities of illicit corporate behavior, et cetera, et cetera. Honestly, this book might not be for everyone, but if you are brave, kinda tough of the soul and willing then there’s an entertaining read in this book here that’s probably not like anything you’ll come across too often. Of course, the recommended reading age is 18+, so, youngster, put this book down if you are even a day shy of that age. You aren’t ready but, then again, none of us ever are.

Books In This World

PEACEMAKER

(Set in year 2221)

WARMAKER

(Set in year 2050)

Note: These books contain very light references to each other but are individual works in their own rights and can be read separately or in any order the reader likes.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Getting Outta Jail

A Better Tomorrow?

Daily Biz And Bad News

Mercy Beach

Yani The Yak

Dr. Simmons

Human Sex Machine

The Twist

Dreams & Deals

Back Among The Living

Monkey Land

Hack’s Revenge & Other Entertainments

Traveling Man

The Good Ending?

GETTING OUTTA JAIL

Year 2050

THE AIR DOESN’T TASTE AS GOOD ON THE OUTSIDE.

Yet, here I am again - outside. Outside in the stench of closely packed humanity and subpar garbage pickup; outside among the towering abodes of a squatting legion of mega and minor corps; outside where the corporate and regular criminals rub shoulders like best buds tend to do; outside in the home of the many - of the oppressed, of the illegal, of the natural born citizen; outside where a plenitude of souls toil away at living their best lives under the yoke of a civilized society that is underneath anything but.

And it’s about fucking time, I rejoice as a small smile that lasts the length of the coming and going of the thought touches my lips.

To commemorate my return (because it really does feel like I’ve ‘been away’ for quite some time), I allow myself to stand for just a moment so I may suck in a long heavy breath of New LA’s most putrid nasal offering and, after nearly choking it up, remind myself that this lingering perpetual stench, which seems to permeate every orifice of this filthy city, is the taste of home.

With the re-acclimatization of my nostrils to the city often considered America’s anus due to its pungency out of the way, I put on my game face and return my focus to where it needs to be: On the world around me. This here is the wilds of Midtown On 3rd (Shuttle Landing Point X1 to be specific) and everywhere the street is alive like a nestle of Siberian killer bees peeved at the invasive intrusion of a third-world honey dealer’s five-fingered mutated appendage barreling fearlessly into the vicious insects’ closeted domain in a bat shit crazy pursuit of a little old world paper (aka. US mint dollar bills) from some rich fucks via the Global Black Market. This is, of course, to say that it buckles, swarms, stirs and groans with the swish, crack, crash and plentiful expletives of hard bodies - obtuse steel and puckered flesh - coming into contact as ways are made and civvies and perps alike go about their people stuff with the joy of the horny and soon to be truly ‘released’.

In this place with so many to see and hear, I keep my head nice and low while my eyes waltz a brisk back-and-forth swivel across personages near and far. My reason for such excessive caution is that I’m wanted - or at least my death is - and not just by Johnny Law and his cavalry of hard-boiled, disgruntled and downright mean, if not outright corrupt, beat cops. No, the ones that are after me are some real bad mofos and the smart play in a spot packed to the brim with known and yet-to-be known killers like Midtown On 3rd is to look small, act small and be small because, with so many conveniently placed bodies to block any view of the potential carnage, this is the perfect place for a ‘stab-and-go’ and getting aced right now would siphon away all the value I’ve built up by purposefully undertaking six months of really fucking hard time - there being no better place to get away from it all, and the half hundred psycho killers looking to put me down, than the hellhole I was just spat out of like a newborn into the harsh light of the world beyond the creamy pink gates of mummy’s pussy lips.

This said, luckily, thanks to many hours of concentrated life-threatening practice, I’ve become semi-pro at the game of stab-and-go and have already identified and am travelling the safest route through the blender of flesh and steel in front of me and will soon be in a place of safety where it is somewhat less likely that I will receive the parting gift of several new air holes (as I often gave - much like Santa on Christmas Eve - to both those innocent and also those desiring to do me harm when it was my turn to play the hunted or hunter during our daily dalliances with death throughout the lengthy stretches of free time we murderous few had while incarcerated).

Behind me the heavy fist-thick reinforced steel double doors of Shuttle 69 of the H$B Food Corporation’s Eternity Prison transport fleet venomously hiss shut and come to a rubbery squelching halt after having dispensed the ship’s human contents into the world as a toilet spits back shit after a really rough morning on one’s personal defecation throne.

Unfortunately, as I was assigned seat 32DD - something I view as an amusing sexualization, even though it probably wasn’t intended to be thought of as such - I’m last out on the roster of bad fucks that just disembarked into the suffocating stench of New LA in the Californian new territory of Sector 22 North (aka. The Fryer) and, equally unfortunately, stationed right next to the shuttle’s now closed doors, based on the name tag grafted to his metallic Hard Boy v.19 Combat Vest, is a southern-looking hick-piggy with a name odd enough to warrant attention or at least an off-handed crass remark.

Mr. P.S. Weird - prison transport guard by trade, closet killer by way of occupation - is holding a very nice, well cared for, tricked out multipurpose 2043 D-Tech Elector rifle, which is the model of choice for outta town hillbillies who like shootin’ bad folks in the rear as they flee in terror - and he’s holding it in his thick, fat, ready fingers like he wants to let loose. Furthermore, this big bad brick shithouse of a mechanized trailer dweller has procured himself some fancy wiggly woggly, color-matching, oversized D-Tech Detector Goggles and these are scanning, categorizing and threat assessing all within a 20 meter radius with the military precision the brand is known for.

Consequently, Senor Fucks His Sister, member of my most hated breed of humanity - Southerners - is right on the verge of invading my privacy as he has done to so many others this day with the kind of pleasure one takes in watching midget porn. Hence, due to Mr. P.S. Weird’s weird love of perusing the personal details of the criminally inclined, but more out of just sheer habit, I get to fitting in with those around me - hands stuffed in pockets, eyes submissively down, dick limp as limp can be - as an unfounded fear (because I’m running remodeled retinas and fingerprints and have done so for my entire six months in hell) that the hick-piggy and his swiftly gyrating eyes will get a quality scan and this’ll be compared to my current creds in Johnny Law’s database that his employers, H$B, are subscribed to and somehow, through an act of bullshittery that would confound the mind of one so sane as myself (joke), I’ll be found out and that kill on sight order they placed on my previous face and fingers will pop up in P.S’s view and the big freak will smirk, raise his preddy-lookin’ rifle and give me a six shot salute on my way to where bad folks like me go after they pass.

On this walk of shameful cowardice, I see many a seemingly familiar face among the multitudes of the previously imprisoned who are exiting from the array of square shaped, four burner, over-white ‘hop-and-stop’ transport shuttles that have just landed in Midtown on 3rd. Uniformly, these hard-faced lasses and strapping lads look about as fucked up as I feel after their ‘holidays’ in the establishments they did their time in and so aren’t paying me as much mind as Weird back there could’ve.

These downtrodden returnees begin to pass me by as I continue to tread my treacherous path among them towards the safety of the road beyond the square and as they do, almost as if a part of some strange ritual or routine, these individuals’ eyes travel up from their usual view of the puckered, dirty concrete to the rejuvenating sight of their loved ones languishing just behind a firmly held line of heavy cruisers and Motor Cops (cops in name only but with a company policy that requires they act and look the part regardless) and with this change from eyes-on-toes to a better view of what matters comes a hopefulness that has been sorely lacking in their lives lately and which entices their step to quicken and become more sure as their hearts flutter, the feelz hit and a wash of sick horniness takes the place of the ever present chronic depression that besets those confined too long within four greasy walls and which - until this very moment - felt so deep that one might as well be in a staring contest with a black hole.

I pass through the security perimeter myself not long after the bulk of those coming from behind have done so already and cautiously sidestep some overly muscled black dude sobbing like a little bitch with a hunk of orange skinned Asian ass in one hand and what appears to be his 3 to 4 year old in the other. All around fine folks are shifting from survival-mode into happy-mode and I’d bet my last low yield prepaid credit card that their thoughts are focused on their own personal pussy or dong right about now - depending on one’s sexual orientation and/or preference, of course - and tonight, or sooner, a release will take place in many-a-home, trailer or nearby toilet stall that’ll feel like heaven after what these onetime or dedicated perps have been through.

As I shimmy past a gorgeous thickset black bitch and her 5 kids, I try real hard not to scratch my chemical burned dick and it seems I’m not alone in getting caught up in the mood of the festivities. All here who enjoyed a court appointed holiday would have been required to wear some variation of the Mitsuyoshi Chastity Belt and, as all perps quickly intimately learn, those fucking savage contraptions are basically a steel diaper with an organic filter made of specially fermented tofu, of all things, under which sits the kind of serious chems that I have on occasional used to dispose of bodies that I wake up in bed next to when things get really bad up in my head.

Now, technically, of course, to stay on topic here, those corrosive liquids are there to break down one’s piss and shit so less toilet time is need for the perps in the prison-ne-poo, but, realistically, they also have a tendency beyond their stated purpose to burn an inmate’s junk like you wouldn’t fucking believe when a fat or a clit-chub is achieved. This results in - aside from a few weeks of a strangely smelling bottom after ‘ass freedom’ is had - what amounts to zero cheek clapping in prison nowadays (a disappointment, I know) and, also, in some bedfellows getting a car wash worth of soapy suds you know where and also some lucky lasses finally getting to water the roses after the disappointment of seeing them wilt all prison-winter long. Anyhoo, to be honest, I actually feel happy for them and I see this as proof that there’s some humanity left in my rather deranged brain despite how it might seem most of the time.

Making my way through the throngs of public gropings, cheerful reunions and adults too old for tears but shedding them anyway, I ruminate about how insanely glad I am no one is here to call attention to me like these crim’s loved ones are. The real P.P. Philhit, my current identity, has been dead and buried in a deep grave on Mercy Beach for six months now and I know this rather interesting tidbit ‘cause I put him there. Furthermore, the man has no family, no friends, ran a food stand selling rat meat to low-class chumps and owned a home gifted to him by his deceased granny. Basically, he’s a nobody and all this and more were just some of the reasons why I ‘acquired’ his credentials rather than someone with a better set of assets and why the court had no one to notify - beyond the owner of my single victim - that I’m at large again. Because of this, those around me see nothing more than a sad loser with no one in his life who gives enough fucks to pony up and escort him home and who seems like he’s trying to slip off from the scene like the life-nothing that a loner like him must be.

Of course, this perception is something I have masterfully created just for this moment so my return to the civilized world goes smoothly and, before we judge here, let me clarify that the true Prat Prine Philhit was very much deserving of being considered the loser I’ve branded him as in the minds of those who even bother to note my passing. I mean, that loony shit was the personification of a wolf in hobo’s clothing and was a closet psycho who tortured any animal he could get his hands on. He also owned a collection of the kind of perverted porno that would burn the eyeballs outta any god-fearing VR Pron user - and those guys and girls love some fucking weird shit, alright. So, therefore, the reputation damage that the poor fuck woulda experienced if he was alive enough to care is not totally unwarranted.

A wide vicious smile that I quickly submerge in a sorrowful downward faced depressed look comes over my trim features as a single rare flash of what I did to Mr. Philhit passes through my mind’s eye. I might not remember fully what was done - as I have memory issues, alright - but there were Stimtouch injectors for days littered around the kill room when I came back to reality and, thanks to this, we can be fairly sure that he damn well felt every single second of the carnage that I brought upon him so that I could be absolutely sure that not even a DNA check would be able to identify his remains.

I pace up from the slow slovenly slouched step I’d previously been maintaining and get to clobbering along with a little restrained gusto as the memory fades and an unpleasant realization hits me square in the brain balls.

"fuck, Fuck, FUCKkk...," I mutter under my breath desperately as I urgently beseech that any kindly deity above or below (via way of what has become a repeated low-strung, high-fear uttered expletive that speaks of the sheer terror I feel that this is happening exactly in the place I least want it to) save me from what is most clearly about to take place and in the process of it possibly fucking up all the hard work I’ve put in to be incognito right here and now.

Fucking pussy, I spit out at an aging white 60-something sobbing yobo with his arms draped around his grown ass kids and granny-ho before I slide back fearfully when he pulls his prison face back on and, consequently, end up stuttering out an apology so I may avoid getting myself aced only 7 minutes or so after surviving 180 consecutive days without an aceing in the me department.

FUCK! I growl savagely under my breath just a short distance away from what coulda been a near death experience, and, honestly, a little too loudly for my personal comfort, as an outta hand, overkill, fricken’ bitch of a stress response - procured through me fucking with the old dude - washes over my senses like acid on steel and an overwhelming desire to murder everyone within eyeshot starts flooding up from the base of my imaginary chamber of self-control towards a fullness that will not end well.

Now, I’m really hustling; now, I’m just barely keeping the delicate balance of pacing it and remaining unseen and unheard by those around; and, as I do so, all I’m thinking as I work my way up to danger-fast is ‘Shit, why now?’

However, no answer is forthcoming and, thanks to a truck ton of experience being this way, I know that there’ll be no clear answer to that internal enquiry while I’m in this state. Later, when things are better - more clear, less fuckity-fuck - I’ll depack and have some kinda ‘theory’ that’ll prove true (or at least I’ll believe so initially) or, perhaps, well, you know, not true or some such as I’m kinda kooky like that. After this, whether fact or fiction, the process of bullshitting to myself, testing my trash panda of an idea (aka. self-harm disguised as self-help) and then discarding or keeping the miscarriage of good and bad idea that is birthed will somehow end up adding some much needed wisdom to temper my ongoing stupidity some but, actually, change nothing for me ‘cause some shit just ain’t in our control, even for the obsessively cautious like yours truly.

I break out of the crowd like a bullet through unarmored flesh and enter the perceived safety of the ultra busy single lane street bordering the square and look left and right like I’m hungry for an overpriced Real Meatz hot dog or a fine piece of office girl ass and desperately start to hustling as the feeling that something’s not right in me grows and grows like the sun does as it pulls over the hills nearing Canada just above the furthest outskirts of The Fryer.

You see, the problem right about now - and I know you were fuckin’ wonderin’, weren’t ya? Haha - is that two very bad things are happening in conjunction with each other and that usually implies that the worst of my unpleasant tendencies are about to be set loose. First of those is that I’m believing that there’s someone out there that I’m talking to - telling my truths so to speak - and they are hearing my monologue: This one right here to be specific.

Now, admittedly, sometimes, just sometimes, I talk to myself, alright. And, sometimes, just sometimes, regular folk do too. Except usually that’s in the privacy of a place where no one can hear me (or them) and at the same time, while doing so, for me at least, I’m fully aware that the other person that I’m talking to (or just me-to-me, as I have a tendency to do) isn’t real. In such a case as this, I’m almost always fully cognitively aware of this essential element of my outspoken interactions, yet, at the same time, I often act as if he or she or they are real for the benefit of the betterment of my psychosis at the time. Right now, fortunately, these words that come with my bad habit of monologuing to the unreal and that you are hearin’ right now are being spoken in the safety of my mind, not having yet found their way out of my mouth to poison my world with embarrassment (and I fucking hate being embarrassed by the way), and that’s good, but it won’t last long. Soon, based on my typical pattern as what’s coming comes, I’ll start making noises - grunts, growls, groans, that kinda thing - that signal my thoughts and feelings to the outer world and then people will begin to notice. THEN, they’ll see there is a crazy fuck in their midst and that’ll draw attention - like flies to rotten flesh - that could get me killed depending on how many of the aforementioned psychos are out at play (and/or a multitude of others who want me dead - not least of which being my victim’s owner, who just happens to know that I’m out today and where to find me if a killin’ was on their mind, which most probably is given the act of depravity that got me six months and change).

Second (and, fuck, it took us awhile to get to this, didn’t it?), I’m angry. Real fucking furious actually. And, that’s a problem. You see, emotions without reason, such as external factors or shit going real wrong in my day, mean for me that the various micro-electrodes implanted into my brain matter and zip-linked to their central monitoring and control unit (and its many, many backups), which is grafted to the center rear of my skull right above where the Atlas - top most vertebrae of the spine - snugly fits into the base, ain’t working so good no more.

Odd emotions, you see, that have no reference point in the world beyond or within are a sure sign that these electrodes are at their limit trying to cover for the antics of my, likely, very overwhelmed brain balancer (Model 291 from Wide Med) sitting stealthily just inside my blood brain barrier up there in my noggin at the point where the internal carotid artery splits off in three directions. Hence, what I’m feeling right now is probably a rapid neurotransmitter dump as the balancer’s storage pockets have reached their capacity and so what went in must now go out so that more storage may happen later on. As I’m angry this time around, I’d say Mr. Bad Wolf is about to make a very public appearance at the worst possible time imaginable and, among these worker bees on their 12-minute lunch breaks from whatever hell-hive they just spent their 5am to lunch in, it ain’t gonna be very pretty.

Unfortunately, to add insult to this doubled dime of an injury, I’ve also started muttering Fuck, fuck, fuck... again under my breath at a rapid rate. This is because some Chinese dude is tongue fucking a Japanese fella outside a roadside coffee stall as they say their goodbyes before Chinese dude goes back to his office - the sharp suit being like an old neon sign advertising whores in The Lows and tells all that cares to note that he’s one of those real dedicated corporate slave types - and the Japanese bloke returns to his lowbie civil servant job - as decided by the strict uniform of white shirt, black trousers and black tie combined with slightly too comfortable shoes for an ultra conformity loving corp like the one his boy be workin’ at.

Seeing that public display of affection right there makes me R-E-A-L pissed off cause I ain’t been laid by a person in nearly 2 years and 4 months (I’m fuckin’ going through some shit, alright, so don’t ask.) I mean, GOD-DAMMIT, these fucking homos sucking tongue in public making me really damn horny-like like this and all I’m left to ask on witnessing such luckiness on their parts is What the fuck they got dat I don’t got, eh? (And I do this outloud like the stupid fuck I am because, you know, right...) I mean, let’s talk about it: I’m fucking sexy, right! I’m fucking alright, ain’t I?! I mean, what the fuckity-fuck??? Why is Japanese dude getting a log ride and I’m sitting in a dry state. It makes no sense. It’s fricken’ unintelligible, okay.

"Outta my fucken’ way, punk," I growl - ‘cause now I’m blisteringly mad - as I rage-shove a big fella walking the other way so hard that he, too, gets pissed off like I am and starts a hankerin’ to find out what my right feels like on his big fat old jaw.

Unfortunately, to my disappointment and before we can get festive-like, the huge mofo looks close and gets a good old look at my pretty little mug: Wide smile loaded with sharp teeth ready to bite and tear and bleed, eyes squinted and deformed like soiled toilet paper dumped in the shitter, gums red, bloody and blazen sickly like they ain’t seen a hint of vitamin C in years. Well, then that big old fella, on getting his gander at me-darkness, ya hear, apologizes like a fucking pussy and then fucks off real fast like he’s got better things to do than be my personal walloping bag.

Cock suckerrrr!!! I yell after him, to which he doesn’t turn and reply, which is to my continued disappointment or relief depending on which part of my furiously overworked brain is rapid cycling in and out of control.

I spot a cruiser slowing for a look at me on the other side of the busy single laned street rimming the squalid asshole of Midtown on 3rd. Motor Cops don’t like the swear so much and so I hustle on like the bitch I am and get to the area of the outer side of the square that leads off onto the motorway that passes over where that Chinese office slut is probably working.

Well, fuck-id-de-dee, I say aloud - no longer able to contain my need to vocalize my thoughts anymore.

On the side of the heavy concrete one laner is parked a wall of a cop - a real one, not one of those Motor Cop faggots providing security back near the shuttle landing zone - and, as I’m a noten’, this blue clad, Cali flag bearing, tech’ed up, shit pizzle has found himself one heck of an outstanding citizen to biff into his kinky maze of mid-yield credit card bribes, corrupt sexual appeasings, violent beatings and even more violent fines.

Normally, I’d feel pity for the dude but, being in a state of righteous fury like I am, such a kindness is no longer in stock among the dogpile of possible reactions I have on hand and, truthfully, what I’m really interested in is the dude’s bike: A fine squat bitch coated in racy reds, refined blacks, detailed engraved chrome and with a badass gold plated exhaust that looks like she squirts. To a guy like me, thinking about this sweet red racer being ticketed or, worse, confiscated ‘cause the civi parked too close to 3rd, well, I feel I must intervene lest the worst happen and this gorgeous babe gets crushed, recycled and sold by Johnny Law on their budget surplus metals shop on Connect before her owner can make the save.

Perving at that sweet set of wheels and thinking about the possibilities makes me feel a little goofy giddy such that I start to giggle and prance on my toes like some 13 year old kid high on a Stimtouch experiencing his first accidental midday dick-sneeze. And thus, riding within the barrel of this tsunami of excitement, I make the decision to saddle over to the nearest corp asswipe - a stunner of a six foot fatty dressed in a pristine white shirt and one tone black tie and CLEARLY a manager at a nearby mega-corp (those fucks being pretty much my favorite target for the kinda antics I’m about to instigate) - and sock him nice and good in his fat gut before sashaying on past like a bare chested street dancer performing for a stack of basic low value, high yield prepaids might.

Of course, as I’m an expert sucker-puncher, among other deceitful arts, Fat Manager sees the sun like pork floating on brine and is laid ‘good morning flat’ while moaning something like oh dear God, that hurts, which comes out as og-gey-God,bat-manrts or similar gobbledegook. Fortunately for me, as I’m seriously not well right here and was way too overly bold in punching the fat shit out in public just now, the crowds and crowds of lunch-goers sifting past are too ‘on the clock’ and outright famished after the first 7 hours of hard toil that my little act of street violence doesn’t even faze them. They are so completely unconcerned, in fact, that the whole thing goes unnoticed without a single person calling out to the nearby pig until the other kinda pig laid out on the ground, who is too hurt to even lift a finger to point me out, manages to stutter out something that gets the officer’s attention.

On hearing the rich porker’s meowings for help, the cop looks a little disgruntled but then hopeful as thoughts of the seductive pat down he’ll be giving to ensure the chubby fuck is not carrying any counterfeit credit cards come to mind; thus, the wall of metal and muscle in blue - having seen the value of my offering - points a finger at the hooligan with a roughly spat stay right there, sir before eagerly shambling over like a golem in one of those fantasy VR games to help the downed piece of corporate excrement, who has now taken to shaking about in a furious managerial fury thanks to being taken down a notch mid-lunchtime, to which, almost like my catchphrase for the day, all I can reply (having personally done him dirty) is that it’s about fucking time.

Fortuitously, I have already applied mean stealth to the situation by blending in with the pedestrians moving by (even not giggling ‘cause I want the bike so bad) and the officer of the law doesn’t see me as I turn my attention to the green haired hooligan.

Did you do that? the hoon asks as I approach rubbing my knuckles.

I smile widely at him and he takes the hint and shifts back like its smart to do when your about to be the victim of grand theft auto.

Dindu nuffin, I pronounce before stopping and purposefully looking down at his bike and licking my lips erotically as I feel a sense of elation that is most certainly sexual in nature run over my senses.

Nice bike, man, I say with the sickly maniac smile painted over my lips getting a bit too toothy for comfort.

Mr. Green Hair looks scared and confused, but who really gives a fuck about what he’s thinking and feeling? This skinny prick is about to learn that people don’t really know nothing about gettin’ punched. Sure, they know about ‘a fight’: You know, that thing where people are fucking pussies and they dance around like a little old ladies while poking at each other as if they are engaging in some kinda weird sex game or something and their fists are dicks that they wanna ram into each other’s mouths or some shizzle. He, this fucking dude with the green hair right here, he don’t know that when someone WANTS to fuck you up, the hit is totally different. Even raw blooded anger can’t produce the sheer force that a willful, levelheaded punch designed to bust chops comes with. Lucky for him, I’m about to show the guy, like the good martial arts sensei (Hiiiiyahhh!) that I am, what life ain’t taught him yet.

Consequently, on learnin’ his lesson, the learner goes down (spectacularly, by the way, but let’s keep our mind on the bike, alright) and I glance over my new sweet ride to see he’s out cold, which is fucking perfect in this situation if I don’t say so myself.

That’s what you get for parken’ close, ya fuck. Try obeying the law from time to time.

I spit on him and straddle the bike.

Oh me, oh my, you clever beaver.

I note that the guy has got himself some pretty decent security and that’s kinda cool. Pity it’s the thumbprint type. I bet ya he’ll be regretting that one later.

My eyes run over the dude’s caved in form with the expertise of a professional mugger and I almost immediately locate the hidden pig sticker that all fags with colored hair (and this is not to be derogatory to homos ‘cause I generally like them a lot) always have on them somewhere.

This finger long section of green-tinged shit steel with a gaudy cream colored dragon handle curled up onto the blade in an ugly way is extracted from the right front pocket of his grayish gold-lined jeans and as this is done his eyes pop open lazily and blink a few times. For all intents and purposes, the guy seems a little on the sleepy side and so, kind as I am, I’m about to wake him up like a good cup of coffee does after a night on some Tranqz.

Gonna need a thumb, brother, I mention to him out of basic human politeness as I grab the hand he had up to block the light of the hot as fuck sun surging down into his dazed brown orbs. I hope you got at least some medical because this shit right here is gonna sting.

With the warning out of the way, I elicit a scream from the lad that doesn’t contain the kind of terror that the no-medical plan types usually have and sets my mind at ease. I then hold up my blood squirting trophy and examine it before turning back to the single circular thumb pad that sits where other ignition devices might slip, fold or be inserted and it is then that I realize something important.

Oh, shit, I note with a giggle. Coulda just pressed it on.

On glancing right I see that the cop has turned and doesn’t look too surprised at my presence on the sick ride I’m straddling. It occurs to me that it’s not too smart to be caught holding the knife and finger of some biker trash whose wheels I’m jacking while holding the kinda expression that says whoops, my mistake and so I do the only thing I can in a situation like this: Keep on smiling.

This pleasant facial expression is maintained as I stomp the screamer in the neck to quiet his yapping with a wink for Corporate Piggy who I laid out earlier before biffing the knife at the cop center mass and, while he’s drawing his iron ‘cause cop’s vests are metal as fuck, I pop the thumb down on the ignition pad, let it slide off to the choking dude having issues with his windpipe next to the bike and gun the now running engine like I’m looking to make it cum.

"WEEEEEE!!!" I scream in delight as bullets fly and I fly - like, literally thanks to the potholes around 3rd - like I’m riding a pocket rocket straight to the moon doing a solid 43 miles per hour (or 70kmph for those of my fake witnesses - fuck you if you testify about my crimes so far - who don’t speak American) in under 5 seconds flat onto the motorway with the kind of child-like wonder that only comes when truly breaking the law in the most extreme way possible.

"Shitttttttt---!" I cry in joy as the beast underneath whines with the kind of notability that a police siren has in the dead of the night when the locals are trying to sleep. This thing must be hydrogen powered but has been tech’ed to sound old school electric. I wind back the throttle and, ZOOOMMM, pace up to an easy 200 on a freeway packed with blocky, foreigner-driven (fucking Canadian immigrants) product transports running shifty low grade shit steel tires and fancy new Asian knockoff WMB luxury pods (the local CEOs out in force, may-haps?) hoovering low enough that I always think their chassis will get scratched but they never do.

Swiveling, swerving and pissing (yep, longggg shuttle ride, alright), I race with the haste of the hellhound chased and this is not for no good reason. The Lows are solid ride from here and if the hoon isn’t too stressed by having to visit a hospo to get his finger grafted back on, which he’ll be able to use in a few hours with no impediments and so I’m not that much of an asshole, then he’ll be zip-linking to the bike’s anti-theft device (if I’m still in range of where his contract provider operates) and I’ll learn what reinforced concrete feels like when it’s ripping off my somewhat new face.

As I race on - perhaps six or seven miles or whatever from Midtown - while feeling the beast of an engine between my legs growl and groan and whine, I, its sturdy master, for the first time in 6 months of real hard time get a solid fat thanks to the vibrations.

Ain’t nothing like a bad bitch, I mutter to this sweet angel of mine before popping a wheelie between two civilian 2020s model SUVs at 215 and then redline that horny bitch off onto a nearby overpass - number 69, haha - that is going my way and, free of obstruction as The Lows suck and nobody but peeps like myself goes there from Midtown, push my sweet honey bear up to a scary 340kmph (2-fucking-11 in gorgeous miles) in light traffic that automatically pulls out of the way as they can see that some crazy criminal has thieved himself a sweet ride and its bound to be jacked with GPS and anti-theft devices that’ll either send in the cruisers (who give less fucks about vehicles in the way than I do) or either explode or break-flip, both popular and likely options, when the owner brings down the wraith of the bike’s Rad Wheels anti-theft device upon me, the daring thief and rider.

None of this matters to yours truly though. The world around me - silver pods, white transports, gray-steel concrete and smoggy blue sky - is one wicked blur of speed, speed and more SPEED and, of course, passion, too, as I draw out my pink skinned, blister burned dong and slow to an even 200 to 220 and get to jerking like I enjoy the pain that the vigorous whirling hand fondle I’m givin’ my Chastity Belt ruined junk is feeling.

YESSSS---! I bellow like a boar tusking a helpless hobo as I squirt man-cream into the wind with reckless abandon and allow my seed to slide off my dirt and waterproofed prison issued overalls, and also the bike’s sexy thickset water tank, to then splatter onto the windscreen of a small family passenger wagon filled to the brim with white kids and their two shocked looking caregivers who were taking advantage of other driver’s sensibleness via following the crazy person in an attempt to make better time to wherever they are going.

Unfortunately, the sheer violence of this creaming after months of not freeing the weasel drives my strained cybernetics over the dirty edge and I black out (Don’t worry. Not for real. This is just too many neuros and whormones bumping me out thanks to my brain’s inability to cope with the mighty volume of the unexpected discharge).

And, so, as often happens, I switcheroo into the (debatably) worse side of myself, which I like to and will often refer to it as, Mr. Bad Wolf - to summarize a complex interaction of brain electricity, body chemistry and so on into one quite descriptive and fairly accurate term. Now Senor B. Wolf is gonna gets his turn at the wheel-o, or handlebars and throttle in this case, and I’m not gonna remember how I’ll will - VERY LIKELY - cum, ride, cum, ride my way the entire distance to my destination with, no doubt, more than one devilish act of tomfoolery undertaken as I go.

*****

Well, here I am in the The Lows and I’m glad I survived. The bike was nowhere to be seen when I found myself lying in a pool of bloody vomit, but I have cuts all over my hands and even a tear in my rather sturdy overalls and so the juicy red-black bitch probably didn’t end its days without one hell of a sendoff. Right now, as I stumble-slash-walk a side street, I’m trying to figure out why I have blood under the neck of my prison garb after having wiped most of the mess off my face with some plastic food wrappers pulled from the steel trash box out back of a Chinese restaurant and why in all the world the blood tastes like bird - an ultra rare Western Scrub-Jay to be specific - and why I’m feeling weirdly good despite stinking of semen, piss, bird blood, vomit and looking more unkempt than an outer New LA trailer park resident.

Prepaid? Can you spare a little prepaid?

My eyes trail down the dirty, graffiti stained wall with the kind of weary nonchalantness that the soiled tend to have until they reach the slumped, squatting form of a child of about 10 years of age wearing a blue Hawks’ t-shirt, circa 2040s, who has his small, filthy hands cupped in a makeshift beggar’s bowl. These dirt rimmed orbs of mine crinkle around the edges when I note the kid’s got some low-grade shit steel cybernetics: His fingertips coated in bare metal that isn’t just there to make a fashion statement but are likely the leftovers of necessity given how scarred the steel is. Already I can see the story unfolding. At 9 he got a job via his shitbag parents at a manufacturing arm of a small-corp and worked industriously. This was probably robot parts as The Lows produces a lot of replacement or refurbished ones for the home models that the middle class tend to favor. Most likely, as most businesses around here are connected to gangs or entrepreneurial criminals, the work site changed without warning after a slump in orders to avoid having to pay Johnny Law’s beat cops’ bribes for a month or so (a common enough practice when business is bad in these parts) and this kid wasn’t told where they moved to as he was probably a trash producer or demanding a wage increase or something equally stupid considering who he was dealing with. Because of all this, the kid has probably got enough savings to see him through and, honestly, I hard pass on helping the desperate and downtrodden because once you help one then everyone wants to be helped. Also, it’s important to note that my help comes at a premium price that this little shit can’t afford and so, as a result, all I do in response is shift my shoulders up in what could be a shrug and stalk by.

Fucking weirdo, the child mutters at my back after having been denied in his request for a little prepaid credit card action.

On hearing this, my lips twist upwards at the corners just a little as the long trailing, disgust-laced o at the end of the final syllable of his personal evaluation of my character subsides into silence. Well, my various imaginary friends, that - the act of speaking out in his annoyance and frustration - was pretty fucking stupid, don’t you think? In fact, I’d consider that a 50 IQ move if I was in his position and talking to who he’s talking to. And, well, as you probably already know, I’m not gonna let the little doggo have his bone.

"What was that?" I demand, now stopped, back still turned, fists clenching and unclenching, dangerous and ready to do hurt.

Nothing. Nada. Not a comment or retort or witty remark in reply to my viciously propelled clarification. Those lips of his are sealed shut and silent too and I’d bet they are quivering right now like a little bitch’s does when they step over the line with big old daddy-o. This fucking pussy, I lament to myself. He could have at least stepped up to the plate like a real man. Truthfully, in my eyes, a followup - at best - woulda made him a wimp and not just a complete shit-scrap and maybe saved him from the humiliation of what comes next.

Siphoning off the silence that follows through the grate of my brown plastic shoes’ rubber soles on the uneven, pockmarked concrete below, my body turns and steps off in the kid’s direction of its own volition as I eye him like a bad fuck does armed security in a bar in the redlight area of The Lows. No longer do I feel mad without reason like before and that means that my brain (chemically speaking at least) is ‘normal’. Because of this, the eye-fucking is quite intentional and also not without good purpose. You see, you gotta fix these little shits early before they grow too dumb to re-educate and become a burden to society. It’s like a minnow who dares bubble back to the big tuna in their little stretch of ocean. That minnow ain’t big enough or tough enough to be grandstanding so large and so is gonna gets itself the tail slappen’ of the century - now or later - if it don’t wise up real quick. Therefore, I figure I’m doing the little shit burger a favor and he’ll thank me profusely later.

To begin, I loom over him as a skyscraper a tiny woodland cabin and spit out: You say something, kid?

His reply is notably wise in the form of Ah, no, sir and so I readjust my opinion of him a little and provide a test just to make sure.

With my eyes wide and intentionally terrifying, I ogle the little shit in silence like I wanna either fuck him or kill him. This eye-fuckery continues on until the kid’s gaze travels down to the dirty steel plate he’s squatting on and doesn’t come up until well after our interaction is done and finished.

Hmm... Maybe the kid ain’t a shit burger after all, I decide. Maybe this little pisshead is just occasionally stupid instead?

I sniff at him dismissively. I suppose dealing with someone smelling as bad as I do and clearly just outta jail has him fearful. I decide to take a different route from breaking his right side ribcage via a vicious stomping and go with mercy instead.

Yeah, thought so, I comment before giving him a friendly grin that he doesn’t see because he’s eyeballing the concrete like his life depends on it (and it does by the way) and, feeling a little bored by how things are turning out, slump down onto my heels in a mimic of his squatting pose and push him back against the wall with my fingers curled tightly into his Hawks’ t-shirt so that he can’t get away while my other hand pats down the front pockets of his frayed light red board shorts as I maintain solid eye contact with his downward facing eyes - letting him know without any room for misinterpretation that he’s ‘this close’ to getting laid or laid out.

Fuck, I grunt on finding my inspection fruitless. The kid has no gum or spray and I really need a breath refresh right now because my entire mouth tastes of bird and, being real, that’s pretty gross.

Standing, I warn him to be good while feeling only slightly disappointed that he got scared and backed off rather than giving me the chance to take this further.

As I stroll out of rock biffing range (as he wasn’t armed), I think to myself that it would be really nice if one day he manned up to the level of courage typical of a 5 year old girl child in The Lows. Fact of the matter is kids around here grow up REAL hard and super quick and will spit out stupid shit at the drop of the hat. Hence, one of my favorite hobbies when I’m running a little too far into the Bad Wolf’s territory is to kick the shit outta small gangs of them (and then their parents and relatives and even innocent bystanders if they get involved). I enjoy this hobby so much that I’ll take anything I can get, but it’s really disappointing when they act like that kid back there. There’s no fun in beating the shit outta someone who’s not looking for it - or at least not in the range of thinking and feeling I’m enjoying now - and I guess in the boy’s case (and this is all speculation by the way) it’s because he’s a Hawks’ fan and they were uniformly pussies back in the day when I used to care enough to follow what was going on in the New LA professional football scene, so I imagine that explains the pitifulness of his reaction pretty succinctly.

For a minute or so I visualize myself wiping my bloodied shoe on the kid’s stupid t-shirt, but it doesn’t really stir me and, consequently, I feel slightly relieved. Back when I was in The Center, they made us play football to help manage our aggression issues. Problem was that I’m lean yet REALLY mean and also Jewish (not that that last point matters much for madhouse football). Anyhow, I’d always get told off because I was highly prone to causing people severe injuries and couldn’t get my head around the concept of ‘competitive hurt’ like the patients that grew up normal post-Holocaust III. That even getting the kid’s t-shirt grubby with his own blood - considering my on again, off again love-hate relationship with America’s favorite sport and also the hooliganism that comes with it - means that the big bad wolf has had his fill for now and I can chill out knowing that my brain balancer isn’t going to suddenly drop me into la-la-land again anytime soon.

Due to this newfound equilibrium and also because I’m back on the lam again after only 30 minutes or so on the outside, I keep it together reasonably well during my stroll into the central area of The Lows. This section that I’ve just walked into just now is starting to look really familiar and, of course, the graffiti is a pretty good guide too. If I’m reading things right, I am in an area run by two gangs I can’t remember the names of off the top of my head, but have butted heads with once or twice through my work, and that this area has a weapon’s store nearby from which I should be able to navigate to the section of The Lows I’m looking for.

I stop on a corner and carefully check a faded mural to where life’s worse pleasures can be found and think back to what I remember of The Code and debate whether I need to take the next right or the one after that. It’s been forever since I bought a gun - I have a stockpile the size of which you would not believe - and this store sells ancient junk at bargain prices and I only use quality gear. Hence, The Code (basically, the murals tell you where to find what you need if you know how to read them) related to finding a store that will sell you a gun or other weapons is a little faded in my memory.

As I round the first right (having given up and just guessed) and see the shop I was looking for 10 paces down the road ahead, I feel thankful that the ‘dump’ that brought out the bad wolf happened earlier rather than now while I’m in an area as dangerous as this. Also, as I have yet to cycle into the Good Wolf just yet (and, if lucky, may not), my best guess as to why the dump happened when it did is that the sudden exposure to the pollutants in Midtown On 3rd irritated my allergies and caused a burst of histamine to get squirted out of my brain’s neurons like mayonnaise from a nozzle dispenser at a fast food chicken joint and, generally speaking, that’ll bring out the Bad Wolf quicker than Cyber The Bear Bear and his pal WooLoo get angry when someone steals their oil from their oil basket.

My right index finger instinctively passes under my nostrils as these thoughts present themselves and I feel a light itching there that I am quick to get to scratching. Inwardly, I curse histamine for all its general annoyingness and also its brain balancer filling prowess. If the idiots who run this city would at least do their damn jobs and keep things hygienic then my mouth wouldn’t be tasting of bird blood and I wouldn’t look like someone who’s had a pretty rough day out like I do.

After rounding a few corners, I stroll into Citizen Square 3 (aka. The Market) and take a good gander about. All of the newer cities after Holocaust II were built around the concept of one or more central squares that expand out like branches from a thick tree trunk (or trunks) into structures that match the intended purpose the area was supposed to serve. Given that this was built around 2016 just after Holocaust II and it’s purpose was to house poor people, it’s really kept to its roots well.

Thirty minutes is about how long it takes me to find a den of thugs sufficiently dangerous enough to know where The Arab is hiding nowadays and my first act of aggression is to enter the cluttered covered seating area of the outdoor squid restaurant and let myself be seen.

Excuse me, I offer as I politely slip around the big caboose of an hourglass thick black stunner while doing my best not provide an inappropriate touching to her very ample assets.

That nubile beauty offers back a deep furrowed displeased grimace that presents itself after getting a whiff of what I’ve been bathed in. However, all I do in return is smile back pleasantly like I’m not aware of the bad odor cologne combo I am emitting and continue making my way among the fine-looking punters towards the steaming glory of the counter-slash-cooking area through 15 meters of tilted off-center, steel tables and wobbly chairs occupied by a good dozen or more lazy, half inebriated citizens of The Lows who are enjoying their mid-afternoon break from the fiery blaze of the Californian sun in the shade created by the red-brown stained plastic awning that hangs from the exterior of a nearby four story set of shops and ripples out across the many low-grade steel poles propping it up to end abruptly by being weighted down onto the lightly glossy steel reinforced concrete through several chunks of cheap steel.

Fucking inbred, some uncouth fellow mutters on witnessing the state of me.

This time I let the insult slide and maintain my gaze in a forward facing direction instead of correcting the individual’s inaccurate assessment of my parentage. The truth is today seems oddly wonderful all of a sudden. This gloriously sunny afternoon is truly the perfect day to stop by for a snack at this food vendor’s delightful little establishment after such a day of toil and challenge. Hence, it is in a state of great jubilation that I sidle up to the unoccupied counter seating area to bear witness to the fine chef expertly filleting a delectable leg of tanned brown octopus, which, if I am correct in my remembrance of the species’ characteristics, most probably has been shipped from as far away as the Japan Sea to be cleaned and quartered on the chef’s steel cutting board on the unhygienic kitchen side of the counter.

Are you ordering or just gawking?

My smile is polite, refined and gentile.

"Kind sir, do you happen to know an entrepreneur going by the name of