Cultivated Meat American Sashimi: Cultivated Meat American Sashimi, #3

By Robert Arnold Kay

Gorious. Shocking. Transgressive.

A reckoning is beckoning.

 

The Marshals go to all-out war with the Yakuza.

 

Teekenix products have been found, due to a manufacturing error, to contain unacceptably high levels of extremely intoxicating ingredients which leads to multiple celebrities being chased down and eaten alive. Foodgasm becomes bloody, raw Food Horror!

 

Aidan and his team are in a major fight with time. They need to hurry and stop the murderous cannibalism before all the A listers become digested and pooped out on the toilet paper of history.

 

The final battle between good and evil, darkness and light, and random versus order, looms.

 

Aidan unleashes bloc to do what bloc does best, balance in all things, even in mortal violence there is art. Art for death's sake.

 

Each of the marshals has their target. Aidan is pursuing Nakamura and Tim; Ari is hot to nail Sivart; Anechka has her deadly sights upon Chantal; and the Twins are going to finish off the Japanese elite hit men, Fat Man-Futo and Little Boy-Chissy. Lest we forget to mention, bloc battles an entire bar filled with violent Yakuza criminals who love the movie, Tombstone.

 

The site for the uncaged battle royale fight is Phoenix. 

 

The team of good is facing overwhelming odds and the question is: What's next? Or should it be who's next.

 

Will the marshals prevail and tear down the evil Teekenix multi level marketing company, or will they become just another pile of DNA in a nitrogen-flushed container to be cultivated for the villains to enjoy eating the human sashimi with their sake?

 

If they fail, celebrities will become a tasty extinct species.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Robert Arnold Kay
• Release date: Jan 25, 2024
• ISBN: 9798223126201

Robert Arnold Kay

Robert Arnold Kay holds a PhD in Nutritional Science and a BA in Psychology. He has worked as a Chief Science Officer for several industry leading dietary supplement and pharmaceutical companies. You may recognize some of his contributions, e.g., Emergen-C fizzy vitamin C drink, multiple probiotic products, and Intermezzo. He is an ecoscientist, inventor, and science-futurist who connects the dots regarding the health status of our environment and life on Earth, just as he did when engineering supplements and drug products. He raises hundreds of Monarch and Swallowtail butterflies in his botanical garden sanctuary. He merges science and fantastical worlds to create enchanting tales that thrill readers.

Book preview

Chapter 1: High Voltage Rock and Roll

"W e're so delighted that you could join us tonight on TabooYou, where we explore topics that others fear to tread. We expand your mind, your very awareness to immerse it in endless possibilities. You are now in the TabooYou Zone, where rhyme and reason are just so passé... In the past we have shocked you, amazed you, astonished you with breaking down the antiquated hardwired biases we all have.

"You heard it first when we kicked off Incest Week: it's okay if no pregnancy, and Patricide: who needs the old goat anyway? and most recently, Snuff: what is too much if everyone agrees?' Keeping up with our remarkable blow the lid off with C4 explosives and mind-bending thoughts, tonight's episode is American Sashimi: the other tasty meat."

"Thanks again for being here. Now put on your helmets, knee-pads, and waders as we go deeeep into Cosmopolitan Cannibalism, the new way to think of a dining experience... and give me a bundle o' snaps and swishes as we grant your wishes to go where others fear to tread... the TabooYou Zone!

The live audience snapped their fingers like a mob of anxious crabs signaling It’s time to pinch air.

"Erickson Van der Coo here, and tonight we have an incredibly exciting show for you, and don't hit that record button and go snooze, because if you snooze, you'll lose out on hearing it here FIRST!

"Let me introduce THE authority of a very, odd, quaint, unusual human behavior, Dr. Jessie de Weid, Chief Science Officer—or as those in the know go, C-S-O—of Teekenix. Slap your palms together and shout it out! C'mon out, Dr. Jessie de Weid. Let me hear that big ole TabooYou SNAP and Swish!"

The teleprompter over the studio stage showed two words: SNAP NOW.

The obedient studio audience didn't even need to be prompted; they couldn't wait to be a part of this evening's show. Their need to be a part of anything overwhelmed their isolationist mentality. The entire audience erupted with snapping fingers.

SNAP! !SNAP!! !SNAP!!!

The camera panned off of Van der Coo, and focused on a thin, tall, bespectacled, bow-tied fellow walking across the stage like a cartoon plumber. Gangly and spangly, he made his way to a podium table next to Van der Coo. A black-suited, full-head-of-hair kind of guy. Not just a talking head, Dr. de Weid was THE Chief Science Officer for Teekenix. The world's authority on cannibalism in all its forms. From sacrificial rites to smashing open the head of a beaten enemy and consuming his brains for power, he's the man in the know! Whether it's being stranded on an airplane that made an unscheduled stop where there was no EagerEats, or just the serial monster who hunted humans like nighttime bayou folks who gig frogs with a flashlight; if it was who ate whom, Dr. de Weid was the man with the facts and that's a fact JACK!

"Welcome, Dr. de Weid! It's wonderful to have you stream here with us, terrific! Right, folks? Snap it like you MEAN it!

And the audience obeyed with finger clicking good, SNAP!! SNAP!! SNAP!!!

The sound of the live audience all snapping was a percussive, we can't wait to hear this one! with continual clickety-click-clicks of appreciative fingers. The monitors beamed out the instructions on what they should do... SNAP, and then it changed to MURMUR, then to QUIET. Nothing like a machine to tell you what to do.

Well, Erickson... may I call you Rick?

"Jessie, you can call me Rick, just don't call me DICK!" Erickson joked and burst into self-amused laughter. The studio audience, with the remote vid feeds, showed hundreds of people laughing and snapping their fingers as the teleprompter blinked instructions. They were laughing at him, not with him.

Okay, Rick! I believe this is the absolute first time ever on holo or vid, a deep, deep dive down into the human palate and the big tease of breaking a major taboo! de Weid stated with a fakey authoritative tone in his voice, and a smile that could have eaten the audience in one flashy, toothy, python bite.

You have such a way with words, Jessie. I may call you Jessie, yes?... Are you always this... well, ah... graphic? Erickson asked.

You sure can call me Jessie! No need for us to be so formal, especially with this very feral, primitive topic! And yes, I am graphic; it would be more than a challenge to not lay the words out in front of everyone, to try and parse what we want to share. Hey, folks, we're talking about who's for lunch today! Jessie snickered out the last few words. Another geek who thought he was a comedian. My, my, Rick, with all that you can channel into your home about macabre happenings on the dark net, this is tame, and quite logical, Jessie finished sharing his thoughts.

How so? Erickson questioned.

"Humans have been consuming other humans for thousands of years. We were eating each other before the invention of the wood stove, the microwave, the sous vide, and the plasma cooker. Raw or cooked, either way, it was what some humans dined on that day... did you know that when questioning those who live in far-off places about why they eat each other, and you ask, So, what does it taste like? They say boar, or a pork-like flavor and texture. Sometimes a random veal is mentioned. I always thought, though, if you're cosmopolitan enough to consume veal, you have probably satisfied that dark passenger passion to be able to know what human flesh tastes like. Right?! How else could you compare it?" Jessie queried Rick.

"Well, I never quite thought of it that way... true, though, very true! Folks, let's hear some snappin' for being true!" Rick reached out to the audience. The monitors over the audience flashed the words, SNAP SNAP SNAP, KEEP SNAPPING! AND SMILE!

"Sure, there used to be issues about consuming another human, but not anymore. All those pesky prions and bacteria are in the rearview mirror. Eating a fellow human on the run had its risks way back then. Kind of like knowing not to eat mussels and clams if there's a red tide in the area... you just don't do it. Same here with this. Teekenix has taken the risk out of dining on Daddy, Mommy, or your cute next-door neighbor by simply culturing their cells in our bioreactors. Pure human meat, or almost pure.

No need to suffer the same ole, same ole day after day, delivered to your box or synthesized in your kitchen, when you can have your choice of tasty bites from American Sashimi. Teekenix spices those wonderful morsels in so many varieties it would take days and days to sample all of them! And lest I forget to let everyone know, we've also been working on our performance series! Imagine consuming designer sport American Sashimi of Ob-Scene Volt thigh muscle with FDA approved ergogens and stimulants! You'll run so fast your kicks will melt! Oh, I'm sooooooo sorry! I wasn't supposed to mention what we're working on in our Arizona Guava Under the Desert top secret research facility where we make good dead things come to life... as American Sashimi! Jessie went to geek mode for a moment, and it was painfully apparent.

"C'mon, folks! Let's give Jessie three snaps and a swish...!" Rick snapped his fingers three times and then made an air-golf swing gesture.

The crowd went wild, especially with the prompters instructing them to do so. Three big audience snaps, and everyone yelled, "Swish!" after the last snap. Every person has a slightly different definition of spontaneity; this was just a form of suggested spontaneity.

Jessie sat down on the large, upholstered sofa with the image of the Australian flag, and went dorky doing his slimy, suggestive man-spreading thing.

"Now enough is enough about strangely enough! Tonight, we have on our show none other than the Down Under Australian crunch band Hollywood LiveLivin. It's the remarkable boy band of cloned brothers you love! That boy band that has your ears all day long. Friends, viewers, voyeurs, countrymen, let me nibble your ears with our guests... Please welcome Justin, Justin, Justin, Justin... and Justin sometimes Deborah!"

It was like looking at the same face on four male bodies, and one that had gone very gender fluid and was now either Deborah or Justin, depending upon how they felt today. All five of the band members looked exactly alike. One of them had decided to see what it was like to waver a bit on the gender type. They had longer hair, but still had an artistic stubble beard. They were even featured on the smash media Internet magazine, Guess Who's Coming to Dinner, for being the sexiest uncommitted bachelor It ever!

The boys were one of those not-quite cheaper by the dozen in vitro clone fertility interventions; they were only cheaper by two-thirds of a dozen. Cloned eggs, a little bit of hormonal therapy, a very active subroutine set in the pumps, and just as Mom ordered. There were originally eight of them, but to pay for all the medical interventions, Mom sold off a few to the Institute of Gender Fluidity for no harm to humans research. She was very comfortable with what she had done because the Institute was constantly monitored by PETH.

And how so very cute; each one had the first letter of their given name over the heart of their sport polo shirt, each shirt a different color, like that show that's still on reruns from the late nineties, the Teletubbies. Purple, blue, yellow, red, and green. They used to call the one in purple Eggplant because he ALWAYS wore purple.

The boys and it said in unison: Hey, Coos-zilla, howze it hangin’? You dangling yer chain hanging, or what? They grinned toothy Australian shiny-teeth smiles and slapped each other like the Three Stooges plus two playing hand games. "Nyuk, Nyuk, Nyuk!" they said in unison.

They were quite the sight. Matching body piercings with jewels, and chains, and black, shiny graphene crystalline bracelets, tats that were identical except in the color choices. The left-hand dragonfly tat was the same color on all of them, except Justin/Deborah's had a red line through it and a circle around it. The green Justin had some type of round scar on his neck, and it was obvious he was trying to cover it up with a tie-dyed silk scarf. The whole group just looked like a bunch of smiley, spotless sunshine-state-of-mind Aussies. They were randomly waving at people in the audience.

It's lovely having you guys here... how was your flight? Erickson politely asked so he could change the topic from the status of his genitalia to something a wider audience would be interested in.

"It was a knockout... we all opted for the plane no-pain plan. We told them, we wanna be sedated!" The band boys and boy/girl laughed the giggly we're not all here snargly sounds and nodded to each other, except Justin/Deborah, who was staring off to the deep left audience—a deer-in-the-headlights look without the headlights, but a lot of oh dear! in its face.

Hey guys, and... um... Deb? We heard that you've given tissue samples to Teekenix for that new American Sashimi stuff. Truth or Dare! Is it true? Erickson asked.

The purple Justin spoke up. "Yaah... Coo, that's so right on the little-curlies landing zone, you got us there! We gave up a little bit to the folks at Teekenix. How freaky cool! Our sashimi has been on sale for over a month now. It's the U Won't Roo This brand... and If ah do saay so mahself, it's tongue-cummin' delish. Ah ate some of meself, and I do taste sooooo good!"

That's fantastic! Did you bring any for us to try tonight here on stage? Erickson so professionally inquired.

We sure did! Do yah think we'd let you blokes down? Well, screw my Sheila, we wouldn't tease you! They'll bring it onstage in a few mics, Purple Justin excitedly said.

That's great! Can't wait to taste the goods! Let's talk blasted how flinkin' wonky your new holovids are...

The boy band guests sat down as though on cue. Simultaneous butts mated with color coded chairs.

Wonky's right, Coo, you jack in, tune in, and turn on... we got that perfect wave we juice through your brain, just like wonkin' with kitty! Mmmmeeeeeyoooowwww! The Justins and Justin/Deborah guffawed and shuffled their feet on the stage. Two of them were so strung out they just stared into the bright super-trouper studio lights, pointing at them with outstretched index fingers. No idea what that was about. We can live without knowing. Something shiny must have caught their eye and attention. Maybe they thought they were sun-staring.

At that moment, there was a huge commotion off-camera deep within the left side of the audience. Lots of loud noises, snorts, screams, and every assortment of yell. The loud crashes became louder as the source of the pandemonium came closer and into view. Seating was being tipped over with thuds and screechy sliding sounds on the concrete floor. There were screams for "Security!!!" Like a moving thunderstorm in the distance, the noise and ruckus rolled its way to the front and center-left stage. People were being thrown to the floor and walked over.

In shock and awesome surprise, two of the Hollywood LiveLivin boys fell backward off their interview chairs and landed flat with a definitive body-slamming, head-banging, double Thud thud, Thud thud. The other two boys and the it jumped up from their chairs and Coo was wildly yelling "Shut off the cameras, just shut them down, hit the kill switch... shut the fucking cameras OFF, NOW! Coo was screeding at everyone, the stagehands, the grips, the audience, and the streamers. His face went pure albino with a flapping mouth that was raining panic spittle drops as he kept saying the mantra, Cameras off NOW!" One of the stagehands tripped over some cables, and a pair of the stage lights keeled over and crashed near the sofa. Sparks shot up, and the back of the sofa started to smoke.

How appropriate. In spite of the hollering and goings on, a dadbod man and a skinny woman were up on stage attacking the two standing boys. The boys put up their bare arms in self-defense, and tried to exit stage left, stage right, any exit would work. But as they put up their arms to block the attackers, the crazed man and woman grabbed their limbs and started to tear at the skin and muscle with their teeth. Blood was soon spurting from torn veins and arteries, spraying the stage and the panel with pink mist. The volume of blood increased, and it randomly pooled on the stage. As the boys were being deeply bitten, they were waving their arms about and creating even larger blood spray splatters. Their casual impromptu diners would not be deterred. Every waving bit of arm was a snake-charming dance of a delicious piece of fame.

It was like a pain symphony, the boys being dined upon and screaming like marys with arms flailing, the horrible screaming of the audience, the stagehands yelling directions, the grips losing their grip, things falling to the floor with loud crashes and thudddyyythudd thuds, and the bass notes from the snarls; with the guttural howls of the stylish diners, was an earful. Their mouths filled with human flesh and blood, and an occasional sinew hanging down between the teeth. Reverse dental floss and major bad breath. No doubt the boys were quite delicious, but due to them being so skinny, probably not filling, Very satisfying, but few calories.

At one point, as the Yellow Justin held up his hand as his arm was being torn apart by the crazed woman; there was this 2001 epiphany moment where the bitee and biter paused, a slow-motion pause. Yellow Justin was signaling the universal fingers-wide hand sign of STOP!! with all his body language and even languages he didn't know, JUST STOP! and at that exact moment, the biter babe had triggered in her head, FINGER FOOD! She held the arm a bit higher while staring at the outstretched fingers, and straightaway chomped down on all the fingers except the thumb. The force of the bite was remarkable. The fingers snapped right off like pink celery, and the crunch was a seductive and painful base note of clack-snapping joint-connective tissue. The boy band was now snapping for the audience.

Now, though, with only the thumb left pointing up, it was a farcical carnival of going my way (with the thumb) as blood oozed and spurted out of the missing finger stubs.

Blood, chunks of bone, tipped over studio lights fizzling and popping, flashing, and flickering... more loud crashes, screams, and an alarm. Someone thought the smartest thing would be to hit the fire alarm. Unfortunately, with the sprinklers spraying water all over the pulled wires and broken light filaments, there were miniature bolts of lightning searching out anyone and everyone higher than a tenth of a meter and zapping them. The jolt bolts felt like getting hit with a cop's stun gun on super-high voltage over and over and over. The electrical sparks and flashes, combined with the ad hoc random dance moves of the electrically contracting muscles of the attendees, made it look like a tribute to the Death of Disco.

The electrified danse macabre with people dying, pieces flying, and bloody-blood slippery floors and stained clothes made the vignette complete.

In the flashing lights, sparking and arcing electricity bolts, the jerking and twerking of the cannibal dancers, it was an Oingo Boingo dead man's party, complete with the polo shirt boy band offering to the viewer a holovid dance off, a waltz-bump-jerk-hokeypokey-chubbychecker-twist-foxytrotting-dances with wolves all mashed up and with a lot more blood, a lot more gore, some serious bite marks, but then... then the transmission wavelength switched to off. No image, no sound, just darkness on the vid.

Fade to black. A foggy gray and black swirling 3D pinwheel. In the viewers' boxes, a rectangular dark image with nothing in it hung in midair.

Magically, the darkness quickly dissipated and a bobbed-do, blonde, bubbly, clueless, red-lipsticked talking head appeared in the cube. It was obviously not from the same studio stage. Behind the cute, freckled announcer, who was wearing an antique-retro Eagles tour Henley long-sleeve shirt, were about a half a dozen people scurrying back and forth looking extremely busy, and another three or so at key stations, furiously snapping and slapping keystrokes, 3D phantom-connected mice in their hands every once in a while. And if you listened close enough, you could hear the snippets of anxious voices using words like terrorism, 911... now, some snargly barking by some frustrated exec over the ratings, and that every minute not on the air was costing millions. Oh, the inhumanity.

The face, the blonde bimbo, spoke with a typical chirpy newscaster tone to her voice. The darker the scenario, the happier it made her. For her, this was just some great, thrilling, live video that presented first-hand mayhem and disaster that would deliver great ratings. But the micro-expressions of her face, the facial body language, that of the oh if trace wrinkles on the brow could speak, no, yell out, they would be in chorus shouting, OH FUCK, WHAT THE FUCKING FUCK JUST FUCKING HAPPENED!?

Fade to colorful bands on the holovid and words stating, Due to technical difficulties, this holovideo presentation is being paused. We will return shortly with our regularly scheduled program.

Chapter 2: Overdose

All teenagers are the same, regardless of rich, poor, Caucasian, Black, Asian—all of them. The timing of hormonal changes to adulthood with its liquidy sequelae of blood and semen could now be controlled by dear ol' Mom and Dad. Nothing like a wireless, encrypted, password protected connection to all the kids' pumps. Hormones be still , hopefully, for a little while longer.

The Age of Liberation for youths to be adults was a meager sixteen if your mom let you. Or if not, you could be a forty-year-old virgin (kidding) if your umbilicus was still attached to mom, and she dragged you around like a dress-up Ken doll. Be careful not to scrape the knees.

Rich kids were an especially challenged subspecies of Homo sapiens immatureis, subspecies immortalis. They had the bits and Mommy and Daddy status to bail their sorry narcissistic asses out of any life-size feces-storing toilet situation, whether it was tagging, shoplifting, hazing, bullying, or any other imaginable teen years cruel torture.

Crash the car? Here, my good man, no need to call this claim in, here's a new auto just like yours... but newer. Can we just shake on this?

Selling drugs at school? "Yes sir, I do understand how important it is for growing children to be drug-free so that they can live a full two hundred years, if they're good. I'll make sure he doesn't do it again, Scout's honor." Accompanied by a three fingers extended index to thumb connection hand sign.

Bullied kid in intensive care for head injuries, including a serious concussion? Of course, my company Fapem, Whippem, and Phuckem LLC, would love to help finance that new multiphasing imaging wing... and about that little dustup between your kid and mine... just let me know what I can do to help here.

Same story, different ages.

The toga-clad man shared, You do realize that my son did not mean to rape and drown your daughter, our slave, and then dump her in the sewage canal. There were evil spirits in the house. Here, just to help you through your troubled times, I have a spare horse, five goats—one male for breeding purposes—nine chickens, and look, I can even give you one of my dearest slaves, Gazaa Traves. He's great. Likes to be played with, and if you have male children, he can hold them while they relieve themselves. Are you feeling better now? Good, I am glad we could help. Before I forget, though, here are some solidi I just happened to have over here, crowding out the counter. Could you take it all, so I can have room to clean up today? The other man, mouth agape, just nodded. It was only one of his children; he had seven more. Everything's negotiable.

Almost everything.

Mommy Dearest and Daddy Awesome were out for the evening. They had sled-tunneled it to LA for the opening of Horror Randy Picture Show—the Real Version at the Pantages Theater. They were going backstage to visit the green room after the show. Being rich AND famous helps in times like these. They would return early the next afternoon after drowning their bit-imprisoned addictive souls in as much sensory pleasure as they could. The after party was to be eyes wide shut, but no snuffing.

What's the fucking issue here? Nothing, so far.

Three richrichrich girl kids. Same age, except for maybe one or two minutes between. Ex vivo-in vivo implants; explants. They were induced to pop out like the timing of a mechanical baseball-throwing device. Common practice. Have them all at once and get through the weirded out growing up period within a short band of time. Simple math. Cheaper by the threes.

The sixteen years plus one hour, twenty-two minutes, and three seconds age they'd hit now defined them technically as consenting adults... unless their parents had them bonded and their pumps hardcoded. But these kids were no gummy-bear-chewing naïve creatures on the inside. They were cynical and cruel to every atom that came near their orbit. Rich kids with noses stuck up so far, they could snorkel in sentient, cosmic gas near the rings of Saturn. Dastardly Pinnochioettes on the loose, let the Homeowners Association beware.

Sixteen plus shards of time portions on the chronological atomic clock. On the inside it's a different story. They had bought some cheap Chinese pump hacks to buzz them up to act like Bourbon Street hookers who livestreamed themselves as the Gooey Goo Goo Girls from Berlin. And they loved it. That connection between pleasuring oneself and feeling great in a dysfunctional family was a quick program to take advantage of. Carrots, zucchini, imported sausage, beware; mayonnaise may or may not be included.

Zumar, Shehzeen, and Shazmeen were going to have a classic, no-parents-home, girly-girl sleepover party, complete with a clear glass bowl in the middle of the table with a colorful assortment of Mom's, Dad's, and some of Granddad's hormonal stuff, some random STARS they copped on the street, anything their friends could hoist, and not sure how they got the mini-jectors with who knows what's in them.

They had Faceplanted a message to a small group of chicks for a sleepover tonight. They really worked their game to place all the info with their guests' parents concerning the sleepover and their whereabouts. It's always good to tease up a couple of real geeks at school just in case you need some fiber work done, passing test grades, or data manipulation. They got that and more for just a random janitor's closet blowjob now and again. The way to an adolescent boy's heart is a short road with a detour sign for a hard right to Gonad Alley. The girls just made sure to be very generous with the fresh mango, banana, and kiwifruit lunches they shared with them. Things taste better with a little bit of fruit every day, dontcha’ know?

One of the invitees was a throwaway girl. They picked her because she had too many freckles on one side of her face, real wine-colored red hair (eeeeyeeeeewww!) and she wasn't symmetrical like they were or like their I-wannabes, Chem, Chandee, and Chestet Trashkardian.  When they were all really drunk or higher than a twenty-foot ceiling, or simply bored, they could pick on her just for fun. Their life goal was to be just like the Trashkardians but working for some government top-secret agency, like the one in charge of the don't really exist doomsday folks they had heard about. Imagine, being able to tell all kinds of people what to do! They could be post-pubescent dominatrices.

They left the front door open just a crack. and dimmed all the lights facing the street.

Parties like this always need finger-food. No fine dinnerware. Zumar had ordered their collective favorites, the Trashkardian American Sashimi C Collection. And why not? The three girls idolized the whole Trashkardian family.  Out of the eighty-seven loosely related Trashkardians, those C sisters were their faves. And lucky days were here; they'd been pigging out heavily for the past week on some really cool C sisters limited editions, and the keg was tapped empty.

The more they ate of them, the more they wanted. They had gobbled them all down and ran out yesterday. Dang. Their raging hormone-intoxicated brains hoped that FedUPS would deliver more today before their guests arrived. Food cravings are so hard to deny—like chocolates, swallowing epi-honey, and STARS lollipops!

They still had some of Brad Seed's mini-sausages with the creamy Alfredo filling, and whenever they served Brad's meat, they were sophisticated enough to know the proper pairing was with Anjou Leana Holee's Spicy Lip Slices without the magic bacon buttons. Morally, they just couldn't eat the buttons. They wanted to show their sleepover friends they weren't just some hicks. Status is so important during the formative years.

The sisters were getting a bit antsy in the pantsies, though, waiting for the delivery. It was like waiting for paint to dry. By the way, what's paint?

The girls wanted to be just like the C girls, and they would do anything to accomplish that.

Anything.

Rapid fade to let the festivities begin.

Chapter 3: Dog Eat Dog Part Two

Imagine! The three of them together, just them! They could stream the latest chick flicks and eat popcorn with lots of real butter (not the delicious human-milk stuff) to their full, overindulgent hearts' content.

And it must be an omen of good times to come, because Chandee had accepted the dare from Chestet to wear her unicorn slippers. And she won!

Chandee, could you see if the Krug is cold? I'm going upstairs to wash my face and tone with it. I don't need a really old one. Anything you find is okay.

Chandee shared, "Will do, sis. Let me check on a couple things and I'll be right there. But hey, you two gals go ahead. See you in a bit. I'll tee up the stream. I was thinking of starting with the new release of Nancy and Kamela. I heard the part where they take their classic California E-Corvette and drive it off a Palos Verdes cliff into the ocean, yelling, I wanna be me! is just spine-chilling, and... ohhh, better yet, a scary one, the one about the orange- haired mutant in the DC subway system... arrrgh... I need to search for it. You two have fun, I'll bring the Krug up soon," Chandee mellifluously shouted out to Chem and Chestet as they ascended the winding, circular staircase.

As usual, the Trashes wore bare-minimum clothing in the house. They believed their skin needed to breath and be seen by any zoom photographic lenses of the paparazzi drones to flash the next side boob, or thong strap lost in a crevice image. Never waste a good photo-op, even if you have to make one.

Compound Trashkardian, or as some called it, Compound T,  was the most palatial estate in the neighborhood. To tee it off, on the large iron security gate, a large T was affixed. Three swimming pools outside, one inside. Full-size basketball court in the basement so that when their sports friends visited, they could play with their balls. The service people had clear instructions that they were to not be in the house proper after six. Not for any reason.

All the furniture and trappings were the real thing. The artwork, the statuary was all genuine. No knock-offs or prints. First of everything in magnificent one-of-a-kind majesty.

Chandee's eyes followed the cute way their luscious bubble-butt cheeks palloooped back and forth like a game of close-quarters tennis with a jackalope with each stair step they took. "If they weren't my sisters, I would vid them riding Sybians with their faces covered, yelling Yippee Yi Yo fuck me! I bet I would get like a quadrillion likes and only two not likes... well, maybe Mom and Dad might not approve." She fantasized as the glutes on her two sister sirens contained within come-and-go graphene lingerie continued their I'm first body language, said one cheek to the other as they pushed from left to right for dominance. The only winners were the cracks.

It was almost seven o'clock and the guests had arrived, but for some reason they couldn't find Zumar, Shehzeen, or Shazmeen anywhere in the main house. There was a flex pad on the counter that stated,