Arnie stood up and watched a sliver of light start to bathe the treetops of Central Park. Sunrise marks the end of morning prayers and Arnie was always punctual.
Answering the phone on the first ring, he said nothing as the man spoke. Nodding in agreement, he hung up with a calm “Allahu Akbar.”

“Who was it?” Bishop called out from the main room of their suite at the Ritz. Omnivox spared no expense when it came to accommodating its employees.

“Wrong number.”

All packed Bishop sat on the couch, soaking in the surroundings. He’d never stayed at a Ritz, much less in a massive suite. It was his first official day on the job and he was already liking it.

Arnie walked out of his room, “Are you ready my friend?”

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Counttonine Counttonine Counttonine Counttonine CounttonineCounttonineCounttonineCounttonineCounttonine

Eight…

A heavy thud.

Dogwood felt himself fish hooked back into consciousness. Jerked out of a strange reverie. Something about his childhood. Something his mother had said to him.

‘What you did to that boy…’

The sterile, yellow light of his room gave him a jaundiced look. It made all the padding on the walls look piss stained.

Maybe they were. Had he pissed on them? Probably not. His bladder felt like an overfilled water balloon.

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Magnetic turbulence shook the Santa Muerte’s cargo hold and everybody inside it.

Whitman held the doped-up girl in his arm closer. Her head lolled, swinging into his chest. Whitman caught it, kissed her temple gently and murmured, “We’re almost there,” as he stroked her matted, dirty blonde hair, soothing her.

The girl drooled. She was skinny as a stick. No more than ten years old, dressed in a worn wool sweater over a plain, canvass dress.

A plump Corsican peasant woman sitting across from Whitman smiled warmly at the two of them. She most likely believed Whitman was the girl’s father. It was the exact pretense Whitman was aiming for.

He flashed his teeth briefly, then glanced away.

These simple people sickened Whitman. They’re willfully blind to what really goes on these mule-ships; where children end up, what they’re coerced to do later and for life.

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I’m going to quit today, Henry said to himself. I’m going to, dammit.

But his sneakers kept creeping, drawn towards the VR coffin-bank on 31st and Main. And as he saw the gaudy red-and-blue neon “open” sign flash, Henry felt his resolve crumble.

His feet began to stride involuntarily. His head was light, floating. And Henry felt the giddy anxiousness fill his belly.

He hated himself for this. For not being able to control it. Fucking Wendy. Dirty, nasty, fucking Wendy, Henry cursed. With your dirty, nasty fantasies…

Earlier that day, during AP Physics in block C, Wendy had IM’d Henry, “I want to 69 you while floating over the Red Forest.”

Henry froze and felt every cell in his body shiver. All the functions on his tablet suddenly became gibberish.

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The drowned man made his pleas for mercy as pitiful as possible.

“Please, my masters – I have children! I have children! How shall they eat if I am gone? My wife, how shall she support them?”

His words fell on uncaring ears.

The apathetic ears only this world could produce.

Zen Barr’Zen sat on a nearby sand dune, watching the procession as The Drowned Man was shoved to his knees. Other natives had come to watch as well – voyeurs, lingering on the outskirts. Watching, judging, but never acting. This was what generations of great warriors and mighty kings had produced – emotional, gossipy peasants.

He despised them.

[Read more…]