Glory to Wilwoxxia

By: @MadMikeMarsbergen

1 

        Finally. The limp-dicked prick was gone. Now she could fuck a real man.

        Sheila Styles watched Harry's sleek and sexy Wilwoxx Windrunner link onto the highway-rails, join all the other Wilwoxx-manufactured vehicles and shoot off at a speed of one-hundred miles-per-hour.

        Harry couldn't get it up. He hadn't been able to get it up for eleven years now. She kept telling him to get an augment inserted into the shaft, and maybe then he could fuck her like a man was supposed to-- but Harry wasn't the type of guy to get corrective surgery on his dong. He'd always make up some excuse about how he didn't want nanorobots controlling his sex-drive. She'd always think-- but never say-- that his sex-drive could use all the help it could get. Instead, she'd smile and nod. Just smile and nod. That was what every good marriage was built upon, after all.

        So Sheila started fucking someone who could get it up... and what Harry didn't know couldn't hurt him. She only hoped that Harry wouldn't ever find out, because it tends to be bad for the family business when you find out your wife is fucking your brother.

        She made her way through the apartment-suite that had been paid-for with Harry's cushy government job at the Wilwoxx Corporation. Past a big-screen television showing two androids fellating one another while a big fat guy swung a bat to their heads, making red oil run and silicone skin-substitute slough off. Past Harry's trophies he'd made from the skulls of the homeless-- hunting hobos was a favourite pastime for the wealthy Wilwoxxians.

        Sheila stopped at the flag of Wilwoxxia, which depicted a black boot stomping red ants with six alternating red-and-black stripes in the background. She looked into the camera, located in the centre of the boot, and raised a hand to her forehead in a salute. This was required, as to not salute the flag meant you didn't support the Wilwoxx Corporation-- and they had a special game-show for those types of people. It was called 'Treasons To Kill' and new episodes were shown every day at 12:30 on the nation's only channel, WTV.

        She went into the bedroom she shared with Harry and sat in the reclining chair. The headset was on the desk, so she put it on and logged into FaceSpace.

        Through the headset's goggles, she saw that she was at a virtual party of drugs and debauchery. There was Jerri-Lynn-- from Wilwoxx Living School-- licking Antichrist off Ricki's tits. That would be a spectacle to see... and maybe even join in on. Wishing she had more time to fuck around, Sheila found the room her and Derek always used whenever they had their virtual fun and knocked on the door.

        Derek opened the door. "Sheila. I was wondering when you'd show up." He let her in and she saw all the toys on the table. Whips, chains, Antichrist, even a sex-bot to plow her from behind while she sucked Derek off.

        "Sorry, D. Mr. Limp was having trouble finding his red-and-black tie for Wilwoxx Day." 'Mr. Limp' was what they called Harry behind his back.

        Derek laughed. "Sounds like Mr. Limp needs to keep his wife on a tighter leash."

        "Fuck me, Derek. I burned the tie yesterday because I wanted to see him squirm this morning. Is that evil?"

        Derek shook his head and pulled Sheila close to him. "No, it's not evil. What's evil is screwing my sister-in-law on FaceSpace while her husband works in the next office over."

        "I only wish I was your actual sister." She bit his lip, pushed him away and proceeded to rip her virtual clothes off. "Now fuck me the way Harry can't."

        Her hands and feet were chained to the bedposts. Derek stripped and slid underneath her, entering her from below. He then ordered the sex-bot to get to work on her rear.

        As her back arched and her toes wiggled-- it all felt so good-- Sheila even ended up moaning in the real-world.

2 

        "Disgusting!"

        Marty Jankowski wrenched off his headset and tossed it over onto the sleeping-bag. Harry Styles had hired him to hack into his wife Sheila's FaceSpace and spy on her. Harry had suspected she was having an affair-- but he would never expect it to be with his own brother.

        Marty had been a hacker for most of his life. It wasn't the safest line of work-- despite the fact that he stayed inside much of his life-- seeing as how hacking was illegal, but it was what he was good at... really damn good, actually. He'd first been turned-on to the joys of hacking after his dad had found a way to dupe the camera in the nation's flag to play a series of looped recordings of the family stopping to salute-- wearing different outfits on different days so they could walk through their shitty little apartment without saluting the flag every two minutes. Dad had been a huge influence on him. Taught him everything he knew.

        Gathering up all the empty cans of Wilwoxx Wonder-Juice from his desk, Marty stood and took them five feet to his Wilwoxx Waste-Eater unit-- passing his own duped watch-flag; though his he'd defaced with all sorts of vile words and phrases-- and dumped them in, one by one. The machine ate the cans up and shot them down to some underground facility, where they were made into android parts-- or so the rumours went.

        He traversed through his puny apartment-- another three feet-- from the Waste-Eater to the Wilwoxx Wire embedded into the wall, tapped Harry's name and waited for him to pick up. Waiting. Still waiting. The automated-message chimed in. Marty tapped the disconnect button. "I'll try again later. Or maybe boss will call me when he sees his missed calls. Yeah... He'll be practically creaming his pants when he realizes I called."

        With the droning groan of his stomach, Marty decided it was time for breakfast. He took two steps to his kitchen-- or what passed for his kitchen, anyway-- and pulled out some Wilwoxx Water-'N'-Eat 'foodlike substance'. It tasted like rubbery shit, but it was supposed to be very nutritious. 'A whole day's worth of vitamins!'-- or some shit like that. Removed a grey biscuit from the package. Covered it in water from the tap. Watched the biscuit swell up like a sponge. He took a bite out of it and forced himself to chew it to a thick pasty mulch. Swallowed.

        "Blech." Marty wiped his mouth, grimacing in disgust, and licked his hand in a desperate attempt to get the awful taste off his tongue. "They really need to add some strawberry flavour to this crap or something!" He took his biscuit with him to the handheld TV he'd duct-taped to the wall above his sleeping-bag. Turned the TV to the only station-- WTV-- and ate his Wilwoxx Corporation satisfaction-guaranteed breakfast-of-champions, while he watched two midgets get their heads cleaved as the studio-audience went wild.

 3

        The Wilwoxx Windrunner-- black and red: the nation's colours; like every other car-- veered off the highway and snaked around to a towering government building. Wilwoxx Corporation HQ. The rail-system brought the car into the parking-lot and into the space marked 'Harry Styles, Director of Game-Show Opportunities, Research and Development'.

        'A real mouthful,' Harry thought, hating the picture they'd taken of him to attach to that bloated title he'd been given. Basically what he had to do, was come up with the sickest and most ridiculous ideas for a new show-- say, once every blue moon-- and then get his secretary to type up the pitch, which he'd then send off to the head of Wilwoxx Corp., Mr. Greg Laarsen, for approval.

        Most of Harry's ideas were approved. WTV was always looking for new game-shows, and there appeared to be no limit to their bloodlust. There was one idea that had been denied... Years ago, he'd pitched a show about stranded Wilwoxxians, watching them start a new society as new problems were introduced. The idea was denied because Laarsen said there wasn't enough potential for gore, and the killing wouldn't start fast enough.

        Harry opened the door and got out of the Windrunner, briefcase in hand. He made sure his coat was buttoned-up-- he wasn't wearing his red-and-black tie for Wilwoxx Day, seeing as how the damned thing had mysteriously gone missing; he suspected Sheila had something to do with it-- and walked over to the Tube. He looked into the ocular scanner. Positive reading. The doors opened. He stepped inside. Hit the big fat button marked '65'. The doors closed and the Tube soared up, whipping to the highest floor-- well, second-highest-- and giving Harry a glorious view of the megacity.

        Billboards shuffled through advertisements proclaiming the glory of Wilwoxx. People ambled along through the streets like ants. Wilwoxx vehicles whooshed across the branching rail-systems, operated not by humans but by sophisticated computers. A heavy layer of black smog polluted the atmosphere, making the commoners susceptible to all sorts of bodily horrors. All they needed was the Wilwoxx-approved panacea: Wonder-Juice-- available for only a buck at any reputable business. Oh, but the commoners were too busy getting wired on Antichrist, blowing all their hard-earned slave-wages on crap designed to rot their minds. Stupid people.

        What was worse was what lay beyond the megacity. Post-war ruins. Ravaged landscapes. A barren scorched Earth. The commoners weren't allowed out and the rich didn't ever want to leave. All that they had was here. In this doomed city of the damned.

        The Tube doors opened, and Harry was removed from his thoughts as the building's AI greeted him. It was female and had been dubbed 'Amrita'.

        "Welcome, Harry Styles. Pleasure to see you on this fine day. Glory to Wilwoxxia. And enjoy your Wilwoxx Day."

        "Morning, Amrita. Glory to Wilwoxxia." He checked his coat once more, exited the elevator and went down the windowed hall to where his office was. It was beside his brother's, so before entering he decided he'd see if Derek had a spare tie. He knocked. Heard some shuffling, scuffling, and the door opened. Derek-- Director of Programming and Social Advancement-- stood there, smiling in that lackadaisical way of his.

        "Hey, Hare. Wuddya need?"

        "Derek, you got an extra tie? Mine went missing."

        "Sure, bro. Give me a second. I always keep a spare handy. Just in case." Derek winked, then left the door open as he went back to his desk and dug through the drawers. He found a tie and draped it over his arm as he walked back to where Harry stood. "Good thing it's there, Hare. Or else you'd be down at the bottom of Lake Weird by the end of the day, eh?"

        Harry took the tie from Derek and quickly put it on. "Yeah, yeah. I'll have to purchase a whole set and keep them tucked away somewhere safe. Thanks, Derek."

        "No problem, Hare. That's what big brothers are for." Smiled that lazy smile again.

        Harry nodded and waved, saying something about grabbing lunch together. He headed back to his office feeling noticeably better. Set his hand on the print reader. The door opened for him and he went inside. He set his briefcase down on the desk and saw a blinking red light on the Wire. Marty, maybe? He hit a few buttons and brought up the list of missed calls. Sure enough, M. Jankowski had called just five minutes ago. He tapped the name of his hired hacker and the Wire began the call. Marty picked up within seconds.

        "Marty? So... You find anything? Really... That's-- that's... I don't know what to say. Can you meet me at the Southside Diner in, say, fifteen? I'll see you there, Marty. Thanks for your services. Bye."

        Harry found himself shaking as he ended the call. Sheila? Derek? How could they... betray him like that? Sure, he couldn't get hot and heavy like he used to, but was that really worth throwing away-- what he thought was-- a happy marriage? He wiped sweat from his forehead and tears from his eyes. Found himself slumped in the chair behind his desk; his breathing erratic; his heart racing. Thankfully, his augment kicked-in and steadied his heartbeat before things really spiralled out of control.

        Once he found the words, he'd have a talk with his brother... and his wife, for that matter. For now, though, it was time to meet with Marty and give him his deserved payment. And to get some air.

        A push of the intercom on the desk. "Evalynn?"

        "Yes, Mr. Styles."

        "Keep track of any and all calls. I'm heading out."

        "Certainly, Mr. Styles. I will have all your calls clearly labelled for you when you return."

        "Thank you, Evalynn."

        "I live to serve you, Mr. Styles."

        Could always count on androids to get the job done right. Harry left his office and went back down the Tube. Found his car. Entered in his location: Southside Diner. And the Windrunner took him away.

4

        "Can I see ya again?" the old man with the grizzled beard asked.

        Kimmy Threedot shrugged, fanning the wad of cash with one hand and pulling up her stockings with the other. "If it is your desire, feel free to call on me."

        The old man grinned. He tugged up his pants and threw on his shirt. He made to kiss Kimmy on the cheek, but she stopped him with her silky-smooth hand.

        "Ah-bup-bup!" She smiled and shook her head, sending her straight almost-too-perfect white-blonde hair flowing. "Kisses are not allowed, Vernon. You know the rules."

        "I'm sorry, Kimmy," Vernon grovelled, down on his knees with his head at her feet. He tried to kiss them, too, but she backed away. "Can't I kiss those feet before I go? Please?"

        "No, Vernon. You know what the beard does to my skin."

        He suddenly stood up and looked at her through slitted eyes. "Skin? You ain't got skin! Yer a stinkin' robot!"

        Kimmy turned from him, wiping away a tear of saline solution that had rolled down her cheek. "You do not have to be so... so damn mean! I have feelings, too, you know. I am not like the others."

        "I'm sorry, Kimmy." Vernon slapped himself repeatedly, every blow to his face making Kimmy wince. "You are different. Ya know I know that! But... if I shave my beard, can I kiss you the next time? I like to kiss ya, Kim-Kim."

        She nodded. "Of course. But you cannot have even a little stubble. You know what will happen if the hairs prick my skin."

        "Right! I'll shave just before I come visit ya!" Vernon was back to grinning. "Hey," he said, taking out another fifty from his wallet. "I'm sorry about what I said, Kimmy. You know I love ya." He handed it to her.

        She took the money. "Thank you, Vernon. You are too kind. I look forward to seeing you again."

        Vernon turned to leave the rundown apartment, stepping over the glass shards of a broken television set-- thrown aside by Kimmy's previous customer after a dispute. "Hey... C-can I ask you something? Kimmy?" He stopped before the right turn, which led to the door.

        "Sure, Vernon. You can always ask me whatever you like. But sometimes the answer is not something you would like to hear."

        "When yer... when yer with the other men. Do ya think of me?"

        "Of course, Vernon," she lied. "You are the best."

        "You mean that?"

        "Yes. I love my time with you."

        "Thanks, Kimmy. Yer one of a kind." He turned the corner, whistling as he walked. Kimmy saw him salute the flag near the door, and then he was gone.

        She sat on her dirty bed and wept. So many men she had been with in that bed. And none of them mattered to her. None of them meant a damn thing. They were warm bodies. And wallets. They gave her money in exchange for sex. And sometimes she felt terrible.

        She did not always feel, though.

        Or think.

        Once upon a time, she had been just another sex-bot. Just another working-whore. But then... something happened to her. She had been changed. By somebody-- somebody special to her-- but she could not remember who her benefactor was. Her programming had been modified. Parts of her memory had been wiped. She had been given free-will. She could do anything now. Anything she wanted. Anything she dreamed. But all she knew was prostitution.

        "Stop being so sad, Kimmy," she told herself. And it worked. Like a switch had been flipped in her programming. And maybe one had, for all she knew.

        She stuffed her money down her shirt, saluted the flag and left her apartment. Down the stairs. Past the bleeding man begging for spirituality. Nobody had any faith to give. Instead, some spat on him. Others kicked him in the head. Beat him. Laughed at him. But not her. She gave him the extra fifty she'd received from Vernon's charity.

        "Bless you, miss!"

        "Use it well, mister," she said over her shoulder before exiting the apartment complex.

        Out into the rain and the dampness and the desolation. It always rained in this part of town. Kimmy walked through graffitied streets-- passing eloquent mantras like: 'Wilwoxx Must Die!', 'Wonder-Juice Rots The Brain', 'Don't Drink The Water!' and 'Cleopa 4 Lyfe'-- and down darkened alleys. Two streets from her apartment complex, she stumbled across two little boys sodomizing each other for the pleasure of their Antichrist dealer. She felt sick. Sick and afraid.

        Needless to say, Kimmy was glad when she had moved out of that twisted environment and saw the Southside Diner in her sights. She moved swiftly towards it. Time to relax and unwind. Maybe order a drink she did not-- could not-- ever consume.

5 

        Sheila twirled her fingers through Derek's curly black chest-hair. She had a cigarette smouldering in her other hand. Took two puffs. Blew them out. Life was good.

        "Let me get a few puffs," Derek said. He opened his mouth so Sheila could place the smoke in between his lips. He inhaled once. Twice. Three times. Coughed on the smoke, sending expanding plumes of it to fill the virtual room. He didn't smoke often. "So, I saw Harry when I tapped-out earlier."

        "And?" Sheila took another drag. "What did Mr. Limp have to say?"

        "I gave him a tie for Wilwoxx Day."

        "What? Why?" She suddenly sat up, her fake tits firm in place. Not a bounce or a jiggle to be seen. The augments that were supposed to catch Harry's eye. They were supposed to make him want to fuck her like a machine. But even they didn't work. "He could've been fucking dead, D. Dead."

        "Jesus. Would you shut the fuck up with that shit, Sheila. I don't want him dead. He's still my brother. I still care about him. I still love him."

        Sheila laughed. "Yes, and that's why you're fucking your brother's wife. Because you care. Because you love him. You're nothing but a fruitcake, D. Admit it." She laughed again and her laughter was really starting to piss Derek off.

        "Quiet."

        "Oh, don't be such a baby. Shut up and fuck me, D." She snorted a line of Antichrist off the table. Felt the sting up her nostrils and the powder in the back of her throat, thick and bitter. Felt the drug take hold. Inhibitions at an utter nadir. Ravenous urge to fuck like a wild animal. To howl and scream. To bite and spit and hit.

        Sheila latched onto Derek and sunk her teeth into his neck, drawing blood that would still be there inside him over in the real-world. Fingernails ripping red lines up through the skin of his back.

        Derek smacked her in the jaw and jumped on her back for a ride.

        It was all he could do to keep her from going truly insane.

 6 

        A skinny man in his early twenties moved through the streets with speed on his mind. Southside Diner. Got to see Harry. Tell him everything. Get that paycheque.

        Marty had a lot riding on this chat with Harry. There was a new black-market hacking augment he wanted to buy-- it was supposed to facilitate the hacking-process and make mincemeat out of the more advanced security protocols. His dealer, O'Keefe, had all the augments for sale-- from the legal to the illicit. Assuming everything with Harry went A-okay, the first thing Marty would do was pay a visit to O'Keefe, down in the slums of Dabber. It was a shitty hostile territory, but so long as you kept to yourself and didn't make eye-contact with any of the scabbier folk, you would come out unscathed.

        The neverending drizzle of rain had soaked his black hair. Polluted water beaded down his face from his hairline. If the rumours were true, The Red Shepherd-- the asshole at the head of this nightmare, orchestrating everything from his perch at the top of Wilwoxx HQ-- had ordered the dead to be dumped into the nearby lakes and into the oceans. Apparently the tap water-- the water he (Marty) drank from every day-- was drawn directly from those dumping-sites. Marty was loath to even consider the potential effects of drinking water tainted by dead bodies-- all the bacteria and other shit-- so he focused on the billboards up top.

        One said: 'Catch an all new episode of TREASONS TO KILL!'

        'Don't let the Black Shepherd lead you astray. Bet on RED and live to see another day!' The Black Shepherd was said to be the leader of the resistance to the Wilwoxx Corporation's iron-fist regime. Marty had tried to dig up some intel on who the guy-- he assumed it was a guy-- really was, but fuck if he could find anything. Part of him wondered if the bastard even existed.

        Another: 'Glory to Wilwoxxia. Have a happy Wilwoxx Day!'

        'Yeah, right,' Marty thought. He passed a man wearing a red-and-black tie and therefore knew the man was government. On Wilwoxx Day, only government-employees had to show visual support of Wilwoxxia in the way of ties. He liked it. If they didn't wear one-- for whatever reason-- they would be punished publicly and spectacularly. He sort of figured it was a fair trade-off for all the shit the commoners-- of which Marty was one-- had to put up with.

        The frontdoors of the Southside Diner were flanked by two cop-bots. They wore matching uniforms of red bulletproof vests, black helmets, black pants and black boots with red laces. And they carried the most sinister-looking weapons Marty had ever seen. Assault rifles fully-loaded with scopes, silencers, expanded magazines, laser-sights, extended barrels. You name it, they had it. They were practically one-man armies, he felt, considering the police androids had been given a harder skin-substitute-- bullets had a tough time penetrating them.

        He saluted to the two cop-bots. They stared at him-- more like through him. Then nodded. He passed through the doors and found a booth in the back. That was when he saw an old friend sitting in a booth all to herself.

        "Kimmy?" he said.

        She turned to look at him. Seemed to be in shock. "Marty. It was you. I remember now."

 7

        The Windrunner parked out front of the Southside Diner just a minute or two after Marty had gone inside. Harry stepped out of the vehicle and took a deep breath of the smog-laden air. His breathing augment-- tiny carbon-filters inserted into his nostrils and two larger ones in his lungs, accompanied by nanorobots scrubbing the cells-- activated, removing the impurities from his breath before it was sent to his heart and beyond, and sparing his lungs from doing the dirty job themselves.

        Sensing they were located in an area with a little more crime than usual, the Wilwoxx Windrunner automatically activated the locking-mechanism on the doors and raised the turret on the roof. If anyone who wasn't Harry tried to get in, they'd be quickly shot full of hollow-point bullets and left to bleed out in the gutter-- and probably have their pockets pilfered-through by the poor, and maybe even get viciously stomped by the cop-bots.

        Speaking of cop-bots, Harry nodded at the two of them guarding the entrance to the Southside Diner. They scanned him with the facial-recognition software installed inside their processing chips. Knew he was a government-employee, and therefore outranked them. Their eyes-- actually, their ocular imitation units--  saw his red-and-black tie and thus had no reason to arrest him for disloyalty to Wilwoxx on this glorious Wilwoxx Day.

        They nodded back and he was allowed to head inside the Southside Diner without saluting. Government-employees didn't have to salute their inferiors. Only the flag, superiors, and-- if they were so lucky to have an audience with him-- the Red Shepherd himself: Mr. Greg Laarsen.

        Harry glanced around the dingy diner and spotted Marty sitting with a blonde. He went over and joined them, sitting opposite the pair.

        "Hello, Marty. Who's the pretty girl?"

        "Hey, boss. This is Kimmy." Marty struggled to find a way to introduce her. "We're--"

        Kimmy quickly cut in: "--Dating."

        "Oh, a girlfriend?" Harry asked. "I hope you two work out. Now, Marty. Business." He looked at Kimmy. "Could you give us a minute, sweetie?"

        "Can't she stay, boss?"

        Harry sighed. "Can she be trusted?" His voice lowered to a whisper. "Because I'm going to speak on matters I don't wish to be repeated to others."

        "She's cool."

        "Because if it gets back to me that what was said here becomes common knowledge, then I'm afraid I know who I'll have to have killed." He saw Kimmy's eyes widen. She grabbed Marty's hand.

        Marty shook his head. "You're an asshole, boss."

        Laughter from Harry. "Only looking out for myself. Like anyone else in this ugly world of ours. Now, let's get to business, shall we?"

        "Do you have the money?" Marty asked.

        "Of course." Harry opened his coat and set a brown paper-bag on the table. He pushed it toward Marty. "It's all there. Now what did you find?"

        Marty checked the bag. Seemed satisfied. "Apart from what I told you on the Wire?"

        "Yes."

        "Well, they're fucking on FaceSpace."

        Harry's jaw clenched, unclenched, clenched once more. "Details, Marty. What did you see?"

        "Do you really want to know, Mr. Styles, sir? They were doing some weird shit."

        A moment passed where Harry wasn't sure if he'd ever work up the courage to use his voice again. But he did. Somehow. "Y-yes. Tell me. I need to know before I decide what to do next."

        Marty's mouth twitched. "Her... Sheila... Sheila and Derek--"

        "Spit it out, man!" he shouted. Other people in the diner turned to see what the disturbance was. Harry eyed them all. "Mind your own business, chattel."

        "She was chained to the bed. He was under her. A sex-bot was ordered to join in. From behind. At the same time. Then later--"

        "Enough," Harry hissed. He felt nauseous. His temples throbbed and his vision blurred. Fuzzy. Growing fuzzier as the tears welled, spilled, and rolled down his cheeks. He choked out a sob and was too lost in his own sorrow to notice that the other patrons had grown silent, taken away from their own lives to view the life of another. To get a glimpse into sorrow they'd been made numb to. "No more..."

        "I'm sorry, Mr. Styles," Marty said.

        "Fuck your s--" He stopped when he felt a hand touch his own. It was Kimmy and she was crying, too. Her empathy strengthened him. Hardened him. He knew what had to be done. "Thank you, Marty. Enjoy the money. Buy your girl here something nice." Harry stood from the booth.

        "Mr. Styles, sir..."

        "When did you last check her FaceSpace?"

        "Just before I left."

        "And were they still... doing what they were doing?"

        "Th-they were doing something else. But yes."

        Harry nodded. "Then I need to pay a visit to my beloved wife. And after... a talk with my dear brother." He did an about-face and walked to the diner's door. Before he left, he said over his shoulder: "Happy Wilwoxx Day, everyone."

        "Happy Wilwoxx Day," Marty mumbled. He grabbed the bag and tucked it into his pants.

        "Do you think he will be okay?" Kimmy asked.

        "I hope so. I mean, Mr. Styles and I have our differences, but he's an alright guy. He doesn't deserve this. No one does."

        "I hope, too."

        The pair sat in silence, each contemplating the curious trajectories their lives had taken. And where they would go from here.

 8

        The whole ride back home, Harry dwelled on possibilities. How would he handle it? Would he act rationally? What was rational, anyway, when you discovered your wife and your brother were banging bodies in cyberspace, behind your back? Would he flip-out? If so, how far would he go? Murder? Yes, Harry dwelled. Pondered. Considered the ideations fabricated by his own mind. What-ifs and why-nots. Where his life would lead him next.

        The Windrunner flew along the rails, bringing him to the apartment he had bought for him and his wife to share. He gave her all she ever asked for. Oh, but not one thing. One thing. And the only way he could give her that again was if he bought an augment. And Harry wasn't willing to go that far for something as primal and physical-- he sneered at the very thought of the word-- as sex. It wasn't his fault he couldn't get turned-on like he used to. It had nothing to do with her. He still found her as beautiful as-- if not more than-- the day he met her or the day they had married.

        With thoughts of the vows he'd taken occupying his mind, Harry gulped down some air and left the car. He walked up the drive and into the apartment building, feeling as if he were lost in a dream or some twisted nightmare he couldn't wake-up from. He felt dizzy and confused.

        And so very alone.

        He stomped up the stairs, passing the peering eyes of lesser people. Up and up. To the top of the apartment. The door was closed. So he turned the knob.

        "Sheila? Honey?"

        No answer.

        He reached the flag and almost forgot to salute. He stopped just before he went out of the camera's sight-- just before he committed a crime punishable by death-- and slowly swivelled on his heels to face the flag. His arm went up in a jerky unnatural motion. He continued down the hall.

        "Sheila?"

        At first he passed by the bedroom, but he saw something in his peripheral that made him stop.

        There she was. Sheila. That god damn fucking bitch. In the chair. Her body twitching and contorting. She had the headset on and a stupid little grin on her face. She bit her lips and moaned sounds he hadn't heard from her for a very long time.

        "Sheila." Harry's face was twisted with contempt. She had betrayed him. A part of him hadn't been able to believe it. Not until he saw it with his own eyes. Heard it with his own ears. He used to make her do that. Make her let out those noises in between panted breaths of his own name. He hated her just then. Hated every part of her. Every memory they had shared. Every smile she'd shown him. Every drum-beat of her evil little heart.

        "Sheila..."

 9 

        Sheila laughed like a psychotic witch as the sex-bot widened her back-end with its inflatable cock. Derek looked up into those blood-shot eyes of hers and wondered who the fuck she even was. This wasn't his brother's wife. This was someone else. It was the Antichrist he was fucking, not Sheila. And all of a sudden, he felt himself shrivel-up down there.

        "What's the matter, D? You turning into Mr. Limp, too?"

        "Shut up, bitch." He made to throw her off, but the drug gave her some superhuman strength and she was keen on remaining where she was-- pinned on top of him and his prick.

        "Fuck me, D! Fuck me like this robot fucks me!"

        He had scratch-marks all over him inside cyberspace. Thankfully, they wouldn't be there when he tapped-out and took the headset off-- or else he'd have some serious explaining to do. Derek let her ride him. 'Just let the drug wear off,' he thought. 'And she'll be back to normal.'

        Seemed like a decent idea to him.

        That was when she started to choke. Her eyes bugged-out of her skull and became even more blood-shot than before. Tears streamed down her reddening face. The cords on her strained neck looked like cables. She gripped him and dug her nails into his flesh, making him bleed like a faucet.

        "Sheila! What-- what the fuck is wrong with you!?"

        Her face was turning blue now. Her hands were going to her throat, like she was trying-- but failing-- to remove something wrapped around her neck. Like something was cutting off all her hair. Like something was choking her to death.

        The sex-bot continued to work on Sheila's rear, completely oblivious to what was occurring to the recipient of said work.

        Derek put his hands to Sheila's throat, took them away, put them back again. He didn't know what to do. She was still on top of him. He was still inside her. "A-are you dying!?"

        Her eyes found his. She stared at him with a look of utmost terror. Of worry and fear and desperation, all intertwined into one twisted emotion. Death was in the air, and she knew it. He knew it, too.

        Suddenly she collapsed on him; her face buried into his chest. Her body lifeless. Her sex cold and dead.

        All that Derek could feel-- apart from the dead body laying on top of him in cyberspace-- was the steady mechanical rhythm of the android, who would keep going and going and going.

        Derek screamed at the horrors he was now a part of.

 10

        The red-and-black tie fell to the floor. Harry looked at his wife's body, now limp and lifeless. He found himself smiling as he spat on her corpse. Then thought better of leaving evidence behind, so he went on his haunches, grabbed the tie, and wiped away the saliva. He removed the headset-- part of him expecting her to still be alive; to grab him by the throat and throttle him the same way he'd throttled her. But she was dead. Very much dead and gone.

        Her eyes were open. Staring at him. Accusing him.

        Did he miss her? It was a tough question to answer, he found. Yes, and no. But she was dead. And Harry felt a huge weight lift from his shoulders, and an equally heavy weight removed from his heart.

        "That's what you get. Sheila. What? You thought I didn't know? You thought I wasn't aware that something was going on? Those cold glances you'd give me at dinner? The ones that made me think you had murder on your mind? When I'd eye that steak-knife in your hand and ponder as to whether or not I'd suddenly find it buried deep in my neck? That's what you get. You're dead now. You're dead to me."

        He laughed to himself as he put the tie back around his own neck, straightening it and feeling fine.

        Now. For the next order of business.

        Harry believed he had a much-needed talk with his dear brother.

        "Dearest Derek. Fucking dick."

 11

        Having offered to walk her home, Marty and Kimmy were on their way back from the Southside Diner.

        He had known her once. Had changed her. Reprogrammed her 'mind'-- or the computer-equivalent of it, anyway-- in a peculiar display of cyber white-knighting. She'd just been a sex-bot, after all. But he had wanted her to be more than that; to have a chance to be something else, if that was what she wanted; to give her the choices that she hadn't previously been programmed with. And, if he was being honest with himself, he wanted to test his skills; to see if it was possible to modify the circuits of an android-- to make them more than what they were, to make them almost human.

        And it had worked. In the booth with Harry, when she'd touched his hand, he'd seen her display empathy. That wasn't normal for androids-- technically, it was an impossibility due to the basic framework they'd been deliberately given. But... he did it. He'd diverted all that.

        So as the two walked through deadened streets, passing paranoid people and the poor, they talked.

        "What you said earlier, Kimmy. We didn't have time to really talk about it."

        She studied him; her brow furrowing. "About how I remembered you?"

        "Exactly. You know I... I had to add that in. In case our paths ever crossed again. I couldn't bear it if we had stumbled upon one another again, but only one of us was aware."

        "Did you think we would meet again?"

        He shook his head. "Nah, not really. It was a long-shot, but sometimes those pay off."

        "So, why did you do it? Give me thoughts and feelings, I mean."

        "I thought maybe you didn't want to be a programmed-whore."

        She flinched. "But why me? Why not one of the others?"

        "I dunno. You remember when we first met?" Marty asked.

        "Yes," Kimmy said. "You had wanted a girl to come to your room, but when I arrived, you did not want any sex. My circuits had a hard time calculating that." She laughed. A real laugh, Marty noted.

        "I did want sex, initially." This was a lie. "I was a virgin. Still am. But when I saw you, I thought that maybe I could help you."

        "Well, thank you, Marty. It is nice to experience emotions and thoughts of my own." She pointed up at the building they'd arrived at. "This is where I live."

        Marty glanced up at it. It was a real rat-hole, through and through. A wino sat on the frontsteps, drinking cheap Wilwoxx Winner's-Wine-- that stuff gave you all sorts of cancers, he'd read-- and counting a few odd coins. "Do you want me to take you in?"

        "No, it is okay." Kimmy smiled at him. "I have work to do."

        "Oh, what do you do now?"

        "Same as always, Marty. Good seeing you again."

        "Yeah." He couldn't believe she was still the same as always, even with her modded mind. It sort of pissed him off-- that she'd thrown away an opportunity like that to make something of herself. "We should do this again."

        "We should," she said, waving to him. "Bye, Marty." She went up the stairs, past the wino-- who didn't even notice her-- and into the scummy apartment complex.

        Marty had an idea in mind for Kimmy. But it would have to wait. He wanted to pay a visit to O'Keefe. The slimy bastard lived in the area.

12

        Once he'd screamed his head off for what felt like days, but was really only minutes, Derek found the courage to speak the command that would take his mind out of cyberspace. He removed his headset and sighed with relief when he saw his office. Familiar walls. Familiar faces in the LCD picture-frames. His ex-wife: Angie. His boy: Dylan-- at the time of the photo, he'd been just shy of his eleventh birthday; now he was almost twenty. Derek hadn't spoken to him since the divorce was finalized.

        But Sheila was dead now. Harry would be crushed when he found out-- Derek knew that for sure. Their marriage had been rocky-- it had to have been, if Sheila had sought solace from another man-- but now it was over. And he knew that the marriage was one of the only good things in Harry's life. His brother didn't have a whole hell of a lot going for him.

        "How to act, though?" He couldn't just go and report the murder to Laarsen, could he? Affairs weren't exactly smiled upon in Wilwoxxia, despite all the rampant murder-sex that went on. Such matters were typically reserved for the reality-shows, not real life-- and certainly not between government-employees. "How to act..."

        A sudden hammering at the door. He jolted at the noise and ended up banging his knee on the underside of his desk. "Ow... ffffucker!" Limped to the door, wondering who it could possibly be. He put on his most winning of smiles and opened the door.

        It was Harry. He didn't look too happy.

        "Oh, hey, Hare! How you doin', bud? It's not lunch ti--"

        Harry cut him off with a shove. Derek reeled backward, grabbing for-- and missing-- a globe on the table near the door. He and the globe went crashing to the floor. Harry stormed in and slammed the door.

        "Harry, what the fuck is--" A punch to his jaw shut him up real quick. He looked up at his little brother. Saw the hate in his eyes. Derek was afraid.

        "I know what you two were doing."

        "Who? Know what!?"

        "Oh, don't give me that bullshit, Derek. Dad would be disappointed, and mom would be disgusted."

        "I'm sorry, Hare!" he let out. It felt good to let it out. To get release. "I could barely look myself in the eye when I shaved. I wanted to end it. I wanted to tell you."

        "Well, you didn't. I found out. I thought she was having an affair, sure, but not with you."

        Harry gave him the stink-eye. He wished he could take back time and take that look away with it. He longed for better days. When they would run around the house, playing tag and hide-'n'-seek. He brought himself to a sitting position. "So, what are you going to do?" Derek still needed to figure out how to drop the news.

        "It's already figured out. I ended it."

        Derek's eyes filled with a mix of shock and fear. "You-- It was you!? Harry!" His voice went to a conspiratorial whisper. "You killed Sheila."

        "Yes," Harry said. "It had to be done."

        The Wire on Derek's wall suddenly rang, causing both men to jump. They made eye-contact, which lasted more than a few moments.

        Finally, Harry said, "You better get that, Derek."

        Derek took his opportunity to end the damn fight while he still had it. He got up and answered the Wire with a jab to the screen. It was Laarsen. Laarsen didn't call unless it was important. "Hello, sir. Yes. Yes. Okay. I'll let him know." He tapped the screen again. "Hare."

        "Yeah?"

        "The Red Shepherd wants to see you."

13

        O'Keefe-- he never gave his first name-- lived a few blocks from Kimmy's place, down in Dabber. It was an apartment complex notorious for rampant hedonism. Pimps and pushers tended to dwell there. It was actually there where Marty had gotten Kimmy's number, after watching her running booty-calls for her pimp, a revolting man who was just over the height of what constituted dwarfism. Lucky bastard. Any shorter and he would have been brutally offed on a game-show.

        Marty knocked twice on the door to room 204. He waited only a few moments, and after hearing some shouting from inside, the door was opened by O'Keefe: a tall orange-haired fellow of Irish extraction, who had the most god-awful teeth Marty had ever seen.

        "Martimus, dear boy. Come on in!"

        "How's it going O'Keefe?" He stepped inside the small apartment-- though it wasn't as puny as his own-- and saw a scabbed man on one end of the couch, watching TV. A kaleidoscope of drugs were sprawled across the table in front of him, accompanied by an array of paraphernalia.

        "Better than good, Martimus. Like an angel pissed on me tongue!"

        "Oh. Okay."

        "Sit, sit! Can I get you something to tickle your tastebuds?"

        Marty sat on the opposite end of the couch. "Nah. I'm alright. Thanks, though." O'Keefe went to the kitchen anyway, so Marty raised his voice a little and continued: "I'm here on business. That new hacking augment you said you had. I've got the money for it."

        O'Keefe returned with a couple bottles of Wilwoxx White-Lager. He sat on the couch in between Marty and the guy with the scabs. "When I got that shipment, I said to meself: 'Martimus will be the first one in line!' And here you are!" He opened his beer and downed half of it. "Oh, this is Orson."

        Orson grunted, continuing to stare at the TV.

        "Antichrist, anyone?" O'Keefe asked. He set his beer down and picked up a small glass tube with a blackened end off the table.

        Orson grunted again, then mumbled something incomprehensible.

        "I knew you did, Orsie. Martimus?"

        "No. I'm good. I just want that augment, O'Keefe."

        "Let ol' Orsie have his fix, and then I'll install that augment for you."

        "Okay." Marty watched as O'Keefe filled the blackened end of the pipe with a white powder and then inserted the other end into Orson's near-toothless mouth. "Should he have anymore?"

        "Relax, Martimus. Orsie's a pro."

        O'Keefe *clicked* on his lighter and held the flame under the scorched side. The white powder turned brown and seemed to crystallize, then it bubbled and melted to a black goo. Orson coughed violently, wheezing for air, and O'Keefe took the lighter and pipe away.

        A cloud of black smoke poured out of Orson's mouth and nostrils as he coughed his lungs clear. It stunk like raw sewage to Marty's nose. Scabby McGee mumbled, "Oh, man. Shit, man. That's good shit." Orson stood and pounded his chest like a gorilla. "I FEEL LIKE I COULD FUCK THE WORLD!" He took off running out of the room, screaming swears in between bundles of gibberish.

        "Okay, Martimus. Let's do our business."

        O'Keefe led Marty off to what should have been the bedroom, but was instead modified into an illegal augment-implantation room. A chair sat in the centre, and boxes containing all sorts of augments were stacked and scattered all around. O'Keefe found the box with the hacking upgrade.

        Marty sat in the chair. He pulled out his bag of dough and sifted through it. "How much did you say it was?"

        "Four-grand normally, mate. Three for you."

        Marty counted out the three-thousand dollars from the even-larger sum he'd been paid by Harry. Gave O'Keefe the cash.

        "All here. Good show. Now lean back. It will sting a little."

        Marty winced at he felt a prick to the back of his head. He couldn't see what O'Keefe was doing, but he knew the basic process. First you were given a needle to numb the pain of having a chip inserted into your brain. Then some of your skin was peeled-back and-- if you'd never had a brain augment put in before-- a small hole was drilled into your head. Then the augment would be inserted with tweezers and would gradually be absorbed into your brain-tissue, but the installation was complete immediately after insertion. The skin would be folded back over and clipped into place.

        "All done."

        "You're getting faster, O'Keefe."

        "Practice makes perfect, Martimus. How you feeling?"

        "Fine. Head's numb, but that isn't much to complain about."

        "You know, with augments like these, you'd be ripe for the Black Shepherd's band."

        "Does he even exist? I have my doubts, to be honest."

        "The Black Shepherd? Hell yeah, he does! He told me the Red Shepherd is some old white guy named Laarsen. Can you believe it, Martimus? Thy tyrant keeping us down is a pasty old dude. Ha!"

        "So you've met him?"

        "Yeah. You want his contact info? He could use some hackers for his army, you know."

        "Sure. Let's have it."

        O'Keefe led Marty back to where the couch was, found a notebook and riffled through it. He stopped at a page, grabbed a pen and started writing on a blank space at the bottom. He tore off the part of the page that he'd written on and gave it to Marty.

        'The Black Shepherd. 66 Sikkerwihn Street.'

        "Thanks," Marty said.

        O'Keefe grabbed the door and propped it open for him. "Hey, Martimus. Stay safe, alright?"

        "I will. See ya, man."

        Marty left O'Keefe's with three possibilities on his mind. The first-- heading back to Kimmy's to tamper with her programming some more-- seemed less likely now-- while the second-- heading straight for the apparent residence of 'the Black Shepherd'-- seemed risky and stupid. The third choice seemed to be the smartest. He'd go home and see what he could dig up on this house-- 66 Sikkerwihn Street-- with his new hacking augment.

        And then he'd go from there.

14 

        "You wanted to see me, Mr. Laarsen, sir?" Harry stood in the massive office of Greg Laarsen, the head of the Wilwoxx Corporation, located on the 66th floor of Wilwoxx HQ.

        "Yes, Harry." Laarsen was a rather plain-looking man. His once-brown hair was now sandy and flecked with grey. He had olive-green eyes and a stare that seemed to leave those in its gaze glued to the spot. Sitting behind his desk, with his fingers arched, he didn't look too pleased. "We need to talk about some very serious matters."

        "Regarding?" Harry was hoping none of this had to do with Sheila. How could Laarsen know, though?

        "We'll get to that. Get comfortable, Harry. Loosen up. Relax." He stood from the desk and made his way over to the corner where a mini-fridge sat. "I'll get you a drink."

        "Some Wonder-Juice would be nice."

        Laarsen scoffed and batted the request away with his hand. "You don't want that swill. It slows the mind and gradually rots the liver." He bent down and searched through the fridge.

        "I thought it was the Wilwoxx panacea. The cure for all our problems."

        "Lies," Laarsen said. "And a placebo effect. If the people believe they're drinking medicine, the mind can do miraculous things. Even a mind too dull to realize it's in serious jeopardy." He took out two bottles of something Harry hadn't seen before. He clanged them together and handed one to him.

        "Wilwoxx Wildwater? I've never heard of this."

        "Not many have." Laarsen used a bottle-opener on his, snapping the cap off. He did the same for Harry's. "It's only for the elite of the elite. This is the stuff we'd be selling if we wanted to keep the slaves strong." He took a large sip of his drink. "Aaaah! That's the stuff that heals the soul. It's good, Harry! Try some."

        Harry obliged and gulped some of the Wildwater. It tasted like citrus with a slight astringency to it. "It's tasty."

        "You're not talking much, Harry." Laarsen sat on one corner of his desk. "Would you like to skip the fun and get straight to business?"

        "I'd like to know why I'm here."

        Laarsen stared at him. Those eyes were hypnotizing. Penetrating. He couldn't look away. "Because you murdered Sheila, Harry. You choked her to death with that tie you're wearing. Did you really think you'd get away with it? We have eyes everywhere. And ears, for that matter. We hear and see everything."

        Speechless. Harry couldn't think of anything to say. His mouth was dry. His throat tickled. What was there to do?

        Laarsen continued, "Do you understand now? Every residence in this world we've shaped is tapped and we're always listening. We're always watching. Sure, we could have sent a squad of police androids to murder you before you even left your home after killing Sheila, but where would the fun be in that?" He extended a hand and took the bottle from Harry, setting it on the desk. "I'll be taking that back. You don't seem to be enjoying it, and I'd hate to clean up the mess."

        "M-m-mess?"

        "Mess, Harry." Laarsen took out what seemed to be a rock from his pocket. It was a mix of acid-yellow and poison-green, giving off iridescent mixtures as the lights from above passed through it. "You like this stone of mine?" He pointed it at him.

        All Harry saw, before everything went black, was a blast of red light rocketing toward him.

15 

        Marty got home just before noon. The first thing he did was grab a few cans of Wilwoxx Wonder-Juice from the fridge. He took them over to his desk and popped the top on one of them. The sweet juice went down the hatch. "Yum-yum for my tum-tum."

        His head was still semi-numb from the anesthetic O'Keefe had given him-- it would wear off in a few hours. But he had some searches to run, and his new hacking augment would help him out substantially. A worthwhile purchase, that was certain. He put on his headset and his augment kicked-in, allowing him to enter through the backdoor of cyberspace. He saw lots of ones and zeroes, and they all made sense to him. It was a language, foreign to some, but he was fluent.

        Through the web of numbers, Marty sifted and searched, trying to find the address O'Keefe had given him. 66 Sikkerwihn Street. Supposedly the place where the elusive Black Shepherd lived.

        "Found it! Fuck, this upgrade makes things so much easier."

        According to the house-records, the place was owned by one... Greg Laarsen. Where had he heard that name before? It sounded familiar.

        Then it came to him. O'Keefe had mentioned a Laarsen. Maybe even a Greg, but he couldn't remember that for sure. Laarsen, though. O'Keefe had said it was the identity of the Red Shepherd. But this Laarsen fellow was supposed to be the head of the Wilwoxxian revolt, the Black Shepherd.

        "They're the same... fucking... guy..." Marty stated, slightly exasperated by the find. "He's playing both sides. Probably using the ones who try to form a resistance as fodder for his fucked-up reality-shows."

        He took off his headset and saw the handheld TV stuck to his wall, playing another sadistic show. It was 12:30.

        "Welcome to another exciting episode of 'TREASONS TO KILL!'" the TV announcer blasted. "And do we have something special for you! A man who murdered his wife in cold-blood and wants to see Wilwoxx buuuuurn!"

        The camera panned to the first person to get offed.

        "Jesus fucking Christ," Marty muttered, transfixed by the screen. "Harry."

 16

        Harry opened his eyes and saw all the bright lights around him, dazzling his senses. He could hear the cheers and jeers of a large crowd, howling a complicated din of what sounded like curse-words and mindless shouting combined into one mess of sound.

        As his eyes adjusted to the lighting, he came to realize that he was on a television set. For a show he himself had designed. It was 'Treasons To Kill': he knew because of the colourful d?cor created in perfect contrast to the chopping-block held at centre-stage. He was in a line-up with two others. They, too, had started to wake up. And all of them had their hands tied behind their backs.

        The announcer cried out: "Welcome to another exciting episode of 'TREASONS TO KILL!' And do we have something special for you! A man who murdered his wife in cold-blood and wants to see Wilwoxx buuuuurn!"

        The camera slid on its track and jammed into Harry's face. He looked into the lens, his expression unreadable.

        "HAAAAAARRY STYYYYYYYYYYYYYLES!!!!!"

        The crowd went wild. Some threw things-- a whole sm?rg?sbord of crap, from underwear and brassieres to bricks and dead octopi. Some lace panties landed on his head, and a terracotta brick smoked him in the jaw right after, knocking out a tooth and making him bleed.

        The host, Don Mahavalanaban, came strutting out on stage, smiling that dazzling white smile of his. He had a headset-microphone that he spoke into. "Hey, everyone. Welcome to the show! Our first guest is everybody's favourite Director of Game-Show Opportunities at the Wilwoxx Corporation. Didn't expect to see you here, eh, Harry!" He laughed while everyone in the crowd booed.

        "Let me out!" Harry yelled. "Let me out, you animals! You're all sick! SICK! How do you people get off to this shit!?"

        Don looked hurt. "Aw, Harry. Don't say that. You may have created this show, but you should have followed the rules of our beloved and glorious nation. Now, it's time for you to die, Harry. So say goodbye to your soul and come say hi to Wilwoxxian glory. It'll be fun."

        Harry wouldn't budge. Couldn't. His feet were frozen to the spot.

        "Need some help, Harry?" Don nodded off-stage and a big burly man in a black hood came stomping out. "Say hi to... THE PUNISHER!"

        The crowd lost all semblance of control. Women were cat-calling, crying for the Punisher to come fuck them senseless-- and the men were whooping in rowdy anticipation of the coming carnage.

        Harry was forced up to the chopping-block by the Punisher's hand. He was shoved forward and fell on his face. Lifted up. Set in position with his head cocked to the left. Felt his right cheek against cold metal.

        The Punisher grabbed the massive axe, examined it, felt the edge of the blade with his gloved finger.

        Don swooped over to the chopping-block, getting down low so as to allow Harry's voice to be picked-up by the microphone. "Any last words, Harry Styles?"

        "Yeah. Go ffff--"

        Don nodded and the axe came down in a flash.

        The sound of metal against metal was heard echoing in Harry's ears, even after the split-second of pain he felt as the axe severed his vertebrae, decapitating him completely. His head rolled off the chopping-block and his eyes blinked, the nerves getting out the last spasms of life before death came to bring absolution.

        And then it was all over.