Familiar Feces

***** PUBLISHED BY: E.D.Evgenievich on Smashwords

FAMILIAR FECES Copyright © 2011 by E.D.Evgenievich

Book cover based, with permission, on art by the mighty Dimitar Stoyanov http://dstoyanov.daportfolio.com/

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PROLOGUE

The city shuddered, the city groaned, the city fed. The city defecated, the city leaked. Steel and cement honeycombs housed squishy little creatures. They too shuddered, groaned and fed. They too defecated and they too leaked. The city moaned, the city slept, the city dreamt. Its dreams of lust, of violence and of manic glee sped back and forth along its nervous system; flaring up on thousands of screens, reflecting in thousands of eyes, burrowing into billions of neurons. Its veins were humming with electricity; its arteries were choked with refuse. Worms writhed under its skin, rats scurried in its deepest cavities, its troubled breath sent shreds of rubbish swirling, its moisten gaze blurred crimson rear lights and faces. But back before the sun had sunk into the skyline, Trisha Cormac lay on the cold floor of a gigantic basement. A cavern of shadows and of fear. Lying in the shadows Trisha shivered. Shivering was the freedom she was granted. Hands cuffed, legs tied, eyes wide, she watched the men approach. She knew then that for her… that… no… no… let me go… let me… gh. Exhaling. Now smelling of chlorine; hands by her side; naked; dead; exhaled. Like every year. Like every season. A broken doll, a mirror smashed. It happened hours ago. Now was night. The city shuddered in its sleep.

PART ONE

CHAPTER ONE

The sounds seeping through the slight opening of the bedroom window were gradually becoming more urgent. The general morning babble intensified and at times bursts of individual voices rose above the rest. The deep ramble of heavier vehicles entering the traffic became more regular and added itself to the buzz and hum of thousands of automobiles. Sounds of irate honking grew quickly from isolated incidents into a regular addition to the mélange of the morning. The city had woken up. Dave stirred beneath the blankets without opening his eyes too wide. It was at exactly such moments - when the autumn air grew agitated by the growing stream of the city’s inhabitants and entered the room in little fresh waves, when the gray light filtered through the semi-transparent curtains so soothingly - that he felt that he could sleep though the whole day. That it was indeed his duty to himself, to sleep through the whole day. This eternal tragedy of the working man. He was in possession of the inner strength, the grit to resist the impulse to wake when hammers begin pounding at the neighbors above at eight in the morning, or when the far and near drills start whining away. No problem; he could just incorporate the new sounds into his lazy dreaming. He could also overcome with ease the voices and medleys pouring from TV sets, radios and computers coming to life one by one; the children galloping over parquet floors and the adult high heels forging resonating annoyance from tiles and parquet. Unlike some people, Dave found these morning sounds quite trivial adversaries. Far from getting in the way of relaxation, they were more like an additional layer of comfort, signifying deep down that everything was still okay. That there was no cause for alarm. But there was cause for alarm. The alarm clock of his cell phone. No matter what melody he chose to wake him, he never managed to quite come to grips with the fact that yet another morning he must get out of bed in spite of his inclinations and do so with a smile on his face. It was a good thing then that he was a lone bachelor, for otherwise, among other things, he would have been obliged to try to mask his morning scowl. Predictably, he decided to sugarcoat the obligations of the day by a lazy motivation fondle and as his hand began journeying slowly downwards below the blanket, an urgent buzz at the front door wrapped up his illusion of control over even this

prologue to the day. With an inarticulate oath he squirmed out from under his blanket and onto the floor. It was not a warm floor. The landlord had for some reasons thought that tiles are a good idea for the bedroom. Certainly not the type of morning floor that tells the feet and toes: “Relax, little buddies, wriggle happily, stay here all day if you want to.” Rather, the message was: “I hate you, I hate you, I hate you; that’s right, curl up and stiffen, or I’ll get you good!” Dave always forgot to get himself some sort of rug. He slid his feet into the worn slippers and as he straightened up, the door buzzer buzzed again, with urgent knocks added to amplify the message. Dave cleared his throat, and bellowed: “I’ll be there in a minute! Don’t break the door, or I’ll break your face!” He knew that only the general gist of someone reacting to the knocks was audible to the unexpected guest, but it felt good to shout something threatening. To reassert control in a way. He put on his pseudo-khaki pants, made sure that his old Walther was in the righthand pocket where it should be, checked if his ID was in the back pocket - it was - and as he was pulling yesterday’s T-shirt on, the buzzer buzzed for a third time, with more knocks rattling the door. Dave exhaled through his nostrils with serious irritation this time. He strode over to the door with tense purposefulness, and without switching on the small monitor to see who was bothering him he directly turned the two locks, pulled the latch and swung the door open; eyes set in an angry squint; ready to shout, and punch, should the need arise. Uniformed men glared back with equally determined expressions. The police. The captain, Faraday, opened his mouth, then his eyes made contact with his brain, and he closed his mouth. Then he grunted, and opened it again. “It’s you,” he said, blinking as he tried to unwind and adapt to another mode of conversation. “Cohran, right? I thought I knew this place from somewhere.” He was a burly brunette, closer to forty than to thirty, and although no special quality could be seen in his expression or demeanor, he had the air of a reasonably decent fellow. At the sound of his voice the other three officers relaxed visibly. Hands stopped hovering over holsters and went to more peaceful purposes, like hanging loosely or curling up in pockets. A man with a black mustache flicked the switch of his small shoulder cam and the small red dot above its lens went out. “Yup,” said Dave, also unwound now, “it’s me. When was the last time this happened? Two years ago? Three?” “Well, whatever,” said Faraday, “must’ve been another mix-up.” He squared his shoulders and pulled in his gut. “Sorry to have bothered you.” “Hey, no problem,” Dave yawned forgivingly and scratched his chest. “Okay, let’s go,” said Faraday, turning to the other officers, back into business mode, “the man has authorization - he’s an out-sniffer - what was the other address?”

Dave looked at the retreating backs of the policemen for a few seconds and then closed the door, went into the kitchen and rescued it from dusk by pulling up the blinds with a familiar screech. He struggled for a second with the lid of the instant coffee, before realizing that he was digging his nails into the wrong plastic groove; then he poured the usual ingredients into his mug: three spoons of coffee, three spoons of sugar. He reached for the electric kettle and remembered that it was busted. And why hasn’t he yet gotten himself a new one? It’s been four days now. He looked at the white impotent kettle loafing at the edge of the table, inches away from the formerly white fridge. Perhaps he had to actually throw it away, in order to motivate himself to get a new one. Perhaps the sight of the kettle standing there fooled him on a certain level that there really wasn’t any need to buy a new one. Dave made his mind up, took the offending appliance, poured the residual water into the sink and stuffed it, with some effort, into the rubbish bin. The rubbish bin hadn’t been exactly overflowing prior to this act, but had already been putting up token resistance against less flexible new additions to its contents, and now the kettle filled up all the available space, pushing up a few greasy napkins and an oily, empty salami pack. Then Dave gave the tap a twist and water was added into his coffee mug, producing a murky dark concoction with unevenly colored streaks. The finishing touch into it was a shot of milk and then off into the microwave went the mug. Dave opened the fridge door and meditated for half a minute, looking at the eggs, the ham, the two shriveled sausages, the lone carrot, the ham again, the eggs. How old were the eggs? On one hand he wanted to believe that they were still out of the danger zone, but on the other he had a distinct lack of recollection of buying any eggs for over a week and a half. With a puff of indecision he took out the ham. The microwave stopped making its noises and gave a short ‘ping’. Dave slapped four slices of ham on two pieces of toast, took his coffee and sat down for a quick breakfast before work. Captain Faraday had called him an ‘out-sniffer’, and indeed, that was his job. When the last wave of cost-cutting fashion in politics and social management had hit the fan, the city police, with the blessing, and indeed, the prodding of the Ministry of the Interior, had outsourced everything which had not yet been outsourced. Now, in the neighborhoods that could afford it, private security guards, ‘in close cooperation with the city police’, walked the beat, or rather cruised the beat, and a certain quota of psychologists and surgeons working in city clinics were obliged by law to help the city police for a fixed wage. And Dave himself made his living within this new system, well, relatively new, slightly over one mandate new, by being an outsourced detective specializing in the prevalently humdrum, but sometimes piercingly depressing sector of sex crimes. His initial fling at being a private detective had been so unproductive and futile, so meaningless and even humiliating, that he had grasped with both hands the chance to sign a long-term contract as an ‘advising detective’.

Hence his authorization to look for any illegal sex sites in the net; hence his detection by police programs as a user of these sites; hence these incidental confusions, when someone had overlooked something while compiling the list for an annual sex offender crackdown. Why were they doing it now, anyway? Were elections looming again? That was one of the topics Dave usually filtered out from the news flow. But he did remember seeing yesterday workers renovate a derelict fountain in front of a derelict library. And now that he thought of it, there were new posters of respectable looking men and women stuck on bus stops and walls of buildings. He wolfed down his sandwiches as he checked his hypothesis on the computer. Aha, yes indedee. National parliamentary elections turned out to be a mere two months away. Dave drained his coffee cup and returned to his bedroom to dress for work, still musing. With only two months to go before elections, now was the time for all institutions to suddenly spring into highly visible action. Potholes to be filled up, crumbling pavements to be given a makeover, kindergartens to be opened, unlicensed prostitutes to be rounded up for a while, and another generation of college students to suddenly find out too late, that contrary to their experience up to now, the anti-drug laws still hadn’t been repealed and did indeed apply to them. It was time to go to the office. These days, when almost all his business was with the police, he could in theory work entirely from home; when he had to make calls, or use the web, or print out a report, in short - when he had to do all of the ‘office work’ - he could do it without leaving his flat. But still, he had to go to the office and he had to go there on time. The reasons for this were two. The first reason was prestige. A detective working from his home as a concept in itself would be enough to trigger contempt, disbelief and ridicule from anyone, especially potential clients. In a world in which money and power flows through the grooves of public opinion and image, a well-maintained office in a well-maintained part of town was a basic necessity. The second reason for needing the office was also of fundamental importance, although much less abstract. The news which he received from his main client, or perhaps ‘employer’ would be a more fitting word, i.e. the city police, was frequently marked ‘classified’ and ‘confidential’, and he could only access these files sent to him from the IP address of his personalized office computer. This computer was given a look-over on a quarterly basis by a maintenance firm that also worked closely with the police, and from this computer only could he open the police files. He could of course send them to his own email after some monkeying around with formats and encrypting, but that would be unethical. And illegal. And a possible reason for him to lose his employment, should he be found out. Dave put on his office clothes, which were dark brown jeans and a dark brown turtleneck sweater, slipped into his autumn shoes, put on his jacket, and left his flat.

Of the two lifts one was working and soon he was inside his down-market BMW and in the nine o’clock traffic. He flipped on the radio and a faceless rhythm with a loop of pseudo-classical violin riffs began palpitating softly inside his car. A sugary cougary female voice of the currently popular distorted cartoon duck variety sang. Morose autumn trees and the occasional bus stop lined the boulevard on both sides. Dave’s bloodshot eyes evaded concentrating on anything, while his neck and buttocks tried to pick up the rhythm of the music and throb with it. It wasn’t working out very well, the voice of the performer got in the way. These days a pop song would either have a total of about three sentences being repeated over and over, sometimes slowed down, or speeded up, or chopped up into their separate words, vowels and consonants; or the pop song would be an endless narrative, with the singer sprouting out ten words a second. The current hit which filled up the space around Dave’s ears was “Droolah” and although it was a representative of the speedy indecipherable muttering, the high pitched chorus was plainly audible: “I’m your droolah, Ooh-ah, I am, I am, I’m droolah for you, For me, for you Ooh-ah, I am, for you.” After the chorus appeared the second time around, with a sigh Dave changed stations. He couldn’t take this type of pop music so early in the day, not with the nature of his work and all. He found the news and hit the brakes. Traffic in front of him had slowed down to a crawl. As he too slowly crawled forward, softly playing with the clutch and the gas, he tried to ignore the futile honking of some of the more impatient drivers and listened absently to the radio. The Senate of the European Union had returned to Parliament the bill that would terminate the quota of sponsored chest x-rays, dentist visits, and heart medication for smokers. A speaker of the Senate said that although the desire to not spend public money on people who purposefully do not take care of their health was understandable, there nevertheless must be due respect for the spirit of democracy. The senators apparently wanted the law to include provisions that annual chest Xrays must remain accessible, as their results might prove to be an incentive to a less selfish lifestyle, and that positive reviews from attending nicotine addiction groups must be taken into account when evaluating whether the smoker in question should have access to certain procedures. Representatives of Spain and Slovakia had lodged formal protest against the law in general, but observers expected it to pass within two months. A brown Mitsubishi from another lane tried to edge into Dave’s lane, in front of Dave, but he sabotaged all efforts of the other driver with minute maneuvers. Another

minor victory against queue-jumpers! The quick piles surgery advertisement was over, and the news resumed. Mr. Kulachenko, the chairman of the Sovereign Nation Union, while speaking in St. Petersburg, had denied that the higher prices of gas and oil were in any way a punishment directed at the EU for its support of Canadian arctic claims. Prices grow all over the world, he said, and the hints and allusions of detractors, that the decisions of SNU gas corporations are influenced by politics, and not solely by the healthy desire for profit, were ludicrous. The popular singer Sharkana admitted that she had had embryo treatment in Shanghai. Her agent issued a statement on her behalf that she was not ashamed of trying to give her unborn child the best chances in life that modern science can offer, and modern science was also created by God. Creationist groups have slammed the singer for producing hits like ‘More Moses’ and ‘Snake Away’, but allowing doctors to meddle with the genes of her unborn. A senator from South Carolina refused to return calls concerning the controversy of his alleged use of a cybernetic sex toy of the ‘little boy’ line. Dave suddenly remembered that he had new music in his car player and switched the radio off. He had downloaded from ‘Be-bai’ a Beatles remix album by a sophisticated modern artist called ‘Light-Eye Dove’. He was listening to an elegantly nostalgic drum’n’bass version of ‘A Day In The life’, when he reached his office parking space.

CHAPTER TWO

His secretary, Maldiva, was a fashionable woman of fifty, who looked forty. A true professional with almost thirty years of experience, she was the perfect office manager, who kept track of the bills, the clients (of which there had never been an abundance), and subtly influenced the office atmosphere by maintaining a vase of flowers in every room. The rooms were two. The office was a modest one capable of boasting, apart from the two rooms, only a bathroom and a smallish kitchen. The bathroom was a disagreeable place with a hardened mop in a faded plastic bucket lurking near the sink and dusty black nylon bags filled with documents, huddling in the corner of the unused shower. The compact kitchen was adjacent to a small peeling terrace looking into the back street, but the glass door was half-buried by more nylon bags, punctured in many parts by their cargo of time-worn magazines, and the key to this door had lain unsought for well over a year. The office was in an apartment building in the center and was hence a former apartment itself. Most of the neighbors were also small firms of various sorts, including even the local branch of a Belarusian tractor exporter. The people working there were mainly plump men with police mustaches and track suits. Dave nodded at them during their fairly frequent corridor encounters. The linoleum below his shoes was an icky green, slightly curled up at the corners of the rooms, and the two rustic landscape paintings on the walls of Maldiva’s room were only marginally better than the products of Hitler’s early artistic period. “Hello, Mr. Cohran,” she smiled with her very wide mouth, her lips in the fashionable brown hue. The golden thin sticks hanging from her earlobes swayed and glittered as her head gently trembled in a habitual spasm of politeness. Dave returned the nod with a smile, skillfully suppressing a shudder, which only made it to his left arm and only for a second. Just yesterday night he had been reviewing the ‘MILF Sluts Galore’ portal, trying to find any hidden links to illegal vids, after being forwarded a report that unearthed a correlation between lust for older women and lust for little boys. And now, Maldiva’s far too successful attempts of keeping pace with contemporary, erotically tinged fashion, produced automatic recollections of other middle aged mouths, smiling and gaping and sucking... Dave briskly strode over the linoleum and into his room, switched on his PC and then returned to the secretary’s room, to the black plastic coffee table near her desk, to make himself a cup while the computer warmed up. Lighthearted female voices sang melodically from the office radio. He listened for a few seconds, hearing the following: “Face me, face me, Ay-ay-ace me,

Darling, face, I want you to face me, Ace me, ace me, Face me now.” He glanced sideways at Maldiva, who caught his glance and professionally smiled back at him with a half-mocking flutter of green eyelashes. Malidva was sometimes coquettish in a girlish manner, but with a dash of irony added, as a sign of keeping up with the times. After this short burst of amiable nonverbal communication, her gaze returned to the screen in front of her. Dave thought about the song and about his secretary. Did she know the modern meaning of ‘face me’? Of someone ‘facing’ someone? And if she did, did she find it exciting, or repulsive, or just another handy piece of the puzzle of how to be in step with today’s world? Come to think of that, did she fully realize the veiled meaning behind the brown lipstick, at least before it hit the mass market fashion? This was as big a mystery as her dominatrix boots, and her huge and shapeless sagging leather handbag with the shiny decorative chains hanging from it. Was she consciously attempting to recreate personae from the deepest desires of the twisted urban male? Or was this ‘just fashion’? Or was he himself getting worn down by the porn and seeing more than there really was to things? The detective realized that the sound heralding his computer’s readiness for someone to unlock it had probably already been given, but masked by the pop. He walked into his room, shut the door, switched off the air conditioning, opened the window slightly, and sat down at his desk, the swivel chair accepting him with an accommodating creak and a soft hydraulic hiss. Dave saw that his official inbox had three new letters. Two were tagged as reports. The first report was of a woman that had been found in her apartment, dead. Her daughter had returned from school, only to find her mother naked, laying on her back on the bed, with her arms and legs tied down to the bed posts; feces on her face and in her mouth and nose, which were apparently the cause of death. Death by shit, thought Dave, screwed up his mouth and forehead as the reaction hit him, and then looked at the additional info. The victim was thirty three years old, divorced, no known boyfriend or girlfriend. Apparently a case of a fetish game gone wrong. Unfortunately she appeared to have been fed her own feces, with no non-family DNA found so far, and the speedy discovery of the unknown culprit seemed highly improbable. Dave dwelled for a few more seconds on the information. This had obviously been a ‘swallow wallow’, as the practice was called by affecionados, a consensual game gone terribly wrong. The passive player in the game, the ‘bottom pig’, the ‘swallow-wallower’, would usually enter something like a trance, and begin gulping down the partner’s feces without

chewing, in one continuous motion. He had seen only two such episodes in amateur v-clips, for apparently the trance was difficult to achieve in front of a camera, and there had been something fascinating in the glazed eyes of the ‘bottom’ fecalists. In this state they could ingest more feces, then they would normally be able to ingest ordinary food. Or so the blogosphere claimed. What a way to go. But what a bastard, or bitch, the partner had been, thought Dave as another wave of indignation hit him, first to not notice the woman’s death, and then the whole fleeing of the scene of accident thing, the leaving of the corpse to be found by the daughter. Dave closed the file, this was just general information to keep him updated, his services were obviously not required here. Dave looked at the second report. This one was of a man of sixty two, found in his hotel room, hanged in the closet, dressed in a Batman costume. ‘Coat hangers’ they’d been dubbed, these unfortunates who misjudged the ramifications of their happy hour. Moderately successful mature men and women most of them. Talk about skeletons in the closet. This one was a clear-cut case of accidental suicide through autoerotic asphyxiation. Nevertheless, since the deceased was a minor celebrity, the analyst of an online news show, the hotel staff was briefly questioned, to determine whether the man had had any assistance in his self-directed games. Not unsurprisingly, everyone had denied involvement. Now was the time to look at the third letter. Upon clicking it open, Dave forgot about coat hangers and wallowers at once. It was a new assignment. He read the letter, frowned and read it again. In the last one month three people had reported break-ins, with some valuables missing from their homes, and their sex dolls destroyed. In all three cases, the cybernetic sex toys had been smashed or dismembered. Dave was being given the case, since a consulting psychologist had speculated that there was a real chance, that sooner or later the criminal could graduate from ‘murdering’ synthetic love slaves to the real murder of real people. A possible latent serial killer. And quite probably a stalker. Otherwise how would he have known into which houses to break in? Maybe a hacker, mused Dave, maybe it was digital stalking that told him where to break in. He always jumped to the conclusion that a perpetrator was a man and nine out of ten cases was right. Dave cranked his head left and right with some audible cracks, and stretched his arms. He stood up and opened the window wider. Outside, he could see people walking, cars moving, a stray dog darting furtively from car to trash bin, from cover to cover. He breathed in deeply and then closed the window, and went out of his room. “Maldiva,” he said, as he put on his jacket, “I’m going to the precinct to talk to Mr. Fortham. If anyone calls, I’ll be back in about two hours.”

“All right, Mr. Cohran,” the brown lips stretched in a wide oily smile. The skin on her neck quivered slightly, as with a show of youthful dynamism she whirled back to her PC monitor. Pelicanic images popped unbidden into Dave’s mind again and he lunged for the door, stopped with a start, and returned to his room, to lock his computer. Then he really went out. Written reports were all well and good, but it was always better to hear it personally from the person who forwarded the information. And, of course, personal contacts had to be maintained from time to time the old-fashioned way. If you only communicate with someone electronically, sooner or later a certain disbelief sets in that you do actually exist. Once that happens, people tend to forget to send you your wages, or your bonuses, or important updates. Or cases. Dave climbed into his car and switched on the player. An ambient version of ‘Fool On The Hill’, with plenty of synthesizers piled on top was the next song of the album. A number of additional ‘ethnic’ flutes did not quite ruin it, but certainly did not improve on the melody.

CHAPTER THREE

Natalie stood in the darkened room together with her colleague Bob and took meticulous notes of the behavior of the focus group. The darkened room was small, six by ten feet, with a compact glass top table with a carton of orange juice, a bottle of coke, and one open n-pad on it, and two unfolded folding plastic chairs propped up on its edge. Neither of the two professionals was sitting. Bob was placidly observing on the TV screen the images that were being recorded, while Natalie was gazing directly through the one-way glass, which took up most of the wall that separated them from the participants. The client paying for the focus group, the ‘Paxton Media Group’, was planning to introduce a new tabloid on the market. Initial research had shown that currently there was in the air a certain nostalgia for the daily paper-based newssheet, and now twelve ordinary people were sitting in small blue chairs on the other side of the glass wall, frantically twisting the knobs on the ‘stopboxes’ in their hands. In front of them, on a huge monitor, ran a presentation of various versions of the first and last page of the future newspaper. A black and white first page. Click-clack, the people reacted scientifically, ranking what they saw from ‘one’ to ‘ten’. A two color page. Click-clack. A full color page. Click-clack. Fat round letters on top. Click-clack. Gothic letters on top. Click-clack. Click-clack. Click-clack. Attached to their arms and chests were electrodes, which relayed information concerning their heart rates and blood pressure fluctuations. People did not mind this, as long as you kept a straight face when you told them to do it, and the payment for participation was slightly higher anyway, and they didn’t even have to undress completely. After the session was over, Natalie and Bob would superimpose this biological data over the ratings given by each separate person, and concentrate on the low and high marks which were accompanied by the more dramatic changes in the bio data. The statistical quirks of decisions taken on a superficial level would be thus weeded out and the deepest reactions to the shown stimuli would be highlighted. This technology was an innovation introduced by Natalie herself a year ago. It had been the devil’s job to convince the head of the agency, Mr. ‘Blonski, that the idea was not ludicrous and that it would pay for itself in the long run. Neither austere slide shows with statistics nor snappy power point presentations had helped. Finally, after spending a weekend at his villa with his family, playing with his dog and gossiping with his wife, she had succeeded in getting him to give it a try. “Look,” whispered Bob, without taking his eyes off the monitor, “the fat guy with

the bucket hat is having a surge again, and he just gave a one for the reds.” Natalie walked over to the n-pad and peered at the screen. It was turned away from the one-way glass, so that its glow would not remind the participant unnecessarily that they were being monitored. Indeed, on one of the twelve sections on the screen, the fat guy’s feed was showing serious changes in blood pressure and heartbeat rates. Either he really hated what he saw with his whole brain, soul and body, or he really needed to cut down on the junk food. Or both. “Yes, looks like they’ll have to be black after all,” whispered back Natalie. As she stood there, notebook in hand, pencil tapping lightly her lower lip, she was concentrating mainly on the reactions of the participants and was already trying to summarize the data, but at the back of her mind there was a subtle parallel process. She was also meditating on the need of the next step in technology. But. But, but, but. She was only twenty six, and although already respected within the firm, there was a limit to the credibility of her proposals. Her ‘mad scientist’ credit was still low. For two months now she had been bugging old ‘Blonski about the need for brain wave data from the focus groups, but he was still in the stage of laughing the idea off. But some day... some day... perhaps after another weekend at the villa... Natalie looked at Bob, who was standing slightly hunched, hands in pockets, darting alternating glances at the TV screen and at the glass wall. Bob was of the old breed, already forty-something, he had completely accepted the need for guesswork and intuition to augment the imperfect data collected by traditional sociological means like questionnaires, polls, and focus groups. He’d given up on the idea, that data can actually be iron cast, objective, totally empirical. And at least, being of a fairly easygoing disposition, he admitted this, unlike most other sociologists and various social scientists who were locked in madcap denial of the overwhelmingly subjective nature of the interpretations on which their conclusions were based. Yes, at least Bob didn’t seem to feel threatened when confronted with the facts. Away from the ears of clients and bosses, he would be the first to admit that a large percent of what they did was no more objective than fortune telling by use of bird entrails. Still, it was obvious he had no burning desire to contribute to the further development of the science itself. But Natalie had that desire. She felt acutely that this science, her science, was lagging far behind times and felt that it was her who would remedy this state of affairs. Enter the brain scanners. Why guess and fantasize, and pray that a sufficiently small percent of the population lies, when you can go straight to the core, straight to the brain and the body? The voice may lie, the eyes may deceive, the face may mask, but the brain cannot lie, the body cannot deceive. Already they were light-years ahead of their competition in terms of accuracy of data, just because of the heart and blood reading. In another two years they would be on par with the established mega-agencies.

If their methodology didn’t leak that is, which was doubtful. But if they could actually observe the areas of pleasure, or anxiety, or daydreaming, at exactly which instances the relevant parts of the brain started working more intensely, then advertisement and PR could finally really count on precise data from their partner: sociology. Natalie had daydreamed of the possibilities for so long and they seemed so seducing, that her throat would begin contracting when she dwelled too thoroughly. For instance, with a little basic photo doctoring one could determine scientifically, which combination of haircut, suit, and smile, would win a politician the best brain wave reaction from the voters. That would certainly get rid of the fashion quacks. Or even something simple, like the shape and colors of a soft drink bottle, or a chocolate bar, would be chosen based not on the guesswork of some pretentious marketing nitwit, but on solid scientific data, based on the brain and body reactions of a group of kids sitting in those chairs, and being projected the various possible looks of the new product. *** The last version of the future newspaper was shown on the screen, the last twists on the ‘stop boxes’ were made by the participants, and it was time for Natalie to wrap it up. She went out of the observation room, and heard Bob lock the door behind her. This was standard practice. You wouldn’t want some of the participants to look for the toilet and wander into the room on the other side of the one-way glass. Although this was all perfectly acceptable sociological methodology for at least the last sixty years, still everyone knew that it was better if the participants were not unduly reminded of how things stand. No specific acts of deception were carried out, that would be unethical, but a certain amount of subtle precautions was usually more than enough. Natalie entered the focus group room. Inside sat seven women and five men, more or less evenly representing the three age groups and the two levels of income. Racially, they were unrepresentative, too many whites and only one East Asian, but one had to make do with the available material. As Natalie opened the door, all eyes turned to her. She was pretty, black, five feet four, very thin and dressed in a tight gray dress, with a thin plastic pink belt loosely hugging her hips, and dark flowery stockings covering her spindly legs. Her hair was in an authoritative bun, with half a dozen thin wavy strands hanging suggestively here and there, and her dark brown face was almost entirely free of makeup. “Well, everybody,” she said, clasping her hands in a finalizing manner, “thank you very much for participating in this research, and we hope you weren’t too bored.” As people popped off the electrodes from themselves and began putting on their jackets, polite noises were made concerning how interesting the whole thing had been, and how curious they all are to check out the newspaper once it sees the light of day. Natalie nodded with a professional smile and reminded everyone that their cash is waiting for them on the second floor of the building. Half an hour later, as she went into the office of Mr. ‘Blonksi, he met her with a

jovial roar. “Ah! The young genius, Natalie! No brain scans available soon, I’m sorry to say, hur hur.” He chuckled good-naturedly, his plump, large-pored face flushing with the emotion, and although Natalie knew that he was not really making fun of her, nevertheless she couldn’t help feeling attacked by the mentions of the brain scans, and gave him a thin and cold polite smile. “I brought the preliminary notes me and Bob took at the focus group, and the report will be ready by tomorrow morning.” Her boss looked gaily at her. “Hang the report, tell me what your first-hand impression is.” His whole demeanor was of someone who would not let any trifle ruin his mood. After all, he was almost seventy, had had two heart attacks, and was now more or less succeeding at taking it easy, in spite of running a formerly minor, now an up and rising, market data agency. He rummaged in his desk drawer and took out a small black wooden ashtray. “You can smoke here if you want to,” he said and after a jolly wink his face smoothed out into his general amiable countenance. Natalie cursed him silently. In the last two weeks she had managed, after reading ‘Also Sprach Zarathustra’, to cut down from two packs to seven-eight cigarettes a day, and here was ‘Blonski, tempting her to up her daily dose. She shook her head vigorously and opened her notebook. “It looks like they most liked the black Gothic logo, and hated most the red and round logo.” “Hm, hm,” nodded ‘Blonski, “and what about the colors themselves, do they want a black and white newspaper?” “Either a black and white newspaper, or full color. They hated the two colored version.” ‘Blonski looked at Natalie in mock surprise. “Why, in my day we were happy when there were two colors in a newspaper.” “Well, now we are all spoiled by glossy magazines and colorful websites, sir,” answered Natalie, “so it’s either black and white, or full color.” But it was too late. Her boss fixed his stare on something beyond the room’s walls, and began telling a long and complicated story of what newspapers were like forty years ago, and what someone had once said to him concerning a certain article, and what he had answered. Natalie resigned herself, and began delicately drawing flowers and eyes in her notebook, as her boss rumbled on and on. *** When she returned to her home in the evening, she was wrung out as usual, and her vision was a little blurry from all the work behind a computer monitor. Although it was supposed to be radiation free and magnetically contained and whatnot, it still strained the eyes. She put on her home gown, switched on the TV and poured herself a glass of red wine from a half-full bottle. And, very soon, another glass. Forty minutes later she was quite relaxed, or at least as relaxed as she could reasonably expect to get, for she could never completely unwind after work, nor did she

try to achieve total unwinding. To the contrary, on some unconscious level she enjoyed being highly strung, for it gave her a feeling of focus, of strength and of purpose. But she did need to let off steam from time to time, and as she gently touched her thighs, she suddenly remembered the touches of the two gigolos, Archie and Rafael, who had done such a perfect job half a year ago. She had solemnly promised herself to never stoop to using their services again. But that was then and this was now. She had deleted the number of their firm from her phone, but had neglected to throw away their business card. It was a matter of minutes before she found the card in a drawer with other odds and ends and soon she was talking to the operator of the ‘Salt and Leather Lonely Hearts Club’. Rafael was still working for them, but Archie had left. But they had a wonderful new guy named Shane, who would come with Rafael. They would be over in an hour, and the whole thing would cost only a third of her monthly wage. Natalie wished the operator a good evening, hang up, and lay back on her sofa with a dreamy expression. “Face me, face me, I want you to face me...” she sung softly to herself and giggled. She decided to allow herself a ninth cigarette. After that she would put the special sheets on her bed.

CHAPTER FOUR

Anton stood on the corner of a bakery, hands in pockets, shoulders hunched. It was a pretentious bakery, naturally. Only pretentious bakeries may survive in the city’s center. Trying to charm both conservative and modern office rats, it had a two feet high plump plastic chef with the appropriate white hat by its front door, and on the door itself the picture of a blue-haired moekko girl eyeing a flying croissant with delighted, glinting, wide-eyed awe. He was smoking his fifteenth cigarette for the day and trying to look inconspicuous. Although an albino - a condition which made him stand out somewhat even on streets of a 21st century city - he dealt with that when the need arose by use of makeup and huge oblong shades, turning into just one of many anonymous aging fashionistas. He was fifty two, five foot eight, lean as some intense smokers tend to be, his hair painted a light orange, was still in considerable health, and was currently on something which could be called a ‘stakeout’. Anton was the director of the city’s N.M.H. office. ‘N.M.H.’ stood for ‘National Mental Hygiene’. It was lunch hour and here in the center the streets were filled with office workers scrambling to get a coffee and some food into themselves. And, of course, the ones who were scrambling to buy something fashionable, do some shopping therapy in the limited time before being sucked back into the office grind. But at this very moment a number of people had been diverted from their scrambling. A crowd was gathering at the base of a bank, looking up in agitation; and on the fourth floor, on the ledge of a window, stood a fragile looking petite blond, dressed in tweed pants, a purple shirt, and a thin red tie, obviously a junior something, who was crying, wringing her hands, and looking at the ground below through smeared mascara. “Don’t do it, girl!” shouted a man from the crowd. “It’s not worth it!” added her opinion a woman standing near him. The girl did not answer, and whether she whimpered or not couldn’t be heard above the noises of the city. “Where is the police?” yelled indignantly a third person. Others concurred immediately. The girl a forlorn wail, then shouted quite coherently, arms clenched into little fists: “I can’t take it anymore!” The crowd gasped and pulled back as the girl stepped into the air and plummeted with a scream. Her scream was echoed by some of the spectators. A man stepped forward. He was an ordinary-looking young man, in a brown suit, with light green hair, probably a worker in advertising, or design. With unnerving confidence he spread his arms and caught the girl. As the

screaming body made contact with his arms he buckled, but didn’t fall. Gently he laid her down on the pavement. For about ten seconds he knelt by the girl, stroking her hair and soothing her with baby words like ‘there-there’ and ‘everything will be all right,’ before the crowd finally digested what had just taken place, and the clapping of hands and the making of jubilant hoots commenced. Within a minute two police cars, an ambulance, and a news team had arrived. Before being lead away the girl turned to look at her savior. “I’m sorry I be a fool now, no more trying to killing me again,” she said with a shaky voice. A grown woman hugged a surprised man beside her as she heard these words. Anton stepped on the stub of his cigarette and walked to his car. As he drove his green Moskva Opel back to HQ, he replayed the whole incident in his mind. All in all, a good operation. A satisfactory crowd had gathered and he could already see the news reports: “STRANGER SAVES DISTRESSED GIRL” and “A MIRACLE ON HAMSUN STREET”. The girl and the man who saved her were professionals, they had signed declarations that they were aware of the hefty penalties, were they ever to disclose their participation in such staged events. Tomorrow they would be on their way to another town, where with a makeover they would be ready to carry out some other morale-boosting stunt. It was part of Anton’s job to device and oversee such events. For the most part, his job was to collect and evaluate data with his team. But sometimes, now and then, when he identified an increase in some sort of tension in the city, he would begin offering his superiors plans for relevant scenarios to be played out as a sort of counter magic. A surgical strike on the city’s morale may diffuse tension and avert an explosion of desperation-fueled violence, by adding a little shard of optimism, a belief that ‘real values’ do indeed still exist and are even practiced, and that everything happening with life is just some sort of misunderstanding, which just has to pass sooner or later. With the help of a mathematician friend, good old Deus, who was also a programmer to boot, Anton had presented his would-be employers with a computer program that demonstrated through various entangled mathematical proofs that producing a positive situation in one part of the city may diffuse tension in another part. He had known all this intuitively, without the need of mathematical proofs, but he also knew that without some scientific mumbo-jumbo he would never convince the government to fund such a dubious initiative. Now, six years later, the three biggest cities in the country were already using teams trained by him, and there was talk that the Japanese were inquiring into this new field of crime control. As Anton drove in slow faltering lurches with the rest of the traffic, his mind automatically absorbed everything in his vision range, and if possible, classified it, and deposited it in various mental drawers. The schoolgirls on the streets were wearing thinner ties this season, and tweed shorts were in full swing. Again. Many of the shorts were combined with shiny brown and red flat shoes.

The combination of ballerina skirts over black nylon tights also survived the whole year without disappearing, but the bowler hats of last spring seemed much less frequent this season. Huge fake gems, a tongue in cheek imitation of formidable anal beads, were still hanging from the necks of many adult women, although the younger generation had already moved on to plastic sea shells. These multicolored shells hung from ears, noses, eyebrows, even some of the fake fingernails were now in the shape of tiny shells. Other things appeared to stay the same for a fourth year running. Small blobs of white gel that keeps its form the whole day still dominated the hairstyle of the feelgood type of women. The fashion-conscious men of the city were still divided into subculture-imitating fashionistas and postmetrosexuals. The old-schoolers still dressed in suits and sports outfits, but made up less than forty percent of the pedestrians. The lower class hooligans, the ‘nomies’, who dressed in a mix of clashing elements from all available fashions, could also be observed skulking here and there, but their presence was still scarce on the streets of the city center during the day. Come evening out they would go on the prowl in insecure noisy groups. Anton lit his twentieth cigarette, crumpled the empty pack, and checked the pocket of his overcoat. He had two more packs, which meant he was okay for today. A poster caught his attention. A young woman in a modern combination of a white sleeveless shirt and wide yellow pants, barefoot, was eating a piece of toast with chocolate on it. She was smiling and held her eyes squeezed tight, as if experiencing the approach of a colossal orgasm, and the chocolate was artfully smeared around her mouth. Right above her head was written: “HIDDEN PLEASURES FROM KOOL DELITE CHOCO!” What made Anton take a second look was the chocolate around the girl’s mouth. Only about three - four years ago a pressure group had managed to pass legislation forbidding the display of commercials in which children were shown with chocolate, ice cream and similar substances, smeared on their faces. In the past these images would only have signified the pure childish delight born of eating something sweet, but these days there were other connotations, which made the contemporary adult squirm with unease at the image of a happy boy with chocolate all over his chin. And the industry had reacted fast. By legally acknowledging the sexual significance of foods smeared on faces, the pressure group had in fact opened up the gates to another dimension in which erotic hints could be successfully conveyed by advertisers. Anton remembered reading that since this new wave of messy sex legitimization had grown stronger in the last years, it had become almost obligatory for fashionable newlywed couples to smear wedding cake on each other’s faces. Naturally, almost half of the wedding cakes now were no longer white. Cocoa, coffee and chocolate advertisers had caught on early to the new trend and with a few sexual winks and nods the brown colored sweets sales had climbed considerably.

And now the transition from using happy-looking children to using happy-looking adults in the advertisements has been completed. Although messy sex games as such were still practiced by a minority, if online polls were to be trusted, the concept itself had been absorbed into the tapestry of erotic hints out of which the modern fashionable persona was woven. Anton parked his car, went out, and smoked his twenty first cigarette on the street, in front of the office building. It housed a different firm on each floor, and while every business advertised itself with huge letters at the entrance, only Anton’s firm acknowledged its existence in modest two-inch letters: ‘N. M. H. Office.’ He would write his report on the staged moral boost, and then would have about two-three more hours of surfing the web, of ‘general situation monitoring’, as he had named this when selling the concept, before going home.

CHAPTER FIVE

The N.M.H. office was divided into four rooms. One was the monitoring room, where sat two workers, one watching and recording TV shows, commercials and news, the other reading magazines and newspapers and site-jumping. The total team of the monitoring staff numbered six. Two always worked outside, ‘walking the beat’ around the city all day, taking note of the posters, the graffiti, the music being heard in various places, the way the citizens were dressed, and the ways they interacted with each other. They would, of course, also unobtrusively take pictures with their phones and record short clips. The three pairs in ‘monitoring’ worked in shifts of a fortnight, to avoid becoming too bogged down in their respective spheres. After two weeks of watching TV like a maniac, to get to walk around town or read magazines was a welcome relief. And to the one who lurked in the shadows for a fortnight spying on people, the chance to watch some TV instead, also offered a much-needed temporary change of perspective. Every pair was also divided into a day and night shift, so that one would watch and record TV programs or crisscross the town on foot at day time, while the other one would do all that at night. The rate of burnout was quite high, since all of the team members had to be subjected constantly to a bombardment of very particular types of information, and to watch out for hidden links between the different patterns of information, hidden links which any normal person would be doing his damn best to ignore. They had to take down the murders, the rapes, the break-ins and the suicides, the children that were molested and the children that were molesters, and they always had to write down in what manner the news was presented; they had to know what books, movies and songs were the bestsellers of the season; they had to be up to date on fashion in clothes and in sexual behavior; they had to monitor the changing trends in pornography and erotica; they had to watch the political language used in the media. And although Anton always stressed, that it was up to him to work out the possible correlations upon receiving the weekly reports from the junior analysts, naturally they all couldn’t help themselves but go ahead and draw their own conclusions. In the last two years alone two monitoring team members had had total nervous breakdowns, and while they had been stabilized by cocktails of antidepressants, one fellow, young Andrew, had completely snapped just three months after beginning work, and had shaved his head and joined a neo-Buddhist cult. Anton knew that the monitoring team should in fact number at least twenty people, not these measly six, in order to adequately sift through the circulating information streams, and not get squashed by overload, but the Interior Ministry officials always cited tight budgetary constraints, especially for projects of such suspicious and innovative nature.

In the second room were the two junior analysts, Michelle and Chen, both in their early thirties, but already with the slightly mad gazes of people who know far too much. Their job was to summarize into possible trends the information submitted by the monitoring team people, and present their summaries to Anton. They also participated on some occasions in his brainstorming sessions concerning an event to be staged, or a subtle influence plan to be offered to the city authorities. The latter approach Anton believed to be in the long run more effective than the occasional bursts of choreographed social solidarity, like today’s miraculous saving of the suicidal girl, but it was quite difficult to convince the mayor’s office of the need of playing early Mozart instead of commercials in the subway, or of using specific color combinations in official posters announcing city events, to counter the influence on the mass psyche of the existing color trends. And even when the relevant city authorities were convinced, it still took far too long to achieve far too little. The third room in the office was the ‘conference room’, where Anton would meet the junior analysts, the visiting officials, where presentations were made, and where staff birthday parties took place. Almost all the space there was taken up by a huge oblong desk. The fourth room was Anton’s private office. His lair, where he could hole up and chew over the gathered impressions. On the desk was the half-inch thick monitor of his PC, lying face down, which began emitting signals of waking a second after Anton straightened it to work position. He opened the middle drawer of his desk and took out an ashtray in the shape of a six-inch long Viking longship. Lighting a cigarette, he turned to the corner near the door, to the small metallic table, on top of which was his personal coffee machine, and below which was his retro stereo system. Anton pressed the power button and the stereo lit up in a myriad of small bluish and yellowish lights, and after a lag of about two second the music started playing. It was a collection of jazz-funk pieces from a little before he was born. He took another intense suck at his cigarette and left it in the longship, in order to not spread the smell all over the office. He exited his room, remembering to close the door, his empty plastic bottle in one impatient hand, and filled it up from the office mineral water container. He then quickly returned to his room, his cigarette having only grown half an inch of ash, poured the water into the coffee machine, and switched the machine on. Five minutes later he had filled his personal coffee mug to the brim (his personal coffee mug was the size of a serious beer mug), and sat down in front of his computer. It took him forty minutes to write his report, twelve minutes to edit it and then it was time to surf. Anton got down on his knees and felt for the small package, which he had stuck to the underside of his desk. There was his stash of ersatz marijuana, called this season ‘buzzers’. When circumstances had forbidden him from using illegal drugs, after a period of mourning and dullness of the mind, Anton had discovered a gray industry of substitute drugs.

The entrepreneurs in question were providing products which looked more or less like marijuana and had an effect more or less like marijuana, but did not contain in themselves even a single molecule of anything illegal, thus circumventing the impassioned attempts of the majority to stamp out the smoker for his own good. The effect of the substitute pot was achieved by the mixing of up to twenty obscure but legal herbs, and in their interaction they brought about a buzz similar to that of pot proper. Every year or two the media would make a big deal out of it, and the statesmen would react indignantly and ban the currently popular concoction, but the ‘legal high’ enthusiasts would just reshuffle the ingredients, and maybe add another obscure weed from Guinea-Bissau, to escape the formulas deemed illegal, and yet for another season people like Anton who worked in places with random drug checks, but did not want to forfeit clarity of thought, could be spared the humiliating return to the common levels of perception. Although legal, or rather ‘still legal’, the legal pot looked close enough to illegal pot, to make Anton devise the precaution of keeping it in his office and in his home, but try to have it as rarely as possible with him, when out between these two safe havens. Everything was possible, and if ever he was stripped and searched by the cops, it would be an impossible task to convince them that what they had found in this small packet was not actually anything illegal. Even if in the end he was proclaimed innocent and turned loose, working in the position that he was, he could not afford an incident like that in the first place. It had taken years of begging the administration to officially deem him ‘clean’ and remove him from the list of drug offenders and after having finally achieved this, he wanted to keep his name off that list forever. Anton poured out a small pile of his ‘buzzers’ on the desk, secured the rest back into its hiding place, then took a cigarette from his pack and held it above the wastebasket. He squeezed and rolled it in his fingers, until a third of it was finally empty of tobacco. He then smoothed out the crumpled empty part of the small white tube and sucked up the faux weed. He now had a cigarette the first third of which was marijuana substitute and the other two thirds, tobacco for dessert. He went to his window and opened it. The view from the fifth floor was uninspiring, since all he could see was the backs of the other buildings, which made up the perimeter of the inner yard. And a small slice of the bleak autumn sky. Anton lit the cigarette and stood at the window, looking absently into the walls of the buildings, taking mighty swigs of coffee from his mighty coffee mug. In four minutes, as he felt his body and mind relax, he was finally really ready to submerge into the information patterns offered by the web. He opened a new document, and named it with the day’s date. There he would copy links and make comments for future reference. He then opened two news sites and two gossip sites, and a porn site, and very soon forgot the outside world.

CHAPTER SIX

Natalie closed the door after Rafael and Shane, wished them good night with a trembling and hoarse voice, walked back to her bed on shaky legs, falling on it powerlessly. The special sheets were now crumpled and with cold wet stains made by various bodily fluids, most of them discharged by herself. Although she didn’t Kangaroo in either way, she did do Pelican. And now her face was covered with layers of her own saliva, her hair knotted with dried semen, and her whole body sticky with hers and theirs sweat; bits of semen also constricted the skin on her breasts, like small torn pieces of cling foil, but she couldn’t yet muster the strength needed for the taking of a shower. Her hands shook when she tried to lift them into the air, and a foggy weakness had crept into her brain. She breathed in small shallow inhalation and exhalations, as if the very air itself still held the imprint of the situation that had just ended, an imprint which she did not yet wish to let go of. But she also breathed shallowly because now that the anesthesia of sexual excitement was wearing off, her throat felt far too sore to let in substantial amounts of air. Her delicate hands slid slowly down her brown stomach and after lingering for a while on the inner sides of her thighs, settled on both sides of her vagina. The small tremors that went through her hands seemed to initiate in answer almost perceptible electric reactions in the tenderized skin. Through no conscious decision did Natalie start stroking herself, it seemed to happen by itself shortly after she started replaying in her mind the sex with the two gigolos. In hindsight they did everything as they should have, although at first she had felt short-changed initially. The new man, Shane, turned out to be an Afro. They hadn’t warned her. She herself was disturbed at her racist reaction, she had never respected that in her Dad, but it took her some effort to ignore the color of his skin. Anyway, she couldn’t go on being a black girl who only has sex with white boys forever. One had to start somewhere. In the end, she had managed to suppress her involuntary revulsion, or rather, what was even better for this specific situation, had succeeded to convert it into arousal. After ‘loosening her up’ by kissing and licking her body for more than five minutes, the two gigolos had lain on both sides of her, and had simultaneously gently pushed their tongues deep inside her ears. A new technique, which had taken her quite by surprise. She had hoped that she would be surprised by something. This outlandish sensation of a strong wet presence filling up her whole field of hearing with soft squelching, together with the increasing outside control on her body’s movements, had been enough after a mere minute to override her mind. After that, by gradually increasing the stress laid upon her body, from caresses to

gentle slaps, from gentle slaps to harder slaps, tugs of hair, and pinching of skin, but always very professionally, the two prostitutes entered their dominatrix roles and had used her for the remainder of the two hours she had paid for. When they had taken their positions working on the orifices at the both ends of her body, they had managed at not too few moments to achieve harmony in their respective rhythms of movement and in these moments Natalie’s very Self retreated to a tiny glimmer of perception surrounded by a turbulent ocean of sensations. It was as if she had regressed to being just a tube of flesh, at the two ends of which synchronized vibrations produced waves that canceled out the whole human world. But even before that, at the moment in which her brain had started shutting down as the two tongues slobbered on her eardrums, nothing any longer stopped her from contorting her face in the most uncontrolled grimaces, and letting her mouth emit the most uncontrolled sounds. Freedom? As her brain had relinquished responsibility of the situation, so had the inner controller relinquished control of the maintenance of the persona. Years of standing in front of the mirror and years of practice in controlling the voice and the face, had produced a certain Natalie, which had to be subdued by outside means, if she was ever to allow the body to go insane. And it was precisely this insanity that Natalie was after, this is what she learned to crave after the first tastes of it some years back, because as her body lost control and her mind retreated, so did yesterday and tomorrow retreat, and disappear in the sensual haze which pulsated in her skull. And with yesterday and today gone she herself disappeared as well, and where there was no Natalie, there were also no pressures, demands, responsibilities. No plans, no obligations, no expectations, not only was there no one to evaluate or judge, there was, more importantly, no one to be evaluated or judged. Natalie was already building on top of her memories, adding and changing details, in order to bring her solitary orgasm to fruition, but she could no longer cry and moan with abandon. She moaned now with a much more calculated voice, for now, without the outside influence to overload her senses, she was back in control, and in fact had to be in control, because solitary orgasms do not happen by themselves. Instead of breathing deeper and deeper as she neared orgasm, Natalie almost stopped breathing at all, letting out small sobs as she felt the climax approaching. After half an hour, after eleven orgasms of various intensities, she let her body take a breather and dreamt intensively for about a minute and a half, before waking up with a start, and slowly going to the bathroom to finally wash herself. Standing barefoot on the yellow tiles, she looked at herself in the mirror, the heavy makeup she had deliberately put on for the sex messed up as she wanted it to be; her mascara all over her cheeks, with black tendrils projecting down to her chin; the glistening hardened remains of real semen, not the imitation gel, knotting up her hair; the puffy dark bags below her eyes. She felt that she could not recognize herself. On a whim, she tried to make a face in the mirror, which would feel like the faces

she knew she made during the intensive paid ravishing. She crooked her open mouth like an angry baby, slowly took in the image, the bloodshot eyes shining from the slightly bloated, twisted black face, and suddenly, for no reason she could point out, she started to cry. A strong feeling of regret and for some reason of futility, all that tinged with a flavor of general injustice, made her howl quietly and cry as a baby cries, without restrain, but shuddering with adult denunciations, for about five minutes. “Never, never, never, never again!” she spoke aloud as she washed her hair, no longer grimacing but still with tears trickling down. “God, why does this happen, I don’t want this to happen...” With a towel turban on her head, somewhat calmer, she drank another half glass of red wine, and changed the sheets of her bed. She climbed into it, the new linens stroking her sensitive skin as she turned and twisted, still upset, her stomach knotted, overcoming her pride and no longer asking but directly praying: “Please God, look at what I do, look at what has happened to me, please help me.” By three in the morning she managed to go to sleep. She dreamt of swimming in a lake, and of things with tentacles that lived in the deep grabbing at her legs and pulling her down. She tried to get away, but at the same time did not want to get away, and once under the surface of the oily liquid, the more she didn’t breathe, the less she struggled to free herself. Suddenly she was awake. She felt a presence in her room, two figures standing by the window. She did not dare turn her head to see if they were really there, but she knew for certain that they were. She felt them looking at her, edging closer ever so slowly. Then she heard a sound from the corridor between the living room and the kitchen. Steps. Someone was walking. But that ‘tap-tap’ was not made by feet. It sounded like hooves. A thing with hooves was walking about in her home. Natalie heard it quite distinctly, as distinctly as she felt the presence in her room. She lay there, daring not breathe audibly, her muscles tightened, her nerves on edge, trying to look only at the wall next to her face, to avoid accidentally glimpsing something which would bring the whole world down. She only managed to sleep a little in the morning, as the sun rose, before it was time to go to work.

CHAPTER SEVEN

After the pleasant talk yesterday with Andy Fortham in the precinct’s cafeteria, Dave now had in his inbox the statements of all three victims of the ‘toy-basher’, as he had named the unknown perpetrator for his own convenience. Surprisingly, only one of the toy owners was a bachelor, the other two were married men, and had apparently kept their toys secret from their spouses. Until the toy-basher had struck, that is. Dave closed his eyes and rubbed his face. Then his left hand went back on the desk, while his right one remained in the vicinity of his head, hanging from his lower lip. He pulled at his lip some more, scratched his nose, briskly explored the nostril with his forefinger, stopped himself, and made a funny noise by sucking air through his lower teeth. What were the first things to check in such a case? Three areas of inquiry fermented slowly in his mind for some time now: did the owners of the destroyed cyber dolls know each other; what specific type were the dolls themselves; had they been purchased in a shop, or ordered online. Naturally, the police had neither included the exact types of the dolls in their report, nor had they asked how they had been purchased. But what can one expect from badly paid amateurs like them? Evidently, it was up to him to hunt down the details of the case. He was now in possession of the phone numbers of all three victims, and so he picked up his phone and dialed the first number. The phone on the other end of the line rang for about ten seconds before being picked up. “Hello, who is this?” “Hi,” said Dave with his deep official voice, “I’m looking for Mr. Phalak Chipayda?” “Chippada. On the telephone, who am I speaking to?” Mr. Chippada was speaking quickly, almost merging the words. Dave tried to lead the pace to more measured modes. “Hi, this is David Cohran, a detective working with the city police. I’m working on the case of the break-in into your house.” “Ah, good to know, but I am busy right now..” “Certainly, Mr. er... Chippada,” Dave made a measured pause, “perhaps you can tell me when it would be convenient to meet, so that I can ask you a few quick questions?” There was a brief silence on the other end of the line. Then the fast-paced speech resumed: “Well, let’s say in two, no, two and a half hours in the... do you know that place, near the.. no, wait! Do you know that new shopping mall near the old railway station?” “Er, yes, yes I do know that mall. I haven’t been there yet.” “Splendid, they have a nice cafe on the first floor, okay to be there in two, no, two and a half hours?”

“All right, Mr. Chippada, see you then.” “Quite, good bye” Dave wrote down the appointment and called the second number. It rang for almost half a minute before the voicemail switched on. “Er, hi, this is Dave Cohran, detective for the city police, I’m looking for Mr. Muis Munyos Bardales. Please call this number.” After leaving this message, Dave scribbled a question mark besides ‘Bardales’, and dialed the third number. The phone was snatched up almost immediately, and a hoarse voice snapped “Yes, who is this?” “Mr. Boyle? Desmond Boyle?” “He speaking, who you be?” Dave rolled his eyes and introduced him for the third time. “Hi, this is detective David Cohran, concerning that break-in into your house.” “Ah yeah, you’ve found who done it?” “Not yet, Mr. Boyle, I’m calling to ask you to meet me, so that I can write down some details, which my colleagues in the police may have overlooked.” “Well, I be out of town at the moment, and be back in a week. Can’t we do this over the phone?” “Certainly, if you don’t mind.” “No I don’t, go ahead” “Right, how did you purchase your sex doll - online, or in an oldshop?” “Hrmph, an oldshop.” “What was its name and address?” “Erm... just a second.” Dave was aware of the other voices that were audible through the phone receding into the distance. Mr. Boyle had walked off to a more private place. “Listen, you be right, Mr.... Calahan” “Cohran.” “Pardon, Cohran. These is information I be only giving to a person I be sure is a detective, and naturally, as I cannot see your... credentials now...” “All right, I understand, Mr. Boyle. When did you say are coming back into town? “In a week. Next Friday.” “In that case then, I will give you a call on Friday.” “Yes, do that, I must now say goodbye...” “Bye!” snapped Dave and switched on to the other line. Someone was calling him. “Yes, detective Cohran on the phone!” “Hello, Munyo Bardales, you called just now but I couldn’t talk then.” “Ah yes, Mr. Bardales. I would like to take some more details concerning the break-in into your home, when would it be convenient to meet?” “Where are you now, detective?” “Er, you want to come over to me?” “Sure thing, I’m a cabby, just say where you are.” Dave said his address. The cabby repeated it. “Okay, I can be over in forty minutes, is that good?”

“That’s good, Mr. Bardales, I’ll be waiting.” Dave put down the phone and crossed out the question mark near Bardales’s name. He added ‘next week Friday’ next to Boyle’s name and looked at the time. It was 16.04. Presumably Bardales would arrive a little before 17.00 and at around 18.20 he would meet Phalak in the new mall. It would take him about a half an hour to get there in the early evening traffic, so he could give Bardales forty minutes of his time at the most. But that should be more than enough. He heard the sound of dance music in the other room, and deciding to combine idle curiosity with lukewarm coffee, he took his private mug, and exited his private office. Maldiva was sitting at her desk, with a sparkling crimson lipstick today, and the old TV near the visitor’s sofa was on. A girl of about eight was sitting on the sofa, one leg folded beneath her, the other dangling over the edge. She was watching intently a music clip, and was trying to imitate with her arms and shoulders the movements of the people dancing on the screen. “Mr. Cohran, this is Lucy, “ said Maldiva quickly, “Lucy, say ‘hi’ to Mr. Cohran.” Lucy unglued her gaze from the screen long enough to wave a hand at Dave, and sank back into the glamorous world of close-ups of high heels and tilted frames of moving bodies. “You remember I said last week that Lucy would be with me today, Mr. Cohran?” asked Maldiva. Dave had completely forgotten, but now an echo of a memory resurfaced, that he had indeed heard something like that, and had probably nodded in a noncommittal way, which had been expertly interpreted as enthusiastic agreement. “Yeah, I remember,” said Dave. “Lucy,” he added as proof that he remembered, and started pouring the coffee into his mug. “Slap! Slappy slappy slappy yeah! Slappy, slappy, slappy hoe, Nevah nevah let me go, Nevah evah slappy hoe!” Dave finished refilling his mug and glanced at the TV screen. Lucy’s torso was modestly gyrating in attempted sync with a female performer surrounded by six young males in g-strings, red masks with zipped mouth holes clinging to their faces. The singer was dressed in a tight orange latex suit, with sparkling glass gems, at least Dave hoped they were glass gems, on her green boots and gloves. She had a tilted Humphrey Bogart hat on her head, and a close-up of her own brown mask revealed, that not only was her mouth hole with an unzipped zipper, but that also the eyeslits had tiny zips, which were also unzipped. The camera twirled a few times around the performer and then suddenly receded, showing the whole dancing crew. “And when I come to your door, Don’t you evah let me go, Take me quick-ah, take me quick-ah Nevah evah slappy hoe!”

Dave glanced at Lucy, then at Maldiva. Maldiva was quietly typing something on her PC, her blue nails flashing with each clickity-clack, and to Lucy apparently the clip was showing a fantastic way to dance. And dress, unfortunately. He shrugged his shoulders and retreated to his room. There was no point in thinking further about the toy-basher case, until he had met with at least the two victims that were in town, so he decided to see what the news sites had to offer concerning the upcoming elections. As usual, it was easier said than done, because of the battle of his conscious will against his deep-seated aversion to politics, and thus numerous other news distracted him quite successfully. The South Carolina governor had finally come out and made a public statement concerning his use of a cybernetic little boy sex toy. Naturally, as a Christian and a long standing defender of family values, he hoped for the forgiveness and understanding of his family and supporters. This was a difficult time for everyone and only by working together would they get beyond this shameful episode. Dave pressed the see whole statement link. Blah, blah, family and supporters, aha, here was the continuation of the humbled senator’s speech. “I hope everyone, including the media, will understand the need for some simple human privacy, which I and my wonderful family need, in order to sort things out. I regret with all my heart, that I have let my family down, and also that I have let down my supporters. I have not been true to my values and my behavior is not what my family deserves. It is not what you all deserve. I am not without faults, as I am only human, therefore imperfect. This was a disgusting lapse of morals on my behalf, but as we all know, sin is strong, but with the help of the Lord, we can be stronger.” Dave glanced at the comments below the article, which were not very informative, since they had almost nothing to do with the story. Rather, the commentators seemed to be pursuing personal vendettas against each other. Then his attention was caught by an analysis of the current phase of the IndoChina cold war. Its outlines now lurked behind the tension between Sudan and Kenya, where already a number of armed skirmishes had taken place. The nuclear superpower behind Kenya was India, and behind Sudan - China. The author of the article counted this as a positive development, since India and China were no longer amassing troops and missiles at their common border, but had apparently graduated to the more mature behavior of the US and the SU in the previous century. Americans and Russians had fought it out indirectly in places like Vietnam, Afghanistan, Angola and the Arab-Israel wars, and now India and China had also reached the more sophisticated levels of realpolitik, where the option of mutual annihilation was

being superseded by faraway conflicts by proxy. Dave remembered the last time when there was a crisis between India and China, five or six years ago. India had made two nuclear tests to show that it was serious, then Pakistan, as an ally of China, had done three nuclear tests, to confirm that the stakes were high, then Russia and her allies had stated that they would protect by force if necessary their citizens and interests in the region, and chairman Kulachenko had met with the Indian prime minister... The American president had said that the US will not tolerate use of weapons of mass destruction by any side, and had sent the seventh American fleet into the Indian ocean, where the Indian and Chinese navies were already at a standoff, and suddenly the whole world was sweating and praying. In a sense, the analyst whom Dave was reading was right. Much better that Kenya and Sudan massacre each other for a while, than have global nuclear winter. Disgusted with himself, Dave finally backtracked to the news section concerning the upcoming elections. But again, there were tantalizing links around the article and Dave just couldn’t help himself. He chose ‘INDONESIAN PRESIDENT: MOON LANDING WITHIN FIVE YEARS!’ He raised an eyebrow. He read the article. In cooperation with Malaysia, Australia and Thailand, Indonesia was working on a moon program, which apparently would allow a crew comprised of cosmonauts from the four countries in question to reach the Earth’s satellite. There was a link to Nigeria’s space program, but Dave suppressed the impulse to check it out. He promised himself to read just one more article, before concentrating on the elections. His choice for a last distraction was ‘UK HOOLIGANS SENT TO SIBERIA’. An eye-catching headline certainly. A new law had just been passed, another effort in the war against teenage binge drinking and knife crime, which would help send the young offenders with sentences up to five years to work in Siberian correctional camps for the duration of their sentences. Apart from being another important stage in the ‘goodwill relations roadmap’ between the United Kingdom and Russia, this would limit the pressure on British jails and correctional centers, and would hopefully serve as a deterrent. Dave tried to imagine how British street life would be influenced by a generation returning from prison camps in Russia and sucked some more air through his teeth. There was a knock on his door. Maldiva popped her head through. “A Mr. Parales to see you, Mr. Cohran. He says he has an appointment.” That would be Bardales the cab driver. The election news will have to wait yet again. “Thank you, Maldiva, invite him in and ask him if he wants a coffee.” Dave straightened himself in his chair, opened a new word file and named it ‘Bardales’. He was making a folder called ‘Toy-basher’, when Bardales walked into his room with a coffee in one hand and a leather cap in the other.

CHAPTER NINE

When the sound of the alarm clock mercifully tore Natalie from the sticky grasp of her ominous dreams, after her first exhalation of relief came the first cough and the realization that she could not breathe through her nose, but only through her sore throat. She stood up gingerly from her bed and noticed that her head felt like it was filled with cotton, thoughts struggling sluggishly like flies drowning in syrup, and her movements were somewhat off the mark, clumsy as if she was thirteen again. As if she had the flu. Her breasts and buttocks still hurt from the strong grasps and spanks they had received the night before, her vagina and anus were sore, but on top of all that was added the general ache of all the muscles of the body. She was devastated on all levels. What’s worse, she had known that it would be like this, but had gone through with it anyway. Was it worth it? That was a difficult one. As she had called the gigolo team to come and do her, at that time this decision had made perfect sense. She had felt the need deep inside her, stirring, trying to find an outlet, but instead knotting into sickly lumps of vibrations in her upper stomach and solar plexus. And now... now the pressure that had been building up in the last months had dissipated, or at least her amount of energy to react to the pressure had plummeted, which to her seemed to be the same thing, and yet, she had felt terrible yesterday night, and now, although she did not feel so obviously stressed out, she was quite ill. One good thing: experience suggested that this was not quite a real virus, but more of a shock reaction, which should subside in a day or two. Natalie took three painkillers, two ‘flu-non’ tablets, and drank a fizzy vitamin drink; then she went out of her home and hailed a cab. As the car darted through the morning traffic, she gazed absently through the grimy window, periodically straining to clear her nose by unsuccessfully blowing it into a paper hanky, and thought about the presence in her room, and the devil walking about her apartment. Were these dreams? It never felt like she was dreaming. Each time these nocturnal visitations took place, she was wide-awake, but not daring to move or make a sound. Or sometimes quite literally not able to move or make a sound even when she wanted to. Perhaps this is what people who said that they had seen aliens and UFO’s felt. But to her it had not felt like the presence of spacemen from other planets, it had always felt like a much more sinister, much more primitive affair. “That will be five-seventy, lady,” said the driver as the taxi halted by the sidewalk near the entrance of her office building. Natalie fumbled with her fashionably studded brown leather handbag and fished out some notes. She gave the driver a tip and climbed out of the back seat, and onto the street. That hint of nausea, which hovered at the fringes of her mind, when she traveled

in a car in a weak state, gave way to a slightly more stable world. But her mind was still quite foggy and in spite of already being five minutes late for work, she decided to have a smoke before entering the building. She rummaged again in her bag, took out a packet of ‘FLaydies’ and plucked from there a thin cigarette, observing in the process that her hands were still slightly shaking. After the first three inhalations, Natalie felt her mind focusing. Well, not really focusing; it was still a churning sea of oozing murky gunk, but at least the peripheral thoughts concerning the everyday obligations snapped to discipline and began forming chains of coherent plans. It was an otherwise splendid autumn morning, with a gentle hint of muted sunlight trying to glow through the light gray sky; a certain pre-drizzle moisture maintaining a freshness in the city air; and among the pedestrians the first scarves and long coats could be observed. Natalie scanned the people, letting out wisps of smoke and tapping one shoe and staving off going up to the office. But very quickly she began noticing glances darted at her by the passing men. Greedy, predatory glances. Her thinness, her whole look of a schoolgirl and a teacher’s pet for some reason attracted men, especially middle aged men, and it attracted them almost irresistibly. She could make them jump through hoops since she was sixteen. But today of all days their glances were not welcome; they did not make her feel wanted nor attractive. She squirmed uncomfortably. Now the glances of the men seemed to her as promises of nothing but violent pawing, repulsive warm sweat, shame, nauseating recollections of nauseating actions. At least the rules of the city in daylight stopped these slimy apes from trying anything. With a shiver she threw down her half-finished cigarette, mashed it with her sole and went inside. In the elevator with her were three young men, whose offices were one floor above hers. They did not say anything, but she could feel them feeling her up with their eyes, as she waited for the lift to stop and open its doors. Finally it stopped, and with a ridiculous sense of relief she went to her office. Immediately, the hum of various electronic machinery, the familiar voices, the bursts of typing, the familiar smells of paper, warm plastic, perfumes and aftershaves, all that combined to lower the general anxiety considerably. At least here everything followed a specific routine, there were clear objectives and clear criteria to measure them, clear-cut relations, and an obligation of mutual politeness. With an effort she straightened out of her slouch and mouthing a grateful “Hi” to Bob (grateful just for him being there), she sat on her desk and switched on her PC. While the computer warmed up, she quickly arranged her piles of useful things on the desk: her phone, her wallet, her notebook, two pens... then the monitor lit up and she typed in her password. As she was checking her mail, Bob came over to her desk, put a printout on her

keyboard, as was his manner, and gently massaged her shoulders, as was his manner. “Please, Bob,” she said, shrugging his hands off. A second after her instinctive reaction she remembered that this could have hurt his feelings and turned to look at him. He appeared to be unperturbed, and just said, “Okay, little lady,” as he met her gaze. She felt him take in her crumpled and deflated appearance. He also noticed that she felt this, and said his part, “You ill, Natalie?” “No, no, just a little cold or something,” she said brightly, opening her eyes wide to show how awake and adequate she was. Having sorted this out, he waved at the papers on her desk, “When you’ve done reading that, call me so that we can work on it.” Then he retreated to his own desk. “Okay, Bob,” she said with a half-smile to his retreating posterior and tried to concentrate on the text. She blew her nose again, with some success this time, rubbed her face, shook her head, and tried to concentrate again. The letters swam only a little and she was able to make out the general idea. Apparently a new party, called the ‘National Patriots’ wanted an analysis of their potential ability to enter the Parliament in the coming elections. But that was only in two months. That’s cutting it a bit short, Natalie thought to herself, twiddling her blue pen. She read the mission statement of the party. As usual, at first glance it looked like it was written by semi-articulate rabid Saddam revivalists. This happened half the time. And if the missions statements of various parties, candidates, and organizations did not in their unedited forms look like crude variations of Mein Kampf, then they made one think of abstract left-wing poets inhabiting faculties of provincial universities. She took her pencil out of her mouth and directly started crossing out sentences, and writing more acceptable substitutes above them. In order to survive in the field, her boss not only offered slightly lower prices than his bigger competitors, but also always made it a ‘two in one deal’, public relations advice thrown in with the market data, and Natalie had learned very quickly the basics of how sentences should be worded in order to not immediately alienate everyone. Unlike, apparently, most politicians and their think tank pals. She called Bob. He smiled, and rolled over to her on his chair. “So, little lady, I see you’ve already crossed out the more horrible stuff, eh?” “Yes,” chirped Natalie, “I wonder what they are thinking of when they write their mission statements.” “Indeed.” Having participated in this quick mutual congratulations of what swell professionals they were, Bob got down to business, “Now, we have only two months. This means we have to start next week at the latest.” “Yup. First we need to see what chances they have.” “If you ask me, they don’t have a chance in hell.” Bob was a man; he had the right to say such things. “Ah, but we can’t tell customers that.” Natalie was a woman; her obligation was to tone things down.

“Yes, but they don’t have anything. They have no recognition, no famous people, no one knows who they are or what they stand for.” “Quite right. So first of all,” Natalie began drawing intersecting circles in her notebook to drive her thoughts along, “we must advice them to try bring over some musicians, or artists, or something, over to their camp, in order to be associated with something people have heard of.” “Yes,” bobbed his head Bob, “even a has-been actor, or journalist remembered only by people over fifty, will make them more recognizable than they are now.” And so Natalie and Bob settled into their brainstorm routine. Bob would say disparaging things, forcing Natalie to in turn try and locate the available options. They were a good team. Natalie’s brain was already back on track and working in full throttle: “Also, they need to start staging events. Protest against something, or support something, and give out some leaflets about something. Visibility.” “True...” Bob’s eyes widened, “they can also choose a special day, you know, like the days of the saint of something patriotic, like St. George, and use it to stage their event.” “Well, St. Georges day has been and gone for this year, and it’s been claimed by almost everyone already, but you are onto something,” smiled Natalie generously. Bob thought a bit more and then apparently gave up. “Enough with that for now, it’s obvious some things can be done. We’ll work them out as we go. First we have to know where we stand sociologically. What’s our latest data on the three big parties?” Natalie rolled her eyes upwards as she counted. “From two months ago.” “It will have to do for now. Do you have the file on your computer?” “Yes.” “Let’s see which of the parties has a periphery of voters, who can possibly be cajoled to join the ranks of our customer.” Natalie tapped Bob’s knee with her pen to show agreement. “And after that we can see which figures in government are the least liked by the voters right now, and we can figure out how the National Patriots can attack them publicly.” “Little lady, you and I think like one person.” Natalie opened the file with the political support data. The buzz of working and the knowledge of being one of the best, or at least one of the very good in the field, helped marvelously to hold at bay the disconcerting half-formed anxieties that circled hungrily around her.

CHAPTER TEN

Dave looked at his ‘Bardales’ file. Then he looked at Bardales. Bardales returned his gaze, mashing his leather cap with his light brown hands. His cup of coffee sat untouched on the floor beside his chair. He was a professional cabby, a man of the manual labor classes, and being on the other side of the desk on which Dave sat, obviously unnerved him in some subtle manner. “So, let me summarize, Mr. Bardales,” Dave gave the man a quick smile and a stern look. “You went to an ‘X-SEX’ shop on Garibaldi Boulevard, on the twenty-fifth of last month, and purchased a fifth grader toy-girl of the cyberpunk line.” “Yes, yes,” Bardales leaned forward with a slightly pained expression, “but why are we going on so much on the sex toy? I mean, other stuff...” he illustrated with a vague wave of his hand, “…valuables... were also stolen from my home, and...” The cabby’s voice trailed hesitantly away. Dave studied the man for a few seconds and decided to come clean. “Because you are not the only one to have a break-in of this kind, Mr. Bardales. Two more people have had break-ins in the same time period, and have also had their sex dolls destroyed in a similar manner.” Bardales was alarmed. “What do you mean? What does this mean?” “This means, that we are most likely dealing with a maniac. And please don’t tell anyone,” Dave quickly added, “if he doesn’t know we’re after him, we have a larger chance of capturing the criminal, before anyone gets hurt.” Now Bardales was alarmed even more. “How do you mean, ‘get hurt’”? “Well, Mr. Bardales, there is always the possibility that the maniac in question could graduate from toys to humans. So we must apprehend him as quickly as possible.” Dave could see the cabby’s complexion go a shade paler. And he couldn’t blame him. The man was, after all, now faced with the theoretical possibility that a maniac could be stalking him. Dave plowed on. “The valuables which were stolen from your home were listed by the police, but what I need are details concerning the doll itself. The more details I have, the bigger the chances that the criminal in question will be apprehended soon.” “Of course, of course, please ask.” The hands resumed mashing the hat. “So, you bought a fifth grader, from X-SEX at Garibaldi, on the twenty-fifth. At what time?” “Late, very late, it was probably around two in the morning.” “Okay, another thing: did your wife know that you used this doll?” “No, no, of course I hid it from Maria. She would have killed me if she knew.” “You are certain she didn’t know?” “Yes, I kept the doll under my bed, we sleep separately you see, and it was hidden on all sides by stack of old books, thrillers I knew she’d never read.” “And how did she react when she found out about the doll?” “She’s at her mother’s now, with the kids,” Dave repressed a smile at the sight of the heartfelt indignation, “didn’t believe me that I’ve never seen it before in my life. If I

ever get my hands on that puta...” Again the man’s voice trailed off. “Quite. All right, I think we’re finished here, Mr. Bardales. Thank you so much for your cooperation.” Dave stood up to prompt Bardales. Bardales promptly stood up too. “A pleasure to help, I only hope you catch him soon.” “I hope so too. Good day.” After closing the door after Bardales, Dave looked once more at the Bardales file and saved it in the ‘Toy-basher’ folder. He saw a small icon of an envelope blinking at the corner of his screen. A message from the police. He clicked it. It was another sex crime update. The body of a twenty two year old student, Trisha McCormac, had been found in the woods near the city. She had been covered in small bruises, as if beaten by the tips of a number of similar blunt instruments. Cause of death: asphyxiation; although there were no marks on her neck, and her airways were open. No water in her lungs. No residue of cotton or cloth, to indicate the use of a pillow or cushion as the murder weapon. Evidently she had been suffocated with something like a plastic bag. No DNA whatsoever, in fact, she smelled of chlorine, she had been thoroughly cleaned after death. Like all the others. With a resigned expression, Dave opened the ‘season girls’ file. For five years he had worked with the police as a detective specializing in sex crimes and for five years, four times a year, once for every season, there had been a girl like that found in or around the city. A complete mystery. They had on their hands a serial killer, who worked only four times a year. After year, after year. This sort of behavior did not fit any type of killers that he knew of. And now it was autumn, and another suffocated girl smelling of chlorine had been found. There seemed to be no racial or social pattern uniting the victims in any way, except that they were always young women below thirty. It wasn’t his case, no one had assigned it to him, but he insisted on receiving all the basic information about it. Dave switched off his computer and stood up. It was time to go meet the second victim of the toy-basher, Phalak. As he walked through the secretary’s room, he saw Maldiva sitting near little Lucy, cajoling her to take bites out of an apple. Lucy was still absorbed by the TV, but thankfully it was now switched on to a cartoon channel. Like countless generations before her, Lucy held her breath as Jerry the mouse dropped and went stiff after drinking milk poisoned by Thomas the cat. Then her eyes opened in wonder as Jerry jumped up, appearing stronger than ever. “I’m going out, Maldiva,” said Dave, “and you are free to leave as well. See you tomorrow morning.” “All right, goodbye, Mr. Cohran, see you tomorrow.” Dave winced as the secretary playfully slapped Lucy’s bottom to get her attention. “Say ‘bye’ to Mr. Cohran, Lucy.” “Bye…” mouthed through her apple Lucy and waved her hand. Dave waved back and made his exit.

Still thinking about the annual girl corpse, Dave twisted ineffectually his ignition key, before remembering that he had to say the command. “Drive, James!” he said and the BMW hummed to life. Not up to braving the radio, he directly switched on the music he had prepared beforehand. This time he listened to an ancient album of Fergie. It was a song about her treasures, their pleasures, boys going loco... Dave sighed contently. They sure knew how to make pop music in the past, how to be subtle, not like the mindless stuff these days. Nevertheless, by the time he reached the mall, he had already fallen back on Light-Eye Dove’s rendition of the Beatles. And he had to totally agree, that the inserts of vintage 1990’s trance samples into ‘Tomorrow Never Knows’ did add something. He parked his car on the minus fourth level and took the elevator to the first floor of the mall. As the doors of the lift opened, he entered the world of shining, warm, plastic safety. Fashionable families, fashionable couples and fashionable groups of students moved with the easy grace of people being in a place where they truly belonged. A group of almost identical schoolgirls with heavy makeup, curly purple and black hair, and shiny chains acting as belts for their pants, giggled at David as he passed them. He looked about for the cafe. Intertwining smells of perfume and natural soaps tickled his nostrils. His eyes located the cafe - BROWN X-TASY- and there was a neon sign above the entrance, a coffee cup with three rising wisps of smoke. He passed a stand of lipsticks, navigated through a group of bleached women clustered around a fake nail stand, turned by the shelves displaying sweets and gums, and was there. He entered the cafe and looked around. All tables were taken but one. For hormonal reasons beyond his control, his attention immediately focused on a group of pale blond teenage girls sitting with very straight backs around a stern looking older woman. The way they were dressed, especially the older woman, would in another age make David think that morals have fallen so low, that a madam was publicly and shamelessly displaying her underage flock. Fortunately, they were obviously a gymnastics or dance team with their trainer. Foreigners from Russia, or Sweden, or something like that. Or maybe they were just bleached too. The ‘madam’ caught his eye and deliberately wiped her lips with her fingers. Her flock of girls also looked to see who she was looking at. Quickly averting his gaze David made his way to the line at the counter. He surveyed the rest of the customers. There was another table populated by half a dozen schoolgirls, near it - a table of half a dozen schoolboys. The girls were playfully trying to get the attention of the boys, who gruffly pretended to concentrate on man talk. Two elderly couple occupied two table and another table housed a youngish couple of about thirty. At the other four occupied tables sat three single men and one single woman. Of the men, one was white, one was an east-Asian and one was brown. It was Dave’s turn to order. He asked for a double coffee with milk and went to

the other side of the bar to wait for it. There he discreetly took out his note book and looked at the name of the person he was meeting. Phalak Chippada. “Phalak Chippada,” he repeated soundlessly to himself, “Chippada, Chippada.” Probably a Hindu. Maybe an Arab. Or maybe an Arab-Italian. He grinned at the thought. An effeminate youth with heavily gelled hair passed him his coffee, spilling only a little of it. David nodded, took three of the long packets of sugar and slowly approached the table of the brown skinned man. The man watched him approach. “Hi, are you Mr. Chipada?” Dave asked in a low voice. “Yes indeed,” said the man and smiled nervously, crinkling his eyes in a friendly manner, “and you are... er... detective Cohran?” “That’s right,” confirmed Dave. Out of the corner of his eye he could see the girls on the madam’s table titter into his direction. To them everything was quite clear: Dave was on a homosexual blind date. With as much dignity as he could muster, he took out his notebook, put it on the table, frowned in order to concentrate, put a pen on top of the notebook, and nodded at Mr. Chippada. “Shall we begin?” “By all mean, by all means,” smiled Chippada, and unbuttoned the two top buttons of his shirt. More giggles from the girls reached Dave’s ears.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Dave got out of his car and headed home. It was almost nine in the evening and already quite dark. It always took him a few months to get used to the sun setting earlier when the summer was over. By the middle of winter he would really integrate the idea that it gets dark at five, but by then the days would start growing again, and by the time he got used to that, they would start shrinking again. There was a group of young nomies hanging out by his block of flats, and Dave passed them with the total nonchalance every male must learn to fake in such situations. A defiant spit was spat behind him, but he knew it wasn’t aimed at him, it was just noisy juvenile display of bodily functions, designed to show the world how little its opinions and mores mattered. He unlocked his apartment door, kicked it shut with urgent impatience, and ran for the toilet. Five minutes after he had gotten into his car, the urge to urinate had come, and it had been a mighty struggle to contain it until he got home, but he had managed it. In the last possible second. Very early in life Dave had noticed that one was able to control one’s strong toilet urges, while on the way to the toilet. While the toilet was still a theoretical holy grail of salvation, that is. But once the toilet was actually in sight, control seemed to fall apart, and it was a question of speed and dexterity in disentangling oneself from one’s pants, to be able to avert disaster. He was able to avert disaster once again. With a sign of relief, he plopped into the couch in front of the TV, kicked off his shoes, took off his jacket, extricated his notebook and pen from the inner pocket, pressed the ‘on’ button on the remote control, and leafed through his notes. All in all a good day’s work. He had managed to meet two out of three victims of the toy-basher. And the leads were magnificent. Both had purchased their dolls from the X-SEX shop on the Garibaldi boulevard. Both had done it just before the break-ins. Both claimed they did not know each other or the third one. Bardales had bought his doll the day before the break-in into his home and Chippada had purchased it on the same day a week later. His wife had gone on а weekend vacation alone, and so Bardales had used the time to buy the toy, to have some quality alone time with himself. He had popped out to buy cigarettes from a nearby 24/7, and when he had returned, the intruder had already been and gone. What’s more, both victims had bought the exact same model, the cyberpunk fifth grader toy-girl. He was already feeling confident enough to bet that the third guy, Mr. Boyle, also belonged to the same pattern: very late at night, fifth grader, ransacked almost immediately after purchase. Dave glanced up at the TV and saw what was disturbing him. It was a clip of Sharkana, performing her ‘Snake Away’ hit. She was dressed in a white flowing robe, an

oriental looking tiara glinting on her head, and was waving a biblical staff at a dozen halfnaked men, who were ‘snaking away’ from her on the dance floor. He flicked through the channels. News, dancing clips, dancing clips, interview with singer, a film about the making of a film (“It was such an experience to work with such great actors. And the director was also fantastic...”), a documentary about the collapse of North Korea, an ancient sob-doc about dolphins, dancing clips, someone falling out of a car while shooting with both hands, someone shooting at a police helicopter, a dancing clip, a rerun of an old superhero movie, the government of Uganda denouncing western plots to turn its schoolchildren into rabid homosexuals. Dave picked himself up. It was obvious that yet again he would have to take his entertainment into his own hands. He rummaged in the cupboard box below the TV and found the memory box on which ‘OLD SCI-FI FLICKS’ was written. He plugged the memory box into the TV, and settled back into his couch. All the Sci-Fi movies from the twentieth century, which he could buy, download, or copy from someone, were there. Should he watch ‘Plan 9 From Outer Space’? That always cheered him up. But he knew it by heart by now. ‘Voyage to the Bottom of the Sea’? Naaah. A ‘Doctor Who’? Maybe watch the ‘Devil Girl From Mars’? That evil alien appearing in a Scottish pub, looking like a ruthless middle-aged dominatrix from Munich. No wonder the poor bastards were scared shitless of her. Of course she both figuratively and literally paled in front of the legendary impeccable thighs of Lieutenant Uhura. He jumped out of his couch again. He wasn’t fooling anyone. He was feeling restless, and very, very horny, and if he remained at home he would spend the night curled up in front of some inane porn film. Which was demeaning in itself, apart from being a dangerous mixing of business and pleasure. If he allowed himself to be sucked in by the material which he was supposed to examine with a clear mind - that would the beginning of the end. And he was, after all, a grown man, with his own apartment, and his was a quite a stressful line of work. Why lay hands on himself at home, when urban civilization provided one night stands for just such people? He went to the bathroom, inspected his genitalia, which turned out to be still not completely overgrown, so there was no need to shave. Just for good measure he rinsed the little fella with some soap, dabbed some perfume behind his ears, and went to his wardrobe. It was obviously going to be a phallic night, so he chose the leather jacket and the shiny black pseudo army boots. After some deliberation he also put on his left wrist a leather bracelet. He studied the studded stud-trinket for a moment. Of course, he had still been a small kid, when studded leather bracelets and belts had left the territory of punk, heavy metal and fetish sex-shows, and entered mainstream fashion, but where he was going, the message would be clear. He examined himself once again in the mirror, this time in full gear, squinted his eyes in a manly manner, did it again in order to be certain that he remembered the exact

coordination of facial muscles, and left his home. *** Forty minutes later Dave entered the bar he usually used for such occasions. Above the entrance neon letters a foot across announced “THE FACEOFF NIGHT BAR”. The ‘E’ in the ‘FACEOFF’ was not working, so for someone not acquainted with the nature of the club, and just a touch of dyslexia, it could sounds like a skinhead or a nomie hangout. But it wasn’t. It was a swinger club. The music inside was, unfortunately, always a mix of popular sexy hits and mechanical tribal monotony with distorted guitars, which passed for heavy metal these days, so he quickly downed three small beers in a row to dull the pain and began giving everyone around the manly squint. There were more men than women sitting and gyrating in the shadows, but almost all of these men were sitting and gyrating with each other, which was good. It narrowed down the competition considerably. Two vampires were chatting up someone dressed as a tiger. As his eyes grew accustomed to the lack of light, he recognized the faces of two women, one an aging swinger nearing sixty, and the other a girl of about nineteen, with both of whom he had had his carnal adventures. They had both promised him that they would never bug him for a second session, and now only smiled at him, but did not persist once he broke eye contact. A long time ago he had made a rule for himself to never allow a woman to have sex with him more than once. Even when he had told them, and he always had, ever since the tenth grade, that he did not want a girlfriend, that he was not on the market for a relationship, and they had agreed, even then, they had always clung. As the old saying went, a woman is like ice cream: first she is hard and cold, then she melts, and then she starts clinging to you. Yes, it took him years to figure it out, but finally he had hit upon the one foolproof system: sex only once. Not twice, not thrice, but only once. If ever his resolution wavered, and he had sex twice with some charming lady, then there invariably followed a third time, and before he knew it, he was yet again in a relationship, and had to bide his time for months on end, before giving up on finding the ‘right moment’, and breaking off in a manner painful to both parties. David politely declined the advances of two young males and one pudgy middleaged werewolf who eyed him with a sagging jaw, perhaps giving a Pelican hint, and finally met the gaze of a young woman, who did not avert her gaze but smiled. A smile was all he needed. Quickly, he came over to her and lustily pressing his mouth to her ear introduced himself. Twenty minutes later they were outside the club, ‘the better to hear each other’. She caressed his wristband with a coy smile as he gave playful tugs to her ponytail. He then playfully patted her butt once, twice, to gauge her reaction, and began mashing it in earnest. An hour later, with a stop at the 24/7 for some wine, they were at his apartment.

Since music distracted him, but silence was out of the question, as usual he just put the memory box on random shuffle of ten-minute fragments, and helped his young guest unburden herself from her clothes. Her name was Georgette and she was a teacher of geography at a city school. Only twenty six and only in the capital for two years, she exhibited a somewhat awkward and shy demeanor, even though she obviously strained to enter the city rhythm at a running pace. And most likely believed that she already had. For a second her eyes had widened as if in anxiety when he threw her on the bed and lovingly stretched her cheek with his teeth while fumbling with her skirt. Then the shadow of a decision passed in a half-second over her face, and she relaxed her body and let go. On the TV screen a scantily dressed princess Leia was attempting to strangle Jabba the Hutt with some chains.

CHAPTER TWELVE

The ludicrous alarm clock melody woke Dave up and with a smile he slowly stretched his limbs. He had only slept for slightly more than four hours, but in spite of that he felt great. His whole body still remembered the currents of rising pleasure which had ran through it numerous times yesterday, and the exploding release. Especially the exploding release. And his mind also retained some vivid images, shards of last night’s games. Georgette had been eager to show that she was modern and up to date, and that had made it easy to push her in the directions in which Dave wanted to go. But she did overdo it. Not only because, like all women tended to these days, she called herself his dirty slut and praised the might of his penis - he had long ago made his peace with this phenomenon. In the last decades everyone found out about sex from porn, so it was not particularly surprising that everyone therefore tended, to a smaller or larger extent, to reenact some type of behavior they had soaked up from vids at puberty or before. But as she had passed the threshold, her face changing to that of another creature, Georgette had wriggled nimbly to position her face below his butt, and had started licking it insistently. And although her mumbling along the lines of “Give it to me, I want it,” could theoretically have been interpreted in a myriad ways, the way she had started making anticipatory fart-like sounds with her mouth as she licked had left no room for doubt. The very thought had almost killed his erection then and there, and it had been touch and go for a minute or two, before he could will himself into regaining the incoherent necromancy of the intense urban fuck. Oh thee, most fragile thing, the stressed out adult’s natural erection... But all in all, it had been a great night, not fantastic, but great, and he felt like a new man. He fiddled with himself for another five minutes, remembering episodes of last night, and slightly editing them the better to fit his fantasies. Then he finally got out of bed, a glow of well being permeating every object brushed by his content gaze, and opened the bedroom window wider. He indulged his lifelong habit and breathed in deeply, looking at the city below in an almost benevolent way, and then he lay down on the floor and did his push-ups. Upon straightening out again, he felt energy flowing through his whole body, or at least pounding in his neck, and a strong hunger for a good breakfast. He went to the bathroom and studied himself in the mirror. Undeniably, he needed a shave. He looked at his reflection and watched the blade leave sparkling clean pink roads in the white foam. Still in an amiable mood, he made himself some coffee, saw that he had a little more time, and decided to make full use of it by taking a morning dump. As he sat on the toilet seat, relaxing his muscles and hearing the first splashes down below, he remembered again the ass-licking incident with Georgette. What was it

with people these days? He remembered when he was a child, say fourth grade, he and his buddies would steal women’s magazines to look at the semi-naked models in sexy lingerie. And of course hungrily read everything that promised to touch upon erotic topics. And since everything did, they were never disappointed. Back then there was normal advice in the articles: ‘SEVENTY SEVEN SEX TRICKS TO KNOW’, or ‘HOW TO KEEP HIM FROM FOOLING AROUND’, or ‘MAKING SURE HE IS YOURS FOREVER.’ In those days the readers of the magazines learned normal stuff, like how to swallow semen without tasting it, or what fruits to feed their lovers and husbands to sweeten it. Or how to finger their prostates while sucking them off. Also, of course, nuances like positions which make deep throating easier, lubricants needed for pleasurable anal sex, what positions of the female body make the ass look tight and firm, how tying the wrists together is not weird but makes the relationship last longer... Years later, as he leafed through the magazines of his girlfriends, when he was still young and inexperienced and ended up having girlfriends, he noticed the appearance for the first time of advice concerning how to play with urine, how it was a safe disinfectant, at which time of the day it would be best to do it, how it was in fact astoundingly healthy. And in the last years, to this treasury of intimate knowledge he had noticed in the Internet another addition, a growing crop of articles carping how to best play with crap. Again, what should and shouldn’t be eaten and how long before hand, how if you do not do it with strangers the health risks are minimal, and yet again tips how to swallow while minimizing the taste... And now mainstream fashion and advertising had incorporate jolly fecalist hints into themselves too. Nudge, nudge, nod, nod, fist, fist. Crap, crap. “Be yourself!” said Dave to his reflection in a mock advertising voice, “eat some shit! Partyyy, yeah!” He washed off the remaining islands of foam and went to have breakfast. There were in the fridge, he knew, fresh eggs and sausages this time, but on the other hand, after the dump and the shave, he was on the verge of running late, so he again had a quick ham sandwich, and went out. As he drove to the office, he remembered conversations about sex first with the other students and then with his army buddies. When he would explain how the very thought of some things made him squeamish, they would say “Loosen up, you just gotta be yourself.” And when he would point out that if he was not comfortable with something, he was likely to manifest it via a soft schlong and thus not get any pleasure, they would all say with mad grins that this was what Viagra and Verilinne and Meths were invented for. Dave could not articulate neither then nor now his discomfort with this attitude, but there seemed something inherently defective in the trend of dealing with life through all these legal and illegal uppers and downers. There just had to be something wrong with this approach. By the time he reached his office, he had pummeled and kicked a number of

people from his memories, and these victories in the shadowy puppet theater of the mind helped him regain his confidence and good spirits. Maldiva was also in good spirits, as always, and was perhaps also feeling more attractive, since she had three or four big blobs of white gel in her hair. “Good morning, Mr. Cohran,” she fluttered, “Mr. Fortham from the police called five minutes ago.” “Yes? What did he want?” “He said that you should open your inbox as soon as possible, so that you may discuss what’s in there.” “And what’s in there?” “He didn’t say.” Dave faltered, before continuing to peel his coat from himself. “And how did he sound?” “In good humor I think, Mr. Cohran.” Whatever could old Andy be pleased about? Dave felt a stab of apprehension. Fortham was a good buddy, but his sense of humor was sometimes twisted. He switched on his computer, and sure enough, there was a blinking tiny envelope. It turned out to be a letter with an attached video clip. In the body of the letter was the following message: “See what you make of this. Security camera recording from the office building opposite Bardales home. See 02.50 to 03.03” Dave immediately downloaded the clip and pushed ‘play’. In the beginning there was just the street on which presumably the office building stood. He moved the clip forward to 02.48. The angle was different, it was a slow sweep camera apparently, and in one corner the entrance to another building could be seen. At 02.50 a small figure in the semidarkness darted into the entrance. After a lack of anything happening, apart from a man walking a dog, at 03.03 the figure darted out of the building and disappeared into the shadows beyond the camera’s reach. Dave went back to 02.50 and as the figure appeared he hit the freeze and then the zoom. In spite of the shadows, the frozen figure could not be mistaken with anything else. It was a fifth grader toy-girl of the cyberpunk line. Dave stood up with a thoughtful expression, which it was his habit to maintain to hide his agitation, even when there was no one around, and walked around the room, waiting for his heartbeat to quiet down again. Then he picked up the phone and called Fortham. “Ah, Cohran, you’ve seen the footage?” “Yes I have.” “We were reviewing the recordings of all the security cameras in the area, and this is what we found. Damn strange, no?” “Damn strange is right. What do your experts say?” “Dave, you keep forgetting, you are our expert, heh.” “Shit.” Dave had to smile. “How is the case going, anyway?” “Fine, I’ve got good leads, I think.” “Well, good to know. Did you see the report of the dead season girl?”

“Yeah. Whoever the bastard is, he’s still at it.” Andy was silent for a while, chewing over some thought. “You know, I checked records.” “And?” “The dead girls have been found annually at least since the late nineteen seventies.” It took Dave about five seconds to register what Andy was saying. “My God, you can’t be serious.” “Oh, I am. In fact, I suspect that if the filing system had been better before that, it would go back even further.” “Christ.” “Aha.” Dave tried to say something useful. He failed. So he asked something useless. “What is this? A father and son business?” “A granddad and grandson more like it. It shouldn’t be an endless string of copycats, because we’ve never publicized the season girls.” “Well, maybe it’s a cult of some sort?” “Maybe,” Andy’s voice suddenly dropped an octave, “or maybe some nameless ancient evil.” “Don’t, don’t do this to me, man, I’m creeped out with the doll-killer already.” “Okay, just kidding. But you know what I think?” Andy switched again to his ghoulish announcer voice, “I think we finally have a robot loose, life imitates art, only this time it’s a robocidal sex robot.” “Thanks a lot, Dracula.” “Don’t mention it. Hey, you want the files I found on the season girls?” “Sure, of course, send them right over.” “Okay, didn’t want to infodump you without asking you first.” “Thanks, I’ll be waiting for them.” “I’ll send them in a minute. By the way, I checked. No one’s on this, surprisingly. You want the assignment?” Dave hesitated. There seemed to be too many weird assignments suddenly clustering around him. On the other hand, such things have been known to lead to bonuses in the paycheck. “Ermmm... yes. Sure, why not.” “That’s the spirit, see ya.” “Bye.” Dave rang off and went to pour himself a glass of water. He saw that it was almost lunchtime, and went out for a bacon bagel. This exercise helped him put off doing some work for about forty minutes, because he walked slowly.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Fortham turned out to be right as usual. The first documented case of a season girl was from nineteen seventy seven. But only in nineteen eighty four, when four corpses were found in the course of one year, did the annual character of the whole thing become apparent. Since then, the police knew exactly what to look for, and every year they found a spring corpse, a summer corpse, an autumn corpse, and a winter corpse. Always with the neat small bruises, always suffocated but not strangled, always clean, with no fingerprints. And, since technology allowed looking for it, no incriminating DNA either. For the rest of the day Dave labored to put all the information concerning the girl’s races, ages, professions and marital statuses into the ‘My Math’ program, in order to be able to cross-reference the different data. Then he walked about his room again, pondering, before returning to his swivel chair. The brief pacing of the room had produced an insight: he would need to find vintage maps of the City. After a few minutes in the web, it turned out that the oldest one he could order was from nineteen eighty seven. It would have to do. Together with maps from nineteen ninety, nineteen ninety seven, twenty oh five and twenty eleven, nice big paper maps, it would be delivered to his office on Monday, after the weekend. Then, he would be able to be more accurate in pinpointing the exact locations in which each generation of the girls had lived, in order to try to see a pattern. And in case that didn’t yield any tangible results, which he suspected would be the case, he would apply the same approach to the places where the girl’s corpses had been found. All this sounded like something someone else had probably thought of years ago and had not succeeded in catching the killer, but he had to start somewhere. And who knows? Perhaps no one had really focused on this long-running series. Perhaps every consecutive generation of law enforcers and their bosses had accepted it as an inevitable part of life, something, which appeared before their time and would continue after they left. Now there was a depressing thought. He called Fortham again. “What’s up, detective? Solved the cases already?” “Yeah, almost. Do me a favor, see if any police detectives have ever actually worked on the case, and if yes, what they had established.” “I’ll do better than that, I’ll even tell you where they live, if they’re still around.” “Thanks.” “No problem.” ***

At home, Dave was moody. The autumn wind made fantastical noises as it bounced off the pavements, scraped the outside of his apartment block, and pushed its tendrils through any small opening, making the walls groan as it roamed in their mysterious insides. Dave made himself a double coffee, moved his easy chair over to the window, and sat down with a thoughtful expression. He took a big gulp from his mug and looked at the buildings behind the glass. He needed something solid to look at, to act as an anchor while his mind tried to digest all the new information. The image on the security cameras had shaken him, no question about it. He would have to write a letter to the manufacturers, asking whether their products had the capacity for independent movements. It was obvious what the reply would be. Only a crank would entertain the idea of a sex doll developing self-awareness. Even the most sophisticated models, with vocabularies of up to a thousand words and capacity to learn hundreds more, the expensive dolls which could massage you awake in the morning, and could even make you coffee if you showed them how, they were still just machines. The jump from a machine which makes coffee and sucks you off and tells you how fantastic you are, to a machine which becomes a night crawling vigilante was... utterly improbable? Dave gulped down more coffee. One by one the windows in the neighboring buildings lit up. The autumn dusk had descended. His own apartment was becoming shadowy, but he didn’t feel like switching on the lights yet. The lack of clear outlines allowed his eyes to rest. And the new info about the season girls was also very disconcerting. Apparently he had also allowed this whole thing to become just so much background noise for him. Another bomb blows up a market in Afghanistan, another ecological conference takes place in Stockholm, another journalist found ‘killed by gangs’ in Moscow, another dead girl found on the edge of town. What Andy had told him had jolted things back into focus. If this thing has been going on from before he was even born, if no one had managed to crack it... why had no one managed to crack it? Now was the time to get out of the easy chair and switch on the lights. He did that and went over to the coffee table near the sofa, and picked up his notebook. He mustn’t allow himself to go to pieces from a flood of strange information. He should organize it, break it all down into small manageable chunks, then examine it, then make a plan. He twiddled his pen, started writing three times, and three times he gave up. He couldn’t concentrate. A fear began swelling up inside him, fear that he was not up to the task. He took refuge from it by briskly unbuttoning his jeans and thinking about Georgette. After three minutes he forced himself to stop. Obviously, this was not an evening in which he would be able to make a plan for his assignments. And he was feeling horny again.

Horny with a surprising intensity. Perhaps one night of sex hadn’t been enough after all. He should go to the club and find another woman, and after that, he would have a clear mind for a month at least. With such reasoning, Dave gulped down the remainder of his evening cup, ran a comb through his hair, got dressed and went out. Outside, the chilly wind woke him up immediately. Get the ‘ole blood moving again, he commented to himself as he took one last deep breath before getting into his car and conjuring up two merging tunnels of light ripping through the dusk.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Natalie was at home, organizing her wardrobe. She tried to ignore the wind singing in the corridor outside her apartment, whistling as it tried to crawl in under her door. After the pullovers, the shirts, the ties, the skirts and dresses, and pants, and shorts had been correctly rearranged, she surveyed them and then swept the floor of the kitchen. Then, as she debated with herself whether it’s okay to vacuum at half past midnight, she realized that she was putting off going to sleep. The safety of the day had folded into itself. The matrix of work had retreated and she was now alone. Alone with her thoughts. Her flat felt empty and this was in itself depressing, but it was the thought of the moment when it would stop feeling empty that filled her with apprehension. The dreadful possibility that the loathsome presence would be there again. She needed someone, a male body. She needed sex. But not the gigolos. Apart from being prohibitively expensive, it just wasn’t what she needed now. Her hysterical flu-reaction to the devastation by Rafael and Phil had only just subsided, and her nose was almost completely open again. What was required now was some company, then sex, and then company again. Time to go fishing. Natalie put on her fishnets, her red latex jacket and called a taxi. Luckily the driver was also a woman, a middle-aged manly woman, who swore at the other drivers and spoke in a hoarse voice. At least that spared Natalie the knowing leer a male driver would have given her. She got out of the taxi and looked at the entrance of the FACEOFF club. Then she took a deep breath, straightened her shoulders and tapped with her heels towards the entrance. Inside, a popular tune was playing loudly. It was last year’s hit ‘Yes, I Wanna Bond’. “I be no alone, Yes I Wanna bond, Let’s bond, I said let’s bond, This be the age of bonding, This - be bond-age, Be bond-age! Be bond-age!” Natalie tried to get into the mood and wiggled her hips slightly as she moved through the smoky semidarkness towards the bar. Her heels were glowing blue and so were the heels of at least two more ladies. Although one pair glowed red. Something Natalie considered rather vulgar. Lipstick glowed on certain lips, not all of them female, and the eyelids of the barman also displayed luminous qualities in the violet part of the spectrum.

He showed a politely querying face to Natalie and she opened her mouth to shout her order, but then changed her mind. With a smile she showed both thumbs pointing down and then slowly rotated them upwards. The barman nodded and after a quick fumble behind the bar gave her a bottle of ‘Promiscuous Promise’, the popular energy drink. He showed nine fingers to Natalie and she counted out the bills and slid them over. It had been Bob’s brainchild, from a year back, to advice the ‘PP’ producers to use a slowly rising thumb as a symbol of the promise of their drink. It had been her brainchild to make the thumbs two. The advert had been a success, and now that she had been reminded of it, confidence trickled back into her tired frame. She sipped the foul tasting drink and surveyed her surroundings. Men and women were dancing, as did men and men, and women and women. There were also single men and women who waggled and doddered alone, drinks in hands. Two ferrets were dancing a complicated dance with three fallen angels and one horned devil. As she sat there, with her back to the bar, leaning on her elbows, the first potential night partner wobbled over to her with a grin. He was a thin man dressed in a tight fitting black latex jacket and equally tight green pants, with red latex gloves on his hands. He smiled at Natalie and made a ‘cheers’ gesture with his cocktail glass. Natalie returned the gesture and scrutinized his face with a polite smile. He had the popular thin mustache, and pointy sideburns. “Alec!” he shouted into her face. “Miriam,” lied back Natalie on an impulse. There was something wrong with this man, something which set off tiny alarms, but she couldn’t put her finger on it. Then she realized that his cheeks seemed rather immobile and his forehead also seemed frozen in a perpetual amiable half-frown. This cat had given his face a temp-frieze, this distasteful means of being without a mask, but still subtly hiding one’s identity, one’s everyday face. Unnerved, Natalie showed him a thumbs down, shrugged her shoulders with a thin sympathetic smile and turned to the bar. In the mirror behind the rows of bottles she saw his reflection look at her with a frozen smile for another ten seconds, before abruptly turning and gyrating away to look for another potential playmate. *** Dave went to the bar and ordered a beer. He still insisted on interpreting his knotted stomach as a sign of overwhelming amorphous arousal and now looked around trying to see a fitting target on which to focus it. He saw a tipsy Georgette sitting alone and a chap in a black jacket and green pants walking over to her. She felt Dave’s gaze and gave him a brief smile, before returning to the pretense of conversation with her latex suitor. Dave’s gaze wandered about the club for a minute, lingered on the ferrets for a

second, and when he looked again into Georgette’s direction, she was gone. And so was Mr. Greenpants. Oh well, more power to them. Dave turned to look at the other people on the bar. Just seven feet away there was a petite black girl, energy drink can in hand, scanning the club. She was in a red latex jacket and in fishnets. Her heels glowed blue. Dave decided to try his luck, and approached the girl. She noticed his movement, and lifted her eyes to meet his gaze. A second of mutual paralysis passed very slowly. “Natalie?” “Dave?” “Natalie!” “Dave!” They hugged each other for a long time. Then Dave signaled with a stronger squeeze that he is letting go, let go, stepped back and looked her over. She had grown thinner and a little older, but she was still a fantastic young woman. He only hoped that he still didn’t look too old at his forty one years. After some courteous but impossible attempts at conversation, Dave realized that they had to change location. Obviously there was nothing for both of them to do in the bar anymore. “Let’s go for an evening coffee in the BYWAY!” he shouted to her. She nodded in happy agreement. The wind ruffled their hair as they walked to his car, and didn’t make conversation much easier than back in the club, but once inside the BMW, they could finally talk. “Such a surprise to see you, Dave, I didn’t know you were back,” Natalie said as she was buckling herself up. The headlights dispersed once again the night in front, with a lurch like a lowly amateur, a wound up Dave propelled the car forward. He tried to keep his mind on the road. The night traffic was meager but not nonexistent. He answered the implied question. “Oh yes, I’ve been back for quite some time now.” “And you didn’t call?” “Well...” Dave changed lanes while struggling to concentrate, “a lot of time had passed, and I thought you probably have a new phone number and stuff...” He threw a quick glance at Natalie, who was looking at him with an indecipherable expression. “You’re right about that,” she said, “I do have a new number and address, but you could’ve looked me up in the web. I have a NuSmart account and a MyFace profile, I’m easy to find.” “Well...” said Dave again and thanked the gods. They have reached the lights of the BYWAY and he could now focus solely on parking. The night cafe was half-empty and they chose a table between two crimson leather couches. The walls of the cafe were covered with nostalgic old posters of ancient movies, there was ‘Twilight’ and ‘2012’, and even ‘Waterworld’. True to form, the music was of the same era, more or less, and one of the incalculable number of ‘Rhythm is a Dancer’ remixes played softly, intertwining with the sounds of liquids slurped, burgers munched and words cross-pollinating with snickers and

giggles. Dave opened the long, thin menu in the form of a Cadillac convertible. The car had had a brief comeback as a fashionable hybrid copy of the classic thing, and its image still lingered here and there. His interest was immediately tickled by a photo of a very greasy looking burger with bits of onion and lettuce sticking out invitingly from between the two buns. He glanced up at Natalie. “You know what you will take?” “Aha, I think I’m ready.” Dave waved at a girl in a red shirt and black pants, and after finishing with the neighboring table, she came over. “Hi,” she said with a genuine glow of pleasure at seeing them. She was about Natalie’s age, looked like white trash, or at least formerly white trash, and had the positive face of someone who is on the usual mix of speed and overthe-counter antidepressants. She had ‘Ivy’ written on her name tag. “Hi,” answered Dave, and looked at Natalie. She was apparently waiting for him to order first, just like he was waiting for her, and Ivy was throwing both amiable glances, holding her check-box in hand. Dave firmly resolved the situation by waving a hand with vague invitation at Natalie. Natalie took her cue, took her menu, and ordered, without meeting the waitress’s eyes. “I’ll have the Queen of Egypt salad please, and a glass of water.” “Will that be cold or warm water?” “Room temperature, please.” “Fine, thank you.” With a burst of lightning clickity-clack Ivy punched the order in and turned her eyes to Dave. He cleared his throat. “Yeah, I’ll have the Biker Grease burger, with fries, not spicy, and a cappuccino.” Then a small stab of guilt made him add an orange juice too. Ivy the waitress left and now they were alone, just the two of them. A silent moment pregnant with conversational possibilities descended upon the table. Then Natalie looked at Dave, placed her handbag on her lap and stooped over it, slowly rummaging through its contents. “I’ll go outside and have a smoke, Dave; you go ahead and wait for the drinks.” “You still smoking then?” “Of course. You still holding out?” “Yup, still haven’t ever even lit one.” Natalie gave him a quick glance of approval and fished out her pack. “Good boy. Don’t start. The stuff’s unquitable.” She placed her bag back on the seat of the couch and got up. “Wait, wait, I’ll go with you,” said Dave and also started getting up. “No, no, there’s no need. And anyway, someone has to watch our things. Look, I’m leaving my handbag here.” She smiled at him. “I’ll be back real quick, I promise.” She went. Dave escorted her with his eyes. In the bright light of the night cafe she was sexier than seemed polite.

Her thin legs in fishnets, sticking out from her light purple dress, which in turn was sticking out from below her very short latex jacket, all worked on him in a very exciting and intimidating manner. He tried to put all sensual thoughts out of his mind. What was in the past was in the past. A shadow fell on the table. Ivy had arrived with the drinks. He quickly set to work on his cappuccino with the spoon, making the thin brown streaks mix with the milky whiteness and produced a light brown liquid. He then added two packs of sugar, went through the motions a second time. It was ready, but still too hot. He took a sip from his orange juice. Not bad, there was some nice squishy pulp floating inside. He looked at Natalie’s silhouette beyond the glass walls of the cafe. Perhaps she also felt this strange mix of joy at the unexpected meeting, and the woody artificiality, which made spontaneous behavior and conversation rather strenuous. Why the artificiality? Just because they were former lovers? The veiled guilt, which no one would admit, stemming from them running into each other at a place for casual sex with strangers? He looked at his orange juice, the pulp slowly swirling in the yellow liquid, descending towards the bottom of the glass. Perhaps all that was needed was some time to pass, for both of them to get used to the idea that they had met again. He saw the entrance door open out of the corner of his eye and looked up. It wasn’t Natalie. It was a group of boys and girl, whose manic banter mixed with what Dave now realized was a revamped ZZ Top hit. Ivy came over again and put a flat plate with shredded cabbage mixed with some brown beans in front of Natalie’s vacant chair. Dave took one bean from the salad and chewed it slowly. And then Natalie herself returned, the smell of tobacco intermingling in a not unpleasant fashion with her perfume. She gave him another “Hi,” and delicately began cutting a shred of cabbage into even more miniscule pieces. Dave felt a nearing smell of something tasty and in a second his Biker Grease with fries was in front of him. He took a fry and popped it into his mouth. “So what are you doing these days, Natalie? Finished university? Married? Divorced?” Natalie smiled and put her fork and knife aside. “I’m still single, as should be obvious...” “Not necessarily...” “Well, I’m not that kind of girl.” She took her fork again and chewed on a puny piece of a bean. Dave bit into his burger. The flavor of fried meat, combined with the sting of onion, triggered an immediate response of pleasure from his whole organism. Natalie swallowed and continued with her status update. “Yes, I finished university. I have a BA in Marketing and Public Relations and an MA in Sociology.” Dave’s tongue pushed the mashed burger ingredients into his right cheek to free up space for speaking, and having accomplished that he said, “Sociology? Deep stuff.”

“Indeed,” agreed Natalie earnestly, “and it’s not just asking people who they will vote for and what type of customers will buy a washing powder, you know.” “What else? Counting the population?” “It’s figuring out how life works. What makes people do the things that they do.” Ha, thought Dave, another contender for the throne of the headshrinkers. “Doesn’t psychology deal with that?” Natalie gave him a smile of appreciation for his interest. “Well, they deal with how the mind and emotions work, and then there’s mass psychology, which is sort of in the middle, and then there’s sociology, which is about how society works.” “Hmmm.” “For instance suicide. More than a hundred years ago Emile Durkheim analyzed then existing statistical data concerning suicide. And he saw that suicide rates were not at a constant level, but curved upwards or downwards.” “Hmmm.” “Yes, and when he superimposed the data on historical records, it turned out, that in times of war for instance...” “There were much more suicides?” “No. There were much less suicides. Because people all had a single purpose and a single enemy, and everything made sense. But when there is no common enemy, then people are again different atoms adrift, with everyone having to figure out for themselves what life is about, and then suicide rates shoot up.” Dave moved his eyebrows in polite excitement at the information. “You mean that if life is peaceful and there is no hunger or plague, people tend to kill themselves more?” “Aha. Well, depends on other factors too, but mainly - yes. One of the first great sociological discoveries.” “Hmm.” “And you, Mr. Hmm?” Natalie giggled and cupped her lovely chin in her hands. “Are you married, divorced? What have you been doing for the last seven years? You went to Russia, right?” Dave swallowed another piece of his burger and finished his orange juice. “Yeah, after leaving the army I became a medical student.” “And we met a few months before your graduation.” “Right, but then there was another market crash, blah-blah, unemployment.” “I remember.” Natalie nodded, “I got laid off from my part time job in the mall then. A blessing really, I concentrated more on the university, and got all sorts of scholarships.” “Right, and then I read that the Russians were looking for surgeons from the first world, and were offering considerable money. Back then the Russian government was going to compensate the brain and skill drain on the country by hiring foreign professionals.” Dave accompanied his words with a brief sarcastic smile. “And so I contacted the embassy, and soon everything was ready and off I went.” “I remember it like it was yesterday,” teased Natalie, “that was the first time in two months you had called me, and only to tell me that you are flying away in a few hours.”

Dave ignored the remark and popped the last solitary fry into his mouth. “And so I was sent to the freezing hell of Muhosransk, and spent there half a year before running like hell.” “Was it that bad?” “It was beyond bad.” A frown flickered on Dave’s face, and he continued. “So I returned here, and decided to take a loan and open my own business.” “Ah? What kind of business?” “A detective agency.” A burst of merry laughter escaped Natalie, before she regained control of herself. “Sorry. A private eye, eh?” “Yes. Well, to cut a long story short, business was very bad, the whole idea turned out to suck horribly, but then came the outsourcing of much of the police work, if you remember.” “Yes, of course. Some people were very angry with that.” “Right, and some people were happy, people like me.” “So now you are a detective for the city police?” “That’s right.” “Congratulations.” Natalie gave him a stiff nod, but her smile was very much alive. “What do you work at? All the crimes, or a specific field?” Dave lowered his voice and cringed dramatically. “Sex crimes.” “You always were a sex bandit.” Dave pushed aside his plate and drained the last of his cappuccino. Natalie also put aside her half-finished salad, and drank her water. “Time to go, maybe?” said Dave. Natalie nodded. Dave beckoned to the waitress and made a brief gesture with his fingers, as if he was typing on an invisible keyboard. Ivy the waitress smiled and came over with a small printout. Dave held out a firm hand in front of Natalie, implying that he will be the one to pay, and Natalie blew him a kiss of agreement. “But I’ll take you out next time, big boy.” Ivy swiped Dave’s card over her check-box and after a brief churning sound she gave him another printout and a pen. He signed at the bottom and received his card. Natalie got up and Dave shot out of his seat as well and helped her put on her jacket. “Thank you, Dave,” she smiled at him, her face inches away from his. He put on his own jacket and they went out of the cafe, into the cool autumn night. “How is Anton these days?” he asked as he took out his car keys. “Dad? He’s fine. Works a lot. We don’t see each other a lot lately. Both too busy. You should give him a call, he’d be delighted to hear from you.” “You think so?” “Absolutely. Here, I’ll send you his number. And that way, incidentally,” she stuck out her pink tongue briefly, “you will have my number as well.” “Sure, good idea.” Dave said his number, Natalie typed quickly with her delicate fingers and in a few seconds the phone inside Dave’s jacket gave a beep. He now had both Natalie’s and Anton’s numbers. He looked at her face. So many memories had suddenly resurfaced in the last hour. “Would you like me to give you a lift home?”

“That would be great. I’m not in the mood to return to the club anyway.” “Hop in then.” Twenty minutes later they stopped in front of Natalie’s dull, concrete high-rise. She unbuckled herself, quickly kissed him on the cheek and got out. “And don’t forget to call, you asshole,” she whispered cheerfully and closed the door. Dave smiled to himself and drove off towards home. When Natalie returned to her flat, she made a few funny faces in the mirror and giggled, then abruptly all strength drained out of her, as it tended to happen quite often in the last year or two, and in another ten minutes she was in her bed. It was late, she was, for some reason, knackered, and went to sleep almost immediately. Luckily tomorrow was Saturday and she could sleep as long as she liked. When Dave returned to his flat, he shook with sexual excitement and put on his shoes twice in order to go back to the FACEOFF bar, and twice he took them off again. On one hand he did not have to go to work tomorrow. But on the other, meeting Natalie made him feel surprisingly queasy about the prospect of another one-night stand. As a compromise, he opened a can of beer and put on the collected first season of the original Twilight Zone. By the time the aging actress had finally turned her back to our world for the sake of a fantasy existence on the screen, Dave had also nodded off. On the next day he did nothing.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Georgette and Alec got into Alec’s car. As usual he had said that he is a married man, and as usual he had offered a choice of going to a hotel, or to the girl’s place. As he was confident would happen, she had happily offered they go to her flat. Alec looked at the young teacher in impatient anticipation. Below her green coat she had a red dress, which stopped five inches above her knees, and a very wide black latex belt on her waist. In the very beginning he had warned her - no kissing! Obediently, she had only sucked a little at his latex-clad fingers. He could physically feel her arousal rise from this simple act. There and then he knew that she was ideal for this night. Once in her flat, after mashing her ass and tits as the accepted polite overture, he took his black latex suit from his shoulder bag. It had holes for the eyes and the mouth, and an area of transparent latex at the groin, with a tube for the penis, for his erection to fill up. He put his suit on and led the excited Georgette to her bed. He put her on the bed and gave a few slaps to her plump breasts, before pouring some strawberry flavored throat lubricant on the latex skin of his penis. He turned Georgette on her back, with her head hanging down from the bed, and poured some lubricant into her open mouth. The significance of this act in itself upped the level of excitement additionally. She squirmed from the rising sexual tension that was gripping her. Her muscles could be seen stiffening with the naked eye. With a slurp his erection entered her mouth. With an excited gargle she strained to stick out her tongue even more, to lick at the base of his penis. Pelican baby. In ten minutes, as Georgette’s face and hair were covered with layers of thick saliva from the deepest depth, and oozing stalactites projected from her head towards the floor, Alec pulled back. He had almost ejaculated. It was far too early for that. As she used the chance to inhale some air and show some class by speaking dirty in her now guttural voice, he went to the kitchen and brought back a glass of water for her. When she took the glass gratefully, he gave her a small pill without any words. Without any words she swallowed it. Her gaze was now only half-sane and he recognized that characteristic look of expectancy that she had, just like all the others. He had broken her personality, at least for now, and revealed the sticky, organic, mindless mass below. And this mass could now be molded into any shape he chose. He took out of his bag a metallic mouth restraint and even as he was holding it up, Georgette already opened her mouth expectantly. He fitted the contraption into her mouth

and now she could not close it. He took out scissors and a roll of velvet rope from his bag. He cut off a foot of the rope, tied Georgette’s hands behind her back and put her on the bed, on her belly. Now she wasn’t able to swallow her saliva even if she had wanted to, and every contraction of her throat would bring forth a new torrent of her inner liquids. He took her ponytail into one hand, placed his other hand on her right cheek and slid his penis inside her mouth again. He pumped for ten seconds, fifteen seconds and the first convulsions rocked Georgette, as she tried to obtain a breath of air and some relief from the pounding. He held her head in place firmly and only after another gargling spasm, which shot sprays of gooey liquid from her nose, did he retract his shaft. Then he stopped, to let some air enter the gaping wet mouth and as she mooed something, he suddenly decided to take out the mouth restraint to hear what it was. “Gaaah, fuck that faaaace...” screeched Georgette and gave a deep rolling cough, before Alec returned the restraint to where it was, and slid his penis back inside. In five minutes it was time for another break, to avert another looming ejaculation and to move forward another step of his plan for the night. He untied the hands of the gasping and coughing girl and rolled her over. She was now again on her back. He then proceeded to cut off three more lengths of velvet rope from his bag and tie her limbs to the legs of her bed. She lay there, naked, limbs spread, transfixed, her mouth incapable of closing. He went again into her kitchen, found a big salad bowl, returned, and began massaging her belly with his latex-clad hand. Perhaps she had thought that the pill she had been given was some sort of aphrodisiac. It was in fact a strong laxative. Soon he heard the first rumbling coming from her stomach. She began squirming and mooing again. “Give it to me, do it, that’s a good girl,” he muttered as he caressed her belly. When he saw her sphincter flutter and begin to open he lifted slightly her buttocks with one hand and positioned the bowl with the other.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

It was a slow-moving rainy Sunday afternoon and Anton was at his home, lounging in his sofa, with two small silk cushions under his head, a glass of beer and an ashtray on the floor by the sofa, and a book standing on his belly, balanced by his lazy fingers, which he read with deliberate sensual pleasure. The book was old, with two layers of cellotape crisscrossing its cover. Its name was ‘Three Men in a Boat (To Say Nothing of the Dog)’. The raindrops splattered softly on the windowpane and turned into tiny, shifting rivers. The phone rang. An unfamiliar number. After some deliberation, Anton picked it up. “Hi, I’m looking for Anton.” “Him speaking.” “Hey, Anton, it’s me, Dave, Dave Cohran!” Anton gave a yelp of agitation. “David! You’re in town!” “Yeah, have been for quite a while now. I ran into Natalie and she gave me your number. Wanna have a coffee or something?” “Sure, let’s do that. Let’s do that now. You come right over, I’ll tell you where I live.” “Okay, let’s do that.” After switching off the phone, Anton lit another cigarette. David. He had missed him more than he cared to admit. He closed his eyes and returned for the first time in ages to school ninety five. Twenty seven years ago, Anton had been a young history teacher there. Back then Dave was a restless boy of fifteen, in possession of a very bright mind, but decidedly prone to laziness. And then came that fateful day, November twenty-seventh. There was a boy in the class, Mike, who was always the brunt of bullying and cruel jokes from the rest of the boys, and some of the girls. Only Dave had more or less left him alone. And in the late autumn morning of that Monday, Mike had entered the classroom with a shotgun, two pistols and an ax. Anton had had recurring nightmares about this for a decade afterwards. The screams, the pleading, the shots, the horrible sound of an ax entering a young human body. In the end, of those present in the classroom, only Anton himself and Dave had survived the massacre. For an eternity, Mike had looked at them, and they had looked at the trembling muzzle of his pistol, before, with a sudden movement, the boy had put the gun into his mouth and pulled the trigger. After this, the young teacher and the undisciplined boy turned friends. Anton had quit teaching immediately and became, after a while, a journalist for a liberal newspaper. Dave had become a young death metal legend. Anton still had two or three of his discs somewhere. Dave’s first two albums, in which he had translated guitar riffs into synthesizer

riffs, replaced the bass with a programmed cello and added samples of animals from a slaughterhouse, had made him an instant legend among the couple of thousand enthusiasts around the world that cared about such things. As he, Anton, had become something of an opinion maker, Dave had become an almost legendary musician and composer. The center of a ‘cult’ musical project, he fired all the musicians after the recording of each album, and took his pick from the best ones in the field for the next one, and there were quite a many people who thought it an honor to play with the young prodigy. Then, a few years after graduating high school, Dave abruptly stopped making music and joined the army. That was the first long hiatus in which they stopped keeping in contact, apart from the incidental Christmas e-card. Years passed. Anton’s lovely stepdaughter had grown from a baby to a stunning young woman, when an older, toned and sexy Dave had appeared on the horizon again. Anton’s phone played the ‘Flight of the Valkyrie’. It was Dave. “Hi, I’m at the entrance of your building. What code do I punch in?” “Ah yes, sorry, Dave. It’s seven-eight, eight-seven, seven-eight, oh-nine.” “Seven-eight, eight-seven, seven-eight, oh-nine... okay, I’m inside.” “Take the elevator, type in the same code to activate it, and go to the fourth floor. Apartment four-eighteen.” “All right, see you soon, man.” Anton smiled. Dave still used the word ‘man’. With a happy grunt he got out of his sofa and opened the window wide. The sound of traffic and the smell of city air entered the room. This was a gesture to Dave; perhaps he was still a nonsmoker and an open window fanatic. After this, Anton briefly examined himself in the mirror, changed his shirt, blew off the ashes scattered on the coffee table, put on the kettle and lit yet another cigarette. The doorbell rang. Anton looked at the little screen near the door. It was an older looking David. He unlocked and unlatched the door and opened it. “Anton!” “Dave!” Anton hugged the younger man for a second and bade him inside. A minute later they we sitting in the living room on both sides of the coffee table. Thankfully, both were relaxed enough to grin sheepishly. No one felt the need to project a stern, serious persona. Dave looked older, but there still seemed to remain something of the wild boy, who perhaps even now looked through the mature man’s eyes. “So, Dave, you’re back from Russia, I see.” Dave nodded and smiled. “Yeah, now I’m a private dick working for the police.” “A sleuth, as people used to say,” said Anton with characteristic quiet glee, “a gumshoe. A sniffer. Congratulations. You always had a bent for logical thinking, although you seldom used it.” “Thanks, I guess. And you? Still a journalist?” “No, no, far from it. I work at the Mental Hygiene Office.” Dave raised his eyebrows. “What’s that? Sounds like a brainwashing ministry from some conspiracy.”

“Not exactly,” laughed Anton. It was a deep laughter, which stirred up a smoker’s cough. “It’s rather my own invention. You know I’ve always had a tendency to find significance in the way people dressed and how commercial posters looked. I’ve finally got the state to pay for me and my team to collect all this info and analyze it.” “What can I say? Congratulations!” Having said that Dave wondered what to say next. Anton was obviously bristling with desire to discuss all topics imaginable, like they used to, decades ago. He formulated a possible leading question. “And how does it look? What does your research show?” “Everything’s pretty shitty.” “Hah, you’re telling me.” Anton looked at his old friend, noting the small telltale wrinkles around the eyes. “How was Russia? Did you see Saint Petersburg?” “Nope, I saw Siberia.” “Wow, where did you go?” “I was a surgeon in Muhosransk.” Anton cackled. “That sounds like a contemporary love novel, the new bestseller by Tamara Akhmed: ‘I Was a Surgeon in Muhosransk’!” Dave continued the improvisation. “A shattering love story of a lonely werewolf transvestite, who tried to flee from himself, only in order to find.. er..” “Herself.” “Right, herself.” Anton patted his knees contently. A small humorous improvisation had just been adequately carried out. They still had the chemistry. But Muhosransk? “Muhosransk, that’s very up north, isn’t it?” “It’s like a hostile planet there, man.” “Tell me, tell me.” “What’s there to tell? It was terrible. When the winter came it dropped to minus forty. Centigrade.” Anton gaped obligingly, “Centigrade!?” “Yup. I mean, it’s usually minus thirty, but every once in a while it’s minus forty. And that year was like that. Everybody there knows that every four-five years temperatures tend to get really low.” Dave’s voice had gotten sharper suddenly. “And the funny thing is, they live there, it’s their city, but they are totally unadapted.” “What do you mean, unadapted?” “Well, the buildings suck. Apartment blocks, which are very little good against a winter of this sort.” Dave’s nostrils were now quivering with emotion. “People’s hair freezes to the wall when they sleep.” “No way.” “Yeah, ice builds up, I mean literally, ice builds up on the inside of the apartment walls. If they are lucky, they can make the bathroom into a warm room, where the kids are sent to do their homework.” “They must be supermen!” exclaimed Anton, looking at the agitated detective. “Well that’s exactly it - they’re not. They are constantly ill. And in the operating rooms... tt was hell. Every day of the winter, people would come in with frozen limbs and

I would have to saw them off.” “Ugh.” “Ugh indeed,” said Dave, squirming uneasily on his chair. “And you realize, that that’s that for them. There was this guy, his car broke down out of town. Hell of a frostbite. We had to amputate his hands and feet and he had no family. From now on, he would just be put into some freezing shit-hole for invalids, to degenerate for probably a year, before dying.” “No question of getting a transplant or an artificial limb I suppose.” “Not for your average Ivan there isn’t.” “I understand why you didn’t stay there for long,” said the Albino. “Oh, when the day came, I ran like hell. That day, the anesthetic ran out.” “What!?” Anton’s face showed not only horror, but fear, because Anton was very much afraid of pain. Dave glanced at Anton and then fixed his gaze on the coffee table. “Yeah, we had to cut living flesh and they had to feel every bit of it.” “But why?” “Because they are inefficient, suicidal misanthropes!” said the detective with sudden savagery. “There was this kid, he’d missed his bus from school. And he walked back to his village, six miles. And now I was expected to cut off his hands, without anesthetic, which no one had been efficient enough to stock better, because some damn bus driver, who must know all the kids by face, didn’t wait for him, and there was no other place for him to go to. And apparently no one had even planned for this obvious situation in the first place, although I’m certain this wasn’t the first fucking time something like that had happened!” Dave shot out of his chair and paced the room without even noticing that he was no longer sitting at the table. He had been dying to have this talk with someone. Anton lit up another cigarette, ejected the smoke out through his nostrils and looked benevolently at the roused detective. Dave was gesticulating and sincerely fuming. “I mean, can you imagine: the nation, which for two decades looked like it would outcompete the whole western world, and then for another two decades looked like it would be lagging behind, but still controlling half of Europe... I mean, to this day, the Russians are a technologically advanced nation, if it wasn’t for them, none of these Irans, Pakistans and Nigerias, they wouldn’t have nuclear or space technology. I bet even the Hindus initially got their space technology from the Russians.” Anton dared not say anything for fear of breaking the spell. He felt that this outpour helped Dave come to terms with some things. The detective continued his angry lecture. “...But there, in the heart of Russia, in Muhosransk, they can’t get their act together to the minimal extent of not living in hell. It’s not impossible: they have the resources, the technology, the know-how. But they don’t apply it. Canadians do, Norwegians,_ Icelanders, Alaskans do - but they don’t. And so they live in this hell, in shitty freezing apartments, working and studying in shitty freezing buildings, and they are always drunk to cope with it, and they live like up to fifty...”

“You’re exaggerating.” “Only slightly. They hate themselves, but they hate other Russians more, and they hate foreigners the most. Especially colored foreigners like Asians or Africans. Fucking young skinheads and aging drunken ultrapatriots everywhere.” “Well, I still ain’t too fond of Afros myself,” interjected Anton with an undertone of defiance. “What? Still?” “Yup. Don’t like them one bit.” Dave looked at Anton’s stubborn smile and suddenly his Russian flashback receded, the adrenaline it had pumped up releasing itself in an explosion of laughter. “What’s so funny, Dave?” Anton asked with somewhat _strained patience. Dave looked through tears of laughter at his old friend. The educated man, the former teacher, the former liberal opinion maker, who was an albino that hated Africans and thought the world of his black stepdaughter. “You’re...you’re...” he gasped smiling, “you’re still a man of contradictions, Tony old boy.” Anton gave a mock stiff nod and beckoned to Dave’s empty chair. Dave returned to it. “More coffee, dear detective?” “Oh yes please, Mr. Mentalist.” Anton went to the kitchen and Dave heard the sound of a kettle being filled up with water and then switched on. Then the albino returned. “So what was the end of your story, Dave? There was this kid with frozen hands, no anesthetic, and what did you do?” “I went out of the operating room, got my coat and hat, went out of the hospital, got myself a freezing taxi, went home, took my money and my essentials, and went to the freezing railway station.” “So you literally ran, eh?” “Yeah, literally. I got myself a ticket and a bottle of vodka at the station, and half a bottle later I was in the train, en route to Yekaterinburg.” “Wait,” Anton returned to the kitchen, where the kettle had stopped making noises, and returned in forty seconds with two steaming cups of coffee. He put one in front of Dave and sat down again. The rain had begun to beat harder at the windowpane. Anton prepared to light another cigarette and looked at Dave. “Yekaterinburg you said. A bigger city?” “Right, third biggest.” Dave sipped his hot coffee tentatively. “And there I walked into the airport and saw what flight was available right now, just to get the fuck out of there, and there was a seat on a flight to Hungary, and I just grabbed it, and flew to bloody Budapest, and tuned out there for two-three days, and then flew back home, back here.” “Well, did you learn anything valuable over there, or was it just a depressing waste of time?” Ah, enter the teacher, thought Dave. Good question though, he hadn’t asked himself that. “Difficult to say. It put life back here into a different perspective, and I also got acquainted with Russian humor. It’s pretty specific.” “It would have to be, from what you’ve told me.”

“Here’s just one example. Quite possibly, the most horrible joke in the world.” “I’m all ears.” Dave leaned forward conspiratorially. “A young deckhand sees an old experienced sailor smoking his pipe. The smoke smells funny. ‘Whatcha smoking?’ asks the young deckhand. The old sailor replies: ‘whenever we go on a long voyage, I pluck some hairs from my old lady’s pussy and smoke ‘em up when I get lonely.’” Anton cackled, and Dave got his attention back with a ‘wait, wait!’ wave of his hand. “So on the next voyage, the young deckhand goes up the deck, takes out rolling papers, makes himself a cigarette and lights it. The old sailor smells the smoke and comes over. ‘Whatcha got there boy?’ he says. ‘I got myself some hairs from the girlfriend’s pussy!’ answers the proud deckhand. The old wise sailor takes a critical whiff at the smoke and says: ‘you pluck them too near the asshole, boy.’” Anton curled up in laughter and so did Dave. And it was difficult to tell, whether the joke itself was what made their faces go pink and their faces contort into shaking masks of manic glee, or was it because the joke allowed them to exhibit a violent emotion connected to their meeting. Perhaps it was both, combining into an unstable, but joyful third emotion. “Nothing like a little mysoginistic humor to bond, eh?” said Anton after the burst of merriment had passed. Dave knew what the word meant and felt a stab of guilt, but saw that Anton was grinning. The albino stood up, opened the window and lighted another cigarette. “All in all that’s quite a Russian adventure, doctor Livingstone. And now, you’re back here, a former surgeon, a former soldier...” Anton suddenly made a face and stuck out his tongue for a second, “and a former death metal legend, working as a detective for the city police.” “Death metaaaal!” said Dave and made the heavy metal sign. “Yup, I am all that, sitting here with my, ahem, chain-smoking, albino, racist friend, who has a black stepdaughter and works at monitoring the mental health levels of the city.” “Touche. And exactly what is your field now?” Dave took a breath. “Sex crimes.” Anton’s eyes twinkled with merriment. “Hahaha, you have to watch a lot of porn,_ no?” “It’s not only that, but yes I have to.” “So do I, part of my job too. Shouldn’t underestimate porn.” The muffled rumble of faraway thunder rolled outside the window. Both men grinned at each other to show that they appreciated the comedy value of this timely dramatic emphasis.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Dave stopped grinning first. “What do you mean? How can one ‘underestimate porn’?” “Well, we do live in a pornographic world, if we are to be honest. And it’s been like that for about thirty years now.” “I think I know what you mean. Or do I?” Dave lifted an eyebrow theatrically. Anton scratched at his chin like a cliché professor stroking his invisible beard. “Modern porn, young man, especially since the Internet appeared, is a unique phenomenon in the history of the world.” “Hey, come on, there’s always been porn.” “Yes, but never in the Internet,” said Anton nipping in the bud a possible discourse on naked people on ancient Greek pots and vases. “So?” “So now, the whole world can watch, as a group of people working in the porn industry, are exploring all the possible niches in the porn business.” “Again: so?” “To put it in another way: there is a group of people, whom market forces make dig as deeply as possible into the most primitive levels of the human psyche. And they do this year after year, going deeper and deeper, in the full view of the whole world. That’s why it’s unique.” Dave watched happily as Anton relaxed into lecture mode. “I never thought of it like that. But still, why do you think this is so important?” “Because it influences society,” said Anton flatly. “Because when porn unearths another level of infantile fantasies like incest, or playing with shit, it resonates with the deeper mental levels on which everyone has had such fantasies as a baby.” “I haven’t had such fantasies as a baby.” “According to psychoanalytical theory, we all have.” The detective finished his second cup of coffee and again tried to understand Anton’s point. “But wait, assuming porn does unearth baby fantasies and plays them out with grownups. So?” Anton spread his hands theatrically. “So it becomes crude magical theater. You underestimate the influence of the most primitive part of the human psyche. When you play them out in symbolical form, in some sort of ritual, that’s how magic works. And now, for the first time in history, we have a bunch of people, working this chaotic but highly potent magic, consisting of rituals which when viewed unleash emotions from the deepest layers of the psyche, and it’s seen by everyone, including, let’s not kid ourselves, kids.” “Magical theater you say, rituals...” Dave raised an eyebrow, “you know - you may have something there.” “Well thank you very much, professor Cohran.” “Ever thought of writing a dissertation on that?” “You read me like an open n-pad. I tried, some years ago.”

“Didn’t work out?” “No! Absolutely politically incorrect. Now is the fashion to say that it’s ‘mature’ to not talk scientifically about sex. At least not concerning anything too human like psychology, it should only be talk of molecules and receptors, and leave anything else to preachers and specialized blogs.” “But you are not talking so much about sex, as about porn, right?” “Well, about both, truth be said,” the albino waved his hand dismissively, “and anyway, people feel safe only if you pretend that porn is like it was thirty years ago, and conclude your dissertation with something nice, like that it’s mature to have porn, and not dig too deeply into it.” He planted his hands on his thighs and leaned forward, giving Dave a knowing leer. “And if you dig into sex, everyone feels threatened. They feel you want to take something away from them, to break the fragile magic which allows them to enjoy at least a little respite from the grind. The closest they have to touching God in a way.” Dave smiled with deliberation. He had just been thinking along very similar lines while listening to Anton. He had forgotten how frighteningly perceptive the albino could be. Inside his head he was already actually defending himself against what he now realized he had at some level perceived as an attack. He had been mentally on the defensive for about two minutes now. “Well, good thing they didn’t chase you out with torches and pitchforks,” he said. “Or rather with whips and butt plugs. Yeah.” Dave gave a chuckle at the thought and then remembered something. “But wait, you say that new trends in porn make new trends in our society, is that correct?” “Bang on.” “That’s a pretty brave statement.” “It is, isn’t it. But you must remember, that people nowadays don’t think about what they are doing, they just follow trends. Fashion. If it’s fashionable to wear whorehouse boots, they wear whorehouse boots. If it’s fashionable to drink pee - they drink pee.” “So you’re saying that whatever new trend does appear, everyone just takes it in their strides?” Dave thought of his secretary and of Georgette. “I kind of agree. But it’s a little strange, isn’t it?” “Not really. Because you see, we are a civilization of legal and illegal stimulants and antidepressants.” Anton took another drag from his nicotine mood stabilizer. “So no one has to ever change, and so no one has to ever think deeply about himself or life in general.” Dave tried to not lose track of the turns and twists of Anton’s logic, which as always demanded considerable mental effort. “How does that follow from being on speed or antidepressants?” “Well, imagine you are raised as a Christian. And then, as you grow and mature, years pass, shit accumulates and finally you begin to have the hint of a doubt that life sucks and there is no God.” “Yeah,” agreed Dave, again feigning detachment. “And even before you really think it, when only the shadow of the hint of doubt

arrives, you start feeling anxiety. Or, if your thoughts begin to edge towards actually comparing the life you lead with what the good book teaches, again, at the very hint of this thought anxiety jumps out of the bushes. So you either take some speed to outrun the anxiety, or you run your ass to the doctor, which is what all respectable folks do these days, and you get a pill which dulls the fear.” “Sounds logical.” “And so where in another time this person would have felt his doubt, would have tried to deal with it by examining himself and his faith, and would in the end either have become an atheist, or a true believer, who has looked at all available information, and still felt the light of Jesus, in our case you have someone who never leaves the level of a trend. You grew up and were told that you were a Christian, and you never questioned that, and that’s it. A pill helped you to not change, when the time for change came. And you didn’t.” “So you are saying we have very little real Christians left?” “Very little real people is what I’m saying.” Anton stopped to get his breath. Or his smoke rather. Dave looked at him and wondered whether the talk was becoming personal, or was still purely theoretical. Anton fumbled with his lighter and a crumpled cigarette and continued. “Any issue, which in the past could have been life-altering, is now evaded, so this basic human trait, the ability to reason and to change, has been successfully suppressed. And the same goes of course for the maturity crisis, midlife crisis, making peace with old age and everything else.” “Oh I agree, I hate this stuff myself,” Dave spread his hands in honest agreement, “everyone being on pills all the time. But how does that help people drink pee?” “Because no one has to examine why this notion excites them, what exactly they feel when they do it, or why. They just do it, because that’s what’s being done this season by trendy people, and maybe it even makes their hearts flutter and their limbs tremble in an exciting manner and generally feel very spiritual, and if anxiety or doubt start hovering on the horizon, they take a pill or snort a line and everything is a-okay.” Understanding stirred in Dave’s mind. “So you’re saying that folks can be fed any shit and they will accept it, because if it makes them feel bad, they take pills not to feel it.” Anton nodded forcefully. “Precisely. Only not only if it makes them feel bad, but also if it make them think too hard, that’s already frightening enough in itself.” “But the Russians are the same, only with vodka.” “Nooo, nooo,” Anton waved his hands, “being constantly drunk makes you an inefficient fatalist, our civilization can’t survive on inefficient fatalists, it needs intense manic depressives in order to function. You know: ran around, make money, be afraid of losing money, wring yourself out for the sake of the firm, impossible things if you are just an old-fashioned drunk. We need the Reaganist ideal: a young speedfreak, pretending he isn’t a speedfreak, wringing himself out, and pretending he’s having fun.” Dave moistened his lips. “Anton, you know, all that stuff about us being a civilization easy to manipulate slaves of downers and uppers, that sounds like...” “I know, makes me sound like an aging conspiracy crank.” “Now that you say it...”

The albino got up from his chair, then sat down again, and spoke calmly in spite of his wild gaze. “I mean, I believe that there are thousands of overlapping big and small conspiracies at any given moment, and I think it would be naive to deny this, but the really big conspiracy, which has shaped the world for generations, that’s a concept only a paranoid schizophrenic would maintain.” Dave gave him a military salute. “Good thing we have rational chain-smoking albinos to tell us that.” “Asshole.” And so the afternoon turned into evening, and evening into night. Both old friends, being coffee freaks, drank cup after cup of the stimulating brew, Anton smoked through a pack and a half, jumping up every half-hour to open the window for a minute for the sake of his guest and Dave relaxed, and debated with his friend every topic under the sun. Anal porn and geopolitics, the economic situation and the decline of polite politics, contemporary music and contemporary school crime, everything was chewed over and passed back and forth. Finally it was eleven in the evening and Dave stood up. “It’s been great, man, I missed these talks.” “Yes, and we both have much more to talk about now.” “A sign of getting old, probably.” “We should do this again soon, detective.” “Absolutely, let’s give each other a call at the end of the week.” Dave went out and heard the door being locked behind him. As he drove back to his home, he thought of the aged Anton. He was still smoking far too much. But it was so good to hear him ramble.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

“We have twenty five percent of undecided voters, who think that they will vote in the elections,” said Bob. Natalie nodded, prodding him to continue. He continued. “Of those roughly half are with nationalist-conservative value systems and another five percent are socialists, whom I feel we can win over in one way or another. Theoretically.” “So that makes about seventeen percent of potential electorate.” “Yup. We’ll be lucky to convince four percent though, if you ask me. And what about the peripheries?” Natalie placed her printout near Bob’s and pointed at the figures she had highlighted in yellow. “Well, the core of the conservatives is twelve percent and the periphery - eighteen. The periphery of the liberals is two, and of the lefties - fourteen.” “Good, good, so we can, at least in theory, unburden the right-wing of a few percent from the periphery.” “Yes. But less than two months... that’s insane.” “I know that, and you know that, but we mustn’t let the customer know that.” Fancy that, thought Natalie and grinned, they had suddenly exchanged roles, now Bob was saying her lines. Would he be a good strap-on bottom? She tensed at the unexpected fantasy. A third person appeared at their desk. Penelope, the office manager. Her majestic puffy orange mane fell on her seriously padded shoulders. She was a hardcore nineteen eighties revivalist. “Natalie, Mr. ‘Blonski wants to talk to you in his office.” “Okay, I’m coming.” Natalie collected her printouts and her notebook, and followed Penelope to the chief’s office. Penelope knocked on the door and opened it. “Natalie is here, Mr. ‘Blonski.” “Thank you, Penelope, come in, Natalie.” Natalie delicately maneuvered herself into the chair in front of ‘Blonski’s desk, opened her notebook on her lap and waited. ‘Blonski eyed her thoughtfully. “So, Natalie, how are things going with the National Patriot thing?” “Well, me and Bob were just talking about the undecided voters...” “What about the peripheries?” “Them too, Mr. ‘Blonski.” “And?” ‘Blonski laced his hands as if in dignified prayer and leaned back a trifle. “Well, in theory, there are enough loose voters around to help a fourth party wedge itself into parliament, but frankly, I don’t think there’s enough time to achieve this.” “I also think that way. But our customer, Mr. Eberstark, seems to be an optimist. He’s paying good money, and also, I happen to owe him a favor from way back.” Natalie look at ‘Blonski. He seemed to be leading the conversation somewhere. ‘Blonski cleared his throat and started looking somewhere above Natalie’s head. “He has seen the preliminary report that you and Bob have written and he asks... he asks

whether you would like to be his head of election headquarters.” “What? Me? But…” ‘Blonski leaned forward again. “Now, you don’t have to accept, although I would be glad if you did, because as I said, I owe him a favor.” “But why me?” “Because I told him, that he needs a miracle, and that the only person who can conceivably work this miracle is you.” I owe him a favor he said... Natalie felt something like anger stir inside her, and straightened out her back and stiffened her belly. “Well boss, I guess I accept. But I’ve never actually worked on a campaign, let alone direct it...” ‘Blonski smiled and waved away her childish fears. “No problems, really, he’s willing to take that gamble. He knows that his chances are small, and he was really impressed with your report, and we all know that you had more input in it then Bob did.” “Still...” “And you know what?” ‘Blonski looked at her like a parent about to produce a stuffed Christmas stocking, “I told him about your brain scan idea.” “And still he wanted to work with me?” “Not only that, he promised to buy some brain scan equipment immediately.” Natalie closed her mouth and thought. Perhaps fate had thrown something valuable into her lap for once. In a rather unsophisticated manner certainly, but it did suddenly sound promising... *** As she traveled home later that day, conflicting emotions struggled for dominance inside her. On one hand, she felt almost betrayed by old ‘Blonski_, being given to another master like some sort of serf, a peon. On the other hand she felt a certain excitement just thinking about being in control of the whole process of trying to win the elections. Big league at last. And the brain scanners. All in all, things seemed to be working out quite fine. The evening rain briefly drummed at her scalp while she ran from her taxi to the foyer of her apartment block. Inside, she brushed the water drops from her hair and entered the lift. It creaked and moaned as it went up to her floor, but mercifully nothing went wrong. Natalie exhaled as she went out. Back in childhood, she had developed a fear of other people’s germs, and tried to not breathe while in an elevator. Not in all elevators, but in dirty ones like this one. She went into her tidy home, and switched on the TV, unleashing a cheerful advertisement medley, and it felt almost like she wasn’t all alone.

PART TWO

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Monday. Morning. Rain. A gray dusky light creeping in through the window, with a promise of allowing the sun to make a serious comeback in about four months. No hammering anywhere in the building. No music pounding and no kids galloping in homes where parents have already left for work. Only one faraway drill whining forlornly in the unknown distance. When the elements conspire to make the day perfect for sleeping through it, only one thing can help. Dave threw away his blanket in an act of manly defiance and with half open eyes fiddled with his stereo until he found Obituary’s ‘Slowly We Rot’ album. Then he abdicated from his struggle against gravity and lay down on the carpet, his nostrils reminding him that sooner or later he will have to vacuum his pad. A minute later, as the puke-like growls of John Tardy ripped into shreds the veil of sleepiness, Dave was already shaving and peeing into the sink, as bachelors are wont to do for lack of the restraining influence of a spouse. After washing his face and briskly smacking his cheeks with lemon-scented antiseptic lotion, he paused to study his reflection. How had he looked in Natalie’s eyes after all these years? He tried to imagine what she had seen. A David who had slightly more pronounced bags under his eyes, with some tiny wrinkles around and below them. But he still had a rather clean complexion, was not prone to bad teeth, and was free of the red patches that blossom on and around the chronic drinkers and the pill-poppers noses. He fried himself some eggs and bacon and had a splendid breakfast with two large mugs of coffee with milk, scanning the day’s news on his computer. “Congratulations!” he told himself sardonically upon reading that the retirement age would be raised again next year, from seventy two to seventy four. Another present for everyone. Well-groomed, earnest government spokesmen talked of the right to work, longer lifespans, aging populations and market forces. Why don’t they cut the crap and establish firmly the limit once and for all, he thought, just say honestly that the retirement age starts one year after death and have it done with. Dave promised himself to make his first million before he reached fifty, smiled at

his childish evasions of unpleasant thoughts, put on his coat and shoes, and went out. “Drive, James!” he said and as his car vibrated to life he buckled up, pushed the gas, slowly released the clutch, and with the car’s first movements flipped on the radio. This time he had opted to let fate decide. Every time he pressed ‘waveband’, the radio would choose the next station in random mode. A city bus crowded him and with a perfunctory honk Dave changed lanes. “...The classical hit from the summer before last - ‘Snowball’! By Jake Buvarro!” After the normal short introduction of a three-tone keyboard melody, the bass and the drum machine added themselves to the mix and a deep male voice began rapping. “Lissen up mah world! I’m talking to you, snowwhite snorting snowflakes” A burst of female back vocals interjected: “snowwhite, snowwhite!” “Ready up - for the ball Ready up - for the snowball Ready up! Ready up! Lissen up mah world!” Dave nosed his way in behind a gray Volvo, to the consternation of a retro man in a retro Smart behind it, and pressed ‘waveband’ again. With a quick crackle another song took the place of the previous one. But although he had gotten rid of Jake Buvarro, what his ears registered now was something infinitely worse. Something, which gnawed at the very roots of that which made music, even bad dance music, a mediator of the body and soul. There was an acoustic guitar alternating five chords, at least three of which open ones, a simple piano melody piddled along, and the chord changes were accentuated by the tinkling of many tiny bells. A longing male voice whined: “I don’t know how, I don’t know why, just reaching for the light, the stars shine in the sky...” With an audible “Gnyaaaggh!” Dave switched off the radio. As the traffic slowed to a halt and the countdown beneath the red light was still at thirty one seconds, he fumbled in his coat’s pocket and fished out a memory stick. After yesterday’s coffee at Anton’s, an impulse had appeared to listen to his old music. He hadn’t listened to his old project for almost twelve years. He slipped the memory stick into the appropriate hole and pushed ‘play’. With a slightly nervous pulse, he listened to the first bars of ‘Slaughterhouse Opera’. Cows mooed, sheep brayed and guitars fuzzed. It wasn’t as bad as he had feared deep down. Not_ only was it not bad, it also stirred dear memories as if from another life. A quick fantasy of making a new band even sped across Dave’s mind. But this music was too heavy and morose by half for the start of the working day. He was humming to The Who’s ‘Love Is Like A Heat Wave’, bobbing his head in time with the timeless groovy drumming, when he reached the office.

Maldiva was not with brown lipstick today, but with a normal purple one, which didn’t leave the boundaries of her lips. On second glance only her lower lip was purple, the upper, thinner one was deep orange. Around her left eye the makeup was an imitation bruise. A love bruise certainly, for although even these days women suffered from prosaic domestic violence, the displayed trend in makeup was not intended to signify that one was abused by a drunken spouse, but that one’s husband or lover was an untamed animal, or even rather that one managed to turn the husband or lover in question into a wild lion, by virtue of one’s unique sexual attractiveness. Dave went through the morning ritual, i.e. he nodded at Maldiva, complimented her looks, made himself a mug of coffee, and went into his room. There, as usual, he opened the window and breathed in. It was autumn and Maldiva would soon begin covering herself suggestively with her scarf, suggestively in the sense of guarding her frail health from Dave’s eccentric fetish of opening the window instead of using the air conditioner. He sat himself on his chair, pressed his palm on the ID box and typed in the password. With a hum the computer’s monitor lit up. He had messages. One marked ‘report’, and one marked ‘season girls.’ With a show of discipline, Dave opened the report first. Quite ordinary news. Girl goes to park with buddies, buddies gang rape her, passersby don’t stop, one fellow her age stops when the gang-rapists flee, gives her his coat so that she doesn’t freeze, and calls the police. She knows the identities of the young rapists and the police are already rounding them up. Dave took a drink from his mug. He opened the other letter. Andy Fortham had sent him a list of detectives who had worked in the past on the season girls case. 1. Arthur Harris, went on the case in 1979. Deceased 1981. Cause of death: home burglary gone wrong. 2. John Chen, went on case 1983. Deceased 1983. Cause of death: car accident. 3. Irvin Nolan, went on case 1987. Left police force in 1989 after disappearance of daughter. Deceased 1990 in his office in security consultancy firm. Cause of death: heart attack. 4. Abdel Faizabad, went on case in 1995. Deceased 1996. Cause of death: car accident. 5. Liliana Kostova, went on case 2011. Deceased 2012. Cause of death: rape and robbery on way home. NOTE: Dave, this all looks mighty suspicious. No one has tried to handle this case since and it took me ages to get this info. It was not readily available. Think twice before pursuing this. Andy. P.S. An old timer - Joe Anderson, you’ve met him I think, even mentioned ‘The Season Girl Curse’.

Dave read the note three times and closed his eyes to think. For some reason the phrase “It ain’t rain, it’s a shitstorm” swam out of some deep recess of his memory and began spinning in a closed loop in his synapses. From some old movie probably. “The Season Girl Curse”, he repeated to himself. God. He stood up. “Why does everything have to be so fucked up?” he continued asking himself things out loud and bit his lower lip, or rather scratched it with his teeth, as if trying to make his way to the chin. Well, curse or no curse, it would have to wait some more, because he had to wrap up the ‘toy-basher’ business first. Dave paced a bit in front of his desk, trying to focus on the task at hand and free his mental drives from attempts to compute irrelevant information. He must not allow new information to do with cases which are for ‘later’, to interfere with his work on the case which is for ‘now’. Or at least he can try to not allow it to interfere. He sat down and opened all of his files in the toy-basher folder. He read them carefully and then he opened his notebook, and saw the question mark, and ‘next week Friday’ scribbled near the name of Desmond Boyle. He thought about Boyle again. Why wait for the git to return? He just has to phone him, perhaps right now, and see if his info overlaps with that of Chippada and Bardales. If his hunch is correct, he wouldn’t need a lengthy interview. He took a deep breath, cleared his throat and dialed the number. The phone on the other side rang for some time and then the voicemail switched on. With a frown Dave dialed again. On the third ring Boyle picked up. “Hello, yes?” “Hi, Mr. Boyle, it’s detective Cohran again, can you speak now?” “Yes, a second please.” Dave waited for about fifteen seconds. “Yes, hello, Mr. Cohran. You be finding who is doing the break-ins?” “Almost, Mr. Boyle, but I have to ask you four questions, if you don’t mind. Just the four.” “Be sure, go ahead.” “Did you go to the X-SEX shop on Garibaldi to purchase the destroyed doll?” “Yes, I think so.” “Okay,” Dave made a tick on his notebook. “Did you go there after midnight?” “Yes, it was around one. Listen, can I call you back?” “Just two more questions, Mr. Boyle, you’re being a great help.” “All right, what are they?” “Was the toy in question a cyberpunk fifth grader toy-girl?” Boyle coughed and wheezed a little into the telephone. “Yes, yes, it was. Cost quite a something you know.” Another tick. “Indeed, indeed,_ and the last question is, and please try to remember this precisely, at what day of the week did you make your purchase?” “Um, I don’t know really.”

“Please think, this is important.” Boyle coughed and wheezed some more. “I be thinking it was Thursday night. Or you could say it be very early Friday.” Dave looked at the calendar on his monitor. “That would put it around the seventeenth?” “Er, maybe. I think so.” “Thank you very much Mr. Boyle, you’ve helped a lot.” “Thank you, Mr. Cohran, for taking such interest.” Cohran rang off. He scratched his right ear. Everything fell together. All three victims had shopped the same article, at the same shop, at roughly the same part of the night. Chippada had shopped Thursday night, Bardales had also shopped Thursday night, but a week before, and Boyle had bought his toy on the evening after Bardales. Dave’s fingers did some quick drumming on the edge of his desk. His teeth chewed some more lower lip. He had already seen the shop’s website. There was nothing out of the ordinary there. At least nothing that he could see. That was that then. Thursday night he would enter the shop and buy himself a fifth grader toy-girl of the cyberpunk line. The corners of his mouth twitched, as he imagined presenting the bill to ‘Expenses’. He played again the security camera clip of the toy-girl running in and out of the building in which Bardales lived. This time he watched the figure run is slow motion. It was even creepier that way. On an impulse, he dialed Anton’s mobile number. “Hi, Dave, what’s up?” “Hi, man, can you talk?” “Go ahead, how can I be of assistance?” “I need your opinion on something.” “So, your puny mortal brain needs the assistance of a mightier intellect?” Dave grinned and pinched his nose. “Yes, oh mighty one.” “Flattery will get you anything. Go ahead.” “Do you... erm... think sex cyber-toys can develop intelligence and ran rampant?” A burst of sincere laughter erupted at the other side of the line. “What, you mean: ‘The Day of the Sex-Bot’? ‘The Attack of the Fifty Foot Dildo’?” Dave gave a laugh that was not entirely hollow. “Something like that. ‘Do Androids Dream of Electric Murder.’” “And you are asking me this because of guilty paranoia concerning a thing in your closet, or because it has something to do with your work? I’m warning you, both possibilities would elicit a delighted guffaw from me.” “I’m afraid it’s to do with my work.” Anton obliged with a delighted guffaw. “Well it seems your work is like a Philip Dick novel.” “So is yours, Tony, so is yours.” “You don’t have to remind me about that. Well, my answer to your question is: I think that anything is possible.” “Thanks a lot.” “But I think that a sex toy developing intelligence is rather far-fetched. Did you

ask the people who make them?” “Yeah, I sent an email to their headquarters in Kuching.” “That in China?” “Malaysia.” “I’m curious to their answer.” “There isn’t any. I tried to get someone in the police to send an official query, but...” “But they refused to involve the name of the city police in such disreputable madness.” Dave sighed. “Something like that.” “Well, good luck in hunting replicants, clones, and androids.” “This isn’t funny you know. So much creepy shit going on suddenly.” “What creepy shit?” “I’ll tell you over coffee one of these days.” “Okay, bye, Dave.” “Bye, Tony.” Dave breathed in deeply and felt something stir inside him. It was a vague affect, on the verge of turning into something more concrete: fear. Tingling tendrils of sticky anxiety in the face of the suddenly numerous unknowns tried to slither from his stomach up towards the solar plexus. Must be going soft, he thought. He locked his door, took off his sweater and began doing push-ups with deliberate slowness.

CHAPTER TWENTY

It was Tuesday afternoon. The rain had stopped during the night, but the roads and sidewalks still glistened in the dull autumn light. There was moisture on the small piles of leaves beneath the few trees in the city center. Five-minute waves of fine drizzle fell every half-hour. The city air was cleansed of heavier particles. Dave had stopped on his way out of his home to just breathe for two whole minutes. Now, four hours later, he was sitting in his private office, with five piles of paper, and a number of orphaned crisscrossed sheets, covering his desk and parts of the floor. These were photocopies of the five maps of the city in different periods. He was clutching a magic marker and squinting with angry intensity at the twentyeleven map. A small crooked vein pulsated on the side of his forehead, and an invisible pincer was already hovering near his skull. He had just marked the places of the season girl’s homes. There was no apparent pattern. And a full third of the girls were not even from the city itself, but from nearby towns. Only in the last twenty five years were all the victims from city. Perhaps because by this time it had grown large enough to reach a level of chaotic anonymity that allowed the killer to operate in safety without the need to go on victim tourism. At least there was a pattern of sorts to the places of where the bodies were found. Each year they had been placed on four sides of the city. On, or a little beyond its edges. At first it had even seemed like the body sites were marking the points of the compass. But unfortunately the points changed every year. When Dave superimposed laboriously all the sites on one map, all he got was an irregular, fuzzy circle of dots. When the four dots signifying the four corpses in a given year were connected with lines, a cross appeared. This had given Dave a pang of hope, but when he connected the dots of the next year, the center of the cross was in a different place of the city. Of course, that would have been much too easy. Too Hollywood. Pushing aside the marred map, eliciting an annoying rustle from all the other papers, Dave planted his elbows on the desk, planted his cheekbones on his fists and thought. He tried to visualize the person responsible, the season killer. If it was the same person all these years, he must about eighty by now. Unless he started killing as a toddler. And that was highly improbable. So point one is, he thought, there is more than one killer working. Accepting this assumption there could then be only two possible alternatives. Either the killer picked a successor, or more than one successors, or, this was the work of an organized body of people. Some sort of evil Cabal or something. Or a family of crazies. Okay, three possible alternatives. A master - apprentice business; an evil sect-like organization; or an inbred mad clan. Dave got up and closed his window. He had suddenly felt a chill. Outside the

appropriately and inappropriately dressed inch high pedestrians were going about their inch high lives. Not one of them was looking up at him through a sniper rifle. But that didn’t prove anything, of course. He sat down again. If it was an organization working, or a mad clan, this would also explain why the detectives that worked on the case all met with unfortunate accidents. For a masterapprentice thing it bordered on the impossible, unless the killer was a policeman himself. Unless he was a policeman himself... heavy shit. Dave did not believe for one minute, that the list of car crashes and heart attacks was a wave of coincidental deaths. But why had no one probed deeper into this? If the police can’t handle it, why not pass it over to some secret service or other? That’s what he would have done. Prompted perhaps by the uncomfortable doubts surrounding the season girls from all angles, Dave slipped into some quick day dreaming. If he was head of police, there certainly would be some changes made. Resources would pour into the force, they’ll have their own experts and detectives again... and criminals would always get their due... A year ago, he had cracked a case of gang rapists who stalked and attacked lesbians. The culprits had turned out to be immigrants from Sub-Saharan Africa, and they had only been practicing ‘correctional rape’ as they’d called it. When caught and charged, they seemed not remorseful, but rather taken aback. Baffled. As if at the back of their minds they had really believed, that the rape laws were just nonsense for the sake of appearance and that no one was really that much opposed to it. These had been nobody’s women really, no man’s honor had suffered. And anyway, what more logical answer can there be to the existence of lesbians, than to gangrape them, to make them see the error of their ways? Dave had been so proud to have found the clues and testimonies enabling the force to finally catch these animals and then had been devastated, when the whole lot got deported back to Africa. He knew that they would get some ridiculous slap on the wrist back home. And who knows, probably be given medals for the struggle against Western satanic decadence. Now if he was chief of police, he would bug the Parliament, or the Senate, or whoever did these things, until they passed a law that sex crimes committed here would be served here. And to hell with not enough space in jails, surely it was just a question of will and management to build a few jails more. Lots of jails in fact. He looked again at the city map with the fuzzy circle of spots and decided to let the matter stew below the threshold of his consciousness. His thoughts were going everywhere. He really should learn some sort of concentration mantra or something. He opened a newssheet at random. A new film about a love affair between a Victorian werewolf and a time traveling zombie had taken the box office by storm. Spiderman 15 was a distant second. Rumors that Madonna was about to embark on another farewell tour. Dave looked at her photo. She looked surprisingly fantastic.

The little-known party of the National Patriots had issued a statement concerning the new raising of the retirement age. Dave clicked to see the whole statement. “For too long we the people have allowed our political class to fleece us like sheep. We are not a conquered country and they are not conquerors. And yet we have forgotten that it is we the people who tell them what they should do, and not the other way round. For decades honest people have toiled and planned for a retirement that never comes. Joe the plumber and Maria the hairdresser have worked and worked, and looked forward to when they are sixty five, until it turned out that they must work until seventy. Then we all work until seventy and then it turns out that we must work until seventy four. This is ridiculous. This is being done to us, because we do not say ‘NO’! It’s time to say ‘NO!’ to these robber barons. They say there is no money for pensions. There would have been more than enough money in the retirement funds, if the government had not allowed their pals in the banking sector to squander it time after time. They say there is no money for a dignified retirement of the hardworking, honest citizen, and yet there are always billions of dollars to give as bailouts for big corporations. There are always billions of dollars to wage useless wars on the other side of the globe and to finance regimes in the third world which hate us. We, the National Patriots, say that enough is enough. The politicians have become a closed elite which looks down at us with contempt. We the people must take the power back. We must take back our dignity and resurrect our belief that democracy really works.” Dave smirked. He hadn’t voted since he was twenty, but what he read just now did strike a chord. It struck the chord clumsily, but even that was more than could be said for the established parties. He opened the National Patriots website, but there was nothing there except a banner saying ‘DOWN FOR MAINTENANCE’. Typical. He looked at the other news. In the criminal section he saw a headline – ‘ALBINO KILLED FOR MEDICINE’. Anton! With ominous foreboding he clicked to see the full text. He let out a puff of relief. It wasn’t Anton, it was some other unfortunate albino. The remains of his body had been found dumped in a park. Experts said that this could be the results of an Eastern African superstition, that medicine made from the body of an albino can cure almost any disease. Dave ground his teeth and felt the pincer finally beginning to squeeze his skull, and together with it, a wave of racism threatened to blot out his normally relaxed view of the world. And then he suddenly realized that perhaps this was why Anton was a racist. He

probably knew of this African superstition and his racism was a form of self-defense. After all, he could never know in the eyes of which Afro he was an animal with medical properties, to be chopped up and sold off. Following up on his emotional momentum, he read an article calling for the deportation of all African immigrants back to where they came from. The author reminded the readers, that “our basic freedoms were paid for by centuries of blood, sweat and tears”, and that “people who are not willing to live by our democratic rules, must not be given the chance to disrupt our lives.” Exactly, thought Dave. Then, to feel fair to himself, he read an article condemning fascist reactions to such incidents. The author reminded the readers, that at the time of their grandparent there was the fear of the yellow peril, and at the times of their parents, the fear of the Muslim peril. Integration was the answer. But this is different, though Dave and rubbed his face. He should have shaved today. He looked again at the map with the body sites of the season girls and remembered his plan for the toy-basher. He dialed Fortham’s number. “Hi, Dave, what’s cooking?” “A toy-basher...” “Ah, you’ve got him in your sight?” “I think so. I was wondering if you would like to cover my back, when I try to use myself as bait.” “What? How?” “I sent you the preliminary report about the similarities concerning the three victims of break-ins.” “I haven’t read it yet.” Andy. Honest and blunt as usual. Where other people would evade and fib, he simply said how things stood. “Well, in short, they all bought the same toys from the same shop at the same time.” “And you want to do this as well? When?” “Thursday night. After midnight. Around one.” “Wait, let me think.” Dave tapped his teeth with his pen and waited. “Okay, I’ll tell the wife that I’m on stakeout that day.” “Super. Thanks, Andy.” “No problem. How’s the season girl curse, not caught up with you yet?” “Good of you to bring this up. Do you think there might be some sort of massive conspiracy behind all this?” Andy answered after a short silence. “I hope not. I certainly hope not.” “I mean, so many girls. Not two, not twenty, over two hundred.” “I know, I know, I counted them also. But it could be just general inefficiency.” “To this extent? Are things that bad?” “Well, you know. Up to two thousand people disappear every year without trace from our cities. Five thousand are killed and maimed in traffic accidents. Hundreds are murdered. And while the dead season girls were relatively few, they didn’t stand out so

much, and by the time the numbers accumulated, it became background noise.” “Some background noise,” said Dave with feeling. “Yeah. And with the media not knowing, no pressure comes from the public to solve it.” “And all these people who have tried to solve it and got heart attacks and into various accidents?” Another silence from Andy. Dave waited for the honest answer. “What can I say? I just hope we don’t get it the same way.” Some relief. Might as well have stayed silent. “Well, so do I. Okay, see you Thursday.” “See you Thursday, Dave. Take care.” “Yeah, you too.” The detective extricated himself from his desk without upsetting the paper piles too much and massaged his temples. Focus, focus, he repeated to himself, think about the toy-basher, about nothing else, nothing else. Things will wait their turn.

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

The office of the National Patriots still had the look of freshness which indicated that it had obviously been opened no more than two weeks ago. It was in a prestigious part of the center. Natalie stopped in front of it and studied the party’s logo. It was unimaginative: an eagle holding shots of wheat in its claws, surrounded by small white pentagrams. She had tried to get some info on the party from the Internet, but its website wasn’t functional yet, and they weren’t even known well enough to have detractors in the blogosphere. She entered inside. It looked like a midmarket hotel lobby, with a new greenbrown carpet leading off into the interior corridors, and modernistic ruby colored chandeliers encircled by golden sunbeams. The walls were painted a wooden brown. To her left was a plywood desk, by which stood a young man slightly younger than her, but in a serious suit and with a serious haircut. To his left lapel was stuck a badge with the National Patriots logo. From his chin up to his ears climbed a constellation of small red pimples, like mutated sideburns. “Hello, can I help you?” he asked her. “Yes, hi, I’m Natalie Martorino. I have a meeting with Mr. Eberstark.” The young man studied her for a second. “Please come this way.” They went, walking along the endless carpet, took a turn to the left, past three open doors, and reached the fourth, on which hung a poster of the party. A plump, more or less young man with a serious mustache was looking into the future, which was obviously somewhere to the right and above the poster, and a hazy eagle loomed behind him. The young man knocked on the door and opened it, ushering Natalie inside. In the room were the very same plump man with the very same serious mustache, and an attractive woman of a little over fifty. They were sitting around a heavy oak desk. “Miss Martorino,” announced the pimply youth gravely. Both the man and the women stood up politely and smiled at Natalie. “Hi, I’m Ronald Eberstark, welcome on board,” said the man and pumped Natalie’s hand, while looking sincerely into her eyes. This close he looked older, forty-something, plump in face and in gut, but with the urgent facial expression that cautioned the world that he was capable of exploding into action at any given moment. Although his suit was expensive, it did not fit him perfectly at the shoulders and his pants were an inch short of his shiny Cabana brown shoes. The shoes were nice, admitted Natalie and felt a sudden impulse to kiss, and maybe even lick them. She quickly filed this impulse away. “...In this together,” concluded Eberstark with a wink. Natalie smiled plastically. He was one of those people who had developed a winking tick from being amiable towards everyone. She hated amiable winking.

And it was beginning to look that this hint of general inefficiency infesting the HQ itself (obviously an expensive place to rent, but the possible impressive impact undermined by a cheap looking and tacky interior, just like Eberstark’s expensive suit was undermined by the way it sat on him), was indicative of the general disorganization behind the National Patriots movement. These people really were in need of help. And Eberstark looked like such a dear. Annoying, but obviously it was just that no one had taken good enough care of him. He just needed someone better than the people around him, to help him organize his things, to achieve his full potential. Again an image flashed, how she sits on his lap while... With a wince, Natalie evaded the thought again. “Hi, my name is Jane Donovan,” said the mature lady and quickly slid her warm and adventurously manicured fingers into Natalie’s hand. Then she flashed a smile, showing rows of whitened teeth. On her neck there was a tiger-striped, semi-transparent scarf tied into a loose artistic knot. Her lips were in a classy red-brown hue and there were some frivolous tiny stars sparkling just below her eyes. Her wavy blond hair was tout across her scalp and developed into a formidable ponytail held in place by a grid of tightly wound leather laces. “This is the young woman whom our friend ‘Blonski said can help us, if anyone can.” Eberstark nodded into Natalie’s direction while looking at Jane. I’m better than that old slut, thought Natalie and evaded looking at her. “Please take a seat, can we get you anything?” the old slut took the initiative and Eberstark remembered that he was in fact a host, and also added fragments concerning sitting down and having coffee or water. Natalie asked for coffee and water with a smile, and Jane disappeared out of the door, calling for some Pete. Perhaps he was the coffee boy. Meanwhile, Eberstark was already giving Natalie a small pile of various paper products. As she looked through them she saw that they included a brochure about the National Patriots, their old mission statement, their statement concerning the retirement age and other issues, and a small book whose author was Eberstark himself. It was called ‘TIME FOR PATRIOTISM: NOW’. During her short career Natalie had already ghostwritten two similar books and she skimmed through the beginning with a critical eye. I would have done it much better, she thought and again glanced at Eberstark’s shiny shoes. Eberstark himself was talking about his party. “We are part of a worldwide surge of national patriotism. Yes, a worldwide surge.” He clammed up and looked at Natalie, and she nodded. He was yet another of those speakers, who were like schoolteachers: incapable of presenting any coherent message unless someone kept nodding at certain intervals with an expression of understanding and agreement. He wilould have to be weaned off this practice, if he is to have any degree of success during interviews and debates. After her nod, he continued. “We maintain relations with sister parties all over the world: in France, Britain, Bulgaria, Slovakia, Poland, Hungary, Denmark, Korea, Finland,

Brazil, Greece...” Eberstark looked up towards the ceiling for a second, “...and Latvia.” “And Japan,” said Jane with a charming smile, as she sat down back in her chair. “And Japan, of course, Japan too,” added Eberstark. Natalie took out her notebook and began scribbling. *** Hours later, as she went out of the office, she finally allowed herself to grin foolishly. Now that she was free from his spell, she could admit freely that Eberstark looked like a dunce. Perhaps this was a disguise and perhaps he was a front for someone else. Dirty money? It didn’t matter. She would get to mould an election strategy. And that woman, Jane, obviously was trying to get to know her in order to control her. A morning brainstorm of all things. Well... why not? She had accepted the invitation. Natalie took a taxi, and opened her mouth to say her home address, then thought better of it. This day called for a little celebration. And a lot of specific impulses had piled up inside her. The evening twilight was forming all around the edges of the artificial city lights and she felt something forming on the edges of her conscious Self as well. “To the Macedonia square,” she said. The driver grunted affirmatively and they drove off. Three transvestites had already gathered at the square, just at the entrance of a sex shop. They were far from surprised by their young female customer, since in the last decade it was mainly young, plucky career women who were trying to outcompete men on their own turf, that came to abuse them. Natalie gave them a look-over and pointed at the blond one, who smiled with his pink lips. He looked like a good slut. Natalie went into the shop and bought herself a cheap but formidable strap-on dildo. She went out again with the inconspicuous bag in her hand. Ten minutes later they were in the transvestite’s room. She gave him the money, and strapped on her strap-on. Ivana fluttered his eyelashes and got down on his knees. He lubed up his anus and worked it open with three fingers, while Natalie watched, her nipples hardened; her tongue quite unconsciously playing with her lower lip. Finally Natalie commanded Ivana to lick her heels. After that she used the remaining forty minutes to fuck him hard, straining to somehow merge with the piece of plastic between her legs and feel with it. As she returned home that night, Natalie was happy. She organized herself a solo party, with wine, music, dancing, follow-up masturbating, the whole lot, until abruptly her strength deserted her again and she staggered to her bed. As she woke up in the wee hours of the morning, Natalie was unhappy. She lay in fearful paralysis, helpless and petrified, and knowing that she did not even deserve the chance to send a prayer to the good Lord. She had sinned again, she had become too full of herself and it was all her fault for inviting disaster.

The figures were again present in her room and now it felt like there were more than just two of them. As she listened to the dreaded hoofed guest walk around her apartment as if he owned it, suddenly she felt the ghastly touch of one of the night visitors. Unable to move or speak, all she could do is try to not breathe.

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

Alec sat behind a curved transparent table in the ‘Black Rose Chillout Place’ and sipped his ‘Blue Lightning’ energy drink cocktail. His facial features were yet again slightly different. He was cleanly shaven, had two large manly wrinkles running down his cheekbones, and his hair was gelled into a spiky shrub. He looked either like a man of thirty-something recreating the fashion of his childhood, or like a man of twenty-something, who had enough taste to participate in the small revival of that fashion. He was in a tight-fitting blue pullover and in light green pants, all of which should be enough to help a prejudiced observer assume that he was closer to twenty than to thirty. After all, this was what the old slut had been pretentious enough to write in her ‘Take Me Network’ profile: ‘Men over twenty five - don’t call me!!!’ And with three exclamation marks at that. So he had to be under twenty five for her, fine, he could play that role as well as any other. But she was a splendid MILF. Fifty six, according to her profile info, she had posed in kinky sex-wear and naked, and as he had looked at her full loose breasts hanging below her attempt at a seductive smile, his hands had itched to knead these soft bags of flesh. It wasn’t just that of course, what really made him establish contact was the set of three pictures in which she had posed with a leather mask with a zipper on the mouth. At once a reference to the contemporary pop scene and to possible darker pleasures, it had shown Alec that she was the one to use to conquer the older women dimension. He had already proven to himself that he could do to the twenty-something year olds and the thirty-something year olds whatever he wanted to, and now he only had to drive an older slut over the edge, and he would finally be completely sure of his top notch quality as a man, at least until the next year. And there she was, a flamboyant figure with heavy curves sailing through the door. She entered the cafe and he waved with his leopard glove at once. With a stolid dignity, the woman approached him. Electricity began prickling away around his groin. He controlled himself, of course. Her blond hair was hanging loose with a suggestive ruffled quality to it and its edges were blue. Below her light brown leather jacket could be seen a glittering black blouse, and her long multilayered orange skirt revealed not only corpulent hips, but also, from beneath it, two glittering silver boots. On her substantial bosom hung various metallic and glass trinkets: hearts, butterflies, keys, pens and spiders; and closer to her neck could be seen fake jewels of the anal beads type. “Are you Mike?” she asked in luscious tones, her face twitching in a seductive

and at the same time self-assertive sneer. He smiled coldly and nodded. “Susanna,” she said and sat down with an elegant angle to her behind. Susanna, he smiled to himself, that was the name she used in the website as well. Obviously a fantasy name from somewhere. Probably some love novel from like forty years ago. He was dating someone’s alter ego. With a charming but manful smile, he quickly and confidently fed her some crap about visiting parents and off they they went to her place. She drove her blue Volvo and he followed her with his Toyota. She looked like everything he had fantasized about. His abdomen tightened as he drove, as if he suddenly needed to take a dump, but it just meant that he was very excited. With one gloved hand he caressed his stomach and sweated with impatience. Her home was a cozy two-story house. The bedroom was on the second floor, near the bed stood a plastic mannequin in a corset and with the leather mask from the pictures pulled onto its head. This suggested that either she lived alone, or that the house would be empty of children and spouses for the foreseeable future. As she looked at him with expectation, Mike thought about her self-assured nervousness. He was well acquainted with this condition in women and knew what it implied. He knew that ‘Susanna’ was in that middle ground, where sexual desire pushes one towards the fantasy of trying out everything exciting and fashionable in carnal play that is seen in popular magazines, websites and love novels, but the personality defenses still resist the more outrageous impulses. She wanted it, without quite admitting to herself what exactly ‘it’ was. She did not quite want the responsibility for going to the places she longed for. Splendid - this meant that he would have to be the one to push her where she dared not go herself and that in turn meant that she would want to resolve her internal paradox in the usual way: by letting him tie her up, and have his way with her. Without breaking his mysterious silence, Mike slowly took out his latex suit from the bag. With a gasp of delight Jane began undressing herself. Her bra was black and lacey, and had zipped up slits, which she unzipped with theatrical grace, and the dough of her breasts unrolled downwards. Her panties were a set with the bra, but she did not unzip them, apparently a delight left for him. She walked over to the mannequin and undressed it. Soon the corset was on her, producing a hourglass effect on her outline, pushing the flesh to bulge outwards from above and below. Mike felt himself trembling with impatience as she put on her mask and looked at him expectantly, and in a way defiantly too. He felt her desire like beams that bounced off his body. “Bouncy, bouncy,” he muttered. She shook her sagging breasts coyly. “You like them?” she inquired from behind the mask. He did not correct the misinterpretation, but stretched his leopard hands, and proceeded to fulfill his fantasy of pulling and kneading. She moaned. “Do you want me to be your sugar mommy?” she asked in a husky, guttural voice.

“I’ll be your cocoa Daddy,” he answered sternly. *** After breaking the ice with some fondling and pinching, and focusing her attention solely on her mouth by way of tongue, finger and penis, he finally tied her up. This time though, he went for diversity and tied her wrists to her ankles. After rocking her awhile like a wheelbarrow with his penis in the lower end of her digestive tract, he noticed how she averted her masked face from his penis, when he only tried to do the preliminary ass-to-mouth. For a really glorious night, she would have to be a willing participant. This meant that he had to fool her old-fashioned disgust matrix. An easy job for an expert like him. A wizard like him. A master like him. First then - the color barrier. He took a thin chocolate bar from his bag and shoved it into Susana’s anal sphincter. Even as his finger still pushed it into her, through the latex he felt the chocolate already beginning to melt from the intense internal heat. He followed the chocolate bar with his penis and basked in the woman’s sniveling for more. Three minutes later, when he took off her mask and placed his cock inside her mouth, she did not turn away. His penis looked brown and dirty, but was sweet and warm and this allowed her to forget where it’s been and she strained to slurp up the icing. Good, color barrier broken. Now - the texture barrier. Oh, he was ever so excellently prepared, he was the greatest. As her anus gaped, not fully closing even during the involuntary spasms, the thick slime of the chocolate oozing out of it, Mike took two small bananas from his bag. He peeled them in front of Susanna’s half-glazed eyes and went back to stoop at her ass, hidden from her gaze by the mounds of her breasts and belly. He pushed one banana slowly into her, listening attentively to her groans, pressing with his finger until it sank completely inside and the sphincter closed over it. He pushed it deeper in with his finger and then slid his penis through the loosened sphincter. He felt it encounter the banana lodged in front of it, but as he pushed forward the fruit proceeded forward up the innards. He pumped for half a minute, holding Susanna’s flesh, feeling it stretch as she writhed in her unfolding lust journey. Having made so pleasurably sure that he had created space for the second banana, he slid it in. After a few inches some resistance appeared and he thought he felt it crumple against the first one. Still, the sphincter closed over this one was well. Now he could really let himself go. Even as he slid his penis inside her asshole, she began a high pitched wail, interrupted by “yes”, “no”, and “more” exclamations. At least he assumed that this was the meaning of her warbling. He pumped away for five minutes, until brown lumpy froth wreathed the back entrance and the base of his penis. He whipped it out, and saw the anus move like the mouth of a gasping fish. He almost felt like... no. Of course he didn’t. He felt like the exact opposite. “Give it to me, give it more,” he muttered repetitively, almost melodically, as he pushed at the lower part of her corset. With a coinciding gasp from the faraway mouth,

the nearer orifice opened and chocolate covered banana pieces began falling out onto the bed sheets. With a soft ringing appearing in his ears now, Mike took a piece and slowly mashed it against Susanna’s face.

CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

Anton sat in his office, his window open, the air conditioner compensating the chilly fingers of the outside air, and already melodiously stoned, or rather ‘buzzed’, he was traveling in the endless realms of the web, and so far had smoked only his eighth cigarette. The implied friendly disapproval with which Dave had looked at him smoke cigarette after cigarette had made him vow to himself to cut them in half. So far he had more or less smoked half his daily dose. Slightly on edge, but still completely in control. He was examining the most viewed videos in every category in the five main porn portals, on which most of the nighttime web traffic of the city converged. The majority, about sixty percent of the consumers, still went for the traditional porn scenarios. These were structured along the same self-perpetuating plots since time immemorial. One man or a group of men kiss a woman and lick her pussy and ass. Then she sucks their dicks. Then they take her vaginally and analy. Then they come on her face or on her outstretched tongue. A little fisting here and there, as a bow to contemporary trends, some piss play in about two thirds of the flicks, but nothing out of the ordinary. The sixty percent were still mainstream. But the other forty percent... They were almost evenly divided between intense sadomasochistic gay porn and intense sadomasochistic heterosexual porn. Dildos for example, had grown considerably in length and breadth in the last decades. Anton remembered how only yesterday, which, for a man his age was roughly fifteen years ago, only two or three actresses could match the ravenous male gay anuses size-wise. And only a special dozen could not only swallow the longest penises to the balls, but also allow them to slide in and out for more than fifteen seconds without vomiting. Today, a two and even three foot long soft gelatin dildo slithered into almost every female anus in front of the cameras of small budget companies. ‘Snakers’, as these girls were called. But they all claimed to be ‘snaker-shakers’: women who orgasm from the presence of the long snake. And a minute of relentless pounding of the throat was no longer a one of a kind circus stunt. Everyone was a ‘pelicanna’ or a ‘giraffa’ these days. Anton lit another cigarette, conveniently forgetting that his next one should be in only half an hour, and reflected on the elastic properties of the ‘impossible’. And the human orifice. Two feet of dildo up the colon would have been judged impossible even by medical authorities, before the advent in the nineteen nineties of gay fisting clips, in which muscular arms disappeared all the way up to the shoulders in cave-like entrances in plain sight of the whole world.

Then came a time when skeptics said that only men had the internal structure capable of accommodating foreign bodies of such formidable size. Women were not built for such intrusions. And then it turned out that they were. Both genders could be a ‘kangarass’, although only one could be a ‘kangapuss’. A soft twelve inch dildo down the throat had also been in the province of the chosen few ‘giraffa queens’, before another generation came, which had learned to stuff more than thirty inches down their throats, all the way, through the various internal sphincters, into the stomach. Completely logical in hindsight, was this not how medical cameras entered the stomachs of patients with suspected ulcers? But he remembered his own sagging jaw and bulging eyes the first time he had ran across such yoga-like self-infliction. But still, he mused, in spite of the growing popularity of these ‘impossible’ games and their easier to perform satellite activities, not everyone had the time and the drive to learn to take huge things up the back entrance and down the gullet. While on the other hand eating and drinking bodily refuse did not depend on developing extraordinary physical capabilities. It depended only on learning to convert disgust into arousal. Could this be an additional explanation for the growing popularity of the brown lipsticks and the yellow soda pops? And after all, was this not what arousal was for, in a masturbation context: the ability to convert anxiety producing stimulus into controlled excitement? A pill with which to sugarcoat the pressures of the world? That strange tendency of the psyche to use the magic medicine of the homeopathic ‘like for like’ compulsive neurotic rituals, to keep the personality from collapse. Or from radical change, which the subconscious regulators tend to regard as the same thing. What better way for a girl to deal with the fear of gang rape, than imagining being gang raped while masturbating? Anton could think of plenty better ways, but this one was logical in that it followed the direction of least resistance, a spontaneous magical attempted self-cure. And in that train of thought, what better way for a man to deal with the subconscious fear of the huge penis of authority, than to put a huge dildo up his butt while playing with himself? Also the perfect neurotic medicine for women that have decided to compete with men by becoming quasi-men. What better way to deal with a life which demands so much from you, that you can only get small gasps of air, than to choke yourself with a belt or a bag, while stimulating the clitoris or its bigger brother? And this new fad of gratefully eating shit, trying to work up a swallow wallow frenzy in yourself, was this not – Anton’s eyes widened. All periphery thoughts receded back into the mental mist as his attention was transfixed by the computer’s monitor. While he had mused, his eyes had automatically scanned the messages in a pedofantasy forum, which professed to deal only with cartoon depictions of children getting impaled on huge cocks. Of course, any cock looks huge near a child and this, to Anton, was half the answer to the whole issue.

But now, on the fourth page of the comments in this forum topic, he saw a suspicious link. It was suspicious, because it was hidden inside the text, not underlined, not standing out in any way. He had only caught it because of his automatic habit of moving the mouse in concentric circles all over the screen. The little arrow had turned into a hand for a second somewhere... there. He pressed the link. Another page appeared, with a lot of gibberish and photos of underage girls and boys lying on a beach. Various commercial banners popped up. Clever, most people would think this page to be a dead-end, a dud to lure people into seeing advertisements. Anton scanned the gibberish and finally found the real hidden link, which was the letter ‘i’ in the word ‘little’. He pressed it. A blue page loaded, but full access was denied without a password. With a sigh, Anton activated the break-in program, which Deus had designed for him. A small counter appeared. Eight minutes until the break-in. He sucked the last pleasure from his cigarette and put it out in the longship ashtray. Small flakes of ashes were lying around it. He picked up the ashtray and blew at the surface of the desk. The flakes jumped up into the air and then slowly parachuted to the floor. Waiting for the program to eat its way through the site’s defenses, he skimmed over the news. Ah, a thematic coincidence with his own musings, a group representing the rights of ‘fecalists’, was challenging the medical-solidarity logic, by which they had been pronounced misfits by the health ministry. Anton first pressed the link to minister Fischhof’s statement, to get the back-story. The official stance turned out to be, surprisingly, not completely illogical. The core thesis was, that “while everyone has the right to indulge in whatever consensual play they deemed pleasurable,” playing with feces was an unreasonable and selfish act, since people who ingested feces were “more likely to fall ill, more likely to take antibiotics on a regular basis, more likely to be hospitalized and thus more likely to put an unreasonable strain on the National Health System.” Now Anton returned to the retort of the fecalists. According to their take on the matter, far from being more susceptible to illness, they were, to the contrary, with much more robust immune systems, precisely as the result of the ingestion feces. “For too many generations,” they said, “we have been prone to fall ill at the slightest infection and be slaves to various allergies, because we have turned away from nature, and created artificially clean environments. Our immune systems have gone weak from living in all that cleanness.” Scat play then, was implied to be the perfect way of regaining the natural balance and fortifying the organism. Not bad, not bad, grinned to himself Anton, ever ready to acknowledge an interesting argument. Especially one that smacked of contemporary magic sensibilities. That would surely get them some attention.

The scat lobby was still weak, so far worldwide only the mayor of Copenhagen had admitted to being a fecalist. And a Welsh MP had made hints. But more people would follow soon, if his experience in these matters counted for anything. Actors and musicians had already started coming out. Doris, the scandalous singer, was already covering his face with chocolate on stage in his last year’s tours. Five years from now the first members of the clergy would be confessing publicly and explaining humbly how the practice hadn’t really been meant to be counted as a sin, if one gets one’s translations right. Anton heard a ‘ping!’ and opened the window to the blue site. The break-in program had broken in. The site was called TWINKER-BELLES, as the rainbow colored letters at the top announced. And the clips and pictures that were visible looked far from harmless. Anton lit another cigarette, braced himself, and played a clip to make sure. A boy of about eight, dressed as a little sailor, was opening the cheeks of his buttocks with a obliging smile, while a clown in a rainbow wig was unzipping the zipper of his red pants. This was happening in a brightly colored room with flowers and ponies drawn on the walls. Anton exhaled two uneven jets of smoke from his nostrils, suppressed an urge to double up in hysterical coughing, and dialed the number of his contact in the police.

CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR

How she had squirmed, oh how deliciously the old slut had squirmed. Even after his overwhelming orgasm, the ringing in his ears had not yet subsided completely. His legs didn’t shake only because he willed them not to. And he was no longer Mike; there wasn’t anyone in front of whom to feign that identity anymore. He was just himself. Joshua. Wizard. Master. He could not afford to take off his latex costume here, so he buttoned up his long black coat directly over it. Then he approached the bed and looked at the lovely body one last time. In the end, she didn’t have enough of her own shit to enable him to kill her with it. And bananas just weren’t the same thing. It would have felt like cheating. But a wise man can always find another authentic way. Fortunately, she did have more than enough cling film in her kitchen. Joshua breathed in the smell of deep lust and grinned. This ride had, in a way, been his best yet. Since he had tied her wrists to her ankles, not to the legs of her bed, she had really moved, oh how she had moved. He had felt like a cowboy on a rodeo, trying to stay on top of her and keep his dick inside her, as she wailed, and alternately blew up bubbles in the cling film from her inner reserves of air, and then vacuum-stuck it to her face, as she tried to take a breath. It was even better than the annual Bonding Rite. Well, not better as such, he corrected himself quickly, but certainly more intimate. He squeezed her breasts one last time. They were fantastic. An idea appeared out of nowhere: he could cut them off and take them with him. Perhaps even eat them? He bent over the body and opened his mouth, imagining how the flesh would fill his mouth and yield to his teeth. He straightened up abruptly, dismissing the idea. That would be simply crazy. Joshua squatted by his magic bag and took out the one thing which he always took out last: the portable vacuum cleaner. He quickly sucked away the possible invisible particles on and around the bed. There was always a chance that a hair, or a skin flake, or a piece of spit or sweat would give him away. But he knew that that was highly unlikely. He was, after all, a wizard. Fate was his ally, as long as he didn’t break the rules. And then it was time to go, to take care of business. He was an important man and without him, the business would not survive, and many customers depended upon him, so fun and games were all very fine, but duty had to be remembered. A real man never allows his pleasure to disrupt his duty. He went out of the bedroom, down the stairs and out of the front door. He stopped himself just in time from pressing it shut. With a decadent giggle he left it slightly ajar.

It was already nighttime. As he walked his footsteps echoed in the crisp chilly air. He whistled to his car and it lit up with subtle ‘ka-chinks’ of the doors unlocking. A young man walked past, looking straight ahead of himself. As he passed by Joshua, the sound of machinegun electronic drums and squeals and beeps flared up for about ten seconds, before quickly receding. One of the youth’s earphone was dangling, a tiny music spewing butt plug, while the other tiny butt plug was presumably deep in his ear. Just like mental fashion dictated. Joshua climbed into his car, flipped on the swanky interior light, and looked at his notebook, to remind himself of where he had planned to go this time. To the north industrial zone. He turned the ignition key and switched on the surround system. An expansive pop opera stimulated his glands, catering to his sophisto tastes, and he whistled softly to himself as he drove past increasingly ugly neighborhoods, until night really descended all around him, signifying that he had finally left the city limits. He made a slow careful turn to get off the road, which would otherwise take him to a suburban cluster of lights, and continued out into the prevalently dark, very scantly illuminated, rust belt country. The giant former cement factory had been rusting behind its forbidding walls for decades, but near it was a smaller island of decay, a half-dozen scattered buildings of a former dairy. He reached the abandoned settlement and parked his car amidst the weeds and saplings that patiently worked at widening the cracks in the overgrown concrete slabs on which countless workers in rubber boots had walked decades ago. A chain-link fence, torn and collapsed at half of the perimeter, outlined the territory of the derelict buildings. The perfect place. Joshua had fantasized of using it as a murder site when he first found it, but using it as a vehicle disposal site would be almost as fitting. In fact, completely fitting, keeping in mind that the disposal was the final act of a drama, the culmination of which had been a lovely, magical killing. He got out of his car, took the grenade from his coat’s pocket and after pulling the pin he placed it quickly but carefully below the car’s fuel tank. With a grin he jogged away athletically. He was behind the central building of the former dairy when the dense sound wave of the car blowing up ripped through the air, like the echo of an apocalyptic pinball bouncing back and forth between from the peeling walls all around. Or so it seemed to him. Exhilaration like from a hit of Bursters made his skin tingle all over. He wanted to wriggle in pleasure on the ground. He didn’t, of course. He was in control. After the flash and boom of the explosion, darkness and night sounds flooded back in, except for the crackling and jerking residual tongues of flame, invisible from his position, but no doubt enveloping the carcass of the Toyota, he could see the flickering

shadows dance. The night autumn air whispered soothing promises to Joshua. Now was the time for a brisk walk. A walk, no need for running. The city police were just sufficiently understaffed to be able to arrive here in twenty minutes at the earliest.

CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE

Joshua walked for a half a mile, before reaching the gas station. It was an island radiating light and a promise of warmth, situated at a point which was at an equal distance from the city limits and from the two near branches of the sprawling suburbs. He went inside, chose a soft porn gossip magazine from the stand and an orange juice in a fat glass bottle from the fridge, and seated himself on one of the high chairs at the coffee bar. Sucking the juice through a multicolored straw he leafed through the magazine for a minute, before seeing a black Hyundai jeep pull up at the small parking lot. Right on time. Good. One had to be serious with such things. The driver’s door opened and a well-built man with a short haircut came out. He strode with a confident bounce through the sliding doors, and after briefly scanning the gas station café, his gaze settled on Joshua. Joshua nodded slightly and closed his magazine. “Good evening, Mr. IT?” said the man as he neared. Joshua nodded again in answer to the polite query and stood up. They walked back to the black jeep. The driver opened the back door and Joshua saw a balding, sweating man somewhere between fifty plus and sixty minus, in a red tweed jacket and blue pants. Joshua climbed in and sat near the man. The driver closed the door, climbed into his seat and turned the ignition key. Off they went, back to the nebula of lights, back into their city. “Mr. IT, an honor, an honor to meet you,” said the man, pumping Joshua’s hand vigorously with his moist cold paw. Joshua knew the man. It was the head of the health ministry, Mr. Fischhof. “Glad to make your acquaintance, Mr. Doolittle,” he said softly, trying to ease the stress of this initial contact. The man was obviously nervous, tense. A first-timer. A virgin, so to speak. He will not be able to really believe that his dream has come true until the exact moment in which he indulges in it. And even afterwards, even though he has been referred by his friends and comrades, he will still need whole months, before his unease about possible blackmail subsides. Joshua was a professional. He could make these tubs of shaking blubber with gay mustaches eat out of his hand. He opened the magazine purchased in the gas station and commented wittily on a gossip concerning the singer Doris. Fischhof gratefully used the chance to jabber mechanically on celebrity topics as they drove towards Joshua’s business. Joshua could feel the man unwind just a little, like a tense client with whom the dentist swaps jokes and comments on the weather before switching on the drill. Not that there would be any drill in this case.

Not unless the client himself wanted it, that is. The house stood on a street lined with similar houses, an enclave of the upper middle class denizens of the capital. Only private security guards cruised slowly in their cars here. There were no common criminals and no common policemen in this part of the city. Joshua told the driver where to park the jeep and less than five minutes later the customer, ‘Doolittle’, and him, the young wizard, went up the steps, and into the house. Joshua motioned to Fischhof to take residence at the visitor’s couch, while he himself went to his room and quickly changed. The customer gave a high-pitched surprised laugh when Joshua appeared in his clown attire. With a bow and a honk Joshua gave the man an elegant yellow mask with an elastic band, to hide the upper section of his face, and led the now even more spooked customer up the stairs. On the second floor, Joshua took out his ring of keys and opened the brown wooden door. But on the inside the door was not brown, it was light blue and green. The whole room was painted in these colors and there were also charming additional details, like rainbows, teddy bears, ponies and a few Tinker Bells waving fairy wands. “Ho-ho! Ha-ha! Hello, children! Hello, my little treasures!” said Joshua in his clown voice and waved at the kids. The kids waved back. They were four girls and four boys, all in fairly good condition. Purchased two years ago. They didn’t talk much and couldn’t follow long sentences, and all had some ticks of the faces and the limbs, but they still looked good enough to fulfill their function, and they had learned all the basic tricks. Joshua looked at the small beds lined up by the right hand wall. They looked in order, more or less. And on the two small tables there were no dirty paper plates. The cleaning lady had been and gone, good. “Children, this is uncle Doolitle,” said Joshua, introducing the masked sweating statesman, “he will play with you, but not all of you. Say ‘hi’.” “Hi, uncle Doolitle,” said the children dutifully and one of the girls, little Dashenka, fluttered her eyelids exactly like she had been taught. But Fischhof was looking at little Petechka. Then he looked at Joshua with an obvious question in his eyes. “Just him?” asked Joshua. Fischhof nodded fervently. “All right, do you want to do it here, or in a separate room?” The customer pondered for a moment, before choosing ‘here’, with a nervous lick of his lips. “One last question,” said Joshua, “may I shoot a video? We sometimes combine both our businesses.” Fischhof whipped around and looked Joshua straight in the eyes, breathing heavily, the lower part of his face turning crimson. “Of course! Of course. I will want a copy too. But you can only film the first part. The second part is for me alone.”

CHAPTER TWENTY SIX

Natalie woke up one minute before the alarm clock and got out of her bed with stiff determination. No more was the bed a soft warm nest, difficult to leave early in the morning. Now it was a treacherous and uninviting place, to be left behind as soon as possible. Natalie dressed herself, a small cup of coffee and a cigarette her breakfast, and then discovered to her chagrin that she felt intense apprehension just from standing near the front door. She could not bring herself to open it. She cringed at the mere thought. Her heart started beating faster even when she only pulled the latch open. She let the matter rest for now, retreated to the kitchen and smoked a second cigarette to compose herself. Feeling slightly weaker physically, but more stable emotionally, she went to the door a second time and with only the shortest of hesitations strode over the threshold, and into her floor’s corridor. She couldn’t face the creaky, diseased elevator today and scuttled down the stairs. Outside, a menacing, portentous autumn day loomed at her from all directions. She tried to ignore it as she walked to the boulevard and concentrated on the traffic, trying to pick out the right car. She hailed a free cab, climbing inside she nodded to the vaguely familiar driver and said Jane’s address. That invitation for a morning brainstorm over coffee was the reason she went out a whole hour earlier. But she was in fact grateful for that. At least she was out of her bed. Beyond their reach. For now... Before she could really focus her attention on the upcoming brainstorm session, or what was far more likely, a get-to-know-each-other gossip session, the cab already pulled up. Natalie paid and extracted herself from the back seat. In this part of town the wind was stronger and somehow drier. Jane did not live in a high-rise but in an old two-story house flanked by poplars and old-fashioned red brick apartment blocks. Natalie walked up the stone steps and stopped at the door. She looked for a button to press to announce her arrival and noticed something unnerving. The door was not locked. “No, no, no,” muttered Natalie under her breath. The dread, which she had managed to keep in check so far now, swooped down on her, pushing at her frail frame and hunching her. The little opening between the door and the doorframe held a promise of something very, very bad. There was no sound coming from the house as far as she could ascertain and the lights seemed to be on.

An unexpected dizzy spell hit Natalie and propelled her forward. She stretched out her hand instinctively and tried to balance herself on the door. Under the pressure of the small hand the door swung open with the softest of creaks and Natalie stumbled inside into the corridor. “Hello, Jane?” she said, shaky and out of breath, as if she had ran a marathon before getting to the house. There was no answer. She slowly went forward, for some reason stepping very lightly and holding her breath. The dim corridor in front of her had a big retro wooden cupboard on one side, complimented by a retro wooden coat hanger and the beginning of a staircase down at its end. Opposite to the cupboard were the entrances to two rooms. The first one was a reading room. One whole wall was filled with shelves stacked with books, and there was a small wooden coffee table, and a padded easy chair just by the window. Jane was not inside. A tiny, delicate, white cup, with dried coffee residue on its bottom, stood on the table and a book was lying open, face down. It was a bestselling detective romance about a worldwide conspiracy rooted in the murky past. ‘Mesopotamia Factor’. Trying to ignore her misgivings, Natalie proceeded to the second room. It was the kitchen. There were two leather gloves and a handbag on the table. Tiny droplets fell from the tap every two seconds. With a sudden growl, the refrigerator began vibrating. Sweat breaking out on her forehead, Natalie reached the staircase and stopped. She took a deep breath and opened her handbag, pricked herself on a pen, and felt her fingers close on her phone. She dialed Jane’s number and waited. After a few seconds a faraway pop melody began playing. It was coming from upstairs. No one seemed to be picking it up. The upstairs floor did not creak under anyone’s feet. Natalie forced herself to put her left foot on the first step of the stairs. Then she put her right foot on the next step. The melody upstairs stopped playing. From her own phone Natalie heard the beep of a voicemail switching on. Her mouth set in a perfectly horizontal line and her hands clenched into small fists, she slowly walked up, reeled in by the center of her hypnotic terror, which she knew awaited her upstairs. The layout of the second floor mirrored the first. The first doorway presented a view of the bathroom. A white bath and a sink with a small mirror box above it, the walls and floor covered by light yellow tiles. The other room was the bedroom. A funny smell of rotting bananas and an unflushed toilet made Natalie’s nostrils quiver as she pushed the white wooden door open. On the king-sized bed, lying on her back, with her knees pointing upwards, was a woman. Her hands were tied to her ankles by thin rope, head covered by some transparent material. Behind it was a face, frozen in a death grimace, with yellowish and brownish stuff on the skin.

It was Jane. On the floor by the bed lay a leather mask with an unzipped mouth. A mannequin stood by the bed. Madness. Natalie averted her gaze and pointed it at her phone. She started dialing the police, but her hands began to shake violently and her phone clattered to the floor. She stooped limply to pick it up and then a buzzing darkness flooded into her head, obscuring her vision. Suddenly something hard was pushing at her shoulder blades. It was the floor. It took whole endless minutes for the darkness to recede slowly and to evolve first into vague objects, and then back to the normal dimness of a half-lit house. With a cold and slippery hand she picked up her phone again, and this time managed to call the police.

CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN Dave entered the pathology basement of Merkell College. It was a chilly and understandably unfriendly place. A morgue is a morgue. A cold bluish light washed the whole gray tiled room, adding to the already depressive ambiance. In this room with bleak walls and bleak lighting Dave saw two men with bleak expressions. One of them was Andy Fortham. He was a denim guy and was covered with it from shoulder to ankle. His brown hair was short and slightly curly. His Pancho Villa mustache, in combination with his denim attire and his slightly cracked gaze, made him look like an aging patron of a gay S/M club. But from Andy’s point of view, he looked like a true twentieth century rocker. He was the proud father of two girls. “Dave, glad you could make it,” he said and squeezed his hand, “this is doctor Mortensen.” Mortensen nodded his bald head and also gave Dave’s hand a squeeze with a cold hammy hand. Thankfully Mortensen’s apron did not seem to have any fresh blood on it. “So, what’s going on?” asked Dave, looking at the two bodies lying on metal tables. Andy moistened his lips. “Remember that woman who was found by her daughter, that was tied up on her bed, dead?” Dave nodded. “Of course, how can I forget? Choked on her own crap, right?.” “Right. Now we have two more bodies. The first incident was not an accident it seems. Another serial killer for your files.” “Oh great, that’s all I needed.” Dave looked at Dr. Mortensen with a manly but pained expression. Mortensen walked up purposefully to the bodies and the two men followed him. The doctor lifted the cover of the first victim. “This one is Jane Donovan. Fifty six years old.” A middle-aged woman was lying on her back, staring into nothing. The doctor had already kindly manipulated her facial muscles into a more fitting, more somber expression and had closed her eyes, but that didn’t help much to take away the dreadful undertone of the whole situation. “Cause of death: suffocation by cling film,” said Mortensen, “time of death: just hours ago, probably last night. She was found this morning by a co-worker who was to pick her up in the morning before work.” “That’s a crappy way to start the day,” muttered Andy. Dave winced at the word ‘crappy’. “If it’s cling film, why do we think it’s the same killer?” he asked. “Because she was found bound and had her own feces in her stomach,” said Andy, “mixed, would you believe, with some bananas.” The doctor nodded in affirmation. “I see.” Dave checked a shudder and tried to teeter nonchalantly on his heels, hands compulsively playing with pocket change. “What about the other one?”

“The other one was also found bound, and suffocated by her own feces, like the first victim.” Mortensen lifted the cover of the second victim. “Miya Hanski, twenty two, found yesterday by roommate returning from home town.” Dave felt very sick. The face and body of Miya Hanski were painfully familiar. He had kissed and used them mere days ago. This was Georgette. He had made love to Miya’s alter ego, and now the real person lay in front of him, inanimate, cold, dead. “Some abrasions on the inner side of the cheeks point to a metallic mouthrestraint being used, like with the first victim,” droned Mortensen. “What is the time of death for Miya?” David’s voice was hoarse. It didn’t sound familiar at all. “Last Saturday probably. Maybe Friday.” “Jesus.” Dave covered his eyes with his hands for a second, as if washing with some invisible water. Then he opened his eyes again, straining to be serious and collected. Andy looked at him. Dave met his gaze unsteadily and answered the unspoken question. “I had sex with this girl just a few days ago.” Andy promptly reacted with a look of commiseration. “You knew her well?” “Not really, it was a one night stand. We met at a swinger club. The ‘Faceoff.’” “When was that?” “Last Wednesday evening, I think.” Andy edged closer and put his hand on Dave’s shoulder. He gave a friendly squeeze, which men do to each other from time to time in order to show empathy. Dave looked at the floor, trying to kick-start his brain into producing something useful, instead of just going to pieces. “I also saw her with some joker on Friday, in the same club.” “What did he look like?” “Just a second.” David tried to remember. What did he call him back then? Mr… Mr. Greenpants! “Fashionable looking dude, had green pants and a black latex jacket, and I think he had red gloves.” Andy thought. “If he poses as a guy with a latex fetish and never undresses and doesn’t take his gloves off, that would explain why he leaves no trace of himself.” “Is there no trace of him with these two cases as well?” “Didn’t look like it. The forensics from Byer and Schmidt are working on it right now. Hopefully they’ll find something this time.” Dave tried to concentrate. Forget the taste of Georgette’s skin for now, focus on the job at hand. His jaw muscles ached from the attempts of keeping his lips from quivering. He began speaking in a deep unemotional manly tone. “So, we’re dealing here with someone, who likes to suffocate women. How does he meet them?” He answered his own question. “Georgette was a swinger. Perhaps the other two were also swingers. He meets them, and then they go to their places. How does he convince them to do that?” “Probably feeds them some crap about...” David’s right cheek twitched. He pointed his bloodshot eyes at Andy. “Don’t,

don’t say that man. Don’t use that expression. Not here, not now.” Andy spread his hands placatingly, with a guilty smile curving the sides of his mustache. “Sorry, of course, what was I thinking? I meant that there are many things you can say to bluff your way into someone’s home. Like that you have roommates, or that you have a wife and kids at home or something.” “What if they also can’t go home, and prefer to go to a hotel?” “Then they probably stay alive.” “Video clips!” said doctor Mortensen, who had only listened until now. “What?” David looked at the doctor uncomprehendingly. “These swinger types... aren’t they prone to make secret recording of their sex at home?” Dave scowled. These moronic stereotypes were no help at all. But Andy was polite. He grinned and nodded. “That’s a good idea, doc. We’ll check it out!” Dave remembered the club again. “And there must be records from the security cameras of the ‘Faceoff’ club too.” “Yeah, right,” Andy displayed a positive, confident face, “we’ll catch the bastard yet, he can’t evade all the cameras in the world. And he can’t play with fate and win all the time. There must be at least a bit of spit somewhere, which the Bayer boys will find.” Dave knew that Andy was saying this mainly for his sake. He gave him a grateful smile. They squeezed hands with the good doctor again and left the college building. The light filtering through the gray sky was not much warmer than the light in the morgue. The cars passing made Dave think of mechanized coffins. Andy cleared his throat. “I sent you an email with info about a pedophile site that was found, we won’t discuss it now...” “No, I’m cool Andy, tell me about it.” “Well, a contact in the N.M.H. office found it. There are clips of a clown, I mean a real clown, with a red nose and everything, having sex with little boys and girls. But those are just two-minute samples. And you can become a member and download the full movies.” “And?” Andy picked at some gravel with the toe of his shoe. “Well, so far we can’t break into the security of the site and see what the addresses of the clients are, or who’s hosting it. But the chap from the N.M.H. said he has a programmer contact who maybe will give him some software to try and break in. Quietly. All we can do is hope this program, doesn’t get detected and scare off the bad guys.” Dave looked at the cracked, discolored pavement below his feet, and also flicked at a tiny piece of gravel with his shoe. “Christ. A clown with kids. A maniac killing women with shit. Decades of season girls with no result except detectives dying off. A little sex robot killing other little sex robots.” He looked an Andy. “You got a cigarette?” Andy reacted automatically to this request and patted one pocket before checking himself and frowning at Dave. “I thought you didn’t smoke,” he said, searching the detective’s eyes. “I don’t,” said Dave in a queer, detached voice, “but now may be the time to start,

by the look of things.” Andy leaned forward, patting him on both shoulders. “Look, just go back to your office, have a beer or two on the way and try to relax. We’ll figure this all out step by step.” “Yeah, you’re right,” said Dave, mainly out of courtesy, and tried to push his feeling out of his eyes. “And I’ll see you tomorrow evening, to get that toy-basher!” insisted Andy, still searching Dave’s face. “Yeah,” Dave obliged with a bleak smile, “see you tomorrow, man.” *** Back in his office, Dave looked at the printouts from the TWINKER-BELLES site. Then he thought about the two bodies in the college morgue. Then he received an email with the details concerning all three bodies. The roommate who had found Miya Hanski was Robert Hink, nineteen, working in the same mall with her. The co-worker who had found Jane Donovan was Natalie Martorino, twenty six, employed in ‘Spectrum Sociology and PR’. Dave stood up, again masking an upsurge of feelings with a thoughtful face and walked over to the window. The autumn wind was pushing small dark clouds to swim with urgency below the immobile gray lid that was the sky. Buildings looked somehow sad and fragile. Pedestrians looked furtive and uncomfortable. What a day. What a week. What a world. This was the last straw. Poor Natalie of all people having to find the body. Dave picked up his phone to call her, and then decided against it. Now was probably not a good time. She would have called him already by now if she needed him. He sat down again. A rational part of his mind brought out another disturbing angle. If out of three bodies left by the shit-strangler one was of a woman with whom he had sex just days ago and another was a woman who worked with Natalie, suspicions would arise if someone added two and two. Perhaps someone would think that he and Natalie were working as a tandem of maniac killers. And the evening in which Georgette was being killed, his alibi was only Natalie herself. Damn, damn, damn. He hoped she had a good alibi for the night in which Jane had been killed. When he returned home in the evening, he had no appetite and no desire to do anything. He simply lay limp on his sofa and slowly guzzled beer. He thought again of Georgette and Jane. Both were women whom he would have liked to have sex with. It was simple chance that he had only had sex with one of them. And, judging by the photo of the first victim, Sarah, she would also have made a great one night stand. Apparently both he and the killer had the same taste in women. Nothing too classy, rather the opposite. Girls who were young and therefore wanted to please, and were easy to make do things; women who were plain, and therefore wanted to please, and were easy to make do

things; women who were old and therefore wanted to please, and were easy to make do things. Dave’s lunch suddenly appeared to be at the threshold of his throat. He jumped off the sofa and ran to the toilet. After flushing the vomit and cleansing his mouth from the acrid taste, he returned to his couch and lay down, pale, trembling, and very depressed. He and the killer chose the same types of women. Women whose buttons were easy to push. Young insecure provincials, plain looking housewife-clerk types, and old-timers who refused to admit that they were not girls anymore, and were ready to prove the contrary by any means. “God!” he said aloud and tried to hide the world from himself by means of a pillow put on his face. But that only reminded him of the cling film by which Jane had been killed. There was only one thing to do. He got up again and with a slight stoop shuffled slowly to the kitchen, where he opened another beer.

CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT

Anton parked his car in front of the building Natalie had described to him. It said ‘National Patriots’ above the entrance. He studied the logo. Typical Nazi revivalist anesthetics. Why was she mixed up with a bunch of obscure Nazis? She had sounded very distressed over the phone and so was he now. This was the first time she had ever, as an adult, asked him to pick her up. Something must be very wrong. Anton looked at the gray sky from his rear window and then at the gray sidewalk. He got out of his car. He lighted a cigarette and stood there smoking. Spouting the white smoke, he looked around, to see if anyone wanted to make something out of him smoking in public. Everyone was minding their own businesses. They better be! They damn better be. He looked at the time on his phone. What was keeping her? He was early, but surely she knew he would be early? Or maybe she had forgotten his habits... they had grown so much apart in the last years. When he had been almost forty, they had taken his stepdaughter away from him, because he was a heroin addict. Heroin addict. Anton felt ancient anger stirring inside him. Braindead chickenshit pill-poppers, trying to find someone at whose expense to feel smug about themselves. He had been very good at his work, needed only a morning fix and an evening fix, and was far from the degenerates who beg for spare change on the streets, steal the hand bags of old ladies, or shoot down helicopters in action films. He was no hoodlum. He had been more like a nineteenth century gentleman, who injected himself some morphine in the morning and then proceeded to be a good husband, father and... surgeon, or writer, or whatever they were back then. Like in Poe’s stories. No one pounced on his characters waving badges no one called them junkies. No, everyone patiently listened to their explanations about shimmering ghostly cities from other dimensions. And no one ever persecuted Sherlock Holmes for injecting cocaine to liven up his inner worlds. But these ignorant, uncouth bastards had taken Natalie away after he got caught out in a random drug test at work, and he had to go through that tedious, terrible methadone program, and then report weekly with a piss sample for a year, and then once a fortnight for another year, before they would give her back to him. And by the time he was pronounced ‘cured’ and ‘clean’, and ‘without relapses’, by then she was an adult, and had already won her first scholarship, and had gone to Finland for three years, to study sociology. He had been proud and sad at the same time back then. And ever since, they had never really been close again. She liked him and probably respected him, he certainly

respected her, but some important bond had been broken. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she almost certainly blamed him for being a weakling, for being a junkie. And now, she had called him with a trembling voice, asking for ‘Daddy’ to come and take her from work. This meant things must be bad. Anton sucked intensely at the remains of his cigarette, actually wrinkling it, crumpling it by his forceful inhalation, and then threw the stub away to land below his car. He saw the National Patriot HQ door open. And there she was, going out of the building, looking so fragile. He grabbed her, hugged her, pecked her cheek and steered her to his car. *** They sat in his home on the thick rug on the floor. At least Natalie was sitting, cross-legged, while Anton was lying on his right side, holding his cigarette with his left hand, and propping up his head with this right one. Natalie was also smoking. “I understand that it was a terrible shock,” said Anton, trying to keep up a nononsense attitude, “but I must say that you look terribly thin as well. How are you eating these days?’ Natalie looked at him with a guilty smile, which turned into a defiant grin. “I eat, I eat.” “What did you eat today?” “Nothing, but that’s understandable.” “Okay, what about yesterday?” “I... had some nuts at work?” Anton turned on the skeptical parental expression. “What about the day before yesterday?” “Half an apple,” fibbed Natalie. Anton eyed her for ten seconds. “Are you an anorexic, dear daughter?” “No, no, of course not. I just... it’s the strain lately...” “Why not take a few days off?” “Oh I can’t do that, everyone is depending on me, especially now, that... now that Jane is dead... and the elections are so close...” Anton pursed his lips. He could see that his lovely stepdaughter was in the grinder, trapped by the office merry-go-round, but why did she not want to take a break? This could only mean that she was so afraid to be alone with herself and her own thoughts, that she preferred to work herself to death. That manic state, which had always been encouraged by moral authorities as the only proper way to live. Bastards. “I’ll be quite fine, Daddy, I just needed to talk to you, because today was such a big shock. Poor Jane.” “Indeed. I’m surprised that you have not gone to pieces. You should be curled up like a baby and crying by now.” Anton saw that Natalie took this as a compliment concerning her toughness.

“No,” he tried to clarify, “I mean it: you should let yourself go and shake in fear and cry, you should let your body react to this naturally, don’t bury this shock, you’re doing yourself a bad favor bottling it up. You’re in a safe place, you are not at work. Now’s the time to do it. You can use my bedroom if you like.” Natalie smiled tolerantly at his pop psychology. She knew that she had to be tough, and that she should never let down her guard, never relax. It was much better that way. Everything would collapse otherwise. “I hope they catch the person who is responsible soon,” she changed the angle of the conversation. “They probably will. After all, good old Dave is the current sex-crime expert for the force.” “David...” Natalie looked at her Daddy. “Do you think you can invite David to come over?” “Er, why not? I’ll give him a call, it’s only eight in the evening.” Anton dialed Dave. The phone rang only once, before being snatched up on the other side. “Hello, Tony! Boy, am I glad to hear you!” “How you doing, Dave?” “Fucking horrible. Have you heard from Natalie?” “Yes, she’s here with me. She’s very upset.” “I can imagine. I was at the morgue today and found out the she found one of the bodies.” “One of the bodies? There are more?” “Yeah, as I said, everything’s pretty fucking horrible.” “Listen, do you want to come over for a little while?” “I sure do! I’ll be over in half an hour.” “Great. Take a bottle of wine or something.” “I will. See you soon.” Anton rang off and thought for a second. Then he remembered that in the spur of the moment he had bought some fruit-flavored yogurts less than a week ago. He went to the kitchen, rescued the tiny red buckets from behind the sausages, broke off one yogurt from the rest with a sharp crack and together with a small tea spoon he pushed it into Natalie’s hands. He snarled playfully at her, as he used to do when she was a kid and gave him trouble. With an unstable smile, she began forcing herself.

CHAPTER TWENTY NINE

Anton opened the door, and let David in. David also looked somewhat haggard. “Anton!” he exclaimed and pumped his hand and patted his shoulder. “Natalie!” he said and hugged the frail black girl. “How are you?” he asked and looked carefully into her eyes. “Fine, much better now,” she answered and broke loose to light another cigarette. Anton appeared with three glasses and a corkscrew. Now all three of them lounged on the soft thick carpet. After the conversation hovered unformed around a number of topics, Dave decided to bring up politics: “Hey, you notice that they upped the retirement age again?” “Yes, I read that a day ago,” said Anton. “Bloody shameless thieves.” “And everyone is being such a pussy about that,” nodded Dave, “no one calls a spade a spade anymore. Except these guy, the something patriots, I read their statement, powerful stuff.” Anton looked at his daughter. “Don’t you work with them now, actually?” Natalie nodded. She yawned, delicately covering her mouth with the back of her hand, and blinked for a few seconds. “Yes, these are the National Patriots,” she said dismissively, “they wrote this rubbish before I came on board, now I’ll have to do some quick damage control.” “Come on, you’re too hard on them. I thought it was a good statement,” said Dave earnestly, cajoling Natalie to continue. She continued. “It may sound good to some lay members of the public like you,” she rewarded him with a quick flash of her tongue, “but it’s no good from a political point of view. In this game, if you want to play with the big boys, to be a party with some real chances, you can’t risk alienating the military or the big businesses and this is what the dorks have accomplished with their statement.” *** Another hour passed. Natalie had started talking of taxis, but on Anton’s insistence retreated to his bedroom to sleep there. The two men remained in the living room, eying each other with a certain relief, for they no longer had to keep up a fragile bubble of safe topics. “So tell me, Dave, what’s been happening?” asked Anton putting his glass on the carpet and fishing out another cigarette from his pack. “I don’t even know where to begin,” said Dave and took a sip from his wine. “You said on the phone that Jane wasn’t the only victim,” Anton prompted him. “Ah yes, yes, she’s not the only one.” Dave tried to keep the memory of Georgette’s body from interfering with his tale. “There are three women in all, one twenty-something, one thirty-something and one fifty-something, found in the last week.” “All of them suffocated?” “Yes,” Dave’s eyes darted to the wall behind which Natalie now slept, “and in a way I’m glad that Natalie found Jane and not one of the others.”

“How come?” “The other two were suffocated by their own shit.” Anton’s eyebrows jumped and his jaw compensated by sagging. Then he quickly regained control of himself. “Shit you say... how exactly?” “The bastard apparently tied them up and fed them their own shit.” “He broke in and raped them?” “No, it rather looks like they were all swingers who invited a stranger home to play.” Anton let out a cloud of white smoke and watched it curl and swirl. “So, our culprit has killed a woman from three age groups, except the forty-somethings.” “Yeah. I don’t know yet if it’s a system, or just accidental choice.” “No fingerprints, no DNA?” “No. We have one possible suspect, who looks like a latex freak. If it’s him, that would explain the lack of evidence so far. But the boys are working hard on the two newest cases, maybe they will find something.” “And you said that they were fed their own shit, not his.” “Yeah,” said Dave. “Yeah,” he said again and stood up and looked out of Anton’s window. It was night, and square lights were already shining from the buildings all around. “That’s another thing I don’t understand,” said the detective without turning around, “what’s with all that shit eating? How did that become a fashion?” Anton smiled. “I’ve pondered that myself and perhaps my mighty intellect has seen something, which your puny mortal brain has missed.” Dave smiled weakly at his reflection in the windowpane. “Pray tell wise one.” “Point one: you will not deny, that our civilization has an oral pathology.” “I will not deny this, because I don’t know what you mean.” Dave smelled the beginning of a lengthy discourse and took his place by the albino. “Well,” said the albino, “almost everyone has eating disorders for one. A lot of women are anorexic, a lot of women are bulimic and the ones in between are either tubs of lard who can’t stop stuffing themselves, or are paranoiacs_ who count guiltily every calorie.” Dave’s lips twitched as another ghost of smile passed over them. “Put that way, I agree. What about the men?” “The men...” Anton waved a hand, dismissing all men as below contempt, “there’s a rising number of male bulimics and anorexics, and the rest... well, you can’t deny, that most men are now also obese. And are constantly sucking at a beer bottle.” “Or at a cigarette, ahem, ahem.” Anton took that with good grace. “Right, or a cigarette.” “Granted then. The Western civilization has an eating, drinking and smoking disorder.” “Right. And this disorder, is an oral pathology.” “You’ve lost me again.” “You know,” insisted Anton, “the first stage of the child’s development.” “Oh, riiight,” said the detective, “yeah, I think I’ve read that somewhere.” “And this deepest layer in our psyches, the oral layer”, the albino spilled a drop of

wine on the carpet as he gesticulated with his glass, “is for some reason pathological on a mass level. Think of all the advertisements. There’s always an open mouth eating something, sucking something, drinking something. Indeed, we call ourselves a ‘consumer society’. We have a fetish with consuming.” “If you say so.” Anton looked at the detective and quickly thought of a fitting example to make his point. “Back in nineteen seventy two I think it was, a film appeared in adult movie theaters. Back then there were no computers and no videos, and people had to go to a place packed with other wankers, and jerk off while watching the big screen. The film in question was ‘Deep Throat’.” “I’ve seen it. It’s ultra boring.” “True. But!” Anton narrowed his eyes, “this film made more money than any Hollywood film ever has. Adjusted for inflation of course. “ Yes, these were concepts Dave understood instantly. “No shit?” “No shit. And the reason for that was just the fact, that the actress in the film could deep throat.” “I guess that freaked everyone out back then.” “It did. And a few years later, all the porn stars started doing it, or trying to do it. And these days, we expect from every woman we have sex with, to do this.” Dave gave a nervous cough. “Yeah, go on.” “So you see, a society with an oral pathology, with eating disorders and throat fucking as a more visible examples of this pathology, it was only a question of time before shit eating came on the scene.” “On the scene obscene. I still don’t see how one leads to the other.” “Neither do I, to be perfectly honest,” admitted the albino and tickled his oral pathology with another lungful of smoke. “And anyway,” Dave held out his empty glass in front of Anton, but the albino shook his head. The wine was finished. “Want some tea, detective?” “Later maybe, thanks.” “You were saying?’ “What were we talking about?” “Shit eating. And you said ‘and anyway…’” “Ah yes. And anyway, it was German porn I think, which introduced shit eating to the masses. Why did it become popular with us?” “Not only German porn,” Said Anton with brisk confidence, “German porn and Japanese porn introduced it to the masses.” An obliging vintage image of a Japanese actress dressed like a schoolgirl pooping on some balding man popped into Dave’s head. “Okay, I think you’re right.” “So what would you say is the thing which connects Germany and Japan?” asked Anton mischievously. “You obviously have an idea, oh wise one. Lead on.” “The Second World War!” said Anton with a triumphant glint in his eyes. “Both nations tried at the same time to conquer the world and both were defeated.” “Right, black and white soldiers walking very quickly with their hands up in the air. So?”

“So, these two super-militarist nations populated by self-designated master races, had to turn into super-pacifist, super-tolerant nations, and this did not happen because they suddenly chose to change, but because they were bombed into submission.” “Yeah, Nagasaki and... Dresden?” Dave knew his history more or less, some years ago he had a period of surfing online encyclopedias for hours on end. Anton pointed a forefinger at the ceiling. “Ah, Nagasaki, that’s another question. I wrote an interesting article once, exploring the connection between the bombings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki, and the wave of postwar Japanese movies, dealing with huge monsters destroying their cities.” “Where was it published?” “In a blog,” said Anton a trifle defensively. “Anyway. So Germany and Japan were defeated and the Germans had to learn to think of Hitler not as of a demigod who made them into superhumans, but as of a lunatic, and the Japanese had to listen on the radio to emperor Hirohito confessing on the insistence of the Americans, that he is not a god.” “Yeah, they lost the war, and they had to take a lot of shit.” “Exactly my point! “ Anton tapped the carpet with vigor, “exactly my point. And they had to take this shit politely and gratefully. I mean, intellectually they were completely morally right to become polite pacifists, but deep down, where human nature is still on the level of kill or be killed, on that level they knew that they were taking shit. And that is why they pioneered shit eating porn.” “An interesting theory doctor Martorino.” “Thank you, professor Cohran.” “But we were not defeated in the war. We won it.” “Yes, yes, that was just an example. But this is the mechanism which I think popularized shit play. On one hand we have a civilization with oral disorders anywhere you turn. On the other hand, this civilization has taught its people how to take shit and like it, not least of all by using happy pills and or various legal and illegal stimulants to evade noticing it. “And once it became a trend; it clicked with a lot of people, because a lot of people are people with oral disorders, who have to take shit from someone every day of their lives. You know, neurotic mechanism often work in a like-for-like manner.” “Whatever you say doctor Martorino,” agreed Dave and stood up again, to get another dose of fresh air from the window. “I’m sure you’ll get a Nobel for this discovery.” “Or a golden turd award or something.” Anton’s attempt to lighten up the atmosphere and relax Dave fell flat. The detective mused tensely without even turning around. “But why does my killer kill other people with their shit?” he asked somewhat angrily, “is he compensating for something? Would he himself eat shit according to your theories?” “Probably, probably he would,” said Anton, “but maybe he doesn’t admit his desire to do that to himself. He would see this as a terrible weakness,” “I don’t blame him.” “Right, so he projects it on other people. He doesn’t eat shit - he gets other people

to do it instead of him.” “Projection eh? Does stuff like that really happen?” “Yup, classical psychoanalytical concept.” Dave turned and shook his head at the albino, “You must be the last person alive who still reads that stuff.” “Yah,” said Anton and looked at the table. Then he looked back at the detective. “Anyway, what about that robot sex toy that you’re hunting?” “Oh, I’ll try to catch it tomorrow evening.” “Really? How?” “I’ll use myself as bait, lead it, hopefully, to my home, and my stakeout buddy Andy will nab it.” “Well, good luck with that,” said Anton dubiously. “Why don’t you use some other place instead of your home? Sounds a bit dangerous.” “Want me to lead it to your home?” “I’m serious. Can’t you rent a flat and lead it there?” Dave shrugged. “Well, it’s too late for this now. We’ll just have to hope it works out.” “To things working out!” said Anton and raised his empty glass. Then he went to make some tea.

CHAPTER THIRTY

The Thursday night rain pelted the window and as the big drops exploded on the windowsill tiny sprinkles fell through the window opening, into the room, and onto the wooden floor. Which was probably not good in the long run, but Dave preferred to have the fresh moist air coming into his room. The consequences to the floor would have to be dealt with when they came. He was sitting at his desk, slowly chewing a sandwich from the nearby Burger Pad, and also chewing over yesterday’s events. Maldiva had already gone home hours ago, but Dave had stayed in the office. His cell phone began vibrating and making noises. The alarm. It was time. He switched off his computer, closed the window and struggled with his long gray overcoat. The office buzzer rang. He opened the door and let in a wet-haired Andy. He was carrying a nylon bag. “Hey, Dave,” he said, shaking the rain droplets from his hair. Then he quickly shoved his hand into his bag and began producing various treasures. “Motion detectors,” he said, producing half a dozen small nipples, “they vacuum stick to the walls.” He then took out a small touch screen mini-pad four inches across. “This is for you to monitor the motion detectors.” Dave slipped it into his overcoat’s pocket. Andy was already offering him the next piece of equipment. “This is a German earplug. Range eight miles, after charging works for eight hours, I just charged it.” Dave took the skin colored button and wedged it into his left ear. Andy clipped another anonymous looking button below the left lapel of Dave’s overcoat. “That’s the mic,” he said, “same characteristics. Let’s try it.” Andy tapped his ear, indicating that his earplug _was already inside. Dave quickly went to the other room. “Testing, testing,” he said. “Loud and clear,” he heard deep in his left brain hemisphere. “Jesus, not so loud man!” “Sorry, I’ll lower the sounds settings.” *** Andy remained in his car, parked thirty yards from the sex shop. Dave parked his BMW ten yards from the shop, quickly sloshed his way through the shallow puddles on the pavement and stopped below the ‘X-SEX’ sign. “I’m going in,” he said and went in. As he pushed the door open, a ten second recording of a lusty groan announced his arrival. Inside, a young woman with very short hair, dressed in a thick long-sleeved pseudo-lumberjack shirt raised her eyes from her latest model tooter-twatter. On the desk in front of her two pairs of handcuffs lay by an array of small bottles

and tubes. “Hi,” she said, gave her twatter one last toot, and stood up. Dave nodded silently and looked around. To his left was a wall with rows of colorful dildos of various sizes. To his right were hanging square plastic bags with kinky sex-wear. Near them was the metallic railing of a staircase which led to the lower floor. “Can I help you find what you’re looking for?” asked the girl as she walked over to Dave. He shot her a guilty glance. “Where are the umm… the dolls?” “Oh, they are on the lower floor. This way.” She did not lead the way, she only pointed. Dave went over to the staircase and descended to the basement level. Here too was a counter, behind which sat a young woman, who was a brunette of about twenty eight - thirty, a thin green latex collar with small round studs on her neck. She smiled at David. “Can I help you sir?” “Uh yeah, I’m looking for...” Dave stopped. His attention was caught by a soft, long strap-on dildo, with two small antennae of the same material attached to its base. The girl followed his gaze and smiled. “Ah, I see you are intrigued by the Skull Dominator.” “The what?” “It’s a very new product, but it’s catching on. You see these?” she pointed at the two thin antennae. “I certainly do.” “They are made with anatomical precision, to fit most sizes.” “Most sizes of what?” “Nostrils, of course.” Dave opened his mouth, but nothing came out. The girl picked up the transparent bag, opened it carefully, took out the dildo itself and a folded piece of paper. She unfolded it and on it was drawn an illustration of the dildo entering a throat, and the two thin tendrils at its base entering the nostrils, and curving downwards. “You see, they don’t go into your brain or something,” she smiled,” and anyway, it’s an ancient yoga tradition.” “What, getting tiny dildos up your nostrils?” “Not exactly,” said the saleswoman almost chidingly, “but the do clean their nasal cavities with ropes. The put a rope up one nostril, and pull it out of their mouths.” “Do they really?” said Dave and fingered one of the yielding silicone pseudopods, “but with these little dildos, don’t noses get broken or something?” “Not if you are a loving and responsible partner,” she gave him a stern look. “Of course, of course,” he tried to think of something adequate to say. “This is only for lesbians I suppose?” he inclined his head towards the strap-on. “Yes, and for submissive men in a heterosexual relationship,” she said, looking him in the eye. “But we also have cock-rings with added nasal dildos, so that you can feel the throat of your loved one around your penis, and still give them the added overwhelming pleasure of having every possible hole filled up.” As she was reciting this, she held up a purple plastic cock-ring with two thin tentacles hanging from it.

“I’m sure, no doubt.” Dave looked around. “Ahem!” a voice in his left ear said. “Yeah, yeah,” muttered Dave absently, as if to himself, while he checked out this part of the shop. While upstairs was the colorful and well-lit part, with candy colored dildos and sexy clothes, down here the dungeon esthetics were put to strong use. Black leather costumes hung from the ceiling in one corner, boots, corsets and long gloves decorated angular mannequins. Whips, handcuffs and various masks lay on the shelves. A few thick, black dildos lurked in the shadows. Dave looked at the girl and pinched his nose. “I’m looking for a cyber-toy for home.” “Oh, I must tell you, that we only have one type left. But it’s on a discount.” “Really? Which type?” “The fifth grader cyberpunk girl.” “And with a discount you say? I’ll take it!” The girl walked over to the shadowy corner, unabashed by the towering artificial dongs, and pulled back a small latex curtain. Behind it were stacked a few four foot boxes. She maneuvered the top one to standing position and beckoned to Dave. He beetled over to her. From behind the transparent lid of the box a girl of a mixed race looked back at him. She was almost a Latina, almost Asiatic, and almost Caucasian. The designers had tried to hit as many rabbits as possible with one bullet. “Would you like to see the black version?” asked the salesgirl. “No need, thank you, I’ll take that one. I like it.”

CHAPTER THIRTY ONE

After paying on the top floor and wishing the upstairs girl a good night, Dave went back out into the rain and into his BMW. He lingered in front of the car for some seconds, just to give the mysterious someone a good chance to realize what he had bought, put the big box on the back seat and drove off. So far nothing out of the ordinary had happened. “How’s it looking on your side?” he asked his lapel button. “Still nothing, still nothing, ah!” the voice in his ear said. “What do you mean - ah?” “There’s a scooter following you, I think. Th-th-there, now I’m following the scooter.” Dave could see a far speck of light in his side view mirror. “Okay, I think I see it.” He drove for twelve minutes in the sparse late traffic; kamikaze rain drops flung themselves at the front windows and after the resulting miniscule explosions streamed downwards, a thousand tiny, short-lived streams that blurred the lights of the nighttime city. Sometimes a surf of rain water would rise for a second from under one of the wheels. And the tiny headlight remained in his mirror. Not so mysterious now that people know that they should be on the lookout, thought Dave. A total amateur actually. He reached his home and parked. Dave got out of the driver’s seat, opened the back door and took out the box with the toy. He thought he heard a scooter park somewhere in the shadows. The rain drops drummed on him, on the roof of his car and on the box in his hands. Whistling like a guilty person, Dave opened the door of the block’s foyer and went up into his apartment via the elevator. He switched on all the lights, to make it easier for an outside observer to figure out on which floor and on which side he resided. He then waited for five minutes, sitting at the kitchen table and looking at the box. This was a mid-level toy which could speak two hundred sentences in eight languages and could play the part of an innocent victim, a dirty willing victim, a willing virgin, a daughter, and a niece. He took the girl out of the box and plugged her in. It was supposed to take three hours to charge her up for a night’s session. He tried to read the instructions, but couldn’t concentrate. He crumpled the piece of paper impatiently and stood up. “I’m going out now, into the direction of the 24/7.” “Do it,” said Andy’s voice, “I’m close, watching.” Dave fixed the motion sensors in unobtrusive corners of the walls and walked out of his apartment, locking only the lower lock. He turned towards the shop.

“Well?” he asked after a few yards. “Nothing yet, keep walking until you get past the corner.” “I’m there. Anything?” “No, nothing. Ah, here it is!” “Infrared?” “Yeah, glowing like a human. Small, though. Just went into the block’s entrance.” “Okay, I’m coming over.” “Do it, I’m keeping watch here.” Dave hurried back to his bleak high-rise, raising small rainwater waves with his feet. His attention though, was focused entirely on the tiny screen which he held. It was active. “I’m getting my motion detectors data, the perp’s at my home door.” “Want us to go get him?” “No, let’s wait. Woop! The kitchen detectors went off, he’s in the kitchen.” Five minutes passed. How long does it take to dismember a toy-girl, wondered Dave. What if we miss him on his way out somehow? He stood at the corner of the building, struggling with the desire to run to his home. Then the little screen lit up again. “The front door detectors again, he’s coming out!” “I’m coming!” said Andy and appeared at a run almost instantaneously. He took out his gun and nodded at Dave. Dave approached the door to swing it open, but the lights inside suddenly switched on, glowing mutedly through the thick reinforced glass. Someone was already about to open the door from the inside. A shadow appeared. Dave pulled back and Andy leveled his gun at the door. The door swung open. Mrs. Timmons trotted out with her rounded old pug shivering and snorting through its steaming runny nose. Her eyes fixed on Andy’s gun before he could hide it. “Help!” she screamed and grabbed her precious dog, cradling it to her bosom. Dave waved at Andy to follow him and ran into the building. Mrs. Timmons had just blown their chance of surprise. He could hear steps, receding steps, someone was running up the stairs. Their prey. “Stop, stop or we’ll shoot!” he shouted as he jumped over three steps at a time, trying to gain on the unknown fugitive. He could hear Andy right behind him. They ran up two floors, grinding into dust paint flakes from the unmaintained walls, squashing cigarette stubs and crushing the incidental syringe. Then Dave suddenly saw a leg flash for a second at the turn of the stairs. They had gained; the perp was now just yards away. With a blood curdling shout he put his whole energy into one final push, turned the corner and saw a small figure at the top of the flight of stairs. The detective lunged with outstretched hands and felt his fingers close on fabric. Staggering, he pulled the fabric at himself, feeling it yield. In a moment the small figure was in his grasp, a whirlwind of arms and legs, kicking and scratching. “Let me go, let me go!” a child’s voice screamed, as the detective barely held on to the struggling body, “let me go, I hate you, let me go...”

CHAPTER THIRTY TWO

Natalie sat in the National Patriot office, on her screen an unfinished list of newssheet editors and radio and TV hosts, who might be sympathetic to the new party, and felt her heart thumping like a beat in a dance club. Her arms felt very weak, her hands were clammy and very pale, and there was a very slight tingling somewhere just behind her ears. She had woken up weak, with a headache, but had forced herself to go to work. She was now in charge, she had responsibilities. She couldn’t let Mr. Eberstark down. She couldn’t let Mr. ‘Blonski down. Kurt, a thirty years old junior expert in public relations, appeared by her desk. “Hi Natalie, do you know where the files for the patriotic education act are?” She looked at him with unseeing eyes. “I gave them to Karen half an hour ago.” “Okay, thanks. You’re doing a wonderful job Natalie!” “Thanks.” She turned stiffly back to her text. Can’t they see that I’m ill? she asked herself with a mounting hysteria creeping up her throat, can they really not see it? Acting on a sudden decision, she closed all her open files and shut down the computer. I’m ill, I’m very ill, she told herself and gave an involuntary belch, as if her empty organism was trying to throw up something nonexistent. “If anyone asks, I’m home, being ill,” said Natalie as she passed Kurt and then walked past the young man with the serious haircut and the mutant sideburns, and stumbled at the exit. She regained her balance, but was almost out of breath from the pounding of her heart. Nonexistent snowflakes appeared in her peripheral vision. Must not blackout, must not blackout, Natalie repeated to herself as she tried to remember where she was. Trying to get back home now was out of the question. To her left she saw an orange blur. The Smooth Cats Cappuccino Palace! Unsteadily, but not allowing herself to hold on to the building’s wall, she walked towards the orange blur. It grew bigger and now all she had to do was figure out which one of all the glass squares was the entrance. Someone walked out and she grabbed the door and went in. It was warm; it smelled of coffee and of sweet downmarket perfume. This was natural, since at this hour, when all honest adults were at work, the main client body of the cafe was made up of teenagers and seniors. Natalie saw a blurred row of people to her right. Now she would have to make an order, and then move inconspicuously to a table, and try to get a grip on herself. She felt that she couldn’t handle a conversation concerning what type of drink she wanted. Her skin felt a flash of cold. She was standing near the cold drinks. Cold drinks... She could do with one, any one. She took a plastic bottle at random and walked over to the counter.

In front of her stood two elderly ladies, who slowly conversed in order to reach a consensus on each purchased item. Impatiently, Natalie opened her bottle and took a drink. It turned out to be a tangerine-flavored tonic. It would have to do. The ladies stated what they wanted, paid, and scuttled off. And now it was her turn. ** Natalie shows the bottle to the person at the counter without looking at him/her and hands over a bill. With a ‘thank you’ she gets her change and turns around to find a place. The person at the counter asks her something, but she does not understand what it is and does not want to find out. The question is not repeated, so it must not be anything very important. She finds an unoccupied plastic orange table and sits on the chair beside it. She puts her bottle on it. The bottle tips over, falls and rolls towards the edge of the table. But it does not fall; its momentum runs out two inches before the edge. Natalie takes off her coat very slowly and then realizes that she is almost not breathing. By application of considerable willpower, she takes a breath. It is in fact a very shallow breath, but it helps a lot. She takes another breath, which is a little deeper. The shapes around her begin to come into focus. She takes a third breath, which is now really deep, making her chest unlock with a muffled crack and her ribs expand. The ringing behind her ears is reduced to a general hum of noise. It fits quite comfortably with the music and conversations of the Smooth Cats Cappuccino Palace, into which the unorganized background noise of a minute ago has transformed itself. She takes her bottle with a steadier hand now and takes another drink. Soon she would be able to walk out of here and get a cab. In the cafe’s toilet, she looks at her reflection. How can the face of a black girl look so pale? The apparition, with bags under its eyes and a subtle gray tinge to the lips, stares back from the mirror with desperation. With detached automatism Natalie rubs her cheeks and gives them little slaps, trying to get the blood flowing again. ** As she entered her home, Natalie slammed the door behind her, zigzagged through the corridor, and fell into her bed without undressing. She lay there for half an hour, on her face, without moving even a finger. Then she rolled over to her back, rubbed her eyes and got up. She undressed, letting her coat simply fall on the floor, and without taking off her boots she went to the kitchen, and made herself a cup of green tea. She lighted a cigarette and sat limp in her chair. She ran her free hand through her hair and listened to her heart. Its beat was much

less pronounced now. It no longer felt as if each heartbeat rocked her whole frame. There was an apple in a plate near the window. It’s been there for two days, but she couldn’t bring herself to eat anything for a long time now, except some nuts and tiny pieces of chocolate. Natalie told herself that she had to eat that apple. Then she answered herself, that the very thought of doing that makes her insides tightened and her windpipe seize up. I will try to eat it after I wake up, she promised herself in the end. Ten minutes later, she was in her bed, beneath the cool sheets, naked. As she woke up, the dreary early morning light was already oozing through the thin drapes. She was awake but could not move. She felt figures in her room. Many, three or four of them. She felt a sickly sexual charge in the air and knew that this time they would do what they hadn’t done in years. As she felt herself violated, huge distorted hands pressing on her body, which suddenly felt miniscule and fragile, cocks which felt thick and endless entering her, Natalie tried to do her trick. She tried to change the situation by repeating to herself: I want this, I like this, I am in charge, they are doing this because I want them to, I want this, I like this, I am in charge, I commanded this to happen, I want them to do this...

PART THREE

CHAPTER THIRTY THREE

Dave looked at the pedestrians bustling to and fro, scandalously faster than the stream of cars of which he was part. Something seemed inherently faulty with the mechanics of city life, when people on foot moved faster than people in hi-tech contraptions with hundreds of horse powers slumbering unused. He hoped that someday this misunderstanding would be over and even during the hours of going to and returning from work, cars would again be faster than old ladies. On a less transcendental plane, he also hoped that the box of celebratory candy on the back seat would not melt before he reached the office. The news on the radio was focused on the economy. Years ago Dave had gone through a brief period of straining to fathom the confounded processes that created and distributed wealth, he had followed articles on the matter and had even read half of a text book. He’d given up on the matter long since, but still he listened with half an ear. As usual, he seemed to understand all the words that made it to his brain, but it was the same old salad of empty meanings. Perhaps even the voices on the radio did not fully understand what they were saying. It went like this: “...Blah blabitty blah substantial growth blah blah blah stronger push blabitty blah blah vitality blah boost consumption blah blah total consumption blabitty dynamics of consumption blah blah consumer index blabitty blabitty curbing excess blah success and growth blah blah economic rebound blah blah blah retail sales going upwards blabitty...” It all seemed to end on an upbeat note, but then again, economic news tended to end on an upbeat note since he was a teenager, without seemingly being influenced by, or at least mirroring, simple facts like him having more money, or less money, or no money, or it being easy for him to find a job where he was, or having to uproot himself and settle in far away Muhosransk. The stream of cars inched forward another ten yards before bogging down, reviving and then ruthlessly dashing to pieces the optimism that flowers tenderly during such short bursts of traffic movement. The detective’s gaze brushed absently the foot soldiers of the city. The workers. The students. Serious men and women. Not so serious boys and girls. All walking with a paraded sense of purpose.

Naturally. In the city, in daytime, if you don’t walk with a sense of purpose, you begin to stand out. And unless you are an obvious tourist, standing out makes you either a criminal, or a crazy, or a junkie, or a loser, or a confused soon-to-be victim of a criminal, or a crazy, or a junkie, or just a future loser. It was now real autumn, and it seemed to him that the intensity of the erotic signals emitted by the citizens had now in this cold season subsided significantly, retreating to boots, jackets, overcoats and the occasional leather skirt. Or leather pants. Or studded leather hats. Or chains hanging from belts and handbags. Or belts. Oops. Dave revised his opinion. It had sounded like a nice logical observation, and he had already begun anticipating the jolly banter with Anton about it, but now that he thought it through it just wasn’t right. In the autumn the erotic signal are as present as ever, he thought now, only the amount of uncovered body shown is less, this is the only difference. The significance is transplanted from one’s own skin to some object covering it, but it is still there. Oh well. A honk from behind alerted him to another movement of the cars in front of him. Alert now, he too moved forward. Twenty three minutes later he was in his office, looking at Maldiva’s erotic signals. Completely automatic, he thought as he nodded at her and fumbled with the nylon wrapper of the candy box. She is in a cocoon of erotic promises and hints, maintained out of mechanical fashion momentum. How many times he had been disappointed as a teenager, that wretched feeling of having been cheated, each time when it turned out that girls can dress and gesticulate like whores, without actually being ones, even being honestly indignant at the very thought of them looking like ones. Total discrepancy between the outer signals and the inner persona. But that was then. If Anton was right about porn influencing life in general, then the gap between the outer whore and the inner core was now almost completely closed. “How lovely! What’s the occasion?” asked Maldiva, when after patiently waiting out the struggle between man and box to reach a decisive crisis, she was finally presented with the chocolate candy by a radiant Dave. She took it with grace, even allowing her scarf slip a little, which was otherwise a silent accusation concerning her employer’s insane fascination with open windows. “Another case solved, the world a better place!” said Dave with affable pathos, and Maldiva replied with an earnest smile, “which sex crime was it, Mr. Cohran?” He squinted manfully. “The case of the destroyed sex toys.” He saw that his words precipitated a dwindling of enthusiasm in Maldiva’s eyes. Did she expect something more exciting? Maldiva interpreted his lingering look as a

desire for a pat on the back. “Congratulations, Mr. Cohran!” Since his only reply was a slight twitch of his mouth, she plucked a piece of candy with her thumb and forefinger, and bit off half with delicate feminine precision. “Mmm, it’s very nice Mr. Cohran.” “Glad you like it, glad you like it,” said Cohran waking up from his short stupor and turned to the coffee machine to fill up his mug. As he turned again to go to his private office, he saw Maldiva looking at her computer monitor thoughtfully, and slowly rubbing half a candy on her lower lips. Dave rolled his eyes and slunk away. What’s wrong with this woman? he asked himself as he switched on his computer, and why the emphasis on ‘sex crime’? Of course I solved a bloody sex-crime, I specialize in sex-crimes, and she knows it. He imagined Maldiva telling her friends, and her husband, about where she worked. How did she manage to present it matter-of-factly? Or did she hide it? Or flaunt it? Suddenly David laughed out loud. Well what the hell do I expect, he admonished himself. The woman is working in a sex crime detective agency. She’s made her peace with that fact. Of course she will act like this. To her it’s only logical. Only appropriate. I should be grateful she is so detailed in her loyalty to the cause. With a smug feeling that he had just resolved another mystery, on par with the toy-basher, Dave typed in the password, had his palm read, and noted that there were no updates from the police. Which in itself was excellent, it meant that no crimes in his sphere had been committed in the city yesterday. Must have been the position of the stars or something. Then Dave saw on his desktop the ‘season girls’ folder and the ‘shit strangler’ folder and stopped flying in the clouds. It was time for some nitty gritty detecting. Time for some harsh realities. He typed ‘shit suffocation’ into a search engine. Scores of links to fiction blogs appeared in front of his eyes. Also a dozen links to major porn portals. More than a dozen links to file sharing and download sites. And that was just page one. At the bottom of the screen a blurred train of pop-ups flickered for a second, before being shut off by his firewall. The detective clicked the first batch of sites open and took out his phone. He dialed Anton, knowing that in another half-hour he would simply forget to make his appointment with the albino.

CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR

Anton took the bottle of whiskey from Dave and scrutinized at the label with urbane appreciation. “And the occasion is? You were quite mysterious over the phone.” Dave raised an appropriately mysterious eyebrow while unbuttoning his coat with elaborate finesse. “I closed one of my cases. The least important one,” he nodded and comically blew away a lock of hair from one eye, “but nevertheless: another triumph for detective Cohran.” Anton gestured to the small table near the window and after submerging momentarily into the kitchen resurfaced with two small glasses. Two inches of whiskey quickly appeared in each. Hard-hitting strands of alcohol smell slithered through the air. The two friends took their chairs, leaned forward - glasses clinked. The liquids inside rolled with the movements and miniscule droplets jumped into the air and onto wrists and floor. “To the great detective!” “To the last philosopher!” Anton checked the movement of his glass three inches from his mouth. “Now that’s an impressive title. Way to go, detective.” “Eternally yours.” Anton sipped his drink, made a quick appreciative grimace, relaxed his frame, leaned back and crossed his legs. “So what’s that inconsequential case that you’ve solved, and why does it make you so happy to have solved it?” Dave put down his glass and made his eyes glassy. “You will enjoy my tale, for it is filled with mystery and shocking revelations. Squirm on your chair, as astounding visions make your skin crawl. Scream in fear as the... the... “ Dave snapped his fingers a few times to regain his momentum, “...as the terrible apparitions... er... goose bumps... you get the idea.” Anton plucked a cigarette from his pack. “Not really, no.” “Well, the long and short of it is that the sex dolls that were destroyed...” “There were sex dolls which were destroyed?” “Yes, sorry,” the detective darted a look at his glass, but decided to put off the next hit, “three people had bought a certain type of sex dolls from one shop...” “Which kind of sex doll, if I may ask?” Anton’s cigarette crackled as he applied flame to its head while sucking at its rear. He blew the smoke upwards, to spare Dave’s face “The fifth grader cyberpunk girl.” “I see,” Anton nodded thoughtfully. Dave resumed his thrilling and shocking tale, signaling the kick off with a slap on his thighs. “Right, and these three victims all had break-ins into their homes, hours after purchasing the dolls, and all three sex toys were smashed or dismembered.” “How curious,” Anton already began squirming on his chair from the delight of having his interest in the macabre tickled, “and nothing was stolen?”

“Well, some valuables naturally.” “Naturally.” “Nothing big. And so, I went on my quest, and yesterday night I caught the culprit.” Anton raised his glass again, in acknowledgment of the detective’s accomplishment. This time there was no grimace as he sipped the whiskey, only a brief tremor passed through his lips. Dave drank his like lemonade. Anton put down his glass and immediately sucked at his cigarette again. His thoughts nibbled away at the new information from all sides. “So that’s why you asked me over the phone if I think sex toys can go on rampage.” “Right. And it did look like a small fifth grader sex-doll.” “And was it?” “No.” “What was it?” “It was a kid. A real kid.” Anton studied the detective without showing excessive surprise. “A little cyber girl?” “Only at first glance. A little cyber boy. A little cyber transvestite.” Dave put his empty glass on the table with a slam and looked at the thoughtful albino. The thoughtful albino looked at Dave’s glass and then at Dave. “But why?” “Why what?” “Why everything?” shrugged Anton. “Good question. Here the story gets ugly. Apparently, although the sex toy robot is going out of fashion...” “Is it really?” “Yes, apparently now gene-vat butts and tits are all the rage.” “Oh yes, I saw the first pop-ups already,” Anton sneered, “they claim they are grown copies of the relevant parts of famous porn stars.” “Whatever. Now, although the sex toy fashion itself is now on the low, there is a secondary fashion, inspired by the sex toys.” Anton tried to outwait the dramatic pause and gave up after four seconds. “Please go ahead, you can cut the tension with a chainsaw.” “Well,” Dave’s forefinger stood to stiff attention, “now people are more turned on not by the dolls themselves, but by other people pretending to be these dolls. Saying the same things, behaving in the same way...” “Of course,” interjected Anton, a wave of agitation quickly rippling through his torso, “depersonalization. So this kid was an underage transvestite prostitute, impersonating a sex toy?” “That’s right. Fucked up, eh?” “Very. The poor kid snapped I suppose?” “Yes. Good lock picker too. He said he was liberating them.” Anton’s features softened for a second and a shadow of melancholy passed over them, before he snapped back to his immediate social obligations. “Yeah. Well, congratulations for solving the case!”

“Thanks. Truth be told, I would have much rather preferred it to be a robot gone crazy.” “Yeah, that would have been cleaner. So, what awaits to the kid in question now?” “The usual,” Dave shrugged, “they’ll try to locate the closest kin, and then evaluate whether the kid should live with them, or in an institution.” “I used to live with foster parents and in institutions.” That was Anton’s custom. To drop a bomb out of nowhere, with a straight face. “I, um, I had no idea,” said Dave. “I know.” The albino calmly sipped his whiskey. Dave quickly evaluated the atmosphere. Anton seemed ready to ramble on, without turning the conversation into a heavy drama. “So... wanna speak about it?” “Oh sure,” Anton straightened out from his slouch and made a dramatic sweeping gesture with his left hand, “prepare to hear the thrilling tale of the origin of the last philosopher!” Dave applauded softly and cheered mutedly as if from very far away. Anton finished his whiskey and poured himself another one. Then he stuck a cigarette in his mouth. “Well?” “Patience, patience young Jedi.” Anton lighted the cigarette and let out a jet of smoke at a right angle to Dave. “My real parents were unknown natives of the Amazon rainforest.” Dave’s eyes lit up with skeptical merriment. “Get away.” “It’s true. Deep in the Amazon jungle dwells the Aifaya tribe. Normal honest injuns, except for one thing - they have an abnormally high rate of albino newborns. Something like one out of eight. “ “But why?” “No idea. Something in the genes. In these isolated tribes, there must be very little outsider DNA circulating.” Anton studied his smoking cigarette for a moment. “A stagnant gene pool.” “Why, you’re not stagnant at all, Anton.” The albino made a complicated gesture with his left hand to convey vague oldworld politeness, “I accept your compliment with good grace. As I was saying: an unusually large portion of the newborn in the tribe was made up of albinos. They were not quite considered good luck, as you might expect.” “You were a bad omen?” Dave giggled. “An injun Damien? “I was, yes. Just like every other eighth or tenth kid. And in this tribe, the albinos were treated somewhat harshly. You know, abuse, stuff...” “Were you abused man?” “I don’t think so. And if I was, there wasn’t a lot of it. You see, a certain foundation, a branch of the Institute for Global Fusion, decided to interfere.” Anton let out some more smoke, his eyes darting from point to point as if trying to find something specific to look at, but failing. Dave looked at his friend with growing amazement. “And?” “And they told the natives, that they will take the wretched albino children off

their hands, and reimburse them with pots and pans and antibiotics and various trinkets, and so I was taken, at the age of about six months, and flown here.” “Wow.” “Yes. It seemed a good deal for everyone back then. The injuns are relieved of the curse of the albino, and the poor albino kids are no longer abused but introduced into a white society. Back then, if you’ve read your history, you’ll know that this here was a white society.” “Spare me the Nazi nostalgia, Anton. Do go on with your amazing tale though.” “Righto. And so I was brought up here, in civilized society. First in an institution, and then, from ten to eighteen, with my foster parents. And this was my thrilling story. There will be no refund.” Dave looked at Anton with pointed evaluation. “So you are not really Anton Martorino, are you?” “I am, but I understand what you mean in your simple bumbling way. Yes, my surname is that of my foster family and my name was given to me by the foundation.” “I’ve never heard of this project.” Anton uncrossed and re-crossed his legs, putting the left one on top this time. “One hears mainly of successful projects.” “You mean this one was not a success?” “No. For two reasons. One, had the institute bothered to follow the advice of professional anthropologists... back then, if you’ve read your history, you’ll know that there were real anthropologists...” “For Christ’s sake man!” “All right. So, put simply, the albinos had a specific role in the local injun society. Everyone could take it out on them. And everyone did. They were legitimate scapegoats for letting off steam. The gods said so.” Anton took a thoughtful sip of whiskey. “But once a generation of albino kids was taken away, the balance of this society was damaged, and people turned on each other. Stuff that was unheard of previously, like inter-village violence started happening, families fell apart. The end of days in short.” “Just because the albinos were taken away?” asked Dave, unfolding a questioning forefinger with a swirl of his wrist. “Yeah.” “Hm.” The detective thought for a while, looked at the window, but it was already dark enough outside for him to be able to see from his angle only reflections of Anton and various furniture. “And the other reason for the project’s failure?” The skin below Anton’s right eye twitched once, as he exhaled more of his treasured poisonous fumes. “The other reason was that of the twenty albino children rescued from the tribe, fifteen committed suicide before reaching the ages of eight.” “What? But why?” Anton shrugged. “No one can give a really convincing explanation. Anomie this, anomie that... I myself think of suicide every day, but haven’t done it so far, and probably will not do it, ever. And the only other Aifaya survivor with whom I keep in touch, old Deus, he also has these thoughts and urges, but also manages to keep them in check.” “So you and him are the only ones left?”

“I don’t know. Hopefully there are others too, but we just don’t keep in touch with each other.” The detective ran a humorous glance up and down the ruminating albino. “Why don’t you start a MyFace group to see how many will join?” “What a distasteful idea, Dave,” said the lonely Aifa native, “let us pretend you did not utter it.” “Whatever you say, child of the Jungle.” Dave leaned back in surrender. Anton also leaned back in his chair. “And so, this was the astounding tale of the child of the Jungle.” Dave clapped some more and gave another muted hoot of admiration. “So, to get this completely straight, neither you, nor Natalie, are really Martorino?” “I see you’ve grasped the main point.” Anton stood up, stretched himself with audible cracks, opened the window, and looked at the child of the concrete jungle, for whose sake he had done it. “So, mighty detective. Now that the android killer is caught, what are the more serious cases you’re working on?” “Ah, don’t ask. Crazy, crazy shit.” Anton saw that Dave really didn’t want to talk about work. At least not the unresolved work that weighted down the horizon of the near future. With mock precision, the albino opened the small black wooden box by the coffee table’s leg and took out a legal joint. “And after we finish with this,” he said, “we can watch some Wile E. Coyote episodes.” “Now you’re talking.” “Beep, beep.”

CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE

“Come in!” said Anton, and for the sake of politeness minimized the torrent site on which he was examining the most downloaded torrents. Although it was not specifically a porn torrent site, nevertheless, there were various animated commercials all over the place, which outside the world of the Internet were still in the category of ‘indecent’. Of course these days even the most serious site in the web was at the most four clicks away from porn. You open the site of a respectable news agency, follow a news link to a less respectable agency, and when you follow a third gossip link, you are then confronted with a choice between ‘demented Alzheimer piss grannies’ and ‘autistic vampire Filipino she-males’. The door opened and Chen and Michele entered, with printed out reports in their hands. They looked at his boss, and he looked at them. “What do you bring me, children?” The female child obliged first. Her black, shoulder-length hair did not sparkle fashionably and her minimalist makeup did little to hide her paleness. “I bring you the summary of the most viewed shows for this month, and Joe’s report, together with pics and a dozen small videos which he shot psych-walking.” Anton made a politely interested face. “Anything out of the ordinary?” “Not really, at least not anything I saw.” Michele reshuffled her papers and saw what she was after. She extended the paper to Anton. “On the ‘movie talent’ reality show, the viewers voted for the guy who impersonated a robot. One of the weaker contestants, I myself thought.” “Hrumph. Okay, thanks Michele.’ Anton took Michele’s papers and placed them on his desk, with the one she had singled out as most interesting on top. “Chen? What have you got for me?” Chen would probably lose his chronic, classically Chinese cheery smile only after being cremated, and now as always he beamed at his boss as he passed over the papers. “The mayor’s office has agreed to enforce from January first the ban on music in parks, which we proposed last year.” “Ah, splendid. At last the citizens will have a small oasis of comparable quiet.” Chen pushed his spectacles in place with his forefinger and blinked at Anton. “Boss, I’ve thought about this. I rather think that if the law is really enforced, the parks will empty of everyone except seniors. No one can take to be in a place without some sort of music anymore.” “So! You see right through my master plan.” Anton winked at Chen and took his papers as well. After the junior analysts left, Anton leafed through Joe’s reports looking at the new graffiti and stills from clip of some slaphappy kids. Everything seemed to be as usual. He reached for his pack and fumbled with it for a full minute, without taking his eyes off the report, before it finally downed at him, that he had no cigarettes.

Ten minutes later he was in his favorite small Lebanese shop and told the plump brown owner to give him four packs of Marlboros. “Will that be the red ones sir?” “Er...” Anton struggled with himself, “two reds and two whites please.” “Ah, a healthier lifestyle,” noted Fadi approvingly, “congratulations. Here you go.” “Thanks.” Anton had already developed the habit and just stood for a few seconds, but did not receive anything else with his pack. “What, no pamphlet today?” he inquired. Fadi nodded. “We have new rules since yesterday.” “Really? What now?” The owner smiled with exasperation. “Apparently smokers just throw away the leaflets without reading them.” “It can’t be!” “Hard to believe, I know. So anyway, now I must quickly recite what will happen to you if you smoke.” The man smiled sheepishly, leaning on his fists on the center of authority of the small cramped shop: the wooden counter littered with bits of papers and paperclips, and small bottles lined up by a calculator. Anton returned the smile. “Sort of reading me my anti-rights? Go ahead.” The shopkeeper glanced at a small note stapled to a cupboard box by his side, no doubt to refresh his memory, and recited the text: “You knees will dissolve, your teeth will fall out, your lungs will collapse, your heart will stop, you will be impotent and your sperm will be disappear. Scientist have proven that it makes no difference if you smoke five cigarettes a day or five pack a day. Scientist have proven that your genes will degenerate five seconds after lighting up, and an hour later you’ll be dead. And you will also do this to everyone else if you smoke near them, or on the street.” “Well, see you later, Fadi.” “Later, Mr. Martorino.” Back in his office, Anton checked the news. How could he have missed this development? But there it was, black on white: new law takes effect from such and such date, blah, blah, save lives, ease pressure, national health program, international effort. Anton squashed his cigarette with unnecessary ferocity on the little longship’s hull and immediately lit another one. ******

CHAPTER THIRTY SIX

Natalie nodded to the driver and closed her door. The taxi veered back into the main flow of the traffic. The inside of the cab smelled of sweat, pine freshener, and dusty old leather. And of the driver. Natalie looked at the city outside the window and felt her stomach knot more and more. All was not how it should be. She wished she could define the trouble as everything looking unreal. Unfortunately the opposite was the case. Everything was far too real. More real than it had any right to be. The sky looming over the buildings, the buildings looming the pavements… the nightmarishly irrefutable trees, the depressingly corporeal pedestrians, the terrifyingly substantial street lights… and the sickeningly indubitable pavements... Without any warning all these sensory properties had grown to vibrate with a disturbingly authentic inherent existence, a clammy nauseating realness, which for some reason pushed and strained at Natalie and made her feel like a small, helpless child. As if unnoticed to herself, she had managed in the years of her life to construct some sort of parallel reality, based on certain points of the world as such, but nevertheless a dream. Smoke and mirrors. An intricate fabric, which she had weaved on top of her environment, an additional layer which she had begun to believe was the world itself. And now, today, the world seemed bared, her lovingly weaved cloth swept off by something, an accumulation of somethings. Gone was that veil that made contrasts gentler and objects less imposing. The emperor was naked and was not a soothing sight. This was the world in high-definition. Natalie felt a choking sensation and realized that her own right hand was squeezing her throat. I must be terrified, she thought. What work? What responsibilities? What elections? What Natalie the genius? Natalie the train wreck more like it. I need a doctor, she informed herself, I need a pill to make this go away. I want be like I was before. I don’t want all this to be like that anymore. “Did you say something lady?” Oh God, she must be talking aloud. “No, no... I mean yes. Yes I was. I changed my mind. We have to go back.” With a shrug the driver changed lanes, heading towards the nearest u-turn. The journey back took forever. The streets were teeming with machines handled by nervous drivers on the verge of being late for work. Natalie was desperate to not be late for home. As if some infernal clock was counting down the minutes before her collapse. What form her collapse could take was unclear, but it generally felt either like she

would explode in some manner, torn apart by her internal pressure, or that she would crumple inwards, crushed by the outside world. Of course, at times less abstract visions flashed past: her heart stops; she swallows her tongue; her smoker’s lungs finally collapse; her brain seizes up and turns her into a vegetable; a fantastically powerful epilepsy attack wrings her out like a towel, crushing every bone. And the pedestrians... My God, thought Natalie, am I a creature like this too? I must remember, whatever I do, to not look at myself in the mirror once I get home. If I’m like that I simply would give up... Back in her bed, completely covered by her blanket, Natalie lay on her back hugging her knees. A sticky terror throbbed insidiously not only inside of her, but outside of her as well. The whole world pulsated with the terror, and she pulsated with it. And before she had escaped to the comparative safety below her blanket, the very walls seemed to house unspeakable loathsome things, ‘forces’ maybe, tottering on the verges of visibility, they seemed to be converging on her even as she entered her bedroom. In spite of these presences she had tried to read a book, a betselling urban-parathriller-romance, but instead of submerging into the story, she could only see the sentence structures and the suddenly pathetic attempts of the author to create and maintain characters. Five minutes was the best she could do, until finally there had been no more time to lose before the unthinkable terror arrived and she had taken final refuge in that safety cocoon that every child knows and uses. The mighty blanket, which now sagged from all sides, holding her in a protective embrace. She tried to divert her attention by stroking her clitoris, but it didn’t work, she couldn’t concentrate. She tried again, putting a finger into her mouth, then squeezing her breasts slightly. In desperation she pulled at her own hair, gave herself a little slap. Nothing. Nothing worked. Maybe nothing will work, she thought, and the tension jumped another level. Maybe nothing will ever work. Maybe I will remain like this forever. After another half-hour, she lifted one side of the blanket slightly and peered at the world outside. It was still cold, sinister and completely evil in its lack of point. She knew that she will probably lose her position with Eberstark, and maybe ‘Blonski too. Who would tolerate a worker, who keeps not showing up? But right now this knowledge was insubstantial, it barely flickered on the fringes of her immediate fear. The left side of her chest hurt like from a dozen tiny needles. With a helpless whimper Natalie began massaging the hurting place.

CHAPTER THIRTY SEVEN

Anton picked up the phone on his desk with a puzzled frown. It was from a number he didn’t know. He pressed ‘pause’ and minimized the window in which autistic vampire Filipino she-males were just about to do something disturbing with a demented Alzheimer piss granny. “Hello.” “Hi, I’m looking for Anton Martorino.” A young man’s voice. Who? Why? Anton didn’t generally get calls from people he didn’t know. “Him speaking.” “Hi, my name is Kurt Baule, I’m calling from the election H.Q. of the National Patriots. Today Natalie should have come to work, but didn’t show up, and doesn’t pick up her phone. We have your number as a contact...” Anton’s stomach immediately wrapped itself into a small tight knot. “Of course, I understand, thank you for calling.” “Yes, we hope everything is fine with her. After all the things which have happened...” Some ‘things’, thought Anton, remembering Jane’s demise. “Yes, yes, thank you very much, I’ll check up her and have her call you.” Click. Anton stood up in agitation. What could have happened? A quick succession of nightmare scenarios galloped through his head, before he managed to shut them out with an effort of will. He dialed Natalie. “The number you have dialed cannot be reached at this moment.” Damn. With clumsy hands he patted himself to make sure he had everything of possible need on him, and then left the office, leaving Michele in charge. As he drove to his daughter, nosing his way impatiently through the thick traffic, he couldn’t listen to music or to the news. His inner voices shrieking in fear took up all his attention. He didn’t even remember getting out of his car. Suddenly, he was already in Natalie’s apartment building. In the creaking elevator Anton again told himself to calm down. Calm down. Calm down. You don’t know what has happened. If anything. But of course something has happened, otherwise why would she -- Shut up, shut up, nothing has happened... Anton shook his head. Don’t try to guess. Don’t fill your mind with possibilities. Just try to be prepared for anything. And pray that she is at home. At long last the elevator stopped with a final lurch and Anton went out. The door of Natalie’s apartment looked all right.

No signs of forced entry, nothing. Anton pressed his ear to the door. He thought he could hear the faraway murmur of a switched on TV. He pressed the bell, and a crude electronic version of a Mozart piano sonata played inside, behind the locked door. He knocked too. “It’s me, Anton, Natalie, open up, it’s me, Dad!” He heard the shuffle of footsteps coming towards the door. He heard locks unlocking and latches being unlatched. The door opened inwards slowly, as if with reluctance. “Dad, what are you doing here?” Natalie! Her voice was normal, but slightly on edge. She was pale, and there seemed to be something in her gaze. Fear. Fear barely under control. “No one knew where you were, and they called me,” he said, instantaneously covering up his own fears. They had had their time, their fifteen minutes in the spotlight of his attention, now they were edged out by his daughter. “I’m sorry you were bothered, Dad,” she said wearily, quietly, “I never should have given them your phone number.” “No bother, Natalie, but I was worried. Now invite me in, and make some coffee.” “Of course, of course, come in, Dad.” *** They were sitting in the kitchen, facing each other across the table. Anton watched the shaking hand, with which his daughter held her cigarette. “So what happened?” he said, “why didn’t you go to work? No,” he put the first question on hold with a flick of his hand, “first tell me - why did you switch off your phone?” “I don’t know,” Natalie said carefully, evenly, “I guess I felt weak. I felt I couldn’t handle a conversation with anyone, least of all - trying to explain why I didn’t show up at work.” “And why didn’t you show up at work?” Natalie shrugged her shoulders and picked at her thumb. Her breath was so shallow she seemed to be in stasis. Anton squared his shoulders and spoke in a deep fatherly tone. “You need a vacation, dear daughter.” Natalie flinched, shot him a quick glance and returned her gaze to her hands. “What? Now? Absurd, Dad,” she said a tad uncertainly. Or maybe just powerlessly. “And why is it absurd?” “We are in the middle of an intense campaign. Everyone is counting on me.” “Natalie,” said Anton sternly, “Natalie. A civilized person knows his limitations, and takes breaks when they are needed, in order to not break down. You are in the process of breaking down. In are in the middle of a breakdown as we speak. You are a day or two away from a hospital.” “That’s not true.” “Look at yourself. You’re skin and bones, you’re stooping, your eyes have sunken in, your lips are parched. You look like someone who has crossed the ocean in a fifteenth

century ship. Do you have the scurvy?” “Do I have what?” Natalie asked alertly, as if waiting for someone to finally give a name to her condition. “Never mind,” Anton suppressed him smile of affection and covered it with fatherly sternness. He leaned towards her, propping an elbow on the table, “and I think I can tell you why you didn’t go to work today. You stayed at home, because you couldn’t take the pressure of the outside world. You have gone to pieces, you have no strength left, no defenses, and you simply can’t handle going out through that door.” He underlined everything he said with small thumps of middle and forefinger on the edge of the table, except the door, which he indicated with an incline of his head and a swerving of his eyes. Natalie said nothing. Then she said, “...Yes.” Finally. A board loose in the fence of denial. Anton allowed a brief respite for both while he lit a cigarette, then continued emphasizing his words on the table’s edge: “And since you can’t go through that door, and since you are days or maybe hours away from being in a hospital, I, as your father,” he illustrated himself with a thumb, “am taking you,” a forefinger quickly stabbed into her direction, “for two-three days out in the open. Somewhere out of town.” “But Dad, the elections...” Natalie protested feebly. “Forget the elections for now. What do you think? That you will stay at home today, and tomorrow will be magically better?” His daughter was on the verge of tears, but he knew that he shouldn’t let up. “Even if you do accumulate a minimum of strength in the night and do force yourself tomorrow to go to work - what will that achieve? You will not be capable of doing anything. You will be a hindrance, not a help.” “I thought I’d go to a doctor,” half sobbed the thin wretch that was his child. “Yes, but you won’t listen to a doctor who will tell you to take a break, will you? I bet you mean the other kind of doctor, who will give you a pill to make the fear go away. But the problem is not the fear. The fear is a signal that something is wrong.” He was gesticulating with his smoking cigarette, hissing through his teeth as if in anger. His anger was of course directed at himself, for not noticing where things had been going with his only daughter, for again having allowed himself to not see what he did not want to see, but it sounded to Natalie like he was admonishing her for her own stupidity. “Your job is not to suppress this danger signal,” he hissed, “your job is to act upon it, to fix that which has been broken. And not later - right now.” Natalie didn’t answer but turned away as if to look at the window. She was silently crying, biting her lips, her right hand clutching her left elbow. She looked like she was ten again. Anton had broken through. He ran a damp hand through his hair and allowed himself to relax a little. Now he could afford some kindness and a hint of ego boosting here and there. “Now,” he said kindly, “I know that you are a very responsible girl, and I am proud of you. But you must remember, that your first responsibility is to yourself and to your family, and that’s me.” He let that sink in before continuing, “no one else cares about you enough to be

able to see facts. Instead, they prefer to see what suits them. This is how people function. Even if you are an inch away from dying, they will keep using you, and when you snap and fall on the floor, they will all act surprised.” A memory resurfaced, a painful memory. A painful memory before, now - a tool. “I knew a girl once, and she was diagnosed with cancer. Yet instead of retreating and concentrating on herself, she continued going to work, pretending that nothing out of the ordinary was happening. And no one told her to get a clue, to just go home, sleep, meditate, eat honey, watch favorite cartoons, do anything to try to get the body and soul back into life mode. No, everyone said ‘what spirit!’, ‘what will!’, ‘keep fighting,’ all that bullshit... and then she died, in only two months. And everyone acted surprised. So, damn surprised.” He got up, circled the table and hugged his daughter’s shoulders, cradling her head in his hands. “When the body is depleted and the mind is in shambles, my dearest daughter, you must forget all the social posing. Right now other people’s compliments, expectations, demands - they don’t mean a thing. They have, at this point in time, lost any meaning, and continuing to cling to them is self-destructive. “You must concentrate on retrieving yourself back from the brink. And when you have achieved that, when your body and mind are in good working order again, then you will return back to your social obligations and you will be as excellent as always.” He kissed her wet salty eyes and ruffled her hair. “But in order to reach this stage, first you must take a step back from the brink. A step away from all of this. That is why today I sleep here on the couch, and tomorrow morning we go to my place, where I collect clothes and stuff, and we leave this city for two or three days. I’ll call your people and tell them that you’re ill.” “All right, Daddy,” said Natalie and tried to bury her face even deeper into his palms.

CHAPTER THIRTY EIGHT

David opened the letter from Andy. It was good news, as far as news went. After carefully sifting through the images made by the working cameras in the neighborhoods where Georgette and Jane used to live, Fortham had managed to locate a vehicle, which could be that of the killer, and also what looked like the killer himself. Probably. Hopefully. The figure was with its back to the camera the whole time. Did it look like Mr. Greenpants? Could be. Dave’s phone rang. “Andy! What’s up?” “Lots of things,” said Andy in a strange voice, “want me to take you out to lunch?” “Er...Okay. Anything wrong?” “I’ll tell you over lunch. I’ll come and get you in ten minutes.” “Jeez, you’re scaring me.” “That’s nothing. You just wait until we sit down somewhere.” “Heh, okay,” said Dave with an uncertain smile, “I’m here.” “Okay, bye.” Now what? Dave massaged his neck for a while, got dressed, and went outside his office building. He looked at the pedestrians, exchanged a few promising glances with a hurrying MILF and two teens who walked past him arm in arm. The curse of the eternal puberty. After two more minutes Andy popped up, making his way through a group of white-collar men with shiny black shoes. “Let’s go to the Ham Hamlet,” he said without any preliminaries, his gaze furtive. *** “I’ll have the chicken soup and a green salad,” told Andy the hovering waiter. Dave raised an eyebrow. “You on a diet?” “No, just not very hungry you know. The stomach is a bit tightened right now.” This explanation was given through a rather tensed mouth. “Hmm,” said Dave and felt a flash of indecision about the greasy bacon he was just about to order. A premonition of something appetite-killing had been summoned by Andy’s demeanor. Dave looked up at the waiter’s face. “I’ll have the same. Soup and salad. And a small Heineken. “ The waiter nodded and strutted off. Dave looked at Andy. His friend was obviously wound up tight, and at the same time trying not to show it too much. But his cheekbones seemed frozen, betraying the tension in the jaw muscles, and there was a slight slouch in his shoulders; even as he sat there he was slightly stooping as a man does when unconsciously expecting an imminent physical attack. Andy’s broad shoulders looked thin for some reason, as if his red pullover was pulled over his bare bones.

He doesn’t get enough exercise, thought Dave, such a nice figure should be easily filled up with muscle mass. And he’s letting it go to waste. “So, Mr. Fartham,” he said, “why are we here?” Andy chewed on a lip. “Because I have a paranoia of being bugged.” “Really? Even in my office?” “Even in your office.” Things were that serious. Dave pondered for a second. “Then I suppose we should switch off our phones as well. I heard they can be used for bugging people.” “Good idea.” Andy reached into his jacket pocket, took out his phone and with a sorrowful bleep it went to sleep. Dave did the same. He made eye contact with Andy. Andy let out a huff of air as in ‘right, let’s begin’, but didn’t. “Right, let’s begin,” said Dave. “I’ll start rather from faraway, if you don’t mind,” said Andy watching something out of the corner of his eye. It was the waiter. He left the beers, putting the wrong bottle in front of each of the two servants of the law. They exchanged bottles and Andy had a quick drink from the neck of the bottle, as was his custom, before pouring it into his glass. He didn’t mind the beer foam, so his manner of pouring was straight down. Unlike him, Dave held his glass tilted at forty degrees and poured his Heineken slowly. He didn’t like froth. “So,” said Andy, “I tracked down the car that is seen in the camera.” “Good.” “Not good. It was reported stolen three months ago. I had a brainflash and crosschecked with the vandalized cars list.” “And?” “It was found two days ago, burnt out at the edge of town. Near the old dairy.” “Never heard of it. But whatever, sucks about the car. Sounded like a lead.” “You don’t say. I got my assistant to look through what the cameras at the other crime scenes have caught, and we found another car,” Andy continued to no exhibit any happiness at this list of successes, “A Magma. Also reported stolen half a year ago. Also found burnt out about a week ago.” “Are you telling me our man buys stolen cars, and gets rid of them after each crime?” Dave screwed up his face in dislike and slight envy. “That’s a lot of money he’s blowing on his evil hobby.” “Right, that’s what I thought as well,” agreed Andy immediately, “the guy has a lot of money and doesn’t mind throwing it away.” “Ah, the soups,” said Dave. The waiter put down the two chicken soups. Andy reached for the black pepper, and Dave reached for the salt. While they were exchanging the spices, the salads arrived as well. Andy swirled the soup with his spoon, releasing a pleasant smell, and tasted it. “Not bad, not bad at all, actually,” he said. “Anyway. Today we got the report back from the forensic boys at Bayer’s.” “They found something?”

“Yes. Only one thing, and only at the very last crime scene, Jane, if you remember.” “Yes, of course I remember. What did they find?” “They found a human hair. An eyelash to be exact. There was nothing else, not even normal dust, the bastard cleans thoroughly before leaving, but they found the eyelash. A male eyelash.” This last bit did not faze Dave in the least. He had expected the perp to be male. “And?” “I ran it through the DNA data base and found a match.” Dave studied Andy. “You don’t seem to be euphoric about it though.” “You’re right, I’m not.” Andy leaned forward, darting glances left and right. “The DNA match is with Joshua Eysenck.” “Name doesn’t ring a bell.” “Well see if this rings a bell. His father is Roderik Eysenck.” Dave choked on his soup. “Minister Eysenck?!” “Not so loud, for Christ’s sake,” hissed Andy, “yes, exactly, minister Eysenck. He ain’t a minister for four years now, but he’s a senator now.” “Yeah, I remember him. He was the one who pushed through the last outsourcing of the police, wasn’t he?” “That’s the man.” “Shit. Well, where do we stand then?” “We stand in shit up to our necks, Dave. He’s got a terrific pull. He could squash us. No, he won’t even squash us, he’ll squish us. Like bugs.” Dave could see that Andy meant every word. “But we have evidence, don’t we?” “First of all, I don’t know how strong his connections are. Maybe if he gives the word the evidence and the correspondence concerning it will disappear tomorrow and everyone will swear it never existed.” “Wow.” “Yes, wow. Second, even if the evidence is still there - we still don’t have anything. Out of three cases that we know of, we only found one eyelash at one place. This is far from enough. You know what will happen. He’ll say that this is all a clumsy attempt at framing his son. He’ll say that the police are playing a political game. He’ll ask questions in the Senate.” Andy clutched his spoon with sudden savagery. “And you can bet that Daddy will give his son an iron cast alibi for each of the days we are looking for. No one will want to touch this case with only one eyelash to go on.” A moment of silence ensued. The sounds of the Ham Hamlet flooded back in. “Then we must find more evidence,” said Dave. “Yes, we must find more evidence. And we have to be very, very careful about it.” Now David was grateful for the soup. His own stomach was also now capable only of absorbing unobtrusive warm greasy water without outright mutiny.

CHAPTER THIRTY NINE

Anton’s car left the boundaries of the city. Soon the traffic on the highway thinned out, and after twenty miles they reached the first hints of forest. Natalie sat slouched, uncommunicative, not paying attention to anything, her eyes focused on the glove compartment. Anton pressed a button and the side windows crept lower obediently. The air stung their faces and whispered with a promise of snow. It was soon fulfilled. As the car climbed further up the road, calm, drawn looking pines superseded their more colorful broad-leaved brethren. The first glistening patches of snow appeared among the dead-looking grass and the hardened mud. “Dad, it’s cold,” said Natalie, looking with distaste at the drab panorama. The road had leveled out again, but they had already reached the altitude of the season’s first snow. Anton darted a look at his daughter and raised her window shut, but left a two inch opening on his side. Through this thin entrance air currents worried Anton’s hair. Natalie understood that Anton had wanted to get her out of the city because he associated the city with stress and the countryside with relaxation, but for her the surrounding nature was not really less threatening than the urbanscapes they had just left behind. The lack of straight lines made the desolation more organic is all. She suppressed a shiver and returned to gazing at the glove compartment. Focusing on one immobile point helped her keep in check the nausea encouraged by the car’s oily movements. After another hour Anton transferred the car onto a modest driveway, following it they passed a sloping garden that would not awake again until spring, and pulled over by the hotel. It was a white, two story wooden building, with a row of ten balconies on the second floor. Natalie knew that the first floor housed only the reception lobby and the restaurant. She knew this, because she recognized the hotel. “Aw, Dad,” she looked at him, smilingly, for some reason even a trifle bashfully, “I know this place! This is the ‘Ortega’! I haven’t been here since I was little.” Anton withdrew his gaze from the looming mountains and grinned at her. “I still come here from time to time. And Mr. Guerrero still runs the place. Alone now. Mrs. Guerrero passed away five years ago.” They piled out of the car and took their luggage. A mere two travel bags and a backpack. Anton leaned on the hood until it clicked shut and looked at his daughter. Already she seemed in somewhat better spirits. The front door was a wooden grid of ten inch squares of thick green glass. A real small bell rang too, pushed by the door as it opened. Anton walked in, held the door for Natalie and then closed it with a soft creak, agitating the bell once more. They walked along the carpet covering the wooden floor to the reception. There was no one there, but a shout of “Coming!” was heard from the direction of

the restaurant. A fat man emerged, an old fat man, who still had large tufts of black hair left on his head, and blue, carelessly shaven double chins, which seemed to keep up a habitual smile. It was Mr. Guerrero. Even before he reached them he began sprouting out his welcoming tirade, laced with apologetic nuances for him not being at the reception desk. “Hello, welcome, glad, of course, sorry, a pie, lunch, mountains, season, not many people, city,” was what could be heard from his torrent of greetings, before he recognized Anton. “Mr. Martorino, so good to see you!” he slapped his hands together, “I did not expect you before the summer!” Anton nodded towards Natalie. “This is my daughter, if you remember her?” “Of course, little bella Natalie! How you loved my cat. Dead long ago, I’m afraid. Do you want some lunch, or the rooms directly?” Anton looked at Natalie. She needed rest. She needed many hours of sleep in an environment without the constant buzz of the accumulated city sounds, and she needed a few fortifying breakfasts, lunches and dinners, if she was to stabilize. But she still looked far too highly strung to be able to sleep well, or to eat heartily. Anton thought of the forests and meadows around the small hotel. “We’ll leave our bags here, Mr. Guerrero, if that’s all right, and we’ll take a walk around the hotel first. To breathe some fresh air, work up an appetite.” “Of course, Mr. Martorino, in how much time should the lunch be ready? I have a new cook, Maria, her cooking is fantastic!” announced Mr. Guerrero and failed to kiss the tips of his fingers, thereby shattering a number of clichés; instead he used the fingers to enumerate, “for today we have bean soup, pork with cabbage and a lovely liver pie!” “We’ll be back in an hour, or an hour and a half. We’ll have the soup and the pork,” said Anton. “Any chance of a fruit salad?” “Of course,” assured him the owner, darting pleasing glances both at the albino and at his black daughter, “the classical Ortega fruit salad, with the whole lot - the pineapples, the mango, the oranges...” “Splendid, splendid, two salads as well then,” said Anton and took out his phone to check the time. Guerrero looked at the huge clock above the reception desk. “It is now almost one o’clock Mr. Martorino, I will tell Maria to prepare your salad at two o’clock, it will wait for you, and the moment you start eating it, she will put on the soup and the pork.” “Thank you, Mr. Guerrero,” Anton flashed one last smile and turned towards Natalie. “Take the thick pullover from your bag and let’s go.” *** As they walked slowly through the forest, the fringes of the wide path littered with pine needles, twigs, and the occasional pinecone, Anton looked at his daughter and thought. Not only did she look dangerously thin. She also looked haggard, drawn, as if her whole life energy was draining away from some hole in her being. “How are you sleeping lately, Natalie?” he asked finally, immediately patting

himself for some cigarettes to help him go through with the conversation. “Bad,” said Natalie with a rueful smirk. “Explain.” She met his eyes for a second, evaluating whether to really tell him. “I feel figures in my home, Dad, in my room.” “Hmm,” Anton frowned. “What sort of figures?” “Huge bad figures!” she almost screamed and stopped. She stood with her back to Anton, her shoulders heaving. She was crying. Anton hugged her from behind. “Shh, shh, it’s okay Natalie, it’s okay,” he muttered and blew warm air into her scalp. This had calmed her down since she was a kid. “This is just hypnagogia, my child,” he said in reassuring, confident tone, “nothing to get excited about.” “What? What did you call this?” Her shoulders tensed at the hope of explanation. “Hypnagogia.” Anton cleared his throat. “I suppose you lie paralyzed in your bed, when the figures appear.” “Yes, yes I do,” she turned to him. He let go, took a step back and finally lit a cigarette. “That’s a mechanism of the body, Natalie. When we sleep we dream. And so that we don’t hurt ourselves, like trying to really run when we are running in our dreams - the body remains in dream paralysis. And sometimes, the brain wakes up in a way, but the body is still paralyzed.” “But the figures, they were not a dream,” she insisted softly. “These are early imprints,” said Anton with authority. “Nothing more.” He took a drag from his cigarette and let the smoke out of his nostrils. He flicked the cigarette’s rear with a thumb and flakes of gray ash broke off, floating away to his right, to land somewhere among the needle leaves. “Many people have hypnagogic episodes. The figures you see are just residual images from the past. Like doctors looking at you when you have just been born. Many people hallucinate in later life being examined or operated upon by immensely powerful entities.” “They don’t operate on me Daddy! They...” Natalie’s voice trailed away and she sobbed again. Anton understood. He thought frantically how to word something soothing. “Up to four in ten women tend to have hypnagogic episodes, in which they lie paralyzed in their beds and someone or something is having sex with them. In the past people thought these were evil spirits, the succubus and the incubus, who come to drain the sleeper.” “But what are they, Daddy?” asked the frail black girl, frail black fists clenched, trembling. “As I said, residual images.” He arched his eyebrows and lifted a hand in order to convey that he was merely speculating, “You know, maybe something which happened in the your past.” He hated lying, but she just wasn’t ready to know the full truth yet. “Maybe you were drunk or drugged on some party and a bunch of guys took advantage of that, and

you don’t consciously remember it. And the ghost images of that event are now showing up.” “What? You think so?” Natalie looked like she was authentically trying to accept this rational explanation. The wind brought again the aroma of new snow. Trees creaked. The comforting drone of a woodpecker at work drifted out of somewhere. Half an hour later they had returned to the ‘Ortega’, and were having lunch. Anton smiled, as he saw Natalie eat first almost all of her fruit salad, and then almost a whole bowl of soup.

CHAPTER FORTY

It was four o’clock. Unlike the gray ceiling above the city, the sky here had patches of blue in it. The sun shone through these patches, but it was a winter sun: light without much warmth. The air was very bracing. The smell of moist earth and pine worked its slow work, gently easing the tautness of Natalie’s nerves. They walked in silence, until her father spotted a meadow washed in the slanted light of the afternoon sun. “Here, let’s sit on the grass,” said Anton and pulled a thin blanket out of his backpack. He unrolled it, and sat down, leaning his elbows on his knees. Natalie placed herself gingerly on the blanket as well. They both reached into their pockets and took out cigarettes. Anton was quicker with the lighter, he lit his daughter’s cigarette, and then his own. The branches of the trees moved slowly, from time to time a muffled creak or a woody groan could be heard. A crow crowed somewhere. Another one answered it. Anton rummaged in his knapsack again, and took out a small lump of aluminum foil. He unwrapped it. Inside was a small plastic bag containing a smaller dark green lump. Anton opened the little bag and proffered the lump to Natalie. “Here, daughter of mine - eat this.” Natalie looked at Anton’s hand. “What is it?” “Kwechu. It’s from South America. I’ve had it in my freezer for a few years. It’s still good.” “But what is it?” Her eyes were shiny but still brooding. “And why should I eat it?” “It’s a vine, which the Aifaya medicine men take to speak to the spirits.” Natalie gave a sudden laugh. “Dad, the last thing I need now is to speak to the spirits.” “Natalie...” Anton grappled for the correct words, “Natalie, there comes a time in everybody’s life, when they are with their back to the wall. I mean, in an existential sense. When suddenly the world seems all wrong, when you yourself seem all wrong. When the only hope remaining seems to be that some day this will all turn out to be a bad dream. “Only two things are possible in such a situation. One - you give up, and go to a doctor for a brain fix. Or you go to a heroin dealer. Or you become a drunk. The other thing you can do is to meet yourself directly. And this Kwechu is a means of meeting yourself directly.” Natalie looked at the small organic knot in her hand. Anton continued needling her. “If we sleep and eat and breathe fresh air here for two days, this will be enough to avert your total breakdown, dear daughter, but when we return to the city, chances are you will quickly lapse back into the state in which you are now. You have to strike at the core.” He wet his lips. “Relax, I’m here with you and I know what I’m doing.” Suddenly, as if trying to catch herself off-guard, Natalie shoved the Kwechu into

her mouth and started chewing. That was that then, thought Anton, the clock is now ticking. ”Now,” he said briskly, all business, “you should’ve fasted for a day before ingesting it, but you have already been fasting for God knows how long, so the soup we just had shouldn’t really be a problem.” “What will I feel? And when?” asked Natalie, frowning as she tried to discern any change in her inner sensation. “You’ll begin opening up in about five minutes. The climax will be in about an hour. By eight o’clock we’ll be back in our hotel.” Anton studied his daughter. Every human being on the planet could trace his or her lineage to a tribe that used things of this sort to communicate with the gods, the spirits, the ancestors. And while some people were removed from this time by countless generations, Natalie herself was at most one grandmother away from the village witchdoctor. He hoped this would help her in some way. He saw Natalie take a slow deep breath. “I, I feel kind of funny Dad,” she said distantly. “My body is getting very light.” “Just relax, and look and listen.” “To what?” “To everything around you. Look,” Anton suddenly pointed to a near pine tree with a bush at its base, “look at that pine. Listen to it. It has a lot to say.” Natalie felt that she was slowly losing her grip on her own thoughts and perceptions. Or rather, as if her own psyche was slowly dissolving. It was not an unpleasant sensation. The general pressure seemed to be easing off. She blinked and tried to focus on the pine to which her father pointed. There was nothing special about it. A pine like a pine. Its upper part was outlined against the sky. The autumn sky. The winter sky. One of its branches caught her attention. It was moving slowly. Then she saw another branch move. Suddenly, as if a camera lens had been changed, it became obvious that the whole tree was alive. And always had been. The branches were in simultaneous movement, each following a different rhythm. As if the tree breathed. It was glorious sight. Natalie turned to Anton, to share with him this phenomenon, but caught sight of a stone. It was a massive rock, which had sunk into the grass, and there were patches of pale bluish moss on it. It radiated a soft and ancient presence. “Even the rock is alive,” whispered Natalie. Anton smiled and nodded. Natalie didn’t let her gaze linger on her Dad, because there existed now a perplexing quality to his forehead. She tried to keep her mind off that. The trees moaned. Natalie pricked her ears. The trees were not just making noise. They were communicating. Not exactly talking. Perhaps it could be called soft singing. She stood up, feeling delicately atmospheric, as if the Earth’s gravity had diminished by half, while her flesh had turned to lightweight crystal. The wind caressed her whole body from head to toe and she took off her jacket.

The touch of the wind was invigorating and somehow evoked colors. She noticed a thin tree, perhaps half-uprooted by a storm, which was leaning on the trunk of a thicker tree. And they were not just standing immobile. Nothing was now. The thinner tree was slowly, almost imperceptibly, rubbing itself against the thicker tree, which was also slowly swaying and moaning. With the tiniest of efforts, Natalie picked out the sound of their barks rubbing against each other unhurriedly. A deep nameless emotion forced her to her knees. Tears swelled up and run down her cheeks. She could not tell whether these were tears of joy or of sorrow. Perhaps both. Things were getting so difficult to differentiate now. Anton walked over to her. It was time for the unpleasant but necessary bad trip. “Natalie, dearest, I have to tell you something.” Natalie’s enhanced sensitivity told her that something very bad was coming. Every muscle in her Daddy’s face was betraying him. “No, Daddy, don’t tell me, not now.” “I’m sorry, pumpkin, the time is now. Please listen to me.” He positioned himself in front of Natalie and held her chin with two fingers, to maintain eye contact. “You know I have adopted you.” She blinked in acknowledgment and her shoulders jerked once. “But you don’t know how I found you.” Something stirred deep inside Natalie. A sticky mushy fear which had always lived somewhere down below. A frightening worm that lay hidden below the rocks that were the foundation on which her personality was built. “After surviving the school shooting with Dave, I quit my teaching job and became a freelance journalist. I also got myself a gun. A revolver.” Anton paused, swallowed, and studied Natalie’s face for a few seconds. She was looking at him intently, following his every word with every level of her being. Small twitches in her eyelids and at the corners of her mouth hinted at the intense processes being put into motion inside her. Anton continued, “One evening, I was walking home through a shitty neighborhood, and I heard funny noises from an alley in that run-down housing complex. Male voices which sounded like they were doing something very bad, and the crying of a baby.” He stopped and tore his gaze away from her face. More tears were swelling up in Natalie’s eyes. “You know,” he swallowed again, and gave a small cough. “You know, there is a nasty superstition which originated in sub-Saharan Africa. It goes, that if you have AIDS, and have sex with a virgin, you will be cured.” “No,” mouthed Natalie. Anton blinked back a tear of his own. “And this means, that the infected men tend to gang rape any child they can find, in the hope of curing themselves. Any child. Even their own child. Even a baby.” Natalie closed her eyes, her face began contorting, and then froze in a grimace not

dissimilar to the mask of a samurai warrior. Slowly she sank to the ground and curled up. Anton caressed her hair and continued his overdue account. “And so I took out my gun, feeling all noble, and stepped into the alley. A bunch of black men with their pants down were passing each other a screaming baby.” Natalie let out a short sharp scream, and began writhing in abrupt jerks. “And I... I shot once into the air and pointed my gun at them, and took you away. And then I shot them as they stood there. All of them.” “Noooooaaaaaaaa, Daddy noooooo...” croaked Natalie, gurgling as though a drowning child. Anton knew that she didn’t mean him. She meant her real Daddy. The one he had shot. The one who had clawed at the torn remains of posters on the side of the graffiticovered dumpster; the one whose back had been arched, left leg twitching; the one who had sobbed with fear and self-pity as life left him through the bullet holes. Anton kissed the crown of Natalie’s head and rubbed her back, to work up the circulation of the blood and fool the skin into sending safety messages to the brain. His voice swayed with the rhythm of his actions. “And so, the cops arrived, I was taken away, you were taken away, but in the end the courts accepted that I had shot them in self defense. I think everyone was glad they were put down. I applied to be your foster Dad, and my application was approved. Mercifully, you hadn’t been infected.” Anton stopped speaking. He continued massaging Natalie in silence, trying to focus all the love that he felt for this fragile black girl, in the hope that like a plant she would feed on his positive emotion and convert it into life. *** By eight o’clock in the evening they really were back in the hotel. Natalie was subdued, but did not project despair and fear anymore. She looked weak but calm. Her eyes were alive, sparkling like the eyes of a healthy child. Anton looked at her tenderly as she polished off the fruit salad. He knew that every piece of mango was an overwhelming explosion for her amplified taste buds. He lit up a cigarette and remembered that he shouldn’t have. But Mr. Guerrero materialized with an ashtray in hand and winked at Anton. A good old-fashioned man, Guerrero. Natalie looked at Anton. “Dad,” she said, “where did you get this... Kwechu? Anton let out an impeccably crafted smoke ring, which floated ever expanding towards the ceiling, then began tearing itself apart. “After I got nailed as a junkie and you were taken away, I had to go through rehab. And then I had to stay clean for two years. At the end of these two years I was at the end of my tether. “Nothing seemed to make sense. The urge to commit suicide, which as you know I have had since I was a kid, had started scoring some victories against my mental defenses. I was getting careless. Cutting myself with knives when I prepared food. Getting involved in traffic accidents. Getting involved in senseless fights.” Natalie listened to him with radiant attention. He looked down and moistened his lips.

“And then I decided to go back to my home place, to check out the roots.” “What, back to the Amazon jungle?” “Yes.” Anton looked up a sheepish smile. “I talked old Deus into it was well. And we flew there and didn’t find our tribes, naturally, but we did meet a traveling magician. A traveling sorcerer.” “A medicine man?” “Exactly. And he gave us this stuff.” Anton’s deathly white albino features shined in the empty mess hall. Or so it seemed to Natalie, as she listened to her slightly embarrassed father. “Man, what a trip. It opened me right up. And Deus too. We cried and screamed like mad, and the old man just sat there and grinned at us. Sometimes he would do a little dance and sometimes he would hum a melody. Yes, that’s how he brought us back. At the end of the trip he hummed a deep guttural melody and we got submerged into it, and when he finished it, we realized the trip was over.” “Daddy,” Natalie looked at the reminiscing albino. Her own trip was also already long over, its presence retreating by the minute. She felt that as she woke up tomorrow morning, she will have lost touch with this state that had turned her inside out and back again. But for now she was still very alert, open to any kind of information, conveyed on any level. She knew that Anton was still shaking in his shoes from what he had brought upon her. He had probably been terrified it could go wrong, she thought, terrified that he could cause some irreversible damage to his little girl. Again a tear rolled down her right cheek, but this was not a tear of fear or of pain. “It’s all right, Dad, it’s all right,” she said softly, leaning over the table and cupping his tired face in her delicate small hands, “thank you. Thank you for everything.” In the corner of the mess hall, in partial shadow, by a square wooden column, Mr. Guerrero watched Anton and Natalie hug each other tearfully and ate his peanuts with relish. His massive chest heaved rhythmically and his full lips were crooked in a content smile. Although not quite sure what was going on, he had always been a sucker for family melodrama, and knew one when he saw one. He also felt sincere sympathy for both Anton and Natalie and even brushed away some little tears of his own.

CHAPTER FORTY ONE

David lay on his sofa, body loose, relaxed, but his eyes twitching, as if following movements on some invisible screen. His jaw was tense and there was a slight droop to his mouth. The detective was deep in thought. The killer: no longer ‘the shit strangler’, but simply Joshua. What turns a young man like that into a killer? With a Daddy like his Daddy, he could have everything. So why would he be going around killing women? And in this fashion at that. After all, he’s not some kind of loser with no money, position or looks. It’s not like he’s been watching all the females around him for years with the bitter hunger of he who knows he can only ever watch. Then why? Just for thrills? There are many other things one can do for thrills. Or perhaps he was just fucked in the head. Maybe he thought God told him to do this. Or Satan. Or the aliens. Maybe he just hears voices, thought Dave and immediately frowned in selfrefutation. Even if he was a loony, surely Daddy would have found the best doctors for him by now. Unless Joshua was sane enough to hide his madness. “That doesn’t make sense,” said Dave aloud. “No senso, segnoro.” He turned away from the world in disappointment and stared at the back of the sofa, now five inches away from his eyes. Its red upholstery was bisected by tiny groves, part of the design. Little fluffs of dust had collected in the groves. Dave looked at them, but did not see them. He remembered again the similarities between his and the killer’s tastes in women. Again he felt the desire to throw up stirring at the mere thought, but instead he clenched his fists and controlled his breathing. He just had to follow any train of thought which could possibly allow him to figure out what makes this junior Eysenck tick. He reviewed his recent conquests. That’s it! He opened his eyes, suddenly alert. Conquests! Yes, this was not just a cliche word, suddenly it was a very fitting description for his intimate habits. He ‘conquered’. He liked the thrill of conquest. Of the woman ceding territory. This had been his kick since way back when he was still a teenager. Especially when he had been still a teenager. Before things got too easy. Before someone repealed most of the rules of the complicated game of slowly expanding the area of the female body which could be touched. At first very few parts are acceptable to touch. Shoulders, forearms, the calves,

sometimes the belly. Then your hands go towards the breasts, or the thighs, or the ass. She squirms, she shrugs you off, she shows that you are transgressing. Slowly your hands return to the ‘allowed’ places and slowly start expanding them. Inch by inch, minute by minute she gets used to your hands, to your presence on the ever shifting topography of her body and soon you are at the base of a breast, or the beginning of the curve of the ass. Only bumbling fools jump straight ahead at this point. No, the connoisseur, he waits, he lingers at the edges between the two zones, softly, little by little he lets the girl adapt to the shifting balance of ‘allowed - not allowed’, and then and only then he makes his move. Dave snorted, stood up, and found his notebook on the table. He scribbled the words “Act of conquest” on the paper, and as an afterthought added a number: “1”. He was certain more things would be coming out now. He felt his brain whirring. After having passed the threshold of anxiety and nausea he suddenly felt his thoughts like laser beams, or even like laser scalpels, dissecting into its basic components everything on which they were turned. The detective rubbed his temples. Right, so he liked the idea of conquest. Did the killer like that too? Almost certainly. What else? Dave lay down again on the sofa. A dozen half-formed thoughts crawled around the periphery of his attention. He let them crawl. Dave felt that now, after he had given the main direction of where the mind should go, he should stay back, and let the cogs beneath the surface do their work, churn away without being hindered by a blundering foreman, by his conscious interference. He stared at the ceiling. There was a very thin crack going from the north wall to the chandelier. A sentence floated into his head. “She surrendered herself to his animal magnetism.” Where had he read that? Probably in some trashy novel as a boy. Surrender! Yes, that was the second thing. After the joy of the act of conquest, the joy of seeing the woman finally surrender. He jumped up again and wrote down: “2 - The act of surrender!” This feeling, when the woman visibly takes the decision to submit to your desire, and she either turns into a warm mannequin which you use like a toy, or she enthusiastically answers your every move and even tries to anticipate your wishes and ideas. Dave realized that his right hand was inside his pants, holding a rapidly growing penis. He scowled and tried to concentrate. What else is there? The sexual act itself, of course. The climax. The proof of manhood. The proof of worthiness. Dave got up and wrote: “He is trying to prove something with all this. What?” He sat down on the chair at the table and focused. His fingers caressed the wooden surface of the table. There was no tablecloth of course. He didn’t bother with such things.

Consequently the table was covered by overlapping brown circles left by countless coffee mugs and by other more obscure remains of dinners past. An archipelago of hardened crumbs lay at the left edge. A few tiny sugar crystals had mingled with them. Dave underlined the ‘what?’ with his pen, and then underlined it again. What was the bastard trying to prove? That he can control women? Fine, that’s not a crime in itself. And anyway, many women desperately need to prove to themselves, that there is someone out there, who wants to control them. Someone, who cares enough about them to dominate them. But why kill them? Why not just pretend... Dave pushed away at the table and got up shakily. Inadvertently, he had opened the gates for a terrible realization to dawn on him. He swallowed nonexistent saliva and looked around for a half-finished glass of water with which it was his habit to litter his apartment. There were two of them by the fridge, near the new kettle. One was less grimy and the water inside was not quite cloudy with dust. He drained it. His scalp and right cheek felt very tender. When he himself sometimes choked a girl playfully, he was acting out in a game an impulse, which was at its root the same as the impulses of the killers. Only the killers really did it, while he was happy to deal with a pretend version of events. After about twenty minutes of lying in his bed with the blanket pulled over his head he was ready to take his chances at facing the world again. Cautiously he peered at the world. Does everyone have these impulses inside themselves? he wondered. Is that why drunken husbands beat their wives? Is the deep impulse inside them the same as the one that makes killers kill women and ‘open minded’ dudes to pretend to kill them? He grappled to find some sort of balance. Some firm point on which to stand while dealing with all these unwelcome thoughts. Instead, he remembered the feeling of supremacy he had felt when Georgette had squirmed below him. It had been as if he had controlled her every move. What an intense power trip. Poor Georgette. Suddenly he smiled. A silly image of a country gentleman on horseback, participating in a foxhunt, appeared in his mind. Perhaps in a way they knew all this even back then. Perhaps they felt what they wanted deep down, and they just spread it out. They controlled a living being: a horse. They killed a living being: a fox. They even gang-killed it, if we count the dogs. They fucked prostitutes like sex slaves and for their wives they saved the romantic kisses and all the minute gestures of respect. Dave felt the unpleasant pressure on the back of his head grow. He was on the verge of a tension headache. This was getting him nowhere. He was just finding out things about himself, which he didn’t want to find out. Perhaps Anton would have been able to help, but he was in the province with Natalie.

Natalie... Dave quickly pushed the image of a naked Natalie in riding boots away from his thoughts, and switched on the TV. After clicking through a number of reality shows and dancing clips he again took refuge in his old flicks. Realizing that right now he needed something deliberately naive and undemanding, he stopped on early twenty first century ‘Doctor Who’. With a smile of relief he sunk into his sofa as he heard the familiar melody at the beginning. Oo-ee-wooo, eeeee - woooo... A thin chap with sideburns and a speed freak attitude popped out of a telephone booth and proceeded to run around, waving his magic screwdriver at various aliens. But within twenty minutes Dave began to grow uneasy again. Even the Doctor was not good enough, not asexual enough. There were far too many pale, full-bosomed MILFS in leather jackets darting to and fro. And an abundance of black girls in uniforms giving and carrying out orders. Suddenly the image of Natalie in uniform appeared in his imagination. This time he didn’t shoo the thought away. Instead, guiltily, he allowed himself to slip into a memory-wank, reliving the sensual moments he had had with Natalie years ago. After that, he fell asleep.

CHAPTER FORTY TWO Natalie woke up from the sun beam which tickled her nostrils and eyelashes. It was falling through the room’s window, through the parting in the two small curtains, highlighting the slowly floating dust particles in the way which infallibly brings a general feeling of childish wellbeing. She let out a contented sigh and turned her gaze to the wooden ceiling for a minute. It was the same as it was in her childhood, even the small tacky gilded chandelier, even the shapes made of the wood knots in the planks. Many a time, years ago, she would look at these shapes with sleepy eyes, until they would begin transforming into various magical characters. She saw a small moving string at one corner of the ceiling. Ants. Taking refuge from the cold outside, probably amidst preparations for the winter sleep. If they had winter sleep indoors. Natalie rolled over on her stomach and looked at the wooden floor. It was covered by a thick Indian rug, among the strands of which lived the carpet people of her childhood. She stretched a lazy arm and maneuvered her slippers into place. Then she sat up and gave a hearty yawn. After breakfast with Anton they went for a walk in the nearby woods. This was the last day in nature, in the afternoon they would drive back to the city and the next morning both would be back in their offices. Needle pines shuffled softly beneath their shoes as they walked and talked. Anton’s furtive inquisitive glances had stopped since breakfast and he was now his normal laid back, amiable, cynical self. Apparently he was satisfied that his little girl really had passed through the eye of the needle successfully, ready to go back to her everyday life without the threat of immediate relapse. After twenty minutes, by common mute consent they sat on the cool, coarse, moist grass, on a small clearing at the cut off edge of something between a small hill and a big mound, and smoked cigarettes, their hair moving with the gentle breeze. “I really feel uncertain about my job now,” said Natalie after a while. Anton threw her a brief glance, to show that he was listening, and returned to gazing at the moving sea of trees below them. “What, you mean the sociology?” “That too, but I actually meant about working for the National Patriots.” “And what’s wrong with that?” asked Anton with a ghost of a mischievous grin. “You know very well what’s wrong, Dad. They are a bunch of Nazis. Or rather...” Natalie dragged at her cigarette for the last time and mashed it with a few precise movements into the grass near her, “or rather they are not anything, but they play on the desire of a portion of the masses to vote for Nazis. With a human face, of course,” she added with a soft touch of distaste. “Well, daughter of mine,” said Anton, “as you say, there’s a market for such a party, and such a party appeared. You can’t make the demand for Nazi politicians

disappear. And perhaps, by knowing that they are represented politically, the more psychotic elements of the masses will not feel that they are forced to make terrorist organizations or patriotic militias.” Natalie looked at her father and as usual could not be certain if he was serious, or was being subtly sarcastic while implying the opposite of what he was saying. “You really think that?” she asked finally. Anton sighed and faced his daughter. He felt in her voice that for her the object of the conversation was not a trifle. She needed advice, but she also needed comfort. She was therefore in need of comforting advice, and he, as her father, had to give it with all seriousness. But very carefully. He had to word his comforting advice in such ways, in which he would not make her feel intense bad emotions, but would also not be going against his own moral convictions. He couldn’t afford to sound phony. “Natalie,” he began, “I’ll tell you what I think about the whole issue, and then I’ll tell you what I think about your role in it.” Natalie nodded in agreement. She opened her small flat pack of feminine cigarettes and then noticed her actions and stopped. She wasn’t a chain-smoker after all. But Anton was, and without any inhibitions he lit the next one. “What is democracy? How does it work?” he asked. “One man, one vote,” Natalie replied, “one person, one vote I mean.” Anton laughed a sarcastic laugh. “North Korea had one man one vote. Hitler’s Germany did. That’s no criteria. Let me rephrase myself. What is the basis of the western concept of political liberty?” He quickly proceeded to answer in case Natalie decided that this was a real question. “Liberty of the western type hinges on a system of checks and balances. It’s an artificial structure, the aim of which is to never allow one player to have all of the power. Right?” “Right. The courts being independent from the politicians in power, etc.” “Exactly. Not that we have that anymore, but at least we still have a multiparty system. Now, the epistemological weakness of pro-democracy conservatives and market liberals, starting with the eighteenth century…” Anton stopped and looked at Natalie. She knew that he was waiting for a confirmation that she was following him, and nodded. “...Is that they insist on describing democracy, equal rights and a free market, as the natural state of humanity. For some reason, probably as momentum from the religious strata in their psyches, they absolutely cannot allow themselves to admit that they are defending something unnatural. “And yet, just because something is unnatural, it doesn’t necessarily follow that it’s evil. Nothing is natural in our lives anyway. Living naked in small groups, killing zebras with clubs and eating them raw - this is natural. No, wait, even the clubs are unnatural.” Anton tugged at the grass by his right foot. Natalie turned slightly, as to look at the moving branches of the trees, but for all that was obviously focused on following her Dad’s thoughts.

“Anyway,” said Anton, “my point is, that the natural, or, the less unnatural state of politics, read this as power relations, is that sooner or later only the strongest player remains. He fills up the whole territory. One strong leader and his circle of trusted ones. If he can swing it, he establishes a dynasty. “And this goes for the market as well. The natural process is also for a monopolist to take over. This is why small businesses have been surviving for the last decades only thanks to various anti-monopolist laws.” “What does that have to do with me working for the National Patriots?” inquired Natalie, without taking her eyes off from the view. “Wait, wait,” said the albino, “you know I always like to establish a theoretical context.” “Fine,” Natalie gave him a smile, “go ahead.” Anton went ahead. “And so, on one hand they say that they believe that the natural state of the market is many small businesses competing and on the other hand they know quite well that they have to have laws, without which the monopolies take over everything immediately.” “Okay.” “The same goes for democracy. It may be a ‘natural state’, but left to their own devices, all nations end up with mafia oligarchy or an iron fist leader. Thus, to maintain something like a democracy, there also must be a lack of monopoly.” “A lack of political monopoly.” “Yes, exactly. Checks and balances. Weights and counterweights. From this point of view, it doesn’t matter much which ones are the ‘goodies’, and which ones are the ‘baddies’, as long as no one has a complete monopoly of power. “As long as there are lots of factions feuding with each other, making each other weaker, no one takes the whole field over, and we the people have some breathing space to go on with our lives. As soon as even the best possible party or faction consolidates its power over the whole nation, we all spiral down to hell.” The gist of Anton’s tirade began to dawn on Natalie. “I see, so you mean that as long as the National Patriots are a minor player, and they cancel out to some extent the other political players, democracy is maintained.” “Yes, in a way,” said Anton glibly, “up to a point. So to say.” “Well? What’s the catch?” “The catch is, that the masses take their cues of how to behave politically from their politicians. If politicians speak politely, the masses know that it’s legitimate to speak politely. If the politicians start speaking impolitely, the masses know that it’s legitimate to speak impolitely. If politicians speak about throwing immigrants out and saving the nation, then the masses know that it’s legitimate to talk about throwing immigrants out and saving the nation.” “But wait, Dad, as a sociologist and a PR expert, ahem, I have to tell you that almost everything the politicians say is based on what the people want to hear.” “Ah!” Anton held up a nicotine stained forefinger, “but it’s a closed circle. The politicians condition the populace to certain topics and buzz-words and then the masses begin to expect these topics and buzz-words, and when any player introduces something slightly new, everyone starts imitating him as not to be out of step with the times.”

“Could be,” almost agreed Natalie, “but you were talking about the language the politicians use.” “Right. So on one hand, even if the Nazis you work for enter parliament, that’s no great loss, because another weight has been added into the system of weights and counterweights. But if they begin to bluntly introduce their Nazis agenda to the people, this will a) - make it legitimate for people to talk and behave like Nazis, and b) - will force the other dumb motherfuckers in parliament to copy them, because they will think that this is a new trend, and will not want to be left behind.” “So what do you think I should do, Dad?” Anton put out his cigarette near three other twisted little stubs. “I think, dear daughter, that you must do your best to control the public speaking of your clients, in order to maintain a minimum of hygiene in our national politics, and that you and you only can succeed in that.” “So, the fate of civilization as we know it is in my hands,” said Natalie with a grin and stood up. But in spite of her dismissive attitude, Anton knew that he had succeeded. He had managed to give her the comforting advice she needed, and now she would be able to live her life and do her job without hating herself. To live otherwise for an intelligent woman like her would mean building up unresolved and ignored tension until it boiled over, and brought about another crisis. A superficial sellout is no good for perceptive people, only a deeply thought through sellout can do the trick. Anton also stood up and inhaled the fresh air. Tiny needle-pricks attacked his chest, but this was the typical smoker’s pain he had come to terms with years ago. Natalie was standing nearby, also taking in the gently moving surroundings. Soon it would be time to return to the Ortega, have a hearty lunch and start packing.

CHAPTER FORTY THREE

“Just stay behind me and let me do the talking,” Andy told Dave out of the corner of his mouth. Phil the Kill had already seen them coming and that had made him light up a nervous cigarette, and point his shades the other way. Both detectives had started on the process of trying to gather additional evidence in order to build up on the solitary eyelash found in Jane’s home. Dave was in his leather jacket, with an ancient Immortal sweater, in blue jeans and wearing worn sneakers. He was acutely aware how stereotyped an attempt this was of an inquisitive servant of the law trying to blend in. But it was the best he could do. Andy was in his usual denim man style. They approached Phil the Kill, crowding him a little. Andy initiated contact. “Hi, Philly,” he drawled with the classical menacing/amiable thin smile, which combines both the good cop and the bad cop in it. “Hi,” answered the reluctant informer, without pointing his shades at their faces. “I have a question, Philly.” “Surprise of the century.” Andy measured him with a gaze that was quickly going cold. “Tell me, smart ass, who deals the best stolen cars lately?” “What? Er... Loco Bob.” “No, not Loco Bob, I mean the really classy stuff,” now Andy spoke furtively and even made his eyes shifty in an attempt to start up Phill’s reflexes, “you know, not the Pao Pao Volvos. For instance if I wanted a Toyota Focus, but didn’t want to pay full price - where should I go?” “Go to a second hand car dealer.” “Philly!” now came the time for a stern hint of being offended, “Philly, I’ve been good to you so far.” He edged himself even closer to the informer. “Don’t you start giving me no lip.” The shades finally pointed into the direction of Andy’s face. “Okay, okay, don’t get worked up, lieutenant. If you want a new Focus with a makeover, you want to go to Croc Jock, in the east side.” “Where exactly?” “Tesla street, by the book market.” WHAAAAAM! - Dave’s world exploded. Or, to be more precise, everything he saw jumped erratically as if a power surge had hit a computer, and a deafening hum filled up his ears. As he staggered forward he heard a sharp loud noise. It was Andy, shooting at someone. Old training sprung out of the nooks in which it slumbered and took over Dave’s body. With a subtle movement of his feet and knees he found his perfect fighting balance and turned to face the enemy.

Blurry fragments picked up by his eyes were immediately rearranged by his brain into an identifiable coherent picture. Nomies! They were attacked by a bunch of nomies! He blocked an amateurish attempt to stick a knife into him and automatically, as a simple continuation of his movement, broke the nomie’s arm at the elbow. At the same time another shot came from Andy’s gun, another man doubled up and collapsed. Dave heard a scream behind him. The informer! He and Andy spun around simultaneously. Andy shot the nomie in the face, but it was too late. The informer sank to his knees clawing at the knife hilt protruding from his throat. Suddenly, the situation was over. Three nomies shot, one nursing his broken arm, not daring to ran away, not daring risk a bullet in the back. One informer who had just gargled his last gargle. There had been only four nomies to begin with. The smell of gunpowder lingered, together with the mental echoes of the gunshots. Dave touched the back of his head gingerly and looked at his fingers. No blood thankfully. But still his brain buzzed. It must have been a bottle. Most likely the broken one by his feet. He kicked at it halfheartedly and looked at the corpses again. Bloody idiots. Someone screamed. It was a woman, who was looking at the dead bodies and at the three men standing. More people began loitering nearby. Andy took out his phone and called for an ambulance and for backup. Then he took out a cigarette and smoked silently, looking at the dead nomies but apparently seeing nothing. Soon cars arrived, doors slammed, radios crackled, brief explanations were taken down, bodies were covered up and taken away, the wounded attacker was pushed into a patrol car, the broken bottle stuffed into an evidence bag, and only Dave, Andy, some curious pedestrians, and three small puddles of drying blood were left. And then some faint gray smoke was whipped up by the exhaust pipe of Andy’s car, the clicking of signal lights came to life as Andy put a hand on the steering wheel, Dave buckled himself in, and they too were gone. “You think this was an accident, man?” asked Dave after some silent fidgeting. Andy didn’t take his eyes of the road and didn’t answer. “I mean,” continued Dave, “there is a chance that someone told the scumbags to attack us and kill the informer before he sings. No?” Still silent, still not looking at Dave, Andy fumbled in his coat pocket and took out a cigarette pack. He lifted it up to his parted lips and dragged one out with his teeth. Then he offered the pack to Dave. “No thanks, man.” Andy hid the pack back in his pocket, took out the lighter and lit his cigarette. He pressed the breaks softly. It was a red light. He breathed the smoke out of his window and finally looked at Dave. “I have no idea what happened there. But it was a very close shave. How’s the head by the way?”

“Fine, no blood. I don’t think I have a concussion.” “Good.” The lights changed again, they drove on. Andy spoke some more, in a measured tone, alien to his lips: “While we have our little talk with Croc Jock, the boys back in the precinct will have their little talk to the fella whose elbow you pointed backwards.” He curled up the right side of his mouth, a half-grin for Dave’s benefit. “He’s already signed in as a ‘wounded suspect’; they can work him over a little if he tries to act the iron man.” When they finally reached the book market there were already three fire trucks in front of a nearby warehouse. There was the usual crowd of spectators, firemen darting hither and thither, two patrol cars and two ambulances. Flames reached high from the windows and even as Dave and Andy got out of the car, a series of explosions rocked the place. Andy flashed his badge at the nearest fireman. “What happened here?” “A gas truck crashed into this place! And it was full of cars,” the fireman replied with guttural indignation at the stupidity of truck drivers, “you missed the big explosions. These are just the last of the cars inside going up.” Andy looked at Dave. Now his tone was so measured one would think he was a Roman stoic freshly fortified with an opium mix: “To answer your questions, Dave: no, I do not think that the nomie attack was an accident. Phill’s death was also not an accident, and this here,” he pointed at the flaming husk of the warehouse, “this here is also not an accident.” Dave had never seen Andy so white. As if reading his mind, Andy rubbed his cheeks, spat on the pavement and continued looking down at his spit. “I have a family, Dave,” he said presently, “I have a wife, I have two daughters, and I love them all dearly. I’m going to let this case go. I can’t take on senator Eysenck.” Dave looked at the deflated Andy, and could only feel a general sadness. “I understand man, I really do.” He ran his tongue over his upper teeth. “But I don’t have a family. So I’m going on.”

CHAPTER FORTY FOUR

Anton nodded cordially at the colleagues in ‘monitoring’, he waved cheerfully to the junior analysts, and entered his private office. He plopped into his chair, which also gave a cheerful squeak at impact, and switched on his computer. It was a fine day. It was a fine day, in a fine city, and he himself was one fine fellow. His little Natalie was all right. He had pulled it off and she had stepped back from the brink of broken existence. This was certainly cause for celebration. He ripped open a pack of expensive Camels and lit up. The bitter taste ripped into the tip of his tongue, then spread, crawling over the roof of his mouth, making even the teeth itch in delight. He reviewed the news headlines with a tolerant expression. Blah-blah, explosions in a warehouse, mass knife fight in Tropica bar, nomies shot by undercover cops, mother convicted of strangling baby, father convicted of honor killing of daughter, boy crossing the world in a balloon shot down over Minsk. He pressed the ‘politics’ section, and simultaneously opened a gossip site. Ah, Natalie’s people, the nationalist nerds, will have a rally outside the ministry of education, demanding more patriotism in schools. Anton shrugged, deposited some Camel ash in the longship, and clicked ‘more world news’. He reviewed the gossip concerning the upcoming marriage between the Belgian princess and the son of Khazakstan’s hereditary dear leader and the union of the son of the Greek Prime Minister with a Saudi princess. Through these archaic maneuvers, the EU would guarantee itself more natural resources outside the Kremlin’s influence. Anton leaned back on his chair. The historical fluke, which took place between the chaos of WWI and the fall of the Soviet Union, was finally over. Although there were many new players on the global stage, in general business was now as usual, as it had always been for centuries. And only ageing anarchists like him could see anything wrong with that. The short-lived window of unpredictable change, opened by the bullet in Sarajevo and maintained by nuclear standoff, was finally closed. The twenty first century was now a jazzed up continuation of the nineteenth century, with the hundred years in the middle laying discarded on the rubbish heap of history together with a hundred million corpses. With some anger he opened the ‘our Earth’ section of the world news. The annual meeting of the heads of the environment ministries of the developed world, this time taking place in Seoul, was over. Notes had been compared, progress had been recorded, credit had been given where credit was due. In spite of various panic-mongering alarmists, things were looking up. The latest strain of the genetically modified moths had finally worked,

successfully filling the ecological niche left by the bees. In the places where the bees were dead pollinating could now continue. The new deserts were even now being reclaimed back. Another victory for a healthy and robust can do attitude. WHERE WE’RE GOING WE WON’T NEED BEES, was the highlighted stance of a confidence-radiating analyst in a dark blue suit. The disappearance of marine life has also been successfully battled: the huge inland breeding tanks were now capable of covering eighty percent of the world’s demand for fish. The forecast was that within two years the supply of fish bred in captivity would completely compensate the disappearance of fish in the wild. Levels of oxygen and carbon monoxide were also monitored worldwide and there also was no cause for undue alarm. The strains of oxygen producing algae were already making up eight tenth of what the disappeared phytoplankton had produced. Three hundred people have been arrested and three have died, one of them a policeman, during the riots outside the high level environmental summit. The mayor of Seoul assured the world that the troublemakers were professional terrorists from abroad, not honest Koreans. Two billion people were estimated to be living on the edge of starvation this year. The top fifteen economies of the world pledged to end world hunger by 2080. At this Anton finally smiled. The date. Exactly a hundred years after the time when true communism was supposed to arrive in the USSR. As promised by comrade Khrushchev. Instead, only the Soviet Olympics had arrived. God, I’m so full of useless knowledge, thought Anton and blinked frantically with a unconsciously savage expression, trying to rattle his mind into line. With a few tense clicks he closed all the websites and rocked on his chair for a few seconds. Then he pressed the buzzer and asked the secretary to invite the junior analysts into his office. It was time to return to the normal tempo of work.

CHAPTER FORTY FIVE

Natalie sat at her desk in the National Patriots HQ, her fingers merrily clicking away at the keyboard. Kurt was sitting near her and marveled as in front on his gaze a strictly organized list of bullet points for Mr. Eberstark’s forthcoming interview took shape in a matter of minutes. Tomorrow he would be a guest in the morning ‘Opinion Hour’ show, which claimed to be watched by half the nation. The host, Rachel Feist, was a shrewd journalist, and while she wasn’t likely to attack Eberstark, she would certainly make him sweat as she nit-picked what her monitoring team had prepared from the available info concerning the National Patriot agenda. So now Natalie was preparing the likely questions which Rachel would ask and the precise answers which Eberstark must give. Or, when that was impossible, at least the general framework within which he should improvise. Question: You say that the government spends too much money on wars. Do you believe that the budget for the army should be smaller? Answer: I have the deepest respect for our fighting men and women and realize that they deserve the best equipment, training and living conditions which money can buy. But I do believe that at least the mainstream arms deals must be opened to public scrutiny and therefore public control. Likewise, I am certain that an unbiased audit would show how costs in the army can be reduced, without the need to inconvenience our brave soldiers. True honesty, transparency and accountability, will certainly help make our army better. Question: Do you think that failing big businesses and banks should not be bailed out by the government? Answer: (you’ve already committed yourself, so you can’t evade the issue. Say that helping big businesses must be done in a more transparent way, with greater control and with direct responsibility) Possible topic: Pensions - (say that retirement age must be dropped immediately back to seventy, and that a committee must be formed, to figure out how to make possible bringing it down even further ). General position: When the welfare and dignity of our honest and hard working citizens is concerned, we must not say “it’s impossible”, we must ask: “how do we make it possible?” Nothing is impossible for our great nation, as we have proved time and time again, and it is most emphatically NOT impossible to allow dignity and comfort for our deserving fathers and mothers. Kurt grinned at Natalie. He had found her quite attractive initially, but now she

looked even more attractive. Beyond attractive. There was an air of self-confident leisure in her every movement and when she talked her eyes looked into the eye of the other person, but without any challenge, just making contact. He was supposed to be working with her, but she obviously didn’t need him and only listened to his comments and ideas out of politeness. “I’ll go get us some chocolate,” he said and stood up. At least he could make himself useful by purchasing something to feed the beautiful mind inside this beautiful head. The beautiful head turned to him for a second. “Yes that we great Kurt,” she said curtly, “and a coffee please. Cream, no sugar.” Kurt nodded with a smile, but all that was wasted, because Natalie was already resubmerged, continuing her typing.

CHAPTER FORTY SIX

Joshua sat with his legs crossed in front of the altar. He was completely certain that this time he was finally feeling the energy crawl up his spine, swirl in his skull and then plummet downward to swirl again the belly, before going back up the spine. He concentrated on his anal sphincter, this threshold the passing of which marked each new cycle of the energy flow. In the periphery of his vision everything acquired a subtle golden hue, and as he concentrated on the ball of energy, which he knew must be hovering five inches from his ‘third eye’, he tried to will himself to jump to the next level. Ten inches above the skull was the sought for energy vortex, ‘the eighth portal’, which he strove to enter. Then, and only then would he leave the lowly level of Teegeeack. As he concentrated on the sensations of his sphincter, an image appeared in his mind. A huge buttocks and a tongue, licking and probing at the anus. A tongue and a face. Not his own, naturally, he was no pervert, it was rather the fresh face of a young girl. He watched with eyes shut tight as the little tongue slobbered at the impressive anus, loosening it up, until it finally opened and suddenly a whole torrent of shit, like an endless sausage began falling into the greedily open mouth of the nameless girl. Joshua felt his own sausage harden. He smile with leisurely exasperation, realizing that the magic of meditation was ruined for now and he could leave the arcane realms, and return to the issues of everyday reality. There was more than enough time to perfect his sorcerer’s skills. He was a Chaos Thetan Cluster, just biding his time to blossom. There was no rush. Still sitting cross-legged he slowly fell on his back, and then straightened out his legs and opened his eyes. His thoughts wandered, even the huge buttocks disappeared into the background. Almost thirty of his customers had gone off line. Sources told him that the sorry wankers had been nabbed by the police. But there had been no warning of any kind, none of the website’s defense programs had even hinted that it had been breached. Then were had the leak come from? Perhaps he should close the website down just in case. Yes, this is what he should do. He rolled over onto his stomach and let his head lie limply on the floor, his right cheek against the soft carpet. Anyway, even if all the paying porn customers would disappear, the core of the business was with the clients who rented the kids themselves. And they were all important people, no driftwood, no unimportant riffraff, no lonely aging perverts, but good solid men, who would never be ensnared by what remained of the police. Suddenly he felt the rush of anger and his face stiffened as he thought of his invisible opponents. Some petty common morons, trying to get at him no doubt.

“Petty common morons following their petty common morals,” he repeated to himself out loud. Damn, damn, and double damn these common morals! Like insidious worms they ate away at one’s resolve. He had almost started to believe that he was half a man just because it was sex with the kids that released him into ecstasy. Well, he had proved to the whole world that he could be the ultimate master of any adult woman he chose. Any woman. Angrily he closed his eyes and returned to the scene of the giant looming buttocks. The young girl swallowed the endless brown shit with desperation, like a drowning man gasping for air. Girl, he corrected himself sternly, like a drowning girl gasping for air.

CHAPTER FORTY SEVEN

David escorted Andy’s car with a thoughtful gaze. The two ambulances also drove off. One by one the onlookers stopped making videos with their phones and went on with their lives. The detective took out his phone and called his office. “Hello, Cohran Detective Services.” “Hi, Maldiva.” “Oh, Mr. Cohran?” “Yes, look, Maldiva. Is there anyone in the office?” “Why no, it’s just me, sir.” “Good, good. Now listen,” Dave tried to sound nonchalant, “you must leave the office right now.” A pause. “But, but why?” “Let’s say, let’s just say it’s a potentially dangerous situation, Maldiva. Leave right now, and take a vacation. Paid of course. I’ll call you when the coast is clear.” “Er, all right, er, Mr. Cohran, I...” “Do it now, please, Maldiva. Do it right now, at this very moment, there may be danger.” “All right Mr. Cohran, and thank you,” the surprise had gone out of the secretary’s voice, she was brisk and businesslike again, “take care of yourself.” “I will, thank you, bye, Maldiva.” Dave started his car and began the torturous journey back to his office. What now? He made sure that Maldiva was safe, now he must concentrate on the case at hand. These were special times. He had to download all the info into his memory stick. Ethics be damned. His hands strained at the steering wheel as if they wanted to bend it. He commanded himself to breathe calmly and concentrate on scanning the other cars for signs of trouble. Don’t want to suddenly have a nasty accident now, do we? Dave approached the office door and unlocked it. Nothing exploded. The air still smelled of Maldiva’s perfume. Breathing heavily he locked the door behind him and ran to his room. He switched the computer on. Suddenly, the minute needed for warming up seemed like an eternity. Dave went to the window, looked cautiously through the drapes, and retreated. Everything happened too fast today. There certainly was a force working against them. Against him now. The damn Eysencks, probably. But the way they had done it... no direct interference at all. Just a combination of events: sicking the nomies on them, and that truck crash... this all reminded him of something. It reminded him of the last thing he wanted to be reminded of, the list of the deceased detectives that had worked at the season girls case. He dialed Fartham’s number. “This number cannot be...” Damn! What if something has happened to him? Dave dialed Fortham’s stationary number at his desk in the precinct. It rang. It rang. No one picked it up.

Dave hung up and thought. His computer lit up. He pressed his palm and typed in the password. Wrong password. He tried to control his mounting hysteria and typed it in again, slowly and carefully. He was in. The welcome message appeared on the screen. He plugged in the memory stick. Thank God he always left his folders on the desktop. No need to rummage through obscure drive locations to find them. He directly caught the relevant batch of folders with the mouse and put them into the memory stick. One minute and twenty three seconds until copying is complete. One minute and twenty seconds until copying is complete. Damn camera footage must be the reason for the slow speed. He folded and pocketed the city map originals lying on the desk and dialed the precinct number again. It rang. It rang some more. It was picked up. “Andy!” he almost shouted. “Who is this?” asked a voice. “What? This is detective Cohran, is Andy Fortham there?” “No. I know you. You’re Dave. I’ve seen you with Andy. My name is Sam.” “Er...” “Andy’s dead, Dave.” “What? When? How?” “An hour ago. Someone found him in the toilet here. Looks like heart attack. We’ll know for sure later.” “Jesus. Jesus...” “Yeah. Can I help you with anything?” “What? Oh no, no, thank you, Sam. Jesus. Thank you. Goodbye.” “Goodbye.” David looked at his phone with disbelief, as is somehow the phone itself was responsible for the news he had just received. He sagged in his chair, the power suddenly drained out of him. “No, no!” he said aloud. Suddenly his mind accepted that what he should be engaged in was not planning how to bring criminals to justice, but rather how to save his bacon. His eyes jerked wide at the thought, he jumped up, whipped out the memory stick from the computer, pulled its cable instead of bothering to shut it down, and ran out of the office. As he walked out he scanned the street carefully. Nothing seemed out of place. But he felt a thousand eyes following his every move. He jogged to his car and stopped. What if it had been rigged? What if there was a bomb there already? He backed away. Dozens of different thoughts tried to get his attention. What to do now? He breathed heavily, leaning his back on the building’s wall. Right, point one: get as much money as possible from an ATM, to have ready cash and not be traceable by later withdrawals. Point two: go home, get his essentials and scuttle away to some seedy quiet hotel and lie low, to get some breathing space and figure out what to do. No, no, no hotels. Stop living in the past - you have to show your real ID

everywhere now. You can’t just register as Mr. Smith like in the old movies. He clenched his fists. Damn. Damnitty damn-damn. He walked to the nearest ATM machine and waited his turn behind a fat lady in a yellow raincoat. People walked past them. A car stopped nearby. He turned to look. A respectable looking man in a suit got nimbly out of the car and held the door for an equally respectable looking woman. His wife, most likely. The fat lady in the yellow raincoat took her money, took her card, darted a look at Dave, and walked away. Dave put his card into the slot. The screen said: “CHOOSE LANGUAGE /-ENGLISH- / -HÀNYǓ- / ЕSPAÑOL-/ -РУССКИЙ-/” He pressed ‘ENGLISH’. The insides of the machine hummed and clanked. A menu screen appeared. He pressed ‘WITHDRAWAL’. A space for the PIN number appeared. He typed in the PIN number. Wrong PIN number. Cursing silently, Dave took a deep breath and slowly punched in the PIN number again. It worked. Some more humming from the machine. Another clank. A warning disclaimer appeared inside a red box: “THIS CARD HAS BEEN DISABLED PLEASE CONTACT BANK FOR DETAILS” Dave looked around with a wild gaze. Still no one seemed to be stalking him. But the card, already they had locked it! They move so fast... and maybe they were on the way to this ATM even as he stood there. Dave backed away, turned around and ran. He took a corner and hailed a cab. He would just have to hope that they hadn’t got to his home yet. He had some cash stashed away there, in the desk. *** His heart sank as they neared his home. Two fire engines were parked beside his apartment block, as well as an ambulance and a police car. Flames were coming out the window of one apartment. His apartment, naturally. Dave paid the driver, got out of the car and walked with deliberate slowness into the direction of another apartment block. After circumnavigating it carefully, he went through a batch of thin young poplars and reached the boulevard. Suddenly, after seeing his home up in flames, he had become completely calm. All emotions had hidden themselves. At least for now. He looked around, took out his cell phone, propped a foot on a fire hydrant, balanced his notebook on his knee, copied down a few numbers from the phone. He was certain that the phone would be bugged and perhaps used to home in on him. It burst into three big pieces and a dozen smaller ones as he smashed it forcefully into the pavement. People coughed, stepped away and avoided eye contact. He walked tiredly to the bus stop and looked what lines were available. In three minutes, he caught the nine-four.

After putting five miles behind him, he got off and found a derelict but working street payphone, which accepted coins. He dialed Anton’s number. “Yes.” “Hi, Tony, it’s me, Dave.” “Hi. What’s this number?” “It’s a street phone, I’m calling from a street phone. Listen, I hate to ask you this, but can I crash at your place for one night?” “Er, of course, come right over. What’s wrong?” “Everything, man, everything is wrong. Someone’s out to get me. I’ll tell you when I get to you.” “All right, I’m going home immediately. Remember the code, it’s seven-eight, eight-seven, seven-eight, oh-nine. “Yeah, seven-eight, eight-seven, seven-eight, oh-nine, thanks man, I’ll be over in thirty.” Dave hang up and began walking energetically, throwing furtive glances into every direction. He controlled the impulse to make a run for it. The last thing he needed now was draw attention to himself.

PART FOUR

CHAPTER FORTY EIGHT

David lay on the thick carpet on the floor of Anton’s living room and listened to the rain. It wasn’t pelting yet, only flicking away at the windowpane, but it felt like it was getting stronger. The detective picked at his nose and brooded. Alone. Anton was at work in his office, while he, David was lying low in Anton’s home. Lying very low. He felt at his lowest ebb in years. How had everything gotten out of hand so suddenly? In one day he lost everything. And it wasn’t like he was one of the bad guys. He was one of the good guys. And yet... he felt as if the wrath of God had fallen in his direction, showering destruction left and right, missing him by inches. For now. David picked himself up and sent himself to the kitchen, for another sandwich. Fortunately, although considerably older, Anton had very similar bachelor habits. And foods. David spread some unhealthy margarine on a piece of unhealthy white bread and put a slice of unhealthy processed cheese on it. As an afterthought, he rinsed a carrot and bit off an inch. Gotta take in some vitamins, he told himself, can’t let the body go without any real nourishment, especially in a crisis like this. Plate with sandwich in hand, Dave returned to the hall and sat on the carpet with legs crossed. A crisis. The understatement of the century. More like a catastrophe. One minute - a normal guy leading a normal life, even helping catch criminals, making the world a better place, all that, and suddenly - a cornered rat with no options. It’s good to have friends when you are out of options. Dave felt his stomach knot a little. At the back of his mind was the gnawing doubt that the danger that was casting its shadow on him was now breathing down both his and Anton’s necks. He had probably put his one remaining close friend in mortal danger. But Anton is an old dog, he knows what he is playing with, Dave tried to stave off the guilt attack. And there seemed a twisted logic, when unknown evil forces manipulate events to get rid of undesirable elements, and him being one of those undesirable elements, to seek help and shelter from a government employed stoner albino from the Amazon jungles.

With a puff Dave got up again, went to the bathroom and washed his face to kick his thinking into gear. He looked at his deflated reflection and blinked a few times. Time to pull myself together, he thought, time to act. While he is lurking in Anton’s apartment, and dares not show his nose outside, there are not a lot of useful things he can do. But there are some. With such reasoning, he plopped into a wooden chair and switched on Anton’s rickety old computer. He typed in the password written on a note stuck to the monitor. After some deliberation Dave made a folder on the desktop, called it ‘Evil Cabal’, and began uploading into it the information had taken from his office computer. Five minutes, thirty seconds. Eighteen minutes, fifteen seconds. Seven minutes. One minute. Three minutes. How strangely time flies with old computers. He laced his fingers behind his head and indulged in the habit of chewing on his lip. All these ‘accidents’ which happened to him and to poor Andy reminded him very much of the fate of the detectives who tried their hands at the season girls case. But perhaps he thought so merely because he had learned of the season girl curse just days ago. Why kill the people who could possibly help catch the shit-strangler? Unless junior he was being protected by Daddy, but surely Daddy wasn’t the season killer? Was there some sort of connection which escaped him? Absurd combinations of factors floated in his mind. The descendant of the original killer stalking detectives? The evil cabal covering up for the shit-strangler? In the name of what? Anton did not have a printer in his home. But he did have a scanner. Dave scanned the city maps and started working with them in a ‘paint’ program. Nineteen eighty four. He marked the points in which the bodies were found. He saved the file. Nineteen eighty five. He marked the points in which the bodies were found. He saved the file. And so it went. It was monotonous, uninspiring work, but at least it filled up an hour, which otherwise would have been spent fretting. At the end of the hour he stood up, stretched his arms, and looked out of the window again. The rain was continuing, tiny short-lived circles dotted the puddles by the entrance of the building. A number of wet, open umbrellas hovered to and fro above the pavements. Pedestrians in hoodies and with jackets pulled over their heads walked briskly. One youth walked slowly and defiantly, his hair plastered with rainwater. Dave breathed for a minute, with an unfocused gaze, trying to let his mind relax, to think not of his predicament and not of the season girls, but of the patter of the falling raindrops. Then he dropped to the floor and did some push-ups. And then it was time to do something useful again. This time Dave made a copy of each file and in these copies he again connected the four dots. At the end of this exercise he had a folder filled with maps with dots and a folder filled with maps with crosses. He still felt he was getting nowhere, but at least he

felt busy doing it. After finishing with the ‘cross maps’, he wondered what possible good they could be. He decided to look at them in chronological order. He pressed ‘slideshow’. The nineteen eighty four cross appeared, superimposed over the city. The nineteen eighty five cross appeared. Then nineteen eighty six cross appeared. Then it was ninety eighty seven. Dave felt the hair on the nape of his neck stand on end. He upped the speed of the slideshow to two pictures a second. After half a minute he could no longer control himself. First his shoulders began shaking, then his stomach started contracting, finally his lips parted and a sickly sound escaped then and reverberated around the room. His was shaking with malicious laughter as he looked at the cross on the screen revolve, revolve and revolve as if it was a crude animation. Counterclockwise.

CHAPTER FORTY NINE

David opened his eyes with a start. He had dozed off on Anton’s sofa. “Hey, detective, how’s life?” boomed Anton as he entered the room. Dave rubbed his face and blinked a few times, his mouth set in a crooked grin. “Life is increasingly interesting by leap and bounds. I wish it wouldn’t keep doing that. How was it at your end?” Anton had already shrugged off his coat. He slipped into his bachelor slippers and lit a cigarette as he approached the coffee table by the window. Some of the beads of rain oozing down the windowpane glinted for a moment as his lighter flashed. He blew out a jet of smoke, sat down and tapped his cigarette through the open window. As always, the air currents brought the flakes of ash back into the room and onto his sleeve. “Same old, same old. I warned everyone that I’ll be taking a few days off again soon. It’s good to be the king!” grinned Anton. “I also heard from my old buddy Deus. He’s already broken through part of the protection of the pedo site, and about thirty customers have just been nabbed.” “Right on,” brightened up Dave and moved to the other end of the sofa, closer to the coffee table and the albino. “Yeah,” Anton winked indulgently at the weary detective, “and now he said that this evening, probably as we speak, he will fiddle more with the problem and hopefully break through the whole protection.” “Well, everything’s going well with your stuff,” commented Dave sulkily. Here was Anton, whose job description was nowhere near that of a detective, helping track down sex offenders, while he, the great detective, dozes off on sofas while shivering for his hide. “Hey, don’t worry, Dave,” said Anton giving him a ‘hey, don’t worry, Dave’ look. “We’ll figure this out. We’ll get the little bastard and his Daddy, and this will be all over.” “Thanks, man, I really appreciate this,” said Dave his part and a small silence ensued, broken only by the tapping of the raindrops. “Look what I can do,” he said, abruptly unfolding out of the sofa and striding over to the computer. Anton followed him hands in pockets, the cigarette hanging from the left corner of his mouth. He felt that Dave was on edge, but he also thought he saw the glimmer of something useful behind the detective’s near hysteric demeanor. Dave opened a file from the first folder. “See, these are the four bodies found in nineteen eighty four. And this,” he opened a file from the second folder is the four places connected.” “Oh, a cross,” said Anton, “neat. Very classical, in a way.” “A different cross every year. But see what happens when I put all the years on a high speed slideshow.” Anton watched for a few seconds, before his eyebrows started climbing towards

the ceiling. Then he turned to his friend and slapped him heartily on the shoulder. “Genius, Dave, pure genius. You’ve had this tendency to throw a curve on me with your unexpected insights since you were a kid.” Dave smiled deprecatingly. “What’s the big deal? It’s a cool trick, this spinning cross, but it doesn’t seem to get me anywhere.” “No, no,” Anton disagreed, “this, Dave, is something very significant. Something important. I can feel it. We just have to figure out what it is.” For Anton to ‘figure this out’ had always meant, circumstances permitting, ‘let’s smoke some dope’. And in this case he also took out his legal buzz, ‘to loosen up the thoughts, y’know?’ and after inhaling deeply he passed the joint to the detective. There they sat, in milky a cloud which never dissipated, due to its regular maintenance by Anton’s cigarettes, looking at the endless repetition of the cross turning over the city. As the buzz hit them, the significance of what they watched increased progressively. Of course, the significance of Dave’s socks increased as well. The rain gathered more intensity and rattled at the windowpane. Lightning flashed somewhere far away. Exactly thirteen seconds later the rolling thunder growled in the evening sky. As if reacting to a signal, Anton got up and went to the toilet. A minute later he returned with a mischievous grin. Some of his best ideas came when taking a wheedle. “You got the details of the cases where?” “Here,” answered Dave and patted the computer monitor. “What do you want to know?” “Let’s see how exactly the bodies were left in any random year.” “Okay,” said Dave and pressed ‘pause’. The cross of nineteen ninety eight was on the screen. “This year suit you?” he asked Anton. “Totally.” Dave opened the file of that year. “Okay, let’s see...” his right hand handled the mouse with professional automatism. “Spring victim Katherine Gunderman, twenty three. Body laying straight on its back, arms tucked in to the sides of her body. Naked...” “Yes, yes,” interrupted the albino, “which way was her head pointing?” “Uh, let’s see... doesn’t say.” “Damn.” “But what’s on your mind, anyway?” “Just, just look at the summer victim. Maybe someone was conscientious enough.” “Okay, here we go, Andrea Bentham, nineteen, body straight, blah-blah, ah!” Dave darted a grin at Anton, “this time the police did their jobs thoroughly. Her head was pointing to the south.” “Good, good, now we’re getting somewhere,” rubbed his hands Anton. “Where is she on the map?” “Here,” said Dave, pointing at the tip of the right-hand beam of the cross. “Let’s check out the others.” It turned out, that of the four season girls, one was pointing south, and one - east.

The positioning of the other two had not been recorded. “Now,” said Anton with a vaguely amused look of expectancy, “add little arrows at the end of the two beams of the cross.” “What? How?” “A small arrow pointing down, as in ‘south’, on the right-hand one, and a small arrow pointing to the right, as in ‘east’, on the top beam.” “Okeydoc, here you go.” They both looked. “So what does it look like to you now?” said Anton. Dave shrugged. “It looks like half a swastika, man.” “Right,” said Anton with an undertone of triumph, “exactly. Now, let’s see two more years to establish that we are correct.” They had in fact to see five more years, before gathering enough data to be certain. When the points in which the bodies were dumped were connected, a cross appeared. When the position of the bodies was represented by small arrows pointing into the relevant directions, the cross turned into a swastika. A revolving swastika. “A revolving swastika,” said Dave thoughtfully. “Actually, a swavastika.” “Come again?” “It’s a swastika when it revolves clockwise,” clarified Anton, “it’s called a ‘swavastika’, when it revolves counterclockwise.” “And what does that mean? For us, now.” “I don’t know.” Anton looked at the ceiling and then at Dave. “But you can’t deny that it feels like we are making some progress here.” “Yeah. But where to?” Instead of replying, Anton ducked into the kitchen and soon the sound of water about to boil could be heard. Then it boiled. After some clanking, clinking, splashing and slurping, Anton reappeared with two steaming cups of coffee in his hands. “Thanks,” said Dave, took his cup and blew at the dark liquid inside. “You know, I was thinking,” said Anton, “what about the points were the swavastikas intersect?” “Ah, I’ve thought of that too,” said Dave, “but it’s not one point. It keeps changing.” “Yes, it would, wouldn’t it. That swavastika isn’t stable, its spins all over the place.” Anton thought some more. He filled his cheeks with air, let it out with a funny noise, then he studied his pinky and nibbled it. “Let’s not dismiss anything,” he said finally, “show me how it moves. Mark the center of the swastikas with a big red dot, so what we can follow it’s movement clearly.” Anton smoked five more cigarettes while Dave was doing that. Then, with a glance at Anton, to show that all is ready, he pressed the slideshow button again. As the swastika spun, the red dot also danced. “See,” said Anton, “it’s not random. The center also spins in a tiny circle.” “Yes, I see that now.” Dave looked at Anton. “You’re wasting yourself at your

psycho job. Come be a detective. A man’s job. See the world. Go to exotic places. Be hunted like a rabid giraffe.” “No thank you,” smiled Anton politely. He sipped the last of his coffee. “Right, zoom in the map and let’s see again over which parts of town exactly the red spot moves.” Dave obliged and they watched the whole process again, but this time only looking at the little circle made by the revolving center of the swavastika. Anton gave a triumphant laugh. “See? See?!” he looked at Dave with a camaraderie as if they were two chemists who had finally managed to achieve a specific reaction. “The red spot actually lands on buildings in the center. Just eight buildings.” Anton brought his cup to his lips, saw in the last second that it was empty and lowered it again. Then he said: “Every eight years the cycle starts from the beginning.” Dave agreed with a silent nod. Another lightning flashed outside the smoke-filled room. This time the thunder rolled after a mere eight seconds. The storm was nearing. Suddenly the room seemed bereft of air. Dave strode over to the window and flung it wide open, breathing in the wet air with quite pleasure, letting the rain batter his face. He heard Anton move about in the room behind him and a few seconds later the sound of soft jazz mixed with the sound of hard rain. Somehow this made the heavy smell of tobacco seem quite natural.

CHAPTER FIFTY

Another day. More rain. Two o’clock. Dave tried to while away the time with the TV, but it seemed even more depressing than usual. At this time of the day all there was to see on almost two hundred channels was about forty soap operas, sometimes even the same ones but different episodes, almost as many reality shows concerning ordinary people becoming celebrities and celebrities rubbing shoulders with ordinary people, commercials, and the occasional cheap old movie like ‘Avatar’ or ‘Pearl Harbor’. He looked through the dozen paperbacks scattered around and below Anton’s sofa. He tried reading a book by some V. Sorokin, but gave up two hours later, around the middle of the story. He simply couldn’t focus on anything outside the situation he was in and its numerous loose ends. Dave went to the kitchen, made himself a cup of coffee and took his place in front of the computer. He watched the swastikas, or rather, the ‘swavastikas’, revolve for twenty minutes and then there was a sound of someone trying to open the front door. Dave shot out of his chair immediately and ran to his coat. He whipped out his Walther and dropped to one knee by the threshold of the corridor, covering the door with the gun’s muzzle. He steadied his gun arm with his left one. The lock clicked. The door swung open. Dave let out a sigh of relief. “Get dressed, cowboy,” said Anton excitedly, “we’re going in for the kill!” “What, what do you mean?” asked Dave sheepishly as he put the gun back into his coat. “We cracked the code! Well, good old Deus did,” Anton danced in agitation, even acting out part of his words, his fingers fluttered in the air when he said ‘cracked the code’. Dave nodded, although he still wasn’t quite sure what they were talking about, but he was immediately infected by the albino’s enthusiasm. “We know exactly to the building where the videos of the kiddie porn are being uploaded from,” continued Anton quickly. “Special forces from ‘Ivanoff and Goldman’ are already monitoring the situation there, neighbors have been subtly questioned. There’s definitely someone living there. And various expensive vehicles do stop there at night.” “Great, congratulations!” Dave was sincerely, “but what has that got to do with me?” “Ah,” Anton raised a finger, his forehead creased by manic glee, “the apartment itself is rented as brainstorm office space by Quasar Services...” Anton jammed a hand into his raincoat’s pocket and took out a crumpled piece of paper. He smoothed it out, eyes running over whatever was written on it. “Right, Quasar Services, which is a subsidiary of Arctic Winds Inc., which in turn is jointly owned by two firms, one of which is ‘Import Export Investment Services’, and is ran by who?” “Who?” “By old Eysenck!”

“No way!” “Yes way! Let’s go!” *** Anton’s Moskva Opel reached the target neighborhood in under half an hour. Luckily the streets were not so clogged at this time of the day. It was an upmarket neighborhood, with sprawling two, three and four story houses with well maintained front gardens, and no doubt back gardens too. In front of one of the houses three white vans were parked. All three had the logo of a furniture transportation firm. Dave’s attention was immediately attracted by the vans. He glanced at Anton; the albino was also looking at them. “These our people?” asked Dave. “Yeah, one mobile crime-lab and two special forces vans.” “And the police proper?” “They are two minutes away, they’ll be here once the signal is given.” “When does it begin?” Anton looked at his phone. “In two minutes.” Immediately two of the vans moved over to another house and about a dozen of people in body armor piled out. Anton scowled at his phone: “Dammit, bitch is running slow again...” Dave watched the action. The Ivanoff and Goldman people were efficient. Five of them ran for the front door and two of them ran for the windows. The front door of the house went down with a muffled explosion, which produced a small cloud of smoke. At the very same moment the two men near the windows broke the glasses with their guns and disappeared into the innards of the house. Anton lighted a cigarette. Dave watched transfixed as nothing happened for one minute, for two minutes. The wisps of smoke around the gaping doorway had dissipated. Two old ladies walking by stopped and ogled the remaining four armored figures in front of the house. Then three police cars appeared with sirens wailing. The officers jumped out and began erecting a crime scene barrier around the house. “They must have been given the signal,” said Anton, “time to go see how things are.” Dave flashed his city detective card at the police officers, Anton showed them his N.M.H. ID and they went into the house. One of the special forces officers was just coming out, a trifle unsteadily, his black boots looking very out of place on the yellowish parquet. “What’s the situation?” asked Anton with a surprisingly firm and commanding voice. “Hell on Earth,” replied the trooper hoarsely and continued on his way. “Where?” asked Anton. “Second floor,” said the man and then, after going down the steps, he finally let go and quietly vomited into a batch of flowers in the front garden. Dave and Anton walked up stairs covered by a worn and dusty dark green carpet.

Another trooper going down passed them without meeting their eyes. Only one of the doors was open on the second floor. Male voices could be heard coming from there. The two friends braced themselves and entered. The walls of the room had rainbows, ponies, teddy bears and flowers painted on it. A large splotch of blood and brain matter could be seen on the upper part of a painted teddy bear. But it wasn’t the teddy bear’s head that had exploded. It was the head of a grown man, who was lying on the floor, legs in striped stockings and disproportionate clown shoes, entangled in a wooden chair, a shotgun lying on the floor by his side. There were tufts of rainbow wig mixed with the sickening mess that had previously been a human head. Dave counted a total of eight little bodies in the room. He pointed an unsteady hand at one of the small corpses. “How?” he asked a nearby commando. The man looked at him, his eyes glinting with a touch of madness through the eyeholes of his black mask. “Don’t know yet. Docs will say. Looks like he either poisoned them or gave them some sort of overdose. Then he blows his face off.” The commando looked at the nearest small body. “Bastard should’ve killed himself first.”

CHAPTER FIFTY ONE

Natalie walked into Eberstark’s office. She was now quite used to this shabby lair. It had little of the good taste with which old ‘Blonksi had furnished his lair though. Here were the obligatory cliche framed diplomas, most of them of various ‘master courses’, photographs of Eberstark shaking hands with important and important-looking people, a small statue representing the party’s logo perched on his desk, a five inch metallic pentagram near the eagle... “Natalie!” said Eberstark throwing up his hands to indicate the high levels of joy he was experiencing. His white shirt rippled with the movement and since one of the buttons was not buttoned, Natalie caught a glimpse of a hairy belly, before the green tie fell into place and hid the lack of T-shirt, A-shirt, I-shirt, anything, which would conceal the flabby skin. “Natalie,” he repeated, “I saw the report you had prepared for me. ‘Blonski was right, you are working miracles!” He winked at Natalie, including half of his face in the process. Natalie smiled a polite smile and sat at the chair in front of Eberstark’s desk. The synthetic upholstery squeaked as she found the best position for her buttocks. “Things are not at all rosy, Mr. Eberstark,” she said. “But they are definitely looking up,” insisted her new boss, “you have written here,” his finger tapped some papers on his desk, “that seventy percent of those asked already know who the National Patriots are and that sixteen percent of undecided voters plan to vote either for us, or for another right-wing party.” “Yes, and even four percent of left-wing sympathizers are in the same dilemma,” agreed Natalie, “but there are still only three percent who say that they are committed to voting for us in the elections.” “Three percent is not negligible,” winked Eberstark again and smoothed out his hair with a pudgy beringed hand, “if only half the eligible voters vote, as projections are, then our three percent turn into six percent, right?” Natalie suppressed the desire to roll her eyes. For some reason every politician applied this logic only to his party and not to the competition. She changed the direction of the conversation. “The interview went very well, Mr. Eberstark.” “Ah, yes, it did, didn’t it?” beamed the leader of the National Patriots. Natalie could see, that in spite of the data from the brain scans shaping his clothes and haircut, gesticulations and tone of voice, in spite of having his answers for the interview prepared beforehand by Natalie and her team, in spite, in short, of standing in front of the cameras looking, dressing and talking according to a specific program designed by other people, Eberstark was basking in the knowledge of his personal glory. Of course, that’s how it always went. A victory is the victory of the politician. A loss is due to the mistake of someone else down the line. Little moron, thought Natalie, this was a neutral TV host who asked you mainly what we begged her to ask you. Unprepared and in front of a hostile interviewer you would be crying for your mummy in two minutes flat.

She opened her notebook with determination and waved her pen at the leader of the National Patriots. “Slightly more than a month is left before the elections Mr. Eberstark.” Eberstark nodded at this undeniable truth. “You have something in mind, Natalie?” “Yes sir, a few things. For one, I think it’s time we deny some rumors about the party.” “How do you mean?” her client leaned forward with practiced attentiveness. “Well, there is always a periphery of radicalized voters out there. They want crazy things, like legalizing smoking on the streets, or the deportation of all minorities, or bringing back punishment against homosexuality, you get the idea.” Eberstark nodded with a solemn face to show that he got the idea. Natalie already knew that this solemn nodding face was a mask behind which Eberstark hid. When he did that, it was difficult to know what he really understood and thought. She plodded on. “Obviously, we can’t risk alienating the majority of the voters by subscribing to the agendas of the loony fringe, but we can spread some unprovable gossip about ourselves,” she realized that she was underlining her words with gesticulations just like her Dad, and that didn’t make her feel bad in the least, “stuff like that we are for example going to send all transvestites to labor camps.” Eberstark looked at her. “You are suggesting we spread rumors that the National Patriots have a hidden agenda to send all cross-dressers to build roads?” “Yes sir.” “To what end?” “So that we can then deny it, sir. We will deny it successfully, since this really is not our agenda, but we will get the attention of the anti-transvestite loony fringe, and perhaps their sympathies as well. Or the sympathies of their enemies.” Natalie looked at Eberstark and drew a doodle in her notebook while he thought. She could practically hear his mind struggled to understand what she was saying. I should have prepared this in power point, Natalie told herself. But then the complicated mental alchemy inside the leader’s skull reached the point of turning the lead of confusing information into the gold of concepts that he could understand. He smiled broadly and rewarded Natalie with yet another knowing wink. “Natalie, with someone like you on our side, we can’t lose.” Natalie shrugged with a tight-lipped smile. A compliment like this meant only one thing. “If we lose - it’s all your fault.”

CHAPTER FIFTY TWO

Anton and Dave sat inside the cafeteria of the precinct with half a dozen empty plastic coffee cups lined up on their grubby plastic table. Every fifteen minutes or so Anton popped outside for his nicotine hit and at those moments it was up to Dave to try to handle the residue of the scene at the pedophile house with his own resources. He was absentmindedly picking at the hardened remains of spilled drinks, when Anton reappeared. This time he was not alone. “Remember Sam?” he asked and the plump melancholy man nodded his mustache at Dave and sank into a chair at their table. This was Sam who had told him about Andy’s death. Dave returned the nod and looked away. “So what are the developments?” asked Anton. Sam looked around and answered in a low voice. “Well, the body is Joshua Eysenck all right, total DNA match. Kids have been done by Kriosis overdose. Daddy is asking us to keep it under wraps. Joshua is dead, kids are without families, case closed. He’ll fork out for the next year budget and will try to pass a bill to rebuild some of the outsourced parts of the force.” “And?” “And it looks like this is what we’ll do. The chief ain’t happy, but I think she’s gonna swallow it.” “And Dave? And Andy?” “Denies everything, will provide for Andy’s widow. As far as we know everything’s over.” “Okay, thanks a lot, buddy, I needed that info.” Anton squeezed Sam’s shoulder and gave him an earnest male bonding expression. “Hey, I owe you, Tony.” As Sam got up and moved to another table, Anton and Dave looked at each other. “Let’s go have real lunch somewhere,” said Anton and broke into a grin. “I’m all for it,” replied Dave. Suddenly his stomach seemed to be in much better spirits. For the first time in forever he actually wanted to eat something tasty. *** After a five minute drive in Anton’s car, they sat in the closest representative of the LUGO pizzeria chain. Anton quickly sucked up two cigarettes one after the other before going in, and now sat contently without having the smoker’s jitters. Their pizzas were brought by a pale girl, whose uniform shorts showed splendid, plump, milky thighs. Dave noticed that he noticed her thighs. He must be getting back to normal after all the crazy shit. He wondered whether her breasts were also plump and milky. He hoped so. Maybe they even had the tiny blue veins... “So, looks like it’s all over,” said Anton. “Yeah,” agreed the detective with relief lighting up his eyes, “all over. Hey,

thanks a lot, man. You saved my bacon!” “It was no hustle, Dave. I love you. It’s cool. I’m glad we nailed the fucker.” “Well, he nailed himself, but yeah... but the kids man... the kids...” Again the images flooded into Dave’s mind. He blinked and tried to rid himself of them. A somber expression also flickered for a moment on Anton’s face. “I know,” said the albino, “the stuff of nightmares. At least the bastard’s dead now.” “Yeah. Yeah, at least he’s dead.” Dave tried to concentrate on that and immediately felt himself brightening up again. The calming rumble of scores of voices intertwining with the softly beating music, the clutter of cutlery, the smell of greasy food, the sight of their hot pizzas, these elongated strands of melted cheese tapering away forever before breaking off, all that helped the two friends, especially Dave, to begin pulling themselves back into the normal everyday reality. Of course, the cynical albino wouldn’t have been himself, if he didn’t ruin it with an untimely remark. “But in a way, if I understand your intentions correctly,” said Anton, “you are now out of the frying pan and into the fire, right?” Dave stopped chewing. “And just what do you mean by that worrying sentence?” Anton gesticulated with half a slice with a piece of pineapple on it as he elaborated. “I mean now you plan to follow through with the season girl investigation, which is also supposed to be dangerous for one’s health.” Damn that man. Dave had just begun to allow himself to chill out. He took a drink from his beer and suppressed a belch. “Yeah, you’re right. But you know, while we are on this subject, the things which happened to Andy and almost happened to me, they sound just like the things which happened to all those detectives who were investigating the season girls.” Anton frowned in agreement. “I was thinking along the same lines. Do you think they may have been done by the same players?” “I don’t know,” said Dave, “but the signature seems if not the same, then very similar.” Anton puffed his cheeks. Then he reaching into his pocket, remembered that he can’t light up and pulled his hand back out with a hint of unhappiness. “All right, then we have two basic possibilities. Either the force behind the season girl curse and the Eysenck incident is the same, or it isn’t. I suggest we use the principle of Occam’s razor. The explanation requiring the least number of elements is normally closer to the truth. “Both phenomena have happened in the same city and both as cover-ups of people connected to sex crimes. To serial killer sex crimes in fact. Therefore it is logical, that there is a relation between the season girl curse and the aforementioned Eysenck incident.” “Well, that’s probably academically sound,” said Dave, trying for some reason to match Anton’s bursts of teacher-speak, “but the season girl thing has been going on for decades, while the person responsible for the Eysenck incident is Eysenck.” “Not only one Eysenck, two Eysencks,” said Anton. “And where there’s two, there may be a dozen.”

“That’s a bit cryptic.” “Let’s count them then,” said Anton, and began counting on his fingers. “There’s Eysenck junior, the killer. There’s Eysenck senior, the cover-upper. Eysenck senior has used the services of parties unknown to get Andy and to try to get to you. I doubt he used one person. So therefore there is a group X, which was used by him. That’s Eysenck senior. “Eysenck junior, he had customers for his child porn, right? So he is also in a web of relations with a group Y and since he cannot have operated alone, least of all he needed children providers and the like, there is also a group Z, somewhere in the equation. So when we think about it, the players in the Eysenck incident are not only the Eysencks themselves. There are at least three more groups involved.” “Or maybe four,” said Dave, catching on to the logic of tracing hypothetical webs of connections. “What is the fourth?” “You told me yourself, that the house was bought by some branch or other of a Eysenck enterprise.” “Right, exactly, good point. So there is a chunk of the Eysenck senior empire, which was used by Eysenck junior. This is group N and this is where the paths of the two Eysencks intersect directly.” The clamor of customers and cutlery, and the smell of fried greasy stuff were soothing medicine for Dave no longer. It was all now demoted to mere background debris. He felt acutely that together with Anton they were feeling their way towards something highly unpleasant. He finished his beer. “So... you think Eysenck senior didn’t know what Eysenck junior was using the house for?” “Sounds unlikely, now that you mention it,” said Anton in his typical aloof manner. Dave remembered the tufts of colored wig stuck in the remains of Joshua’s head. “But in the end, Daddy Eysenck must have been against the whole thing.” “What makes you say that?” “He left junior to blow his head off.” Dave looked into Anton’s eyes, “Perhaps he even helped him somehow.” “Could be, could be. To save the family name or something.” Anton got up. “Look I’m going for a smoke, I can’t think like this. I’ll be back in a minute.” “Okay, man.” As Anton left, Dave gestured to the waitress and ordered another beer. Then he looked around. People were enjoying themselves, jovial families with gyrating chattering children, young couples and also mature but downmarket couples looking into each other’s eyes over spaghetti, lasagna, and salads, the odd single gentleman or lady eyeing the other customers, or lost deep in n-pad. Dave looked at the tablecloth in front of him, which he had already covered with crumbs, flakes of cheese and drops of beer. He sensed the defeatist slope of his shoulders and squared them, rigidifying his

arm and chest muscles as well. “I can do it, I can do it,” he said quietly to himself through his teeth, “I can handle this shit, I’ll show them all.” “You look like you’ve swallowed a cane,” said Anton conversationally, as he slid back into his chair, “and what are you muttering?” Dave let out some of the air he had inhaled and deflated a little. “I was muttering ‘I can do it’, and ‘I’ll show them all’.” “Ah, quite right,” agreed Anton, “you can do it, and you will show them all. Now,” he continued, visibly refreshed after his nicotine hit, “I remember that the three explanations you could come up with to account for the season girls, was either each generation having a killer who chooses his direct successor, or an old doddering policeman maniac, or, as you called it, ‘an evil cabal’.” “Yeah?” Dave picked up a few crumbs and put them into his plate. “Well, since we also have the shit-strangler curse, I would say that the evil cabal sounds increasingly probable.” “Yeah”? Dave picked up a cheese particle and chewed on it. “Yeah. When there are groups involved, you have some sort of organization. And an organized group can be short lived, or it can be long lived. If it’s long lived, it can operate for decades. Centuries even. Therefore,” Anton halted for a second, as if trying to organize internally what he was trying to say, “therefore, it is far from impossible, that the Eysencks, or to be more precise, a group, or a cluster of groups, of which one or more Eysencks are part, are the power behind the season girl curse and the Eysenck incident.” With that, Anton leaned back with the air of Descartes who had just proven decisively that he exists. Dave stopped collecting crumbs, and instead began smoothing out the tablecloth neurotically. The waitress appeared and gave Dave his next beer. As she left, Dave met Anton’s gaze. “That sounds like a philosophical proof by some ancient Greek. But unfortunately, I understand what you’re saying. Eysenck junior is dead, but a larger group of killing bastards, of which his Daddy is probably a part, is still out of there.” “This is what logic points to.” Dave saw a kid on a nearby table entertain his friends with the immortal joke of putting fries up his nose. This struck Dave as outrageously indecent behavior, and he himself was perplexed at his instinctive reaction, until he suddenly remembered the sex shop. Seemingly a lifetime away, when he was on a childish case like the toy-basher. And the fries up the kid’s nose had actually triggered memories of the skull dominator, and to be more precise, the ridiculous thin soft tentacles, which were supposed to be nasal dildos. “What?” asked Anton expectantly. He had seen Dave’s expression change into a sheepish one, and wanted his share of the fun. Dave obliged. “Well, remember that sex shop I was in, to buy a sex toy as bait..?” “Yes, of course,” answered Anton, “I remember they were being phased out, and replaced by gene-vat tits and whatnot.” Dave hand opened without warning and his glass of beer hurtled downwards by the table’s edge. He made no effort to catch it and did not even appear to notice what had

happened. The glass exploded on the floor. Dave looked at it slowly, then looked up at Anton with an odd expression. “Hey? Yo! What’s the matter, Dave?” asked a worried Anton. “I just thought,” the detective said in a level voice, “that in a world where there are gene-vat tits for squeezing and gene-vat asses for fucking,” his mouth twitched, “there certainly must be gene-vat Eysenck bodies for suicide scenes.” Anton stared at him. Then, without taking his eyes off Dave, he summarized. “Shiiiiiiiiiit.”

CHAPTER FIFTY TWO

The Chief of police, Mrs. Zapatas, was an impressive woman of fifty. Although five feet one, seated behind her desk she was the archetypal boss. Her body was covered by just the correct layer of fat to make her into a seductive plump MILF. The layer of fat in turn was covered by just the correct layer of tweed, which in combination with her silvery spectacles, made her into a plump but stern MILF that can dish out discipline and affection with equal success. Her loose fleshy neck hinted at endless Pelicannic possibilities, which most likely drove mad some of her more impressionable subordinates. She thought of herself as of a reasonable woman. When she was angry, she shouted. When she was on the edge of being angry, she just broke up every sentence by meaningful pauses. Like she did now: “So, Mr. Martorino, Mr. Cohran... you are telling me... that you think... that Joshua Eysenck... was a clone?” Anton and Dave nodded with straight faces. She showed them with a stern thin smile. “But there are no clones of adults... gentlemen... impossible to do... I wish I could clone myself... to deal with suggestions such as yours... and manage to get something useful done.” “Now, chief, Mrs. Zapatas,” Anton coughed in a refined manner and continued, “adult clones can be made. Have been made. It’s just that their brains don’t work, and they can’t walk. They are useless. But! This is more than enough to make a suicide scene. And, also, we think, this is why Joshua, or his clone rather, didn’t put the shotgun into his mouth, but his face was blown off from close range.” “Why?” “Whoever did that, had to make sure that absolutely nothing remained of the mouth, so that dental records are not consulted and only a DNA test is made.” For the first time the chief looked as if she was understanding what was being said. We’re getting through to her, thought Dave and held his breath. Then he decided to add his own two cents. “And these days, there are gene-vat grown breasts and... bottoms in the sex shops. It’s the new thing.” Zapatas shot him a skeptical glance. Dave hurried to make his point. “If the sex industry has the technology to clone bits of porn actresses, then certainly an important politician, who is the head of a successful business, can clone his son’s body.” The police chief placed her hands on her desk palms down and tapped thoughtfully with her manicured fingers for a few seconds. She looked at Anton, then at Dave, then at Anton again. “So you are in fact saying, gentlemen, that senator Eysenck did a cover up, and the real Joshua Eysenck is safe and sound under his wing. This is very farfetched.” She looked at them above her spectacles. Obviously it was a type of stern look she had practiced for years, a look which helped turn six foot beefy officers into cowering dogs. Anton and Dave looked back at her with uneasy expressions. She sighed and her features softened. “But I can’t ignore this possibility, can I?”

Her right hand caressed her left hand for a second, before retreating below her desk. “We have already given the body to the Eysencks. I’ll make a request to examine it again.” “If they haven’t cremated it yet,” said Anton. “Well, let’s hope they haven’t, because your theory hinges on what we will or will not find, when we examine the body again. Good day gentlemen.” Anton and Dave stood up, nodded politely and left the chief’s office. They went outside, into the autumn afternoon. Some clouds had appeared, elongated enormous hunks of what looked like rugged dark matter, slowly moving between the rooftops and the sky. Anton defied the law once again. He lit a cigarette, inhaled and blew the smoke out of the corner of his mouth. He met Dave’s eye. Dave realized that it was up to him to put into words the big question. “So, Anton, you think she’ll do it?” “I don’t know. Might jump either way. But she’ll loose Eysenck’s funding if she does do it.” Dave flinched as something wet hit his scalp. He looked up and another one hit his forehead. Raindrops.

CHAPTER FIFTY THREE

It was decided that Dave spend another night on Anton’s couch. Things still seemed too vague for comfort and Anton didn’t mind the company. The evening rain was short lived, but even after it was gone a fresh damp quality stayed with the city air. Dave left the window in the living room ajar as was his habit, before slowly and quietly falling asleep. The detective woke up suddenly, but very alertly, even before his brain kicked in. Something made him lie completely still in an attempt to hide from the world that he had woken up. He opened his eyes a fraction. A part of a human figure could be seen within his visual range. It was too dark to make out details, but the lights in the corridor were on and it was obvious in a split second that the figure was not Anton. This was no albino. This was an Afro. There was a sweet smell in the room. Dave knew this smell. Chloroform. The second for reconnaissance had passed. The Afro was quietly shuffling closer. Dave fell out of the sofa and onto the carpet with a muffled thud. Using his hand and elbow for leverage he kicked at where he calculated the intruder’s legs to be. His feet connected with a satisfying crunch. At least one of the man’s knees gave away and he buckled with a surprised cry. Dave was already on his feet and after delivering a swift silencing punch to the larynx he leapt towards his clothes. He whipped out his Walther, spun around and saw another black man outlined at the doorway, shotgun in hand. Dave sank to one knee in a disciplined fluid motion of astonishing speed and shot the properly astonished man in the chest. Twice. The echo of the two accurate shots was still reverberating when Dave collided with the shot man, and dragging him in front of himself like a shield, he strode over to Anton’s bedroom. He entered, gun in right hand, limp corpse held by the scruff in left hand. A third black man was inside. He was standing with a saw in his hand, right above Anton. “I be killing him, mon. Donchu move. Donchu shoot, I kill him good.” Dave appraised the situation, let go of the corpse and quickly shot the third man in the forehead. As the intruder’s brains flew out from the back of his skull and he lurched backwards, the saw fell on Anton. But without the additional force of a thrust, it would give him a bruise on his ribcage at the most. Dave rushed to the sleeping albino, pushing the dead Afro away to the floor. “Wake up, Tony! Wake up!” he shouted and slapped Anton’s face twice. It was no use, he had already been drugged with chloroform. But they couldn’t remain in his house, it was obviously compromised. Dave fumbled through Anton’s clothes for one whole minute, before seeing the car keys fall out of the jeans. He grabbed them and pulled Anton out of bed, and onto the

floor. The albino stirred but didn’t even mumble. Dave pulled the nearest pants on Anton’s legs, then a pullover on his torso and stuffed some socks into the pockets of the pants. Then he dressed himself. Four and a half minutes had passed since he had killed the last intruder. Dave pocketed his precious memory stick, the city maps, Anton’s phone, and whatever money he could find scattered in Anton’s bedroom. He walked out of Anton’s apartment, balancing his friend in a fireman’s lift, and kicked the door shut behind him. It was almost five in the morning. The staircase corridor was quiet. Everyone was minding their own business. Perhaps someone had called the police but there was still no sign of them. In another two minutes Dave had gone down the four floors between Anton’s apartment and his car. He breathed in short disciplined bursts and kept scanning his environment with the gun in his left hand. No one came at them. But the car... could it have been tampered with? He weighed the odds. If Anton had been assigned to tribal medicine, it would be likely that his car was left alone. Perhaps even promised as part of the reward to the dead scavengers. The detective walked briskly over to Anton’s Opel and propped the albino on the trunk. He unlocked the car and it didn’t blow up. He bundled Anton into the back seat, sat behind the wheel and turned the ignition. The car again didn’t blow up. Instead it hummed to life. One bit of luck, Anton’s car was an oldsmobile without a voice recognition program. Dave looked around one last time. All was quiet. The car roared off into the creeping morning.

CHAPTER FIFTY FOUR

When Anton came to, the blurred sun was already high up. His mouth opened and closed with a smacking sound once, twice, and he rolled over to his back. “The bears...silly...” he said and opened his eyes. It took him some time to orient himself in his surroundings. They were in the western city park. On its very edge in fact, ten yards away cars were whizzing by and his own car was parked on the pavement in a manner bordering on the illegal. Dave was sitting cross-legged on the damp grass and Anton was lying on it. Dave was with a stern, no, with a tense expression. There was only one more group of picnic extremists nearby, a family with a boy and a girl about fifty yards away. The remaining park population consisted of clusters of seniors on a third of the benches and about half a dozen people walking their dogs. A fine mist of light drizzle quivered in the air. The albino looked at Dave with puffy eyes. “Why are we here, and what did we drink last night?” “You were drugged with chloroform, man.” “What?” Anton blinked and rubbed his face. “Of course, chloroform. That would explain it. I had the most vivid dreams. But who?” Dave shrugged. “I don’t know. A bunch of blacks came into your house. I had to kill them. They drugged you. One of them was with a hand saw.” “What? What?” Anton got up shakily. “And why am I barefoot in my shoes?” “I had to dress you fast, man. The socks are in your pants.” Anton sat down again and felt in his pockets, still with an expression of slight incredulity on his white face. He fished his socks out and started putting them on. “Must have been damn Afros, trying to make some damn Afro medicine out of me.” He looked at Dave. “Thanks, man, I mean really, you saved me from a horrible fate.” “My pleasure. The least that I could do. I suppose Eysenck or that evil cluster you were talking about sicked them on us.” “Yeah. Got a cigarette?” “No, I’ll see in the car.” Dave got up, went to the open door of the car and looked in the glove compartment. There was a crumpled pack there with some cigarettes inside. “Here!” he threw the pack to Anton. Anton caught it gratefully, but then realized that he still had to walk over to the car to use the lighter. He made that effort. As he inhaled the smoke, his mental faculties snapped back to attention. The remains of drowsiness evaporated from his face. “So,” he said, looking at his friend, “the plot thickens. The Eysenck curse almost caught up with us.” “Yeah, we can’t go back to your place now. And we can’t use your credit cards or phone or anything. That’ll give us away.” Anton thought for a few more drags, “Have we got my phone?” “Here,” Dave fished it out of his coat and offered it to Anton, “but it’s switched

off. Maybe they can trace us by it. I suggest you write down the numbers you think you’ll need right now, and we’ll throw it away.” Anton scribbled three numbers on a piece of paper Dave had sacrificed from his notebook, and pocketed it. Then he crushed his phone with his heel. “We have to go to Natalie. They may have set their sights on her as well.” Dave exploded with sudden worry. “Of course, Natalie! Do you know where we can find her?” “Yes, she should be at work in the National Patriot’s HQ in the center. I’ll drive.” Anton gave one last lusty suck to the cigarette and mashed it underfoot. A minute later the oldsmobile entered the early morning traffic. Anton navigated silently, his hands and feet working with precise short movements, as the anonymous city, no longer simply uncaring but threatening, swam by behind the car windows. Dave could see that Anton was now awake, alert and surprisingly calm. He himself, on the other hand, felt completely on edge, and now that the prospect of something happening to Natalie had been introduced to his mind, he was almost over the edge. The very second Anton parked the car in front of the National Patriot office, Dave shot out of it bristling with impatience. The spotty young man at the entrance nodded at Anton. Perhaps he had seen him pick up Natalie a few days before. “Hi,” said Anton, trying to not shout, “is Natalie here? Natalie Martorino. This is detective Cohran, we have to see her immediately.” “Of course,” said the youth, glancing briefly at the ID Dave brandished and disappeared down the corridor. Two monstrously long minutes later Natalie appeared. Dave looked at her in some surprise. Even in this situation he noticed that she looked like a different woman in some subtle way. She strode with a confident and balanced gait, and her eyes looked somehow more open, as in ‘not maintaining a defensive wall’. “You look fantastic,” he uttered without thinking. Anton glanced at him with a frown and then grinned. Natalie looked them over with a controlled smile. “Hi, Dave, Dad, what’s the matter?” Anton looked around. “Do you have a place where we can talk?” “Okay, we’ll find a place.” She led them through the left corridor. A mahogany door opened and a plump political-looking man appeared. “Ah, Natalie,” he said and looked with quizzical politeness at Anton and Dave. “Mr. Eberstark, this is Anton, my… stepfather, and detective Cohran. Dave, Anton, this is Mr. Eberstark, chairman of the National Patriot party.” The three men nodded at each other and exchanged brisk handshakes. Eberstark winked at Anton. “An honor to work with your daughter Mr., er...” “Martorino.” “Martorino, of course, of course. Erm... Natalie is a brilliant campaign strategist.” Anton nodded to acknowledge the compliment. Eberstark continued being cordial: “Can I be of assistance in any way?” “Thank you, no, Mr. Eberstark,” said Natalie quickly, “we’re just looking for a

place to discuss something. Privately.” “Ah, I completely understand,” beamed understandingly Eberstark, “why don’t you use my office, go ahead, I’ll be out for an hour at least.” “We couldn’t possibly,” began Natalie, but Eberstark was already ushering them in. “I’ll tell Pete to bring you some coffees,” he said and disappeared. “You boss is too kind,” smirked Dave. “He’s all right,” said Natalie. A young man, in a light blue suit and an expression of solemn sophistication, brought in a tray with three tiny cups of strongly smelling coffee and three glasses of water. After he closed the door softly behind him, Natalie looked at the two men. “Well? What’s going on? Why do you two look like you’ve spent the night in a dumpster?” Anton took his cue. “Natalie, we believe that you may be in danger.” “What kind of danger?” “Dave is working on the case of the serial killer who also killed Jane.” Natalie flinched and nodded. “And he also works on another case, concerning girls who are killed each season. You haven’t heard of this, it’s all under the carpet, but a girl has been killed every season in this city at least since the nineteen seventies.” “What?” Natalie turned her disbelieving gaze to Dave, “and this is still continuing?” “I’m afraid so,” picked up the thread Dave, “and the thing is, that whoever has ever tried to work on this case, has met with a nasty accident. Heart attacks, burglaries going fatally wrong, traffic accidents.” “Yes, I see,” said Natalie quietly. Anton felt proudly that she had tensed and gone deadly serious, but her breathing pattern remained almost uninterrupted. A healthy young deer. Dave continued: “And apparently the same thing happens to people who deal with the killer who killed Jane and the other women.” “What, are they the same killers?” “No, we don’t know who kills the season girls, but we know who killed these three women, it’s Joshua Eysenck, son of Roderik Eysenck.” “The senator?!” Natalie touched her neck nervously. “Yeah. To cut a long story short - while I was working on the case, my apartment caught on fire, my credit card was blocked and my friend Andy Fortham, who was working with me, a healthy fellow I assure you, was found dead in the precinct toilet, apparently from a heart attack. I went to Anton who took me in and hid me from whoever was out to get me. “Then, through a third case concerning a pedophile network, things suddenly clicked. A house in which child porn was being made had been purchased by a subsidiary of Eysenck senior, and was ran by Eysenck junior. “Apparently killing was just his hobby, but his work was making child porn. And probably renting the kids out. When the house was stormed, he was found already dead, blown his head off with a shotgun. Kids dead too I’m afraid.” Natalie suddenly fumbled in her pockets. Anton read the gesture correctly and offered her a cigarette and a light. Then he lit up as well, opened Eberstark’s window and

placed the small china plate from under his coffee in the center of the table, to act as an ashtray. Natalie took a long draw from her cigarette and as she parted her lips to let out the white smoke, she nodded to Dave to continue. Dave continued. “So, we thought, case closed: killer is dead, his Dad begging for no publicity, ready to placate the police with serious cash influx, all that, and then we figured out, that this was all too easy. “That just like sex toy factories grow gene-vat tits and asses, Eysenck senior had just grown a copy of his son, and had its head blown off so that no one looks at dental records, but only the DNA is matched. We go to the chief of police to tell her that...” “Zapatas?” “Yeah, so we tell her that and the very same night a bunch of Afros invade Anton’s home. Where I was still sleeping too by the way. They tried to put us to sleep with chloroform and cut Anton up for tribal medicine. I shot them.” “Thank you, Dave,” said Natalie. “Don’t mention it. Anyway, to sum it all up,” Dave tried to speak as soberly as possible, “Andy’s dead, my house was torched, there was an attack on Anton and perhaps they will soon go after you.” Natalie sucked at her cigarette again and thought things over. Dave drank his glass of water in one go and finished off his coffee. Anton sipped his own coffee in little doses without visible emotion. “What do you think we should do?” asked Natalie presently. Dave and Anton looked at each other. There weren’t really many options. “There aren’t really many options,” said Dave. “We have to leave this town and lie low somewhere...” “For instance in the ‘Ortega’,” said Anton. “Yeah, whatever, and make a plan. But we have to be in a safe place, the three of us. Otherwise they’ll pick us off one by one.” “Yes,” said Anton, “sorry dearest daughter, but we have mixed you up in something dangerous and not entirely figured out, and now you have to drop everything and run with us.” Natalie quietly stubbed her cigarette out on the makeshift ashtray. Then the door of the office opened. Mr. Eberstark strode in. “Hi,” he said, and sat down. “Let me get to the point. As you can imagine, my office is bugged. By me. One has to be careful in this line of work.” Everyone looked at him with mute surprise. Eberstark flicked a speck from his trousers and gave his tie a brief fondle. “I heard everything you said. Naturally, a detective meeting my head of propaganda team, I had to know what was cooking.” He leaned forward, looking at them with an expression of earnest confidence, which he had learned in the last days with much coaching from Natalie. “In this line of business one has to be very careful, but one also must know when to take chances. I think I will take a chance with you. If you can bring down Roderik, his whole party will be rocked by the scandal. “We are almost a month away from elections and I could use a boost like that. As Natalie has told me, a significant percent of undecided right wing voters are now trying to

decide between my party and Roderik’s party. If you succeed, I get these voters and maybe many more.” A few silent seconds passed in the clouded office. Anton found his voice first. “Thank you Mr. Eberstark, we will do our best, as you say, to ‘bring down’ senator Eysenck and anyone else connected to the whole thing.” Eberstark stood up. “All right then. I’ll tell Denis to drive you two to the safe house.” “Safe house?” asked Dave. “Well, of course,” winked Eberstark, “ I maintain it just in case. You know. Politics sometimes is a cutthroat game. You never know when you might need a place to hole up.” “Indeed. A wise precaution,” agreed Anton. “And at the end of the working day, Natalie will also join you there.” Natalie also stood up and took Eberstark’s hand. The shallow fool now had suddenly turned into a savior. “Thank you, thank you very much Mr. Eberstark,” she said with feeling, “you will not regret helping us.” Eberstark smiled deprecatingly. “Let’s just call this an investment from my side.” “And you are certain that Natalie will be safe here?” asked Dave. “Completely,” answered Eberstark, “completely. Since I try to be safe from, um, accidents, Natalie will also be safe with me. When you come up with something - tell me. Perhaps I can use my connections to help things happen.” *** Twenty minutes later the black Mercedes, at the back seat of which sat Anton and Dave, had already reached the other side of the city center. Dave tried to take a quick nap, but just sat there with his eyes closed. Anton looked at the people, cars and buildings flashing by. He knew that when they get to the safe house they will have to concentrate on the case. So for now, he allowed himself to concentrate on the quiet fatherly joy of having such a splendid daughter. The driver’s phone rang. He answered without taking his hands off the wheel. “Yes, Denis here. I see. All right, Mr. Eberstark.” He hit the brakes and parked the car on the nearest pavement, in front of a boutique. Dave opened his eyes with a start. A fashionable woman of forty plus glared at them from behind the glass door of the boutique, but no one took notice of that. Denis turned around and handed his cell phone to Anton. “Mr. Eberstark sir.” His heart sinking, Anton took the phone. “Yes,” he said. “What? How? Jesus. All right. We are coming over!” He handed the phone back to the driver. “We’re going back to the party HQ. As quickly as we can!” “Righto,” answered the impassive driver and expertly inserted the car back into the traffic making an illegal U-turn. “What’s the matter?” asked Dave, fists clenched, nails biting into palms. “It’s Natalie,” said Anton. “She’s been kidnapped.” Dave had never seen the albino’s face like this. Anton was not afraid. Anton was angry. Very angry. There was murder in his eyes.

Even after the attack in his home, the intellectual albino had taken things in his stride. But now Dave didn’t envy the people after whom Anton would be going. “We’ll get her back, man, and we’ll get the bastards,” he said looking into Anton’s eyes. Anton nodded, and leaned forward. “Denis, can I use your phone again?” Then he took out the piece of paper with the phone numbers from his jeans, and dialed a number. “Deus? This is Anton. Yes. Long story. I need your help. Yes. Natalie has been kidnapped. Yes. Thank you. I’ll call you again when I know more. Bye.” *** When they returned to the National Patriots office, Anton took over. He brushed aside Eberstark’s apologies and heard out a distraught Kurt, who had went out with Natalie for some chocolate, and had seen her bundled into a black Shanghai Hummer. Anton made Dave upload the info from his memory stick into Eberstark’s computer, and to mark the centers of the swastikas again. The police arrived and took Eberstark’s and Kurt’s statements, while Anton and Dave were holed up in Eberstark’s office. “It’s the seventh building. This season it will be the seventh building,” said Anton. Dave agreed. This is where the center of the spinning swavastika fell according to the chronology of the maps. Their only hope was, that the unknown enemies would keep to their established pattern of behavior. And that they had decoded that pattern correctly. Anton dialed a number on Eberstark’s phone again. “Hi, Anton again. Yes. Yes, sorry, you’ll have to get another number after this. All right, we think we know the building. It’s Crescent Road twenty nine. Do you want us to mail you the picture? Okay, a second.” Anton made a gesture at Dave. Dave gave him a piece of paper and a pencil. Anton scribbled down Deus’s email address. “Okay. When? Two hours? You’re the best. Okay, bye.” Dave looked at Anton expectantly. “Here,” the albino pushed the paper with the email at Dave, “send the swavastika picture to this address. And in two hours Deus will arrive. Then we go get our girl back.” He bared his teeth. “And rip out the hearts of the bastards in the process.” Dave looked at his friend and could barely recognize him. But a deeply buried primitive joy seemed to be awakening inside him as well. He had last felt it in Yemen, when he and his platoon had holed up the insurgents in an abandoned administrative building. He smiled. He didn’t know how or when, but he felt with his whole being, that the grim reaper would soon reap again. And just like a decade ago, he would be the grim reaper’s agent.

CHAPTER FIFTY FIVE

Anton had smoked half a cigarette in the National Patriot HQ lobby, when the doors opened, and a lean, fit looking man his age swaggered in with an air of vague detachment. He was dressed in a perfectly fitting gray suit, with a thin black tie with no designs, his shoes were simple, brown and well shined. His raven black hair was brushed back and just reached the tips of his ears. When he pulled one hand out of his pocket and took off his shades, blue mocking eyes were revealed. Dave watched as the man strolled over to Anton and gave a small stiff bow. “Mr. Martorini.” “Mr. Machini,” answered Anton and then hugged the man strongly. After five seconds, he let him go and turned to Dave. “Dave, this is Deus Machini, my old friend. We are from the same tribe.” “Quite,” said Deus. “A little plastic surgery, if you’re wondering, Dave, I decided to go for the tanned blue eyed brunette look. A slight Celtic touch.” He patted Anton’s shoulder. “Tony here is a traditionalist, sticks with what nature gave him.” Slightly taken aback, Dave outstretched his hand. Machini’s grip was firm and warm. “Right,” said Deus, “off we go.” Off they went, out of the lobby and into the drizzle outside. They followed Anton’s tribe brother into his sparkling Guangzhou Chrysler. Deus went into the driver’s seat, Anton sat near him and a still slightly bewildered Dave took his place in the back. There was just enough space for him among all the boxes and guns. Deus turned the ignition. The car swerved with an effortless grace among the traffic, while Deus briefed the two friends: “In the back seat you see guns, Dave.” “Yeah, I do.” “The three short machine guns are the Bulgarian-Israel Peperuda, using armor piercing bullets. Goes right through protective vests as well as more serious body armor. Only a modern tank can stop these bullets.” The car caught the last possible second of the yellow light and sped across an intersection. “In the box by your side you will find three hand guns,” continued Des, “Japanese upgrades of the good old Luger. Personnel stopping bullets. If we have to shoot at people but have to make sure the bullets don’t penetrate them and hit someone else.” “Grenades?” asked Anton. “In the box below Dave’s legs.” Dave looked at the box below his legs. On its lid there was a picture of a Lego helicopter. “We have stun grenades and anti-tank grenades, should the worst come to the worst,” said Deus. “Open the glove compartment, Tony.” Anton did as he was told and exclaimed. “Knives!” “Yes indeed, the best German knives on the market. Will cut through anything,

including barbed wire.” Dave looked at the back of the driver’s head. Deus sounded like a man who knew his weapons. He felt the winds of fate subtly changing. They were now blowing in their direction. “Back in the trunk are our bulletproof vests.” Deus’s right hand disappeared into his coat pocket and reappeared with two pills. “Here, take these now.” “What are those?” asked Dave, taking his pill with his fingers. “Special issue Cobra Delta personnel enhancers.” “You mean speed?” asked Anton. “Not only. It will focus the thoughts without hampering the reasoning faculties, will amplify the senses, reduce all anxiety to controllable levels, deaden pain receptors and will up the body’s strength to a two to one ratio.” Anton whistled in appreciation. “When’s the crash?” “In two days. Regeneration takes two weeks.” “Right, thanks,” Anton popped the pill into his mouth. Dave did the same. The car swerved again and exited the main stream of the traffic, and soon reached an alley between the sides of an office building and a multiplex. Deus parked the car near some huge rusting rubbish containers. Behind them cars and busses bustled, but in this alley they seemed to be alone. “Right!” said Deus, and jumped out of the car. The others followed suit. He opened the trunk and gave them their vests and strapped his own one on. Then they geared up with the supplies from the car’s insides. Grenades, machineguns, pistols and knives. Deus produced from his pocket something which looked like a retro cell phone and waved it at them. “You’ve heard of project Magneto, no doubt.” he said. Both Anton and Dave shook their heads. “Well, in short, you know that if you blow up a nuclear bomb in the sky, all the electric appliances below it die.” Dave didn’t know this. “Yes, I know,” said Anton. “Well, this is a valuable thing, to burn out the enemy’s electric appliances, makes them blind and helpless. But you can’t destroy and contaminate a whole city just to achieve this. These days we have small compact “Ten-Magneto” e-missiles, which take out only the electricity of half a block, with negligible radiation.” “How negligible?” asked Anton. “About like going through thirty consecutive airport screenings.” “All right then.” Deus flicked open the flap on his remote control and pressed his thumb into the print-reader. The control lit up and gave a soft buzz. Deus’s thumb quickly punched in a sequence of numbers on the little keyboard. Then he looked at Anton and Dave, and with a leisurely grin, and an air of finality, pressed deliberately the big green button. “What happens now?” asked Dave, and was surprised at the enthusiasm in his voice. The little Cobra Delta pill was working already. He felt totally calm, totally aware and totally confident. And strong. Deus looked at his expensive looking wrist watch. “In exactly seven minutes and

forty seconds a rocket will explode above the building behind the corner of this mall. The building which you showed me on your map. The rocket will burn out all electric appliances in this block. Then we rush them, and kill everyone very quickly.” Anton grinned and patted Machini’s back. “Your bosses will have your head for this, won’t they?” he asked. “Probably, quite probably,” answered Deus placidly. “Thank you, Deus, really, thank you.” “Save the thanks for later, time for a last inventory check. Tony, Dave, you got your knives?” “Check!” “The pistols?” “Check!” “Grenades?” “Check!” “I can see your machineguns, so that’s okay. Do you both know how to use them?” “Yes!” said Dave enthusiastically. “Maybe,” said Anton. “Right, let me show you,” said Deus and went over to him. “How much time left?” asked Dave. Deus looked at his watch. “Five minutes, thirty four seconds.”

CHAPTER FIFTY SIX

Natalie lay on the floor, bound but not gagged. She was naked except for a leather belt on her waist to both sides of which her wrists were chained. Her feet were tied together with rope. She tried to suppress the impulse to shiver, but shivered, the cement floor on which she was lying was quite cold. She was in some sort of a basement. It was vast, like a hangar or a warehouse, and was illuminated, of all things, by torches. Torches and candles. The torches hung from the walls and the thick red candles were scattered seemingly without pattern all over the floor. The closest candle was a yard from her head. There were many men inside the basement with her. She counted them twice. Sixteen. Half of them were over fifty, half of them were around thirty or below. They were dressed in white robes and held wooden staffs. These men in white had now bunched together about twenty yards away and were muttering. One of the younger ones walked over to her and crouched by her head. He was grinning in a very disturbing manner. “Hello, bitch,” he said with a quivering voice, “we meet again”. His face was flushed. His features were familiar. Natalie recognized him; he was that clown with the temp-freeze, who had tried to pick her up in the FACEOFF bar. She had a good memory for faces. As he sat crouching, Natalie could see perfectly well that he was naked under the robe, and had a hard-on. No doubt he wanted her to see it. “Hello, shit,” she answered. The young man laughed out loud and stood up. “You’re lucky I shouldn’t damage you before the ceremony. You’ve given us so much trouble, you and your stupid pals. You know,” he walked over and pressed his foot on Natalie’s face. She didn’t react. Disappointed, he applied a little more pressure, and then took the foot off. “You know,” he said again, “we shouldn’t really be doing this now. We should wait for the winter. But for you, bitch, we are making an exception.” “Maybe you should all just kill yourself?” volunteered Natalie. The man walked away and rejoined his robed buddies. They started chanting something. Natalie strained to hear, but all she could make out was something like ‘Semu’, or ‘Ksemu’. She wanted to cry, not so much out of fear, but rather out of frustration. Her Dad had warned her and yet she had been caught so easily! A stupid girl. Stupid, stupid girl. And now she was tied up in the basement of some freaks playing at a cult. She saw the men spread out a little. Without much warning one of them started swaying and groaning. Another one also started swaying, but the first one started yelling and the other one stopped his attempts, and gave the yeller precedence.

The man who first entered his trance yelled some more and then babbled gibberish. Perhaps he was speaking in tongues. He picked up the folds of his robe and suddenly let out a jet of urine. Immediately the other man fell to their knees and scrambled to get closer to the fountain. The gibbering man pissed a little on everyone’s face and this time he had fallen back on some sort of ritual routine. Natalie heard him repeat in a deep voice something like: “Wash away the pretense Wash away the fear Wash away the human mask Wash away the weakness The sacred bond The sacred men The puny animal The sacred bond” And so it went. Perhaps he was rapping, improvising at the moment. Or perhaps he was strictly reciting some sacred text. The fountain of urine faltered, sputtered and dried up. The men turned their glistening, drenched faces to Natalie. There was something in the way they looked at her. Ecstatically and at the same time, very, very malevolently. The young man left the group again and went to a shadowy corner, and then came back with a big transparent plastic bag. Then everyone shuffled solemnly over to Natalie and surrounded her in a circle. “Your turn to die,” said the young man and waved the huge bag in his hand. “How about a last cigarette?” said Natalie. The man spat in her face. Then another one. Then another one. A part of the ritual no doubt. Then two men took hold of Natalie and picked her up, seemingly oblivious to her squirming and yelling. Another two were holding open the plastic bag. She was placed inside it and then they sealed it. She looked at their hazy figures through the plastic walls of the bag. I probably have a minute of air, she thought. She tried to grab hold of the plastic bag with her teeth and make a rent. It didn’t work. She tried to rip it with her knees or elbows. It clung to her body. In fact it clung to her body more and more with every passing moment. She had already almost used up the air inside. She squirmed and yelled, with a weaker voice. As the transparent bundle in the middle of the circle moved and mewed, the men poked it with the points of their staffs. “Ksemu be born again! Ksemu be born again!” Natalie felt the ceaseless impacts of the wooden staffs on her body, but they didn’t have her attention. The plastic was now clinging to her face and trying to get inside her mouth as she tried to take a breath of air that wasn’t there. Something like distant thunder rumbled far away.

CHAPTER FIFTY SEVEN

“Time, gentlemen,” shouted Deus and raced towards the corner of the mall, the sound of his shoes on the wet pavement suddenly the only audible thing in the world. Dave and Anton raced with him. As they turned the corner a fantastic flower blossomed with a roar above the big red brick building in front of them. Windows shattered from the blast. There was a moment of silence in which the echo of the explosion pulsated, and then thousands of small shards of glass rained down. And there was a total absence of alarms going off anywhere in the vicinity. Four guards stood in front of the entrance, peering up with gaping jaws. Deus mowed them down with his Peperuda without slowing his run. In ten more seconds the three men were inside the building. Inside, to their right, was a bulletproof Plexiglas box in which sat two dazed two security guards behind a desk, one of them twiddling with the monitors in front of them, which had gone quite dead. No lights were working in the corridors. “Go for the legs!” shouted Deus and shattered the Plexiglas with a burst of armor piercing bullets. Dave and Anton went for the legs as well, the flow from all three machineguns suddenly converging in one area. In a moment both security guards were lying on the floor, their legs torn and bleeding. Dave kicked at the cracked Plexiglas to enlarge the hole. “I’m covering the corridor,” shouted Deus and took his position at the threshold to the building’s interior, “you take the entrance, Tony!” Anton went to the door through which they had just came. He scanned the parking lot. No one was running towards them. A burst of machine gun fire came from Machini’s side. He waved at Anton. “All fine; got two down.” Dave finally managed to make the hole in the Plexiglas big enough. He crawled through, with pistol in hand and looked at the two wounded guards. He chose the more demoralized looking one and shot the other in the chest. “You’re coming with me!” he shouted at the whimpering survivor, who was urgently displaying his empty hands, and dragged him out by the scruff of his neck. Anton ran to him and kicked the man in his wounded legs. “Where is she, you bastard?!” “Ahhhh, who?!” screamed the man. “Anton, take the corridor, let me handle this!” shouted Deus. He ran up to the frightened man who was being held up by Dave, while Anton took Machini’s place at the corridor. Deus whipped out his knife and slashed the prisoner’s cheek. “Tell me where the girl is now, or things will get very ugly!” “I don’t know! They took her!” “Who’s they?” asked Dave. Deus shook his head at him. Wrong question for the moment. They had no time

for this. He bellowed into the prisoner’s face again. “Where did they take her?!” “Down, into the lower floor, no one goes there, I don’t know...” Anton shot at someone in the building corridor. The someone screamed. Deus took the wounded guard by his other shoulder. “Take us there, if you want to live!” he barked. The man nodded, his pale face covered with perspiration. “Tony!” shouted Deus, “You take this bastard, me and Dave will be at the front!” “Okay!” shouted back Anton and took the prisoner with an ugly expression. Although the wounded guard was a well-built man, and his torn legs could not support him, Anton held him with very little effort. The Cobra Delta pills had made them all into very, very strong men. Deus and Dave rushed to the end of the corridor, passing by three corpses in uniforms and stopped a few yards from a turn. They looked at each other, each unhooked a stun grenade from his belt. At Deus’s signal they hurled them beyond the corner into the unseen portion of the darkened corridor. A blast melting into a second blast followed, two consecutive flashes lit up the corridor for a second with white-blue glares, invisible people screamed. This time, after Dave’s signal, they both took the turn and sprayed the corridor with their Peperudas. Five men stopped screaming and fell twitching to the ground. Anton appeared with the prisoner. There was a thick looking metallic door. Deus turned back to the captive held up by Anton. “Where does this door go?” “Into the inner corridor!” “How do we get to the lower level where the girl is?” “Through that door and then there is another one, but no one can open it!” “Can you open this one?” The prisoner averted his eyes from the menace in his captor’s face. “Yes! Please, look, I...” Anton dragged him to the door. “Open it now!” he barked at him. The prisoner punched in a code. Nothing happened. “It’s not working!” he looked at them pleadingly. “Of course! No electricity!” shouted Deus, “the anti-tank grenades!” Anton and his prisoner retreated back to the first corridor. Dave and Deus raced after them, bounding over the dead security guards and a deafening explosion made the very walls vibrate, just as they had made the turn to safety. They saw debris pelting the walls where they had been a second ago. “Right, back we go!” shouted Deus, and there was unmistakable exhilaration in his voice. Back they went. Anton kicked the prisoner in the leg again. “Where is the door to the lower level, scumbag?!” “Ahh, stop, it’s one floor down.” “Well, no elevators now,” interjected Dave. “Where are the stairs?” he shouted at the man and slapped his face. “The second door over there!” the prisoner pointed with a weak arm. They raced to the second door. It was a smaller door, with a small keyboard and an old-fashioned retina reading orb above the lock. Deus shot the lock into oblivion and kicked the door open. He sprayed bullets into

the staircase. There was no one there. He turned to the prisoner. “How many more guards are there?” “I don’t know!” mumbled back the man with a tortured expression, “maybe onetwo more, maybe none.” They dropped more stun grenades down the staircase just in case. No screams were heard after the explosion. They ran down the stairs, the wounded man dragged roughly with them. “Where is the door?!” shouted Anton in his face. “There!” pointed the man to a door just six yards away. “Right, grenades again, retreat!” commanded Dave. They retreated back to the staircase. Another strong explosion rocked the corridors. More debris dug itself into the walls. They ran through the blasted door before the smoke had cleared, Dave shooting just in case. Anton dumped the now unneeded groaning prisoner on the floor. They were at the top of an old looking stone staircase. Deus collected the last stun grenades, pulled their pins and threw them down. After the flashes and the blasts they raced down the stairs, Peperudas on the ready. They reached the bottom and entered a large dimly lit place. It was a broad cavern in which torches and candles flickered. Disoriented men in white robes scrambled this way and that. Deus appraised the situation in a split second. “Don’t hit the plastic bag!” he shouted and sprayed the men with armor piercing bullets. Dave joined in. They mowed down the whole bunch in what seemed like five seconds. The men fell like sacks, with red stains growing rapidly around the numerous small tears in their robes. Anton threw down his machine gun and sprinted towards the plastic bag on the floor. He ripped it open with his knife. “Natalie!” he shouted at the pasty-faced girl. She didn’t stir. He slapped her face twice - nothing. “CPR!” shouted Dave in his ear, “you take the heart, I take the mouth! Thirty by ten!” Anton nodded, his mind chemically free of fear, and put his hands in the middle of his daughter’s unmoving ribcage. “One,” he counted, “two, three, four...” The thirty times took what seemed like an eternity. Then Dave pinched Natalie’s nose and breathed into her mouth. He pressed his fingers at her neck artery. “Nothing!” he shouted and Anton started pressing at the frail black chest again. “One, two, three...” “Please... money...” someone croaked a few feet away. ‘Brattattat!’ he was silenced by a burst from Machini’s Peperuda. Dave breathed into Natalie’s mouth again. He touched her neck. “We have a pulse! Tony, we have a pulse!” “Thank God!” said Anton and cradled his face in his hands. Deus strolled over and looked at the girl, who was beginning to stir as her chest began fitfully to suck in the much-needed air. “A lovely girl you have there, Tony,” he said with deliberate calmness and took out a pack of cigarettes. He and Anton lit up. Dave also asked for one.

When Natalie came to, the first thing she saw was Anton, Dave and an unknown man, wearing bulletproof vests, smoking cigarettes and grinning at her. She blinked, looked around, seeing the white and red corpses and then looked at them again. “What took you so long?” she said in a hoarse voice, “I was already in the tunnel...” Anton laughed out in relief. Dave kneeled on one knee and kissed her face. He couldn’t help himself. “How about untying me?” asked Natalie and smiled.

CHAPTER FIFTY EIGHT

“...And so - anything you want,” declared Eberstark, “just ask for it.” Natalie, Anton and Dave were sitting in his office and the two men were smoking. Both were looking detectably tired, but in good health. They had lain in their beds at Eberstark’s safe house for a fortnight, replenishing the energy reserves eaten up by the Cobra Delta pills, while Eberstark himself had pulled his strings and shaped the news, and now both were finally able to walk, think and communicate. Natalie’s bruises from the wooden staffs of the evil cabalists had cleared up as well. Deus had gone back to wherever he worked. Hopefully to not get fired or court marshaled. But he had enjoyed the whole thing obscenely. Strange fellow. One had the impression that he was like that even without the special pills. Dave looked at Natalie. She looked beautiful and fresh. Beautiful, fresh and gay in fact. Her small frame was covered by a fashionable checkered shirt and a thin green tie hung from her neck. Her arms were crossed and her fingers methodically counted each other, as she smiled into Eberstark’s face. “Just to recap, Mr. Eberstark, the great wizards of the lodge my Dad and Dave massacred were both from the right wing and the left wing?” “Absolutely,” affirmed Eberstark, “famous politicians and businessmen to the last man. Eight sons and eight fathers.” “So now,” said Anton, “your party is ahead in the polls?” “By a landslide,” said Eberstark smugly, “by an absolute landslide. Especially since the list of the pedophile customers leaked to the press,” he winked at them. His hand even started going up, no doubt to tap his nose knowingly, but he restrained himself. “Both of the two parties are almost totally discredited in the voter’s eyes. We the National Patriots are now likely to have a majority in Parliament, and the Liberals and, for some reason, the Communists too are also going to enter for the first time in decades.” A major political upheaval, thought Dave. And it all started with a woman suffocated by her shit. No, he corrected himself, it started decades ago, when the first suffocated girl had been found at the edge of the city. “So, what kind of sect were they, in the end?” asked Anton. “Ah, quite peculiar,” said Eberstark, “you know that in Scientology there is an evil lord Xemu...” “They were scientologists?!” asked Dave in disbelief. “No, no, certainly not,” snapped back Eberstark very quickly, “nonsense, some of my best friends are scientologists. But you know how Satan is the bad guy for Christians, and you get Satanists...” “No way,” said Anton, obviously in the middle of one of his peculiar intellectual orgasms, “they were scientologist Satanists?”

“Quite right, Mr. Martorino,” said Eberstark, leaning forward on the heavy oak table, “they were ‘post-Theosophist Left Foot Xemuists’, as I remember it. They were working to free Xemu from his eternal bondage and bring about his second coming. Or something like that.” Anton rubbed his sweating palms into his pants. This was all far too good. “And why did they leave the bodies in special places?” “Marking energy portals, or creating them, maybe. I’ll tell my people to forward you the report after we’re done here.” “That would be great,” Anton looked at his cigarette, the second half of which had burned itself out without his intervention, and lit another one. Natalie, ever practical, decided to return the conversation to less abstract realms and take Eberstark at his word. “Anything we want, you say?” “Anything,” his head bobbed at all three of them. Natalie shot a quick glance at her Dad and smiled humbly at Eberstark. “Well, I want to remain head of public relations for your party, and the government, should we manage to make one.” Eberstark’s eyebrows danced. “Oh we will, there’s no doubt about that now. Of course you can be head of Public relations! Of course.” Anton smiled. His daughter was doing her duty to the best of her abilities. Because of the events that had transpired, these obscure Nazis had suddenly been catapulted by fate from being a minor party to being the core of the next government. Someone had to keep them in check. Someone had to make them say toned down things, and needle them constantly that it’s in their best interests to keep their promises. He was sure Natalie would do her best to wrap them into a straight jacket of pledges and statements, which would hopefully keep from making too much trouble. “How about making me chief of internal affairs?” asked Dave with an unintentionally squeaky voice and held his breath, his finger digging into the edge of his chair. “You got it!” said Eberstark, still drunk on euphoria, “you got it MR. Cohran. I wouldn’t trust anyone else with cleaning up this swamp we’ve inherited.” Dave rubbed his hands in glee rather theatrically. Now he would show them... now he would show them all... naturally he would take Maldiva with him; he’ll be finally able to pay her a wage she deserved. “And you, Mr. Martorino?” asked the next leader of the country. “Me…” drawled Anton, “I think I want a break from everything. And by that I mean of course, that I would like to be a very well paid, but rarely used adviser for the N.M.H.” He grinned and stubbed out his cigarette in the glass ashtray. “It would be my pleasure,” said Eberstark, and leaned back into his chair, his pudgy fingers caressing in a self-congratulatory manner his silk purple tie. The first snowflakes of the season danced behind the windows of the office. Dave looked at them and let his thoughts dance too. He was very much at peace.

EPILOGUE

NATALIE Breathe

Natalie woke up, took a deep breath and opened her eyes. Snow was falling gently behind the window and the air entering the room was damp, fresh, and crystal clear. Natalie closed her eyes again for a moment, and after that moment passed she looked at the body that slept beside her. Sheila’s long blond hair covered half of her pillow and a few strands lay on her face, apparently without disturbing her in any way. As Natalie watched her lover with a soft smile of admiration, Sheila’s small ruby mouth opened for a second, showing the lower parts of her glistening front teeth, before hiding them again. Her eyes twitched and the blanket above her chest rose as she abruptly breathed in a dose of moist winter oxygen. Then she rolled over with a quiet grunt and her breathing returned to the regular rhythm of a person asleep. With infinite care, slowly and quietly, Natalie slipped out of her bed, picked her nightshirt up from the floor, squirmed into it, and tiptoed to the kitchen. It was already ten in the morning and the white winter daylight illuminated with its cold color the impeccably clean amber laminate countertop. There she made herself a cup of water with a spoonful of honey dissolved in it, drunk it, and opened wide the window above the dishwasher. Time for some start-of-day breathing exercises. She slowly let out all of her air, helping her body by pressing with her hands at the lower part of her abdomen. Then she inhaled, equally slowly, deeper and deeper, until her shoulders rose up slightly, and then exhaled again. This she did now instead of smoking. Her nightmare struggle for breath in the plastic bag of the Xemuists had changed her in this way. Now she appreciated every breath for the miracle that it was. Some day the breath would run out again and then there would be no saving at the last moment. And until that happened, it was her duty to herself to enjoy this simple act to the fullest extent. She heard a smoker’s cough from the bedroom. Sheila was waking up. There was no more need to keep to the silent routine. Natalie switched on the coffee machine, flicked on the tiny kitchen TV, poured orange juice into two glasses and with them went

to her lover. “Mmmmmooooaaaaa,” said Sheila, stretching her arms with a delighted yawn, and fixed her sleepy gaze on Natalie. “Juice, lover?” said Natalie, and pressed one cool glass against Sheila’s warm arm. With a squeal, Sheila jerked away, then took the juice and both girls silently drained their glasses, communicating with their eyes. “Thank you, lover,” said Sheila with her morning husky voice and put the empty glass on the floor besides the bed, “you’re the best.” “All for you, lover, all for you,” chirped Natalie, took off her nightshirt again and climbed back into bed. Half an hour later, citing bladder related biological demands, Sheila finally escaped and went to the bathroom. Natalie lay on her back, with her hands behind her head, and marveled. So this was what she needed. A relationship with another girl. Everything fell into place once she followed this impulse. She seemed to be actually approaching some sort of harmony. Of course, Natalie knew now exactly what events in her life had produced exactly what elements in her emotional and psychological systems, leading among other things to this lesbian harmony, and she did not mind knowing all that at all. In fact she preferred knowing it. It did not break the magic in any way. And although she was far from her Dad’s levels of abstract reasoning, she had explained this seeming paradox to herself in her own words. Knowing what makes a flower grow the way it does and how it’s structured, need not take away any of its beauty. In fact, it adds another dimension to its beauty. The magic of beauty is fragile and unstable and based on one not knowing things, only if one is afraid of the truth. And thus, bludgeoning the Self into momentary disintegration though use of hired penises was no longer the sole option for the obtainment of at least temporary relief. These days, stress stayed where it should be: at work only. Out of the office, life was no longer an obscurely threatening, crushing blanket of ugliness. At last not the ‘crushing’ bit, anyway. Natalie heard the water being flushed in the bathroom, the bathroom door open, and Sheila’s soft feet head back to the bedroom. Then the sound of footsteps stopped. A lovely bare bottom appeared through the door, with an invisible head emitting muffled giggling. Then the bottom disappeared and after a second, in which the doorway was empty, a naked leg appeared, its toes wriggling in a highly suggestive manner. “Come here you!” laughed Natalie.

ANTON Think

Anton was lying face down on his sofa, his whole body lax and incapable of movement. He was in his fourth day of trying to not smoke. Now that he was a lazy consultant, no longer chained to his office computer like a galley slave to his oar, he could stay at home and allow himself to suffer the withdrawal symptoms in peace. Currently, the symptoms consisted of total lack of strength, an even more total lack of mental focus, and an utterly total lack of motivation. On the floor near him were three empty coffee cups, the remains of a slab of chocolate, two small hardened blobs of chewed gum on a piece of tissue, and a half-eaten apple, its bared innards already gone brown. But what he really wished deep down to see there, an ashtray and a pack of cigarettes, was missing. And this perhaps was what accounted for his semi-paralyzed state. The contradictory desires to run to the store and to hold out another day, canceled each other out, producing his hazy stupor. His brain was slowly thinking of a dozen things. Or rather, the things thought themselves in front of his unfocused inner gaze. None of them were good enough reasons to get up or even move his position. He thought of Sheila, Natalie’s new girlfriend. She was one good looking girl. He thought of Natalie. She was also one good looking girl. He thought of the Xemuists. They were some evil bastards, whose death had been too good for them. He thought of the season girls and he thought of the disappeared children. Children. Baby snatchers. Bogeymen. From time immemorial people have accused each other of stealing children. Pagan Romans accused Christians of stealing children. Christians accused Jews of stealing children. Old gnarly witches were accused of stealing children. Gypsies too. Perhaps this was all indeed some sort of timeless sin, which reared its ugly head in every epoch and every society. Behind every pervasive myth there is always some grain of reality. But is it physical reality, or merely mental reality? What hides behind the myth? Is it people stealing children, or people being paranoid about children being stolen? Or, as usual, both the physical and mental realities reinforcing each other? With a burst of determination Anton forced his right arm to move. His fingers reached the chocolate, broke off a few sizable crumbs and put them into his mouth. Slowly he chewed on them, the warmth of his mouth melting them quickly, and thought some more.

His thoughts appeared to be congregating on a more or less single topic. That was ground for a little celebration. He scratched his scalp with a tired forefinger. Suppose all these myths of the dragon, or the god, or the king demanding a virgin to placate him... suppose all that really does echo some common archaic tendency, in which the jailed customers of Joshua’s pedophile den had been indulging? Maybe men in power always tended to have this earning for the young and innocent. Or the young and broken. Or perhaps both. A sweating middle-aged man looks at a little girl or boy playing and he covets. Something in what he sees stirs in him a desire to touch, to use, to attempt, hopelessly, to join in this celebration of life that glows in every movement of the child, and once it becomes obvious that he cannot join it, that the magic does not work, he desires to break, to destroy. Anton coughed loudly for a full minute. His throat itched like hell. A strange pressure hummed between his eyebrows. His solar plexus was warm and gasses began to rumble in his stomach. Abruptly, Anton jumped off his sofa and scrambled to get dressed. The objects around him, the furniture, the books, everything looked far too colorful and threedimensional, and the space around the objects was no longer empty but filled with energy currents getting less transparent by the second. Hands shaking with impatience, an angry scowl twisting his face, Anton buttoned up his overcoat. The last thing he needed was his chakras to open up. He didn’t want to become an energy being. He wanted to stay anchored to his quiet life of lying on the sofa, reading books, drinking coffee, thinking, and yes, smoking cigarettes. Cigarettes. He ran out of his apartment, and without waiting for the elevator, impatiently scrambled down the stairs and out into the street. Five minutes later he was walking back to his high-rise with a composed and leisurely gait, slowly inhaling the luxurious smoke of a yellow Camel. His head felt very light and he knew that an idiotic smile was stuck on his face. He knew and he didn’t care. He was firmly back in his world, and he was firmly his old self. Looking at the dirty gray snow beneath his feet, he thought that perhaps the time had finally come to write a real dissertation. Something based on the whole Xemuist thing. Especially young Joshua and his specific dementia. The revolving swastika for instance, symbolizes the eternal cycle of the world, life, death, birth, change of season, of generations. And in a way, Joshua had also been acting out a closed cycle, by feeding his victims their own shit. Only he was a Xemuist and what he wanted deep down was not to maintain the eternal balance, but to break it down once and for all and so he killed them... Anton flung away the remains of his cigarette into the general direction of a rubbish bin and put his hands into his pockets. The cool winter air pinched his cheeks, two snowflakes landed on his forehead, the albino smiled. All that was quite fine reasoning. This overlap between the symbolisms and goals of the Xemuist sect and Joshua’s individual mental monstrosities. Maybe he could finally swing it and write a treatise on the overlap between collective psychosis and individual psychosis.

And good old Deus, with his practical turn of mind, would probably agree to help with the ‘empirical data’ needed to satisfy the current wretched trends in academia. Inside his apartment, he sat down in front of the computer, smoking a third cigarette already, and opened a word file to take down his initial thoughts on the future dissertation. As usual, he ran out of steam after writing the first sentence, but he was no newbie to this sphere. Quickly he rolled himself a joint of real weed. He had finally been able to return to the real thing, now that he was no longer an office rat, the sword of Damocles no longer hovering over his pee. No more random drug tests. Ever. He dragged only three times from the spliff, for it was truly potent stuff, and began trying to keep up with his brain. The children thieves. The virgin of the dragon. The swastika. The feces. Suddenly he remembered that the ancient fear of the child stealer was connected with the child been eaten. Super - this gave him an excuse to use Klein’s theoretical framework concerning the cannibalistic impulses of the second part of the human baby’s oral stage. His fingers danced over the keyboard, translating his thoughts into fragmented text. A pop-up advertising gene-vat asses popped up. Automatically, without even any irritation, Anton closed the pop-up and added it to his firewall. Then his eyes bulged and he felt his face tingle. He wriggled out of his chair and paced the room. He hadn’t had an insight of this magnitude for a over a year. Maybe over two years. His hands shook in anticipation and his mouth moved, trying the taste of the words that described the shining realization, which had lighted up his frontal lobes. Gene-vat asses. Oral pathology. Cannibalistic impulses. Consumer society. Oral pathology. Gene-vat asses. How could he have been so blind?! He extricated another cigarette from his pack and lit it, his gaze roving over the carpet, the sofa, the empty cups. If only one in a thousand Johns buying gene-vat asses crossed the boundary and ate it... if only one in a thousand Janes buying gene-vat dicks crossed the boundary and ate it... this would be a cataclysmic shift in the mass psychology of the whole civilization, striking at one of the pillars at its very foundation, the cannibalism taboo. Before three years passed, the gates of hell would open wide. Or at least wider. Anton felt charged with electricity, nervously licking his lips he reached for his phone. He would need one damn good computer program based on damn good a priori data to be able to predict at least vaguely the outcomes of the insidious revolution happening at that very moment in the homes of an unknown number of Johns and Janes. He dialed Deus.

DAVE Sleep

Dave sat with a cup of coffee and a cigarette in his easy chair by the window. It was a splendid winter morning. The sky was a phosphorescent horizontal white veil, seemingly mere feet above the cityscape. Two black crows perched on the naked branches of a poplar growing outside his apartment and looked at him with their beady eyes. The interior ministry had paid for this flat, it was in a nice old-fashioned red brick high-rise, and was ten minutes away from the park. General Cohran, said Dave to himself and grinned. General Cohran, head of the interior ministry. He dragged at his cigarette and let the smoke trickle out without any effort on his part. Had he known how much effort to stay cool a cigarette saved, he would’ve started smoking years ago. His mind was now capable of focusing, without problems, into any direction he willed it to. Too bad he had to smoke secretly, like a school kid, being a public figure and all. Both apartments that flanked the one in which he sat and basked in his cool were also rented by the interior ministry, his bodyguards lived there. He had flatly refused to live in an official mansion in the government village on the outskirts of town. He wanted to be inside the city, to feel it, to taste it. On his insistence, he and five more people down the line received weekly reports from all three national N.M.H. offices. The respective budgets of these offices had been doubled and now twelve people worked in the capital’s N.M.H. and sixteen people in the two provincial ones. From time to time Anton interpreted the data over coffees. As a high-profile member of the national administration, Dave couldn’t afford to go swinging anymore. Or boozing. Instead, he had to present, with Natalie’s help, a persona built up from his military and law enforcement past. As a shining contrast to the corrupt evil bastards before him. But the thing is, he told himself as he drained the last drops from the bottom of his cup, the thing is, I don’t even feel like whoring. I feel like settling down. I want to have someone dear to me sitting in this same room with me. Forever. Unbelievable. Unbelievable but true. For the past month, alone with himself in his apartment, Dave could feel his thoughts turning more and more to fantasies concerning a spouse. A woman to love him, and to share life with him. And possibly bear him children, although he didn’t insist on that. Perhaps being waited on by Natalie, being told how to dress and how to speak in public, her being the PR boss of the new government and all, was what contributed to his desire to have a woman around to tell him what to do. “Natalie,” he said and smiled. He remembered their talk in the BYWAY café.

Funny, but now that the former rulers had been shown to be obviously evil, the nation united in its hatred for them, suicides had dropped significantly. And with them, the need for staged morale boosters fell as well. A tiny solitary snowflake twirled through the opening in the window, gave his wrist a tiny wet kiss, and melted immediately. Soon Christmas and New Year would come. Decorations had already appeared in the malls and on the streets, and sugary medleys poured from radios all over town. Usually he would hole up at his home in such days, to wait out the assaults on his taste. But this time was different. He could take a vacation. Somewhere far away. He deserved it. Somewhere where it is warm, where he can swim in the sea. He laughed out loud. What sea? That’s old thinking. No more swimming in the sea, for anyone. Isn’t safe, with all the new organisms in it. But at least he could soak up some sun; swim in the hotel pool; read some books; try some local food. He remembered Indonesia. Why not? If they were going to put men on the moon, it must be an interesting place to see right now. And maybe he could swing it as a working vacation: meet his local counterpart, discuss this and that. Dave got up and realized what he must do at that very moment, without losing more precious time. At a slow run he returned to his bed. His head sank into the pillow, which had already cooled, his mind stopped trying to maintain meaningful thoughts and surrendered to a pleasant fog of inarticulate relaxation. His eyes closed almost completely, making the visible world lose its outlines. The soft white light filtered unobtrusively through the curtains, the faraway hum of cars and pedestrians caressed his ears like a lullaby, and thinking of Indonesia, and then of a future wife, Dave played halfheartedly with himself for a few minutes before dozing off with one final relaxed “Gnyaaaggh!” It was a lazy late Sunday morning.

THE END

OUTRO BLITZ ANTON: So, you happy with this book? AUTHOR: Quite, quite, not the reality shattering ultimate novel, but still satisfyingly annoying. ANTON: The style is rather peculiar. And let’s not mention the rhythm of the narrative. AUTHOR: Let’s not. ANTON: How would you define the genre of this ghastly opuscule? AUTHOR: Difficult question. ‘Cynical naivism’ is one epithet that comes to mind. ‘Cartoon existentialism’ would also be an apt enough description. ‘Infantile adventure’ would be the best one I think. ANTON: Infantile in what sense would that be? AUTHOR: In every sense. ANTON: Right... I note some residue from your nineteen thirties fascination in certain places? AUTHOR: Yes, it’s abated to a large extent, but there are still hints of American and British sleuths and vigilantes lurking here and there. ANTON: Aha! I thought I noticed by the end a sort of brighter buccaneer appearing to save everyone’s bacon. I was half expecting him to have a sidekick who wants to give people da woiks wid his Betsy. AUTHOR: Yes, but he consciously made himself like that you realize, an Injun albino turning himself into a dashing Celtic fictional hero. That’s conscious identity construction, center and periphery, inclusion and exclusion, all that stuff. And in the end also done by a fictional hero. Now that is postmodernism. ANTON: You’re being a pretentious twat again, aren’t you? AUTHOR: No, no, certainly not. Not as such. I wouldn’t say so. ANTON: I’ll take your word on that. About the chloroform. You realize, I hope, that what you use in your book is not the substance itself, but the urban myth concerning it? AUTHOR: Yup. How was the trip anyway? ANTON: As I said, quite vivid dreams. And the bears were indeed very silly. AUTHOR: The liver still okay? ANTON: I think so. Anyway, time for the last question. Aren’t you afraid that some people will take offense at the somewhat irreverent treatment of some serious contemporary topics? AUTHOR: That would be just spatial and temporal provincialism from their side. I know they wouldn’t mind if I touched in the same manner upon topics like WWII, WWI, the Spanish flue, the Spanish Inquisition, the Bubonic Plague, Stalin, Pol Pot and whatnot. And if they get all fidgety and indignant when the topics are closer to home -

they can all just eat shit. ANTON: And with these stylistically appropriate and multilayered last words, it’s time to finish this blitz interview. Thank you for answering my questions. AUTHOR: Thank you for having me.