writing thread

Thank you; that was honestly my first attempt at writing in, shit, three years? I asked for commentary from some friends and everything but have yet to receive any - so I assumed they thought it sucked :lol:
 
Not that I'm your dad or anything, but do you really want to major in something you have approximately a 1/100000000 chance of making a living off of? Seems like the kind of thing that's better as a minor.
 
I used to do a lot of writing just as a hobby,. Started documenting my then wild dreams and nightmares when I was 7 years old, which later developed into fiction. I've gotten lazier through the years, so I discontinued this hobby. But at the uni I dazzled my creative writing teacher on a weekly basis; she'd put my short stories and poems on expositions, and what not. But it's all a thing of the past now, and I don't have much spare time for this currently.

Grant and Pessimism-you're awesome. Keep it up.
 
You clearly have a lot of verbal talent DB, so I'm sad to hear that you're unable/uninspired to do more writing these days. I hope things change for you man. The art must go on!
 
EDIT: Grant, you need to find time to sit down and read some Paul Austere. The conclusion to your piece really reminds me of him. He loves to play around with the ideas of narration and mystery solving. Furthermore, you captured the nightmare aspect really well, and I can see parallels between your prose and poetry.

I do a lot of creative writing in my spare time. If anyone cares to read it, I recently finished a sci-fi short that I'm sending off to some publications. I don't expect anyone to pick it up, but I figured I'd give it a shot. Anyway, it's a bit lengthy (just under thirty pages) so I'll post it in fragments. Here's the first:

The Freedom of Birds- (Pt.I)

Oken Red was the kind of man who would feel horrible for having killed a bug, smearing its guts across the flat surface of its choice after accidentally trying to shoo it out an open window, ushering it towards freedom and flight. He would feel horrible for doing such a thing, if bugs still existed; but bugs did not exist anymore. Oken had seen pictures of them in books, when he was able to go to the library; they looked insanely freakish and alien to him, and just looking at sketches sent tremors through his entire body. In fact, if asked, he probably would never claim to feeling sorry about killing one, and he would most likely claim that he would go out of his way to do so; but he had never actually interacted with one, so any claims he might make regarding bugs should be judged accordingly.

From the window of Oken’s third-story apartment he could see down Gorgon Street and into Barbaros Circle, although by those who resided on the five streets that led into the circle it was commonly referred to as “the Asshole.” The sign to Kjick’s Diner hung melancholically above the acid rain-washed sidewalk, swinging sullenly in the poisoned air. Puddles and piles of refuse were scattered along both sides of the street, steaming in the autumn breeze and chilled rain. Streetlamps dripped fetid matter in the fog that descended upon the city, materializing out of the haze like formations within some subterranean cave. A menagerie of odors coagulated in the air above the street, writhing about one another and creeping above sewage drains and garbage disposals, leaving a noisome and repulsive smell that lingered and never truly dissipated. A deafening cacophony rang out between the concrete edifices of the metropolis, an amalgam of metallic clangs and crashes, hoarse shouts and curses, and electronic hums and motorized moans.

Figures in trench coats walked sluggishly along the sidewalks, beneath the sign of the diner. Across the street hunkered Lem Duord’s tiny convenient store, complete with liquor, cigarettes, and pornography; a sign hung in the window that read ‘ADULT MATERIALS WITHIN/NO MINORS ALLOWED.’ Street brats brandished tire irons and other strange metal objects, scurrying about along the sidewalks and occasionally darting out into the street, swinging their makeshift weaponry about as though they were engaged in some horrific battle from the Lost Age. Their faces were smeared with dirt and oil, and several of them had red streaks beneath their noses from where they had wiped the blood away, laughing in a feral manner and gnashing animal teeth at one another; those that had teeth, at least.

Kjick opened the front door of his diner and cursed at the brats, waving a bony hand at them in a vain attempt to send them scurrying back into the alleyways and gutters. “Git, ye filthy lih-ul bah-stards, ye feckin’ lih-ul bitches’ feckin’ brew! I’ll bit ye muhthahs tied der enkles to the feckin’ clotheslines so dey didn’t hafta wahrry ‘bout streinin’ der muscles!”

A homeless man glanced up apathetically from a narrow alcove, staring at the children and the diner owner with eyes that had long since ceased to truly see, and then lowered his head again, keeping steady his still outstretched hand so that he might accept any change that happened to tumble his way. Discarded coins sat around him in a misshapen semicircle; either he had not yet noticed them, or he was too lazy to pick them up. Either seemed likely.

The low, red sun was just beginning to sink below the rooftops along Harp Street when a crackling buzz jerked Oken’s attention away from the scene and drew him over to the call-box that was mounted in the wall next to his door. He drew up all the mucus from his nasal passage into the back of his throat, gathered it together; and in one great forward thrust, he spat the amorphous globule out and watched it arc over the narrow ledge beyond his window, soar over the electrical wires that hung low between their support beams and then descend and cascade down to the already sodden and dank asphalt, straightening into a kamikaze-dive before splattering onto the head of one of the street brats. The degenerate was so focused on engaging his comrades in mock-battle that he did not even notice.

Oken stumbled over to the door and pressed the call-button. “Who’s that?”

“Who the fuck do you think?” came the ugliest feminine voice Oken had ever heard.

“Oread?”

“That’s right.”

“You don’t sound like a nymph.”

“Are you going to let me the fuck in or not?”

Oken scowled and tried to think of something condescending and ungracious to say, but nothing came to him. He had never been adept at insults.

“Fucking pox, dickhead, let me the fuck in.”

Oken released the call button and pressed the switch to open the door to his apartment complex, then undid the seven locks on his own door and turned around, proceeding back to the thin mattress that sat on the floor in the opposite end of the room. He unbuckled his pants and sat down on the edge of the mattress, taking several heaving breaths before reclining. He waited.

He did not look towards the door as the footsteps approached. Instead he stared at the ceiling and took off his pants, not bothering with his shirt or socks.
There were two rough, impatient knocks.

“It’s unlocked,” Oken called out. Still he did not look.

The door whined as it swung open. There was a momentary silence, and then the ugly voice said, “I take it we’re skipping the foreplay?”

“Go into the kitchen,” Oken said, still staring at the ceiling.

Another brief pause; then, “Okay.”

“Lay your clothes on the counter.”

“Why?”

“I’m paying you to do what I say,” Oken said sternly. “Not ask questions.”

“Fine,” the ugly voice said. The sound of zippers and cloth sliding against skin; then a long sigh, and finally the voice said, “Done.”

“Now,” Oken said. “Make yourself a sandwich.”

A nervous laugh escaped from uncertain lips. “I’m not really hungry.”

“I don’t care. Make it.”

Another sigh. “Where do you keep your dough?”

“I have something better,” Oken replied, a grin creeping across his face. “If you’re facing me, open the left-most cupboard above your head.”

There was a soft creak as she obeyed, then a few seconds of silence as she observed the contents of the cabinet. “Sweet fuck,” she whispered. “Is… is this real bread?”

He grinned. “Make a sandwich.”

“Utensils?”

“Next to the sink.”

He listened as she retrieved the utensils, the metal clinking delicately as her hands fumbled. He thought it almost sounded beautiful.

“What should I make?”

“Open the cooler.”

There came the soft suction-release sound as she pulled the door of the refrigeration device to, and peered within. “God Jesus…”

“Use whichever meat you prefer.”

Hesitation. “I… I don’t know… I’ve never had real meat…”

“Use some of the turkey and ham.”

He could hear the crackling sound of the wrapping material shifting beneath her trained fingers. “Don’t massage the meat,” he said. “Unwrap it, and make a sandwich.”

She obeyed, hastily cutting the meat and laying slices of it upon the bread. Oken could almost hear her mouth watering. “Don’t cut yourself. There’s mustard and relish in the cooler as well, if you would like some.”

“What do they taste like?”

“Try some and see.”

Again the sound of the cooler door, and then a clank as she dropped the knife upon the countertop. He could just barely hear the slimy, seductive sound of her teeth sinking through wheat, meat, and condiments as she bit into the presumably thick, overstuffed helping. He closed his eyes and smiled, feeling himself growing as her lips smacked from the effort to chew. His entire body shuddered and he felt the hairs along his arms and neck rise, and waves of pulsating euphoria coursed throughout his limbs. “Yes,” he whispered. “Yes…”

He could easily hear her swallow the last bite, and he gasped as she did so, his toes extended outward, his hands tightly clasping the stained sheets of his bed. He tried to control his breathing as she licked her fingers, slowing his heart rate down for the final stretch.

“What now?” she said at last, her ugly, aggressive voice strangely subdued.

“Now,” he said, “you come here and finish.”

…

A low, monotonous siren nuzzled them from their evening doze, echoing through the inlets of the Asshole and rattling the pictures and shelves that hung upon the four discolored walls. Slowly, as though being drawn out of some catacomb, Oken opened his eyes and arched his back, moaning in key with the siren as he did so, trying to raise himself from slumber. The serenity of the arousal lasted only seconds before being interrupted by an emphatic “Shit! Fucking shit, Jesus God fuck shit…”

The mattress bounced uncomfortably as Oread leapt up and stumbled across the floor, racing to track down the remnants of her discarded clothes. “Don’t just lie there! For fuck’s sake, help me!”

Oken propped himself up on his elbows, squinting at her in the darkness of the room. He turned his eyes toward the window but could see only the vague outline of the roof across the street, faintly silhouetted against the almost-black night sky. “You can’t leave,” he said, his voice squeaking. He cleared his throat, opening his eyes wide and blinking several times as he did. “That’s curfew,” he continued.

“No fucking shit!” she screamed. “Oh fuck, I’m in such shit now… Goddamn, Goddamn… why did I fall asleep?” she shouted, whirling towards Oken. “Why did you let me fall asleep?”

Oken only grinned and shrugged. “I figured you’d be gone when I woke up.”

He could see her shake her head in the darkness. “Shit, oh shit…”

“Hey,” he said, rolling onto his side and patting the bed next to him. “Why don’t you just sleep here? It’s fine, I’ll take you back to your establishment in the morning and explain what happened. It’ll be fine. I’ll pay more if I have to.”

There was silence as she stopped scurrying about. “If you wanted me for the night you could have just said so from the get-go,” she said. “You didn’t have to drug me.”

“Drug you?” Oken repeated.

“Oh fuck,” she said, her figure backing away from the bed. “You’re not going to kill me, are you?”

Oken laughed. “Jesus, sweetie, what the hell are you talking about? I didn’t drug you, and I certainly am not going to kill you. We both overslept, that’s all.” He sighed. “Look, it’s past curfew now. If you try and go back and get caught, you’ll be in far deeper shit. Just stay here and sleep. I’ll make you breakfast in the morning; then I’ll walk you back and explain everything. I have money, I can compensate for any loss your owners might have suffered.”

“They’re not my fucking owners,” Oread said defensively.

“I’m sorry,” Oken replied.

“You’re not doing me any huge favors.”

“Of course not,” Oken agreed. “Just trying to make things right.”

She was silent for several moments. “Okay then,” she said, moving towards the bed and sinking down upon mattress, pulling the covers over her as she did so. Oken felt her cool skin brace itself against his as she leaned into him, lying back and staring up at the ceiling.

He smiled and put his arm around her. “Okay.”

They lay in silence for several minutes, listening to the ambience of the night; the mechanical organs of the city grinding and moaning, quaking beneath the surface like some colossal beast from the Lost Age, threatening to rise and burst through. Muffled shouts and curses, laughs and cries reverberated through the decrepit walls of the complex; foggy suggestions of many scenarios, too far away and simultaneous to be understood individually. The sirens of PPC vehicles wailed in some distant quarter of the city, responding either to an incident that had been called in or an observation of post-curfew activities, the latter of which was a capital offense, even if the activity was the most harmless imaginable. Hundreds of murders happened in the city each night and many went unsolved if not unnoticed; mainly because murders almost always happened indoors, while post-curfew activity of any sort was deemed highest priority. You could kill someone and get away with it, as long as you did it indoors.

Oken was just about to fall back to sleep when Oread spoke. “What do you do?”

He blinked again, willing away the rest that had been so mercifully approaching. “Hmm?”

“I asked what you do,” she repeated. “I mean, you pay me for fucking you, offer to pay more tomorrow so I can keep my job, and not only that but you have authentic food in your cooler. How much did all that cost you?”

“Too much,” Oken grumbled, closing his eyes again.

“But you could afford it.”

He sighed. “I could.”

“So what do you do?”

“I manage and organize the transportation of illegal narcotics,” he said without hesitation.

Silence.

“I’m not joking,” he said.

“You’re pretty trusting,” the ugly voice said. “You just offer up that information to me? How do you know I won’t go running to the PPC?”

He grinned. “I’m tossing the dice. I’m willing to bet that you would rather participate with me than turn me in.”

Although hesitant, Oken could sense her excitement. “What do you have?” she asked.

“You name it,” he said.

He heard her swallow. “Offal?”

He nodded.

“Diash?”

“Yes.”

“Corn Gruel?”

“Yes.”

“Fairydust?”

“Yes.”

“Spikers?”

“Yes.” He could hear her breathing increase as she spoke. “And I have something even better.”

He imagined her brain scrambling for a possibility, struggling to solve the answer of the mystery drug. When he heard her breath catch he imagined that she had recalled the food from earlier; that rich, sweet, authentic meat.

“You have pot?”

He smiled. “I have pot.”

He felt her hand touch his chest, her fingers playing with his hair as they slid down, down, and still further down.

“Not yet sweetie,” he said, turning to lift a small, archaic glass water pipe from underneath his bed. “Not yet.”

He stuffed the bowl full and lit it, drawing a deep breath as he did so, and then passed it to Oread. Smoke rose about them in the sensual nocturne, and suddenly it felt as though hundreds of erotic sensors switched on all throughout their bodies. Skin melted into skin as they collapsed into each other, swearing that they had become one being; one completely natural, organic being writhing in the twisted sheets like sea creatures of the Lost Age dancing upon the surface of stormy waters. The mattress bucked and bounced, sending them arcing across the waves, bellowing with the tempest. Passion erupted like thunder.

When the storm subsided, they laid again next to each other, eyes closed, chests heaving, skin still tingling.

“Why did you ask me to do that?” Oread said at last through desperate gasps.

“Do what?” Oken responded.

“Make a sandwich,” she said. “I watched you as I ate. You were… enjoying it.”

He grinned. “Your name is Oread.”

She laughed. “That’s not my real name. My real name is…”

“Shhh!” he gasped, rolling over and placing his index finger over her mouth. “No… no, don’t tell me. I don’t want you to tell me.” He shook his head, droplets of sweat dripping off his skin and landing on hers, bursting as they struck flesh. “I don’t want to know.” He rolled off of her, collapsing back onto his half of the mattress. “I wanted to see something wholly natural,” he said. “I wanted to see something… divine.” He drew up his arms and placed his hands behind his head, feeling his muscles tighten as he did so. “I wanted to love something divine.”

“I’m not a goddess,” she said as her voice dwindled, drifting off and into the winding, spiraling corridors of sleep.

“Yes,” Oken began, his own eyes succumbing to the weight of weariness. He felt then as though he floated up and off the mattress, hovering helplessly but safely in a wide and secure embrace. “You are…”
 
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Wow, that was fucking awesome. I love your characters and how they interact; I think they contributed at least as much to the filthy, seedy atmosphere as the descriptions of the setting did. This is the kind of stuff that makes me jealous because my talent for characterisation is just abysmally feeble. There are plenty of great touches in your setting description too though, like the glorious flying loogie, the oblivious bum with change scattered about him, and the idea that breaking curfew is more of a 'sin' than murder. This is just a great little world you've created here Pat, and I hope you're able to build on it even more over time. I could suggest some things that I think could be improved, but I'm reluctant to because I feel like I'd be nitpicking. It really is a fine story.
 
Thanks Grant, I appreciate it!

I actually have more to that story, which I plan on posting as long as people want to read it. I'll post the next part later this evening.

And feel free to share your criticism; even if it is nitpicking, I like hearing every little detail that people think could be improved upon.
 
Einherjar86 said:
And feel free to share your criticism; even if it is nitpicking, I like hearing every little detail that people think could be improved upon.
Click to expand...

I figured you'd want me to - I just thought it might be more appropriate for me not to shoot off my mouth right from the get-go for a change. :)

My main problem with the piece is actually the whole first paragraph, with all the talk about Oken's aversion to killing bugs; it seems really rambling, uninteresting, and doesn't add much of anything to the story imo (though of course I've only read part of it so I'm speaking from ignorance). I just think you need a more grabbing introduction, because that one really dragged down my motivation to continue reading.

I also want to comment on the second paragraph a bit, because it contains a lot of your setting detail. Something about the way you describe it is rather overblown, and a lot of the language you use could be either pared down or reworded into something more effective, i.e. the use of "melancholically" and "sullenly" in the same sentence to describe the same object, or the variety of ways you describe the smell ("fetid matter", "menagerie of odors", "noisome and repulsive", etc.) that become tedious because they're all somewhat interchangeable. One thing I do love, though, is the colloquialism "the Asshole" to describe Barbaros Circle, that's a nice touch. Also, I think your descriptions get much better later on in the piece, especially with the "They lay in silence for several minutes..." paragraph; I find that part wonderfully nuanced and very evocative. I can really picture myself in Oken's place right there, just taking in the atmosphere of the city, and it's a truly beautiful feeling.

That's all that's on my mind for the moment. I'm sure I could come up with more minor shit if I read over it another time or two, but those are the things I feel are most important to point out. I'm of course neglecting to mention all the great little details and ideas scattered throughout the entire length of the story which are too numerous to comment on, so don't let my above bitching lead you to believe that I find the majority of the story lacking in well-writtenness, because it simply is not the case.
 
King Drunkard said:
I write about the Indianapolis Colts and the NFL. In fact, my friends and I are nearing completion of our own website.

Also, I started writing a book reminiscing about significant moments in the NFL this past decade. I'll be working on this for a little while longer but I'm making good progress.
Click to expand...

I want to see the book you have about the NFL.I will buy it.
 
When I was in high school I wrote 90 pages of single spaced (MS Word) gay porn about Lord of the Rings characters with a couple of my friends, but that's not something to be proud of.

I like writing little bits of fiction but I find it hard to write conversation and really keep a plot going. The part I enjoy most is developing back stories for the characters.
 
vihris-gari said:
I figured you'd want me to - I just thought it might be more appropriate for me not to shoot off my mouth right from the get-go for a change. :)

My main problem with the piece is actually the whole first paragraph, with all the talk about Oken's aversion to killing bugs; it seems really rambling, uninteresting, and doesn't add much of anything to the story imo (though of course I've only read part of it so I'm speaking from ignorance). I just think you need a more grabbing introduction, because that one really dragged down my motivation to continue reading.

I also want to comment on the second paragraph a bit, because it contains a lot of your setting detail. Something about the way you describe it is rather overblown, and a lot of the language you use could be either pared down or reworded into something more effective, i.e. the use of "melancholically" and "sullenly" in the same sentence to describe the same object, or the variety of ways you describe the smell ("fetid matter", "menagerie of odors", "noisome and repulsive", etc.) that become tedious because they're all somewhat interchangeable. One thing I do love, though, is the colloquialism "the Asshole" to describe Barbaros Circle, that's a nice touch. Also, I think your descriptions get much better later on in the piece, especially with the "They lay in silence for several minutes..." paragraph; I find that part wonderfully nuanced and very evocative. I can really picture myself in Oken's place right there, just taking in the atmosphere of the city, and it's a truly beautiful feeling.

That's all that's on my mind for the moment. I'm sure I could come up with more minor shit if I read over it another time or two, but those are the things I feel are most important to point out. I'm of course neglecting to mention all the great little details and ideas scattered throughout the entire length of the story which are too numerous to comment on, so don't let my above bitching lead you to believe that I find the majority of the story lacking in well-writtenness, because it simply is not the case.
Click to expand...

Thanks a lot man.

To address your points, the first paragraph does have some relevance to the story; but it might not be best suited for an opening. I'm not sure why I chose it, but something about it appeals to me. Maybe I'll try and work it in somewhere later in the story. As for the second paragraph, I agree that it's overwraught, and it's something that I've been thinking about for a while. I originally purposefully put in all that language because I really wanted to drive home the point that this is a disgusting world the characters live in; but you're right, the vocabulary gets redundant after a while. I'll need to revise that section.

If you're interested (or anyone else, for that matter), here's the next portion of the story, wherein the "plot" is developed:

Freedom of Birds- Pt. II

He woke to the cold of her corpse. He was not sure if it was because of his torpor from having only just awoken, but he felt a strange apathy towards the sight of her light blue skin, as though he was looking through a thin film of glass of which she lay on the other side. His eyes moved down her body, and the first thought he found himself thinking, disgustingly, was how much he had enjoyed fucking her. He blinked and drew away presently as he felt the gravity of his situation slowly descending on him. His arm was still draped across her abdomen. He snatched it away, feeling bile rising in his throat. Now the horror dawned on him and he shuddered, actively trying to scurry away from her body, and toppled off the edge of his mattress. He landed on the cold floor with a thud and rose slowly to his feet, which felt as though they were made of iron and melded to the floor. The terror grew from his core outward, wrapping its tendrils around his veins.

She lay upon his sheets, her arms stretched up above her head, her legs crossed at the ankles. Her eyes and mouth were open, frozen in a petrified image of final horror. Her breasts sat lushly to either side of her chest, balanced beautifully in her ultimate pose. The blue hue to her flesh gave her a godly tone, and Oken found himself thinking that her name suited her more in death than in life. Or her pseudonym suited her at least; she had never spoken her true name.

The next thoughts that raced through his mind were what to do. He had never even seen a dead body before and now he had one in his apartment. What had happened? Who had done this? He racked his brain, trying to recall the events of the previous night. Whatever had occurred, he had slept through it. How had he not woken up? How had the murderer been so silent? There were too many questions, and his mind was still groggy from a pot-induced sleep.

He dressed himself in a haze, thankful for the mechanical habits of pulling one’s trousers on his legs. He looked briefly out his window as he pulled a sweater over his head. The street was mostly vacant, but more people were emerging from their hovels every second. He donned his favorite jacket and opened his door, stepping out into the hall and descending the stairs to the ground floor, realizing as he did so that he was not sure why he was running. He should be notifying the authorities, shouldn’t he? But no… no, that was all wrong. Whoever had done this had killed Oread and left her there beside him, for him to find upon waking. He remembered nothing, could give no details about her killer. Whoever had done this had orchestrated it so that he would take the blame. He was the prime suspect. The only suspect.

He burst out of the door of his establishment and onto Gorgon Street, forcing himself to walk. He swallowed and sucked in a deep breath of the morning air, clogged with bioticides and fumes from the industrial plants. In a silent but brisk gait he made his way toward the Asshole, his eyes darting about as he did. His mind was racing with dozens of unanswered questions: would he return to his apartment, and when? What about his things? Where would he go? When would they find the body? None of these uncertainties helped to quell his anxiety, and he found himself walking increasingly faster as the thoughts raced about. His hands were shoved deep into his pockets and his head was hung low, avoiding the gazes of any passersby, trying to maintain an aura of inconspicuousness but in a state of perpetual worry that all he was doing was garnering attention. In the end, he supposed that was exactly what he was doing.

He felt a brusque hand latch onto his arm, jerking him out of his catatonic stupor, and found himself staring into the eyes of a somewhat squat, pudgy man near his own age. His heart stopped.

“Hey there buddy,” the man said in a tone that exuded “cop;” the kind of tone that donned a veil of camaraderie but made no honest attempt to sound pleasurable. It was a mocking tone; one designed to instill fear.

“Let me go,” Oken said, doing his best to mimic an annoyed civilian; which, in truth, he was.

“Easy mate,” the man said, taking his hand away. “That’s no way to speak to a fellow Gobredthian.”

Oken breathed, trying to slow his heart rate. “Apologies,” he said quietly.

The squat man grinned and retrieved a badge from his coat. “Agent Manimus Perdio,” he said in an offensively confident tone. “PPC.”

Oken scowled. “Don’t you have better things to do than annoy an innocent citizen?”

Manimus laughed. “A citizen,” he chortled, and smacked his lips. “‘Innocent’ is yet to be determined though. Tell me…” He turned and pointed at Oken’s apartment building. “You live there?”

Oken was frozen inside, and for a terrifying second he did not think he would be able to respond. “No,” he said at last. His voice was unnervingly quiet.

“No?” Manimus said, looking back at him. “Because my boys and me just saw you leave that door. You sure you don’t have a bed in their somewhere?”

“No.”

“No you don’t, or no you’re not sure?”

“No I don’t,” Oken said more forcefully. “And what business is it of yours?”

“Careful,” Manimus said, leaning close to him. “The PPC has justifiable interests in more areas than you’d care to know, friend.”

Oken realized that he had to be cautious. “No, I don’t live there.”

“Then why is it you just exited that building?”

“I was visiting a friend.”

Manimus grinned. “Might be you take us up to her room and introduce us. Or his room, maybe…?”

Oken shook his head. “She’s not there.”

“No? Where’d she go?”

Oken leaned forward. The man was a good six inches shorter than he was, but at least a foot broader in the shoulders. “She went to work.”

“And why aren’t you at work?” Manimus was grinning even wider now, apparently pleased with himself.

Oken swallowed. “Vacation time.”

“I’ll bet.” Manimus stuck his own hands in his pockets and nodded several times. “Well, come on mate. Show us to her room and we’ll see if maybe she hasn’t left yet.”

Oken had no choice. He found himself being marched back into his apartment building, up the steps he had climbed down only minutes before. As he did so he began cursing silently. Why was he leading them back upstairs? Why closer to his room? They didn’t know which room was his… did they?

“Which one?” Manimus asked.

He had to think, had to think fast. His eyes darted along the hall. There were only five doors to choose from on the second floor, besides his own. He could only choose one. He suddenly found himself wishing that he had spent more time getting to know his neighbors.

He approached the nearest door, unsure why, although he recalled how whenever he heard any kind of racket on his floor it always seemed to come from the rooms in the other direction. There was no time for hesitation, and he could no longer change his mind. This was his final decision. He raised his hand and knocked twice.

As he stood there in front of the door he thought his heart was going to explode. He could not imagine how his face was not red. He could feel his pulse literally thumping just beneath his skin as though his veins were ready to pop. He held his breath.

Ten seconds passed… twelve…

“Knock again,” Manimus said.

He did, this time louder. A brief moment of fear settled on him afterwards as he realized that knocking too loud might rouse one of the other tenants; he had no idea whether or not anyone would recognize him, but he preferred not to take the chance. Just ten more seconds now… five…

A door opened somewhere down the hall. Oken turned, his lungs burning.

An elderly man popped his head out of the door next to Oken’s apartment. He squinted in the dim light of the hall and curled his upper lip.

Manimus stepped back, clearly in order to give the man a good look at Oken. “Good morning sir,” he said politely. Fucking pig, Oken thought. “Do you know who lives here?”

The old man seemed to hesitate, but then nodded. “That’s Meena’s room. Don’t you go about bothering her now, you hear? She’s a nice young lady. Nothing like the mophead that lives next door.”

Manimus nodded. “I understand. Do you know where she’s gone?”

The elderly man squinted again. “She’s gone to her job, like a normal person. Why the hell do you care?”

Oken breathed a sigh of relief; but it was short-lived.

“Sir,” Manimus said, holding out his hand. “Do you know this man?” He gestured toward Oken.

Oken could not have run even if he wanted to. Everything had suddenly crashed down on him. He prepared himself for the abrasive clutch of government claws.

Then the man answered. “Never seen that man in my life. What are you cops doing, dragging a poor vagabond like that off the street?” Then the man retreated back into his apartment and shut the door.

As they walked back out onto the street Manimus gave Oken a gentle shove. “Get the hell out of here,” he said, the frustration clearly present in his voice.

Oken did not say a word, but as he left he heard Manimus mutter behind him, “Fucking derelicts.”

The Asshole was crowded with vendors and entertainers by the time he reached it. The statue of Creon rose solemnly above the dismal crowd of oxygen peddlers, jewel vendors, udu salesmen, jugglers, mimes, dwarfs, legless dancers, and thespians, all ebbing and flowing around each other in a kind of chaotic milieu, a patriotic homage to an uncivilized nation. More than a handful of bare breasts were thrust at Oken as he navigated the mob, some of which featured fresh cuts and surgical marks. He kept his hands near his face, forcing his way through the throbbing, freakish assortment as he did so and made his way toward Bacchus Boulevard. When at last he emerged from the heedless throng he drew in a deep breath and started making his way along the sidewalk. In the distance he heard a man singing in a mockery of a soprano and emulating what could only be described as a bohemian rendition of a bawdy pastoral melody, surely taken from an ancient collection of folk songs. He hummed along in mild satisfaction and even chuckled at some of the lines; but then the voice vanished into the incessant clamor of laughter and shouts, and Oken found himself missing the satire.

He did not know where he was going, and in the meantime his thoughts wandered back to the dead whore in his bed. He swallowed, wondering when Manimus and the PPC would discover his secret, and what course of action would be taken upon her discovery. She was a prostitute, that much was certain; the PPC usually didn’t strain itself that much over the used meat, but that did not mean they would let him get away without a fight. It was too late to go to them now, even if he thought it was a good idea. There was a chance he could argue that he had arrived and found her dead in his apartment; but Manimus and his crew had seen him exit the building, and that shot any alibi full of holes. There was no way he could prove he was somewhere else.

He stopped at a vendor and purchased a cream shake. The thick, soupy treat went slowly down his throat, and his teeth and tongue played endlessly at the tip of the straw. He tossed it in a trashcan when he was finished, licking his lips and tasting a trace amount of cyclamate. He cringed.

As he continued a loud sound drew his attention to the center of the street. Several motorcarts veered dangerously in a wide arc to avoid a development that was taking place on the asphalt. Oken paused momentarily and then took several steps toward the incident. Several feet ahead of him and through the roiling host of onlookers he could see a bubbling, smoking mass hunkered in the middle of the growing congregation. He ducked, scowling, trying to get a better glimpse.

Another man rushed up beside him. “Did you see it?”

Oken shook his head, still approaching the misshapen heap. It sputtered and wheezed as he approached, as though it strove to rise.

“Damn thing just fell outta the sky,” the man continued. “Coulda killed someone!”

Oken looked at him. “It fell?”

The man nodded. “Damned aviads. They shoulda done something about these things a long time ago now. There’s no use for ‘em anymore! They just fly around, attacking anything they calculate as prey. It was only a matter of time before they started fallin’ from the damn sky!” The man shook his head. “Coulda killed someone…”

Oken stepped up to the carcass of biomechanical disarray. Sparks flashed out of rubbery flesh, and wires protruded from eye sockets that may have once appeared genuine; silicon feathers torn and stained. The creature looked a pitiful mess upon the hard asphalt of the street, and Oken felt a temporary moment of fleeting sympathy and sorrow for the fallen Icarus; an artifact of specific purpose, soon to be forgotten forever, bereft of meaning and left in the garbage and refuse piles of civilization. There was little need for the artificial predators anymore. All had been devoured, and the haunting intimation settled on Oken that the entire world was swallowing itself. Humanity was at the epicenter of a vast, encircling tidal wave that was bearing down upon them, threatening to consume everything. They would be the last to perish.

“Fucking war,” the man next to him muttered.

“I’m sorry?” Oken said.

“Those fucking cocks up in the Phallus don’t give two shits about taking care of things like this. They’re too busy out in the wastelands fighting those bastards, while here in the city things are falling to pieces!”

Oken turned his attention back to the broken aviad while the man prattled on. He no longer thought of the war with the Physions as a temporary event that would soon come to a satisfying and conclusive end; the whole ordeal had gone on for too many decades for any cognizant human being to truly believe that it would ever end. The Provincial Offices (referred to by most civilians as ‘the Phallus’) were an impenetrable tower; a vast fortress permitting only those with the highest clearance to enter, and from its bowels the strategies of the war were decided. Nothing ever made it to the papers, except for the occasional vague headlines OPERATION AGAINST PHYSIONS PROVES SUCCESSFUL or PPC ORDERS PARTIAL REMOVAL OF TROOPS FROM FRONTLINES, the latter of which could often be followed by (although it never was): AND RADICAL DEPLOYMENT OF SEVERAL THOUSAND MORE!!! The PPC carried out its war in secret, and every so often common citizens disappeared from their homes, ushered away in the wagons of PPC motorcarts. Most of them were never seen again.

It was well-known by all Gobredthian citizens that the Physions had long ago penetrated the walls of the city. The war was not something that raged only beyond its limits, but also on its streets, in its apartments and businesses. The PPC arrested new ‘suspects’ every day. Whether or not they were truly guilty none could verify; but then, none dared (or perhaps cared) to question. Oken, for one, tried to convince himself that he didn’t care. He fed the drug trade, which was an ever-thriving enterprise. As long as he could afford his naturals, he would be happy.

But when the PPC raided his apartment, they would find everything; and Oken would go from simple ‘murder suspect’ to ‘PPC’s Most Wanted List’ for ‘Possessing Illegal Naturals in Vast Quantity,’ which was as bad, if not worse, than breaking curfew. And then he would truly feel the fire beneath his ass.

Naturals had already been outlawed when Oken was born, but he had developed the unquenchable taste for them as a boy when his mother let him try what she had called ‘chocolate.’ He had since then never been able to locate another bar of the delicacy, but he had been able to procure other naturals. He had always been careful never to flaunt his acquisitions, and only shared them with precious few people. Oread had been a risk, that he had known; but he had never imagined it would lead to this.

His mother had told him about the signs and banners posted about the city, although they were few and far between now; but every so often he would stumbled upon one that was partially exposed: HARBORING AND MAINTAINING NATURALS IS A CRIME; THOSE FOUND DOING SO SHALL BE DEEMED RECALCITRANTS AND MADE TO STAND BEFORE A TRIBUNAL OF THEIR PEERS TO BE STONED UNTIL DEAD. Such warnings were once on every street corner, every storefront, every office building. The signs had since all but disappeared, but the admonition remained. Apparently enough people had been slain to get the point across.

The man next to him was stilled muttering and cursing incessantly when Oken felt a hand grip his forearm. He expected to find Manimus again, the man’s hulking frame scowling up at him before knocking him down to slap on the cuffs; but the cop was nowhere to be seen. Instead, standing next to him was a thin dark-haired woman. She would have been attractive if not for the dark circles beneath her eyes and the sunken cavities under her cheekbones (symptoms of a habitual diash user).

He started, but got a hold of himself when he realized he wasn’t in any danger, or at least immediate danger. “I’m sorry, do I know you?”

“You’re Oken Red?”

He drew back slightly. “Who are you?”

“I’m a friend of Oread’s.”

He withdrew his arm and took a step back.

“Don’t worry,” she said, her voice cracked and hoarse. “I know you didn’t kill her.”

Oken’s brow furrowed. “How can you even know…?”

“In about twenty minutes the PPC will issue warrants and paperwork for breaking down your door. It’s all bullshit, of course; there’s no real need for them to go through all this red tape. All an agent has to do is submit an informal request and he can get permission to kick down any door he damn well pleases; fucking pigs. There’s no real limit to what they can do; but the Phallus likes to follow those old traditional mores. It gives them a sense of legitimacy, I suppose; or maybe they’re rationalizing the fact that all they’re doing is invading the privacy of every citizen in this damned city.” She shook her head. “I’m rambling; back to you. After they break down your door they’ll find Oread, not to mention your stash.”

“Now that’s impossible…”

“Stop,” she said, cutting him off. “Just listen. Your name’s going to go up on their Most Wanted List and you’re going to have so many agents assigned to you to that it’ll feel like they’re crawling up your asshole. It won’t be safe for you. You need to go underground.”

Oken thanked his lucky stars that the fallen aviad was attracting so much attention. After a quick glance around, he concluded that no one within his immediate vicinity was paying any attention to him whatsoever. He turned his eyes back to the woman. “How can you possibly know all this?”

“There’s someone who can explain everything to you,” she said quickly. “Better than I can; and it’s not safe to do so here. You need to do exactly as I say. You know Hog’s Lullabies?”

Oken nodded. “Rictor Hog’s place. That’s where Oread worked.”

“Right,” the woman said. Oken thought he detected a hint of sarcasm. “About an hour after curfew, there’s going to be an event taking place in the basement of Hog’s place. You need to be there. There’s a man who can tell you all you want to know.”

Oken shook his head. “Curfew’s ten hours from now.”

She nodded. “Until then you’ll have to hide out. Underground. The sewers.”

Oken crinkled his nose. “The fucking dregs?”

“It’s the only place you’ll be safe. Try and stay on the streets and they’ll find you. They always do.”

He took a deep breath. “Why should I trust you?”

She looked at him for a brief moment, clearly contemplating something. Then she revealed a small palmscreen. It flickered to life and Oken found himself staring at an image of Oread, her face and voice as ugly as ever. She looked directly at him and said: “Harpina, this is Oread phoning in. Red’s got everything we thought, including a few things we didn’t know about. I’ll divulge the rest of the details when I get back tomorrow. I slept past curfew. Fucking stupid, I know; don’t ask. Anyway, I say he’s good. We’ll have to bring him in and talk with him, but I’d give the go ahead. This is Oread, out.”

The palmscreen clicked to black.

“What the fuck?” Oken began. “Who the hell…?”

“Hog’s place,” she interrupted. “Tonight, one hour after curfew. Don’t be late.”

He frowned. “How do I get to Hog’s place if I’m hiding underground?”

She drew in a breath, like she was half-surprised that she had convinced him. “There’s a manhole near Creon,” she said lowly. “Go down it.”

“Are you kidding!” he shouted. “That place is more crowded than a regent’s orgy!”

“You have…” She looked at something on her palmscreen. “Fifteen minutes now before they start looking for you. Until then, no one will care if they see a man going down into the sewers. I doubt many will even notice. Hurry, and go. When you reach the bottom, follow the channel beneath Harp Street and take it to where Hog’s Lullabies would be. There’s a door with a green ‘P’ painted on it. Go through it. Someone will meet you from there.”

Oken took all this in with more than a slight measure of disbelief. “Who the hell are you?” he asked finally.

“He’ll explain everything to you.”

“How do I know who he is?”

“He knows who you are,” Harpina said. “He’ll find you.” She turned and slid among the surrounding participants who had gathered to witness the carcass of the fallen aviad.

“What do I do until then?” he asked before she was out of earshot.

She looked back at him and shrugged. “I don’t know and I don’t care; just make sure you do it down there!” She pointed at the ground. Then she was gone, lost among the crowd that amassed before the decrepit spectacle.
 
This is great stuff Pat, you've got me hooked on the story now. I'm a little inebriated so I'll spare comments for later (aside from two typos: "but every so often he would stumbled upon one" and "The man next to him was stilled muttering"), but I enjoyed this bit as least as much as the first, and can't wait to read more.
 
Thanks for pointing those out Grant, I appreciate it. Here's the rest of the story. I figured I'd post it all instead of continuing to do it in parts:

The Freedom of Birds- Pt. III

He stood in the midst of the reprobate clowns that littered the Asshole and stared down at the stinking and steaming circular manhole, dreading having to snake his fingers through the slimy grip-holes and lift the heavy, putrid hatch from where it sat. A faint stench of refuse reached him through the apertures and offered an almost mocking intimation of what awaited him in the depths.

He brushed his hesitation aside and knelt, squeezing his fingers through the holes, and lifted the plate. Warm decay smacked him in the face and he dropped the heavy manhole cover next to him, gagging and hacking. He tried to hold his breath. The stench was not the only thing that offended him, but also the sensation that every breath he took lathered the inside of his nasal passages and lungs with a thick residue of muck and mire. He leaned forward and lowered himself down into the gaping tunnel, grabbing at slippery rungs even as he questioned why in hell he was doing this. Before his head disappeared beneath the edge he cast one final glance upward; to his surprise, no one was looking down at him. A caravan of breasts and pudgy mutant fingers floated past him, and then he was below the threshold, out of sight and descending into the deepening dark of the sewer.

He traversed what he thought was thirty or so rungs when he struck the bottom. Near-total darkness penetrated every corner and every avenue, but he could see the distant green flickering of methanol lamps. Between himself and those torches all was abyss, and he had to convince his mind that when he took a step forward there would still be ground beneath his feet. He felt as though he was a lifeless space-flung object, hurtling between stars through the wide void beyond the atmosphere. He held his breath as he walked, cringing every time his foot sank beneath liquid. Sometimes he heard something squish beneath the sole of his shoe, forcing him to suppress the urge to gag.

When he came upon the first band of exiles he started, hesitant to walk among their group. Several of them looked up when they noticed his presence at the very edge of the light their lamps cast. Wrinkled faces and dirty hands with long fingernails. Clothing that was torn and soiled. A variety of buckets in different sizes used for God-knows-what; Oken did not peer down into one to find out. Holding his breath, he moved through the underground project for the destitute.

Somewhere an infant began crying. He heard several grunts coming from a darkened corner and could just barely decipher two shapes thrusting, heaving on top of one another and screaming out in primeval tongues. Oken kept moving. Twenty feet or so later he nearly tripped over a man lying across his path. “I’m sorry!” Oken exclaimed, stumbling.

The man was scrambling to his feet. “Mmmmm-wahtchit!” Oken could not see his face in the darkness, but he could smell him; an odor of sweat and what, for some reason, he thought was mildewed hair. “Yyyy-yyou… who’re you?”

“I’m very sorry,” Oken said as he kept moving.

“Mmmmmright… thatsit, thatsit, thatsit… go, go, go-on, go-on…”

He turned and continued forward, leaving the first of Gobredthia’s outcasts behind.

It was several hundred yards before he came across the next colony; this one had only one source of light- a fire, burning dimly in the middle of their camp. Oken stopped and stared but could see little more than their silhouettes in the darkness. He passed cautiously along the edge of the small group; and although none of them spoke a word (or made any sound whatsoever) he somehow knew that they watched him as he passed, perhaps making certain that he touched nor took any of their belongings.

The next group he came upon was a formidable village of exiles; domiciles made of discarded steel and other metals abounded, some even two stories, which caused Oken to realize that he had stepped out of the tunnel and into what could only be described as a massive subterranean citadel, its domed ceiling rising at least one hundred feet above his head. He stared up in wonder. How deep had he gone? He was going the right way, was he not?

Much to his dismay, he chose to inquire of his location. “Excuse me,” he said to a greasy-looking woman who was passing. She stared at him with wide eyes. Most likely because, in her eyes, he appeared clean. “I’m sorry, do you know if we’re under Harp Street?”

“Not frum around dis here playce,” she said, strangely accentuating her words. “You frum…” She pointed up. “Up der?”

He nodded. “I am.”

“What’s you cummin’ down heeere fur?”

“Safety,” he decided to say.

She nodded. “Safe-teee’s good. Good, good.” She pointed up. “We’s callin’ dis Apecock Alley, but up der’s Harp Street.”

“I’m below Harp Street?”

She nodded.

“Thank you so much,” he said. He grinned half-pleasantly at her. “Why Apecock Alley?”

“Dey make ‘em here,” she said. “Cock dogs. You had ‘un?”

He scowled and shook his head.

“Yum!” she exclaimed, pointing to her mouth. Then she scurried away. As he watched her go his eyes widened. “You have apes here?”

But she was gone. An elderly man eyes him suspiciously from a small doorway. Oken lowered his eyes and continued on, casting nervous glances about as he did so. He stopped when he saw two massive, hulking bodily frames hanging above a series of vending carts. He stopped and stared.

“You want ‘un?”

He looked down and saw a vendor staring at him. He gestured up with his thumb. “A dog?”

Oken looked back up. “Are those real?”

“Sure’re.” The man cocked his head inquisitively at Oken. “You frum up top?”

Oken nodded, not taking his eyes off the dead gorillas. “Where’d you get those?”

“Dey bring ‘em in fer us.” The man was cleaning off a bloodied chopping blade. “Care fer ‘un?”

Oken shook his head. “No, I… no, thank you.” Then he turned and kept walking.

“Good fer virlty,” the vendor called out, but Oken barely heard him. He turned his eyes down again, now refusing to look around except to discern his path. He moved quickly through the crowd, not making eye contact with anyone. When he was almost clear of the proto-metropolitan establishment he heard a hideous voice call to him.

“Oy, oy, Ay!”

Oken stopped and turned slowly to his right. He was now on the outskirts of the village, but there were still some small shacks scattered about. He squinted into the darkness and saw a small, hunched figure. Light cast from the fire of a nearby barrel revealed contorted features and misshapen limbs. Oken took a protective step backwards.

“Aaagh,” the figure coughed and spat. “Youda! Bye, bye, bye, bye… youda bye?”

Oken’s head jolted sideways in a gesture of confusion. “I’m sorry?”

“Soowwy?”

Oken just stared.

“Bye, bye, bye, bye,” the thing said again, this time waving its hand.

Oken slowly raised his own hand and waved it twice.

The creature leapt up and laughed explosively, rushed forward like an ape and began running in close circles around Oken. He did not even have time to feel surprise or fear. He watched the thing race around him.

“Bye, bye, bye, bye,” it muttered as it ran. It finally stopped in front of him and looked up. Oken could see two small, surprisingly aware eyes set below a protruding forehead. “I’s bye?”

Oken shook his head. “What?”

It pointed in the direction Oken had been walking. “I’s bye?”

Oken’s brow furrowed. “You stay.”

It cocked its head. “Godagodagodagoda! Waaahsee?”

Oken backed away. “I’m sorry, I don’t understand…”

“Baaaagh!” the creature screamed. It leapt once and pounded its hands on the ground, slapping them continually.

Suddenly Oken noticed another figure emerging from the shack in front of him. “I’m sorry,” the figure said in surprisingly good speech. “Fred gets a bit frustrated when trying to speak with people.”

Oken stared at the deformed creature. “What is it?”

The stranger shook his head. “Something beautiful, that’s certain. Is it not?”

Oken raised an eyebrow. “Truly.”

The stranger paused. “Where are you going?”

Oken only pointed. “That way.”

The stranger nodded. “Good. You’re going in the right direction.”

“I’m sorry?”

“You’re going the right way.” The stranger put his hand on the hunchback’s shoulder. “Come now, Fred. Let’s let the nice man go on his way.”

It looked up at the stranger. “Ugggonaa… gonaa… be-buh-buh…buh-back?”

The stranger shook his head. “I don’t know.”

“Awuuhll gunta suh… suh-suh-suhsee…suhsee! Awuuhll gunta too? Tusegehn?”

“I don’t know,” the stranger repeated. “Come now. It’s time for a nap.”

Oken watched the two figures disappear into the shack. Then, in bewildered silence, he turned and set off down his path again.

He found the door long before curfew would arrive. He sighed and leaned against the wall opposite the door, no longer caring if he soiled his jacket. Then, in exhaustion, he sank down onto the ground and drew in his legs, wrapping his arms around his knees. It was not until several minutes passed that he sensed someone sitting next to him. He let out a gasp when the person spoke. It was a man’s voice, but it spoke in a cogent manner. “Ay, mate.”

Oken could see nothing. A small bit of blue light illuminated the P-marked door, but other than that there was no light to speak of in the conduit. He pushed himself away from the voice several inches.

“It’s alright, lad,” the voice said; a gruff masculine tone. “I ain’t gonna hit you er nothin.”

“Who are you?” As the seconds went by Oken realized that his eyes were adjusting to the darkness, and the dim blue flame allotted him some form of nascent vision. He could just make out an elliptical head atop a thin neck.

“No’un. Just sittin, waitin.”

“Waiting?”

“Waitin fer da game.”

“What game?”

“Hog’s game?” The man cocked his strange head. “I figgered dat’s what you’re doin too.” He shrugged. “Makes fer good bettin.”

“Oh yeah,” Oken said, not caring for any further conversation. “The game.”

“It’ll be a goodun tonight too,” the man continued. “Couple naaasty mutts, er so I ‘erd. Should be some good fun.”

“Mutts?” Oken asked.

The man looked at him. “‘ounds. Dogs. Make em foyt. You sure you been to ‘un o these afore?”

Oken nodded slowly. “They have dogs?”

“Git em from da Persavation clinic, er so’s I heard. Quite a trill. Makes a man feel live, watchin dem dogs go at it. Dey’re real live animals dem, like dey use to be all over. Dat’s natural as ye’gn git, right der. Two lives, fightin to da death; what more certain validation of bein could der be?”

Oken did not reply, and he thought the stranger could sense his animosity. The man did not speak another word, but there came the soft sound of cloth scraping against cold stone as he pushed away from Oken; perhaps, unintentionally, Oken had instilled a small amount of fear in the man. He grinned to himself.

It was an alien sensation, sitting underground waiting for night to fall. Down in the sewers it was always dark, and time seemed a creature of some distant, illuminated world. For all Oken knew life had ceased and he was hovering in a black tomb talking to the apparitions of his thoughts. He sighed and checked his digital readout that played across the palm of his hand. All the time in the world.

The rumbling rose slowly at first, just a faint intimation somewhere deep within the cavernous depths beneath the city; but as the minutes crawled on it grew louder and more physical, sending rough and unsettling tremors through the sewer tunnels. Churning and grinding, the gears of the city heaved onward.

“Dere dey go agin,” the stranger said after their prolonged silence. “I listen to em every night. Know what I tink?”

Oken shook his head, now anxious for any distraction from the calamity that seemed to fall around him.

“I tink dis city don’t sit in one place fer too long.” He leaned close to Oken in the blackness. “I tink she moves. Like a giant turtle. Never too fast er nothing; just waddles along whenever it’s outlived its stay in one place, or if it feels threatened.” He leaned back. “You ever look at a map of Gobredthia?”

Oken shook his head.

“Damn confusing, dey are. Some chart New Talon as less den a towsand miles away. Others say it’s less den a hundred. What’s dat tell you?”

“Someone’s wrong?”

The stranger laughed, a unnerving cackle in the dark. “Damn right someone’s wrong!” His laughter sounded like someone hacking up phlegm. “Someone’s wrong indeed. Whole damn city’s wrong. It don’t even know where the fuck it is.”

Oken was frowning. “You say this city moves?” He waved a hand at the filth-ridden walls around them. “What about all this? Does this go too?”

The shape of a head snapped towards him in the dark. “It don’t move like a bulldozer,” the stranger said. “Da laws of physics still apply. Da gears beneath dis city… dey move different, like dey tear a hole in space, you know… like a black hole…”

Oken shook his head and looked away, back towards the door. “My ass.”

“Don’t believe me?” The stranger guffawed. “Take a hike then! Go outside da city walls, walk around fer while, get yer bearings, and den try and find yer way back. You’ll wander till d’end a days.”

“If you say so.” Oken sighed and tipped his head back, resting it uncomfortably on the mucous walls. “It doesn’t feel like we’re moving.”

“Never does,” the stranger retorted.
 
Oken was unsure how much time had passed when there came a disconcerting clank from behind the door. He stared in terrified anticipation as it opened to a corridor of black pitch. From within the darkness a voice called out. “For the games?”

“Aye!” the stranger next to Oken hollered. He could sense the man rise shakily to his feet. Oken followed suit and pursued the man through the door. As he reached the threshold he felt a firm hand press against his chest. “You Oken Red?”

He would have stared in bewilderment at his interrogator if he had been able to see him. “How do you know my name?”

“The Artificer is waiting for you.” The hand disappeared.

“Hey!” Oken shouted. There was no response, and he felt no one as he groped about helplessly in the lightless space. He shuffled along, his breathing and heart rate elevated as he tried to find his way through what seemed to be an endless labyrinth; but there was no choice on which way to go. He encountered turns and stairs, but never any crossroads or fork to afford him an extra dose of agony and confusion. He followed blindly, grasping for anything that might indicate his position or allow him to illuminate the impenetrable darkness; but nothing came beneath his fingers, and no visible end to the corridor could be seen. A growing sense of claustrophobia began to descend on him and forced him to brace himself between the two walls of the corridor simply to convince his brain that they were not closing in on him. The stench of the dregs was less intense now, but another odor had replaced it; a musk that he had never smelled before, but that reeked of live flesh and sweat. Oddly, his mind wandered back to Oread and their sweat-drenched ordeal of the previous night, and the scents that he had so delighted in at the time. It was strange how the olfactory sense could conjure such vivid and strange memories; and he thanked God or whomever for the relief, as it made bearable the remainder of his wretched journey.

When at last he saw the faint traces of light he breathed an immense sigh of relief. The corridor came to an end and opened into a wide arena of sorts, a miniscule version of an amphitheater; rows of makeshift benches circled around a sunken, encaged stage, and numerous spotlights hung perilously from the ceiling were trained on the boards. The arena was occupied by civilians of every sort; men clad in business suits mingled with men wearing what looked to be recycled polymer films. And as he walked forward into the convening disarray, he saw a long line of dogs, barking and biting, being led toward the great cage. Ambivalent sensations rose in his gut, and he felt an incredible joy at witnessing these creatures he had before only read of, while also feeling what he could only identify as shame. He blinked and looked away.

He had no idea who to look for. As his eyes surveyed the crowd he saw many people eyeing him strangely; for some reason he believed that this “Artificer” would not do so, if he was indeed expecting him. So he tried to locate among the varied mob the man who, as best he could tell, looked at him with a sense of expectation and confirmation.

He gasped when he finally laid his eyes on the man.

The legless creature hobbled toward him in all its abhorrent beauty; its arms were thick and muscular and carried its torso with what looked like little effort; its chest ended in a circular fusion of flesh and machine- bolts held what appeared to be a mechanical bowl in place at the bottom of the torso, narrowing at its base to a dull point; a man’s head protruded from atop the torso, as any normal human being- but this head was half attractive countenance, half biomechanical abomination; loose skin flapped at the edge of metal, barely covering the muscle beneath; lights flickered on the titanium (or whatever it was) plate, and a blue glow emanated from where the eye should have been; thick, black hair covered half the head- the other half was smooth, cold vanadium alloy; but the voice that emerged from its mouth was undeniably human.

“Oken,” it said calmly. “Welcome. I’m the Artificer.”

Oken only nodded.

“At this time I’m sure you’re wondering what in hell is going on and why- not to mention how- I know who you are. Well, I’m here to answer your questions. That’s not my only purpose in this life, which for me has been extended graciously by the grotesqueness of my abdominal extremity; I’ve had numerous callings and duties. But for now, I am here to explain to you why you’re here, and why the woman you know as Oread is dead.” The creature grinned. “But first, come with me; I’m sure you’re hungry and thirsty.”

Oken was, he realized, and he followed the Artificer into a large room located on the far right side of the arena. Once inside, the legless man flicked on a light to reveal before Oken a smorgasbord of delicacies that put his own collection to shame. His mouth turned to water.

“I know you’re familiar with some of these items,” the Artificer said, smiling. “Help yourself.”

Oken stared in amazement at the shelves before him, and then turned to look down at the man. “How have you come by all this?”

“Questions,” the Artificer said, shaking his head. “The answers make more sense if you’re properly nourished.” He gestured with a hand. “Go on, eat.”

Oken noticed that he had not toppled over when he gestured. “How did you do that?”

“What, this?” Suddenly the Artificer took away both his hands and sat, hovering a foot or so above the ground. “This little baby is a wonder,” he said, patting the metal base of his torso. “Has more to it than meets the eye.” He nodded toward the shelves with his head. “Eat.”

Oken settled on packaged filet mignon with mashed potatoes and green beans. As he ate he thought that this had to be a dream; nothing could taste this good.

The Artificer took the spot across from Oken, at the small table in the middle of the dining area. “Delicious, yes?”

Oken nodded vigorously. “Yelth,” he said through a mouth filled with food.

The Artificer smiled. “I’m glad you like it.” He floated away from the table and toward the open door that looked out into the arena. “I’m not proud of what we do here,” he said. “We’re lucky enough that Hog lets us stay down here. Even though the man harbors no ill will against the Physions, he’s still a businessman.” The Artificer turned in midair. “He still has to make money, and offering fights between live animals is certainly a good way to do it.” He floated back to the table. “And besides…” He leaned forward, lowering his voice to a whisper. “…we have far more dogs than we let on.” He winked.

Oken chewed slowly and swallowed. “You’re part of the Physions?”

The Artificer nodded matter-of-factly. “Haven’t always been. I joined sometime after I… well, this…” He waved a hand over the metallic contraption beneath his chest. “…happened.” He looked up and smiled. “Oread, in fact, was the one who recruited me.”

Oken stopped chewing. The wonderful taste in his mouth no longer registered. A hundred implications came bearing down on him. “Oread was part of the Physions?” he said after swallowing.

The Artificer smiled wider. “There’s much more,” he said, nodding. “I have a story to tell you, Oken Red.

“Something is rotten in the state of Gobredthia,” the Artificer began; and with the invocation of an ancient poet, so did his story.

“Do you know how the Provincial Offices came to be called the Phallus, and how Barbaros Circle came to be called the Asshole?”

Oken shook his head.

“Because one day, several years ago now, a smartass junkie, high on fire and pissed about the PPC evicting him from his apartment, said a bit too loudly to one of the Circle’s infamous proletariat courtesans, ‘Those bastards do nothing but fuck this city in the ass!’ Thus, it came to be that the Provincial Offices became known by civilians as the Phallus, and Barbaros Circle became the Asshole.” The Artificer leaned back and grinned. “Unfortunately, that junkie got himself arrested for a number of felonies and misdemeanors, the least of which were disturbing the peace, public indecency, lewdness, and being under the influence of an illegal substance.” The Artificer drew a cigarette from a compartment on his metallic abdomen and set it between his lips. “Care for one?” he asked. “They’re pure; none of that shit they used to put in them.”

Oken nodded slowly and accepted one.

The Artificer leaned forward and lit it for him, then lit his own. He exhaled slowly, watching the smoke trail from his lips. “The whole thing’s a fucking sham,” he said. “Illegal substances? The deal with drugs is nothing more than a front. The PPC doesn’t give two shits about fire, offal, danko or any other of the chemical drugs; they just have to appear to, according to the old constitutional laws.” Draw… exhale.

“Why don’t they just repeal those laws?” Oken asked.

The Artificer shrugged. “It’s easier to pretend to follow them. You know the shit they really care about; wheat, flour, glucose… the list goes on, as you are entirely aware. Meanwhile, the wealthy up in Misenus Estates can afford to bribe the officials for their share of naturals. The whole thing’s a fucking joke. Arrest and kill those of us down here who possess the illegal naturals, then sell them to the rich at an obscene amount. The PPC isn’t a governmental protection agency. It’s a fucking business.” He shook his head. “Although not on paper, of course. The big fish have shares in naturals; it’s the most secretive but also the most profitable trade in the industry, and it isn’t even technically part of the fucking industry. All this is done behind closed doors, outside of the public’s knowledge.”

Oken shook his head. “I’ve figured all this,” he muttered. “Obviously I never knew any of it, but any common jackass with at least half his wits can figure out that more ‘illegal’ bullshit goes on within the Phallus than outside it.” He leaned forward. “Why was a member of the Physions in my bed last night? Furthermore, who killed her and why are they after me?”

“You know the answers to the last two,” the Artificer said. “You just want me to say it out loud so you can pretend I’m the crazy one and not you.”

“I’m not conspiracy nut,” Oken said, shaking his head.

“It’s not a conspiracy,” the Artificer said. “It’s a war, and in times of war certain casualties are acceptable; in this case, a certain young drug dealer by the name of Oken Red.”

Oken shook his head, not understanding.

“Oread was in your bed last night because the Physions know about you, Oken. They sent her as an agent to check you out. They knew you purchased naturals under the table, using money you made from dealing chemicals, but they weren’t sure exactly whose side you were on, or if you were even on anyone’s side; and furthermore, there were some things you were in possession of that even the Physions don’t have.”

Oken raised an eyebrow. “Like what?”

“Your marijuana, for one.” Draw… exhale. “The Physions are interested in anything natural, even if it used to be an illegal drug.”

Oken frowned. “What do you mean? I thought pot’s illegal because it’s a natural?”

The Artificer chuckled. “Well, I suppose that is why it’s illegal; but it was illegal even before naturals were, back when things still used to be green.”

“How come?”

The Artificer shrugged. “Fuck knows; business, mostly.” He grinned sadly. “Same old song and dance, my friend.” Draw… exhale. “Anyway, as I was saying; the Physions know about you, and they were doing an investigation of their own to determine your source and whether or not you’d be a valuable asset. Unfortunately, Oread didn’t maintain her cover well enough. Someone got to her.”

Oken narrowed his eyes. “Who?”

“You know who,” the Artificer replied. “Maybe not who exactly, but you know what affiliations the assassin has.”

“He’s an agent of the PPC?”

“Who else?” Draw… exhale. “Somehow they got to her, and probably through getting to somebody else; somebody involved pretty deep with the Physions but without the wits to keep his or her mouth shut. Regardless, they snuck in and killed her; right beside you, while you slept.”

“To frame me,” Oken said.

The Artificer nodded. Draw… exhale.

Oken shook his head, grasping for invisible straws in his mind. “But… why? Why couldn’t they just kill her and call it a victory in the name of Gobredthia? Why couldn’t she be a victim of war?”

The Artificer sighed and lowered his cigarette. “This is where it gets complicated.” He leaned forward again. “The PPC and the Provincial Offices aren’t only involved in corrupt trading of naturals. They’re embroiled in other shit too. One of those happens to be human trafficking and prostitution.” Draw… exhale. “Gobredthia is a huge fucking city, and when people go missing they usually don’t turn up again, especially if the PPC doesn’t want them to. Hundreds of young girls go missing every month, never to be seen again. Some wind up imprisoned in the mansions of the perverts up in Misenus Estates. Others, well… they end up in establishments such as Rictor Hog’s.” Draw… exhale. “Rictor Hog is no saint, and I wouldn’t jump to defend the man at his condemnation; but he’s not the worst of the big time pimps. He treats the girls generally well, and although I don’t wish the life of a prostitute upon anyone, I can say with a degree of confidence that I would rather a girl get sent to Hog’s Lullabies than to any of the other shitholes in this city.” Draw… exhale. “So. The PPC helps sometimes in rounding up girls for the prostitution rings; usually homeless girls, runaways, junkies, occasionally they’ll ignore or even participate in a kidnapping if the price is right. Then they bring the girls to the pimps and take a share of the profits. Rictor Hog has made a fortune doing this. He’s one of the most successful sex peddlers in the entire fucking city; so much so that he’s managed to fashion a formidable army for himself on the streets and in the fucking fortress that’s sitting above us. I’m talking automatic weapons, canons, armor-piercing rounds, grenades, military-issue firearms, state-of-the-art defense technology… the works. Going up against him would be like going to war with one of the other provinces. Not only that, but he’s got the allegiance of the other pimps as well. All together, they’re a fucking Allied Powers.” Draw… exhale.

“Now, about a decade or so ago,” the Artificer continued. “After the declaration of war on the Physions, Rictor Hog- along with some of the other big time pimps- has begun offering his services to the exiles.”

Oken frowned. “He’s peddling girls to the Physions?”

“Not exactly,” the Artificer said. “He’s offering his establishment as a kind of sanctuary for the Physions.” Draw… exhale. “You see, Hog’s a businessman, and like all good businessmen he knows a profitable enterprise when he sees one. When the war started turning in favor of the PPC, Hog saw a way to make money off the Physions. So he started communicating with them and organizing means of espionage. Female spies infiltrated the city through the sewers and came to Hog’s place, and from there they can go onto the streets freely posing as prostitutes. The PPC keeps no record of the girls they send to the pimps. Why the hell would they? As long as the girls can go running back to Hog and he claims them, they’ve nothing to worry about.”

“Why would Hog do this?” Oken asked. “What does he have to gain in the long run? He’s managing fine by dealing with the PPC. Why aid the Physions and in turn risk ruining the PPC?”

The Artificer shrugged. “Maybe he’s shortsighted, only sees one step ahead; or maybe he doesn’t think there’s any way the Physions can win; or, maybe- just maybe- he has some kind of moral convictions we don’t know about. No one can really say, and the Physions haven’t bothered to ask.” Draw… exhale. “Anyway, the point is: about two years ago the PPC and the Phallus became aware that Hog was doing business with the Physions; but now they’ve dug themselves into a rut, see? There’s nothing they want less than to declare war on the fucking Hog. They can stop trading with him, but then they’ll lose a large portion of their ‘income.’ They can kill one of his own, but then they know he’ll respond in kind.” The Artificer bit his lip. “You see, the spies of the Physions aren’t merely pretending to be prostitutes; otherwise, what allegiance would Hog owe them? They pay him for the undercover opportunity, but they also fully participate in the activities of prostitution. So, in effect, they’re his; and this guarantees them protection, as well as vindication if any ill should befall them.” Draw… exhale. “So, the PPC finds itself in quite a pickle. It can’t kill any of the girls, but if it does nothing it allows spies to freely roam the streets of Gobredthia.”

Oken stared unblinking at the Artificer as the clouds slowly rolled away from his mind’s eye. “So I’m the patsy?”

The Artificer nodded. “You’re the scapegoat. If the PPC blames Oread’s death on you they can sit back and watch while Hog exhausts his resources looking for you.”

Oken narrowed his eyes. “Then why am I sitting beneath his establishment?”

“Don’t worry,” the Artificer said. Draw… exhale.

Oken hesitated and then moved on to his next question. “Why haven’t they thought to do this before?”

“I don’t doubt that they have.”

“What do you mean?”

The Artificer glanced up briefly as though seeking the ceiling for the correct words. “They were waiting for the right person,” he continued. “I don’t know how they got so close to Oread and the people she was fucking, but they must’ve somehow known about you.” He looked back down at Oken. “About your stash, I mean. You see, they couldn’t just pin the blame on anyone. They need something good to publish in the news. ‘Junkie Trader and Possessor of Naturals Kills Prostitute’ looks better than homeless man or, even worse, ‘working-class man.’ When they knew they could pin it on a man who’d committed the worst crime by keeping naturals, they pounced. You were the optimal scapegoat.” Draw… exhale. “But don’t worry, like I said; they didn’t anticipate one thing.”

“What’s that?” Oken asked.

“That Oread was visiting you for a reason. They know the spies sleep with customers, because that’s how they earn Hog’s loyalty. They bring in money for him. In all likelihood, the PPC believes that you were just a routine fuck for Oread; a witless client, an innocent bystander (well, not innocent- but innocent of any involvement with the Physions), which is why they’re banking on Hog going after you. But he won’t, because the Physions have already told him that you didn’t do it.”

“How can they know that?” Oken asked. “Why would Hog believe them? Okay, Oread was ‘investigating’ me, or whatever; but that doesn’t preclude me from killing her. Other than my word, how do they know I didn’t do it?”

The Artificer nodded. “That’s a good question.” He raised the cigarette to his lips, but this time he did not inhale. Instead he seemed to stare, for a long time, straight ahead. “Harpina showed you the last transmission we received from Oread, correct?”

Oken nodded.

“That transmission was received shortly after midnight. As is protocol, immediately after she radioed in, Oread injected you with a microscopic dose of biological nanobots. These little guys are still swimming around in your bloodstream, but don’t worry; they’re totally harmless, and you’ll piss them out of your system around midnight tonight, twenty-four hours after she injected you with them.”

Oken found himself looking down at his arms, his skin. “Why the fuck did she do that?”

“Because,” the Artificer said. “They monitor all aspects of your biological functions and send your position back to a central computer at the Physions’ headquarters. They wanted to make sure they had a lock on you in case something transpired during the night; which, something did. It’s just a precaution of sorts, to guarantee they don’t lose you.”

“Fine,” Oken said, shaking his head. “How does that prove I’m innocent?”

“Because you never woke up,” the Artificer said. “After you were injected and the signals sent back to the computer, mere minutes after Oread terminated her call, you didn’t wake up until this morning.”

Oken sat back silently, his brow furrowing and mouth curling in the slightest of smiles.

The Artificer grinned. “So. You’re alright.”

Oken’s eyes darted to the cyborg’s face. “Who are you, exactly?” he asked.

The Artificer humbly shrugged. “I’m just an intermediary of sorts; a forger of ties.”

Oken nodded slowly. “So, what happens now? What will Hog do?”

“Go through the motions,” the Artificer replied. “Act as though he’s looking for you while never finding you. It appears you’re adept at concealing your whereabouts.”

“And where do I go?”

“There are people waiting to pick you up. They’ll arrive sometime tonight. Until then you’ll stay here.”

“What do they want?”

The Artificer shrugged. “I’ll let them speak for themselves.” Draw… long, deep draw… and exhale. “There’s a bed here. You can sleep if you like. And help yourself to the food.” He began to hover away, towards the door.

“Where are you going?”

“Oversee the game,” he responded. “I have to earn my stay here.” He suddenly dipped slightly, whatever mechanism enabling him to hover apparently having been switched off, and he caught and held himself up with his hands. “Shouldn’t be too long.”

“Wait,” Oken said as the half-man turned away. “I have one more question.”

The Artificer turned back to him with a slightly impatient smile. “I’m sure you have many more than just one,” he said smugly. “Fine. Ask it.”

“Who are the Physions? What do they want?”

“There are two questions there.”

“I know,” Oken said, waving an irritated hand. “But they complement each other, don’t they?”

“Fair enough, I suppose,” the Artificer said. “But it’s not a simple thing to explain, and certainly not an easy or brief explanation. Let me ask you something:

‘The cultivation of those sciences which have enlarged the limits of the empire of man over the external world, has, for want of the poetical faculty, proportionally circumscribed those of the internal world; and man, having enslaved the elements, remains himself a slave.’

“Do you know who wrote this?”

Oken felt immeasurably stupid as he shook his head, not even certain of what he had just been told.

“I thought not,” the Artificer said. “Well, let me try and put it this way, as simply as I can (and you must forgive me if this statement doesn’t completely answer your questions, but in order to be simple I fear I must be brief, even if brevity doesn’t do justice to the whole purpose of the Physions): if man is indeed a slave, then the Physions have set out to liberate him.”

Oken paused, waiting for more. “Is that it?”

“Far from it,” the Artificer said, slightly annoyed. “But as I said, to explain them fully to you would delay this game which I am scheduled to observe. So I fear this explanation must suffice for now.”

“But what is he a slave to?”

“Many things,” the Artificer said. If he was eager to make it to his game, he showed little sign of it. “Something truly is rotten in the state of Gobredthia. You’ve heard the rumble of the gears, turning slowly in the bowels of the beast; but what gears turn behind the locked doors and opaque windows of the Phallus? What institution has wrought this society and the legislation that it lives by? What demon is conjured here; what ungracious wretch stalks these streets, so terrible that it persuades artists to set aside their brushes, writers to put up their quills? A presence such as that which inhabits this city should inspire genius, like the words I have only just recited to you; but this presence stifles creativity, smothers genius, and leaves the practitioners of art anaesthetized and devitalized. It is a virus, and whether it has spread here from other places or whether it originated here and spread elsewhere none can know; but it infects these streets and streets everywhere, in other provinces, and its outcome is manifested in the iron blight that surrounds this city and all cities. It is this infection from which the Physions wish to liberate us. Do you understand this?”

Oken shook his head and offered an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry, man,” he said. “I don’t get it at all.”

The Artificer grinned. “You will.”
 
For the next several hours, Oken sat in silent contemplation while the gladiator dogs fought to their brutal deaths in the arena. At first Oken thought the whimpers and cries would be too much to bear, but as the hours wore on they started to drift into his periphery, or into the background of his thoughts; he found himself concerned with more pressing issues and, gradually, the pain and torture of the animals was forgotten.

He sipped aged whiskey from a polystyrene cup. It was not the ideal method of imbibing the beverage, but Oken never complained with alcohol, especially when it was made from fermented grain. Along the far wall of the dining room there sat a series of metal shelves, upon which sat volumes of books that Oken had never seen before. A collection of empty beer bottles sat on the counter and bore a variety of names and colors that dazzled his eyes. And behind that collection sat a small ornament, not much larger than one of the bottles; it sat in a brown pot beneath a strange, purple light, towards which it raised its tiny green hands as though to pull itself through the sun. Oken rose slowly and approached the plant, not taking his eyes off of it. The drawings he had seen in books did no justice to the beauty of the phenomenon before him. Green could never look as good on paper. His hand that held the whiskey shook slightly.

“It’s photosynthesizing,” came a voice from the doorway.

The noise startled Oken and he turned to find a young man standing in the doorway. “Christ,” he said, breathing heavily.

“Didn’t mean to scare you,” the man said, holding up his hands and smiling.

Oken nodded. “It’s alright.” He looked back at the plant. “What did you say it’s doing?”

“Photosynthesis.”

“What the hell is that?”

“It’s the process by which a plant survives,” the man said, taking several steps into the room. He stood next to Oken and stared down at the tiny green entity. “It’s a miracle.”

“What do you mean? How does it survive?”

“The plant converts light into energy,” the man continued. “Sunlight is best, but unfortunately the sun doesn’t shine like it used to, and if the PPC found this thing growing outside they’d exterminate it on the spot.”

Oken frowned. “Why?”

The man turned to look at Oken. “‘Only nature can enslave man and only when the existence of each last entity is routed out and made to stand naked before him will he be properly suzerain of the earth.’”

Oken frowned. “What the hell’s a suzerain?”

The man chuckled. “You aren’t the first to ask. The Artificer tells me that you’re a bright lad.”

“Not sure how he came to that conclusion.”

“He’s pretty good at knowing people.”

“If you say so.”

The stranger grinned. “Mind if I show you something?”

Oken shrugged. “I’ve seen more today than I thought possible.” Nevertheless, he followed the man out of the dining room and into the arena, which, as the hours had ticked by, had become vacant.

Except for the corpse of a dog in the pit.

The man did not say anything, nor did Oken. In respectful silence, the two men stared down at the dead animal. Oken felt a strange kind of calm wash over him; a euphoric sense that despite his confusion, he was beginning to understand something. Unfortunately, this in turn confused him more because he had no idea what it was he felt he understood. He shook his head at last and looked away. “Shame.”

“Why?” The stranger stared at him. “Why do you think so? You’ve never seen one of these creatures before, have you?”

Oken shook his head, somewhat startled. “Not in real life. I’ve read about them. I’ve seen pictures.”

“Pictures aren’t the real thing,” he continued. “You don’t own a dog, you’ve never touched one. Why do you care for it?”

Oken scowled and turned his head in a defensive manner. “Look, I don’t know what you’re trying to convince me of, but…”

“There’s no convincing.” Now the man’s whole body was turned toward Oken. His hands shook in embellished gestures of excitement. “I’m only asking you: why do you care?”

“Because!” Oken exclaimed. “I just do.”

“But why? There’s no reason to. If it was a human being maybe you could make a legitimate argument- I’m not sure- but this is an animal! What’s so special about it?”

Oken felt cornered, threatened. He felt as though he was in the pit. “There’s nothing special about it…”

“So you’d care for any dog that was killed brutally like this?”

“Yes!”

“Tell me why!”

“Because I don’t know!” Oken shouted, throwing his hands in the air. “Jesus Christ, it’s just a fucking animal, I know, but when you look at it…” He stared down into the pit, pointing at the broken, bloody carcass. “…you know that it was alive. You know that it felt what happened to it.” He looked back up at the stranger. “I don’t know why I care. I just do.” He hesitated, drawing several deep breaths. “So fuck you!”

The man smiled. “I’m sorry.” He knelt by the edge of the pit and looked down. “There’s a spot of land, very far away from here, where we can bury this animal. Its body will decay and seep back into the soil. On this same spot of land we’ll plant the small sprout that you saw growing in the kitchen. The sprout’s roots will absorb moisture and nutrients from the soil, some of which will be provided by the corpse, and it will grow.” He rose to his feet. “Of course, this is all hypothetical. The animal is going to decay long before we can transport it.” He looked at Oken. “But if we could get it there in time, what I just described would happen.”

“So, what,” Oken said, shaking his head.

“So,” the man continued. “That’s life. This…” He waved a hand at the enclosure surrounding them. “…this isn’t. This is a mimicry of life, smoke and mirrors, a pathetic attempt at self-preservation through biologically engineered self-replication and technological innovation. We’re burning used fuel for energy, putting polyethylene masks over dying faces, burning our own farts for warmth.” He looked at Oken. “So much more was given to us.”

Oken swallowed tentatively. “And you’re fighting to bring it back?”

“If only it were that simple,” the stranger said. He shook his head. “There’s a very slim chance of it coming back, and not anytime soon.”

“Then what are you fighting for?” Oken asked. By now he was certain the man was an exile.

“For life,” he said. “Real life. Unbridled, unfastened, untamed life.” He withdrew slightly, having edged forward in his passion. “Freedom,” he said at last, through eyes that glistened. “The oldest struggle of all.”

Oken checked himself, making certain he knew what he was doing. He stood before a man whose name he did not know, whose true intentions were a mystery to him. He was a criminal, wanted by the PPC for a crime he did not commit. He was an ignoramus, a loser, a sinner. He had to make sure that he knew what he was doing; but for all his attempts to rationally approach his predicament, he found that his mind kept returning to the same inherent response. In the end, he realized he knew what choice he would make all along.

He nodded. “What do you want me for?”

The man sucked in a long breath and blinked back the tears that had just barely started to fall. “You found a channel through which to purchase the cannabis plant, otherwise known as marijuana. On top of that, you also are-or, were- in possession of numerous other naturals deemed ‘illegal’ by the PPC, some of which have eluded even our detection. We seek your cooperation in aiding our quest to preserve all that we can of what once was, so that, once the stages of reformation begin, we might recreate the world as it was intended.”

Oken held his breath while he contemplated his next move. He could have asked several questions: what’s in it for me, or what’s the pay, or how good are the beds; but he did not ask any of these questions. It was something conditioned into him that urged him to ask such questions, but it was something far more deeply interfused that convinced him to ask none of them. Instead, he asked: “Do you have chocolate?”

The stranger grinned wider. “Yes. We do.”

“Alright.”

The man flashed a triumphant smile. No, not triumphant, Oken decided: unconditional, reciprocal, requited. A smile of both thankfulness and eagerness. “Oken Red,” he spoke softly. “Welcome to the Physions.”

…

On the morning of October 16th, 763 of the Post-technological Age, the Provincial Protection Corps tore the drug dealer named Oken Red’s apartment up from its foundation, tossed everything within, scoured every inch in search for any clue as to the whereabouts of the man. Rictor Hog had failed to pursue any agenda regarding him, as far as the agents of the Phallus could tell. Where they had expected a war to ensue between Hog and any gangs affiliated with Red’s transactions, they got nothing; Hog went about as he would on any other day, and when the PPC questioned him about it he merely shrugged: ‘She was a whore, nothing more. You think I’d get into a pissing match over one lousy cunt?’ When the PPC challenged Hog’s apathetic reaction to his murdered employee, they got more than they bargained for.

After just one prostitute was left strangled on Hog’s front steps with a sign warning him not to play games, the pimp took it to the next level. Whether the gears beneath the city still turned, no one could tell; it was impossible to hear them over the concussions of proximity mines and ground to ground shells. In the next seven months the Phallus lost its head, the PPC lost forty percent of its personnel, and the city of Gobredthia suffered a ‘formidable economic stagnation,’ or so the news anchors claimed (although several underground journals remained adamantly staunch in their declaration that Gobredthia had been ‘stagnant’ for as long as most people could remember).

Although Hog and his allies eventually succumbed to the onslaught of the PPC and the Military, it remained clear to most citizens of the province that the city had been dealt an agonizing blow. Things returned to what was considered ‘normal’ in Gobredthia in the aftermath of what became known as the ‘Whore War.’ However, when the PPC scavenged through the remains of Hog’s establishment they made several interesting finds, including a large hall filled with empty cages and the door of which featured the word ‘Kennel’ stamped on it in block printing, and also a variety of illegal naturals which would never again see the light of day (or, they would see it through the windows of Misenus Estates). At any rate, the Whore War had ended, and the war with the Physions resumed. However, a sentiment that something was different still lingered about the city. The impending shadow of the Phallus no longer reached as far as it once had, and many citizens began, in the privacy of their homes and in the hushed and smoky crevices of the city’s numerous dive bars, to contemplate whether or not the Physions had somehow been involved in the Whore War all along.

Meanwhile, on the west side, a new brothel opened to the public, featuring exotic women from places most people could not pronounce, and operated and managed by a mysterious ex-soldier of the Provincial Military who went by the perplexing moniker of ‘the Artificer…’

The End
 
Wow, that's quite a lot of work you've put into this. I'll try to get it read sometime this week when I have an hour or two to sit down and focus. Thanks again for sharing, I'm sure I will enjoy it.
 
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