Punktown: Shades Of Grey Part 13

Back at my office, I feed the fish in the big greenish dome that dominates the center of the room. The ornament on top, the winged head of a cherub, unscrews, you see, and I sneak something out from my pocket and drop it into the water.

The fish, like so many things in Paxton, are not native. They look like spearheads, glinting and sharp. Sometimes, when I stay late at the office, I shut off the lights and watch their pale luminous eyes moving in the murk; it's like a tiny round universe of drunken stars.

The treat sinks down through the green water, like a jellyfish in rigor mortis and the fish devour it, even the bones.

I take several calls; bland voices, like my own, fill my head. At least I don't have to smile on the phone, though I've learned how to sound like I am smiling. Near five, I loosen my tie and my secretary runs over some notes with me. Her perfume reminds me of spices I ate on a business trip last year.

It's dusk when I leave the office building, a great copper thing with verdigris trim and pillars holding rotating globes of bluish gas on a platform on the roof. Birds don't know what to make of the things. It's a five-minute walk to the rail. A stationary chrome robot scans my pa.s.s and I creak through the turnstile. Of course it's crowded on the tram and my cabin smells like bubble gum.

I am lucky enough to get a seat. My neighbor is a skinny bearded man in a grey suit like mine. He is reading a magazine that boasts slathered, disproportionate body builders on the cover. He tucks his face close to the pages-looks like he wants to lick the ink off.

I wonder what the maid will have waiting for supper. I wonder what Medea is doing. Maybe she is in the whirl-tub with a gla.s.s of wine. Maybe a Sumo wrestler is in the big round tub with her. Maybe the wrestler has a p.e.n.i.s like a horse, an obscene water plant jutting out of the gurgles and steam.

I see Medea sitting naked in the water-it comes up to her belly and winks in and out of her navel. Her mild, proper hair is damp and disarrayed. She is leaning back against the padded edge of the tub and one of the submerged jets is pulsing against her a.s.s. She eyes the wobbling pink horse member.

The wrestler is chewing on a severed hand. His corpulent bulk rests-folds of slippery flesh piled there in the tub. The incongruous p.e.n.i.s rises higher, a periscope. Sloshing, Medea edges toward the man. She wraps her hands around the thick thing and tugs up and down.

The man tells her to do something, but his voice does not sound Asian, it sounds more like mine. Medea complies, bending her face over the head of the phallus, which is the pink of the umbrellas at the cafe. Medea rubs the swollen head against her lips and maps it with her tongue. The ogre grabs her wet hair and pushes her head up and down and her mouth makes slurping noises. She moans when he sputters in her mouth.

My phone rings.

"Denton."

It's a wrong number.

The man beside me takes a bite out of his magazine. He chews loudly, crunching on the glossy paper.

After dinner, Medea reads a story to the girls. She looks like my mother in that powder blue nightgown. It makes me think of when I was a small boy home sick from school, lying in my room listening to the gurgling of the fish tank, cuddling the balled up softness of my mother's nightgown. It always smelled like her hair. For some reason I also think of how cool it felt when she ran her prosthetic hand through my hair.

I sit in my study and have a gin and tonic as I work on the proposal for Sov-Labs. Medea is in the bathroom and I imagine that the maid is in there with her, behind her as she bends over the sink. The maid is a Nicaraguan brown, naked, with a fierce strap-on d.i.l.d.o jutting out. The woman is pounding the thing into my wife and their four b.r.e.a.s.t.s are swaying forward and back. The maid's nipples are like coins of coffee and Medea's blush like those umbrellas.

Medea has a face cloth stuffed in her mouth to m.u.f.fle her moans and the maid is sucking on one of her ears, her b.r.e.a.s.t.s now squashed against Medea's shoulder blades. The d.i.l.d.o is shiny black and it slurps in and out until Medea convulses, her eyes rolling back, the breath from her nostrils white on the mirror.

Carrying my drink upstairs, I listen outside the bathroom. The door almost hits me as Medea comes out, soft in her blue gown. She smiles and pa.s.ses me, going to the bed. I go into the bathroom and change into my pajamas, then brush my teeth.

I climb into bed and glance at her crafts magazine. Of course there's a picture of her in it-she is oiled and wild-looking, tied up with yarn on a table, surrounded by rustic rag dolls while a swarthy man in a pink turban stands masturbating on her b.r.e.a.s.t.s.

"That was a fine dinner," I say, looking away as my pajama bottoms strain.

"Oh, thank you, dear. G.o.d, I hope Maria comes back tomorrow. I really hate to cook."

The maid has been out sick for several days.

"Well, you did a fine job."

"You're sweet to say, Dean."

She flips the page.

"Good night, Medea," I say and I give her a peck.

I can't sleep. Medea is gone. I hear her down in the alley, her cries echoing up the side of the building as the Choom gang boys have at her. One is behind her, thrusting, one is kneeling in her face and she is s...o...b..ring, another is holding her ears like handles, guiding her head. Others have e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed on her back and in her hair, have rubbed mushrooms caps against her cheeks, have spit on her and pinched her and hit her. I know she's down there in the dark gulping and sweating, their tattoos grinning at her, her b.r.e.a.s.t.s jiggling, her eyes rolling back into her head.

"f.u.c.k her," I whisper into the dark.

I must go to the office. I am aching against my pajamas, the blanket obscenely tented. I rise quietly, so as not to wake her, dress in the bathroom. Downstairs, out of earshot...I call a cab.

The glow from the fish globe under-lights the placid features of the cherub decoration that sits on its top. I am erect, as if dowsing for the green water. The fish are like knives, their eyes glowing, moving. I unscrew the cherub head and it thumps on the carpet.

I know Medea is home on our bed and a husky Italian man is yanking at her nipples and grunting, driving deeply where my daughters came out. She is like a mammal caught in a trap, her face fierce with abandon, her legs wide open. Another man takes his turn; he is exotic, dark and his tongue is a cow's, big and umbrella-pink, and it drools slowly, up and down across her v.u.l.v.a. The blue nightgown is bunched up above her b.r.e.a.s.t.s and a thin muscular man with long dark hair is piercing her nipples while the next man pumps away at her. Now there is blood in a thin ribbon down her breast, the blood pink in her sweat and she is yelling at them, telling them what she wants.

My pants land on the floor by my shirt. My boxers follow. I am so hard! I put my palms against the big globe-it is cool against my belly.

"f.u.c.k me!" she tells them.

I strain with my legs, push so that my weight is on top of the globe. There is an opening and water-slashes of silver waiting.

"f.u.c.k me!"

I nudge blindly, feel my erection slide into the hole. The water licks at me and the fish come.

"f.u.c.k me!"

The fish come with their eyes glowing like ghostly sperm as I stab into the globe. They converge-it is a treat for them and they devour it.

VETERANS.

Concept by Jeffrey Thomas VFW Post 81...

The room seemed to be permanently sealed in a sickish green haze; cigarette smoke and faded neons merged to form a surreal mist. All the patrons in the barroom looked as though they belonged in the murk. They were, after all, fading memories reliving faded memories.

The bar itself was long and rectangular. Two old Chooms worked in the center, busily pouring shots and sliding taps. A traditional jukebox thumped dully. War relics such as swords and flags rested upon dusty walls.

The old soldiers strained cloudy minds to recall the glory and horror of wars long ago. Oh, how soon heroes fade. At least they'd survived, at least they had their pensions, at least they had the Post. No longer did they stand at attention, no longer proud and brave. Gravity tugged heavily at soggy age-drenched faces. Trigger fingers shook like bony vibrators. Once-keen marksman eyes hid behind fleshy lids, staring into p.i.s.s-yellow brews. Excluding only four, every veteran in the room was over 60.

They took up one of the short ends of the long bar. At one corner sat Kloud, in his mid-twenties, pale, with a long bony face, dark longish ear-obscuring hair, mustache. Long wide sideburns hid the shrapnel craters across his jaw. He wore a dark brown jacket of leather, black pants, red T-shirt.

Casper sat next to him, nursing a vodka kingpin. A few years older than Kloud, his light brown hair was crawling away from his large forehead to dangle down the back of his neck in disarray. His face was tight, menacing control, eyes lost behind cola-colored wire rims. His beard was nonchalant. His clothes were old: once-black T-shirt, light tan jacket, jeans and boots.

At the far end sat Dennison, a tall, thin man with long straight hair of dirty blond. He swept it across his forehead and stared down the bar through wire rim prescriptions. He looked intelligently tough. A curious necklace of short tooth-like objects hung around his neck, across his black T-shirt. The patch on his dark brown jacket showed a boar's face; it read: Tusk Company.

Sitting between Dennison and Casper, Murphy was physically the largest and most powerful of the lot. He radiated the contented power of a thick-maned lion. His face was strong, wide, with well-defined cheekbones, powerful jaw. His lips were a defiant bow, nose firm, eyes threateningly impa.s.sive, dark and smallish with low brows. He wore his customary heavy sheepskin coat with its deep tan outer layer and its soft cream lining. His tunic was loose, white, jeans faded, boots scratched. The tip of a sheathed bayonet hung down past the edge of his sheepskin.

Murphy watched a mist-blurred sign as it blinked: Knickerson on TAP. His eyes were clever-drunken.

"Another beer, Captain?" dark-haired Kloud asked in his boyish voice.

Murphy turned slowly and gave an almost telepathic nod. He pushed his long dark mane back over his ear, pushed it back leaving his forehead bare.

Kloud tapped a coin on the counter, an ancient warrior with a great toothless mouth responded.

"Another Clemens Light for the Captain."

The bartender eyed him with shrouded contempt and fidgeted beneath the bar. He placed a brown plastic bottle in front of Murphy.

They were used to the stares. The old men were from a different world. They did not know what to make of these long-haired young creatures. The patch with a boar's face belonged to a war that was no more than a myth. How could there be veterans of a war that did not exist? In their old wrinkled minds, the only thing they shared with those four dangerous-looking men was a bar counter.

Eventually the husks began drifting off into the night; some limped, some stumbled, some did both. It grew darker at "the Post"; the walls crept closer.

"I lost ma leg fightin' for this G.o.dd.a.m.n province," a gray-haired Choom was saying to the bartender. His face was a mess. The scars were indistinguishable from the wrinkles.

"An' now all I got is a half-a.s.sed government check, once a month. After I pay the rent, I barely got 'nough to buy myself a G.o.dd.a.m.n beer."

Murphy studied them with an emotionless mask.

"Yep." The Choom wallowed in his drunken wisdom. "I lost my leg for my province, but the d.a.m.n screwball part about it is, I'd do it again t'morrow. Not for the government's sake, but just for somethin' to do."

Dreams, concluded Murphy with stubborn military certainty. Dreams and nightmares ran together in that lurid green-lit chamber. His eyes drifted slowly across the far wall and focused on red digital numbers: 00:00.

"Let's go."

Kloud, hunched over an empty mug, snapped his spine back straight.

They rose simultaneously. Inebriated eyes followed them to the door. Murphy paused and turned.

"Five, c'mon, boy," he said, voice casual and deep.

The black dog sprang to attention from its curled-up state. It was tall and muscular, athletic. Its eyes had the same detachment as its master's. The "kamikaze" followed the four veterans out into Punktown's night; its left hind leg was jointed parkerized plastic, a crab's leg.

For lunch they went to Dennison's small eastside s.h.i.thole. The walls wore little more than cobwebs. A captured, bullet-teased Klu-Koza flag hung across an ugly plaster gap. f.u.c.k Rock music twisted from a portable. Beers and sandwiches cluttered a card table.

"Hey, Murph, you gonna eat?" Dennison asked in his Outback Colony accent.

Murphy was lost in thought, gazing out the window with a beer at bayonet level. He studied the leaves as invisible specters lowered them to the ground.

"I love the fall," he said pensively, softly. "It's the only time when death is beautiful."

"Peanut b.u.t.ter and jelly," Kloud said, disheartened, peeking between two slabs of bread. "My life revolves around peanut b.u.t.ter and jelly."

"Isn't it strange how trees look more beautiful in death than they do in life?" Murphy said, eyes glued.

"The trees aren't dying, Captain," Kloud said, tossing his sandwich down and replacing it with a beer. "Just the leaves."

Murphy dismissed the correction; insignificant.

Dennison was paging through his sc.r.a.pbook. It was full of newspaper and magazine articles.

"According to Joseph Marcelli, we don't exist," Dennison stated, pointing to an article in a monthly VFW publication ent.i.tled VET.

"Who's Joseph Marcelli?" Kloud asked.

"He's the top guy in the Veterans Administration."

"Oh yeah? According to my wallet Joe Marcelli doesn't exist. We didn't get the short end of the stick-we didn't get any of it."

"We got it up the a.s.s, that's where we got the stick," Dennison said. "He says here that since only four men survived the entire Klu-Koza war, that it would be a waste of time to push legislation that would give us a pension. No benefits. 'Course we could spend the rest of our lives and the rest of our paychecks in court trying to change that."

"Not me," Kloud said, sarcastically, "we fight for the government, not against it."

"n.o.body wants to remember Klu-Koza," Dennison said. "We're nothing but bad reminders."

"Ghosts," injected Murphy, eyes still lost in the silent rain of foliage.

"The f.u.c.kin' a.s.shole government's spending millions to rebuild the planet we nearly got killed trying to destroy," Dennison b.i.t.c.hed in disbelief. "Imagine that. The mother pluggin' ghouls got a nice big emba.s.sy right down on Central Street. Big bucks, man."

"One day we're warring 'em, the next we're bein' buddy-buddy. Doesn't sit right in my head."

"The Klu-Kozi have valuable resources to be exploited by the Choom and Earth governments," noted Murphy.

"We're bein' exploited," Kloud mumbled, beer shining in his mustache.

"Ditto, man," Dennison said. "Ditto."

Casper, peering over his sungla.s.ses, nodded.

Zevnor Rimbachus Jr. slid out from under the elevated hovercar, rubbing at his eye with a greasy paw.

"f.u.c.kin' slide shaft is caked with rot," he proclaimed.

Wrenches hung like medals on the wall's great chest. Dennison, Kloud, and Casper (Murphy's satellites) stood in front of it. They looked to the Captain.

"Well, Murph, she's your baby now."

Rimbachus Jr. only a.n.a.lyzed the problems. Murphy's gang did the real dirty work. The Choom walked out into the office area, wiping his hands on a rag.

Murphy gave a quick, nearly indistinguishable hand signal.