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There Aint No Justice 094
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| There Ain't No Justice |
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| #94 |
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- Squick -
by Eponymous Bosch
this story is entirely ficticious. any resemblance to characters
living, dead or imaginary is entirely coincidental and should not
be viewed as legally actionable, because it isn't. besides, the
nasty bits all take place in Simulation. Virtual reality, you dig?
so, the issue of consensuality doesn't even arise. besides, it's
only a story, right? it's not as if i have fantasies about going
around brain-fucking people. really. come on, okay, agreed, i
read alt.sex.bestiality, i'm sick, but i'm not as sick as some of
-you- sikfux. really, i think you people need serious psychiatric
attention. besides, i -know- that you are all out to get me,
aren't you? bastards.
- eponymous bosch
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The door ground open on poorly-lubricated tracks; Beran and Dava
frog-marched their captive over to the dentist's chair which had been
crudely mounted in the middle of the room, directly below Scanner's
cameras. He was wrapped, from his shoulders down to his knees, in a
sheath of tight black plastic. This didn't appear to be necessary,
however, as the captive was not resisting at all; in fact, he was the
very picture of slack mindless stupidity, as if he had been sedated
or brainwiped. Selby, who had been sitting at the Cable-TV monitor,
got up to examine the captive. Dava proudly gestured to him;
`Here he is, fresh from the Zurich State Correction Centre: Jules
Sangria. He was in for Aggravated Assault, Resisting Arrest, Child
Abuse, Illegal Systems Entry, Mis-Use of Unix Systems and for
traveling the Subway without a ticket. He only cost us fifty
credits.' Selby raised his bushy eyebrows.
`Mmmn. Admirably, suitably admirable,' he said, turning the
criminal's head to one side and examining the contours of his
cranium. `He was scheduled for termination?' Beran nodded. `So we
can do pretty much what we want with him, and with a clear
conscience.'
`In fact,' Dava put in, `I think his ex-wife would probably pay
quite a bit for an advance copy of the video... if we are going to
make the sort of video that I _think_ we're going to make.' Selby
grinned mirthlessly.
`We are. And, she doesn't have to pay for it... she can tape it
off the air, like everyone else, when Enzian plays it on his show.'
Beran put in,
`I've been thinking... since most of this is going to be simulated,
why not make the active male lead a video analogue of Enzian himself?
I'm sure he'd appreciate the joke...' Selby nodded approvingly, then
started stripping the black plastic from their captive.
`Okay, let's get to work here. Scanner?'
YES SIR?
`I have a new model for you. I want real-time three-D emulation of
the upper quarter of its torso, and full stereo audio-sampling of the
procedure I will be demonstrating.' Two of Scanner's cameras,
mounted on spider-like arms which depended from the ceiling, slowly
moved into place. They aimed their lines of sight to a point at the
centre of Jules' skull.
IS THE MODEL CURRENTLY SITTING IN THE CHAIR? I HAVE TARGETED THE
SITE YOU HAVE INDICATED. IT APPEARS TO BE COVERED IN MANY LONG, THIN
BROWN OBJECTS.
`That's his hair. We'll be shaving some of it off, but you don't
have to scan that.' Selby muttered aside to Dava, `We can do that
part from stock footage/montage/simulation.' He cast about for the
clippers, to begin shaving; Beran held up his trusty butane-powered
soldering-iron and, with the open flame, scorched a strip from the
top of Jules' head down the back of his neck. They all wrinkled
their noses at the stench of burning hair; Beran brushed away charred
fibers with a damp towel, exposing a slightly reddened strip of skin
which reached from Jules' shoulders up to the top of his head. While
Dava scattered old newspapers about on the floor around the dentist's
chair, Selby hefted a large drill fitted with a tubular bit about
five centimetres across mounted on the end; with a tap of his toe,
the chair reclined, bringing Jules to lie parallel to the floor. Was
that a flicker of consciousness he saw in the captive's eyes?
Clutching a thirty-centimetre black rubber dildo in his other hand,
Selby brought the drill up towards the top of Jules' head...
The AnarchArtists gathered around the large video screen in their
Basel headquarters to watch that week's episode of their favourite
television show, `Enzian's Surprise Hour'. The host, a tall, flint-
edge-faced negro dressed in German military officer's regalia, sat
behind his desk as he presented his latest offerings.
The show was one of the most popular in the underground Cable
network; it featured videos sent in by the audience, on any subject,
usually illegal. Snuff videos were a favourite, and it was obvious
that many of those were done with minimal special effects budgets.
`Oberst Enzian' (who styled himself after a character from Thomas
Pynchon's `Gravity's Rainbow') examined the videos before presenting
them, so that only the particularly unusual or interesting were
aired.
`This week, friends and viewers, we have another offering from our
Anarchist Artists in Basel, Switzerland. It's titled "squick", and
I'm sure that you'll find it as deeply moving and involving as I
did.' A sly smile here, gleaming white teeth in a dark, african
face. `And remember: it's all done in Simulation - none of this ever
happened in reality - so it's' (and here, the studio audience joined
in, in what was obviously a time-honored tradition on this show)
`ALL COMPLETELY LEGAL!' followed by much derisive laughter from the
audience.
The screen dimmed as the AnA's video started.
(soundtrack: `Death of an Analogue', by Klaus Schulze, from
the album `Dig It')
(yellowed, off-white letters fade up from the darkness:
SQUICK
the AnarchArtist's logo appears below the letters; the
divided circle within another (which looks innocent until
the viewer realises that it's a stylised penis grasped by a
hand, viewed from the front). the letters and the symbol
both fade after five seconds, and a tiny spot far in the
distance grows until it reveals itself; a gleaming leather-
and-chrome dentist's chair, illuminated from some hidden
source far above. the naked figure of a young man is
strapped to the chair, reclining, his feet pointing off into
the darkness, his head (secured to the chair with a
bewildering array of leather belts) facing the camera. a
strip of hair about seven centimetres wide has been shaved
from his head in a sort of inverse Mohawk, and a bright red
lipstick cross has been drawn, where the fontanelle is
situated, on the top of his head. his steel-grey eyes
flash, peering anxiously from left to right within the
limits of his confines. from behind the camera's point of
view appears the figure of a tall, lithe, naked negro:
Enzian. the figures have a smooth, flowing quality,
indicating that they are being realised within a computer
simulation; the slightly halting movements and gestures
which accompany real humanity, missing from standard
computer simulations, are the mark of a master animator.
from nowhere, an overly ornate mechanical drill appears,
draped with pneumatic cables, switches and dials; the
evilly-glittering drillbit is hollow, and as wide as a
person's wrist. the drill swings through a dramatic arc,
orienting on the subject's skull; Enzian moves smoothly
behind the drill (which, while trailing cables, isn't
actually connected to anything else in the simulation),
squats down and grins, exposing his startlingly white teeth.
he slides his hand along the shaft of the drill, flicks the
chuck with its obscenely sharp bit, and the drill hums into
motion. within seconds, the drillbit is a shining silver
blur. the young man glances up nervously. Enzian steps back
and the drill's body rotates dramatically through three
hundred and sixty degrees, the end of the drill-bit coming
to rest mere inches from the young man's skull. Enzian rests
his hands on the drill casing and eases it forwards
slowly... the camera view draws closer as the bit
approaches... the bit touches the skin and plunges forwards,
tatters of skin and blood flying in all directions (none of
it spatters the camera lens because, of course, this is
taking place in Simulation; there are no chunks of flying
flesh, but merely digitally rendered objects in some
mainframe's voxel-space). nonetheless, the young man screams
and shudders, his head turning to the right slightly as the
drill meets more resistance, digging into the bone of his
skull; the drill whines as if in disappointment, changes
gear and digs in harder. the tone drops an octave and
Enzian presses it forward again; suddenly, as the drill
penetrates the skull, the tone rises sharply. the automatic
gears throttle back, and Enzian draws the drill away from
the fist-sized hole which has been gouged in the young man's
head. as blood streams from the edges of the wound, Enzian
slides a lever up the shaft of the drill, which pokes the
ragged red-grey disk of skin, skull and dural matter out of
the hollow bit. it falls downward and vanishes, spinning, in
the Simulation. the brain itself is exposed, grey-pink with
red streaks, pulsing slightly. the table tips back a few
more degrees, bringing the subject's head within range of
Enzian's crotch. Enzian is standing, clutching two hand-
grips which are mounted at the head of the chair; he pushes
it back slightly and massages his erection with slow,
assured motions. with one hand wrapped around the base, he
squeezes, forcing blood into the head, making it swell
almost to the size of a tennis-ball. a droplet of clear
fluid at the very tip glints in the light from above. Enzian
carefully draws the subject closer, bringing the swollen
head of his penis towards the hole, aimed at the divide
between the left and right hemispheres, and then suddenly
plunges it in, with a wet, `squick!' sound. the subject
shudders and gives voice to an inarticulate cry. Enzian
slowly withdraws, accompanied by an obscenely moist sucking
sound, and plunges in again, to the hilt. the subject's
tongue protrudes slightly, and his eyes are pointing in two
different directions as Enzian begins pumping slowly, then
with increased vigor; tiny droplets of perspiration gleam on
his chest. with each stroke, fresh rivulets of blood stream
down the back of the subject's head, and at the height of
each inward stroke, Enzian's balls slap into these trickles,
spraying red droplets in all directions. the frequency of
the strokes increases slowly, until Enzian is slamming his
lean, dark body against the subject's firmly fixed head with
impassioned fury, a ragged gasp accompanying each thrust.
blood begins to trickle from the subject's nose, just as
Enzian roars, grinds his hips against the chair and comes.
He throws his arms out and floats backwards, as if in free-
fall, trailing a glittering arc of pearly droplets. the
subject's jaw flexes once, and the red fluid that now pours
from his nostrils is mixed with threads of white.
Selby patted Dava on the back companionably.
`Bingo.'
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