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Andrew Roller Presents
NAUGHTY NAKED DREAMGIRLS
in
SUMMER OF SIN
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Chapter Twenty
ÒPut it away, Page,Ó I said. He was playing with his Tamagotchi
again. Well, that was the slang for it, since thatÕs what the first one was
called. In fact it was called a ÒPalm Pet.Ó It was only supposed to be for
guys over 18 so, naturally, Page had one, even though he wasnÕt 18 yet. He
liked it. It featured a girl. You could make her do just about anything you
wished. Page undressed her very slowly the first day he got her. Then, as
he gave his sexual urges freer reign, he made her do other things. ÒPut it
away,Ó I told him again. ÒSheÕs coming.Ó
ÒI know. SheÕs cumming!Ó Page said.
ÒNot here, numbnuts. The prosecutor,Ó I told Page.
ÒOh.Ó Page said. He fumbled with his Palm Pet, slipped it into his
pocket. Together we watched the woman coming out of the courthouse.
They said she was a Òtop prosecutorÓ. She put a lot of men and boys in
prison. We watched her crossing the street, briefcase in hand, her
feminist lackey beside her. God knows what he was. ÒJunior top
prosecutorÓ?
Page stepped out first. Page. Fucking Page. I think he was going to
do some kind of Mark David Chapman, John Lennon thing. You know,
ÒPleased to meet you, maÕam? I admire your work. May I have your
autograph?Ó
But my finger was like, you know, ÒThis is it.Ó At last. It had taken
us two weeks to smuggle the gun parts into the center of the city, past all
the guards. The first time we assembled it and tried firing it we almost
killed ourselves. My hands were still burned from that. Page put out one
of his burned hands toward the woman, like he wanted to shake hands with
her. Her lackey, sensing trouble, darted in front of her. His lackey eyes
narrowed and he pushed at Page.
ÒGet back, Page!Ó I shouted. I wasnÕt much more experienced at
shooting laser rifles than I was at assembling them. The lackey turned,
looked at me. He reached into his jacket, fast. I fired. There was an
eruption where his neck connected to his head and the head just kind of
popped up, like a ball, ripped neck muscles flaying uselessly at open air
where the head had once been connected, where all those lackey thoughts
had travelled down from his brain to the places that actually worked
normally, like his asshole.
(His asshole, give it credit, continued to function normally. At the
severing of his head his shithole made a nice big crap in his thousand-
dollar pants.)
The Òtop prosecutorÓ watched as her lackeyÕs headless body
crumpled backward and fell to the street. She seemed shocked. Her eyes
looked past his body toward his head, rolling aimlessly down the street. I
think in that moment of horror she actually, in locating his head, tried to
say something to it, but then her higher brain prevailed and counter-
manded the order, realizing it was quite useless.
She turned toward me. ItÕs interesting how someone powerful looks
when theyÕre at the wrong end of the barrel of a gun. At first, there was
rage in her eyes. Page was still trying to do something smart-ass, like
ask her for her autograph. I felt like shooting his head off too, but I
needed him. He was useful as a diversion if nothing else...
PageÕs antics caused the women to turn her glance away from me and
look at him. At the same moment, she tore open her handbag and reached
into it. I never found out whether there was pepper spray in there, or a
real weapon. She focused on Page, I think, in her last moment of life,
because he was nearer. Amazing how the primal instinct goes for things
like that, isnÕt it? I have a gun, but since guns were only invented in the
last 300 years or so, she goes for Page, because heÕs nearer. And weirder.
But he was, you know, unarmed. A weird-fucking dude, a threat to the
social order, probably somebody who needed to be prosecuted right away
but, nonetheless, unarmed.
I fired. The shot missed. The prosecutor dug around in her handbag,
reaching for whatever it was she was looking for. Lipstick? I fired again.
I hit her that time. Right in the chest. She had no tits to speak of, so I
didnÕt consider it a loss of anything important. Her insides became her
outsides and her outsides just kind of disappeared. She fell backward, the
blast knocking her a good five yards before she hit the street. I ran up to
her, aimed at her head, and fired again. I didnÕt want to take any chances.
Doctors are good these days. Especially with expensive patients, like her,
who earn them a good return because of insurance. I aimed for the Ôbrain,Õ
if you could call it that, given all the feminist crap that was clogging it.
Her head blew open and I felt a wave of satisfaction and relief.
Almost at once I heard sirens.
ÒShit man, you did it!Ó Page said. He danced around me and the
womanÕs body. He put a rolled-up fist to one of his eyes and pretended to
film the whole thing, like he was going to put it on the 10 oÕclock news.
ÒWell, yeah. I guess I did,Ó I said. My first kill. No, my second. The
lackey was my first. I hadnÕt been sure, five minutes ago, if IÕd have the
guts to do it. Now I had two notches in my belt. Too bad I wasnÕt wearing
one.
ÒShit, and I wanted to get her autograph too,Ó Page told me.
ÒNow you can have anything you want,Ó I said. I looked at Page. I
motioned towards the womanÕs purse.
ÒNo, man,Ó Page said. ÒThat would be, like, stealing. You know,
desecrating the dead. This is for Liberation, right?Ó
ÒYeah,Ó I said. ÒBut we could use the money for the Cause.Ó
Page considered a moment. I heard sirens wailing louder. I thought I
heard a gun go off, somewhere. Screams reached my ears distantly. It
was like I was in a vacuum, even though I was standing out on the
sidewalk, next to the street.
ÒYeah. For the Cause!Ó Page said. Then he leaped down on the
womanÕs purse. Almost at once he got hold of some money, actual
Benjamins, and he tore them out of her purse and lifted them up to me.
ÒLetÕs go,Ó I said, turning. I didnÕt want the money. I needed to be
able to shoot and run. Page didnÕt have a gun. Let him hold the fucking
money.
Another gunshot. I think that one was close to my head. ÔDo Unto
Others As They Do Unto You,Õ you know. I guess the feminist lackeyÕs
ÒJunior ProsecutorÓ had some friends. Other prosecutors, cops, court
clerks, who knows? Anybody authorized to carry a gun in the center of the
city. And that was the whole fucking establishment, except for people
like me and Page.
Moving as if in slow motion, I broke from the vacuum that seemed to
enclose me. I gaped with a kind of childlike innocence at the people
nearest me. Yes. Nearest. My primal mind worked the same as the
prosecutorÕs. I didnÕt know whether they were armed or unarmed. I fired.
Once. Twice. Again. I heard more screams. Louder. More urgent. I saw
blood but paid no attention.
ÒLetÕs go, Page!Ó I said. He took one final camera-look at the
prosector and her dead lackey through his curled fist.
We ran out into traffic. Horns. Screeching tires. Someone cursed
and I fired in the direction the curse had come from. I donÕt know if I hit
him or not.
A Porsche stopped.
ÒNice car,Ó Page said.
ÒToo unique,Ó I said. I saw a Ford. It was one of those big fucking
vehicles families ride around in these days. It had stopped, near the
Porsche, in the middle of the street. They always tell these people, ÔdonÕt
rubberneck,Õ but they do it anyway. I aimed for the driver.
BLAM! BLAM! Two shots. The side of his window shattered. His
head flew off and bounced around inside the front part of his van and then
plopped into his wifeÕs lap. She was sitting beside him. I fired at her. I
hit her head too.
ÒHead shots,Ó Page said, echoing G. Gordon Liddy. He yanked open the
driverÕs door. He gaped at the interior. It was drenched in blood. ÒGod,
what a mess.Ó
ÒGet in!Ó I said to Page. I pushed him from behind.
ÒAll this shitÕll ruin my clothes!Ó Page protested. I shoved hard. He
gave a wail and went sprawling into the body fat and blood that now
soaked the whole interior of the vehicle. At the same time the driver,
headless, decided to come out for a rest break. His body slumped towards
me. His arm dangled down into the street. It was as if he were reaching
for the ground that would soon hold him forever. I climbed over him.
Page threw the woman out the other side of the vehicle. I pushed the
driver down onto the asphalt below. He made a sickening thud as he hit
the street.
ÒGod dammit thereÕs a dog in here!Ó Page shouted. I heard loud
barking. I turned and saw some big fucking monster trying to bite PageÕs
head off. I fired. It burst into blood and bone fragments and one of the
fucking beastÕs bones, flying past my head, almost put my eye out.
Imagine that. IÕve got cops and God-knows-what shooting at me, and I
almost lose an eye thanks to some dumb fucking dog.
I threw the laser rifle into PageÕs lap. I yanked the driverÕs side
door closed. PageÕs door on his side of the Ford van was still open. I
grabbed the wheel. The vehicle had begun rolling, or perhaps had never
quite stopped, and now I hit the gas hard. We lurched forward. A gunshot
hit the front windshield and it caved in on us. I blinked, found I still had
both my eyes from that mess, and shoved the glass toward Page. A clear
view of the street presented itself through the broken-open front of the
vanÕs windscreen. I felt chilled air on my face. At the same time I heard,
softly, the purring of the interior heating system. The van was like a body
half-blown away, but with the other half, unknowingly innocent of it all,
still functioning normally. Like the prosecutorÕs shit hole, dumping a load
in his pants after IÕd already removed his head.
ÒShut your door, Goddamit, Page!Ó I shouted. I looked in his
direction. He was tripping on the whole scene, the glass, the sudden
possession in his lap of my gun, all the while the side door open next to
him.
I heard a slam. More gunshots. I careened around the back of a truck
and looked over at Page again. He got the door closed. His side of the van
struck a car a moment later.
ÒWatch where youÕre goinÕ,Ó Page grinned. He liked movies with wild
car scenes in them. Now we were the stars of one. Dirty Mike and Crazy
Page. Too bad we didnÕt have any Mary with us. Just some dumb, dead dog.
ÒGod, this is a mess,Ó I said, looking briefly down at my lap. There
was blood, human remains, glass, everything all over the inside of this
(formerly) luxurious Ford van. The heating system warmed it all,
combating the chill blowing in from the front of the shattered windscreen.
ÒWhereÕs the fucking Lift Bar?Ó I asked Page. I let go with one hand
from the steering wheel and groped along the blood-spattered dashboard.
ÒThis isnÕt a lift area!Ó Page shouted to me. He grinned as we hit
another car. ÒDamn Toyota,Ó I heard Page mutter under his breath, still
grinning.
ÒGod Dammit I know this isnÕt a lift area! WhereÕs the Bar?Ó I
screamed to Page. I was feeling kind of desperate now. I was still
hearing gunshots and they werenÕt far away.
ÒWeÕll hit something if you Lift!Ó Page warned me.
ÒWeÕll get our ass blown off if we stay Grounded,Ó I told him.
ÒThereÕs no windshield! We canÕt do a Jump!Ó Page told me.
Grinning, for we were still careening wildly down the street, he pointed at
the shattered windscreen.
ÒHell I know that! I just want some Lift!Ó I yelled back.
ÒThis isnÕt a lift are--Ó Page began. I found the Lift Bar and yanked
on it. Suddenly, the vanÕs tires drew in. Engines spiralled neatly
downward from the underside of the van. We both heard a roaring sound.
And then we went up. A hard burst of unfriendly fire scudded
beneath us, just missing us. A moment more of being Grounded and we
might have both been killed. I felt a hard bump as our van thudded into
something overhead. There was a shower of sparks and something, a sign I
guess, tumbled past us and slammed into the street.
ÒSee? You hit something! This isnÕt a lift area!Ó Page said. But his
grin widened as our van rose higher and we topped a buildingÕs roof. A
spectacular sunset greeted our eyes. Gleaming in the setting sun were the
Sky Dwellings. Prime real estate. I guess at one time people could lie in
grassy fields and look up and just see clouds. But now, with anti-grav
technology, all that empty space in the sky was starting to fill up.
ÒLetÕs go,Ó I said. I groped along the dashboard again, feeling for the
Lift Forward button. It was hard to find it in amongst the blood and bodily
tissue streaking the dash.
ÒCanÕt. ThereÕs no fucking windshield,Ó Page said.
ÒWe canÕt Jump,Ó I said. Meaning, of course, that we couldnÕt leave
earthÕs atmosphere. I wasnÕt sure if this model of Ford was built for it,
anyway. ÒBut we can damn well hit the gas.Ó Meaning, of course, not the
gas pedal, that was for Groundside. Rather, the Lift Forward button.
I found it. There was a blast of air through the shattered
windscreen as we lurched forward. Page screamed. The wind drowned it.
The gunshots IÕd been hearing faded away.
ÒI canÕt see!Ó Page, his eyes narrowed to slits, complained through
the wind. My eyes were barely open themselves. The Ford streaked
through the sky, over the city below, making the air rush in on us. The Sky
Dwellings loomed larger as we rushed toward them.
ÒDonÕt worry. I can see well enough to know when to stop,Ó I told
Page.
ÒYouÕd better,Ó Page said. The buildings floating in the distance
bulked larger in our windscreen. ÒI donÕt want to be a pancake,Ó Page said.
A burst of laser fire hit the back of our Ford. It careened wildly in
response. I clung to the wheel. Somehow I kept the Ford from dipping into
a fatal dive. Page turned, looked back. The next thing I knew the laser
rifle was going off beside me. Page was firing. I glanced toward him.
With a hand on the driverÕs side door, precariously gripping the window
frame in the door, his upper body was completely out of the window. He
was sitting with his ass on the bottom of the window frame. He looked
like he was in a movie. Except he wasnÕt.
BLAM! BLAM! BLAM!
ÒFucking Page!Ó I yelled.
ÒI almost hit one!Ó Page shouted.
THHHWUNK! Our Ford careened again as a well-placed shot slammed
into us. I didnÕt dare turn around. A quick glance in the rear-view showed
what I most feared. Two gaping holes, near the back of the Ford. We had
twin moon roofs now. But the engine showed in the dashboard that the
damage done by the laser blasts was causing it to overheat.
ÒDamn, they were quick!Ó I said to Page. Meaning, the skyborne
police vehicles. I guess I hadnÕt counted on them being that quick. ÒThey
were quick, Page. Too quick,Ó I said. I looked over at him.
ÒWe ainÕt gonna make it,Ó Page said. He slipped back into the Ford.
His face was pale. He was holding the laser rifle aloft. He pulled the
trigger. I cringed. But nothing happened. Our gun was empty. We had no
reloads for it.
I gazed ahead of us. The Sky Buildings were coming up fast. I saw
people standing on a terrace about midway up one of the nearer buildings.
They pointed.
ÒTheyÕre pointing at us!Ó I said. I had found a piece of the
windscreen that was still intact. It was over in the leftmost corner of
the (formerly) screened area.
ÒYeah,Ó Page said. I glanced at him and saw he had a similar setup; a
small corner of glass that he could hunch behind to see through, and keep
the wind out of his eyes. (Actually out of only one eye; he had to close the
nearer one. The wind was coming in too strong to keep both of them open.)
ÒWeÕre the life of their party,Ó Page said. He shoved his rifle through the
broken portion of the windscreen and pulled the trigger. Nothing.
ÒPage....Ó I said. There was a sense of unreal coolness in my voice.
ÒYeah?Ó he shouted over the roar of the incoming wind.
ÒWeÕve got no chance against the cops,Ó I said. He heard me,
somehow, even though I didnÕt think IÕd said it loud enough.
ÒNo chance! They came up so fast!Ó Page yelled to me.
ÒSo fast! But we got her!Ó I yelled to Page.
ÒYeah,Ó Page agreed.
ÒPage?Ó I asked. ÒDid you ever crash a party?Ó
ÒHmmm?Ó Page asked. He looked at me and grinned. It was all the
permission I needed. We both knew what kind of people lived in the Sky
Dwellings.
ÒIÕve never been invited to a party, actually,Ó I thought I heard Page
say. As he said it I instinctively looked down. Down at the seat. The Sky
Dwellings were coming up very fast now. The people on the terrace had
stopped pointing and were drawing back, beginning to run. I wanted to
stare at them, at their horrified faces, as we shot straight into the middle
of them, but instead I found myself gazing down at the seat, at PageÕs
lovely Palm Pet. What did Page call her? Chloe, I think.
Bye, bye, Chloe.
THE END
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