(no subject)

[benchilada]

     To placehold until I finish the Sir Reginald story and a few other things, here are an old story and a fragment of a bigger piece, starring my favorite villain I've ever created, I think. Some of you may have read them, some may not have. Either way, enjoy them.

            “Scars?  Countless.  But only one that matters.”

            He pointed at the neat little scar on his left temple and looked pained.

            “I had just killed seventeen men.  Most of them professional killers.  And of course the last one, the new guy, the one who had wet himself and was shaking like a leaf got in a lucky shot.  Little bastard,” he spat, caressing the wound.

            “The bullet passed through my skull and came to rest in the roof of my nostril, an area called the nasal mucosa.  It damaged my olfactory epithelium.  No, it didn’t destroy it, just…changed it, even after the slug was removed.”

            He took another bite of his dry toast.

            “Since 1942 everything has smelled like bacon to me.  Not a little bit, either.  Completely, totally, and utterly.  It was a novelty at first.  But after sixty-two years…”

            He paused and lifted a cup of steaming coffee to his face, inhaling deeply.  A profound sadness shone in his eyes.

            “…the novelty has worn the fuck off.”

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And then...

“Wipe him down with gasoline, ‘til his arms are hard and mean.”

                                                                                    -- “Singapore” – Tom Waits

My Arm™ gets so fucking cold during the wintertime.  If I were rich, I’d have ThermoDerm™ lining the space between the metal and my flesh.  Then again, if I were rich, you wouldn’t even be able to tell that I have an Arm™, ‘cause it’d be ridiculously compact and covered in vat-grown human skin.

Instead, I’ve got this bulky son of a bitch.  Jesus, it looks like I mugged Robby the Robot and then tricked myself out.  Wires stick out all over the place, ancient PC heat sinks line one side, and the whole thing is tastefully colored gun-metal grey.  Probably because it’s made of gun metal.

            The wires and the side opposite the heat sinks are what really get to you during a cold spell.  The external wires get goddamned cold and channel that chill down to where they puncture your skin.  The side without the heat sinks is broad and flat and I swear to God, if I stuck my tongue on it, I’d get stuck.

            Part of me keeps saying, “Quit bitching, you’ve got a fucking robot arm, be grateful.”  The other part of me keeps calculating how much I’ve spent on the bastard, how often it crashes, and how it makes about as much of a fashion statement as a nail in the eye.

            I’m waiting for a bus when she IM’s me.  I peel back the plastic skin in the center of my hand and peer at the Palmtop.  She wants me to stop by her apartment on my way home.  She’s lonely, she says, and she’s been watching scary movies all day by herself, and she tried to paint earlier today but the first color she mixed looked too much like blood.  I ThinkType back that I really need to be getting home, having not slept in two days straight.

            I crush an almond with my fingers and brush the crumbs away from the screen as I chew and read her response.

            “Please.”

Fucking hell.  It’s hard enough to say no to her during ordinary circumstances, but she NEVER says please.  Or rather, when she does, it’s accompanied by those doe eyes that so many women strive for but never achieve.

            She interprets my lack of response as uncertainty, so she promises she’ll order Home Style Bean Curd from the Chinese restaurant in her building and tells me that she just bought THE SEVEN SAMURAI on DVChip and she wants to watch it with me.  This is all money she shouldn’t, she can’t spend right now.  But the deeds are done, I figure, so I might as well enjoy them and try to talk to her about her spending habits.

            I look my Arm™ up and down and realize I’d better keep my mouth shut.

            I tell her I’m on my way, as my metal fingers crush a brazil nut this time.  As soon as my bus gets here I’ll make my way to her.

            She just says “OK.”  Not “Thanks,” not “See you soon,” just “OK.”

            I stretch the skin back and flex my hand a few times, listening carefully to the microservos, making certain that I didn’t get any shells in the mechanisms.  I clench and unclench my fist, wasting precious battery time, but at least it’s keeping the organic parts from freezing over.  I saw a guy once who’d gotten gangrene in his cybernetics.  Not pretty, and definitely not covered by insurance.

            When the bus arrives I have to use my Arm™ to slow it down.  The MTD drivers are legally obligated to stop for everybody waiting to catch a bus, but through a bizarre loophole they don’t have to actually pick anybody up.  This guy looks new, and less than happy to have pulled ghetto duty.  I motion for him to open the door and he just shrugs his shoulders.  Five seconds later I’ve pried the door open, my Arm™ puffing ozone and hot clouds of lubricant.

            I promised I’d never see her again.

            Then again, I also promised that I’d be President by now.

benjamin