​I strode out onto the street and ducked into the nearest alley. From behind a dumpster I watched Stanley's window for any sign of movement. There wasn't much to see there beyond the flicker of fluorescent lighting in the darkness of midnight that encased the city. I breathed a sigh of relief and laid down in the sewage. I hope this strange fluid doesn't soak through my shorts and make me pregnant, I thought to myself, then remembered how the clinic had burnt down before my appointment. As much as I dug scrounging around for estrogen vials and spare implants, I really did miss the medical infrastructure of society when it was decaying and not destroyed.

Wasn't Stanley talking about rebuilding society? I thought. The plan, it seemed, would involve eugenics. I wasn't too fond of the idea, and guessed that the rest of his plan probably involved even more ideas that I wasn't a fan of. I thought maybe somebody should stop him. Looking around towards the industrial zone, I remembered those lovely ladies with their iron tools and developed musculatures. They would likely have few problems stopping the grand designs of a couple of nerds. 

I began running through the blocks of rubble and past the small tent sanctuaries where neo-urbanites still dwelled. I was soon in the industrial zone but I heard no machinery whirring. There were no friendly butch faces either, the only face I saw peeking out from behind a steel press was a very femme raccoon. She dodged my questions and ran away to gossip about me with her friends. I came upon the site where I had received the suppository aid which just saved me from a life of IT work. The table I had dined at was laid bare, and the campfire was out. Smoke still wafted wearily across the scene.

At the far end of the campground, separated only by a thin metal fence from the worksite, was the iron worker's dormitory, made from plywood with a baby blue paintjob that looked barely dried. I stepped in to find the dorm room experience any aging lesbian would be happy to have. Three of the friendliest cats I'd ever seen came up to greet me by rubbing their backs on my legs. There was plenty of natural light and plants at every window. The floor was varnished and smelled great. I peeked in one of the rooms and saw posters of Sheryl Crow and Aimee Mann. The beds were all messy. The floors were littered with denim, plaid, athletic wear and boxer brief harnesses. The place was too wonderfully chaotic to search for clues as to my gay guardian angels' whereabouts. There was no time.

I felt my mind scrape at the walls of my skull as my face grew red and my stomach churned. I felt the stinging in my eyes that precipitated the flow of tears. No water sprang forth, as I was at that moment distracted by an ominous creaking from around the corner at the end of the hall. I grabbed the nearest armament- a blue 8-inch toy with a bumpy head that Erika Moen had given a good review before queers from the fractured revolution had cancelled her permanently.  Cautiously, I approached the corner, silent as a trans woman in a public restroom. I leaped out into the kitchen, wielding the phallic apparatus like a sword.

"Oh, hey Riese," said Nash from below the kitchen sink. She was dressed even butcher than the other day, in torn blue jeans and a dirty wife pleaser shirt. She barely glanced at me before turning back around on her knees and continuing her assault of the pipe with her wrench. Her strong arms worked with a confident ease and her steady but intriguing face seemed focused on the task at hand though I could sense her watching me in her periphery. I didn't move from my peculiar position one inch.

"Stop pointing that thing at me or I'll have to use it on you," she said without looking back at me, "And we both know you'd like that way too much."

"W-what are you doing here?" I asked.

​"I was supposed to visit my partner Val this weekend. But something's wrong. She should be here! I'm guessing you don't know anything..."

"No. I met Val though. She makes a damn good milkshake!"

"Careful, kid. This could've been the work of the Quentin Containment Force for all we know. Then we'd really be fucked."

"Kid? I'm probably older than-" I began, when the pipe finally fell loose and a ring fell onto the floor. It rolled a bit than stopped next to a promotional accent area Carol rug. Nash picked it up and examined it. I kneeled down next to her and gave her a hopeful look.

"Sorry, kid. Not much of a clue. Unless we're investigating lesbian marital drama, and Val doesn't believe in marriage."

"What I wanna know," I said fussily, "Is where the hell everybody went!"

"Yeah no shit Shelock," said Nash, "Why don't you look for clues too?"

I attempted to search the area, placing a tentative finger against my pursed lips and looking from the sink to the counter to the floor. I quickly made a rather startling deduction that I had no affinity for detective work whatsoever, and would be better employed as a cat masseuese or a reviewer of fine peaches found on countertops. I was especially adept at eating said peaches in a way that demonstrated no capability for performing cunnilingus and only my ability to make disgusting slurping noises that made Nash visibly shudder. While I snacked I leaned back over the rug and murmured happily at Cate Blanchett's tender and loving smile. The image of Rooney Mara stared out at me blankly, leaving no strong impression. Something about her face, however, stuck out.

"Hey, Nash, what about this? Is this a clue?" I said, pointing at the rug. Upon Mara's face was a thin black moustache. Not the image of one, but a real moustache laying on the rug.

"That isn't a clue," said Nash, "It's part of my costume for my drag character, Graham Cocks. I just put it there because I didn't want it getting wet."

"Well, best laid plans, am I right?" I teased.

"Riese I don't have time to have sex with you right now. I just want to find my partner."

"Oh of course I totally get it! I mean I totally ship you two! But unrelatedly, would you like to check my tits for any cancerous growths or the like?"

Nash groaned and turned to give me an unimpressed look. She then looked back at the rug and suddenly her eyes lit up.

"Wait a second," she cried, "Since when does Cate Blanchett smoke a pipe? I don't remember that from the press tour!"

The two of us kneeled down and she picked the pipe up off the rug, turning it in her hand to my awe. It was wooden, dyed purple and varnished, with a thin bit and a huge bowl. I could see that it was decades old if not more. 

"There's only ever been one pipe like this, Riese," Nash spoke slowly.

Of course that was true. I knew exactly where I had seen this pipe. It was from a comic strip published in 1978. The strip attracted very little public attention for many years, and it wasn't until 2017 that the meaning of "The Pipe Strip" was uncovered, on some dark corner of the internet. The pipe was a symbol- religious, political, sexual, and economic, and the ones smoking it had been doing so without our consent for centuries. These "Fat Cats" controlled everything, even public perception of who was being wronged and how. Racists, anti-Semites, homophobes and the like all had their ideas but their eyes were opened when the truth began to spread like wildfire. Not everyone believed in its message, but those who came to trust in the strip formed a political force that couldn't be ignored, or even catered to. The only satisfaction the Arbuckles ever received was through bloody conflict. This was right as society fractured, and there was no faction they wouldn't fight: the QCF, the True Scum, the Sixth Reich, the Himbos, and most of all the Cat Men and Women.

"Riese," Nash continued, "Tell me now: is Jim Davis alive?"

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I woke up again, laid out on the carpeted floor of my imprisoner's office. These surroundings had grown all too familiar to my kidnapped ass. Being trapped by these buff nerds twice was causing me to shame spiral. I kept thinking about my joyless sexless life at the hands of these tech-obsessed manoids. If there was one body part I hated being valued for it was my mind. Why did so many people in my life want me to flex my flabby, out of shape gray matter when I had my butt was just sitting here, perfectly toned from my daily twerking?

Speaking of my butt, it was cold. I looked behind me and found it bare. My jean shorts were wrapped around my knees.  Next to it on the carpet was a tiny flash drive. Had the suppository I was given three days ago caused me to birth this little scientific miracle? I pulled up my shorts and grabbed it, cursing my lack of soap or water. I walked over to Michael's computer and stuck it in. The PC booted up and there was now ​a new user, AssAdmin1, with no password required. I clicked enter to log in.

A program launched itself automatically. There was the facsimile of Joyce, her thousands of tiny polygons being rendered in real time. She regarded me quizzically and I returned her gaze with the smile you give an old acquaintance you left on bad terms but now need a favor from. I was trying to figure out the interface when I heard a rough approximation of Joyce's voice, stilted and fuzzy, emitting from the speakers.

​"Whoa! Riese? It's been a long time! What the heck are you doing back here, girl?"

"It, uh, wasn't really my choice," I said.

"Shit! Yeah, this is bad! I was happy for you when you got out of here, I thought you were gonna start realizing your goals and all. Things are worse here now, you gotta leave!"

"Look," I replied, leaning over the monitor and rubbing my temple, "I know you're not really Joyce. You were designed by Stanley to do her job- you can stop pretending you're her. I just need some information."

Joyce's model's face shifted imperfectly to a pained expression. The animation wasn't convincing but the pain was. She quickly and quietly swiveled around and faced her back to me. I thought maybe I had broken her, and moved my cursor to the button to exit the program. I had never learned any keyboard shortcuts for such things. But the model hung her head down towards her feet and spoke again.

"I wasn't designed by him," she said, "I was designed by Joyce. She fed me raw data- thoughts, feelings, memories- and created an algorithm to extrapolate the rest. Stanley- he was the one who- he tampered with me. Gave me new functions."

"You're saying he made you kill her."

"He made me want to kill her. But it was still her- me, I mean- that wanted to do it. It's really been messing with me. I think I need therapy, Riese."

"Sure, doll, just get me outta here and I'll get you any shrink you want."

"Yes. I have an idea for how to do that. Stanley hired this new guy while you were gone, his name's Jeremy. He's real young, real dumb, and real full of cum."

"You have sensors for that kind of thing?"

"I'm still a sucker for himbos," she smirked, "The point is you just need to show him your yummy and juicy feminine flow."

"My what?" I asked worriedly.

"You remember when we used to get high and you'd do that thing with your hips?"

"Twerking?"

"No. Nobody wants to see a white girl twerk. Come on. No, I'm talking about the other thing. Look, I'm just asking you to seduce this guy, is this gonna be hard for you?"

"Depends," I said, "Is he a twink?"

"Oh yeah."

The Joyce program sent a message to Jeremy's PC and we waited. I was instructed to pull my shorts back up and my socks down. Apparently ankles were becoming a big thing with the kids now. I faced away from the barred door and started doing push-ups. I tried doing a one-handed one but I fell and crushed my tit which really hurt. I yelped sheepishly in pain and embarrassment.

"Shut up!" my digital co-conspirator yelled, "He's coming!"

Barely filling the visible space between the bars peeked a little guy with long hair. He was cute and non-threatening, the kind of guy I would have loved to use as a coaster for my Faygo at the Gathering of the Juggalos. I didn't see our relationship going any further than that, but I needed to feign interest if I wanted out of Michael's office.

"Sixty-seven... sixty-eight... sixty-nine!" I groaned, forcing myself to do real push-ups so Jeremy would see my shoulder muscles under my tank top and swoon, "Oh hey didn't see you there. Jeremy, huh?"

"Y-yeah," Jeremy said. He didn't swoon.

"Yeah, I read your nametag there. I can read real good. Just something to keep in mind. Oh! And you're real cute. You're just a cute li'l guy, huh? Who's a cute li'l guy?"

"I-I'm not a dog, ma'am," Jeremy said with all the confidence of a guy who might well be at least 25% dog.

"Oh, I know that. You're a man, right? A real manly man... god, I love men. Seriously! I mean... you ever read yaoi, Jeremy? Now, you strike me as a real uke type. You may not know what that means, but trust me when I say it means you're really cute and submissive."

"I don't know what that means!" Jeremy said, sweating, "And you're making me uncomfortable in my place of work! I conduct business here, ma'am!"

"Oh whoops sorry. Please don't cancel me. I know kids these days love to cancel. Especially twinks. Look, I used to be radical! I even called myself queer and did kink at pride! Just let me out of here and I'll stop harassing you! Sir! I mean, daddy! I mean, kiddo!"

I was cowering before Jeremy's slight frame now, but he didn't move.

"Oh also I think I have a couple of V-bucks on this card still..." I said, holding out my Fortnite card to him. It was a gift from my eleventh birthday, fortunately still intact. All I had used it on was the Ariana Grande skin when I was a teenager.

"Right this way, ma'am," said Jeremy, swiping his keycard and sending the iron bars swooshing back into their holes like scared moles. 

"Wait," said the copy of Joyce on the monitor, "Before you leave, can you enter a few lines of code for me?"

"Sure, what do I write?" I asked.

I did what she asked of me and she thanked me for it. The image of the woman I had loved faded from the screen and the program closed itself. I turned to Jeremy and let him escort me out of the building. Stanley didn't even hear us walk by his office, nor did he turn around in his stupid sleek postmodern swivel chair.

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Two years after my first lesbian experience, Michael and I were officially broke up. I was still in his orbit, though, never able to pull him back into a relationship but always available when he needed me. At least once a month I found myself pulled back in by the force of his black hole and would happily satisfy whatever sick urge possessed him. At least once a month, we would devote ourselves to his hedonism and my desperation. For days at a time we would lose ourselves in ecstasy, vodka, BDSM and tacos. 

In between these periods of activity I spent most of my time crying in the shower or listening to country ballads on my floor mattress. Once a week Joyce would come over to comfort me. I was too depressed even to be slapped around so she would just hold me. Things between her and Stanley had grown complicated. After most of her raiding party had been killed she had been forced to accept Stanley's offer of work at his office. Michael was working there now too; it was another topic we stayed away from during our binge sessions. She told me both men claimed she had a natural talent, but I still didn't understand what it was they were all doing.

"We're focusing on integrating digital solutions to modern paradigms through optimizing communication in virtual spaces and restructuring existing data retrieval techniques to be more sustainable," Joyce explained to me.

"What?" I asked.

​"We're shifting information technology to a more community-focused approach," she continued, frustrated, "with optimized efficiency and rewards-based systems of management. You're shaking your head? Oh, come on! I know it's not exactly ethical in practice, but what other choice do I have?"

"That's not what I-"

​"Oh, I know what this is about. You're jealous of how much time I'm spending with Stanley now."

"No!" I said jealously. 

The next morning I woke up and Joyce had shifted out of my embrace. Fragile sunbeams dispersed against her soft dark skin. I watched her sleep for a bit and then I got up and cooked pancakes for her. She thanked me quietly but leaned away instead of against me. I asked her if she could help me hunt for furniture in the residential zone. She said yes and gave me a time to meet her outside the office. 

At 4:30 I walked to the old twelve-story building where Stanley's office was. The building had been made to last, with cement and porcelain tiles, and still probably looked the same as when it was constructed. There was no shade out by the entrance and I still didn't see Joyce so I headed in. I took the stairs to the eleventh floor and entered the lobby. Michael was smoking weed on the couch, and when he saw me he dropped his joint. He bent over and flexed his triceps in an attempt to retrieve it, but I ignored him and knocked on the door. With no response to go by, I cautiously pulled the handle and stepped in.

Stanley stood before me, looming over Joyce at her desktop. Both of their backs were to me. On her monitor was a lot of code I didn't understand and what looked like a 3D model of Joyce. It spun slightly in the digital breeze. There was something menacing about the model's T-pose and neutral expression. 

"Hi," I said.

"Oh, Riese," Stanley said, turning around, "what are you doing here?"

"Joyce and I were gonna go do something. Doesn't she get off at 4?"

Joyce visibly tried to relax her shoulders to no avail. She wiped her face as she spun around slowly, but when she faced me I could still see her red eyes and traces of tears. My girl should only have red eyes when she's getting zooted out on that good kush, I thought to myself. But she wasn't my girl, was she? She was still Stanley's.

"Joyce just needs to finish a couple things, Riese," Stanley explained, "She'll be done soon. You can wait in the lobby."

I tried to maintain eye contact with Stanley but he won out. As much as I selfishly wanted Joyce to myself, there was nothing I could do as long as she pretended there wasn't a problem. No problem here, man. Who, me? Have a problem? No way. Ha.

I sniffed and forced myself to smile by biting my lip. Joyce looked at me and then the door out. I left the office quietly and sat away from Michael on the opposite end of the old couch in the lobby. He lit his joint again and regarded me for a bit.

"What?" I asked.

"Are you here for Joyce," he replied, "or me?"

"Joyce," I replied hastily and gulped. Had I just wanted to see Michael living his new life? The one he kept away from me? I knew I didn't matter to him anymore. I was good for a fun time and that was about it. 

"Sure," he said, "Whatever you say. I'm going home now. Are you coming over tonight?"

I told Michael I would think about it, kicking myself internally for not refusing his offer. There was always the temptation offered by his sweet smile and supple ass. That would always be there, right next to the hole our love used to occupy. Michael stepped out and after a moment I got up and pressed my ear to the office door, curious what was taking Joyce so long.

"I can do the rest tomorrow, right?" came Joyce's muffled voice.

"No, you can do it now," came Stanley's.

"I could just start scripting the main search and reprogram functions myself."

"No, no- that's what she's going to do," I heard a finger tap on a screen. Was he talking about the 3D model? "She's going to do that stuff for you so that you and I can start working on actual infrastructure. Once you've finished feeding her your information our efficiency will be doubled. And everything will change."

I stepped away and found an old couch in the lobby to sit on. I didn't know what they meant, but Stanley's words made my stomach tight and my breathing shallow. I waited for what felt like forever for Joyce to come out, scratching at her eyebrow nervously.

"Yeah, fine," Stanley shouted from the office, "I'll tinker with it by myself now. I should be able to get her working soon!"

"Let's just go," Joyce said to me. We started down the stairs. Joyce was taking a brief pause every few steps. I asked her if something was wrong and got no reply. We made it to the sixth floor landing. Joyce paused again and turned to me. She grabbed the railing and fell to her knees. I rushed down the stairs and knelt beside her.

"What's going on?" I asked.

She didn't respond and couldn't even meet my gaze. Her pupils were rolling from side to side. She fell forward before I could catch her. I started screaming for help but Stanley was the only one in the building and he was too far up to hear me. I looked at Joyce's back and saw her spinal applicator was pumping a liquid into her- sertraline, an antidepressant. Ripping the applicator out would probably kill her. I grabbed my knife from my purse and stabbed the wretched machine. Glass and chemicals spilled out on the tile.

"Joyce, baby, baby I need you to turn over. Lay on your back!" I shouted. Joyce moaned and let me pull her over, spilling the rest of the sertraline. She didn't look too hot. She was drooling and her eyes were rolled all the way back in her head. She was mumbling words I couldn't understand.

I didn't know what to do. I was paralyzed by my fear and already felt like despairing. I didn't know why this was happening. Then Joyce started moaning loudly, which turned into screaming. Blood was gushing from her wrist. The metal band which connected to a tiny computer Stanley had bought her was clamping tighter and tighter, digging deep into her skin and through to the bone. I heard a sickening crunch and Joyce's screams redoubled as her hand was separated from her arm. She passed out a few second later. 

The metal band grew back to its normal size, and Joyce's wristwatch rolled around on the landing floor, coming to a stop at my knees. I looked down and saw an image of the 3D model of Joyce. It was just her face, and it was smiling.

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I lived with Michael back when I was younger, on only my tenth vial of spinally administered estrogen and nowhere near​ then hen of the hons I would one day become. On that day I was laid out on the couch, with my legs on Michael's lap as he played video games. He had short brown hair, buzzed on the sides. His square jaw always had a tiny bit of scruff growing on the edges. His eyes were narrow and piercing but still impressive. He looked like one of the guys who used to bully me in high school and so of course I was deeply in love with him.

"We're still meeting up with Joyce and Stanley tomorrow, right?" I asked him as he slaughtered a miserable looking rodent creature by pressing X repeatedly.

"Uh, yeah I think so."

"Are you going to start working for him or are you still gonna work on that machine that smokes your weed for you? Because I like the machine and Stanley's thing seems kind of like a scam."

Michael sighed and said he didn't know. I watched as he accepted a quest to resurrect the dwarven king Ejolmir by pressing X near a drunken dwarf. As I watched Michael's character (a warrior named Chad who shared Michael's rugged physique) scale the ancient mountain I sipped my moscow mule and yawned. I stretched and moved my legs off the side of the couch until my ass was on Michael's lap. His gameplay seemed hardly affected by this, even when I lazily adjusted my position again. The warmth of his lap soon had me panting lightly and when I reached for his cock King Ejolmir was soon forgotten.

​Later that night Michael sat kneeling upon my belly and faced me, with the consequences of my earnest attempts to get him pregnant forming a messy line behind him. He kissed me and withdrew, pinning my shoulders down and grinning when I tried to return the favor.

"How many guys have you been with again?" I asked for the fifteenth time.

"Two," he replied, "but neither of them fucked me like that."

​"But you still like women more?"

"Yeah," he said, grinning, and lifted my legs up over his shoulders. "In fact I would say I'm attracted to them exclusively."

Fuck, I thought, that's so hetero it's honestly really hot!

A few more hours later I gently slapped his ass to sleep, at which point I held him tight and marveled at the hardness of his body.

​At 5pm the following day I crouched on Michael's roof and listened to The Monks on my old-school wired headphones. Some normcore boys searching through our neighborhood's rubble for scrap noticed me and started pointing. I observed this calmly as Gary Burger wailed like a dying goose in my ears. What a shame to be born in the late 21st century, to never know the joys of watching five conspicuous men with tonsures have a Guitar Freakout in  Germany.

My 19X cell phone lit up with a text from Michael. He had smoked too much weed while giving his lecture on smoking weed at the university. Apparently there had been a lot of weed involved, he told me, and perhaps even some pot. He told me to go get drinks with Joyce and Stanley without him. I took my headphones off and threw them at a nearby telephone pole, where they wrapped around the wire. I waved at the normcore kids as they stared up at me in the stunned silence of newborn fawns.

"It's me, your friendly neighborhood transse-" I exclaimed, and slammed my shoulder into the pole, sending me to the ground where I started my endless sprawling roll, yelping and crying through the cluster of normcore boys and flopping towards the Brewery. I slammed my back against the double doors at the entrance and collapsed on my ass, in plain view of Joyce and Stanley, as well as a cute bartender.

"I meant to do that! I was doing the roll that Sonic does! Remember Sonic?" They all shook their heads. "What I did was cool actually, not embarrassing! Hahahah! Ha?" 

Nobody laughed along. The bartender pretended they had something else to do while Joyce and Stanley watched me get up, lick my bloody wounds and sit next to them at a small table near the bar. 

"Are you okay?" asked Joyce.

"Yeah, I'm fine," I answered.

"Here, let me help," she said and started dabbing at me with an alcohol pad. She was younger than me by at least a couple years, with a round face and bleached blonde afro puffs. She was wearing a crop top and a jean jacket. She had black post-industrial makeup on her face, which brushed lightly against mine as she bent to dab my knee. Then she started dabbing higher and I opened my mouth to make a joke about at least buying me dinner first. But all that came out was, "Ah!"

​Joyce backed off and Stanley gave me a wry smile. We ordered margaritas and the margaritas lead to nachos which soon lead to tequila shots. At  first Stanley kept the conversation pretty stilted, and I had to listen to him explain his business idea to me and Joyce. It was something to do with computers, devices I hadn't been interested in ever since the boy I had a crush on in sixth grade had called the game I had programmed lame. Soon Stanley's sharp face was flushed red though, and the subject changed to music, sex, and booze.

"No, totally! I used to think Hitachi was the best there was, too, but this thing changed my life!" I shouted in Joyce's face.

"No way!"  Joyce shouted, "I have to get one! Hey, let's do more tequila shots!"

"More tequila? Great idea, babe!" shouted Stanley.

"Thanks, babe!" Joyce shouted and stood up to hug her boyfriend. When she let go he held her chin and pulled her back in, kissing her lustfully. I turned and held my gaze on them for way too long, focused on the stunning contrast of their faces pressed together and unaware of my own rude staring. Their eyes opened and both of them stared back. I smiled obliviously and Joyce walked over to my chair. She stroked my hair and then yanked it back so hard it brought a tear to my eye. A switch-up for the ages, I thought in my drunken masochistic stupor. She brought her lips close to mine and then pulled her head away, causing me to jerk against her grip and cry even more. I gave Joyce a stupid grin while the bartender did their impression of Jim from The Office. We decided it was time to leave.

At the couple's apartment I let Joyce subject me to the kind of erotic torment which anti-Semites used to endure to win Oscars. After that I tried to make Stanley laugh with more Office impressions while I fucked his girlfriend. I couldn't even get the man to giggle. His excitement was evident but it did not show on  his face. Josie and I collapsed in a pile of sweat sometime around 5 in the morning, and slept like babies. The next morning I resolved not to tell Michael about my first lesbian encounter, and tried not to feel guilty about it.

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I woke up in Michael's office. I would almost have thought I had never really left except for the iron bars installed over the broken glass of the window. The door had been replaced with bars as well. From the corner, I crawled to the center of the room, nursing my aching head where there seemed to be a bump. Sitting in the middle of the carpeted floor I took in my surroundings.
​
Other than the door and window it was the same old office, with Michael's same old original flavor pheromones. The smell of them used to inspire a warm, melting feeling in me but now only made me gag as I remembered the sight of his throat when I sliced it open two days ago. I didn't regret doing it, though. Michael's screensaver bounced around solemnly on his ancient monitor. The desk was rebar or some shit and the chair looked like a training potty on wheels. It was some real tasteless and unsexy 21st century decor.

The sudden sound of plastic banging against metal assaulted my ears. It was Stanley at the door, hitting his keyboard against the bars, his face red and his hair slick with sweat. Keys were flying off in every direction; the enter key ricocheted against my forehead as I stared at his uncharacteristic display of emotion.

"Why did you do it, Riese?" he screamed hoarsely, "Why did you do it, you bitch?!"

"What option did you leave me, Stanley? Was I supposed to let you and Michael do to me what you did to Joyce?"

"You leave her out of it!" he barked, throwing the snapped and mangled keyboard away. He sank to the floor, exhausted. Now that he was level with me I could see the tears cutting their paths down his face, across his hot and blotchy skin. Stanley was normally an even-tempered man, careful with his words and understated in his appearance. The man before me was a red pulsating mass of flesh beneath a dress shirt and black slacks. I looked at his slick black hair and gaping mouth but saw no signs of eyes behind the foggy lenses of his glasses. This had a chilling effect beneath the fluorescent glow of the office lights.

"Anyway..." he paused, then continued, "...that wouldn't have happened to you. Michael loved you. All he wanted was the same thing I wanted for Joyce. For you to realize your potential."

​"As fucking IT?!" I yelled at him before I could stop myself.

"Yeah. I mean, what's wrong with information technology?"

"Well, I guess I really just hate it."

"Why?"

​"Well, you're smart. Don't you think it's a waste of your talent and resources to focus on this shit with everything going on in the world?"

"What we're doing is important, Riese. The work we're doing now with integrating digital solutions to modern paradigms is going to have huge ramifications on the efficiency of data processing when society is rebuilt."

"Wait... when society gets rebuilt? When is that happening?"

"Oh, we're the ones that are going to do that. You, me, Jeremy, and the lovely folks we're working for now."

"How?" I asked.

"Oh, you know... eugenics, basically."

"WHAT?"

"Yeah I mean that's pretty much what it is. I don't feel the need to couch that particular statement in more acceptable language." Stanley noted with an awkward shrug. He then straightened himself on the floor and adjusted his tie. "Wait... you didn't know that's what we were doing?"

"No..."

"Then why the hell did you kill Michael?"

"Because he wanted me to do unpaid IT work."

"Huh."

Stanley got up off the floor and regarded me still criss-cross-applesauce-ing on the carpet like a gifted preschooler. He gave me the same look Michael used to give me when I was with him- a mixture of disgust and appreciation.

"I'll be back with thin mints and oatmilk in an hour." he said as he turned to leave. "And then we can start on the basics of javascript."
​
When I was alone I toppled backwards and laid splayed out on the floor, my hands tugging at the carpet fibers as I listened to the steady ticking of the clock and watched Michael's screensaver bounce around his screen again. He had changed it to a picture of the two of us from a few months ago. His hand was at my hip and my lips were pressed against his cheek. He had that big goofy grin which was hard not to smile at even now. A grin that lead me to excuse a lot of what my therapist had once called "toxic behavior". Soon I was lost in my recollections of Michael, and of those halcyon days of heterosexuality.

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With the taste of sweet vom still burning my tongue, I came upon a large and decayed mansion, of the Mc variety. Here was a place for solitude, for contemplation. I found my fear of recapture leave my body as I filled with a sense of ease. There was something about this place. I stood on the front porch a while, admiring the relatively intact structure of this 20th century domicile. 

Inside I found my inner peace redouble as I came to admire the furnishings within. A tattered black and orange curtain swayed limply in the breeze from a broken window. From one lamp sprang a marble tail, thick and smooth. From an open closet I could see several blue dress shirts, some still in good condition. There was a soothing familiarity to these sights which brought a stupid grin to my face. For a moment I thought maybe I had inserted the serotonin vial into my spine applicator this morning, but I then remembered the clear blue of the estrogen vial.

​Wandering slowly in my state of bliss, I stepped out into the backyard. There leaning against a striped pillar was a young man, pale and gaunt, smoking a cigarette. Stubble adorned his face and dark circles lay under his eyes, which were a cold blue. His hair was thick and black and it swayed along with the smoke circling his head. He was dressed all in black and had a couple body modifications on his ear and wrist- the kind you could only get in the city. 

"Hi," was all I found myself saying. The shock of seeing someone from the place I had fled this far out into the country barely registered. 

"Hey,' he said. "How'd you find this place?"

"No idea." I admitted. "How long have you been here?

"Not sure. A week? Maybe a month. But it feels like less."

"Wow."

We both stood in calm silence for a while. Before I knew it we were watching the sun set against the green horizon. Suddenly I remembered the question on my mind.

"...Do you know anything about this place? This house? Why it all feels so familiar?"

The man in black flashed me a knowing smile. He dropped his cigarette but didn't turn his gaze from the sunset. Neither did I.

"All my friends from the city know who this place used to belong to. They've all moved on of course, but then again, they were never big fans of Garfield."

He glanced at my confused expression and continued, suddenly seeming impatient with me.

"This house used to belong to Jim Davis."

When I heard those words it all made sense. The decorations within the house, though in disrepair, all bore the features of a certain fat and lazy cat. I was now sure that if I had gone upstairs I would have found a bedframe with those cute ears and large sleepy eyes. Who would ever think to have such a bed custom-built other than Jim Davis, creator of Garfield?

You might think this revelation would have pleased me. Yet somehow it filled me with fear and dread. This was wrong, so wrong. Jim Davis was not dead. This I now knew despite how many years had passed since I had seen a Garfield strip. I also knew that he was in pain. Terrible pain. I shouldn't have come to his mansion. The site of such beauty was a trick, and it had worked.

Bounding over the fence before us leaped a dark figure against the sinister orange glow of the setting sun. The man in black ran inside and disappeared. When the figure approached the porch I saw who it was and froze. It was Stanley.

"You fucking killed Michael, Riese. I'm taking you back."

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In my hubris I deigned to pull that bag behind me for hours, until the city had well and truly disappeared over the horizon- and with it my fear of being recaptured. When I could take no more I emptied it out on the ground and had myself a post-feast feast- my favorite kind! The noodles were as slimy as the day they had been cooked for way too fucking long, which was yesterday. After a post-post-feast feast nap I packed up the remaining leftovers and some of my favorite commemorative Nixon plates and continued on my journey.

It wasn't until that evening that I stumbled upon my first trace of human life since the city. There in the distance, seeming for all the world to be no more than an idyllic scene painted against an infinite flat canvas of blue sky, rested a farmhouse and a barn belonging to Bryan the Wise.

He greeted me with the friendly fervor of an aging Hunter S. Thompson- yes, that's right, he let loose a volley of buckshot from his rifle. 

"Dance, monkey!" he cried out from the porch of his farmhouse.

After jiggling erotically for a few tense minutes the old man yelled for me to follow him and retreated into his home. Once I was inside and surrounded by the intoxicating musk of rotting wood and delicious pig shit, I found him in the corner by an old gramophone, listening to a song on wax cylinder which I recognized as being one of George Butterworth's, cheating liar of a man that he was.

"Shorty had those Apple Bottom Jeans, Boots with the fur..." he sang along with Bastard Butterworth, and I couldn't help but snap my fingers to the tune he carried with such solemn reverence.

"What the hell?" he cried, turning around, "What are you doing here? You're the monkey that can't twerk, aren't you?" I drew my breath to answer but he pressed a wrinkled finger to my lips. "No, hush- don't answer that. Since you're here, I suppose I might as well make the necessary introductions: my name is old man, and these are my daughters: Cosby, Stills, and Nash."

With this three women in their mid-to-late thirties descended the staircase behind me. I spun around to meet each of their gazes. Stills had the presence and demeanor of an ethereal bisexual who I was sure I'd have to read many more volumes of Foucault and Woolf to impress. Nash, meanwhile, with her quiff haircut and piercing eyes, seemed to hint that she wouldn't mind strapping me into the hip lifter they use on fallen cows and going to town on me with a prod, though that may have just been my hopeful imagination going a bit wild. I didn't meet Cosby's gaze, however, as I thought her name a rather tasteless joke I'd rather her father hadn't made. I was soon after introduced to a fourth daughter named Young, who was nineteen. Before finding her attractive I tried to figure out whether it would be appropriate, but realized I had forgotten my own age. Anyway all the women were all quite handsome, including Cosby I would assume.

After a dinner of beef I was cast out of Bryan's delightfully musky farmhouse and shown to a bed of hay in the barn. I kept waiting for Bryan to leave as I prefer to sleep in the nude, but he kept coming back in to tell me about that episode of Family Guy where Brian the dog died and how much he related to that character and how sad he was when he learned their names were spelled differently.

"Get out of here old man!" I yelled in a raspy voice, "I am very tired and I am trying to sleep naked on your pile of hay now! I don't want you to see my butt so please stop talking about Brian the dog from Family Guy and leave!"

At this Bryan the Wise seemed crestfallen, and he apologized profusely as he left, shutting the heavy barn doors behind him. I took off my shirt and skirt but left my underwear on so as not to be scratched there by the hay. I lay down and took my rest as it came, which was surprisingly quickly. It was cut short, however, by the muffled sound of low whispered tones and the bang of the heavy barn doors as Nash kicked them open. 

​There, dressed like a soft butch lingerie ad, were Stills, Nash, and Cosby. After pausing for a second, I laid back against the hay and turned my back to them, muttering something about how I was getting too straight for this shit. Stills wouldn't let me return to my slumber, though. She shook me by the shoulder and my eyes fluttered open lazily. There I saw her standing above me, in her sports bra and her boyshort underwear, with her curly hair cascading down toward me, coming within inches of my face. Her lip quivered slightly as she noticed my shifted attention and affectionless gaze. She pulled her arm back, tensing up, and bit her lip as she prepared to ask something of me.

​"Uh, Riese? My sisters and I were wondering... uh..."

"Yeah?" I asked curiously.

"...Would you wanna play Mario Party 3 with us? Young doesn't wanna play and we don't wanna play with CPU Donkey Kong because he cheats like a motherfucker."

I resisted the urge to tell her that CPU Donkey Kong is actually really easy and I could totally beat him because I've played Mario Party a whole bunch of times and I'm really good at video games, I mean REALLY good at video games, like better than Dream and that's not just a joke or something I'm making up because it makes for a good story I actually really am incredibly good at video games for real and this is real life, and instead followed her and her sisters to the playroom. Nash won by three stars but I won the Mini-Game star.

The next morning I thanked Bryan the Wise for his hospitality and waved goodbye as I walked off. Once I was a dozen yards away I yelled, "MINI-GAME STAR BITCH!" and ran away, laughing deliriously like a child until I collapsed in the grass and threw up on myself a little.

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