I came lurching down out of the shadows and into the warm glow cast by the panel lights of the control room. The door was wide open, and inside Nash stood slowly panting with her back to me. Her hand was wrapped around the throat of a the man who had been leading the Cat hymns and chanting down below. His hood was pulled back exposing his scruffy brown beard. He still held his microphone in one hand- the other was swatting weakly at Nash's sizable forearm. His eyes darted from her to the other man in black robes who also had his hood pulled back. He stood at the far end of the room, his long blond hair backlit by a sparking loose wire in Garfield's mouth. He held Val close against him, with a butterfly knife at her throat and her leash wrapped tight around his hand. She looked scared but very lucid.

The three hooded figures at the control panel seemed to be unconscious. One was on the floor, one was slumping off the side of the chair and one was stuck laying against the panel. The final figure still wearing a hood was crouching tensely by Jim Davis and the wire which had somehow broken loose. Jim was moaning and trying to push his head out of the tangled wires which engulfed him. I could see he was still in possession of a neck which he was jutting out, his veins bulging and muscles straining.

The blond man twirled his knife in his hand and held it by Val's collarbone. 

"This is ridiculous," he said in an accent that might have been Slovenian, "You're going to release Scrap now, and then we will talk this through. Yes?"

"You want me to release him?" Nash asked.

"Nash!" I yelled, stopping a couple feet past the door. She ignored me.

"Yes," said the blond European. 

Nash turned and smiled directly at me. She then grabbed the man Val's captor had called Scrap by the arm and sent him flying towards me. I panicked and tried to step backwards, my leg flailing as I did so. I ended up kicking him in the stomach, and he collapsed to the ground.

"Shit! I'm sorry! I'm sorry!" I shouted instinctively.

"Grab his microphone!" yelled Nash.

I did as my travelling companion commanded and plucked the mic off the floor. Scrap was breathing but not moving much otherwise. Nash and I turned towards the blond man, waiting for a strained moment to see his response.

"Ah, fuck this!" he bellowed, "You can deal with her yourselves! Let me tend to the man Davis!"

The European drew his knife away and let go of Val's leash. Val stood staring at Nash as he retreated to speak in hush and hurried tones to his hooded friend. 

"Val!" Nash cried, tears welling up in her eyes, "Val, I'm so glad you're okay!"

"You shouldn't have come." spoke Val, her voice barely more than a monotone whisper.

Nash and I looked at each other uneasily as Val unclasped the leash from her collar and dropped it to the floor. In her torn leggings and black tank top she cut quite the imposing figure despite being the shortest iron-worker at five-foot-five. Her cat eyeliner was as sharp as the fake claws on her gloves. She approached us steadily, never breaking eye contact with Nash to look at me as I nervously tightened my grip on the microphone.

​"You weren't supposed to see any of this, Nash," Val said, "Why did you even leave your dad's farm? There's nothing you can do. Nothing any human can do in the age of the feline."

She was a hair length away from Nash, who seemed to be struggling and sweating now more than she had when fighting the hooded goons. The conscious two of which had now donned insulated leather gloves and were trying to grab hold of the sparking, writhing wires- there were three now! Scrap seemed down for the count so I nervously inched towards Nash and Val, the microphone now feeling very heavy in my hand.

​"I was going to come back for you, after all this was over," Val continued, "This is the only way for us- you need to understand that."

"I understand," said Nash, "I understand that you're a fucking catgirl!"

"I am a Cat Woman!" Val yelled furiously. She scratched at Nash's arm and I saw a streak of red open up. I ran to Nash in an effort to steady her. She stood there like a blinking statue. Val jumped back, crouched, and licked her bloody claws. Slowly she crawled towards me.

"Did you like that suppository, Riese?" she said, looking up at me with her green eyes, "I designed it myself. I hope it came in handy for you. Look- my partner and I have some things we need to discuss alone. Why don't you just give me the microphone and I'll wait 'til you leave to tell the kittens below what just happened. Give you a head start. That's more than fair."

I fearfully held the microphone up over my head and circled around Nash, trying to read her expression. She seemed too stunned to help me deal with her deranged partner. Was she going to let me die? I wished Joyce was there. From the back of the room, I heard the sparking intensify. Over that buzzing was a low and deep moan growing louder.

"The other option," she said, "Won't be as fun for you. I'm going to tear that thing out of your hand and call the kittens up here. You'll already be a bloody mess by the time they come, but when they do it's going to be a feast. Fancy Feast is nice fresh out the can, but fresh meat is just purr-fect."

"Wow," I said, my heart beating in my chest like Tommy Ramone, "You guys take pet play really seriously! Uhh, good for you!"

I tried to prepare myself to do to her what I had done to Michael two weeks ago. I didn't have anything sharp, just a blunt microphone, so there would be none of the quick and violent finality of a knife- just painful brutality. I wasn't sure if I was honestly capable of applying cat euthanasia in this form. From the back of the room I heard a high-pitched wail and a Slovenian scream. The blond man and his friend were cowering in the corner- his friend had her hood off now and her small white face was contorted into a countenance of absolute terror.

On the ground rolled the head of Jim Davis. It tilted unnaturally from side to side, its jaw pivoting and clacking against the hard cement floor. From his open neck down Jim Davis was nothing more than a tangle of thin wires, mostly black and red. The red ones seemed to be tubes carrying blood from his heart, which was encased in thin transparent plastic and was currently being dragged across the floor along with the other organs visible in the tangle. Four thin clusters of long wires vaguely resembling limbs were in the process of pulling Mr. Davis across the cement, leaving a trail of blood in his wake from the red tubes that had already torn. He was moaning, his eyes staring right up at me desperately. He seemed to want something from me, as he was crawling right towards me. Val separated the two of us, but she didn't lose her focus for a second. I might have pissed my leggings but it wouldn't mean a thing to her.

"You don't need to die here, Riese," she said, "You're not like my former coworkers. You don't even need to die in the Restructuring. I can slip Ashe another note. You seem like a nice girl. Just give me the microphone and go. Leave Nash here. You can still leave. Go."

"No, Val," I replied, stepping out in front of Nash and standing up straight, "I don't think so. 'Cause, like, I'm actually really into your girlfriend and I want her to peg me."

Val snarled and crouched down again, preparing to lunge. Suddenly a mess of wires wrapped around her leg. She turned and looked down to see the smiling head of Jim Davis. His furthest wired limb was suddenly slapped by one of the frayed and sparking wires slamming up and down across the area in front of Garfield's tongue. The wires connected and 440 volts of electricity at a tenth of an amp passed through Val's body. She lit up from within like a mass of fairy lights and dropped to the ground. Jim's head rolled limply, his smile now plastered permanently upon it.

Nash stared at her dead lover for a few moments, then dropped to the floor, a small puddle of blood pooling around her arm. I ripped off Scrap's robe and kneeled to wrap part of it around her arm. She was still conscious, but wouldn't say a word. I stood up and shakily ran a hand through my hair and shook myself to feel a bit calmer. I quickly but steadily walked to the corner where the blond and the pale faced brunette were still cowering from the lifeless husks of Jim Davis and his first and final victim.

"What's your name?" I asked the blond man politely.

"Uh... it's Mister McFluffer," he said, dazed.

"No it's not." I said.

"No... it's not. It's Lukas."

"Lukas, can you help me? I don't know if I did it right."

Lukas followed me to Nash and tightened my makeshift tourniquet. His friend trailed behind. I approached her as calmly as I had Lukas.

"What's your name?" I asked.

"Nadine," she said.

"Thanks for not giving me a cat name. Can you tell me where the iron-workers are? Val's co-workers, I mean? You know, the butch women?"

"They're in His left foot. Downstairs. It's a prison. But there are always a few guarding His feet. Even during the orgies."

I nodded, gathering that He was their lord Garfield. I remembered there being sexier anthro cats many long years ago, but somehow now only He remained. A shame, I thought. I pressed the button on the microphone and brought it to my face. Even from a thousand feet above, I could still hear my voice booming over the massive speakers in the grand chamber.

"PAPA OOH MA MEOW MEOW, KITTIES!" I said in my best impression of the unconscious fellow at the console, "WOW! THERE ARE NASTY PUPPERS OUTSIDE TRYING TO BLOW UP OUR MASTER'S MOUNTAIN! EVERYNYAH HAS TO GO OUT AND STOP EM! PWEEZE?"

I let go of the button. Lukas and Nadine were both staring at me bewilderedly. I flashed them a forced smile and a peace sign and put my head to the floor, listening. I heard from deep below what sounded like a mass migration of semi-nude bodies towards the mountain's entrance. I breathed a sigh of relief.

"Okay, Nadine, open the cages down there," I said, "Or the foot. Open the foot. Whatever."

Nadine went to the console and flipped a few switches. Then she nodded at me and waved worriedly. I ran back over to Nash.

"Hey, hey- can you walk?" I asked her, "We gotta find Joyce and get the fuck out of here!"

​"I can walk," she said, "And getting the fuck out of here sounds great."

Chapter One || Previous Chapter || Next Chapter

The three of us entered and treaded through a narrow stone hall: Nash first, then me and Joyce.​ It soon widened to an area with a low ceiling lit by torches. A large wooden orange door with a black handle stood before us ominously. To our right a tight staircase curved up and away.

​"Do you think Val is here?" Nash asked me.

"I do," I said, and motioned for my companions to follow me up the stairs. As we quietly ascended, I noticed a low humming building in intensity. It was coming from a window up ahead pointing towards the core of the mountain. The window was a small and frameless, in the shape of a circle with two pointy ears. I glanced at Joyce, who was scratching her armpit nonchalantly, and peeked in.

Through the window I saw the enormous inner chamber of the mountain. It was bigger than most shopping malls. In the center of it, larger than could be believed, stood Garfield. Or, at least, his instantly recognizable body. His giant feet and tail provided a mighty base support for his plump little belly, while his thin arms and legs proved far more disturbing to perceive in this realm than in the daily strips. His head was missing though, and I saw far above me that his squat body disappeared directly into the flat ceiling at the top of the room. Below him, thronging around the feet, humming and swaying in unison, were hundreds of what looked like ravers or kinksters. There was very little clothing to be seen, save for bits of leather or nylon here and there. Facepaint and accessories were in abundance though, and from my vantage point just a few dozen feet off the ground I could make out at least a few people in fursuits. Some appeared to be orgying. Everyone seemed to be staring up towards Garfield or at each other's naughty bits but I quickly ducked my head back down anyways in case anyone were to turn around and spot  me.

"Is Val there?" Nash asked desperately.

"I don't think so," I said, "And there's way too many people down there anyway. We gotta keep climbing."

"But what if she is down there? Shouldn't we at least check?"

"It's like a thousand people down there, girl." said Joyce, grabbing Nash's beefy shoulder with one of her tiny hands. "And they're probably cultists. I don't wanna fucking die today."

Nash closed her mouth and we continued our ascent of the spiral staircase around the huge chamber. More humming and chants of "PAPA OOH MA MEOW MEOW" echoed from the windows every hundred steps or so. It took much longer than climbing the mountain from the outside would have, and even though it was warmer I felt like I was going insane by the time we finally stepped out onto a landing.

From the landing the staircase continued to the right, while to the left was another wooden door, this one with windows to either side instead of torches. Once again, I approached the left window to sneak a peek, but was toppled by Nash as she shoulder bumped me in her haste to do the same. Joyce and I gave her some space by sharing the view offered by the right window.

Val was inside, curled up on the floor in front of Garfield's gaping mouth. His huge sarcastic eyes stared her down as he might stare at Nermal before offering a biting and humorous rejoinder. Directly above his eyes was a black ceiling, with a few circuits and pipes jutting out in places. Val appeared to be asleep on a bed of tattered rags. Around her neck was a pink collar with a bell on it. Her long black hair was messy and slightly damp, with black cat ears peeking out from it. Her tights were torn. Nash seemed like she was about to break.

"Hold on, Nash," I whispered.

​There were six figures surrounding Val, all shrouded in black robes. They all had tails poking out, lifting the back of the robes and exposing some pretty awesome behinds. Three of them were sitting at a large blue console on the left side of the room, watching monitors and pushing buttons. One was monitoring Val- this figure held a spray bottle in one hand. The fifth figure had a microphone, and kept repeating "papa ooh ma mow mow" into it. The final figure was tending to something inside Garfield's mouth, the size of which easily doubled their height. When they left the mouth I saw who remained: it was Jim Davis. He was suspended above the ground, his body consumed by a mass of tendril-like wires connected to the back of Garfield's mouth. His head rolled to the side, but his eyes were still open. He looked old, though not as old as I had expected. There was no long gray beard, just the same white hair hanging on to the back of his balding head. There was a pain behind those eyes that betrayed the truth of his age.

I pulled my head away from the window and the disturbing scene it contained. I reached slowly for Nash's shoulder. She slapped my hand away hard.

"No! I'm not leaving her!" she yell-whispered.

"Come on- there's more stairs!" I whispered back, "Besides, whatever they're doing to her is no worse than how I like to spend a typical Wednesday evening."

"That's true... weird. She was always so vanilla."

"Uh, yeah, whatever! Come on, let's go up one more floor! We'll come right back."

"No, Riese. I'm staying here." Nash responded, staring at me with dead seriousness.

​"Okay, okay- just go in yet! Seriously, Nash- wait until me and Joyce come back."

​Nash nodded and planted her face back in the window. I hoped no one would see her sharp narrow face mad-dogging them through their black hoods while we were gone. Joyce grabbed my hand and lead me toward the staircase, and we climbed up together. Halfway up we came to a small gate, like the ones installed to keep babies safe. It had a tiny monitor by the lock mechanism. It flickered on and flashed the words single file across the display: Which Video Game Babe Is Hotter? Candy Kong or Lara Croft?

I considered my decision carefully- was whoever crafting it looking for the traditional answer, or were they a renegade like me? I recalled that we were inside the peak of a hollowed-out mountain right now and felt I had my answer. I pushed the button on the left and the display flashed green. The lock opened and the monitor displayed another message: Ah-a Femoid of Taste, I See! I pushed the gate open and climbed the final steps with Joyce.
​
We came up directly into the topmost chamber, where the ceiling ended in a point encased by the mountain's peak. It was half the size of the last chamber, and exponentially smaller than the first. A song by the legendary trans dreamgirl SOPHIE played from three speakers around the peak of the ceiling. The bulk of the floor was taken up by the top of Garfield's head. In front of his great ears, a hole was carved into the fat cat's head, revealing the squishy pinkness within. Sat in the hole was a girl wearing a pink sweatshirt and jeans. She was squatting in her seat, her head peering between her knees at a small monitor and keyboard poking out the edge of her hole. Her hair was short and white with messy bangs, and slightly longer in the back. Her winged eyeliner was impressively pointy- more so than I had ever managed to make my own. She had black lipstick too, and a spiked dog collar around her neck.

The girl turned around in her little brain hole and regarded us slyly. She pouted her lip in a show of mock despair.

"Oh no someone got in! And it's a human girl and her high-res friend!" said the comfily-dressed woman, "You found my hidden gamer pad! No one else has ever made it past the gate. Well, there's not much I can do- I cut off all communication with those annoying cat people downstairs."

"Who are you? And why are you in Garfield's head?" I asked.

​"My name's Ashe," said Ashe, "And that's how I control the biggest Mecha in the Pacific Northwest! Hahahaha!"

I braced myself for annihilation, wincing and silently bemoaning my deferred dreams. Who would stop the plague of buff nerds from doing vague untold evil? Who would write the great American novel? Who would suck the most dicks at Dick's Dick-Suckin Sundays in Sacramento? It was not for me to know. Annihilation missed its due date at this juncture, though, and I opened my eyes to see Ashe still laughing. Joyce looked pretty pissed off.

"Ahaha! I was just kidding. This is actually how I play games- the statue can interface with God's Computer outside. There are some really great games on that thing- wanna see?"

"No, our friend's downstairs," I said, "Look, I don't know what's going on here, but there's no way you're up here just playing video games all the time. They got fucking Jim Davis all wired up down there! Show me what else you can access on that computer."

Ashe stuck her lower lip out and pouted at me again.

"Please?" I added.

"Okay," she said, "Let me bring up the spreadsheet."

The snow-haired gamer girl pressed a hotkey on her keyboard and brought up said document. Rows and rows of names appeared, along with their IQs, BMIs, High Scores and Zodiac signs. Ashe scrolled down and I saw there were thousands of names, comprising of what could be the entire remaining population of North America for all I knew. 

"What is this?" I asked.

"Oh, there's a company called Permanent Solutions over in the City that I've been doing some contract work for. Just while I'm stuck in lobby queues in-game. They developed an algorithm that'll use God's Computer to restructure the population. I'm just managing the data and converting it to GCL. And the data the algorithm uses to make its decisions is all in this spreadsheet."

"Wow, what the fuck is wrong with you? This is going to kill people based on bullshit pseudoscience! And also Zodiac signs, but still that's fucked up!"

​"Yeah," said Joyce, "I was the one who added those. Sorry."

"Well, it's not like I'm saying all Geminis need to die- and they won't!" said Ashe, "The algorithm makes that call, and it uses all the determinants on a weighed scale. So, ethically, I mean- yeah it's gonna kill some people, but I'm not deciding who! It could kill me for all I know- except my IQ is 179. What have people done for me? Ever? Even when I had to scrounge for estrogen vials like you two- nothing! I didn't need them then and I definitely don't need them now! I'm doing fine here and I have everything I need!"

"Great, I'm glad you're doing so well," I said.

"No, seriously- the people who are going to get weeded out by the program- an OBJECTIVE program, by the way- are the ones who started all this crap in the first place. Once we delete them we'll be able to build society back up again! Things are going to be way better for you, believe me. I know! I had to make it on my own when the Internet fell! I didn't have friends, guns, I didn't have shit! I know how fucked up it still is out there. Thing will get a lot better when we weed out the SCUM, the Reich, the Arbuckles, those gullible idiots downstairs- all these stupid violent factions who can only think about the past. Not the future we should be headed towards! You, lady-" Joyce pointed at me, "You made it here! That means you must be better than them- a woman of the future. You'll do great."

Ashe turned around to close the spreadsheet on her monitor then turned turned back to me. She grabbed the sides of the hole in Garfield's head she was occupying and started pushing herself up and out of it. In a flash, Joyce was there before her on the head. She stepped on Ashe's thigh with her black vinyl boots, pushing her down and preventing her from leaving. 

"I'm gonna need you to transfer that data directly to me," said Joyce, "All of it."

"Even if your program could handle a file that size," said Ashe, "I can't afford to lose this job. He would find out, believe me, and I'd be sacked. Also, I don't want to."

From downstairs, I heard a door creak loudly open, and then some shouting. Some of it sounded like Nash. Then came a silence which was even more worrying.

"Joyce- can you handle this?" I asked.

"Yeah, you can go," she said.

I left her there with her foot pressing down on Ashe's thigh, eliciting some grunting and a lot of wiggling beneath her leg's weight. Joyce's eyes didn't leave Ashe for a second, and had the icy glow I remembered from the first night we shared together back when she was a human and not a computer program made flesh. I had very little time to think about any of this as I sped toward the stairs and down into the dark of the mountain staircase, plunging once more into the chamber in which Jim Davis spent his tortured days.

Chapter One || Previous Chapter || Next Chapter

"I hope Young is okay," Nash sighed wearily, "Stills is terrible with kids. She's got that chaotic bisexual energy- one time I caught her posting a thirst trap while Young was in the bath alone. Poor kid was freezing. And as for Cosby-"

"Yeah, yeah, can we not talk about Cosby?" I interjected, "I like your stories, I'm just hoping you could tell some that, like, don't have Cosby in them at all."

Nash fell silent, and I sighed in the tense quiet. We were camped out in the mountains, far north of the City. Nash had set up a tent and a fire, over which were skewered a couple large pizza rolls that were still thawing. She had lent me her Patagonia jacket, leggings, and boots. I was definitely wishing that clinic hadn't burned down before I could get my SRS and implant, it would have made leggings much more comfortable.

It had been a long and arduous journey and my relationship with Nash had been strained. At the beginning she had flirted with me, giving as good as she got. But the closer we came to finding Jim Davis the more worried she became about Val's fate. It had already been a week- neither of us wanted to say it, but there was every chance she was dead. Still, she couldn't go on without finding out, and I didn't stand a chance against Stanley's benefactors without the help of Val's friends.

Without saying a word, Nash crawled back into the tent. I waited a few minutes then joined her. I bundled myself under the flannel covers and turned on my side, facing the front flap. Nash murmured and wrapped her arm around my waist, pulling me back towards her. I was confused at first but soon succumbed to her warm embrace.

​The next day Nash and I climbed another mountain. I lost my balance every few dozen paces in the deep powdery snow, often tumbling in face first and relying on Nash to come help me up. At the top we finally rested to look out over our surroundings. Before us at the base of the nearest mountain was a great stone structure comprised of two ivory tablets, each the size and shape of a gas station awning. Vines stretched from the tablets up into the trees on the side of the mountain. A part in the clouds overhead shined sunlight on the clearing, distinguishing it from the surrounding wintery dark. 

​Nash gave me a hopeful look and I, looking down at the steep downward slope, gave her a scared one. She sighed and got down on one knee. I could hardly contain my excitement until I saw her motion towards her back. I still relished the opportunity to ride her down the mountain, despite my disappointment. I wrapped my arms around her neck and my legs around her waist and squeezed tight, feeling the weight of my emaciated body be supported easily by Nash's strong and sinewy muscles. She didn't slow down one iota, and descended quickly and smoothly. 

When we came upon the great tablets Nash and I noticed hieroglyphs upon both of their surfaces. One was laid back against the great mountain, which was uncommonly smooth and gray; its peak remained untouched by snow. The symbols upon it were too far away to distinguish individually but seemed to paint a large intricate picture when viewed from afar. Perhaps of a figure leading some great force against a foe? The other tablet spread out across the ground- it, too, untouched by snow. Among the hieroglyphs there I could make out a cat, different humanoids, a heart, and a rock or lump of coal. This last one, a carving of a little lump with a flat base, was glowing an anomalous green. I lowered myself off Nash's back and approached it. Cautiously, I laid my hand upon the glowing symbol.

The spot beneath my hand went dark just as a cloud overhead cast a shade over the clearing. Some of the symbols on the vertical tablet began to light up and glow that same green. I withdrew quickly and gripped Nash's hand tight as the glowing increased and tinted her face green as if we were watching the aurora borealis. A large cluster of the bright green symbols seemed to change shape and swirl together on the surface of the ivory tablet. They coalesced into a humanoid silhouette and I couldn't hold back a gasp of recognition. Nash turned away from the incredible display and lowered her eyebrows at me. From her green outline on the giant computer, Joyce emerged. She was alive once more.

The glowing stopped quickly and all was still and dark. I breathed heavily and regarded Joyce. She didn't move for a moment, but then turned slowly towards me. She stumbled a bit and I worried there was something wrong with her. What if it wasn't even Joyce at all? Then the clouds parted again and I saw something in her that told me it was my old friend and domme. I ran towards her and when she saw me she started laughing and embraced me. Her smell and the grip of her arms took me back mentally to the joyful times when she would hold my bruised and lacerated body against hers and whisper sweet things in my ear. I nearly fell to the earth, quickly as my body yearned to melt in those soft but powerful arms.

​"Riese! Oh my god-" Joyce laughed uncontrollably, "-it worked! Thank you so much!"

"How-" I sniffed, smiling and crying, "-how are you back?"

"It's thanks to that code I had you enter! Michael's old desktop connects to THIS!" she slammed her fist on the white stone structure, "THIS, God's Computer!"

"What?" I asked, but it already made sense as I looked up at the tablet and the mountain that bore its weight. I turned around to see Nash sunk to the ground, our gear strewn around her, sobbing silently.

"Nash? What's wrong? This is Joyce, she's my friend! I thought she was dead! She can help us, probably!" I said.

"Sure, I ain't got nothing better to do" said Joyce, shrugging.

"I don't care!" cried Nash, "This doesn't have anything to do with Jim Davis, Riese! It's got nothing to do with Val either! Where the hell does this pipe even go? There's no symbol for it on God's Fucking Computer! Those locals were full of shit! There's nothing here!"

"...Well I think God's Fucking Computer is pretty cool, bitch, but alright..." Joyce mumbled.

I approached Nash with some vague notion that I should comfort her. I reached my hand out towards her shoulder but then withdrew it. I looked to Joyce for advice but she was already retreating behind the Computer.

"Nash..." I said. 

Before I could decide what to say Nash hugged my knees forcefully, nearly toppling me. I regained my footing and patted her head, marveling at the texture of her short brown hair. I wiped a tear from her cheek with my thumb and winced at the tenderness of my companion who had been so resolute and determined.

"We'll keep looking for her, Nash," I said, "We'll 'interrogate' those locals again if we have to- I know how much you liked that. Joyce can help too! She's really sadistic- you'll love her. We'll find Val together. You're a good partner, you deserve to see her again. And at this point I really wanna find her just so I can start getting some attention from you, too."

Nash nodded faintly and started crying much louder. I was a little uncomfortable but as it continued I tried my best to connect to her pain. There was my usual longing to feel her pain so as to connect with her better, yes, but there was also a deep sadness from seeing a woman I respected so torn apart. I knew this all connected back to Stanley and my hate surged anew. It was beginning to turn into something really powerful.

"Hey!" Joyce shouted from behind God's Computer, "Come check out this little hole!"

I blushed, embarrassed that Joyce would call me by my nickname in public, then realized that wasn't what had happened. I ran back behind the computer, into the dark gap between the Computer and the mountain where the vines which slithered across the clearing disappeared into the mountainside. Joyce did indeed have her hand in a hole- but it was the mountain's!

​"Nash!" I yelled, "Come here! Bring the pipe!"

Nash came with the pipe, which fit the divot perfectly. It locked in place and the mountain opened itself to the three of us.

Chapter One || Previous Chapter || Next Chapter

​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 had. 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 with the references, kid. Her disappearance might'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 the 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 promotional Carol 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 in the present, 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 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 these junctures 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 the office of Stanley's company Permanent Solutions was. The building had been made to last, with cement and stone 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, who had been working for the company since well before the break-up, was smoking weed on the couch. He looked messy and rugged 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. You know? His butthole. 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 and Michael were the only ones in the building and they were too far up to hear me. I looked at Joyce's back and saw her spinal applicator was pumping a liquid into her at a dangerous pace- 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​ the 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 impressively expressive. 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 Chadicus 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 and rappelled myself off the roof 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 pretend 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. When I awoke that afternoon 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 décor.

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, replaced 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. A fence separated the dead grass here from the more unruly vegetation outside it. A red wagon was parked against it. Out there on the porch, 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?

"Some months, now."

"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.

"Everyone I've seen come here knew who this place once belonged to. Almost instantly. 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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