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 lea 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 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 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. 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?

"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 that chimp-like woman 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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