Multigenetic Chic

by Thomas White

conclusion

“Well Maties, we have a little problem on that. All four of our new killer trainees got road-sick coming back from the West. They have been throwing up like ill babies for the last five hours. Agro, their driver/handler, has taken them to a safe-house where somebody is feeding them weak soup and honey...” Sully shrugged apologetically.

Mullet’s face reddened. “Ain’t that a kick in the head?” Then he whined,”Christ tonight is our special half-price night for Force/ IC Occupation staff. They’ll just show their ID and get a deal on the cover charge plus some free drinks... the ITs could have picked up some top Occupation blokes and snuffed them good... Salo had it all planned... ... Hell, we even had some top brass-level officers who had made reservations... ”

“Well, I guess the perverts in the Occupation will have to wait to get their bit of IT arse another night,” joked Sully.

“Mate it’s not a funny,” replied Mullet, his beard bristling.

“I can’t do a thing about it; you want me to bring a gang of ITs here to projectile vomit all over your dance floor–and on your high-flying customers’ fancy threads?” demanded Sully peeved by Mullet’s amazing stupidity. God does Salo know what a dickhead this clown is?

“Dis is getting too heavy mates; dare is no reason we can’t still party,” Chops said, suddenly laughing, twisting and spinning on his artificial legs, his toothless mouth drooling. “I am freakin’ tired of all dis IT/Salo sex stuff... ” Smolley, with a little smile, did a few mincing steps in agreement.

Mullet wagged his deformed hand again: “OK, stick around, but you gotta pay full cover charge. No concessions even for Salo’s team. Sorry, mate, I run a business.”

All Sully could think as he turned to leave was what a wanker!

* * *

A towering 6’7” freak, with massive biceps, a ghostly complexion, and flaming orange- red hair, was both the bouncer and ticket collector. Chops and Smolley, wearing party masks to conceal their identities, lingered in the lobby shadows watching curiously as patrons started to drift into Club Big.

Most of them wore costumes–because of this club’s risqué reputation discretion here was the better part of decorum so that it was often impossible to tell human from mutant: A tallish person strutted in, in high heels, with a grizzled chin, lipstick, heavily caked make-up and frilly dress–a man in drag or a trans-gender?

There were swarms of obvious dwarfs, though some of the taller ones may have been just short humans, while some of the “ hunchbacks “ were actually stout persons with prosthetic humps stuffed in their blouses and shirts. Then followed a sudden, noisy rush of customers garbed in a wild assortment of fake “deformities” — flabby noses, gaping nostrils, twisted chins, lazy eyes, flapping ear lobes, club feet, mottled skin: a parade of masquerading Street Crazies. Tonight was the night for Multigenetic Chic, real or make-believe.

Mullet Blackstone, rocking on his heels, stood by the entrance acknowledging with fawning smiles those who flashed Occupation or Force ID badges, while merely grunting at those (Salo True Believers) who did not. After the stream of customers had seemingly ended, Mullet, wanting to lock up before the show began, peered out the door for any latecomers.

Stepping briskly around the corner came a figure in a hood, cloak and billowing robe, face behind a black visor that vaguely reminded Mullet of that character out of the old “Star Wars” films. Not speaking, the figure scuttled quickly through the lobby, and paid full price admission. Followed by the towering bouncer’s odd looks, the strange patron strode aggressively into the bar area, clearly on a mission.

Mullet slipped over to Chops and Smolley, and whispered: “Make yourself useful. Follow that strange bloke around, but keep your distance”

Chops replied “Then mate giv’ us free admission. We take orders only frum da Salo. We don’t work fer you... besides we’re off-duty.”

Snorting disgustedly Mullet waved for them to pass.

Sheets of Narco-Cig smoke were starting to fog in the bar. Barely able to breath, let along see, Chops and Smolley, choking, crept slowly between the tangled knots of chattering, costumed bodies. The weird, hooded customer was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps, they thought, he/it/she had popped into the toilet.

A grotesquely obese, mottled-faced, woman, swathed in furs and sequins, and giggling hysterically, blocked their way. She was chatting with an impassive thin man in tight blue trousers who exhaled Narco-Cig smoke in shreds from a mouth without lips.

“Did you hear the one about the IT who wanted to make love to a dwarf...” the big women wheezed, tears of mirth pouring from her piggish eyes.

Thundering cheers and applause went up from the crowd, drowning out the women’s joke. Above, swimming around the massive disco ball, was a writhing, techno-colored stream of faces, mouths, torsos and intricate sexual organs. These holographic images then exploded into a kaleidoscopic whirlpool of copulating humans, ITs, dwarfs, hunchbacks, each morphing into the other, often in mid-act. Almost simultaneously, the ancient disco hit “Stayin’Alive” blared out, and couples — sometimes multiples — rushed the dance floor where they too became a confusion of sweaty, violently pumping bodies.

Bursting from a side door, behind the dancers, seven dwarfs in pleated cheerleader skirts, followed by a galloping drag queen, pseudo-tits flopping, and regal in an elegant black nightgown and pink slippers: this, the featured act, Snow Black and The Seven Dwarfs, was greeted with another thunderous ovation. The performers started swaying wildly, moving their lips to the lyrics.

Just then Chops and Smolley saw the masked figure lurking in the now near-empty bar area occupied by only a few malingering ITs, guzzling from shot glasses, and the large mottled-face woman alone, but still bouncing and shrieking with laughter at her own jokes.

From his robe, the strange figure pulled a laser pistol and fired at the woman; the weapon’s green streak drilled a tidy hole in her forehead. Almost as if deflated, the woman shriveled on her bar stool, lumbered backward, and crashed on the floor. Her last breath sounded like a drunken giggle.

Ripping off his mask and hood, the killer glared triumphantly around the hushed dance floor with his bloody, pulsating eyes. Salo had avenged the Convict Nation against one Ms. Mabis Mallow who, though supposedly a CN True Believer, had actually been an informant for the Force, and, as such, was responsible for the capture, torture, and murder of her lover, the elderly insurgency recruitment agent Ian Crumpet. Salo enjoyed a hands-on snuff job once in awhile, rather than always sending his hit team. Tonight however, due to cock-ups by his staff, he had had no real choice but to do it himself...

Doing this in front of some Force-employed patrons was admittedly very audacious, he thought. However, most of them, on the Convict Nation bribe anyway, had already compromised themselves by being in this joint –a place widely suspected as being an insurgency meeting-place. They would never report the murder; that would mean revealing where they were partying. And that could lead to a nasty investigation for possibly consorting with subversives — these days an act of high treason subject to immediate execution. Salo smiled at his own cleverness.

Moreover, he had learned through his top spies within the Force that Ms. Mallow had become a burden and embarrassment: she was demanding sex with both female and male Force staffers, including the powerful Sub —Commander June Soon, as a condition for her continued employment–a prospect revolting to say the least. Further, he had learned, that Force management felt that her lavish stipend was not really worth the quality of information she was providing which, despite the Ian Crumpet success, had been rather poor. In short, he had actually done the Force–and himself–a favor by exterminating this greedy parasite. He was now their hero.

Of course, he had originally planned for one of his new killer recodes to do the job. But then that was why he knew that he was not only respected, but revered: his powers of creative management allowed him to overcome the miserable failures of minions, such as that bungler Agro, who had failed to properly care for his IT cargo.

(Speaking of a need to get rid of dead wood... .maybe he would have the Killer ITs snuff Agro, once they were feeling better. No great loss that; the fool should’ve taken a basic medicine kit on the processing trip to Fort Helix Didn’t he know that all ITs were notorious for peeing and vomiting unpredictably? In truth there were many in his ranks that should be ground into dog food. Yes, indeed, next week he had to start a major personnel review).

Haloed by virtual freaking, the disco ball, like a pseudo-star, still glittered cheaply. ”Stayin’ Alive” blared anew. Ignoring the dead woman’s body Club Big’s customers, Force staff and True Believers alike, were getting down and dirty again. Salo ‘s eyes, softening to a gentle pink, watched cheerfully as Snow Black and the Seven Dwarfs whipped the dancers into even higher frenzies. The Great Salo, the father of the insurgent Convict Nation, had won another cosmic victory over conscience and the Force. Mouths gaping, Smolley and Chops gazed in wonder.