left.
Mr Konan was shaking his head.
“Who is she?” ventured Slick,
finally, when he realised Konan did not have the charity to break the silence.
“Melissa. She is Mr Voloshko’s wife.”
“But he’s...”
Slick bit his tongue. He was going
to say “he’s ninety-six years old!” but, obviously, being a Grade 1
Minister to one of the largest biomod piracy Syndicates in the Quad-Gal meant
Voloshko had access to a billion human upgrades. Age simply wasn’t the handicap
it had been. And who needed Viagra when a simple biomod could fashion a wealthy
customer with a permanent penis upgrade? Length, girth, strength and endurance?
All yours for a few dollars more.
“You abused the wrong woman,
Slick. And, despite Mr Voloshko’s recent... interest in more esoteric
forms of passion, of enjoyment, of lust, you tampered with Mr Voloshko’s bitch.”
Slick Guinness considered this.
And the truth of the situation finally penetrated his ego like syrup working
patiently into a sponge. He was dead meat. This Chamber was not a child’s
playground... he wouldn’t get a lolly and a contented ride home in the back of
the car. No. This was a Torture Pit. A Death Hole.
Slick wasn’t going to leave this
room alive. He met Konan’s dark and steady gaze. “My one consolation,” Slick
sighed, trying to buy himself more time, trying to put off the inevitability of
fate, his face a picture of hang-dog sorrow, “is that Melissa Voloshko enjoyed
herself. She howled like a whore. Fucked like a dog. And she tasted real
sweet, my bully-boy friend. Like sticky toffee. Like syrup and cream. A
personification of orgasm.”
Behind the chair, Slick was
rubbing at his thumb. There came a tiny click.
“Yeah?” Konan was shocked. He
relaxed into a smile, a lizard smile showing nasty, coffee-stained teeth. “OK
then, tough guy. Mr Voloshko wants to offer you a gift. A present. A valuable
and hard-earned lesson.” He pulled free a sleek alloy shaft and flicked
free the tapered razor at its peak. It gleamed... a slice of steel, a splinter
of raw and promised pain. Konan twisted the razor knife slowly from side
to side, allowing light from the yellow bulb to play along the finesse of the
glittering, sterile implement. Tiny rainbows danced like fish.
“He offers you a lesson you will
never forget.”
Konan glided forward. His eyes
gleamed. Like glass.
Slick’s heart seemed to stop
beating as he watched that terrible blade descend...
~ * ~
Franco
parked the Mercedes groundcar and with a whine the seat deposited him on
the pavement. Immediately he was amidst the heaving throng, and he pushed
through the crowd of humans and proxers, and the occasional SIM, and up steep
steps of a nameless, faceless steel-fronted hundred storey block. He eased
through revolving doors which reflected the snake of flesh on the pavements,
nodded at the two black-suited men bearing machine guns and dark glasses, hair
slicked back, stance professional, and ambled down the corridor to the gate.
Once scanned and through, Franco
stepped into the canteen. Keg and Tag were already there, Keg’s huge figure
squeezed into a small plastic seat, each man bearing a steaming coffee before
him. Keg was an ex-gunrunner, a huge man with a tattooed forehead, tattooed
forearms, and a body that was as wide as it was tall. He was a giant of a man,
spiky black hair glistening untidily, stubble smeared like grease across a
square-jaw you could break paving slabs on. His small eyes glittered in
permanent challenge, and he watched Franco advance.
Tag, in contrast, was slim and
tall, his face thin and pointed, his eyes narrow, almost oriental. Clean
shaven, he wore heavy gold rings on each finger and a swathe of gold chains
around his neck. Tag had risen the Hard Way from the Dregs; he was a rough and
tough streetboy, a king of backstabbing, a master of the mashed beer glass.
“All right, lads?”
Mr Konan was shaking his head.
“Who is she?” ventured Slick,
finally, when he realised Konan did not have the charity to break the silence.
“Melissa. She is Mr Voloshko’s wife.”
“But he’s...”
Slick bit his tongue. He was going
to say “he’s ninety-six years old!” but, obviously, being a Grade 1
Minister to one of the largest biomod piracy Syndicates in the Quad-Gal meant
Voloshko had access to a billion human upgrades. Age simply wasn’t the handicap
it had been. And who needed Viagra when a simple biomod could fashion a wealthy
customer with a permanent penis upgrade? Length, girth, strength and endurance?
All yours for a few dollars more.
“You abused the wrong woman,
Slick. And, despite Mr Voloshko’s recent... interest in more esoteric
forms of passion, of enjoyment, of lust, you tampered with Mr Voloshko’s bitch.”
Slick Guinness considered this.
And the truth of the situation finally penetrated his ego like syrup working
patiently into a sponge. He was dead meat. This Chamber was not a child’s
playground... he wouldn’t get a lolly and a contented ride home in the back of
the car. No. This was a Torture Pit. A Death Hole.
Slick wasn’t going to leave this
room alive. He met Konan’s dark and steady gaze. “My one consolation,” Slick
sighed, trying to buy himself more time, trying to put off the inevitability of
fate, his face a picture of hang-dog sorrow, “is that Melissa Voloshko enjoyed
herself. She howled like a whore. Fucked like a dog. And she tasted real
sweet, my bully-boy friend. Like sticky toffee. Like syrup and cream. A
personification of orgasm.”
Behind the chair, Slick was
rubbing at his thumb. There came a tiny click.
“Yeah?” Konan was shocked. He
relaxed into a smile, a lizard smile showing nasty, coffee-stained teeth. “OK
then, tough guy. Mr Voloshko wants to offer you a gift. A present. A valuable
and hard-earned lesson.” He pulled free a sleek alloy shaft and flicked
free the tapered razor at its peak. It gleamed... a slice of steel, a splinter
of raw and promised pain. Konan twisted the razor knife slowly from side
to side, allowing light from the yellow bulb to play along the finesse of the
glittering, sterile implement. Tiny rainbows danced like fish.
“He offers you a lesson you will
never forget.”
Konan glided forward. His eyes
gleamed. Like glass.
Slick’s heart seemed to stop
beating as he watched that terrible blade descend...
~ * ~
Franco
parked the Mercedes groundcar and with a whine the seat deposited him on
the pavement. Immediately he was amidst the heaving throng, and he pushed
through the crowd of humans and proxers, and the occasional SIM, and up steep
steps of a nameless, faceless steel-fronted hundred storey block. He eased
through revolving doors which reflected the snake of flesh on the pavements,
nodded at the two black-suited men bearing machine guns and dark glasses, hair
slicked back, stance professional, and ambled down the corridor to the gate.
Once scanned and through, Franco
stepped into the canteen. Keg and Tag were already there, Keg’s huge figure
squeezed into a small plastic seat, each man bearing a steaming coffee before
him. Keg was an ex-gunrunner, a huge man with a tattooed forehead, tattooed
forearms, and a body that was as wide as it was tall. He was a giant of a man,
spiky black hair glistening untidily, stubble smeared like grease across a
square-jaw you could break paving slabs on. His small eyes glittered in
permanent challenge, and he watched Franco advance.
Tag, in contrast, was slim and
tall, his face thin and pointed, his eyes narrow, almost oriental. Clean
shaven, he wore heavy gold rings on each finger and a swathe of gold chains
around his neck. Tag had risen the Hard Way from the Dregs; he was a rough and
tough streetboy, a king of backstabbing, a master of the mashed beer glass.
“All right, lads?”
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