exposed to Gilbert through the thin glass. He greeted the women with open arms as music thumped from inside the club. Spotlights waved over the city. Cars cruised up and down the go-go quarter, their drivers hunting for the best good time. Neon blinked everywhere.
The limo pulled away under sun-bright lights and Gilbert smiled at the mechanoid driver, who ignored him. The metal man was immune to radiation and spoke not a word to the silent assassin next to him. The car stopped in a crowded underground garage, and Gilbert got his suit out of the trunk.
Marcelline appeared as he finished dressing. “How did it go?” Her voice echoed off the heavy concrete.
“That man is going to be dead in a few days.” Gilbert put his hood over his head.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Most of the time, you won’t know, and frankly it’s best not to ask, but since this is your first time, I’ll show you.” Marcelline walked toward a set of double doors. “He’s a pony boy.”
“A what?”
She didn’t stop, and Gilbert looked at the suited driver, who clicked with a mechanical tic as he shrugged. Gilbert scurried after her.
“Where are we going?”
Gilbert walked through the doors and up a vinyl-surfaced staircase. Marcelline punched a code into a keypad next to an imposing set of double doors. As they clicked open, Gilbert stared at the dressing room of Kosi’s backstage. It was filled with mirrors and racks of lingerie, sex toys, some birds and caged reptiles, a great deal of leather, drugs, alcohol, and carnival-like stage props of all kinds, some that reached to the high ceiling. Mechanoid women scurried about dressing, injecting their breasts with gel—or removing some to make them smaller—repairing imperfections in their pseudoflesh with a plasterlike paste, or changing it outright. Gilbert watched as one robotic woman stepped out of her skin like a dress and draped on another. She pulled the scalp taut over her blinking brain and became someone different. Gilbert had heard enough about skin jobs to know that each was custom made and very, very expensive. It fit perfectly. She was beautiful. Flawless.
Marcelline kept moving, and Gilbert had to scurry again. She led him up another dark staircase to an observation room. Three large parlors were visible through two-way mirrors on the right, left, and opposite walls. A circular, red velvet couch and a well-stocked valet were the only furniture. The carpet was so thick you could sleep on it. The walls were so thick that the bustle from the club abated as soon as the door closed. It was quiet.
“Have a seat, Mr. Tubers. No one can hear us in here.”
Gilbert looked to his right. A pink-hued palomino unicorn stood majestically in one of the lavish rooms. A glittering silk scarf hung from its ivory and lace ruffles around its hooves covered the manacles that chained it to the wall. A finely-embroidered flower-print robe was draped over its back.
Marcelline motioned to the beast. “What do you think?”
“It’s a beautiful animal. You don’t usually get to see them this close.” The unicorn was large and powerful. Its coat had a rainbow-tinted sheen. Gilbert looked at the robe. “Is that animal lingerie?”
“The man you rode with is a pony boy, a brony. He’s here to have sex with this unicorn.”
Gilbert made a face through his round visor.
Marcelline raised her eyebrow. “That’s ironic coming from a man of your habits. They’re graceful, majestic animals.”
“I don’t have sex with my collection.”
“Neither of them?”
“No.”
“Then what’s the point?”
Gilbert crossed his hands. “You wouldn’t understand.”
“You’re right.”
Gilbert sat down and looked at the stunning animal. “It doesn’t bother you at all?”
“Mr. Tubers,” Marcelline stepped forward. “I know someone who has killed more people than Kraxus, and who looks like a god himself doing it, and if I thought it would do any good, I’d throw myself naked at his
The limo pulled away under sun-bright lights and Gilbert smiled at the mechanoid driver, who ignored him. The metal man was immune to radiation and spoke not a word to the silent assassin next to him. The car stopped in a crowded underground garage, and Gilbert got his suit out of the trunk.
Marcelline appeared as he finished dressing. “How did it go?” Her voice echoed off the heavy concrete.
“That man is going to be dead in a few days.” Gilbert put his hood over his head.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Most of the time, you won’t know, and frankly it’s best not to ask, but since this is your first time, I’ll show you.” Marcelline walked toward a set of double doors. “He’s a pony boy.”
“A what?”
She didn’t stop, and Gilbert looked at the suited driver, who clicked with a mechanical tic as he shrugged. Gilbert scurried after her.
“Where are we going?”
Gilbert walked through the doors and up a vinyl-surfaced staircase. Marcelline punched a code into a keypad next to an imposing set of double doors. As they clicked open, Gilbert stared at the dressing room of Kosi’s backstage. It was filled with mirrors and racks of lingerie, sex toys, some birds and caged reptiles, a great deal of leather, drugs, alcohol, and carnival-like stage props of all kinds, some that reached to the high ceiling. Mechanoid women scurried about dressing, injecting their breasts with gel—or removing some to make them smaller—repairing imperfections in their pseudoflesh with a plasterlike paste, or changing it outright. Gilbert watched as one robotic woman stepped out of her skin like a dress and draped on another. She pulled the scalp taut over her blinking brain and became someone different. Gilbert had heard enough about skin jobs to know that each was custom made and very, very expensive. It fit perfectly. She was beautiful. Flawless.
Marcelline kept moving, and Gilbert had to scurry again. She led him up another dark staircase to an observation room. Three large parlors were visible through two-way mirrors on the right, left, and opposite walls. A circular, red velvet couch and a well-stocked valet were the only furniture. The carpet was so thick you could sleep on it. The walls were so thick that the bustle from the club abated as soon as the door closed. It was quiet.
“Have a seat, Mr. Tubers. No one can hear us in here.”
Gilbert looked to his right. A pink-hued palomino unicorn stood majestically in one of the lavish rooms. A glittering silk scarf hung from its ivory and lace ruffles around its hooves covered the manacles that chained it to the wall. A finely-embroidered flower-print robe was draped over its back.
Marcelline motioned to the beast. “What do you think?”
“It’s a beautiful animal. You don’t usually get to see them this close.” The unicorn was large and powerful. Its coat had a rainbow-tinted sheen. Gilbert looked at the robe. “Is that animal lingerie?”
“The man you rode with is a pony boy, a brony. He’s here to have sex with this unicorn.”
Gilbert made a face through his round visor.
Marcelline raised her eyebrow. “That’s ironic coming from a man of your habits. They’re graceful, majestic animals.”
“I don’t have sex with my collection.”
“Neither of them?”
“No.”
“Then what’s the point?”
Gilbert crossed his hands. “You wouldn’t understand.”
“You’re right.”
Gilbert sat down and looked at the stunning animal. “It doesn’t bother you at all?”
“Mr. Tubers,” Marcelline stepped forward. “I know someone who has killed more people than Kraxus, and who looks like a god himself doing it, and if I thought it would do any good, I’d throw myself naked at his
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