Shudder (6 page)

Dave got out of his car and headed home. It was almost nine in the evening and already quite dark.

It always took him a few months to get used to the sun setting earlier when the summer was over. By the middle of winter, he would really integrate the idea that it gets dark at five, but by then the days would start growing again, and by the time he got used to that, they would start shrinking again.

There was a group of young nomies hanging out by his block of flats, and Dave passed them with the total nonchalance every male must learn to fake in such situations.

A defiant spit was spat behind him, but he knew it wasn't aimed at him, it was just noisy juvenile display of bodily functions designed to show the world how little its opinions and mores mattered.

He unlocked his apartment door, kicked it shut with urgent impatience, and ran for the toilet. Five minutes after he had gotten into his car, the urge to urinate had come, and it was a mighty struggle to contain it until he got home, but he had managed it.

Very early in life Dave had noticed that one was able to control one's strong toilet urges, while on the way to the toilet. While the toilet was still a theoretical holy grail of salvation, that is. Once the toilet was actually in sight, control fell apart, and it was a question of speed and dexterity in disentangling oneself from one's pants, to be able to avert disaster.

He was able to avert disaster once again.

With a sign of relief, he plopped into the couch in front of the TV, kicked off his shoes, took off his jacket, extricated his notebook and pen from the inner pocket, pressed the ‘on' button on the remote control, and leafed through his notes.

All in all a good day's work. He had managed to meet two out of three victims of the toy-basher. The leads were magnificent.

Both had purchased their dolls from the
X-Sex
shop on the Garibaldi Boulevard. Both had done it just before the break-ins. Both claimed they did not know each other or the third one.

Bardales had bought his doll the day before the break-in into his home and Chippada had purchased it on the same day a week later. His wife had gone on а weekend vacation alone and so Bardales had used the time to buy the toy, to have some quality alone time with himself.

He had popped out to buy cigarettes from a nearby 24/7, and when he had returned, the intruder had already been and gone.

What's more, both victims had bought the exact same model, the cyberpunk fifth grader toy-girl. He was already feeling confident enough to bet that the third guy, Boyle, also belonged to the same pattern: very late at night, fifth grader, ransacked almost immediately after purchase.

Dave glanced up at the TV and saw what was disturbing him. It was a clip of Sharkana, performing her
Snake Away
hit. She was dressed in a white flowing robe, an oriental looking tiara glinting on her head, and was waving a biblical staff at a dozen half-naked men, who were ‘snaking away' from her on the dance floor.

He flicked through the channels. News, dancing clips, a dancing clip, interview with singer, a film about the making of a film “It was such an experience to work with such great actors. The director was also fantastic...” a documentary about the collapse of North Korea. An ancient sob-doc about dolphins, a dancing clip, someone falling out of a car while shooting with both hands, someone shooting at a police helicopter, a dancing clip, a rerun of an old superhero movie, the government of Uganda denouncing western plots to turn its schoolchildren into rabid homosexuals.

Dave picked himself up. It was obvious that yet again he would have to take his entertainment into his own hands. He rummaged in the cupboard box below the TV and found the memory box on which
Old Sci-fi Flicks
was written.

He plugged the memory box into the TV and settled back into his couch.

All the Sci-fi movies from the twentieth century, which he could buy, download, or copy from someone, were there.

Should he watch
Plan 9 From Outer Space
? That always cheered him up but he knew it by heart by now.

Voyage to the Bottom of the Sea
? Naaah.

A
Doctor Who
?

Maybe watch the
Devil Girl From Mars
? That evil alien appearing in a Scottish pub, looking like a ruthless middle-aged dominatrix from Munich. No wonder the poor bastards were scared shitless of her. Of course, she both figuratively and literally paled in front of the legendary impeccable thighs of Lieutenant Uhura.

He jumped out of his couch again. He wasn't fooling anyone. He was feeling restless, and very, very horny, and if he remained at home, he would spend the night curled up in front of some inane porn film. Which was demeaning in itself, apart from being a dangerous mixing of business and pleasure.

If he allowed himself to be sucked in by the material which he was supposed to examine with a clear mind—that would the beginning of the end.

He was, after all, a grown man, with his own apartment, and his was a quite a stressful line of work. Why lay hands on himself at home, when urban civilization provided one night stands for just such people?

He went to the bathroom, inspected his genitalia, which turned out to be still not completely overgrown, so there was no need to shave. Just for good measure, he rinsed the little fella with some soap, dabbed some perfume behind his ears, and went to his wardrobe.

It was obviously going to be a phallic night, so he chose the leather jacket and the shiny black pseudo army boots. After some deliberation, he also put on his left wrist a leather bracelet.

He studied the studded stud-trinket for a moment. Of course, he had still been a small kid, when studded leather bracelets and belts had left the territory of punk, heavy metal, and fetish sex-shows, and entered mainstream fashion, but where he was going, the message would be clear.

He examined himself once again in the mirror, this time in full gear, squinted his eyes in a manly manner, did it again in order to be certain that he remembered the exact coordination of facial muscles, and left his home.

* * * *

Forty minutes later Dave entered the bar he usually used for such occasions. Above the entrance, neon letters a foot across announced, The Faceoff Night Bar.

The ‘E' in the Faceoff was not working, so for someone not acquainted with the nature of the club, and just a touch of dyslexia, it could sound like a skinhead or a nomie hangout. It wasn't. It was a swinger club.

The music inside was, unfortunately, always a mix of popular sexy hits and mechanical tribal monotony with distorted guitars, which passed for heavy metal these days, so he quickly downed three small beers in a row to dull the pain and gave everyone around the manly squint.

There were more men than women sitting and gyrating in the shadows, but almost all of these men were sitting and gyrating with each other, which was good. It narrowed down the competition considerably. Two vampires were chatting up someone dressed as a tiger.

As his eyes grew accustomed to the lack of light, he recognized the faces of two women, one an aging swinger nearing sixty, and the other a girl of about nineteen, with both of whom he had his carnal adventures.

They both promised him that they would never bug him for a second session, and now only smiled at him, but did not persist once he broke eye contact.

A long time ago, he had made a rule for himself to never allow a woman to have sex with him more than once. Even when he had told them, and he always had, ever since the tenth grade, that he did not want a girlfriend, that he was not on the market for a relationship, and they had agreed, even then, they had always clung.

As the old saying went, a woman is like ice cream: first, she is hard and cold, then she melts, and then she starts clinging to you.

Yes, it took him years to figure it out, but finally he had hit upon the one foolproof system: sex only once. Not twice, not thrice, but only once.

If ever his resolution wavered, and he had sex twice with some charming lady, then there invariably followed a third time. Before he knew it, he was yet again in a relationship, and had to bide his time for months on end, before giving up on finding the ‘right moment', and breaking off in a manner painful to both parties.

David politely declined the advances of two young males and one pudgy middle-aged werewolf who eyed him with a sagging jaw, perhaps giving a Pelican hint, and finally met the gaze of a young woman, who did not avert her gaze but smiled.

A smile was all he needed.

Quickly, he came over to her and lustily pressing his mouth to her ear introduced himself.

Twenty minutes later, they were outside the club, ‘the better to hear each other'. She caressed his wristband with a coy smile as he gave playful tugs to her ponytail. He then playfully patted her butt once, twice, to gauge her reaction, and began mashing it in earnest.

An hour later, with a stop at the 24/7 for some wine, they were at his apartment.

Since music distracted him, but silence was out of the question, as usual he just put the memory box on random shuffle of ten-minute fragments, and helped his young guest unburden herself from her clothes.

Her name was Georgette and she was a teacher of geography at a city school. Only twenty-six and only in the capital for two years, she exhibited a somewhat awkward and shy demeanor, even though she obviously strained to enter the city rhythm at a running pace.

She most likely believed that she already had.

For a second her eyes had widened as if in anxiety when he threw her on the bed and lovingly stretched her cheek with his teeth while fumbling with her skirt.

Then the shadow of a decision passed in a half-second over her face and she relaxed her body and let go.

On the TV screen, a scantily dressed Princess Leia was attempting to strangle Jabba the Hutt with some chains.

The ludicrous alarm clock melody woke Dave up and he smiled and slowly stretched his limbs. He had only slept for slightly more than four hours but in spite of that he felt great.

His whole body still remembered the currents of rising pleasure that had ran through it numerous times yesterday, and the exploding releases.

Especially the exploding releases.

His mind also retained some vivid images, shards of last night's games.

Georgette was eager to show that she was modern and up to date, and that had made it easy to push her in the directions in which Dave wanted to go. She
did
overdo it.

Not only because, like all women tended to these days, she called herself his dirty whore and praised the might of his penis—he had long ago made his peace with this phenomenon. In the last decades everyone found out about sex from porn, so it was not particularly surprising that everyone therefore tended, to a smaller or larger extent, to reenact some type of behavior they had soaked up from vids at puberty or before.

However, as she had passed the threshold, her face changing to that of another creature, Georgette had wriggled nimbly to position her face below his butt, and had started licking it insistently.

Although her mumbling along the lines of “Give it to me, I want it,” could theoretically have been interpreted in a myriad ways, the way she started making anticipatory fart-like sounds with her mouth as she licked had left little room for doubt.

The very thought almost killed his erection then and there. It was touch and go for a minute or two before he willed himself into regaining the incoherent necromancy of the intense urban fuck.

Oh thee, most fragile thing, the stressed out adult's natural erection.

All in all, it had been a great night. Not fantastic but great, and he now felt like a new man.

He fiddled with himself for another five minutes, remembering episodes of last night and slightly editing them the better to fit his fantasies.

Then he finally got out of bed, a glow of well being permeating every object brushed by his content gaze, and opened the bedroom window wider.

He indulged his lifelong habit and breathed in deeply, looking at the city below in an almost benevolent way, and then he lay down on the floor and did his push-ups.

Upon straightening out again, he felt energy flowing through his whole body, or at least pounding in his neck, and a strong hunger for a good breakfast. He went to the bathroom and studied himself in the mirror. Undeniably, he needed a shave.

He looked at his reflection and watched the blade leave sparkling clean pink roads in the white foam. Still in an amiable mood, he made himself some coffee, saw that he had a little more time, and decided to make full use of it by taking a morning dump.

As he sat on the toilet seat, relaxing his muscles and hearing the first splashes down below, he remembered again the ass-licking incident with Georgette. What was it with people these days?

He remembered when he was a child, say fourth grade, he and his buddies would steal women's magazines to look at the semi-naked models in sexy lingerie. As well as to hungrily read everything that promised to touch upon erotic topics, and since everything did, they were never disappointed.

Back then, there was normal advice in the articles:
Seventy-Seven Sex Tricks to Know
, or
How to Keep Him from Fooling Around,
or
Making Sure He is Yours Forever
.

In those days, the readers of the magazines learned normal stuff, like how to swallow semen without tasting it, or what fruits to feed their lovers and husbands to sweeten it, or how to finger their prostates while sucking them off.

Also, of course, nuances like positions which make deep-throating easier, lubricants needed for pleasurable anal sex, what positions of the female body make the ass look tight and firm, how tying the wrists together is not weird but makes the relationship last longer...

Once, years later, he leafed through the magazines of his girlfriends, because he was still young and inexperienced and ended up having girlfriends. He noticed the appearance of advice concerning urine-play. The article in question illustrated at length how it was a safe disinfectant, at which time of the day it would be best to indulge in the practice, and how it was in fact astoundingly healthy.

In the last years, to this treasury of intimate knowledge he noticed in the Internet another addition, a growing crop of articles carping how to best play with crap.

Again, what you should and shouldn't eat and how long before hand, how if you do not do it with strangers the health risks are minimal, and yet again tips how to swallow while minimizing the taste... Now mainstream fashion and advertising had incorporate jolly fecalist hints into themselves too.

Nudge, nudge, nod, nod, fist, fist. Crap, crap.

“Be yourself,” Dave said to his reflection in a mock advertising voice. “Eat some shit. Partyyy, yeah.”

He washed off the remaining islands of foam and went to have breakfast.

There were in the fridge, he knew, fresh eggs and sausages this time, but on the other hand, after the dump and the shave, he was on the verge of running late, so he again had a quick ham sandwich, and went out.

As he drove to the office, he remembered conversations about sex first with the other students and then with his army buddies. When he would explain how the very thought of some things made him squeamish, they would say, “Loosen up. You just gotta be yourself.”

Then, when he would point out that if he was not comfortable with something, he was likely to manifest it via a soft schlong and thus not get any pleasure, they would all say with mad grins that this was what Viagra, Verilinne, and Meth were for.

Dave could not articulate his discomfort with this attitude but there was something inherently defective in the trend of dealing with life through all these legal and illegal uppers and downers.

There just had to be something wrong with this approach.

By the time he reached his office, he had pummeled and kicked a number of people from his memories, and these victories in the shadowy puppet theater of the mind helped him regain his confidence and good spirits.

Maldiva was also in good spirits, as always, and was perhaps also feeling more attractive, since she had three or four big blobs of white gel in her hair.

“Good morning, Mister Cohran.” She fluttered her eyelashes. “Mister Fortham from the police called five minutes ago.”

“Yes? What did he want?”

“He said that you should open your inbox as soon as possible, so you may discuss what's in there.”

“What's in there?”

“He didn't say.”

Dave faltered, before continuing to peel his coat from himself. “How did he sound?”

“In good humor, I think, Mister Cohran.”

Whatever was old Andy pleased about? Dave felt a stab of apprehension. Fortham was a good buddy but his sense of humor was sometimes twisted.

He switched on his computer, and sure enough, there was a blinking tiny envelope. It turned out to be a letter with an attached video clip.

In the body of the letter was the following message: “See what you make of this. Security camera recording from the office building opposite Bardales home. See 2:50 a.m. to 3:03 a.m.”

Dave immediately downloaded the clip and pushed ‘play'.

In the beginning there was just the street on which presumably the office building stood. He moved the clip forward to 2:48 a.m. The angle was different, it was a slow sweep camera apparently, and in one corner, he saw the entrance to another building.

At 2:50 a.m., a small figure in the semidarkness darted into the entrance. After a lack of anything happening, apart from a man walking a dog, at 3:03 a.m. the figure darted out of the building and disappeared into the shadows beyond the camera's reach.

Dave went back to 2:50 a.m. and as the figure appeared, he hit the freeze and then the zoom. In spite of the shadows, he could not mistake the frozen figure with anything else.

It was a fifth grader toy-girl of the cyberpunk line.

Dave stood up with a thoughtful expression, which it was his habit to maintain to hide his agitation—even when there was no one around. He walked around the room, waiting for his heartbeat to quiet down again.

Then he picked up the phone and called Fortham.

“Ah, Cohran, you've seen the footage?”

“Yes, I have.”

“We were reviewing the recordings of all the security cameras in the area, and this is what we found. Damn strange, no?”

“Damn strange is right. What do your experts say?”

“Dave, you keep forgetting, you are our expert, heh.”

“Shit.” Dave had to smile.

“How is the case going, anyway?”

“Fine, I've got good leads, I think.”

“Well, good to know. Did you see the report of the dead season girl?”

“Yeah. Whoever the bastard is, he's still at it.”

Andy was silent for a while, chewing over some thought. “You know, I checked records.”

“And?”

“The dead girls have been found annually at least since the late nineteen seventies.”

It took Dave about five seconds to register what Andy was saying. “My God, you can't be serious.”

“Oh, I am. In fact, I suspect that if the filing system had been better before that, it would go back even further.”

“Christ.”

“Aha.”

Dave tried to say something useful. He failed. So, he asked something useless. “What is this? A father and son business?”

“A granddad and grandson more like it. It shouldn't be an endless string of copycats, because we've never publicized the Season Girls.”

“Well, maybe it's a cult of some sort?”

“Maybe,” Andy's voice suddenly dropped an octave, “or maybe some nameless ancient evil.”

“Don't, don't do this to me, man, I'm creeped out with the doll-killer already.”

“Okay, just kidding. You know what I think?” Andy switched again to his ghoulish announcer voice, “I think we finally have a robot loose, life imitates art, only this time it's a robocidal sex robot.”

“Thanks a lot, Dracula.”

“Don't mention it. Hey, you want the files I found on the Season Girls?”

“Sure, of course, send them right over.”

“Okay, didn't want to infodump you without asking you first.”

“Thanks, I'll be waiting for them.”

“I'll send them in a minute. By the way, I checked. No one's on this, surprisingly. You want the assignment?”

Dave hesitated. There were too many weird assignments suddenly clustering around him. On the other hand, he'd known such things to lead to bonuses in the paycheck. “Ermmm...yes. Sure, why not?”

“That's the spirit, see ya.”

“Bye.”

Dave rang off and went to pour himself a glass of water. He saw that it was almost lunchtime and went out for a bacon bagel. This exercise helped him put off doing some work for about forty minutes because he walked slowly.