My buddy tells me about this great deal on a dose of telekinesis. Unlicensed, but cheap. And quality. No shakes, no freezing, no brain blowouts. He tells me about this guy who had it done. It was like he had a dozen extra hands. Upped his output at the chip fab 300 percent. This guy made employee of the month and his boss gave him an all-expense paid trip to New Bermuda. They never knew a thing while this guy was sitting pretty on bleached-out sand, sipping mojitos out of a diamonique glass. I could use that kind of boost, and bad. Ever s ince they went to per-unit pay at the factory my check has been shrinking like a dick in ice water. One injection of serum will double, even triple my output. I’ll make line supervisor by the end of the quarter. read more »

He finds her marooned a few feet from her transport, sporting her usual arsenal of deadly weaponry—tiny ring-mounted laser turrets, lipstick laced with neurotoxins, boots loaded with poison fléchettes and the oldest doomsday device known to man. . . paralyzing beauty. read more »

“Are you OK?” asks Olhado.

“Sure.”

His silhouette dances like a reflection in a funhouse mirror against the glare of the sun.  The throbbing in my head is getting worse.  I doubt I could stand if asked. read more »

We came for the coffee maker. It was now safe in the trunk of my car, but we lingered—like rubberneckers at the scene of an accident.

The place stunk with decay, the rotting carcass of a dead business. Opportunistic locals picked at the remains, looking for good deals. But the bones were nearly bare and only a few fetid hunks of flesh remained. Our desks were barren, our chairs empty. All the machines were switched off. The $5 wall clock had stopped ticking and was laying in a pile of dust on what had been Alex’s desk. read more »

Once again it’s raining in the city and I find myself wondering through its wet streets.  A fine mist falls through the air and collects on flashing neon signs that read “Live Nude Girls” and “Triple X”. They cast an eerie glow that awakens an appetite for some trouble. I pass by a broken-down strip joint and get stopped by what appears to be one of the dancers. “You look lonely…” she says with slurred speech. She falls toward me, groping hands spread wide. “Why don’t you come inside, baby?” she tempts. For a split second I consider the offer.  The neon sign above our heads flashes with a buzz and casts that eerie red glow upon us. In the glow I catch a glimpse of her hand in my jacket pocket, counting my money. I push her away and she flies into the rapidly opening door of the joint, cracking her polycarbonate skull open. Circuitry and loose wires spill from the gash onto the wet pavement with a sizzle. Never could tell the difference between a third-generation gyneomorphic android and a drunk stripper. . . read more »