THE FLESH FARMERS no.1
Within a decaying metropolis, a feud between surgical sex cults plays out beneath the noses of an unsuspecting population.
Within the antiseptic cloister of a sun-drenched kitchen a slender white feminine hand moves into a speeding blur, the knife in her hand guillotining the zucchini before her into sections on a counter top of salamander print tiles.
“Linda is going to be pretty upset…” thinks Newt, who is eight miles away from the woman in the kitchen. Laying under a bed, Newt regards the slender bare calves and feet of the woman sitting on the mattress above him. In front of the woman stand two sets of latex-sheathed feet.”…She's so sweet” he says, forming the words with his lips without making a sound.
Back in the kitchen, a deluge of delicious odors from a variety of newly blossomed flowers surge in through the open sliding glass door adjacent to the counter. The feminine hand, rigid with force and concentration, sets to work on another zucchini. As she does so, Newt mouths a silent shout from beneath the hotel bed eight miles away, "I know that I’m hurting her."
The person sitting on the bed above Newt, a slender ivory-skinned blonde in her late twenties. The top rim of the short white miniskirt she wears resting just below—and highlighting the points of her hip bones—wears a sleeveless green shirt with a wide circle of transparent plastic ringing her chest, exposing her bare right breast beneath it.
The circle is inset with the red hammer and sickle of the Soviet Union. The exposed small pink nipple just below the hammer is perpetually hard as it licks the plastic communist icon that presses down against it. Her mouth hangs open a bit. Her eyes are glazed and partially closed as she stares upward at the torsos and the faces of the latex clad figures on either side of her.
“But that's marriage for you…" Newt continues, now thinking rather than shouting silently beneath the blonde.
Eight miles away, in the blossom-scented kitchen, the zucchini has now been replaced by a carrot. The blinding speed of the knife disassembles its structure in a kinetic rain of steel and building frustration.
"... you play the ancestral chattel game..."
A latex hand clenches the blonde’s delicate jaw, popping her mouth open wider. Chloe responds with a barely audible moan.
"... you're forced to make a few ugly choices now and then..."
The speed-blurred feminine hand decelerates. The weight of the knife causes her overworked hand to tremble as it wavers awkwardly, hesitantly, over the sectioned vegetables before her.
"...I was going home. I was even looking forward to Linda's stew. The withdrawals were ebbing..."
The blonde is shoved onto her back. The cheap box spring sings rustily beneath her light, underfed frame.
"...but then I saw Chloe in the intersection, making her pitch to that fat man with the little mustache..."
Linda in the kitchen shouts: "THIS IS POINTLESS!" Her chopping hand throws the knife into the sink.
“...she was back in business,'' Newt says, forming the silent words with his parched lips as he unzips his pants."I guess we both are."
Eight miles away, in that sun-drenched kitchen, the chopped vegetables are dumped into a waste can. The woman says: "Forget it, Proctor…"
A knock sounds on the motel room door from the outer hall. Inside of the claustrophobic hovel, the two latex’d figures step away from where they were standing over Chloe, whose only movement is a faint rising and falling of her chest as she breathes shallowly.
A subdued light and shadow cast from the browned, beaten blinds hanging from the window behind Chloe, Stripes the latex clad figures as they turn on their heels, their attention now drawn to the splintered, chipped-paint-door and to the person on the other side of it. One of the bizarre creatures possesses the tall, chiseled frame of a bodybuilder. The other is smaller and leaner than Chloe.
Chloe, laying on the bed, is drawn from her stupor by another light knocking on the outside of the door. The window next to her face, heated by the descending sun of late noon, compels her to lean forward, her semi lucid vision passing through it and drinking in the people and surrounding rooms of the rear courtyard.
Eight miles away, Linda violently drags the lipstick from her dark, red mouth with the back of her chopping hand, smearing the right side of her chin at an angle. She slams the sliding glass door shut on the blossoming garden, strangling its perfumed current as it flows into the blue shadows that dress the meticulous interior of the antiseptic home. Through perfect rows of shining white teeth she hisses, "That cheap pheromone snatch hooked Newt as per design."
The dual images of a naked, long haired, pot-bellied man in his mid sixties is reflected in Chloe's bloodshot blue eyes. The man up ends a water pail, dumping a miniature waterfall of human urine from his fifth story balcony which is overrun by broken Japanese folding screens and a leaning stack of sun stained drywall. The urine falls past two large, fat mongrels. They lean on the guardrail of the balcony below the old man, barking their outrage up at him. The urine strikes a long unused bronze fountain, rusted and greened by decades of silent existence and disuse in the shadow of the Tenderloin tenements around it.
A tugging sensation emanates along a space between Chloe's left thigh and a space within her crotch. She searches her occluded memory for the source of the sensation. She begins to turn her head from the images stirring beyond the heated window to investigate the tugging sensation, but her attention is once again drawn back to the court by the naked man on the balcony. Ignoring the mongrels, he rights the water pail, turns, and disappears into the dark interior of his studio apartment.
A hundred feet away, directly across the space of the court from the naked man's apartment, a thirty five year old woman pulls two cigarettes out of her dwindling pack and hands them to her twelve year old son and his seventeen year old girlfriend. They lean on the rail of their balcony and watch the mongrels, discussing the angry animals as they light their smokes with a shared disposable lighter.
In the crowded wood-rot hall outside of Chloe’s room, a fat man in a White suit leans against the door and talks through it,"Chloe, it's Norbet…"
In the kitchen, eight miles away, Linda walks from the now closed sliding glass door, and rounding the counter, she pulls off her redhead’s wig, revealing a bald and cryptically tattooed scalp. She stops in front of the microwave oven.
Norbet, speaking with his mouth close to the hotel door's crack, says "We're walking in the light of the lord, doll..." Inside the room, under the bed, as the weight of Chloe's small body presses the broken box springs lightly into the side of his torso, Newt massages his cock to life through the open fly of his pants.
Chloe lifts herself into a seated position, her feet again settling onto the rough floorboards of the dilapidated room as the Latex’d feet of her first visitors of the day retreat towards the closet. Chloe rises, securing herself against a sudden wave of dizziness, she manages to maintain her footing. She crosses the few feet between the rat-gnawed bed and the door. Pausing, she rests her frail hand on the doorknob and listens as Norbet continues,"...I managed to siphon just enough belly button lint from my account to afford a bottle of Unifly... and of course to afford you, my lovely shiatsu."
Eight miles away, Linda presses a button on the microwave oven. Electro-neon-blue static comes to life on the transparent glass face of its door. A bizarre face surfaces through the static sand storm. Eyes sutured shut, A belt slipped through slashed holes in the cheeks and buckled in front of the mouth. The horrible face says:"RECESSION REPRESSION AGGRESSION."
The latexed Jobs disappear into the closet, closing it quietly behind them as Chloe opens the door to her room. Newt, working himself under the bed, thinks,"Put on a flying freak show for me, tuck puppets!"
Eight miles away, in the cool silence of the antiseptic home, Linda pulls off her unbuttoned blouse in front of the microwave, revealing more of the esoteric tattoos laid out symmetrically on her lean, muscular frame. She says to the terrifying face floating in the static of the microwave oven door: "I can head into the Tenderloin. That's where the snatch keeps her bread buttered."
From within the motel room closet, The tall muscular Latex-job kneels and peers out through the small mesh hinged screen built into the door for the use of Voyeurs and Glory-holer’s. She says in a low voice,"Behold " the one billionth, billionth act of the sperm-monkey's earth-rape-right!"
Eight miles away, rising and subsiding in the pulsing electrostatic glass, the grotesque image of the Proctor says: “Don't waste your time, Linda. Doubtless, Velda's toughs will have by now hunted them both down and bundled them off to The Enclave."
Linda climbs free of the home maker’s dress, revealing more tats, a black rubber thong and a spit-pistol strapped to her thigh. A combat knife is bound to one of her hard calves. Transparent industrial plastic flats on her feet.
Norbet presses his lips to Chloe's limp, lackluster mouth, closing the hotel door behind him and saying,"You look like you've already killed a bottle or two of Unifly yourself, ladybug."
Within the closet, just five feet across the room from where Chloe and Norbet stand, the muscle-bound Latex job known as "Rough-1" continues her muttering diatribe as Norbet takes Chloe's hand and leads her to the decomposing bed, "The sperm-monkey... turning and devastating women's flesh as he has turned and devastated the earth since the dawn..."
Beneath the bed, Newt’s fist pumps away in his pants."You're such a whore, Chloe. it's your perfection. It put you on the path to become my tuck." His whispered muttering is cut short as Norbet and Chloe's collective weight crushes the mattress downward. The rusty, broken box springs stabbing into his flesh and pressing the wind from his body in an exhaled gasp and a thin fart.
Eight miles outside of the Tenderloin, the Proctor’s face fades, submerging into the static of the microwave oven door. His voice trailing off in the hiss of electricity, he says,"Head back in, Linda. I've got a report that I want you to look over." Total static now dominates the Microwave oven door as the Proctor’s mess of a face fades out completely, his dim voice echoing from a distant place,"AGGRESSION REPRESSION RECESSION."
Back in the Tenderloin, in the residential hotel room, The small-framed, skinny latex-job nicknamed "Allmouth" kneels beside Rough-1 who towers over her in the cramped space of the closet. The girl looks out through the screened slot and whispers to Rough-1, "The tuck has betrayed the trust. Hasn't she always been soiled? What use the wretched earth?" Norbet pulls Chloe's shirt up, revealing both of her firm pale tits. Looking at them he says, "You won't mind if I keep the bottle for later, right?"
Standing in the blue shadows of the antiseptic home's foyer, Linda pulls a zebra print overcoat sporting a black fur collar over her athletic frame. She thinks theProctor sounds a bit run down. He can hear the resentment in my voice in regard to losing Newt to that street trash. I'm sorry Proctor. I've let us both down.
Under the motel bed, Newt’s face twists in ecstasy as he pulls away at his near bursting member.
Norbet leans Chloe back on the bed. He lays his corpulent bulk across her slight, soft body. Perspiration builds in his curving little mustache, forming tiny delicate spheres of moisture."You're such a sweet baby, ladybug."
Rough-1's whispered apocalyptic mutterings drift out unnoticed by the three above and below the shabby bed, "The sperm-monkeys have made the earth wretched. they are a legion of despoilers."
Linda steps out of the technocrat condo that professor Rector bought to maintain as a safe house for Newt. She locks the door and turns, then moves down a short set of concrete stairs and across a small plaza, pushing toward the pneumatic car station at the edge of the complex. A couple of Ogle techs that live across from the condo she'd occupied stare as she walks past them.
The tech's Ogle-glasses begin to record and transmit images of the exotic and subversive Linda. Ogle A.I. respond by initiating searches for data and information that correlates to the subject. Linda’s countermeasures detect the violation and send a riot pulse into the Ogle straight's glasses, bursting them. Linda continues on her way without glancing back as the moaning technocrats stumble about, blood pouring from their shattered eye sockets.
Eight miles away, Norbet unzips. A whispered muttering drifts undetected from the grating in the nearby closet door "They wage war as an excuse to carry out their repugnant rites. All munitions are sexual assault. Every body blown to bits is an act of sexual molestation. Every world leader and politician that endorses war is a rapist of children, men, women and animals.
Boarding a pneumatic car bound for Tuttletown, along the coast on the other side of Confederate city, Linda’s countermeasures once again detect and take out onboard surveillance with a riot-pulse that decimates cameras and listening devices at either end of the car. Grasping an overhead bar, she leans against the gravity of the departing car’s momentum, thinking, This meeting with the Proctor strikes me as the penultimate moment. I don't know what's up next, but I'm glad that this ridiculous month of costume subterfuge has come to an end.
Norbet’s desperate, searching finger abruptly cease their worm-work in Chloe’s panties."What the fuck is this?" he says, suddenly noticing The flesh-colored tendril emerging from the gauze wrapped around Chloe’s middle left thigh and running upward, disappearing into her hiked up miniskirt.
Aboard the pneumatic car moving through Confederate city’s Tenderloin, Linda wonders aloud "Where are you, Newt? What has become of you? What are you doing right now?"
Under the bed, disregarding the pain of the broken box springs carving slight runnels into the flesh of his rib cage, Newt continues to work his erect joint.
Drifting in her reverie, Chloe is sitting on a toilet three hours ago, shooting junk in the bathroom of a Tenderloin cafe surrounded by a mural of O.D.’d drug addicts.
Within the cramped hotel closet, Rough-1 watches Chloe’s heavy lids turn to slits on her listless face, saying, "She washed upon the shore of our trust, and we have penned her like a kenneled bitch. Our revolt—Our art has become an obscene acquiescence to a formalized language."
The pneumatic car carries Linda out of the Ogle community, pushing through vast stock yards hemmed in by curling concrete freeways and iron overpasses. She thinks, fuck, I'm a bored radical pining for an escaped lab rat.
Drug muddled, slack jawed, Chloe whispers,"Sculpture…It's a sculpture..."
Linda watches a long line of hulking onyx black and pearlescent green police prowl cars speed through the street below, paralleling the pneumatic track that her car is moving on.
Chloe pants like a dog on a hot summer porch as Norbert's chubby fingers take hold of a small fleshy object within her. She squints, saying, "pull it out..."
Norbet draws the object from her cunt, pulling it from her panties, revealing a tiny pinkish-brown statue of a woman rendered in hard glistening flesh. The skin-colored tendril is in fact skin, and not plastic at all as he had thought. The tendril seems to grow out of the miniature woman’s back. From under the bed, Newt moans as he approaches orgasm.
Chloe’s lids rise a bit. Her glazed, junkie eyes focusing on the wet skin sculpture held delicately between Newt’s glistening thumb and forefinger. She says in a slow, narcotic voice,"Take a closer look..."