Thursday, Agua Venenosa, part one

Feb 7, 2013 by     Comments Off on Thursday, Agua Venenosa, part one    Posted under: Adam Drew This, Brian Wrote This, Fiction, Sketchbook
Juarez, Mexico, 2034: A flourishing independent narcostate, where evil scientists set up corporations and industrial spies steal their dark secrets.  Like Silicon Valley today, only with more sexy robots, fewer social network startups.  And you thought the future was bleak.

One: That’s Omnitainment

I guarantee you, the first guy to develop a plausible humanoid robot shaped it like a girl and fucked it for three months in his basement-slash-laboratory before even bothering to fill out the patent forms. So what I’m doing, sprawling across the satin sheets of a bed the size of Monaco with five flawless replicas of omnitainment goddess Evangeline Vivre, is simply human progress reaching its inevitable apex.

“Do you know that ecstasy refers to both sensual pleasure and the state of mystical or spiritual rapture?” asks the Evangeline costumed as the real Vivre was in Burning Eden (2024). The tightly laced merry widow raises her breasts like sacrificial offerings, and the lace pattern of her stockings snakes up her endless thighs. I loved that movie. She leans across one of her sisters and finishes the line with her lips against my ear. “Let’s achieve both.”

Each Evangeline is dressed from one of her more iconic films or music videos, behaving in character, down to quoting key lines and lyrics. It’s a fantastic blend of AI and theatricality, and under the varicolored ceiling of Kazuki “Memento” Morii’s Mexican pleasure palace, it’s like being in the functional prototype of a happily smutty theme park. i

There is a crack like gunfire next to my left ear, and the kiss of wind at my cheek. At the foot of the bed, the Evangeline from the video for “Pound of Flesh” (Spanking Good Time, Sony Digital Music, 2026) is slowly recoiling her bullwhip. This Evangeline smiles, hip cocked in skintight latex, the same British racing green she wore to the MTVH1 Video Controversy Awards the same year.

“I hope I have your full attention,” she says, lifting her left eyebrow and smirking the way she—the real Evangeline—does in every performance.

“As much as I can spare,” I say, indicating the four other Evangelines on the bed with me. My ear is ringing like a windchime in a hurricane. Good thing better-than-mortal motor skills are programmed into these ladies—off by a few centimeters and I would’ve lost the ear entirely.

“This is the part I forgot to mention—the climactic release of all our tension.” She continues the lyric, crawling toward me with the whip coiled in her left hand. Behind her perfect artificial ass, the four-inch heels on her thighboots glint like daggers. “We’re taking our love into a new dimension.”

I can’t decide whether I hope or dread that she is the one I’m here to steal.

Things are just getting interesting, the quintet closing in on me like a brood of sleek, fetish-fashioned panthers, when the door buzzes. The wilder Evangelines don’t even skip a beat, but the shyer, more responsible Evas, the lifeguard from Bikini Sunrise (2019) and the steely-eyed fed from Resisting Arrest (2027), hop off the bed like a teenager who hears her parents driving up.

“I don’t care and I don’t scare,” the lifeguard half-sings, and I can’t place the lyric. “You only see me, but I get to be me.”

The door buzzes again and I sigh, and now the Evas back away, perching at the edge of the bed or walking to the window, which looks out at the glinting, overdeveloped urban landscape that is Northern Mexico. I call out, “Door!” and it clicks and slides open. Through it comes Memento Morii, arguably the most powerful resident of the decadent, credit-soaked futuropolis that is Agua Venenosa, one of the newer suburbs of greater Juarez, which is now an all-but-independent principality, run by organized crime for organized crime. Morii strolls in on tiny sandaled feet and stubby thighs, which are displayed below the cuffs of unfortunately short white shorts.

Morii spreads his arms approximately as wide as his grin and calls out, “Colin Giordano!” Which is not my real name, of course. Laughing, he continues walking toward the bed. Overhead, the ceiling is tiled in thick slabs of glass colored like Easter candies, and every two steps his white shirt and shorts are bathed in a different pastel. Yellow and green make his chubby face and small, tight features unspeakably sinister. Under pink or blue, he looks cherubic.

“You are still at it, with all five?” He shakes his head. He runs the fingers of his right hand along the edge of the dresser, where I emptied my pockets last night before losing my pants. I know that next time I look, something will be missing. “Does your pistol never run out of bullets?”

“We slept a little,” I admit, then shrug. “At least, I did.”

Morii nods. “The girls go into stasis, run diagnostics, update their operating systems with the ambient network.” He twirls his left hand in the air, to indicate the state-of-tomorrow wireless network permeating the space around us. His right hand curls around my cigarette lighter. “In their way, my girls need rest as much as we do.”

“Almost as much,” I say with the practiced leer my character demands. The growing field of corporate espionage makes for strange bedfellows in every sense. I run my hands through my short tangle of mud-brown hair. “So what’s for breakfast, Mem?”

Morii smiles in a way that makes my skin crawl.

 

Who is “Memento” Morii?  What’s with the robo-babe fetish?  And what is for breakfast, anyway?  Only one way to find out:  Part Two.

 

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