Mar 22
I was working on this short story in my free time, and would love to know if you would like to see more of it! Any feedback is appreciated.
Mouse, the little ******, was the industry favorite for all the little wrongdoings. He was as handy as he was *****, much to Hamleg’s amusement. A good half of his payments were in coupons for services on the unsavory side. His product, however, was the best one could get, and negotiation was manageable compared to the other Nafsmen. He dealt with the Self—Hamleg was always short on joy, and Mouse could provide in abundance.
Desire, Hamleg was told, was an advantageous trait to have—the ‘miné produced was of the most potent. It was a concoction of contaminants that enhanced the flavor. Compared to the commercial synths, which tasted like ****** supermarket wine mixed with blood, Mouse’s produce was fine-aged Sauvignon. His sweat alone tasted like grape juice. Collection, however, was no easy task—a raging bull does not like needles and wires attached to it, especially when in heat. Sedatives didn’t work either, because then the product would gain a bitter, sour taste, like beer gone bad. Mouse, despite his name, was nothing like a mouse—he was a 6’7” giant who managed to look like a bodybuilder and a ****** at the same time. His muscles sagged like fat, which made his chest look strange, at the very least. His black baju (or, as he called it, “sirt”) made him resemble a bouncer, he was told. He was also very particular about his comings and goings; he insisted on walking to and from his unit, no matter how winded he was from his daywork. “This place is sacred ground, and don’t ye ever set foot ’thout workin’ for it!” was his only reply when asked. He seemed dissociative after his sessions, like something within him was trying to fight its way out.
The way Hamleg met Mouse was a silly one (“almost as silly as last term’s ‘raja’,” quipped Maj). Back then, Malaysia was still not completely controlled by Big Dog and his army of idiots. The Park was run by Hamleg at the time, who ruled the complex with an iron fist—no synth, no unsavory services, no “funny ****,” or you’d get pounded. All was just s’well—nothing happened, ever, and Hamleg didn’t have to do anything, ever, which led to him putting on quite a few kilos. (He was sometimes even called “Michelin Man” by his friends due to his resemblance to the now-defunct hoverchag company.) So Hamleg was completely unprepared when Big Dog pulled the rug from under him (as Uncle used to say before he died in that synth accident).
to be continued…
Mouse, the little ******, was the industry favorite for all the little wrongdoings. He was as handy as he was *****, much to Hamleg’s amusement. A good half of his payments were in coupons for services on the unsavory side. His product, however, was the best one could get, and negotiation was manageable compared to the other Nafsmen. He dealt with the Self—Hamleg was always short on joy, and Mouse could provide in abundance.
Desire, Hamleg was told, was an advantageous trait to have—the ‘miné produced was of the most potent. It was a concoction of contaminants that enhanced the flavor. Compared to the commercial synths, which tasted like ****** supermarket wine mixed with blood, Mouse’s produce was fine-aged Sauvignon. His sweat alone tasted like grape juice. Collection, however, was no easy task—a raging bull does not like needles and wires attached to it, especially when in heat. Sedatives didn’t work either, because then the product would gain a bitter, sour taste, like beer gone bad. Mouse, despite his name, was nothing like a mouse—he was a 6’7” giant who managed to look like a bodybuilder and a ****** at the same time. His muscles sagged like fat, which made his chest look strange, at the very least. His black baju (or, as he called it, “sirt”) made him resemble a bouncer, he was told. He was also very particular about his comings and goings; he insisted on walking to and from his unit, no matter how winded he was from his daywork. “This place is sacred ground, and don’t ye ever set foot ’thout workin’ for it!” was his only reply when asked. He seemed dissociative after his sessions, like something within him was trying to fight its way out.
The way Hamleg met Mouse was a silly one (“almost as silly as last term’s ‘raja’,” quipped Maj). Back then, Malaysia was still not completely controlled by Big Dog and his army of idiots. The Park was run by Hamleg at the time, who ruled the complex with an iron fist—no synth, no unsavory services, no “funny ****,” or you’d get pounded. All was just s’well—nothing happened, ever, and Hamleg didn’t have to do anything, ever, which led to him putting on quite a few kilos. (He was sometimes even called “Michelin Man” by his friends due to his resemblance to the now-defunct hoverchag company.) So Hamleg was completely unprepared when Big Dog pulled the rug from under him (as Uncle used to say before he died in that synth accident).
to be continued…
