Genissley Jones ran full speed from the explosion at Gadhafi Duck’s Bar, ran hard until she was out of breath and sweating like a little piggy. Two miles later, she ducked into Big Buck’s Stimulant Shop and Twitterporium and then slipped unseen into Big Buck’s uni-sex toilet. She stripped off her bomber-garb, ditched her long blond wig in a trashcan, pocketed her Giorgio of the Jungle sunglasses and then urinated a seemingly never-ending stream of hot steaming pee.
She excreted 20 grams of healthy human feces into a hole in the ground, as plumbing was a thing of the past in the outer dome world. While still squatting, she sang along with a currently popular song booming throughout the Twitterporium, a hunting song of the Scottish highlands, written by Sir Walter Scott:
Waken, lords and ladies gay,
The mist has left the mountain gray;
Springlets in the dawn are steaming,
Diamonds on the brake are gleaming;
And foresters have busy been
To track the buck in thicket green;
Now we come to chant our lay,
Waken, lords and ladies gay.
She rinsed her anal sphincter and then thoroughly washed her hands off the explosive chemical residues and other Buck squatter toilet remnants with a garden hose. She admired herself in the scratched, graffiti sprayed and warped metal mirror and then thought, another job, another creep deep-sixed, well done baby! She admired her six-foot-five inches of bald-headed lesbozonian and bodacious woman-flesh in the mirror, squeezed her magnificent breasts to accentuate her cleavage, stuck out her tongue at herself and laughed aloud in assassination triumph.
All of the dispossessed rabble-rouser's inside Buck’s turned to watch her seductive body snake through the joint; four-inch stiletto heels pinging the marble floor in a clit-clit, clit-clit, clit-clit resonance for all ears to hear and lust and envy and worship.
She ordered a BuckYou-JoltYou from the automaton counter unit and then studied a variety of Mildred Pierced homemade pies on the counter. With caloric content and waistline on her mind, she ordered a full sized apple pie and a big foon to go with it. The BuckYou arrived and she sniffed in the invigorating concoction of cinnamon, cocaine, parsley, Manatee scrapings, and Andaman Sea salt. This hearty brew, her favorite drink, always brought her back to a solid moral grounding, a meaningful life outlook and the present reality after a successful assassination.
Back at her table, she scribbled in a small notebook and with great satisfaction crossed off Gadhafi Ducks' Bar and Larry Figueroa. She dotted an exclamation point by slamming her pencil down hard after the name, Little Larry. Larry’s ventriloquist dummy had fled the scene, probably damaged, but still a possible android witness. . . fucking Little Larry is still at large! She then circled the next three names on the list: Brandt David, Sisley Rich-Buildmore and Arturo Roark and ran assassination scenarios for each them through her mind.
While scribbling detailed notes in cypher, concerning the details of assassinations to come, she sensed what she thought was a Proboscis Monkey nose nudging her back or a small ladies handgun exploring her backside.
“Are you a monkey or is that a gun in my butt?
“Why did you try to eliminate me?” Prunella asked, lisping somewhat as the John Hammler mustache dangled uncomfortably in her mouth. She fought it with her long and agile tongue.
“We can’t talk here.”
“We talk here or at the Outer Constabulary of Protective Services building? The O-COPS will grill a Dome dame relentlessly. . . big YaunBuck reward for the Burbank Bomber.”
“Burbank Bomber, no sister, Genissley Jones, professional beauty pageant contestant. Better we talk at my digs- trail. . . walls have ears, as do the scum-rabble here.”
Seeing bald-headed super model Genissley Jones in her skintight, leopard skin leisure suit ran Prunella’s sex sensor to ultra-high plamagorphic levels. She felt capacitors heating up unnaturally in her vagina processor relay area and she knew it was a solid manifestation of sexuality that had to be acted upon. She had a dangerous attraction to this woman and she wondered why. She couldn’t connect her to a subroutine, to a time, to a place or to a face before the bombing. This woman’s astounding beauty and sensual bodylines activated memories and styro-hormones for her true love, Harley Davidson and oddly, herself.
She experienced a sudden flood of synthetic hormones cascading over her body in a wave that produced a hot sweat; her face flushed in embarrassment and she felt her middle fingers twitching madly for pie. She experienced the overwhelming desire to place her thumb, index and middle fingers into the Mildred Pierced homemade apple pie in front of the woman.
Genissley smiled and then said, ”Not like I don’t see this reaction everywhere I go. The pies. . . Great Jobs in Heaven, girl! Pies, cakes, muffins, scones; women see me and get all horny and hot for bakery goods. I’m one of the most beautiful woman alive they say, all men and women desire me, but I never get any peace. . . never find true happiness . . . potential lovers see me and suddenly want Bush Twinkies and Hole Ho-Hos.”
“My reaction, what reaction?” Prunella asked, dumbfounded, realizing homophobic algorithms were conflicting and all her spinning, buzzing electrons were over-loading with desire for this anarchist female and her juicy pie.
“That explosion pocked my face, fooned my lips. . . “ Prunella said, watching her hands dig deeper and deeper into the crust, mushing the gooey sliced apples in her hands; the pie’s glazy innards slowly and viscously oozed out of the pie. There was nothing she could do to stop her hand from caressing and fondling the apple pie’s sugary juiciness.
“Your urge for pie will pass, but not your desire for me. Your makers hit you with the ugly stick baby, or you’ve had your face hijacked and then they left you with a wound that looks like it never heals.”
“Your explosion sent a foon into my upper lip. I have hundreds of paper clips, ball bearings, pen nips and tacks in my bioelastic skin because of you. Were you trying to kill me? Was I your target? Are you an agent of. . . .”? Prunella trailed off and could think of only one person who wanted her dead, Medea!
“We’ can’t talk here. Sweetheart, we’re off to Malibu!”
Genissley grabbed Prunella’s apple pie covered hand, completely disregarded the weapon and dragged her to the Red-Purple Line subway station entrance on Western Avenue. They walked down the broken escalator into the dingy, dirty sub-station and right into the midst of a busker’s music festival.
Hundreds of itinerant musicians, in ragged and grimy Outer Dome clothes, languished about, smoked Jimsom Weed and sang along in slothful mimickery to a Jaw-harping, hillbilly ballad of woe. The lyrics, all off-keyed Celtic-U2Squared revival music of wars and conquests past, was grating and obnoxious to the terminally down and out who called the Red-Purple Line station, home sweet home.
Bodies of the lame, old and the sick were strewn everywhere; many of the prone, prostrated could have been dead, for the stench of the acrid aroma of decaying protein and body fluids was overwhelming. Sill, a few commuters’ lingered about, waiting for a train that might never arrive. They risked their lives by using the public transportation in the City of the Angels to traverse the world of the Outer Dome and looked totally out of place, bewildered and frightened in a world specifically built for them.
After a great commotion of surprise and confusion over the train’s arrival, they rode in silence towards the Malibu station; underneath the Dome, across the city, submerged like rats running a maze. The steam-powered locomotive trudged on and on along the war-ravaged subway tracks. Loud explosions could be hear, in a reverse Doppler effect, as rocket-propelled Higgs-Boson grenades fired out of the front of the locomotive to eliminate the notorious Kaiser-Vlad-Tepes Brigades.
Hordes of underemployed physicians and psychiatrists of the Dome had resorted to kidnapping and banditry to pay for their lavish lifestyles on the 10th level (and lower levels!) in the Dome. The Kaiser-Vlad-Tepes Brigades, as they were called, controlled this section of the underground like blood-thirsty tribal warlords with medical prescription privileges.
Once euthanasia, suicide, and the ‘Please Kill Me’, mandates were made legal in the entire SoCalia area, physicians and psychiatrist’s astronomical incomes diminished rapidly. Many of the outer dome’s suffering chose death over mental disease or a life of wasting-away, as no one could afford the pharmaceuticals sold by The Dome’s HMOs and mind-probing vampires. Keeping millions of the elderly alive an extra 80 to 100 years, in drug-suspended animation, meant the high life and high leveling for the Dome’s shrinks and quacks and New Dome Age charlatans.
Leveling, moving up a level, materially and physically, inside the Dome, was the only game in Dome town. The Dome’s population lived lives geared towards quests of constant leveling, guild affiliations and social prominence. Arrogant, spoiled and greedy myopic capitalists often took matters into their own hands in ambitious sabotaging quests to reach the top level, the level where the mega-rich, like Lady Sisley Rich- Buildmore, Arturo Roark and Brandt David lived and loved in lavish luxury.
Walking briskly down Colorado Street, only a short distance from The Dome, Genissley and Prunella approached Pacific Coast Highway. Genissley searched a guarded parking lot of sentry towers and laser Gatling guns, manned by warrior droid with itchy digits, until she spotted her luxurious Spotted Jaguar Hovercraft. The rabble-romancers, wanna-be Casanova’s, Don Juan’s lay-abouts in perpetuity, whistled, hooted and propositioned the two women mercilessly.
After finding the sleek hovercraft and attempting to run over the Casanova’s, Genissley drove the short, but dangerously exposed road back to the Dome. Her quantum (spooky action at a distance) sonar automatically controlled and time-projected hovercraft was in street combat mode and in eleven dimensions, thus allowing her to avoid the RPGs and land-mining tribal bandits, time robbers and foreigners in a multitude of possible directions and probable configurations in space-time. The quantum sonar allowed her to avoid most of the rabble vendors waiting at stop lights; waiting either to blow the car up, beg a five-spot YaunDollar to wash a windshield, sell a ragged, moldy fruity something or other, or Bondo-Mondo a new dent in the Spotted Jaguar.
Upon reaching the Dome’s secured area, she simple flashed her headlights and The Dome’s side opened like a magic furry taco shell and she slipped in. A green scanning ray roamed over them from above and she was instantly registered as a privileged beauty queen inhabitant with her new servant android.
Once inside The Dome, the real-time sunset of outer-dome vistas changed into a stupendous sunset of a holo-mural many miles long. A fabulous sunset filled the entire western wall of the LA dome. Prunella’s heart leap and she sighed in relief, as she was finally home and safely inside her Dome --- life was now beautiful again and she was a step closer to her lover Harley Davidson.
“You come and go in the Dome as you please?” Prunella asked, admiring Genissley's new and more confident demeanor now they were both sheltered and secured within the massive covering of the Dome and its omnipresent appearance of law & order.
“Of course, you silly droid, I was a beauty queen from the fourth grade on: Miss Really Tiny Beauty, Miss Tiny Neighborhood Beauty, Miss Teen Dream, Miss Teen Without Acne, Miss Perfect Globes, Miss Perfect Nostrils, Miss Foreskin of 2976, Miss Mercedes-Ford Hover Girl of 2978, Miss Multiple Universes” I have special privileges. I'm special. I am the most beautiful woman of the decade according to the New Confederacy Banker's Association and NAMBLA’s annual exit poll. Although, I'm growing older, decaying as we speak and no amount of Botox or Wolverine liver extract will bring back my youth. Beauty is fleeting, unless you’re an android . . . but with an android face like yours, well sweetheart, the only thing fleeting is . . . to be honest, anyone who looks at you.”
“CloneDroid Corporation forever banished me to the realms of the ugly, gave me my limp. . . then serendipity smiled on me with my original face for only one glorious night and I fell into a profound love that rules all my desires but I can’t. . . ”
“No whining in my Spotted Jaguar --- my rules, my car, sister. We all have our beauty cruxes to bare, sweetie.” Genissley said, as she came to an abrupt stop at a point overlooking the interactive mural of the Pacific Ocean and Malibu’s holographic fishing pier. A holographic fisherman, selling burials at sea to the ultra-rich who wandered the pier with pampered pooches, waved and tipped his hat to the two women in the fancy car.
“Hey you, you, the old fart and the sea. . . fuck off!” Genissley called out him, then waved to him, blew him a kiss and shucked off any notion of death for her at such a young age.
Genissley’s home was an ancient, but perfectly restored Excella 500 31-foot Aluminum trailer that glowed in bright mirror reflections under the false dome sun. The trailer read, Streamline Beauty on the side and had potted geraniums in planter boxes, all neatly arranged atop a white picket fence around a small perfect yard. A homemade wind-chime played the full orchestral version of Der Ring des Nibelungen in the slight breeze. A blond-haired android Afghan hound lazed in the yard, looked briefly at Genissley’s Spotted Jag as it drove up then began licking it’s synthetic private parts. The grounds were immaculate, not a spot of dust or grime was visible anywhere. Prunella knew the ubiquitous cleaner androids had scoured the area only moments before, but like her, and as in the old days at Casa Rich-Buildmore; they were never to be seen or to be heard.
Prunella watched the surf crash in rhythmic waves on Malibu Point, where men with fantastically shellacked Protectomatic wigs, hung-ten on waves the size of knee-slappers from a wave-generating machine. Slaphappy, giggling and laughing surf-bunnies, clad in clear plastic bikinis and tin foil hats, threw colorful balls, played quantum Frisbee and spectral badminton on the pristine and recently combed synthetic sand beach.
“Those people on the beach, are they real?” Prunella asked, laughing teasingly at the doltish women in the tin-foil hats.
“No course not, they’re only living, advertising murals for rich people like me to be temped to invest in the CloneDroid Corporation stock or buy more CloneDroids. Honey, the aluminum hat keeps the uncle-sam-a rays from frying our brains, as do the Protectomatic wigs. Just in case you wondering, the Earth no longer has an Ozone layer. We have a synthetic ozoneium layer with a fast encroaching and poisonous tetraoxygen layer taking over. Why do you think the inhabitants of the outer dome mature and mutate so fast? Here, wear this,” Genissley handed Prunella a crudely folded aluminum-foil hat.
“They look foolish, besides I’m invulnerable to ultraviolet ---“
“Nonsense, put on the hat, remove your clothes and I’ll repair you. I no longer keep service droids to do me. . . but remember, keep the hat on at all times even on the lower levels of the dome.”
Prunella knew a seduction was commencing and she fought the urge to strip, but strip she did (although she left the spikey high-heels that Willard gave her and the tin foil hat on). She watched Genissley’s eyes devour her body as she slowly removed each item of Solen Lozext’s clothing.
She experienced Genissley’s fingertips moving over her soft bioelastic, over her burned, scraped and punctured flesh wounds. Waves of titillated trisistor currents emanated magical cosine functions in an infinity of hairy mind-blowing triangles, then suddenly, her math-sex processor exploded with an "ah-ha!" Moments and urges for the female sex, so long dormant, now activated within her and with a vengeance. A Shakespearian sonnet echoed around and around in her circuitry and she recited it softly to Genissley:
A woman's face with Nature's own hand painted
Hast thou the master-mistress of my passion;
A woman's gentle heart but not acquainted
With shifting change as is false women's fashion;
An eye more bright than theirs less false in rolling,
Gilding the object whereupon it gazeth;
A man in hue all 'hues' in his controlling,
Much steals men's eyes and women's souls amazeth.
And for a woman wert thou first created;
Till Nature as she wrought thee fell a-doting,
And by addition me of thee defeated
By adding one thing to my purpose nothing.
But since she prick'd thee out for women's pleasure,
Mine be thy love and thy love's use their treasure.
As she spoke softly, she noticed Genissley’s eyes fold back into her head with abandoned pleasure and then in the same pleasure of abandonment, she allowed her eyes to roll backwards in her head. Unfortunately, her eyes continued to spin backwards, around and around, and at higher and higher speeds, like a living android slot machine completely out of control. She felt herself growing dizzy and only regained her visual acuity and balance by slamming the side of her head with her open palm a few times.
Prunella’s long, wet and probing tongue then went out to its full eight inches, as if being reeled out by some mysterious power of a Bacchanalian God within. Genissley stroked its length with her fingers and sharpen nails in pure pricking lust and with desire percolating up in her beautiful green eyes. . .
Prunella closed her eyes in anticipation and sang softly. . .
Now we come to chant our lay.
Awaken, lords and ladies gay. . . .