Antone’s Place, Part 13
by Martin H Slusser

Following the ghosts of past meals, the Carl-shon:gili wobbled into the a narrow room that held a stove and a freezer. He pawed at the door of the oven till the asgina:gili forced him away to the freezer. Carl showed it how to open the door.

Soy beef and soy lamb cutlets clattered over the floor. Tiny cleaning-bots shot out, and the shon:gili slapped them away, snarling as it tried to snap up the cutlets. Frozen at fifty below, Celsius, they were no softer than the red rock that made up the bones of the Pocono Mountains.

The shon:gili spat them out, and Carl gagged at the moldy taste of soy.

Scattered ‘bots scooted out again to clean the floor, and the shon:gili swept them away. It attacked the cutlets, gnawing on the plastic and swallowing that, then by bits and pieces, consumed one as a fire grew to sweep through the body.

The shon:gili started to scream only to end it with a human voice. Shuddering and weeping, Carl, who never wept, lay on the cold floor with the ‘bots making tentative passes at the meat.

He rolled over, and they zipped away with warning lights flashing and tiny mechanical sounds.

His stomach was cramped, and he took a burger patty, gnawing on it raw and still frozen until his teeth ached.

Still mostly uneaten, it dropped to the floor, and the ‘bots darted out to claim it.

Pushing up, he grabbed the soy meat, throwing it on a counter, then pulled himself up to seek a cooker. On the counter was an old-time microwave like the one Anna had.

Praying the antique still worked, Carl opened it, rolling in a few burgers, and hit the COOK light.

A minute later soybean oil was sizzling on the tray, and he dragged them out, then ate them cursing the burning in his mouth and throat. Carl turned on a water tap and bent to drink from it before cooking the rest and eating it.

Stomach bloated, he sank to the floor of the kitchen already asleep. With quiet, puzzled whispers, ‘bots surrounded him and tried to figure out what to do.

Outside, a police cruiser drifted over the snow.

Mike waited until Creel’s sneezes wound down to mere sniffles.

“Sue,” Mike said.

Creel blinked and gave him a mild frown. “Sue who? I got a cousin what’s a good lawyer. He can –“

Did everyone in Philadelphia have a lawyer in the family? Mike’s scowl deepened.

“Hannah. The rowho?”

Creel’s glowing red nose may not have been enough to get him on Santy Claus’ team, but Mike squinted anyway. Creel sighed and grinned.

“Yeah, she’s sooo sweat.”

“Sweat?”

Creel’s head jerked in denial. “Sweed . . . Sssweet! Candy, man. Real fine piss.” He stopped to try and blow his nose, but it was clogged to the rafters, and his eyes were beginning to bulge dangerously.

Or had they always bulged?

Mike handed Creel another box of aloe and oil impregnated tissues, and the man ripped them open just as he sneezed. Tissues embossed with the official Party emblem rained down in a softly falling pink snow. ‘Bots chattered and squeaked in alarm, the tiny domes zipping over the bile green rug chewing and sucking them down faster than Creel could snatch them up.

He latched onto the last one and, to Mike’s astonishment, the ‘bot growled, jerking it from his hand. They didn’t do that even to small children.

“Here, damn it, lay off.”

Mike’s foot came down hard on the ‘bot. He grabbed the tissue and threw it at Creel. It floated in Creel’s direction. It drifted to the floor, and Creel snatched it from the teeth of another ‘bot, only to collapse and lay choking and wheezing.

He stepped away. Not harmed by the foot, the ‘bot squeaked and hissed, then dashed to the fallen man to snatch the last tissue from the trembling hand. Creel shouted, and the ‘bot dashed away to the small port in the wall.

Staring down at Creel, to himself, Mike said, “Must have got his license from sending in a dozen cereal box tops.” He stopped and frowned, wondering where he got that. The food industry had been nationalized for about ten years now, and there were no more freebees or give-aways.

He started to smile. A long time ago, it had been his mother’s favorite saying, usually about poor drivers and teachers that worked only for the pay. Then she stopped using it. About that time she lost a lot of that bird-like happiness. Why? Right after the food industry was nationalized. Not for the first time, Mike wondered about his mother’s loyalty to the Party. And Ron’s. His father had to join or lose his job as a deputy; the same for his mother’s teaching job.

Creel’s fingers scratched at the carpet, then his fists were making dull thuds. That was when Mike noticed he wasn’t breathing. The man’s face was turning blue, and Mike groaned.

Very slowly, Mike sat on the edge of the bed. Sometimes, God works in mysterious ways. Well, while this might be a deliverance from the skinny dip . . . Mike reached down to grab a choking Creel, flipped the man onto the bed face down, and slapped him sharply between the shoulder blades.

Creel choked and coughed, and whatever was obstructing his throat popped loose. The man’s blue face began to take a more healthy hue.

Moving to the other bed, Mike said, “TV.”

The screen slid out. A list of shows rolled down the gentle blue of the screen. Most were marked with an X to show they were not recommended for Party members. Mike spotted one marked with three Xes. He tried that one and found a tall black man speaking in low tones about how America once had free elections. XXX? Mike scowled. In any state on the East of West coast, the man would be in prison for this.

He changed the channel to one marked 10+, 50 Credits, and found a nude woman doing things with her body that even eels might envy. The picture eased out into a Tri-V that rotated so no move could be missed by the viewer. The remote slipped to the bed, and Mike’s hands went behind his head and he smiled.

The screen hissed, and a picture of a not-too-happy Cindy came on. Mike killed a wince before it got him in trouble.

“Is this why you’re in that dump? Agent Donnelly, you are –“

“Hungry,” he said, and winked. “For . . . you-know.”

The Tri-V of her head pushed from the screen. Creel was wheezing now. She expanded to take a closer look at him. A scowl on her face, Cindy took a deep breath and released it very slowly. She pulled back and the screen went blank.

Letters flashed, PLUS CHANNELS ARE INACCESSIBLE TO THIS PATRON, SORRY. A small devil with red horns gave Mike the finger, then turned to bare his buttocks and fart a green flame that shot out across the room.

Mike grabbed the remote and threw it at the screen, but the TV was too fast and disappeared into the wall.

Mike took his watch. He snapped, "Mama Cindy.”

Lights slid up, shimmering, but no form. Mike tapped a red button on the side, and her secretary appeared. She was a severe older woman with a face that would interest pit bulls but terrify small children.

“Agent?”

Mike was polite. “Agent Donnelly for Ms VanTur.”

“The Baroness is busy, Agent.”

He forced his voice low and husky. “But . . . I have a message for her.”

One black eyebrow cocked up in disbelief, the woman said, “I will take it for her.”

“Ma’am, you sure about that?”

“Yes,” she said, her word clipped and very Continental.

“Why, that’s very kind o’ you, Miz de Richter.”

With a good-ol’-boy friendly smile, Mike opened his pants and the woman screamed . . . but took a second look.

©2004 StoriesByEmail.com

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