OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO oOOOO OOOO. OOOO OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO" .OOOOOO OOOOOo OOOO OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO OOOO oOOOOOOO OOOOOOO. OOOO oOOOO OOOO .OOOO OOOO OOOOOOOOo OOOO OOOO" OOOO oOOOO OOOO OOOO "OOOO. OOOO OOOOo .OOOO' OOOO .OOOO" OOOO OOOO OOOOoOOOO "OOOO. oOOOO OOOO oOOOOOOO..OOOO OOOO "OOOOOOO OOOOoOOOO" OOOO .OOOO"""OOOOOOOO OOOO OOOOOO "OOOOOOO' OOOO oOOOO ""OOOO OOOO "OOOO OOOOOO |---------------------------------------------------------------------------| | | | There Ain't No Justice | | | | #94 | | | |---------------------------------------------------------------------------| - Squick - by Eponymous Bosch this story is entirely ficticious. any resemblance to characters living, dead or imaginary is entirely coincidental and should not be viewed as legally actionable, because it isn't. besides, the nasty bits all take place in Simulation. Virtual reality, you dig? so, the issue of consensuality doesn't even arise. besides, it's only a story, right? it's not as if i have fantasies about going around brain-fucking people. really. come on, okay, agreed, i read alt.sex.bestiality, i'm sick, but i'm not as sick as some of -you- sikfux. really, i think you people need serious psychiatric attention. besides, i -know- that you are all out to get me, aren't you? bastards. - eponymous bosch ----------------------------------------------------------------- The door ground open on poorly-lubricated tracks; Beran and Dava frog-marched their captive over to the dentist's chair which had been crudely mounted in the middle of the room, directly below Scanner's cameras. He was wrapped, from his shoulders down to his knees, in a sheath of tight black plastic. This didn't appear to be necessary, however, as the captive was not resisting at all; in fact, he was the very picture of slack mindless stupidity, as if he had been sedated or brainwiped. Selby, who had been sitting at the Cable-TV monitor, got up to examine the captive. Dava proudly gestured to him; `Here he is, fresh from the Zurich State Correction Centre: Jules Sangria. He was in for Aggravated Assault, Resisting Arrest, Child Abuse, Illegal Systems Entry, Mis-Use of Unix Systems and for traveling the Subway without a ticket. He only cost us fifty credits.' Selby raised his bushy eyebrows. `Mmmn. Admirably, suitably admirable,' he said, turning the criminal's head to one side and examining the contours of his cranium. `He was scheduled for termination?' Beran nodded. `So we can do pretty much what we want with him, and with a clear conscience.' `In fact,' Dava put in, `I think his ex-wife would probably pay quite a bit for an advance copy of the video... if we are going to make the sort of video that I _think_ we're going to make.' Selby grinned mirthlessly. `We are. And, she doesn't have to pay for it... she can tape it off the air, like everyone else, when Enzian plays it on his show.' Beran put in, `I've been thinking... since most of this is going to be simulated, why not make the active male lead a video analogue of Enzian himself? I'm sure he'd appreciate the joke...' Selby nodded approvingly, then started stripping the black plastic from their captive. `Okay, let's get to work here. Scanner?' YES SIR? `I have a new model for you. I want real-time three-D emulation of the upper quarter of its torso, and full stereo audio-sampling of the procedure I will be demonstrating.' Two of Scanner's cameras, mounted on spider-like arms which depended from the ceiling, slowly moved into place. They aimed their lines of sight to a point at the centre of Jules' skull. IS THE MODEL CURRENTLY SITTING IN THE CHAIR? I HAVE TARGETED THE SITE YOU HAVE INDICATED. IT APPEARS TO BE COVERED IN MANY LONG, THIN BROWN OBJECTS. `That's his hair. We'll be shaving some of it off, but you don't have to scan that.' Selby muttered aside to Dava, `We can do that part from stock footage/montage/simulation.' He cast about for the clippers, to begin shaving; Beran held up his trusty butane-powered soldering-iron and, with the open flame, scorched a strip from the top of Jules' head down the back of his neck. They all wrinkled their noses at the stench of burning hair; Beran brushed away charred fibers with a damp towel, exposing a slightly reddened strip of skin which reached from Jules' shoulders up to the top of his head. While Dava scattered old newspapers about on the floor around the dentist's chair, Selby hefted a large drill fitted with a tubular bit about five centimetres across mounted on the end; with a tap of his toe, the chair reclined, bringing Jules to lie parallel to the floor. Was that a flicker of consciousness he saw in the captive's eyes? Clutching a thirty-centimetre black rubber dildo in his other hand, Selby brought the drill up towards the top of Jules' head... The AnarchArtists gathered around the large video screen in their Basel headquarters to watch that week's episode of their favourite television show, `Enzian's Surprise Hour'. The host, a tall, flint- edge-faced negro dressed in German military officer's regalia, sat behind his desk as he presented his latest offerings. The show was one of the most popular in the underground Cable network; it featured videos sent in by the audience, on any subject, usually illegal. Snuff videos were a favourite, and it was obvious that many of those were done with minimal special effects budgets. `Oberst Enzian' (who styled himself after a character from Thomas Pynchon's `Gravity's Rainbow') examined the videos before presenting them, so that only the particularly unusual or interesting were aired. `This week, friends and viewers, we have another offering from our Anarchist Artists in Basel, Switzerland. It's titled "squick", and I'm sure that you'll find it as deeply moving and involving as I did.' A sly smile here, gleaming white teeth in a dark, african face. `And remember: it's all done in Simulation - none of this ever happened in reality - so it's' (and here, the studio audience joined in, in what was obviously a time-honored tradition on this show) `ALL COMPLETELY LEGAL!' followed by much derisive laughter from the audience. The screen dimmed as the AnA's video started. (soundtrack: `Death of an Analogue', by Klaus Schulze, from the album `Dig It') (yellowed, off-white letters fade up from the darkness: SQUICK the AnarchArtist's logo appears below the letters; the divided circle within another (which looks innocent until the viewer realises that it's a stylised penis grasped by a hand, viewed from the front). the letters and the symbol both fade after five seconds, and a tiny spot far in the distance grows until it reveals itself; a gleaming leather- and-chrome dentist's chair, illuminated from some hidden source far above. the naked figure of a young man is strapped to the chair, reclining, his feet pointing off into the darkness, his head (secured to the chair with a bewildering array of leather belts) facing the camera. a strip of hair about seven centimetres wide has been shaved from his head in a sort of inverse Mohawk, and a bright red lipstick cross has been drawn, where the fontanelle is situated, on the top of his head. his steel-grey eyes flash, peering anxiously from left to right within the limits of his confines. from behind the camera's point of view appears the figure of a tall, lithe, naked negro: Enzian. the figures have a smooth, flowing quality, indicating that they are being realised within a computer simulation; the slightly halting movements and gestures which accompany real humanity, missing from standard computer simulations, are the mark of a master animator. from nowhere, an overly ornate mechanical drill appears, draped with pneumatic cables, switches and dials; the evilly-glittering drillbit is hollow, and as wide as a person's wrist. the drill swings through a dramatic arc, orienting on the subject's skull; Enzian moves smoothly behind the drill (which, while trailing cables, isn't actually connected to anything else in the simulation), squats down and grins, exposing his startlingly white teeth. he slides his hand along the shaft of the drill, flicks the chuck with its obscenely sharp bit, and the drill hums into motion. within seconds, the drillbit is a shining silver blur. the young man glances up nervously. Enzian steps back and the drill's body rotates dramatically through three hundred and sixty degrees, the end of the drill-bit coming to rest mere inches from the young man's skull. Enzian rests his hands on the drill casing and eases it forwards slowly... the camera view draws closer as the bit approaches... the bit touches the skin and plunges forwards, tatters of skin and blood flying in all directions (none of it spatters the camera lens because, of course, this is taking place in Simulation; there are no chunks of flying flesh, but merely digitally rendered objects in some mainframe's voxel-space). nonetheless, the young man screams and shudders, his head turning to the right slightly as the drill meets more resistance, digging into the bone of his skull; the drill whines as if in disappointment, changes gear and digs in harder. the tone drops an octave and Enzian presses it forward again; suddenly, as the drill penetrates the skull, the tone rises sharply. the automatic gears throttle back, and Enzian draws the drill away from the fist-sized hole which has been gouged in the young man's head. as blood streams from the edges of the wound, Enzian slides a lever up the shaft of the drill, which pokes the ragged red-grey disk of skin, skull and dural matter out of the hollow bit. it falls downward and vanishes, spinning, in the Simulation. the brain itself is exposed, grey-pink with red streaks, pulsing slightly. the table tips back a few more degrees, bringing the subject's head within range of Enzian's crotch. Enzian is standing, clutching two hand- grips which are mounted at the head of the chair; he pushes it back slightly and massages his erection with slow, assured motions. with one hand wrapped around the base, he squeezes, forcing blood into the head, making it swell almost to the size of a tennis-ball. a droplet of clear fluid at the very tip glints in the light from above. Enzian carefully draws the subject closer, bringing the swollen head of his penis towards the hole, aimed at the divide between the left and right hemispheres, and then suddenly plunges it in, with a wet, `squick!' sound. the subject shudders and gives voice to an inarticulate cry. Enzian slowly withdraws, accompanied by an obscenely moist sucking sound, and plunges in again, to the hilt. the subject's tongue protrudes slightly, and his eyes are pointing in two different directions as Enzian begins pumping slowly, then with increased vigor; tiny droplets of perspiration gleam on his chest. with each stroke, fresh rivulets of blood stream down the back of the subject's head, and at the height of each inward stroke, Enzian's balls slap into these trickles, spraying red droplets in all directions. the frequency of the strokes increases slowly, until Enzian is slamming his lean, dark body against the subject's firmly fixed head with impassioned fury, a ragged gasp accompanying each thrust. blood begins to trickle from the subject's nose, just as Enzian roars, grinds his hips against the chair and comes. He throws his arms out and floats backwards, as if in free- fall, trailing a glittering arc of pearly droplets. the subject's jaw flexes once, and the red fluid that now pours from his nostrils is mixed with threads of white. 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