shade
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Life Sucks and Then You Die
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Jun 18 23:51 UTC 1995 |
This is story which is actually meant to be the beginning of a sequel
toa different novel (which I actually qrote). I plaan topost the other
novel too, but not now. It's a real pain to format these thigns.
Life sucks and then you die
It was time to rap this story up into a neat little bundle and get
on with my life.
''What are your future plans?'' I asked the Church of Elvis
spokesman. (The Church of Elvis is the primary competitor with
the various combined churches of Jesus Christ. Last I checked
about 20% of the Zengalian citizens leaned toward Christianity
and 40% toward the Church of Elvis--what can I say? Jesus
will come back and Elvis never died. Then there are those people
who say Elvis was the second coming, and we're really all
waiting for the third coming--and the (10%) pagans and (30%)
atheists/agnostics/everybody else think they're all crazy).
''We support the Renegade, of course,'' the woman said.
''It's no secret. Elvis came from earth, and if he was still in
society today, the Zengalian government would have enslaved
him. We do not support unnecessary violence, but we resent
the fact that Elvis's fellow Earthlings are kept in slavery.''
''Thank you for the interview,'' I said.
She relaxed visibly. ''No, thank you. We need all the
publicity we can get. I admire you for wanting to do a story
about something as out of the way as us, when most of the
papers are just covering the Renegade and Nuclear Headlice.''
I smiled at her, a forty-year old matron of a small community
of Zengalians who'd taken to living on Earth, and promoting
the anit-slavery Church of Elvis (which the government had
barred slaves from joining). She was pretty, in motherly way,
but I could tell she'd been an knock out, about fifteen, twenty
years ago. And, besides, I'd seen her ninteen year old daughter
earlier that day.
I started gathering my stuff together, and she left the room just
as her daughter was coming in.
''You're the editor of the Grand City Daily Press, aren't you?
D. Scribe, right? And you also did that magazine--the banned one,
Time Warp. I used to read that when they still allowed it around here,''
she said. She had a pretty voice. Soft and sweet, not a city voice
roughening from shouting and screaming.
''That's me,'' I said, looking her over again. Her black hair and big
blue eyes. She was pretty. The prettiest thing I'd seen since me and
Queen Cleopatra had had some kind of thing going very breifly.
(YES YES YES. All that gossip you read in the tabloids was true--
I had an affair with the bassist of Nuclear Headlice! I deny nothing,
it was the best sex I've ever had).
''How long you staying in town for?'' she asked. Pick up line,
I thought. She wants me to take her out. Sounded like a good idea
to me.
''Just a couple nights.''
''Where are you staying?''
''The Hotel Royale, down the block,'' I said.
''Want to go for some food?'' she asked.
Jesus H Christ, these Earth girl's beat you to the punch
every single time. I like women that way. (I did go out with Cleo,
and as everyone who's been or will be young within twenty
years of now knows, Cleo packs quite a punch into one of her
dainty little fists, even when she's not wearing brass knuckles.)
''What's around?''
''Fast food and a drive-in movie theatre.''
I wasn't going to need to stay here a couple days. I could
leave in the morning and go home to cover the tedious, dragged
out Renegade-tries-to-take-over-the-government-again story. There
was nothing else going on in the world anymore! The newspapers
and magazines covered it, the Comm. people had mini-series already
made about it, two versions, to be released when they figured out which
side was going to win.
There was only one news event so overdone as the Renegade
and his terrorists in all of history--and that happened on 20th century
earth, about some celeb who did or did not murder his ex and
her lover. When Zengal took over they were still in court, and it still
wasn't clear who was going to win. I can't remember the names,
exactly, but I consider it the greatest folly in the history of media.
''What movie?''
''It's an old Earth tradition. You probably haven't seen it before,''
she said. ''Everyone here has. It's like a right of passage--you're not an
adult until you've...seen this,'' she said. And I got the distinct impression
that she was giggling beneath her serious expression.
''What movie is it?''
She laughed, and took my hand. ''It's called the Rocky Horror
Picture Show.''
She was wrong. I had heard of Rocky Horror. I thought every
kid had to see that before graduating from high school. I thought marauding
bands of spirits of teenagers past came out and physically forced
anyone who hadn't seen it to go out and see it the last saturday before
graduation.
''Time Warp isn't exactly a common phraze,'' I said.
And then it dawned on her. ''You mean, you named your magazine?''
she asked.
''None other.''
''Oh. I guess you have seen it.''
''Quite a few times actually,'' I said.
''Wanna go?''
''I'd love to,'' I said. And so we got into my decomposing grey
rent-a-craft and took off for the drive-in movies, having decided to
skip the fast food, after all.
''How many times have you seen it?'' she asked.
''Enough,'' I said.
''I mean, did you see it enough that you know it pretty well,
or did you just go a couple times?''
''I'd say I know it pretty well,'' I said.
''But how many times?''
''Do you really want to know?''
''Yes. And how old are you?''
''I'm twenty-two,'' I said. ''The youngest man to own two major
publications.''
''How many times?''
''353 and two thirds,'' I finally explained.
My date looked me straight in the eye and said, ''Is that all?
You really had me going for a second there.''
I didn't ask her how many times she's seen it. I got the distinct
impression that I didn't want to know.
But she was pretty, the music was good, and the one way
glass was a great privacy screen. All in all, my trip to Earth was
extremely productive.
When I got home, there was a message waiting for me on my
desk. It was a bunch of wilted roses, turning crisp and brown, and
a neat little card with fancy curvy handwriting on it. Before I even
turned the card over, I knew who'd sent me this mess.
But I turned it over, just in case and read the little letters
carefully.
A burned and dusted rose
For your lover
A blue tear for the red fire
For the devil
A conqueror's flesh and blood
Against the stake
A burned and dusted rose
Goes out to you
We'll be at Bridgette's Monday.
Love,
Cleo
I hate it when Cleo starts playing with my mind, just as though
I'm still her boy toy. She's moved on to bigger and better things,
of course (you must've heard about her and Beamer, the guitarist?
They're the string set of the civilized universe). But that doesn't
mean she can't bother me just the same. And she will to. She'll go out
of her way to do it, and she'll have her friend Bridgette (owner
of Bridgette's, a sleazy bar).
It was ten o clock, Monday when I got in. You better
believe me, I was headed straight for Bridgette's.
On the corner of two small alleys masquerading as streets
was a small dive with a small red sign, that one who didn't know
better and had no ability to think whatsoever who think read B i g te's.
Some of the letters burned out and Bridgette's never had the
energy or time to replace them.
I went in, as familiar with the place as I was with the back of
my hand.
Bridgette's in done in shades of red and black, and there's a
fashion runway in the middle. After about midnight, you can
see some of the gaudiest naked bodies in Grand City go down
that aisle, both male and female. As Bridgette once put it, in her
sweet undertone, ''I must have something to look at too.''
The waitresses are sluts, the strippers are whores, and
Bridgette runs a chapter of Sexaholics-anonymous. In other
words, it was the kind of place me and Cleo once hung out together,
when she was a poor would-be rock star, and I was a comparitively
rich reporter for the ''real'' Grand City paper, the Grand City News.
The minute I walked in, I realized the difference in the place.
It was brighter. The walls were pink, and little roses bloomed off
the wallpaper. The tables were some kind of light wood, and
the waitresses were more than 50% clothed.
''What the fuck!'' I shouted as I walked in. And then it occured
to me that I was an old friend of the owner. ''BRIDGETTE
WHAT THE FUCK?'' I screamed again. A dignified librarian lady
tried to offer me and table to calm me down. But I wouldn't be calmed
down. What had they done to this place? What was happening to the true
definition of trash?
A small woman stepped out from the bar and yawned. ''Hello, D,''
she said to me, tossing her red hair behind her head as she spoke,
quietly, simply. ''How are you?''
''What have you done, Bridgette?''
She shrugged. ''I always said I would clean up my act when
the government fell,'' she said.
''So?'' I asked. ''The government isn't falling.''
''Yes, it is,'' she snapped back. ''Look at this!'' she thrust out a
newspaper, which my eyes took in and recognized immediately.
''Look at the story about the Renegade.''
''I wrote that story, Bridgette. Some of my best writing, too,''
I said, smiling.
She slapped her head. ''How could you read this and not see?
The world is changing, and so am I. Cleo wants to see you,''
she finished, abruptly changing her tone when she got to Cleo.
''Oh yeah, is she changing too? Is Beamer with her?''
''No. He is not,'' Bridgette said. ''She is a very sad woman, Cleo.
You should see her.''
''I think I will. Is she in the green room?''
''Yes, but it's pastel now,'' Bridgette said, following me up the
stairs.
''I never knew you had it in you, Bridgette,'' I said.
''Had what in me?'' she asked.
''Honesty. You kept your word. You think the world is changing,
and you've changed. What a shame. I thought I wasn't alone in the world,''
I said. I didn't look at her, didn't show her my immenent smile.
''You're not, you stupid man! Go see your Cleo. She's as stupid
as you.''
I did just that. I went and saw ''my'' Cleo.
The green room was at the end of a long hallway of rooms that
had once been used for various nefarious purposes. Now, I guessed
they were pastel and used for something of redeeming value. I really
hate it when the world changes like this on me. I think I really
know somebody, like Bridgette, and then they change, all of a sudden.
Cleo sat in the green room, alone, watching an ancient comm set.
She didn't hear me walk in, so I was privy to her as she is alone.
She was sniffling and crying over what was on the screen, which appeared
to be an old sad movie. I sat and watched the curve of her red lips
moving in silent sobs, and the shine the movie put on her slightly tanned
skin.
Her hair was pretty too, and longer than the last time I'd seen it.
It was dark dark brown. Cleopatra might really have looked like
Cleo, sitting there, peaceful now that she was alone and no one could
agitate her.
I didn't want to disturb her, I was afraid. I'd never seen her like
this before, the whole time I spent every night with her she was always
Cleo, the Queen of the world. Armies to order around in circles, things
to do and her career to further, tyrany to bring down on the head of
mankind. She'd never, for one moment, stopped acting like Cleo and
let me or anyone else see that she could cry.
Cleo didn't cry.
But here she was, and I'd always known she could. I finally
broke off with her because she wouldn't let me see anything but the
image, the personality that is now one of the most famous in the empire.
Oh, she didn't have it all perfect then, and her stories changed all the time
then, but they were always stories.
''Cleopatra, Anthony is here to see you,'' I finally said, breaking
the spell over her.
''D.!'' she shouted, and leapt up from her chair. ''You came.''
Something was very wrong. She was only frowning a little. She made a
sweeping gesture with her arms. ''Sit down.'' She pulled her blankets off
the chair.
I did what she said. Cleo is the general, the tyrant, no man dares
resist. She'll charm if she must, punch when the mood suites her (which it
often does) and she'll bribe if she absolutely has to.
I watched her from the plush chair, watched her while I sank it.
It was warm from where she'd been sitting a minute ago, and I felt
closer to her now, in one of Bridgette's old whoring rooms, than I ever
had before. She looked so young standing in the doorway.
''How've you been, Queen Cleopatra?'' I said. I called her by my
pet name for her. The beautiful Cleopatra, powerful and dark. And she called
me Anthony.
''Okay, Anthony,'' she said, and then she shook her head all of
a suddun, and she looked like her mood had just dropped from tolerable
to bad in a quick style. ''You know we don't know your real name, D?''
''I know. Nobody does, Cleo,'' I said.
''But, all that time we slept together, and we never even asked,
did we? It never even occured to us,'' she said.
Ah, Cleo. She was asking different questions, and probably thought
she'd changed a lot. But she was asking them the same way. The obsessions
of a child change, but they are still childish obsessions. Cleo still
pluralized herself, and she still thought she needed to knew everything.
She really hadn't changed all that much.
But then again, a strand of her hair fell out of its neat ponytail,
and there were dark circles under her eyes. Maybe something was wrong.
''No, Cleo, you never asked,'' I said.
She turned around and straightened herself out. Then her shoulders
collapsed in again and after a silent, desperate moment, she turned and
looked me straight in the eye. ''What did you mother call you when she
looked down at the screaming infant in her arms, D?''
Cleo stood with her back to the sofa-bed, staring at me just so,
and I knew exactly what to do, and what to say.
''Ethan,'' I said. ''Ethan.'' And then I lept up and across the small
distance separating us, and the force of my impact with her body send
Cleo down on the couch.
She looked up at me, her eyes shining. ''Ethan,'' she said, and
looked and looked at me. She was trying it out. ''Ethan.''
Cleo lay there, flat on the couch, one leg hanging off the other
bent up at her knee, and she looked so young, so sweet. Her
arms lifted, some god favoring me and pulling her marrionette
stings, and they were around my neck again.
''Cleo,'' I whispered, and I kissed her. Vicious--for everything
she'd ever said to me that was obnoixious, for our problems and sweet
--sweet for every time she cleared the phlegm from her throat, and
every time she stubbled when she was walking along on unerringly flat
pavement.
I pulled away when I realized what I was doing.
''What about Beamer?'' I asked her.
''He's not you,'' she said, her voice a catatonic rage.
''I'm glad you noticed,'' I said. I started to push her shirt around,
but I couldn't go where this was headed. ''But why are you doing this Cleo?''
''Why do you always ask these stupid questions?'' she snapped back.
''Because I don't like getting used, and, love, you use people. It's
common knowledge. Where's Beamer tonite? Where's Rock Salt? Where
are your lovers?'' I asked her, all the sweetness I could muster in my voice.
It was too much to think she wanted me for myself. I wasn't new
enough, changed enough. Cleo gets exactly what she wants--she got me--
but she never wants it twice.
''Rock Salt and I are not lovers, and he brought an ugly girl to
the show with him, he came late, and he left with her. Beamer has a
harem,'' she said.
''Are you saying you haven't slept with Beamer and Rock Salt?'' I
asked. ''Don't try to push this crap on me, Cleo. I know you--''
''I never said I didn't! I did! But that's all I did. They're my
friends.''
''No, Cleo. You don't have any friends. They're people you're using,
just like you're using everybody else, and just like you'll use me and then
trash me if I let you,'' I said. I pulled her arms off me, and smiled down
at her. She was too shocked to be enraged.
''Watch your movie, sweetheart, you can't hurt it,'' I said, and
I started to leave. Cleo wasn't going to follow me. I knew she wasn't
going to, because I'd just insulted her and she had too much pride to
follow me and tell me I was wrong. Cleo does not beg.
***
thanks for bearing wiht me
I hope nyou enjoyed this this it's hardl;y anythig and very long for that.
Life Sucks and Then you Die
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