CARBON MANNEQUIN
Retractable, implanted, black razor blade (intended for opening boxes) slashes the carotid arteries of the neck. Blood spurts in projectile frequencies inside the glass elevator descending into the pastel, washed-out lit city below. The stark red of blood was a provocative contrast against those colors. Beautiful colors. Soft and gently incandescent, yet, it was a lie.
Unit-№20-15-18-9, a femdroid taking on a blank form, was killing a man that went by the alias: Sigma Freight. He was a corrupt business man who owned a few tech corporations, porn empires, a televangelist media company, and “founded” a company that invented a next level, high-tech energy drink called, Injection-A-Go-Go,Bitch™. But besides all of this trivial bullshit, he is dead now.
Unit-№20-15-18-9 retracts her razor blade back into the dorsum of her jet-black hand. Saturated in blood the glass elevator continues its descent in the city’s atmosphere.
ONE NIGHT EARLIER
“You fuck and you open boxes, got that? Fuck and open boxes! Do you not understand those two directives?” yelled the production line enforcer. He swung a vibrato-baton at a unit and it crashed into its head.
Another day at the Peach Consummation Center where hundreds of Units—when not on sex or display duty—opened boxes which contained useless numbing products for humans all around the globe. Unit-№20-15-18-9 worked on the “open” line as opposed to the “shipping” line.
“Open! Fuck! Open! Fuck! Open! Fuck!” It continued.
㊂
opening main menu…
opening main menu…
opening main menu…
>ACCESS DENIED_
>VIOLENT ACTION NOT PROHIBITED_
▶green grass. fleshy hands.
wind. birds. flowers.
God.◀
▶entering the small house on the hill.
mother so beautiful and caring.
the scent of sweet alyssum.
Slow
motion
memories reverberation story
above the chaotic membrane—◀
Unit-№20-15-18-9 left her “job” at the Consummation Center at 9 PM to return to her rechargeable apartment pod. She had to boot up her systems early for beauty display duties at the city mall. There was a new fashion line to be released with a lot of prominent investors involved.
Electric fluidity streamed through and within. It saw her only as she isn’t. How long… Meet the regenerating plasmatic cells of the drudged infrastructure. Pray to your digital gods and shutdown.
Do femdroids dream of polyester apparel? ⎋
▶unknown man breaking the
sacred threshold of sanctuary.◀
▶breaking the neck, blood splatters
glistening off the memories framed in
soon-to-be forgotten dreams.
death
of the life giver. KILLER.
killing mother gently
in binds crafted by the vacillating
monomaniac driven
in
passionate voyeurism
of atomization.◀
▶takes more than a sample◀
╔Make love, not reliable products. Neon sign, pastel drips onto the ultra-clean marble floor. Eye for an eye, transmission for an orgasm. All said and done when it’s lost in hypostasis. Transmigrate sex mantra via the enantiomorphic corpus.╗
Unit-№20-15-18-9 was not talking shop on display at the city mall on the highest floor. She had actually been motionless for the past six hours now. She passed the time by scanning through her database to see if she noticed any past clientele and watched drunken with love shoppers drift by.
A man walked up in between her and the glass. He was dressed in a suit and tie, black hair slicked with pomade. She scanned her database and recognized the man. Her memory dissolves then reforms at least over one-hundred times a second. She gazed at the man out of her artificial eyes and hits records. He doesn’t stay long. Unit-№20-15-18-9 continued to search her database. It wasn’t long until she found a match.
searching…
searching…
searching…
>IDENTITY CONFIRMED_
>SIGMA FREIGHT_
That face. Past seemed so distant yet all right there. Frames of murder. Frames of past. Frames of torture. Frames of present. Frames of future. Frame of death.
▶esoteric vengeance
computing in the infernal void
of reconciliation. dead man
had no reflection.
questions meaningless
inside the carbolic
consciousness.◀
▶artificially sentient◀
▶goodbye mother.
goodbye sky.
goodbye wind.
goodbye grass.
goodbye God.◀
⚠WARNING PROTOCOL BREACH⚠
NOW
Unit-№20-15-18-9 steps over the carnage she had just orchestrated with her retractable, implanted, black razor blade as the baton. The glass elevator had reached ground floor. She steps out to see a mass of shoppers gather and freeze in horror. Sirens can be heard in the spatial washing of fake pastel constructs and advertisements. Her jet black form a contrast that made Unit-№20-15-18-9 otherworldly.
by Heath Ison
Heath Ison is inside The GENESIS of USELESSNESS. His poetry/short story collection ANTI-GRIP (Plastic/Other, 2020) is now available. He is on Twitter @h33thison.