Moral Zero Pt. 01

They were talking to a couple of girls. Or, Red was talking for the both of them and sometimes directing a question at Mr White, encouraging him to say something.

The girls were attractive and were Red's type, meaning they were built like bombshells. They were voluptuous to the extreme. Red's discerning, wandering eyes figured that one was enhanced, whilst absurdly the other, who was as likely to topple backwards as forwards if they hadn't balanced her out, seemed all natural, unless it was a new strain of biological enhancement without any of the usual tell-tale signs. Small signs and differences that might be glossed over to the average body-consumer, but Red was a connoisseur of the womanly.

Red was talking about tits.

I was with this girl once, he said, Who had tits like fuckin cannonballs. Soft cannonballs. Not a patch on you two ladies' beautiful displays, of course. But she used to tell me that big tits, they were like for the pleasure of men.

They are for motherhood, said the natural girl, furrowing her brow at him.

Red snorted. Breasts, yeah. I'm talkin bout tits. You two girls and those girls on your chests, they weren't made for none of that shit. This woman used to say, right, that huge melons were made for the purposes of the excitement of men. I'm not sayin that's how I see it, not sayin that, but that's just the way she saw it. She said if you kept em covered up then you weren't fulfillin their design, or somethin. She'd pretty much shove em in my face and ask me if they were doin their job. Red laughed. The enhanced girl giggled but the natural girl looked a bit put out.

Look, she said, and Red knew that any sentence starting with that wasn't going to be great. We women don't exist for the pleasure of men. That's pretty insulting.

Red put his hands up. Hey now, I didn't say nothin. I'm just sayin how she called it. And she weren't even sayin that. She was just sayin it bout a certain kind of tits, that's all. Surely you ain't your tits, girls? I know there's a whole lot more to you than that. He smiled lopsidedly.

The girl wouldn't let it go. Our "big tits" are for us entirely. We don't need leering men coming onto us. They are for us, right? Entirely us. Our pleasure. Yeah, even how much we want to put on show, before you come to that.

Red nodded at the enhanced girl. What about if you fix up your body somethin extra?

The enhanced girl blushed while the natural girl scowled. Why'd you men always think we do things for you?

You always do the talkin for the both of you? Red turned to the silent girl and asked her what she thought. She smiled a little and said she didn't know.

Red smiled back and looked at Mr White. What do you think man?

Mr White loosened his tie a little. I think, uh, that a woman's body is hers alone. The natural girl smiled warmly at him.

Red sighed. Y'all got it wrong. I ain't sayin no such thing. Nor was she. She said -- she said that breasts, butts, cocks, you name it -- they're these sexual objects, uh, things. They ain't you. They shouldn't be all kept up. Well, I dunno, I guess if you want that. I dunno. He shrugged. I dunno what I'm sayin. I'm drunk. I just like boobs. I just like y'all, that's all. You look nice.

You should probably have started out like that instead, said the enhanced girl, playing with her hair. Even the natural girl softened her expression, but had imperceptibly moved closer to Mr White.

What's your name doll? Red asked the enhanced girl.

Lisa.

Do you wanna drink?

Sure. They walked off to the bar, Red looking back to wink at Mr White.

The natural girl looked at Mr White. His eyes tried to avoid glancing down at her incredible cleavage and the strain in his eyes must have shown because she sighed.

You can look if you want. Everyone else does.

I'm not everyone else. His expression was tight.

Just look, damn you.

Mr White looked down and felt a stirring inside of him. He looked back up and smiled awkwardly. What's your name?

Do you care?

Uh, yes.

It's Michelle.

Nice to meet you. Um. I guess he really shot himself in the foot talking to you. Mr White managed a smile that he couldn't make appear comfortable. He was acutely aware of his sweating forehead.

Who, Kidd? How'd you mean?

You know him?

Yeah.

How?

We fucked a few days ago.

Oh. Oh. I see. Mr White tried to take this on board.

That girl he was talking about who talked about her tits, that was my sister.

Oh. I'm, uh, I'm sorry.

Why?

I don't know, Mr White said, and realised that he didn't know much.

I might see him later. I dunno Lisa's plans.

Mmhmm. I'll be going now.

Bye.

Mr White rushed off to the toilet to be sick again. It wasn't related to the conversation, but nevertheless he had felt the familiar urge creeping up on him. The moment he gave it his attention it surged upwards, giving him only seconds to spare.

Red found him a short while later. Aloha amigo, he said, looking down on him crouched all meek and drooling into the toilet.

Hello.

You want me to take you home?

Yes . . . please.

Red got him up and draped his arm over his shoulders. He walked him out the bar, pausing a second to tell Lisa and Michelle to wait for him. He'd be about ten minutes, he said. He wasn't staying far away, he said. They'd better not cut without him. They promised him they wouldn't.

Red stumbled Mr White back to the hotel, the two of them nearly falling through the room door. Red was laughing. With substantial effort, he got Mr White up from the floor and took him to the bed where he let him fall like some dead thing onto the blankets.

Red.

Yeah man?

Thank you.

No worries hombre. I gotta get back, leave those honeys too long and they'll stop ripenin and turn sour. I'll catch you up tomorrow, yeah?

Okay.

Red pulled his shoes off and tussled his feet. He left and the door clicked closed quietly behind him.

HOTEL

It was later and Mr White was feeling better. There was still a sickness nestling within him, but it was the sort, quality and quantity, that could be utilised, that rather than debilitating oneself could be instead engaged to serve the machinery of lust. That is, the screwed up trash-lust of the brain, the fuckery, the taboo. It was not a romantic feeling. But it had its time and it certainly had its place.

Red had booked, under the glaring eye of the old woman, a separate room for himself. Muttering and shaking his head about the stupidity in booking just the one, looking at the girl hovering behind him, wondering out loud what he was thinking, if he'd thought at all. He'd taken her up and into the room adjoining the original, crashing and banging and hijinking about and waking Mr White up from a drunken doze into a world without light.

Mr White was awake and he was intoxicated and roused by the noises from next door and he felt keenly the pangs of sickness coupled, entwined like lovers with the stomach-ache pangs of lust. Mr White had his eye right up against the peephole between the rooms. Kidd Red knew he'd be looking, and Mr White knew he knew. This was reason enough for that extra flush of shame that coated his countenance like a blanket of red sweat.

The room was a porthole to his vision, a window into another world. It felt unreal, like a movie, or rather a movie set he was intruding upon. He felt that familiar trembling sense of terror in lust: a lust to the cinema, a lust to the forbidden. He wasn't supposed to be there; it was invasive, secret, and he was privy to the secret. Special. Undercover. Private detective into the underbelly of life. He was an agent upon this portal, and he had super-powers, going through locked doors and solid walls to see behind the curtain, to see what was hid away from prying eyes. The horrid secrets. And then, this time, the discovery, the knowledge of his heavy-breathing presence by a prime participant, if not both of them -- unuttered, but hanging there in the air as though some spectre that touched everyone.

Did the knowledge make it better? He didn't know. It was uncomfortable, unfitting, stark and bright, as though the spotlight was reversed on him. The sensation became fuller, doubled in on itself, a back and forth forever. Kidd Red and he locked in a rivalry of voyeurism. A secret broken, a secret shared. An opening. A letting in of self.

Mr White flowed through that hole like smoke and sheathed himself into the space between the girl's anus and Red's penis. He was part of it, integral, a shared slice of cake that acted as a rip upon all privacy everywhere, a tear into monogamy and modesty and all that was good and proper. He drove through that hole as though some invading force into a hidden country, a place so foreign that it danced the edges of meaning. Between him and Red the homeland traitor they consolidated his occupation, turning the country into something new, something ugly and sexual. A new rule of openness, of acceptance, of everyone with everyone tied and joined and under constant strains of dominance and submission to each other, a world where locked doors were knocked down and women and men were paraded on the streets as whores all naked and without rights to resist, where modesty and privacy were cast down as some new criminal acts and the new whoredom laid its hands over all, and nobody could hide and nobody could run and nobody wanted to run or hide but they all fucked on the street as though orgiastic pigs, everyone with everyone, tied at the genitals and mouths, slapped like cattle whenever they took air, spit upon, rolling in the filth that Kidd Red as commander would lay like wet concrete on the streets, and Mr White in the thick of it, enemy invader just puppet of the master, used up like a doll and simple and proud to be that doll witnessing the dollification of all others, the animals in their mindless bleating, and knowing that he was there, as brainless judge to it all, invading into everyone's holes and lives, seeing that nobody could keep anything from each other and there were no lies anymore for wet stinking holes could not lie and there was no falsity to the world and everybody got revenge and Mr White was the carrion bird to those writhing angry bodies, the martyr to it all, and all others then infiltrated his core in return and punctured him like a balloon and he was no gentleman at all but under rule of thumb and pussy and cock and anus and he melted in their arms and nails and there was no respite and every line was crossed by all and nation sundry and the world was a pigsty and Mr White felt like an equal among equals.

Delirium abounded and lust bounced as though on some high tensile wire and love frothed about the room, but some special kind of love and lust where he was an instrument in it all and the love was beating as though a real heart itself and raging blood everywhere, pulsing his temples and blinding his mind with a sickness of romance, of love with authority and secrets uncovered and the blistering enormity of fiction and his own soul laid bare and open to be shit upon by laughing fuckers and their nails dug into it, into that hot pink meat, fishhooking it up and holding it close to their eyelids and looking at each other and laughing more, turning his soulmeat pinker and pinker as he flushed in the wretched, spiritual shame only a mortal could enjoy.

Kidd Red ejaculated into the girl's buttocks as she wailed and gnashed, her fingers gnarled up as though the twisted roots of a tree. Together they seemed inhuman, and in their triumphant inseparation Mr White was forced out from the gap between them, and he came back out through the portal and came onto the wall in front of himself, drenching the plaster in peels of soul that ran down like a glutinous waterfall.

Mr White fell down to his knees and then to the floor, and the world he envisioned was lost to him, and as he breathed and surfed the edges of consciousness he slowly regained his gentleman's sense and decorum and he went hotter than ever at his previous imaginings as he always did, and yet he knew that this time had been a particularly good one.

I have this feeling that everything is wrong, Mr White said, looking blankly at the wall. It was the next day and the sun burned bleak through the thin, useless curtains. Red was lying face down on the floor in his room. The girl had gone.

It's called a hangover.

No, I mean really wrong. I've had this feeling before. Things just don't seem right, but I can't put my finger on it.

It's called a hangover.

No.

D'you only get this feelin when you're tired?

I don't know. Maybe.

Well there you go. You just need sleep is all.

Things aren't right here, said Mr White again, as if he repeated himself enough that Red might really listen and take note.

No shit. You're in Rule. Everthin is fucked here. You're in Rule with a hangover and you ain't slept right.

I had the feeling back home too.

Red sighed.

Maybe when we sleep our minds recharge this barrier, this wall that protects us from reality.

Huh?

It's supposed to keep us safe. Or just keep us dumb. Safe and dumb. But when we're tired that wall starts to fall apart, and we start to see things as they actually are. Maybe the more tired we are, the longer we go without sleep, the more we see things accurately. The more we get a sense of what's wrong. I just can't put my finger on it that's all. Maybe nobody can. Maybe some can, the eternally tired.

Go to sleep.

Okay.