No Future Ch. 80

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2085: Olive gets the clap.
1.6k words
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Part 80 of the 92 part series

Updated 11/01/2022
Created 10/18/2012
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LXXX
Sick and Sore
Olive
2085

The doctor must be shitting her. It wasn't right. Olive had already been infected before by gon, syph, NSU, chlam and every fucking thing but AIDS, but why was this syph so fucking different?

"A jab, a few days off work, and it'll be gone," said Olive pleadingly. "I've had syph before. It ain't no big deal."

"It's not as easy as that," the doctor of the charitable health centre said sadly. He peered with one eye at the clock: conscious of the queue of patients trailing around the block. "There are several different strains of syphilis and they constantly mutate. We've seen it happen with gonorrhoea, influenza, rabies, polio and now it's happened with syphilis. The viruses have mutated faster than the pharmaceutical companies can find an antidote for them."

"Well, fuck it," said Olive who wasn't sure she understood even a quarter of what the man was saying. "Just scribble something on a piece of paper and I'll take it to the chemists. If I have to, I'll even pay for it so's I can get back to work."

"I don't think I've made myself clear, have I?" said the doctor apologetically. "There is no antidote at present for the variant of syphilis that you've contracted. I can't offer you much at all in the way of a cure. All I can offer are palliatives. It won't cure you as such, but it'll help deal with the symptoms."

"Well, that's fucking better than nothing," said Olive. "Just give me some of those."

"Well, of course," said the doctor.

He tapped away on the keyboard attached to his tablet and raised his head to watch a prescription sheet being dispensed from a laser printer on the far side of the surgery. After the single sheet was printed, a further few sheets followed. This was a health leaflet of the sort that only charities and foreign governments provided.

"What's this other crap I've got to read, doctor?" Olive asked half in dread and half in scorn.

"It explains the symptoms of neo-pallidum syphilis and how to best deal with them. It includes the standard advice that you probably already know about such as avoiding sexual contact to restrict the further spread of the disease and what other symptoms you should look out for. What it will probably not make especially clear is that there is currently no known cure and that you may well have to live with the affects of this infection for the rest of your life. It also specifies your possible likelihood of mortality."

"Likelihood of what? I wasn't expecting to live forever anyway."

"This strain will make that even less likely," said the doctor glumly.

Well fuck that, thought Olive as she wandered out of the surgery past the winding queue. Like her, none of the other patients had the steady income required to pay insurance premiums for health care. Most were elderly, young or disabled. Few were employed, although even those lucky ones were unlikely to be able to afford medical attention that wasn't provided by charity. And the state of their health wouldn't be accepted as a reason for not being able to work. Employers were choosy about who they employed, so anyone who was prone to sickness or took a day or more off work would soon return to the ranks of the even more destitute unemployed.

Olive was a self-employed woman, of course. Or at least that's how she'd characterise herself if there was ever another government census of the sort that used to happen once every ten years. In practice, it meant that she let men fuck her for money. She supplemented this core income by petty theft, drug-dealing and begging. And whether she had the clap or something more serious, as long as she could give her johns a blowjob or a handjob, she had no choice but to do so. Fuck the advice about holding back on the fanny. If a john wanted to fuck her and he had the readies: well, that was what she'd allow him to do, rubber or no rubber.

Even so, Olive resisted the temptation of dropping the freshly printed health advice into the nearest recycle bin. Even if she couldn't find a use for the paper to roll a spliff or through which to snort a line, there was some stuff on the kind of clap she'd got that she might want to read about. If nothing else, it'd give her an idea of what to expect if the doctor wasn't just spinning a line and she really was suffering from something incurable. But then there was once a time when they said that AIDS was incurable and, from what she'd last heard, that was still just no longer true. Perhaps they'd find a cure for all the new strains of clap just like they used to do when Olive was a kid and it was her mum who'd turn the occasional trick. Olive was determined to continue fucking even if her twat was weeping with sores, warts and pus. There was always some miracle wonder-cure that the drug companies could make a fucking bomb from. That sort of business never went insolvent, unlike all the others that had gone bust over the years.

Olive was true to her intentions. She found the time to turn a trick or two along Streatham Hill near the railway station before she returned home to the dilapidated squat on Ullswater Road. In only a couple of hours she scored nearly a grand from three blowjobs and an alley-way fuck. That'd be enough to keep her in hamburgers, kebabs and crack for a day or so.

"So what's the verdict?" asked Yana, her room-mate and occasional lover when Olive had persuaded her to unpadlock the bedroom door. "It weren't nothing serious, was it?"

"It wasn't Goat Flu or Rat Fever or shit like that," said Olive, referring to the contagions attracting most attention from the media at the moment. "It was just the clap again."

"Again!" echoed Yana. "That's no big fucking deal, is it? It's just goes with the job, don't it? Nothing to get in a sweat about."

"Well, fuck it," said Olive who didn't want to get anxious about what the doctor had said. "I've got some crystals. You got any shit?"

"Yeah, dope, snow and, best of all, some GHB."

"I ain't had that in a while."

"I found a new source."

"Cool."

The one thing that Olive needed more than anything else was something that could take her mind off her fears. And sometimes these surfaced for long enough for her to get really depressed. But smack, coke, E and alcohol so easily banished such despondency. Drugs were cheaper than food these days. And why eat, when all you did was add calories? After a line, a tab or a toke you didn't fucking care. You might be the world's worst fucking mother who couldn't be bothered to speak to her daughter for well over a year now. You might be sucking cock and taking it up the arse from johns whose names you'd never know and whose faces you could never remember. You might be sharing a mattress in a squalid bedroom in a house full of psychos, smackheads and petty criminals. You might even be suffering from an incurable strain of venereal disease. But what the fuck! When you were high, you didn't give a fuck. And what was life about if not to enjoy yourself and fuck everything else.

In any case, without the drugs that were so easy to buy and no trouble to afford, what would life have been like for Olive, Yana and any one of the few people, all women, she considered to be her friends? She didn't fucking care if some john had fucked her in the arse and who, rather than pay what had been agreed, waved a knife around and told her to fuck off. She didn't give a flying fuck if she got beat up by security guards who saw her as fair game if she ever strayed down one of the private streets they patrolled. As long as each night ended on a high in the arms of either a paying customer or a close girlfriend, what fucking difference did it ever make?

"It's a fucking mess down there, girlfriend," said Yana with genuine revulsion. "I ain't gonna put my tongue there. It's fucking disgusting."

"What about your pussy?" Olive pleaded.

"What's your tongue like?"

"Good," said Olive, poking it out as far as she could.

"There's a reason you go to the clap clinic more often than I do, girlfriend," said Yana with more seriousness than her inebriation might suggest. "And that's 'cause I'm fucking careful with what goes in my twat and you're not. Look, O. I love you, I really do. Not since that cunt of a boyfriend dumped me I ain't loved no one more than you. But, honestly... It's fucking warfare between your thighs!"

"It ain't that bad!" said Olive.

"It fucking well is."

"You're fucking shitting me..."

"Have a look in the mirror."

"Not now."

"The only tongue you'll get on those lips, dearest, will be from one of your johns," said Yana sternly. "And fuck only knows what you'll be giving him in return for his cash. There are enough warts and weeping sores there to fucking coat the dick of every john in London."

"Well, if you ain't gonna lick my twat," said Olive, "at least let me have another line."

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