Soma, Chapter 1

It was a bright cold day in April, and the clock struck thirteen. I knew right then that the drugs were kicking in.

I'm not addicted.

Chapter 1: A dimebag's worth 19.84.

I am homeless, however, living in the projects of Malibu. But I'm not at home. I was partying, at the VR strip club. I usually don't pay for something like that. It was my friend Bob's going away party.

Bob was always a follower, which is why he's going away to Orwell's Oasis. Big Brother will be watching him, he will follow the orders, he will sell out everyone. He will live in fear, the excitement of war, he will convert followers, he will believe. Or he will die.

Bob was always a skinflint. He's been saving up for this for months.

Bob was always an asshole. As he said, "No one loved me, but Big Brother. He wants me to do something."

So we had a party, and tommorow he's going to hook into something like off that old movie with all the black leather in it. Everything's virtual reality. No escape. He thinks it'll help him escape his creditors and debt. He's run away from everything in his life. Bob was always alone.

The way he said it was, "You know, without the Holocaust, Hitler wasn't so bad. Stalin, too."

Bob was always pretentious, making references to 20th century shit like that. I remember all those Nazi movies, obviously, but who the fuck is Stalin?

We brought in some vr bitches and vr coke. You can't not have a fun time escaping reality.

We figured since Bob's going to be castrated tommorow, we ought to get one last kick out of the old jerk and spurt.

I met a really nice girl there who was fake. At least she was a nice fake.

Ever since they got rid of the cables, everything's everywhere. I can order a pizza from Thailand, but no one ever calls me. I tried to prank call someone in Thailand, but I got a busy signal. No one's alone, if they've got the fantasy in them.

Then I see someone coming down in a limo from Compton as I'm taking the top off some Trappist Monk Tequila. It's cheap - not the real stuff. No, the stuff from the real Trappists is better made. They made beer, the best in the world, back when I was first learning to get drunk in grade six. Now they expanded into other kinds of alcoholic beverages. No one wants hard and quiet things any more. Like being a monk. So now they make real fine beer.

All of a sudden I'm in a white room, sitting on a silver chair. A girl in a tight blue leather mini-skirt, high heels, a mole, blonde hair twisted around her head, a nurse's hat without the red cross, dark blue shirt buttoned up at the side. Her lips are raspberry red, her hair cherry blonde. She has a beauty mole. She sounds like pop idols ought to sound. She's looking up really close at me. She shows me two old school Desert Eagles, one in each hand, each arm making a V, bent over towards me so I can see her breasts.

I know from all the old videos what this means. Surprised they picked me.

"Do you accept?"

"Yeah," I say, sighing. There's going to be a lot of blood on my hands, and I'll probably drop the drink I'm carrying.

She kisses me on the forehead, both arms handing me guns, both of us making a V.

The next part is a dream. But not the one you'd want to pay for, unless you'd been paying for a long, long time.

I'm back on the street, and just as the precious Trappist Tequila hits the ground, I shoot out the rims of the limo. Two invisible bodyguards dive out, unloading their entire clips before they hit the ground, but I can see them.

The bullets I mean. They're easy enough, and from the triangle formation, I can tell the guards are robots. This could be tricky, and not just because the supradrenaline will run out soon. I am out of shape.

They're making Star of David bullet formations, so I have to dive through the center, making a cross just as the bullets pass through me. Both of them on both sides of me, so it works. It's luck, mostly.

Then the last guy comes out with a rocket launcher, already primed, aimed at my center mass. Any other time, I'd be fucked.

But then I remember I have two guns.

I shot him in the head as the rocket is fired, then before the rocket leaves the chamber, I hit it with the shot from the second gun. The rocket hits the palm tree behind me, exploding in flames. I'm doing the hero walk in my sweat pants, bright green flip-flops, and an ugly ass t-shirt I got for two bucks, my gut rippling from the explosion.

I reload as the guy comes out, begging for his life, on his knees. He has his long hair on my foot, wiping off some of the red oil they use in the robots now. He offers money, sex, and drugs, all of which I want right now but can't get right now. So he knows it's useless, just hangs his head, and I bring both guns up to his head, which is balding. He looks like a balding black Jesus.

"What'd I do?"

"I don't know," I says, "but it was bad."

Two to the head boom.

"Two to the head bad."

Then I'm back in the white room. The girl is back. I'm puffing. She hugs me, like a mother, her hands wrapped around my head. I stay for a while, because it's hard to kill, even when I said I'd accept.

I'm not crying, but I feel sick. Then it gets less worse, so I let go. She takes my guns from each hand, and kisses me on the forehead.

"You were great," she says.

She walks away, her perfect legs carrying her perfect ass perfectly.

"Perfect," I say, as the tequila and blood and oil and brains all over me smell foul. I wait for cleanup.

I'm there for about an hour before I realize that it ain't coming, and I say fuck, what'd I do?