“I’m a person,” I choked out, but it didn’t even sound intelligible to me. I hadn’t even done the horse-trading yet, so my muddled mind didn’t know why they’d pulled me. Had it been the suicidal comment? How could I have been so stupid?
The last time I’d been pulled out of the VR environment, I’d been asleep inside and woken up outside. This time I hadn’t been spared the transition. I’d have endured the transition a dozen times, as miserable as it was, to avoid what was waiting for me in the cold eyes of a person I hated with every cell in my body and a few that I’d spewed out onto the floor of the prison warehouse.
The hose was cold water, but it was water that sluiced off the slippery gel that covered every ounce of me. VR was generally better than this. It would have to be, or no one would do it. Commercial VR units only caused minor transition effects that were mitigated by a flushing system that activated within the pods while the person inside was hopped up on an FDA approved packet of drugs that used to be illegal before the drug-be-gone drug had been found that wiped all traces of any previously illegal drugs from a user’s system. Have a wild night? No problem. All a person had to do was pop a pill and wait 15 minutes to be sober. New drivers were issued five complimentary doses upon passing their driving tests.
Now aren’t you glad I went off on that tangential explanation rather than explaining exactly how all that liquid was flushed out of every hole in my body? You’re welcome.
I spent 15 minutes in a holding cell where I could use whatever was left in a “bin” where confiscated clothing and possessions like makeup and brushes had been tossed. I used an old flannel shirt as a towel, passed over the not-clean underwear, and settled on a pair of pants that didn’t fall off me and shirt that didn’t match at all, but also didn’t have any badly placed holes. There was a sink where I rinsed off a comb and a mirror where I used said comb to detangle and arrange my hair.
There was one good thing about the gel I’d been immersed in. My skin and hair had never been healthier. While the prison units didn’t use any of those niceties of commercial units or even the personal units, it couldn’t change the actual liquid used, which was pure aloe, a substance that couldn’t be faked as only natural aloe could coat every surface of a body without eventual toxicity. They might have used the cheapest gel on the market, but it was still natural aloe infused with oxygen that allowed a person to not only remain submerged in a VR tub forever, but also kept you breathing with it in your lungs. An old friend of mine from high school had worked on an aloe farm, the largest of which stretched across Texas and half of Mexico.
I wasn’t presentable in any societal way by the time they came to pick me up from my cell, but it was as good as I was going to get from the “bin.” I didn’t have any fondness for the two brutish guards with dead eyes, but I didn’t harbor the same hatred for them as I did the turd who sat between two other people in the room I was shuffled into. There was a folding table in a cement-walled room with no windows. It hit me that I hadn’t seen real sunlight in weeks. I didn’t miss it as much as I might have thought I would.
The sign on the table said, “Parole Hearing.” The woman to the right of Dr. Prick pursed her lips like she really liked persimmons. The man on the left of Dr. Pussbucket tapped a pen against his clipboard and chewed gum. They were real people. The woman was petite, polite, and snooty. The man was lazily tipped back in his folding chair like he’d rather be playing video games. The affront to humanity in the middle curled his lip as his snake-eyes slid from my bare feet to my slicked hair.
“I swear to you that this woman,” and he sneered the word like he was forced to say it, “has access to hundreds of thousands of privilege points and yet has never chosen to spend the mere 150 points it would take to buy a single stitch of clothing to appear before this hearing.”
“If I’d known I was coming, I’d have been better prepared,” I bit out the words, trying to remain polite through my grinding teeth.
“You received an email three hours ago,” he raised his eyebrows and looked down at a list on his own clipboard. “In the time since you received the email, you have had two hours of off-screen time to peruse said email, which was clearly labelled Pending Transition. It is also on record that you deleted that email half an hour ago. The email’s priority was set to highest and highlighted in red. What more could we do to gain your attention?” The sarcasm was just his normal tone. His partners to his left and right frowned right on cue. It was an effect I could appreciate if I was on set, but I wasn’t, so I didn’t.
“You might have tried labeling it Parole Hearing and not hiding it under all the emails about other,” and I used my own sarcasm with air quotes for emphasis, “prison-system-provided upgrades and packages. And I’m pretty sure that transition package for only 150 points was for jeans and a t-shirt. The shoes cost 500, the sanitized brush another 200, and clean underwear was a premium of 350. For that, I could upgrade the VR for a new assistant that could have sorted all those email and showed me the important ones.”
“That’s the problem with this system if you ask me,” the Pussbucket shook his head sadly at me and my attitude that offended him so much. “They get on TV and end up with this mistaken sense of entitlement.”
“I should think I’d be entitled to basic humane treatment,” I countered, and I suddenly didn’t care if I was blowing the hearing. I’d rather be back in VR where AIs at least could pretend to be friends. “I suppose a cold firehose to,” air quote again, “rinse me off in the aisle of VR capsules is humane enough, but to yank me out of VR without any transition drugs feels a bit like being waterboarded, a torture that is listed as unusable even on prisoners of war.” I knew watching old documentaries would pay off someday.
“You’d think you’d be a little less rude when we are here to offer you parole,” the woman on the right broke into our hate-stare-match. “The good news is that you qualify for early parole due to good behavior.”
“Based on what?” I asked, true confusion hitting me for the first time since I’d heard that Psychonut’s voice.
“Your experience and level are quite high, despite your attitude in the real world,” the man on the left gave me a sympathetic look that belied the insult. Then again, was it truly insulting if it was true? I wasn’t on my best behavior. “We are seriously here to offer you an early release.”
“This is very sudden, and I just don’t have good memories of your colleague,” I said by way of apology as the only apology I could mean with the hell spawn who sat next to the nicer man. “It’s difficult to be civil around someone who’s tortured you.”
Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.
The hell spawn tsked at me, but his colleague continued with a practiced smile that I didn’t trust. “Then how about you focus on me, and we’ll see if we can come to an agreement. Sit,” and he motioned to a chair between the guards who had stayed.
I got closer to the chair suspiciously, sure that it was a trap of some sort. I sat gingerly on the edge.
“My word, Gerald,” the woman whispered as if I couldn’t hear her. “She’s like an abused animal.”
“Theatrics,” Pussmonster insisted, crossing his arms over his chest. “They all pull this sort of thing. You get used to it after a while. This one is in a nighttime drama for heaven’s sake. You should see the ones that come out of the game shows. They are almost incomprehensible at times. If she continues like this, I’ll put in for some anti-depressant medication for her tank.”
It was a warning that Assmonster still had control of me. Maybe. Or maybe not, if I could really get parole. Was it worth it?
“Focus on me, okay?” the nicer man told me, and I tried to do as he asked.
“Okay,” I answered him, eyes darting from one to another as he blinked. This was just like the tarantulas. They were sneaky. This was a trap. I could feel it.
“Our notes say that your show is doing very well,” he started out encouraging.
“Thanks?” I said, tucking my feet under the little folding chair.
“We think you may have found your vocation,” he nodded at me. “Something you’re pretty good at, and we want to encourage that. We just want to make sure you continue to do it under supervision until you’re good and solid. That seems fair, right?”
“More than fair, considering her current state,” Dr. Lobotomy muttered to the woman, who frowned.
“What kind of supervision?” I asked, seeing the catch and his drug-pushing idiocy.
“Your supervision could be negotiable,” the slicker of them said, and I was getting the picture. His tone was modulated to be almost hypnotic.
“Just spell it out for me,” I stated, crossing my arms. I was flush with fury, but I wasn’t stupid. I didn’t get stupid-angry. I got smart-dead-quiet-angry. I was so smart right now that I could almost predict what was coming from the good cop with the hypnotic voice.
“We have a program for high achievers like yourself,” he was saying, but Dr. Asshole was rolling his eyes. “It’s an early release program where you get to live at home, but you can come check in for work every day just like a normal job. If you’d like, I could be your new supervisor.”
“You’re welcome to her,” Poopmachine said to the woman, who batted at his arm almost playfully. How did these people get deemed socially acceptable?
“And we would provide your equipment and AIs so that you could continue broadcasting,” the Slime Ball went on, oblivious to my heavy sigh. “We could get you a better pod, if you don’t like this one. No more traumatic transitions that seem to leave you quite understandably grumpy.”
“Like a job,” I prodded him, keeping my face blank of the disdain that was building in my gut. “So, what would I make?”
“Technically,” and I was starting to hate that word, “you’d still be an out-prisoner instead of an in-prisoner and it would be on a trial basis while you prove that you’re ready to reintegrate with general society. I’m happy to help with that process. Maybe we could get you a real-life assistant. It’s all negotiable, including your salary, which would be in direct proportion to your show’s earnings.”
“Like the one percent I supposedly make now but is actually shunted off for expenses my incarceration has incurred,” I suggested as if I was stupid enough to be interested. I just wanted to see how low the offer was.
“I think we could adjust that rate since you’ll be needing a place to live nearby and you’d have reasonable expenses living outside the prison,” he smiled at me, and I noted that his teeth were perfect.
“So, what percent would I make?” I asked again. There is just something so slimy about the salesman that avoids revealing the actual cost of something.
“We could start you off with five percent of the revenue plus a living wage that might surprise you,” he lowballed. Maybe the skills did transfer a little because I could feel that he was lowballing me. At least I was feeling something low in my gut. Maybe indigestion. “It would be around what the stipend would have been for an unemployed artist, like you were trying to be an author, right?”
Ah, the trap of knowing just enough about me to make this personal. It was like he knew me. Of course he did. He had my file in his hand, just like that dashing agent on the beach had.
“Should my agent be here for this?” I asked, offhandedly.
“I wasn’t aware that you’d picked up an agent, but if you’d like one here, we can certainly send out for one,” he was ready for it, and I was impressed. Maybe my little show was bigger than I’d thought. What exactly about it had netted me this slick of a salesman? “I’ve got four on speed-dial who could be here in 15 minutes. We could chat over burgers? What do you say? Sound good?”
Did I want a burger? I could milk it for the burger.
“Not for five percent,” I shook my head at him. “I’m not even interested in getting rid of the Marquis de Sade next to you for less than 90%.”
He laughed, and then thought better of it with eyes that sparkled like Glenda when she’d been negotiating for the quality of diamonds in her tiara. I was oddly aroused. Not oddly. Disturbingly. Yes, that was the right word.
“I’m not authorized to up the offer past 10%, but nice try, kiddo,” he shook a finger at me. “Let’s bring in lunch and talk about it.”
“Lunch sounds good,” I nodded, pointing at the asshole in the middle. “Does he have to stay?”
“Are you content to leave your patient in my charge?” Slick turned to his colleague as if it wasn’t already planned out.
“I’m happy to take my leave,” Asshole rose to his feet, failing to hide a smug smile. Good cop to bad cop and they thought I was in the bag. Idiots. I didn’t care. It got the prick out of my room. “Can I take you to lunch, Doris?”
Doris agreed and I lounged over some so-so burgers brought in by the first agent to arrive. I listened and I ate. I interviewed agents like I believed they all cared for me. And through it all, I eked the rest of the deal out of Mr. Slick. I worked him up to 40%, they owned the show and the AIs. I’d be housed at a halfway house nearby and bused to and from the prison. They’d spring for a commercial VR pod and dock my pay for any running expenses I incurred in my day-to-day life as I reintegrated. I’d be expected to attend signings and social events to promote the show as a stipulation of my parole since they were trying to rehabilitate me from my social pariah-ness.
Honestly, the chocolate shake was watery, and I could tell that they’d used stale ice cream and cheap chocolate sauce that was better as blood in a black and white movie than a flavor enhancement. The agent and Mr. Slick (why should I bother to learn his name when he was dead to me as a human being due to lack of humanity) were chatting terms as if I’d signed something, but I hadn’t. I hadn’t kicked the last agent out because I was set on finishing the less-than-appetizing shake. I let them bicker over the percentage that the agent would get out of my cut of the profits, as if I didn’t realize that they’d changed the terms by changing the deal from revenue to profits. They really did assume I was stupid.
“I’m saying I’ll take the four percent but only if it’s four percent of the profits and not four percent of her wage,” the agent was saying, not even a side-eye sent my way to see if I liked the terms.
“As long as that comes from her percentage of the profits, I don’t have a problem with that,” Mr. Slick was smiling too, but at least he was sending me sideways glances to check to see if I was really on board for all that.
“No,” I answered him, setting down the empty paper cup that had held the milkshake.
“See? I could have told you that she was too smart for that, Billy,” Mr. Slick chided Billy as if for my sake. “I won’t offer you more than four percent of her gross wages if it is coming out of our profit.”
“No,” I said again, content to let them misinterpret me again. What? My food had to settle.
“No what?” Mr. Slick was brighter than Billy. He caught on first.