You watch from across the metal street as the two girlies approach the vendor.
The stall bares all. Expensive belts, purses, and clothing hang like the canopy of a great forest as the crowd gropes the knock-off fabrics with grimy fingers, some painted with neon colors, others cut short with dirty nails chewed. You and Ø can hear the girlies’ giggling from here. It broadcasts above the raucous hawkers and chittering bicycles, bells ringing, as they pass within centimeters of the cigarettes jutting from your lips. Ø rolls her eyes as the pair purchase several-hundred-credits worth of junk.
Huhu and Kathi wear their informal mid-cycle outfits, but unlike the rest of the settlement’s civilians, they carry an uncharacteristic flair. Short pleated pink-black skirts and matching see-through plastic jackets, humidity fogging beneath the suns, reeking of sugary pineapple perfumes, the two showcase their trade even off the clock. Although you unconsciously watch, hypnotized, as their tails happily sway from side to side, your third eye transfixes instead on recounting the morning’s events.
The single, robotic eye was plucked from the expired courtesan in the wee hours of the morning. Ke had brought in the local mechanic, who, for a handful of credits, was willing to perform an under the table necropsy.
The mechanic was stout, almost as wide as he was tall, his blonde hair dangling in a short rat-tail. Every word he spoke was guttural, ripped from his diaphragm with a stench of motor oil, his dialect of the ancient underclass that resides Below. Throughout his explanation, he coughed directly into his fist. As expected, the mechanic was more adept at digging bullets from shoulders, at scarifying to prevent facial recognition, than at performing public autopsies.
He put away his hand-held case of scalpels, otoscope, and miscellaneous pus-stained bandages before clearing his throat to address the bevy of gangsters in the crowded, smoke-filled basement as you all huddled around the fresh corpse prior to incineration.
“The broad was chopped up while she was still kicking,” began his formal report, “I’ve seen some twisted metal in my time, but not something like this. Between us, and with the utmost respect I can give to the Yugure Consortium on this cycle, this is high quality work. Here I thought I’d seen it all. And so, I want to express my sincere gratitude for this opportunity.” Chewing tobacco would edge into the corners of his mouth, threatening to boil over as he addressed the fidgeting audience. “The cuts were made with a straight blade, most likely surgical tools, her additional silverwork done with a welding torch. I say you’re looking for someone trained as a mechanic, an actual mechanic I mean, because the soldering job is top-notch.”
He held up a severed arm. It was detached from the shoulder, haphazardly butchered, bone and muscle hacked without regard for beauty and drained of fluids, for use as a presentation’s prop.
“You can see here on the forearm that she came home with some new artistry. The skin’s lost its luster, it’s jumbled from being moved too much, but you can make out simple shapes in the skin carvings—corners, curves, a square or two—artistic themes consistent with mandla work. You know, religious. Although there’s no refined deistic representation, nor are there any identifying iconography beyond a lotus on her stomach, I’d guess this is a canvas, a practice run, for a larger piece based on the Womb Realm,” he tossed the arm into the boiler’s open flame, letting it be consumed by fire, filling the room with a stench of burning flesh that made Ø salivate, “or something like that, I don’t know. Don’t think it’s relevant, anyways.
“But, the girl’s eye,” he plopped it atop the desecrated corpse, “it’s busted from lack of electrical input. I could pull only one image from all the noise, but that’s it. Nothing else.”
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It was only a single frame; a shadowy figure tearing into a rib cage, pixilated and corroded, impossible to identify through the digital haze. Above, a love hotel’s netted ceiling, cradling chrysanthemums and roses and falling vines. A vibrant still-life captured from a whore’s point-of-view.
Then, the mechanic left, paid with cleared gambling IOU’s and cartons of smuggled cigarettes. Nobody lingered for the corpse’s disposal, which was left to Ke. He pawned the job to his own subordinate, who pawned it on further, you assume.
Afterwards, ironically, Shishito asked you and Ø to keep the courtesans from last evening company—and, more importantly, keep them away from his other girlies to avoid a drop in morale.
He told you to head to the Jin Kee Above Market, his treat. It sent the girlies into a giggling frenzy, their small neon synthetic-cotton handbags crammed full of credits to take their minds off the darker things lurking around the Settlement. Even while chaperoning their shopping spree, you fight the urge to vomit into the tungsten streets, unable to get last night’s image of shredded, still-twitching lungs-upon-decanter from your mind.
Somehow, you’ve lost your appetite for the cycle.
Ø, true to form, chews her cigarette, impatient with the lack of lunch.
Kathi, the familiar jindo, trots back across the street to your corner beneath the bicycle repair shop’s off-navy awning. From beneath her furred arms, she produces a compact, plastic faux-alligator-skin backpack, similar in size to the bags the two girls sport across both their backs. With an asinine grin she hands it to Ø, who glares down through a new pair of d’Valay sunglasses.
Kathi pants, her ebony lips and teeth a black hole in the afternoon suns.
“For our sensei!” Huhu yowls from behind her, sharing a mutual grin, her snout scrunching, eyes becoming slits, in the only predatory display of happiness she can provide. Your mare looks to you with a scowl as you laugh.
“Just take it, Ø.”
Ø slogs the small pack over her shoulder, the two girls giggling in unison as their gift is begrudgingly accepted. Kathi continues her raucous smile, waiting for the mare’s toothy response of gratitude, which is a few hours, a few meals, and a few drinks away from manifesting, by accident if ever. You give her a glare to speed up the process.
“Thanks,” the mare coughs, “are you two done yet?”
“Relax,” you retort, “we’ve still got a few hours before they can head back home.”
“Let’s get something to eat already, then,” Ø growls in return.
“I know a place. A girlie bar,” Huhu begins, stepping closer to you. She leans in, and you feel her breath on your chin as she whispers. “But Bossman Shishito doesn’t like us going because it’s not Yugure.”
“Well, I don’t think we should go, then,” you declare. “I wouldn’t want to offend our host.”
“But, you will want to go.”
“Huhu’s right,” the jindo interrupts, lips smacking as she places another slice of candied ginger between her black teeth. “It’s where Taffy was last night.”
“Before she, you know…”
“Died,” Kathi blurts, spit foaming at her jowls.
“See, it’s owned by The Yaomo. They’re a rival family. But, oh, but it always gets such good business. Much more traffic than Bossman Shishito’s places on most nights.”
“Plus,” Kathi smacks, “the Yaomo don’t mind if you show up only for a night or two. All you have to do is pay a little entrance fee. Then a working fee. And maybe an exit fee too.”
“Hypothetically, of course. We would never, ever, ever betray Bossman Shishito’s trust like that. But, some of the other girls, the bad ones, like Taffy...” She let the insult trail off with a sigh, looking away and pursing her vulpine lips.
“Is the food good?” Ø huffs.
“The best!” The girlies claim in unison, putting on the works.
“Come on,” Huhu sing-songs, her long false eyelashes batting for her desired response from you. She holds a small peace sign, wiggling two furry fingers. “Do both. Eat and work. One stone, two birds.”
Ø shrugs her shoulders, finally ready to get out of the suffocating heat and stuff her face, unable to get the morning’s stench of cooked dog out of her mind. She feels your indecisiveness and looks around impatiently, arms crossed awaiting your decision. Not like you have any better ideas.
Plus, they outnumber you three-to-one.
“Fine. I’m sold,” you sigh.