Hologram Joe steps up to the plate. He lifts his nail-bat off the mound, wet clay gathered around the top like red smegma. It is what they refer to as “The Top of the Seventh Circle,” a reference to our long dead poet laureate Alighieri-bot, who was tasked with modernizing Inferno, Purgatorio, and Paradiso year after year. Eventually he went nuts because he said he couldn’t give the devil any more wires or screens than he already had.
The pitcher winds his arm like he’s trying to lift off the ground and make a new colony on Mars IV. His fans call it “The Turbine Toss.” I think that’s fucking stupid but whatever.
The microphone flies forward, cutting through oxygen and sending sparks through the air. Joe gives it a good crack — a great crack — with the dead center of the shaft. Whizz. It soars into the atmosphere, hitting an ancient Russian satellite before hurtling back to earth and piercing the 18 point ring.
The crowd goes wild. I go wild. I do not like sports. I do not like people. But I am compelled by all the screaming. I am not screaming because I’m happy. I’m screaming because I’m scared.
After the game, Joe and I hang out at DaVinci’s House, a local pub that was raised in honor of the late great Flambordo DaVinci, the city’s favorite robot painter. Flambordo was a flesh-and-wire progeny of the great Leonardo DaVinci, but everyone knows that. He specialized in painting novelty mouse pads. Some of the greatest works of art I’ve ever seen. Some of the greatest the world has ever seen.
One of his invaluable paintings hangs behind the bar, encased in a cage of transparent dark matter. The title card pasted to the bottom of the invisible frame reads, “Kawaii Girl Don’t You Ever Forget.” The mouse pad depicted is one of the rarest ever found on an archaeological dig. A buxom lady in a bikini lies back on plush white sheets. Her tits are massive. They rise off the mouse pad like soft tumors. Apparently, it was a wrist rest. That’s back then when people had wrists.
I love that girl. First time I saw the painting, I thought of buying it just to marry it. Her purple hair. Her bikini. The way her cleavage doesn’t match the size of her breasts, nor does the the size of her breasts match earth’s gravity. Surely she was an alien of some sort.
How DaVinci captured the dimension of the wrist wrest, I’ll never know. It’s like I can reach out and cradle her tits in my hands, feeling the nipples piercing into the lifelines that run horizontally through the center of my palm.
Joe doesn’t like the painting. He says DaVinci’s got better stuff. I like Joe, but that doesn’t mean I’m a pushover. I told him once that his opinion on art was trash and that he should stick to Batallite Plus: Microphone Wars — the only passion he’s ever had.
Vincenzo is a big guy. That’s why he tends bar. He can do really neat tricks with the beerbowls and liquor cabinets, juggling them in his poster-size hands and mixing drinks within seconds. One guy comes up to Vincenzo and says, “You think you’re a cool guy all mixing drinks and shit? I think you’re a big fucking faggot.”
So Vincenzo smashes the guy’s head with his fifty pound hand. The guy dies instantly. Someone claps. It’s the guy’s girlfriend. She gives Vincenzo a thumbs up and Vincenzo sends one right back to her.
Raul, Vincenzo’s right hand man, sweeps the remains up and tosses the people-paste into the store room. Vincenzo glares at Raul.
“What? I’ll clean it up later.”Raul looks at an invisible camera and freeze-frames. Vincenzo laughs. Raul laughs. Everyone laughs. Everyone has to laugh. A live studio audience somewhere laughs. Vincenzo’s not a bad guy. It’s just that, if you call him a faggot, he’ll kill you. Thing is, Vincenzo is gay. Vincenzo likes dicks of all kinds — robot dicks, people dicks, Uluarden dicks, Kavaztravian dicks (he likes those best because it’s harder to break them with his big hands.) So Vincenzo just gets offended by the word.
I’m cool with Vincenzo, so I tell him, “Hey, bud, it’s just a word. You can’t let it get to you.”
He hangs his head and nods. “I know, fam. I just lose it when I hear it.”
“I get you,” I say. Then I hand him a credit tissue and say, “Have one on me.” Vincenzo smiles at me and pats the bar top.
“Thanks, friend.”
This happens almost every night. Vincenzo gets into a fight with one of the patrons and ends up killing him. No one at the bar says anything because Vincenzo will kill them to. He’s never been put in jail because the City Crime Prevention and Murderer Murdering Taskforce (CCPMMT) respects him. They say he might as well be a part of their team.
Vincenzo brings us our drinks. He gives Joe his drink first, says, “Hope you had a good game today, sweetheart.”
Joe says, “Landed an 18 on the seventh circle.”
“Nice,” says Vincenzo. He kisses Joe on the mouth, pushing his tongue in past the vocal wires and deep into his silicone throat nerve. Joe gags.
“Thanks, friend.”
Then Vincenzo puts my cup down. It’s a big old cup of iced tea with 383 proof “Magma Glass” brand booze.
“I’d hate to ask, Vincenzo, but — ”
He cuts me off, craning his head down to meet my ear. His bio-mouth whispers warm air into me. It’s so heavy and warm and moist that I can feel it travel down my ear canal into my throat, down the wrong pipe and into my lungs. It will sit there forever.
“There is real sugar in the tea, so stop fucking posturing.”