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hertzan chimera r.i.p.
 

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SZMONHFU, SAMPLE

A meat locker, Jane thought whimsically. Lost focus again...

A grey clamour of voices, all but one of them familiar. Learned men coooing and clucking with great pride. Jane's world sheered momentarily to the left. Tiny room. Walls of bare concrete scorched up in the corners as if there had been a recent fire in the place which no-one had yet got round to redecorating. Burn marks formed in her mind, the lick of the flame, stink of gunpowder. The memory evaporated. Men.

She could smell them all around her, preening here, adjusting there. She felt she might be in a semi-pornographic stage show or performance exhibition and looked about for familiar faces in the crowd. Memory blast of her mother's face exploding against the constraints of physics, lost in murder. Image gone. Harsh slaps to the face coming and going in equal ferocity as she sat there on a wooden school chair just watching how the men worked around her.

Disconnected. Not really focused on any one man. Just generally aware of their large number and brusque diligence. Ants - came the easy thought to Jane. They reminded her of worker ants. She swore at one point she could even smell the chemical signals they were passing on from the Queen Ant's secret lair of instruction hidden deep in the establishment. Jane tried to look about only the once then soon lost the appetite. Don't feel like it just now, thankyou, rather just sit here and smile and look. Smell the artificial air. Admire the professional clamour of bodies in full motion. Slow motion; she thought they were like Praying Mantises or Chameleons the way it took an age for anything solid to happen, their strangely mechanical movements, their unlubricated joints reinforcing paranoia. Rush-edited timescape.

She took a moment out of actual time, shook her head as if it were slaked with gasoline and there was someone out there very close indeed with the intent to strike the match they held in their robotic hand. Same old tat - no conclusive reality fix.

A door out of her field of view opened up, the weight of the door indicated by the grunt the door opener gave out. General sound of exit; a clammy hand at her left breast fully awakened her. She saw that she was naked, strapped to an old school chair. She has been naked all this time in front of all these strange robotic freaks. She was suddenly horrified.

Saw the man stood to her left. He is either on his knees or I'm looking at a dwarf, thought Jane.

Soon be rewrite time, boomed the dwarf in a 400 watt amplified voice far too big for his diminutive stature. The fat hand groping at one of her nipples, trying to tear the delicate pink thing off. She was about to vomit. About to scream in outrage at the assault. Hands tied behind her back, she noticed. Strapped to a high school chair in a concrete room that looked like it had recently suffered bomb blast. Things were getting frighteningly clear though she still couldn't work out her part in the charade and who was she performing it for?

Soon be rewrite time, spat the booming dwarf in a voice that suddenly morphed to the dull clang of oak hammers on wrought iron. The dwarf's snake hand slid down her protuberance of ribs to a small black device gaffer taped to her abdomen. Jane could only watch as the revolting dwarf came in with his drooling lips to her left breast. The gorge rising in her. Detailed pornographic footage coursed through her veins lubricated by gallons of boiling vaseline, the stench of bubbling whale blubber, the thrust of the gut cutter. Disemboweller. Worker ants wheeling out archaic eggs of equipment. Jane saw herself as a living abomination in flesh about to be eradicated in the only known way - total body disintegration. Genetic explosion.

Tastes like death, the dwarf spat afresh.

Fipps! came the infuriated retort off stage. Intercom crippled Welsh dialect. Keiran Fipps, the dwarf technician, waddled obediently away. A burly helper closed the blast door after him. The intricate locking mechanism of cogs and wheels set solid. Silent horror movie of paranoia, of dread of the obvious, that which must happen. The unavoidable. Hold still, please, Agent Templeton Rice. This will be over in a moment, came the voice of Doctor Reiman, the intercom-ruptured voice like a dying man's last croak.

Shit was about to happen...