Chapter
3: The shitty Apartment
The sound
of the rain continued to pound down outside.
Always the fucking rain. As
constant as the migraine in Widow’s forehead.
She vaguely scratched at the implant at the corner of her eye
socket. Warm carbon fiber met her
fingers where the mirror shades slid back into their sockets. Looking down, she could see the riff-raff
entering the MAX train and others wandering around the mall area of the Gresham
Metroplex Sprawl.
In 2020
the Walmart/Sam’s Club Corporation made a deal with the city of Gresham,
Troutdale, and Fairview. Gresham had
already annexed other outlying areas in some kind of failed effort to suck dick
to the city of Portland. They ended up
with a completely lawless region, known as Rockwood. Nobody wanted to go there as far back at
1990. The place is an absolute butthole
of humanity. In steps Walmart and makes
everything better. Kind of. The Gresham sprawl is actually kind of nice,
if you’re a corporate stooge. Apartment
complexes run from about 181st Ave all the way up Division street and
end about 260th. Most of
these are given over to corporate or student housing. In 2015 the Mount Hood Community College
became the University of Mount Hood College Of Learning with a lot of day time
TV ads during court room dramas. Nobody
seemed to find the language, if not grammatical, errors in their new name to be
offensive. Neither did the faculty and
thousands are signed up every day as new students. Like Texas, nobody gave a shit. The end result was that from about 242nd
to 257th it became a college town area of the overall sprawl. This kept businesses in operation. Then from 242nd to Eastman was the
“mall” area. Walmart had placed a
partial dome cover over everything, so you didn’t have to worry about the
rain. In theory. The reality was that the rain was always
present and that half-assed dome never stopped it from coming down. The Gresham Metroplex area hadn’t seen actual
snow around Christmas since 2013. It was
just a wet and humid Christmas, every fucking year. The summer was worse, where temperatures in
June had hit a high of 103 and maintained until November 1st. This was the standard. But people just kept on enduring. Like fucking cockroaches. But even still, the politicians debated
global warming.
Widow
stepped back inside, from her porch, to go refill her whiskey and coke. The metallic voice filled her apartment, “Excuse
me ma’am. You’re running low on certain
items,” it said.
“Yes, I
know. There’s more than enough cash. Order them and stock the fridge. Money’s there now,” Widow said.
“Very
good ma’am. Placing all grocery
orders. Estimated restock delivery will
be tomorrow between noon and 3:00pm, as instructed.”
Widow
dropped her robe and walked naked to her bedroom. “Activate shower with personal massage level
alpha one,” she said.
The
shower instantly started and steam could be seen pouring from the master
bath. “Shower massage level Alpha One,
active,” said the metallic feminine voice.
Slotting
the chip into her desk, Widow said, “Open, decrypt, and analyze.”
“Please
state password.” Responded the feminine
voice.
“The
creeper tracks the queen on The Chan.”
“Password
accepted. Decrypting.”
Stepping
into the shower was always a mix of thrill and vertigo, all at the same time. The three walls, floor, and ceiling were
mimetic glass. In other words, you were
standing stark naked, three stories over the mall, looking down on people that
could only see a set of darkened glass windows when they looked up at you. For some reason, Widow always got a thrill of
touching herself while doing this and, inevitably, some shopper would look up
at her as if they could actually see what she was doing. The first few times that this happened, Widow
actually stopped and looked on the hapless person looking up at her mirrored
glass. Then she got to slowly get back
into it and enjoyed the idea of someone looking at her.
“Decrypting
complete. Analysis starting.” Came the feminine voice.
Widow
finished her current action and blew a kiss to the unknowing teen boy carrying
an arm full of Christmas packages. Work
was important but it never came before she did.
Stepping from the shower, Widow tripped the air dryers and she held her arms
high as she was buffeted by heated air. “Off,”
she said. She hated the fact that the
dryers left her looking like a hair band from the 1980s.
“Dryers
off. Analysis complete.” Said the voice.
Leaving
the bathroom and heading to the Kitchen, Widow frowned. She never liked being interrupted and she
didn’t like having to ignore her afterglow. Opening the refrigerator she
immediately noticed her lack of food. “Jesus,
when was the last time I was even here?”
She said.
“Four
months and three days.”
“Piece
of shit isn’t even smart enough to have the food refreshed when I’m not here!” Widow exclaimed as she rummaged around the
refrigerator.
“Command
not understood. Do you wish to order a
cleaning lady?”
“Fuckin’
A I want a cleaning lady! This is
disgusting!” She said closing the refrigerator
door. “Do that tomorrow. I’m hungry now. Call La Caretta and order my usual.”
“Dialing. Placing order. Order placed.
Estimated time of arrival is 20 minutes.
Dialing. Placing order. Cleaning service will arrive at 3pm pacific
standard time tomorrow.”
“Perfect,”
Widow said. Taking two pills and chasing
it with the last of her whiskey, she could hear the sound of a Gresham Police
VTOL siren slide past her apartment. The
Doppler Effect always gave her a case of vertigo when she wasn’t on the ground
level. “Somebody’s night just go worse,”
Widow said.
“Affirmative. News reports that there are multiple gang
related shootings at the Monte Villa Apartments.” Replied the metallic feminine voice.
“Ouch. Shit. Hole.
But not important. Set Affinity |
All 20 cores to current analysis task.”
Widow said.
“Affinity…….switching…..cores……at….100…..percent….”
“Good. Get on it you worthless bitch.” Said Widow as she poured another whiskey and
coke. “This is what I get for not
upgrading,” she said as a knock came to her door. Leaving her robe open, Widow opened the door.
“Uhmm…oh…uhmm…your
food order is here ma’am,” said the pimply faced kid dropping off her
enchilada.
“Look me
in the eye and tell me you never dreamed of this,” Widow said.
“Well,
uhmm…that’s kind of true…”
“Jesus Christ. It’s just never like it is in porn, is it? How is $100 for a tip? At least you looked, right? You paid attention. Right?”
“Oh! Yes ma’am!”
The awkward teen quickly replied.
“Goddamn
right you paid attention,” she said lifting her breasts, “The bitches cost me
plenty. Be sure to tell your friends.” She said as she shut the door. ‘Poor kid will have a hard on for a week,’
she thought as she lifted her breasts again with one hand and carrying her food
to the dining table. ‘I paid a metric
fuck ton for these tits and they are really nice,’ she thought.
“Analysis
complete. All cores free.” Said the voice.
“Christ
on a crutch, it’s about time. Playback.” Widow said as she opened her dinner and
shoveled in a mouth full of food.
A 3D
image of the molecular make up sprung out from her TV. “Diothalene Monoxochloride Diathalate. Category: Designer hallucinogenic. Government Class: [Unknown]. Intake: Olfactory, touch. Known Effects: Subjects will enter a full
hallucinogenic state within three to six hours of ingestion. If continued ingestion, subject will
permanently reside in hallucinogenic world of their own design. Immediate psychiatric care is
recommended. No known counter agent.”
“Fuck me
running. That’s in the goddamned
water? Where’d these ice cubes come
from?” Widow said.
“Walmart.” Came the voice.
“Fuck
that. Call Sears.”
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