deviation street

they arrived on deviation street and entered the baila. the air in ashleigh's secret baila, emitted through an overhead airshower, felt like a heady mixture of styrene and lambic. ivan and jesus rushed toward two of the old, svelt white plastic consoles, which were distributed in a pentagram shape in the center of the room. arturo looked around curiously, as this spot was designed for neuroelectric outsourcing, of which he was already equipped. he noticed what looked to be salvage punks accustomed to operating in the drag, motionless, entranced by the holographic pronbots at each console. the wall to the left animated in symbiosis with the psychic wavezones of salt water lapping a generically-dreamed shore. to the right, beer on tap along with a digital menu board advertising drink specials in verdana font where a fairly obvious android, reminiscent of an aging rock star's reality love show, chatted up patrons and mixed drinks.

arturo felt the world giving him the finger and ordered a drink, "more-less-by-division," he told the barkeep.

"hee-yaw, coming right up, captain," shouted the droid, as he spun liqueur cherries out of cayenne pepper rolls and threw them into the whiskey glass. next, he poured the whiskey. next layer, milk and honey. topped it off with alkermes, vermouth, strega and slid it over the white plastic veneer with calculated carelessness. arturo sat down on the aluminum stool and took a sip. pronbots were chatting with each other in the strata and delivering drinks to the cats at the consoles. arturo's eyes landed on ivan and jesus who were frozen before the console, lost in ovid-tinged erotic dreams.

for 10 new yen, ashleigh's secret offered a menu of holographic orbital erotic-dreams. arturo had telepathically transferred the 20 new yen to ashleigh's secret, and ivan and jesus had placed their heads in the consoles, securing the trodes in order for their eeg to be read. a menu of dreams hosted by the partner corporation, alluretube enticed visitors with various interactive erotic fantasies. ivan's mind wandered to the beach setting labeled "most popular" where holographic pronbots began feeding him wild fruit. his sensory perceptions were sated by his eye movements in the holo temple as he directed the women on the beach in accordance with the oscillations of his whims. three women, sand, cranes flying overhead in the gentle breeze where palm leaves shook. loves body is taken in visual literacy to the delta of venus before the light fades and time's up.

jesus, too, had found something kinkier, wilder so he thought. his eyes made their way to the "once in your lifetime" submenu where he focused on the bathroom of a dirigible untethered to the art deco night sky. a flight attendant was coaxing him, no, seducing him into the restroom. she was tanned or more of a cafe-au-lait complexion, a eurasion married to a wealthy executive who was searching for something young and fast and dangerous. jesus was her man in jesus's mind. he entered the restroom, and in a frenzy they tore off each other's clothes. he felt her pressed up against him, overtaken with longing, lust. jesus moved his hands over her. she unzipped his fly and began going down in him.

arturo continued to sip his drink, amused by the operations of the last vestiges of holo temples. a pronbot began chatting with one of the patrons, caressing his back, moving her hands ever lower. she reacted to each of his actions with programmable efficiency. she was programmed with words, odds, the entire computer system of human consciousness. the mex was putty in her hands as she moved him toward a bead curtain to the left of the bar where neon lights illuminated beanbag beds. the pronbots knew how to sell themselves and exploit the immediate need for gratification and the furtive excitement of backroom sex, but they were at a technological disadvantage to the erotic mental gymnastics possible in the wind tunnel of imagination waiting at each console.

he shot down the remaining whiskey, content to leave the two mexicans to walk back on their own, arturo headed for the door. "you pop-dream enabling types are unbearable. look at that shit," she said, pointing to the 11layr building, its spiraled slip-stream mercury swerving up, up, up to the crystal pyramid staring down on the city with tyrannical aplomb. "the collective dream of peasant favored fascism. tacky as fuck!" these words had been echoing in his head for the past week. her fury melded into his nonchalant walk to ling-po's. she was beyond beautiful, beyond anything he could have dreamed up. her cyan colored, emblemless cotton sweatshirt cut to form, her taut black cotton tights stopping just short of heavenly ankles and then what? slippers on her delicate ivory feet. arturo could see that beyond her grey eyes and the tangle of dark brown hair creeping ever-so about her shoulders lurked a terraform future, a terraform present. "pardon me?" he asked, bitten by something more than surprise - say, real stabbing pain. "you heard me, asshole. i saw you walk out of that building... look at you in that ridiculous getup, like an ancient hairy-backed roman senator. are you even human?" he scuttled past her, trying to ignore, forget. he continued on to ling po's.

now, leaving the baila, these words mutated, fractured, reverberated in his mind, tracing across the inside of his forehead like childhood remembrances of an old exorcist horror show. he toggled into the beyond and ordered a smartblade. the car tried to make small talk. “hey, pard, how 'bout the dodgers this year? escobar's due for a breakout season.” arturo managed a conventional affirmation before arriving at his galley. “hello, art,” chimed the doorbots in unison, as the thick glass parted in the middle to let their god enter his castle. He shot up to the twenty third floor where his wife was lounging on the cranberry divan in her white tunica and stola, fanning herself with peacock feathers. she immediately rose when he entered and gave him a finely programmed kiss. he had stuffed the hemp sack in his trousers to avoid detection. he told her he had some work he needed to get done pronto and retired to the study where he took out the sack, emptied the inhaler into his hand and released its aqueous contents into his mouth, soon to be strung out in heaven.