I dragged up a big chest oyster and hocked it in his face. "Eat that."

Ever heard of the Chicago Fire? That's what I felt like when the ever dutiful Detention Officer Stryker tapped my ID number into that sending unit. First my t.i.ts and p.u.s.s.y felt warm, tingling ... thena" WHAM! I felt alive again, all right, and that tech geek wasn't kidding about the pain. Like a brand-new Red Devil razor blade being slowly dragged through the middle of my c.l.i.t and a channel-lock on each nipple, a sewing needle in each eye, and a drill bit in my brain-that's what the pain all added up to when Stryker "activated" me.

"Gonna be a good girl now?" Stryker asked.

The ultraviolet waves surged through me. My spine arched back like a u-bolt, and l hit the floor. There was a sound somewhere that reminded me of squealing tires, but eventually I realized it was mea" screaming.

"Here's your golden shower, b.i.t.c.h." l just lay there flopping like a fish on a hot plate.

Stryker must've pulled a ten-beer p.i.s.s on me, which upped the current transfer... and doubled the pain.

"Be a good girl now and do what I told you."

More needles, more channel-locks, more razors sliding ... Just when it felt like my eyeb.a.l.l.s would rupture, I... well.

I did it.

Shrieking like a baby in a furnace, I s.h.i.+t on the floor and ate it.

Stryker and his boys ran the Bev-Seg unit. Since Grubs don't sleep, they'd work us pretty much round the clock. First thing every morning they'd take us to the "Dining Hall."

Brother, this was no Four Seasons. What they'd feed us was this goulash of what they called "rendered livestock." Mostly diseased pigs and chickens that wouldn't pa.s.s USDA, they'd get the s.h.i.+t from local farms and grind it up in hoppers. Um-um good.

After that, General Work Block. Cleaning up this federal outhouse, whatever needed to be done: swabbing toilets, mopping floors, cleaning the dumpsters and greasepits. Along the way me and the other girls'd sometimes catch glimpses of the other wings. Males Grubs, and any Grub girls who weren't good-looking, they'd be used for CDC research and Defense Corp experiments. But it was mainly curiosity when you get right down to it.

The government still didn't know a whole lot about Grubs, so they'd do all these experiments to see what happened when you f.u.c.ked with one. Starvation, for instance, wouldn't kill a Grub; you'd just get down to literally skin and bones. They had an entire wing full of Grubs who hadn't been allowed to eat for over a year. Then there were the transplants: putting live organs into dead people, usually animals guts and s.h.i.+t like that.

There was a rumor that the R&D techs had successfully transplanted two heads onto a single Grub. Ordnance Development was worse: the military using Grubs to test new bullets, landmines, and rockets on. When things got too hot they'd send us in for the cleanup-Jesus. It was mostly pieces we carried out of there. The Ectogenics Lab was reserved for Halfersa"a Halfer is a Grub who'd only partly turned: half dead, half alive, and they'd f.u.c.k around with the ovaries on these Halfer chicks, knock them up, and see what came out.

You name it these sick f.u.c.ks did it anything for a kick: microwaving, broiling, freezing.

Brain transplants, lobotomies, transfusions. Whatever turned them on. It was enough to turn even a dead girl's stomach.

Next was RTa"Rehabilitative Therapy. They'd make us sit in a room four hours a day and watch snuff films, live S&M, executions, car-wreck and ER footage. This was supposed to "cure" us, showing us what a life of crime would lead to. Gimme a f.u.c.king break! One time they showed this flick of a bunch of stoners with ten-inch herpetic c.o.c.ks pulling a train on some junkie chick eight-months' pregnant. They f.u.c.ked her so hard she breaks her water and miscarries right there on the floor. So I look in the back of the room and half the DOs are so boned up watching this flick they're jerking off. If anybody in the slam needed rehab, it was them, not us.

After that was another Work Block, then a trip to the Hygiene Unit; the DOs'd watch while we soaped each other down, then they'd hose us off and get us ready for Lock Down. See, they'd want us squeaky clean before the fun began. They might as well've put a revolving door on our cells with all the men coming in and out First s.h.i.+ft was for VIPs: big wheels in the state government Prison Admin chiefs, staffers, Public Safety officials, the Warden and his suits. One hard tubesteak after another. Then the guards themselves would get their turn, and that was worse. These guys were real kinks and psych-jobs, especially Stryker. a.s.s-luck parties, fletch parties, scat, gang-bang face-flicks. One girl threatened to bite the next c.o.c.k someone tried to stick in her mouth, so they activated her UV implants and left them on all night. Then they took us to the Med Unit the next day and pulled all our teeth just to be safe.

Stryker particularly had it in for me: ordering other girls to s.h.i.+t on me, p.i.s.s in my mouth, fist-f.u.c.k me. His favorite move was to b.u.t.tf.u.c.k another chick and make me suck his j.i.z.z out of her a.s.s. And what could I do about it? Jack s.h.i.+t. Any time I pitched a fit, he'd whip out his sending unit and activate my UV nodes. You learn fast in this place...

But don't worry. No way in holymotherf.u.c.king h.e.l.l was I gonna take this s.h.i.+t for my whole hitch.

See, I had a plan.

A three-part plan. I had to do it just right, and it took months to get ready. Busting out of this s.h.i.+thole wasn't good enough. I had to get the rest of the Grubs out too, not to mention a few scores to settle.

Once a week it was my job to empty the trash in the Booking Unit. There were a lot of used tubocurarine darts in bottom of the can. Any chance I got I'd pinch a few, hid 'em in my cell later. Why? Because there was still a little curare left in cartridges...

Next was the geek in the Implantation Laba"and when I say geek I mean GEEK. This wuss made Mr. Rogers look tough, and it was a good bet he'd never been laid. Next time I got mop duty in the IL, I put the make on him hard. I mean, I ain't bragging but ya gotta admita"am I good-looking or what? Once I stepped out of my cellblock overalls, I had this guy wors.h.i.+pping me, wound up f.u.c.king his brains out Wore his virgin p.e.c.k.e.r out, I did.

And when the a.s.shole wasn't looking, I pinched one of his scalpels...

Part Three was the toughest part. See, in 2003 the NRC authorized liquid-plasma isotope reactors for industrial use, and they had one of these little Three Mile Islands providing all the power for the prison.

If I could get a key to the Fuel Core Station...

At night, when the gang hangs and kink parties were over, I'd just sit in my cell and dream. Even dead people dream. I'd think back to the way things were when I was working the street. Didn't ask for much, and I never ripped off a John in his life who didn't have it coming. Sure, I killed some pimps and baddies, but they had it coming too.

All I ever wanted was to do my thing, mind my own business, and live my life. But the Feds and the pigs and the U.S. Marshals came along with their Dr. Strangelove Big Brother bulls.h.i.+t. What I ever do to them? Anda"what?a"it's my fault their f.u.c.kin' nuke-powered plane crashed and turned 10,000 people into Grubs? f.u.c.k that.

And f.u.c.k them.

I knew I had to make my move just before Lock Down. I wanted as many government big wheels in here as possible. But I knew I had to get Stryker alone.

So when they were taking us to chow before LD, I hocked a lunger right into Stryker's face and said, "Your mother sucks c.o.c.ks in h.e.l.l."

Stryker grinned. He was glad I did it. "You're a b.a.l.l.sy little wh.o.r.e, ain't ya? Like to run that c.o.c.ksuck zombie-wh.o.r.e mouth of yours."

"Your daddy must've had s.h.i.+t on his d.i.c.k when he knocked your mama up with you."

His grin turned demonic. "Baby, I'll cut your head off and jerk off in your mouth."

I cracked out a laugh. "Man, all you can do is jerk off. Can't lay any serious d.i.c.k on a woman to save your life."

"Think so?'

"Gimme a break? A peter-licking, panty-wearing, no-hard-on little candy-a.s.s like you?"

"Yeah, maybe I'll activate you till your t.i.ts pop and your hair burns off. See how the smart-mouth Grub Girl likes that action."

"Talk is cheap. You can light me up with that p.i.s.sant UV thing all you want. I like pain, pig. Gets me h.o.r.n.y, you know, for a real man? Too bad there ain't any in this armpit. I'll bet you ten bucks your d.i.c.k wouldn't last a minute in my p.u.s.s.y."

He stared me down, nodding. "You're on, b.i.t.c.h. I'm gonna flick you so hard your brains'll be squirting out your ears, and when I'm done Fm gonna throw your wh.o.r.e a.s.s into Isolation and leave your transponders on for a month."

"I hear ya talking, Liberace."

"Get the rest of these dead b.i.t.c.hes to chow," Stryker barked to his sergeants. "I'll be taking this one here back to her cell for a private consultation."

He dragged me by the hair to my cell, and then I knew I had him.

By then, see, I'd collected enough curare from the used cartridges to fill an entire dart.

Stryker didn't even have time to get his pants down before I had that baby stuck right in his fat red neck.

"What... what did you... do?'

He came to about an hour later, and an hour was plenty of time to do the job. I held up the scalpel I jacked from that nerd tech. "See this, a.s.shole? I cut the UV implants out of myself."

Eventually his crossed eyes began to focus, incomprehension on his face.

"Whaaaa..."

"Then I sewed them back up in your n.u.t.s.a.c.k."

Now the incomprehension turned to slow horror. He reached down to his b.a.l.l.b.a.g, felt around, and then moaned. You could hear the little nodes clicking in there. "G.o.d in heaven... please don'ta""

"Guess we better test "em huh?'

"Noooooo! Pleeeeeease!"

I tapped my own ID into the sending unit and lit DO Stryker up like the f.u.c.king Fourth of July. Yes siree. 60,000 nanounits of ultraviolet-band energy right smack-dab into his family jewels.

The fat f.u.c.k screamed louder than a truck horn, and I gotta tell ya, it was fun watching him flop around on the floor like a tadpole out of water. I had a mind to just leave him there like that but...

There was still work to do.

"Punch in the pa.s.scode," I ordered.

I'd marched him down to the Utility Wing. s.h.i.+ftchange was over so the halls were clear.

"No way," he said. "I can't. It's a security breach. The core's runninga"

"Punch in the pa.s.scode and open the door, motherf.u.c.ker, unless you want me to cook your nuts again. By the time I'm done, they'll look like a couple of fried chicken gizzards."

He was crying now, blubbering like a baby. I showed him the sending unit, and that was all it took. He plipped in the code and the vault door sucked open.

WARNING, one sign read. NUCLEAR FUEL CORE IS ON. FATAL RADIOACTIVE DOSE AFTER TWENTY MINUTES.

Fatal? Sure. But not to somebody who's already dead.

I threw Stryker aside and jacked the fuel rods right out of the core cha.s.sis. The evac alarms went off immediately. "Don't leave me in here!" Stryker bellowed. "I'll die!"

"Buddy," I said, "five minutes from now you'll be praying to die." Then I activated him again. It was tempting not to stay there and watch awhilea"no, the meltdown wouldn't hurt me. but l had the other Grubs to get out. I took one last gander at Stryker: screaming, s.h.i.+tting and p.i.s.sing himself, blood leaking out his eyes, ears, and mouth, his hair baking off and his crotch smoking. Man, it was sweet.

Then I left and closed the door.

The reactor cooked-off about a half-hour later, the radiation took out every pinkie in the joint before they could reach safe distance. As for the rest of the Grubs, l used Stryker's block keys to open their cells and we all waltzed out of that s.h.i.+tpit like we owned the place, Out front I could see the Warden and a bunch twerps from the Governor's Office crawling across the asphalt with their skin running off their bodies. So long, chumps.

So that's the story, pal. Don't believe me? Read about it in the papers. Oh, and that plainclothes U.S. Marshal who busted me in the first place? You probably read about him in the papers too. I spotted the motherf.u.c.ker the first week I was back working the street.

Yanked his c.o.c.k and b.a.l.l.s off then pulled his intestines out his a.s.s. The f.u.c.ker looked like he had a tail when I was done! I mean, come on, he had it coming. I never f.u.c.ked with no one who didn't f.u.c.k with me first.

But how about you, pal? Made up your mind yet? You're kind of cute, if you don't mind me saying so, anda"holy Christa"is that G.o.dzilla in your pants or are you just happy to see me? Ten bucks, partner, best b.l.o.w.j.o.b of your life, and if I'm lying, I'll give you your money back.

So what do you say?

Goodman!.

The Dritiphilist.

"I have this... problem," he admitted.

"Believe me, everyone who's ever sat in that chair has a problem," related Dr. Marsha Untermann. "Not a typical problem but a grievous one. A problem so incalculablea"and so aberranta"that it rocks the imagination." The woman's gaze thinned. A long elegant finger traced a graceful chin. "You're here for a reasona"your own rehabilitation. You're scared. You're scared that I might find your *problem' so deviant or absolutely appalling that I will insist that you leave my office at once and never come back."

Nougat-brown eyes leveled at him.

"Yes," he croaked. "I'm... very afraid of that."

"Because if that happens, you'll have nowhere to go?'

"Yes," he said.

"You probably think that there is no one else in the world like you That's why you've refrained from seeking help in the past, correct?'

"Yes."

Dr. Untermann leaned back in the chair behind her desk. She smiled as thinly as her gaze.

"Then your fears are without foundation. I do not turn patients away, however foul their problemsa"or their crimesa"may seem. It's my job. I do my job. And I think I can safely say that this 'problem' of yours?' She lit a long cigarette and shook her head. "I've heard much worse."

The smoke spewed from her lips like a ghostly fluid. Her eyes opened wider, inquisitive, coldly promising.

"Tell me about this problem of yours," she said.

Barrows' suit cost more than the average resident of Seattle earned in a month. As an investment banker for Jenkins, Harris, & Luce, he could afford it He could afford the Aston Martin Zagato with the turbo'd 5.3-liter V8, he could afford the Movado gold watch, and he could afford the waterfront penthouse suite on Alaskan Avenue.

One thing he could not afford, however, was to allow anyone of import to see hima"

Well...

Better to put it this way. If Barrows made $500,000 in one yeara" that was a b.u.m year.

Investment banking involved a certain alchemy of which Barrows possessed the cabalistic necromancer's wand. Objectively, his profession entailed moving clients' money from one bank to another, which sounded simple. In truth, though, knowing where and when to move the money, and for how long, was what made his clients and himself preposterously wealthy. In other words, William Barrows had a reputation to maintain, a reputation upon which his financial solvency depended.

Already out of place in the Armani suit, he walked slowly down the sidewalk past the county courthouse on Third Avenue, right alongside the b.u.ms and drug addicts wandering in their plight to a stinking nowhere. Yet Barrows scarcely saw them. He walked steadily onward, his eyes roving the sidewalk's cement for...

His heart jumped when he heard the sound...

The sound of a man clearing his throat and expectorating loudly. The ever-familiar splat on the sidewalk came next, and next after that came Barrows' nearly frill erection. Up ahead, he saw it. A derelict in filthy beard and rotten clothes had coughed up a wad of phlegm from his homeless-roughened lungs, and spat it on the sidewalk.

Oh G.o.d, Barrows thought just as a normal man would think upon entering the bedroom of a beautiful woman for the first time, or watching that risky bond fund skyrocket and split.

Barrows caught the glint: a lumpen gem. It lay there waiting for him, freshly green, savory and mystical. Barrows" Guccis clicked up and stopped, and now he was standing there, feet apart over the treasure.