Alien 2
Doctor continues, "so what did you think of hanging around with this girl the three years of junior high?"
I reply, "it's messy, disgusting, thought of all women as swine. Simply decided, when I grow up, since there's no real pleasure anyhow, won't bother."
Doctor turns to practicum student, "I'd like your take on that last comment."
Bubbling with a good deal of self-righteous outrage, she starts, "Monsieur you take the cake. At this very moment, in a Left Bank cafe, someone is writing poetry on sex, it'll be so famous, schoolkids will study it 200 years from now. Next table over, someone is writing a novel, with a sex scene every page-and-a-half. The whole world likes it, men and women, has fun at it night and day. All except you, no wonder you got that famous black badge."
Doctor's tone is sharp, "retract that last sentence."
Sheepishly, "sor-ry."
Doctor continues, "for the benefit of my student, I'll repeat this. Modern research shows the asocial is a person who simply lacks one particular chemical in the brain. From birth, renders them incapable of emotionally bonding with another, be it father, mother, sibling, fellow pupil, coworker or sex partner. No known cure, yet anyhow. Modern research accepts all of this, Justice Department doesn't, still in blame-the-victim mode. It's the person's fault for not trying hard enough," turns to student, "you take the interview for a bit, I'm curious as to your approach."
Student smiles, "now emotional bonding is not a universal thing. There is an element of choice, of chance or chemistry. A child could bond with mother but not father. Or bond with 2 fellow pupils but despise 10 others. That is perfectly normal. So the prosecution has to establish, beyond any reasonable doubt, that there never has been emotional bonding. The defence, on the other hand, can refute a case by showing just one bonding. So, your mother maybe?"
"Naval officer ma'am, never home. When she was, didn't notice I was alive."
"Father?"
"Drank way too much. Household droid raised me."
She gasps, "parents who do that are insane. OK for babysitting a bit, but simply lack the skills. This girl you knew in junior high, would she testify on your behalf?"
"Air Force pilot, missing, presumed dead. Radar picked up her plane under 48,000 meters of water."
"No other girlfriend since?"
"No."
"There's probably 50 times as many women as men in this prison. Have a fling."
"Oh sure, I could do that. Prove I'm normal, then hafta live with someone. Blaring TV, 15,000 channels, all porn. Rather have peace and quiet. If they kill me for that, so be it."
"Ok, suppose the charge just disappeared. What would you do?"
"Go way up north, where Eskimos don't even go anymore, trap."
"You could die."
"I could. Planet's a tad overcrowded, with 680 billion people. Don't suppose they'll miss one."
She doesn't give up, "one last angle of attack. You don't hafta submit to regression, but you can choose to. Regress to your junior high girlfriend. If the reading shows you liked her, were having fun, you're off the hook."
"Not likely. She was a fat swine, bossy, demanding, absolutely nothing in return."
"Ah ha, just the angle. If the reading shows you hated her, that's proof of a bond."
"But I didn't hate her. Just viewed her as a tiresome bore. Doing her was about as much fun as studying for a spelling test."
"In that case, not wise to regress. Give the prosecution more wood to heap on the fire. I got an idea, what's your fave ice cream?"
"Peppermint chocolate."
"Suppose I spread some on me, you licked it off, could be wild, exciting, I could testify that we had wonderful magical times and"
"Thanks but no thanks. I just plain don't want their world anymore. Kill me, send me to the High Arctic or make me an Earthling, all the same to me."
"Still, here's my e-mail address in case you change your mind."
Several days later, surprise of my life, e-mail from the pilot. She'll be delighted to dig me out of prison with her testimony of all the wonderful times we had.
I don't reply, sit down and write my answer to Legal Aid, plea bargain is a roger.
I have to go to the admin office over some nonsense item on my file. As I wait, the receptionist, Japanese, smiles wickedly, "nothing like Japanese bondage to train a man. After a fortnight, you'll be eager, eager, eager, just don't stop."
"What exactly would I get in return?"
"Nothing of course. Everyone knows men are best with the tongue action when you keep em needy and greedy. But you'll love it, worship me morning noon and night. I have a book, photos of over 1,000 different ways to tie you up. Think of it, a different way each night for 3 years, not hafta repeat. Every moment you aren't at work or asleep or cleaning, we'll be playing. You come with me, never wanna go back to one of those boring white or East Indian girls."
Despite myself, I feel tempted.
"Tell you what, I take a week of vacation. End of it, you just never look back."
I feel a reaction in my pants.
"Oh ho, you are interested. Have a boyfriend now, but getting bored with him. Meantime, I'll give you something to remember me by." She peels down my pants, delivers 2 dozen hard strokes with a ruler.
At this moment, the office manager approaches with my file, "hope I'm not interrupting."
"Not at all, he was just earning a place on my waiting list."
Office manager smiles, "she'll beat you too much, come with me, I'm gentle. No waiting list, we could be in my office in 2 minutes."
"Well I do have a free afternoon."
"Come right in."
As I exit the Japanese girl flashes a jealous look, "that'll cost you. 48 paddle strokes on our first day together."
It turns out the office manager is the same techie who'll run the beamer. I'm strapped in position, ready to be launched through trillions of miles of space.
She smiles kindly, "now you're a nice guy, loved our afternoon together. Since you seem to make lousy decisions, I decided to help you out. You'll thank me, you'll see."
With that, she touches a switch and I black out.
I feel ragingly ill to my stomach. Dizzy, unable to stand properly, I crawl the short distance to the Earthling toilet. Same as ours, just bigger.
As I heave the sour contents of my stomach, I start to realize all is not kosher. I have this long hair, I have to hold outa the way. As I recall, the Sgt had short practical hair.
Feeling gross and disgusted, I try the Earthling faucets. Same as ours, except they use right hand thread, a reversal of what I'm used to.
Once clean, I take stock in the mirror. No question, it's that same sour-face Afghan woman.
I search for a headache remedy, soon discover 2 empty bottles, so that was the sour entity in my stomach. Utterly wiped, I head back to bed.
Then I see the note, "to the Cold Cruel World, as if any of you a**holes care. I'm sick to death of being politely ignored by you white folks and totally reviled by all you Afghan pigs. Enough is enough."
As I lie down I realize I still have 2 faint hopes. First, maybe there's still enough toxin in me to finish the job. Second, maybe the monthend books will pick up the error.
As the day crawls by, I realize the first one is toast. As for the second, it was not an error. The techie, not knowing Earthling mores, thought she was doing me a favor. She'll cover her tracks, the record will show the transmission was correct.
Feeling a little better, I sit up, spot the tiny handheld from back home. Cheap little model the elementary kids use, but easy to hide. There's an e-mail from - who else - the techie.
"You should know how I feel. The afternoon we shared was magical, in fact the best of my life. I know you're a decent guy so I took a chance to help you out. First, gave you an easy tour, everyone knows women get all the fun. I threw an anonymous hack into the program. At some random point in your Earthling experience, you will simply boomerang back. It will appear a transmission glitch. You'll arrive back a minute after you left here. Unfortunately, it is not possible to predict when that might happen in Earthling time terms. If I'd loaded that, it would have left a trace. You know the Japanese girl is no good for you. Oh sure, sexual excitement, but she's brutal to her boyfriends. You need someone kind like me. I attached a video of our magic afternoon so you can see for yourself. Love."
Out of idle curiosity, I call up the attachment. No question, seeing her face and eyes, she's in love. It changes me. See up to now, I was halfway thinking of simply ending it all. After all, it appears the Afghan left a mess. Now I'm determined to get back alive, to experience love.
OK, let's check the apartment for clues. The Afghan's handheld is so primitive, I'm past her password in 2 seconds. I call up file after file, find out how Earthling bills and banking go.
Whatever the reason for suicide, it is not financial. She has positive cash flow, zero debt.
Just one thing seems curious, why no personal names, addresses on the handheld?
Maybe a technophobe, into paper letters. A search of her apartment reveals none.
So that's it. She's so completely shunned, so outcast, she has no personal life. Loneliness took its toll.
I reply, "it's messy, disgusting, thought of all women as swine. Simply decided, when I grow up, since there's no real pleasure anyhow, won't bother."
Doctor turns to practicum student, "I'd like your take on that last comment."
Bubbling with a good deal of self-righteous outrage, she starts, "Monsieur you take the cake. At this very moment, in a Left Bank cafe, someone is writing poetry on sex, it'll be so famous, schoolkids will study it 200 years from now. Next table over, someone is writing a novel, with a sex scene every page-and-a-half. The whole world likes it, men and women, has fun at it night and day. All except you, no wonder you got that famous black badge."
Doctor's tone is sharp, "retract that last sentence."
Sheepishly, "sor-ry."
Doctor continues, "for the benefit of my student, I'll repeat this. Modern research shows the asocial is a person who simply lacks one particular chemical in the brain. From birth, renders them incapable of emotionally bonding with another, be it father, mother, sibling, fellow pupil, coworker or sex partner. No known cure, yet anyhow. Modern research accepts all of this, Justice Department doesn't, still in blame-the-victim mode. It's the person's fault for not trying hard enough," turns to student, "you take the interview for a bit, I'm curious as to your approach."
Student smiles, "now emotional bonding is not a universal thing. There is an element of choice, of chance or chemistry. A child could bond with mother but not father. Or bond with 2 fellow pupils but despise 10 others. That is perfectly normal. So the prosecution has to establish, beyond any reasonable doubt, that there never has been emotional bonding. The defence, on the other hand, can refute a case by showing just one bonding. So, your mother maybe?"
"Naval officer ma'am, never home. When she was, didn't notice I was alive."
"Father?"
"Drank way too much. Household droid raised me."
She gasps, "parents who do that are insane. OK for babysitting a bit, but simply lack the skills. This girl you knew in junior high, would she testify on your behalf?"
"Air Force pilot, missing, presumed dead. Radar picked up her plane under 48,000 meters of water."
"No other girlfriend since?"
"No."
"There's probably 50 times as many women as men in this prison. Have a fling."
"Oh sure, I could do that. Prove I'm normal, then hafta live with someone. Blaring TV, 15,000 channels, all porn. Rather have peace and quiet. If they kill me for that, so be it."
"Ok, suppose the charge just disappeared. What would you do?"
"Go way up north, where Eskimos don't even go anymore, trap."
"You could die."
"I could. Planet's a tad overcrowded, with 680 billion people. Don't suppose they'll miss one."
She doesn't give up, "one last angle of attack. You don't hafta submit to regression, but you can choose to. Regress to your junior high girlfriend. If the reading shows you liked her, were having fun, you're off the hook."
"Not likely. She was a fat swine, bossy, demanding, absolutely nothing in return."
"Ah ha, just the angle. If the reading shows you hated her, that's proof of a bond."
"But I didn't hate her. Just viewed her as a tiresome bore. Doing her was about as much fun as studying for a spelling test."
"In that case, not wise to regress. Give the prosecution more wood to heap on the fire. I got an idea, what's your fave ice cream?"
"Peppermint chocolate."
"Suppose I spread some on me, you licked it off, could be wild, exciting, I could testify that we had wonderful magical times and"
"Thanks but no thanks. I just plain don't want their world anymore. Kill me, send me to the High Arctic or make me an Earthling, all the same to me."
"Still, here's my e-mail address in case you change your mind."
Several days later, surprise of my life, e-mail from the pilot. She'll be delighted to dig me out of prison with her testimony of all the wonderful times we had.
I don't reply, sit down and write my answer to Legal Aid, plea bargain is a roger.
I have to go to the admin office over some nonsense item on my file. As I wait, the receptionist, Japanese, smiles wickedly, "nothing like Japanese bondage to train a man. After a fortnight, you'll be eager, eager, eager, just don't stop."
"What exactly would I get in return?"
"Nothing of course. Everyone knows men are best with the tongue action when you keep em needy and greedy. But you'll love it, worship me morning noon and night. I have a book, photos of over 1,000 different ways to tie you up. Think of it, a different way each night for 3 years, not hafta repeat. Every moment you aren't at work or asleep or cleaning, we'll be playing. You come with me, never wanna go back to one of those boring white or East Indian girls."
Despite myself, I feel tempted.
"Tell you what, I take a week of vacation. End of it, you just never look back."
I feel a reaction in my pants.
"Oh ho, you are interested. Have a boyfriend now, but getting bored with him. Meantime, I'll give you something to remember me by." She peels down my pants, delivers 2 dozen hard strokes with a ruler.
At this moment, the office manager approaches with my file, "hope I'm not interrupting."
"Not at all, he was just earning a place on my waiting list."
Office manager smiles, "she'll beat you too much, come with me, I'm gentle. No waiting list, we could be in my office in 2 minutes."
"Well I do have a free afternoon."
"Come right in."
As I exit the Japanese girl flashes a jealous look, "that'll cost you. 48 paddle strokes on our first day together."
It turns out the office manager is the same techie who'll run the beamer. I'm strapped in position, ready to be launched through trillions of miles of space.
She smiles kindly, "now you're a nice guy, loved our afternoon together. Since you seem to make lousy decisions, I decided to help you out. You'll thank me, you'll see."
With that, she touches a switch and I black out.
I feel ragingly ill to my stomach. Dizzy, unable to stand properly, I crawl the short distance to the Earthling toilet. Same as ours, just bigger.
As I heave the sour contents of my stomach, I start to realize all is not kosher. I have this long hair, I have to hold outa the way. As I recall, the Sgt had short practical hair.
Feeling gross and disgusted, I try the Earthling faucets. Same as ours, except they use right hand thread, a reversal of what I'm used to.
Once clean, I take stock in the mirror. No question, it's that same sour-face Afghan woman.
I search for a headache remedy, soon discover 2 empty bottles, so that was the sour entity in my stomach. Utterly wiped, I head back to bed.
Then I see the note, "to the Cold Cruel World, as if any of you a**holes care. I'm sick to death of being politely ignored by you white folks and totally reviled by all you Afghan pigs. Enough is enough."
As I lie down I realize I still have 2 faint hopes. First, maybe there's still enough toxin in me to finish the job. Second, maybe the monthend books will pick up the error.
As the day crawls by, I realize the first one is toast. As for the second, it was not an error. The techie, not knowing Earthling mores, thought she was doing me a favor. She'll cover her tracks, the record will show the transmission was correct.
Feeling a little better, I sit up, spot the tiny handheld from back home. Cheap little model the elementary kids use, but easy to hide. There's an e-mail from - who else - the techie.
"You should know how I feel. The afternoon we shared was magical, in fact the best of my life. I know you're a decent guy so I took a chance to help you out. First, gave you an easy tour, everyone knows women get all the fun. I threw an anonymous hack into the program. At some random point in your Earthling experience, you will simply boomerang back. It will appear a transmission glitch. You'll arrive back a minute after you left here. Unfortunately, it is not possible to predict when that might happen in Earthling time terms. If I'd loaded that, it would have left a trace. You know the Japanese girl is no good for you. Oh sure, sexual excitement, but she's brutal to her boyfriends. You need someone kind like me. I attached a video of our magic afternoon so you can see for yourself. Love."
Out of idle curiosity, I call up the attachment. No question, seeing her face and eyes, she's in love. It changes me. See up to now, I was halfway thinking of simply ending it all. After all, it appears the Afghan left a mess. Now I'm determined to get back alive, to experience love.
OK, let's check the apartment for clues. The Afghan's handheld is so primitive, I'm past her password in 2 seconds. I call up file after file, find out how Earthling bills and banking go.
Whatever the reason for suicide, it is not financial. She has positive cash flow, zero debt.
Just one thing seems curious, why no personal names, addresses on the handheld?
Maybe a technophobe, into paper letters. A search of her apartment reveals none.
So that's it. She's so completely shunned, so outcast, she has no personal life. Loneliness took its toll.
posted by afghangirlscifi @ 1:10 PM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home