Fandom
by Travis J. Pike
“Empty my colostomy bag?” Brad asks in his droning, nasal voice.
Outside, a hummingbird brushes against the tiny window in the front door, buzzing.
“No,” I say.
“Can I at least watch something on the Ultimate Vision Box 1.0 then?”
“As soon as Roanne is over,” I say. “Why don’t you just go eat something?”
“I already finished my Foodbag for the day. You know I don’t get another one until tomorrow.”
“Was it good?” I ask.
“It was okay. Chili-flavored sludge. With cheese-flavored ooze.”
“That’s nice,” I say.
“Can I have your veal-flavored Foodbag ration? You never finish it all…”
“No.”
“Hmph.” Brad says. And then he belches, a rippling roll I feel in my gums. I glance over at his largeness, his receding hairline, his wild black eyes, the XXXXL-size government-issued ergonomic Hoverchair bending with his every breath, barely staying above the ground, the bulging government-issued colostomy bag strapped into its holding can on one side of the chair with a tube disappearing beneath his gargantuan heaping stomach, his empty, deflated, government-issued Foodbag in its holding can on the other side. Brad is my government-issued Co-Habitation Teammate.
“You’re not a very good Co-Habitation Teammate, Michael,” he says.
I ignore him. Eventually, he will grow bored with my show and pull out his Super Mega Vision Box Mini Stratopad Ultra.
He pulls out his Super Mega Vision Box Mini Stratopad Ultra, thumping the screen with his sausage-like fingers, grunting. I can see the bright lights reflecting off his greasy forehead. I turn back to my show.
Cooking with Roanne, one of the longest running shows in Ultimate Vision Box 1.0 history, has been my favorite since I can remember; I watch it every day, dreamy with lust for Roanne Rutherford, the show’s iconic hostess. “And that is how you poach an egg,” she says to the applause of an audience of government workers in blue uniforms. She smiles, the perfect white tiles of her teeth lining up and luminous in the studio lights, her chocolate brown eyes glittering. She has black, shoulder-length hair, tanned skin, slender wrists, and an apron that reads:
KISS THE CHEF
The show is on every weekday, but she never seems to age or tire, always smiling, always bubbling with energy. She gestures courteously to the crowd, and the applause dies down.
“I’m announcing the first annual Roanne Rewards contest,” she says, her face, smooth and glowing, filling the screen. “You can enter one time, and one time only, on your own Super Mega Vision Box Mini Stratopad Ultra. The winner will be selected at random during Friday’s broadcast. If you win, I will be your Co-Habitation Teammate for two weeks! Good luck, and I’ll see you tomorrow!” The audience cheers and applauds. The show fades out. The Ultimate Vision Box 1.0 screen shifts into music, and then to credits:
This people’s show has been produced and created by and for the people of the People’s Republic of America. Long live the people.
“Did you see that, Brad?” I ask my Co-Habitation Teammate.
He raises a lumpy eyebrow. “Yeah. Don’t get me wrong or anything—I would definitely have cybersex with her—but I guess I don’t see why you’re so obsessed. Those people live on a different planet than we do,” he says.
“I’m not obsessed…can I use the Super Mega Vision Box Mini Stratopad Ultra?” I ask.
“If I can use the Ultimate Vision Box 1.0,” he says, narrowing his eyes.
Each Teamship, or cement block one-room apartment, is only allotted one of each government-issued machine. It’s up to the two Teammates to divide up the usage time. Usually, we can agree on what to watch, and the Ultimate Vision Box 1.0 is on almost 24 hours a day. But every now and then, we have to barter, which gets difficult when we’re talking colostomy bags and tubes and flavored sludge Foodbags.
“Give it here,” I say.
“What, you want me to throw it? If I break it, the People’s Police will come and get me.”
“Fine, I’m coming.” I push the joystick on the arm of my Hoverchair, which slowly whirs over to Brad, who smells like methane and brown sugar and old popcorn. “Good gravy—didn’t you get your sponge bath this week?”
“My People’s Nurse is a little behind. You know what the Ultimate Vision Box 1.0 has been saying about minor austerity measures.” And then he gets a weird, lumbering, sad smile on his face. “Give me a sponge bath? Teammate? Pal?”
“No.” I bump him with my Hoverchair. “Give me the Super Mega Vision Box Mini Stratopad Ultra.”
“I’ll only give it to you if you empty my colostomy bag.”
“Fine,” I say. I hover over to the mainline terminal connection pipe in the corner of the concrete room, push a button, pull out the clear, flexible plastic tubing from a box on the wall, and run the tubing to Brad’s Hoverchair, where I connect it to a valve at the top of his colostomy bag. I push a button on his Hoverchair and the inside of the colostomy bag turns into a furious, yellow-brown swirl.
“Ugh,” I say.
“Swoosh,” the colostomy bag says.
“Ah,” Brad says.
“Ew,” I say.
“That’s better,” Brad says. He picks his nose with one finger while I put the flexible plastic tubing back in its corner box. I hover back over to Brad.
“Here,” he says.
I take the Super Mega Vision Box Mini Stratopad Ultra, and sign in with my username (michael10276235) and my password (RoanneIsAGoddess). It doesn’t matter that we can never eat real food. It doesn’t matter that we are all relegated to our Teamships and can only leave if approved by the government. It doesn’t matter that Brad can get a little cantankerous when he’s hungry. As long as I have Roanne Rutherford, I can get through anything.
Roanne. When I think of her, I imagine it’s like the feeling of getting 100 new Super Mega Vision Box Mini Stratopad Ultras, except even better.
I think I love her.
***
“You’re probably not going to win the contest,” Brad says on Friday as he works on his Southwest-Chipotle-macaroni-and-cheese-with-scalloped-potatoes-flavored Foodbag.
The Ultimate Vision Box 1.0 plays the Star Spangled Banner softly while showing an American flag rolling in the wind, with script scrolling along the bottom:
Believe in your country, and all it’s done for you.
Remember the patriots lost in Restoration Day.
Next month is the tenth anniversary of Restoration Day, the holiday which remembers The Restoration, when all non-government employees were forcibly interned into Teamships. Since then, for non-government employees, eating less than 7,000 calories a day is considered a crime against the security of the nation.
We’re supposed to keep our bellies full. Strong Teamships make a strong Republic.
You are happy.
You have everything you need.
“How is it?” I ask, nodding towards Brad’s Foodbag.
“It tastes like Southwest Chipotle macaroni and cheese with scalloped potatoes,” he says.
“Oh,” I say.
Roanne is back on the Ultimate Vision Box 1.0, wearing black jeans, a white pearl necklace, and a blue sweater which I think accentuates her breasts very nicely. “And that is how you baste a turkey,” she says to applause from an audience of government workers. As the camera fades out and goes to commercials, the Ultimate Vision Box 1.0 ticker runs along the bottom:
UP NEXT:
ROANNE REWARDS WINNER REVEALED.
“I miss real food. I wish they’d give us Turkey-flavored Foodbags more often, instead of only on Thanksgiving,” Brad says, turning to me.
“Hmm,” I say.
“Welcome to a new generation of games and entertainment,” the Ultimate Vision Box 1.0 says.
Brad and I turn back to the Ultimate Vision Box 1.0. “Whoa,” we both say simultaneously.
“Where games push the boundaries of realism, and television obeys your every command. Where you create an experience completely tailored to you. With a movement-tracking camera that responds to your voice and your every move 24/7, experience the next best thing in ultimate entertainment. Introducing…”
The picture of a small, sleek black box with a light that blinks red, white, and blue.
“The Ultimate Vision Box 2.0. Brought to you by the people for the people to the people of the P.R.A.”
Brad, excited, accidentally hits the joystick of his Hoverchair with his arm flab. He lurches forward. “Oh! Ohhh!”
“We just got our Ultimate Vision Box 1.0 last month,” I say.
“Yeah,” Brad says. “But I kind of want a new one. Don’t you?”
“It does look nice,” I say. “But isn’t the 24/7 camera thing sort of an invasion of privacy?”
Brad farts, a clattering wet noise that smells like warm damp rubber. “Hey, can I have the rest of your cotto-salami-with-mayonnaise-on-rye-flavored Foodbag? You never finish it all.”
Outside, a hummingbird brushes against the tiny window in the front door, buzzing.
“No,” I say.
“Please?” Brad asks.
Brad never says ‘please.’
“Hang on,” I say.
“Welcome back,” Roanne says to the cheers of her unseen audience. “And now it’s time for the Roanne Rewards drawing,” she says, standing beside a large, clear, bowl-like plastic container. She dips her hand into the top of the container. “The winner of the first annual Roanne Rewards competition is…”
Complete silence.
She looks into the camera, bats her beautiful eyelashes twice. “Michael Bunbella of City 1066, Teamship Block CC, Township 27.”
The crowd goes wild.
I momentarily choke on my tongue.
Brad goes wild, accidentally tearing away from his colostomy tube, which dribbles on the floor, activating a Level 1 Biohazard Emergency, in turn activating our Teamship’s Personal Cleanliness Processor, a small disk with wheels, which beeps and blurps across the floor to the puddle beside Brad’s Hoverchair, which is lurching side to side, forward and back in all of his abrupt excitement. He also drops our Super Mega Vision Box Mini Stratopad Ultra, which cracks on the floor, activating a Level Magenta Teamship Emergency, which activates the neighborhood P.P. garrison.
Roanne, looking into the camera, says, “Congratulations, Michael! On behalf of Cooking with Roanne, the P.R.A., and of course the people of the P.R.A., we salute you! You will receive further instructions on your Super Mega Vision Box Mini Stratopad Ultra. I look forward to meeting you.” The audience applauds. “Well, that’s all we have time for today. I’ll see you next time!” The audience cheers and applauds. The show fades out. The Ultimate Vision Box 1.0 screen shifts into patriotic music, and then to credits:
This people’s show has been produced and created by and for the people of the People’s Republic of America. Long live the people.
“Michael, you’re the best Co-Habitation Teammate I could ever ask for!” Brad is laughing, crying, breathing, and clutching his chest. The last time I’ve seen him this excited was when he obliterated his Thanksgiving Turkey-flavored Foodbag last year on Thanksgiving.
The front door suddenly slides open. A team of five People’s Policemen in red uniforms, each of them holding a cattle prod. One of them steps forward—trim, tall, authoritative—with taut skin and a blue and white beret. The captain. “We received activation of a Level Magenta Teamship Emergency.”
“Can you believe it? Roanne Rutherford is coming to see me,” I say.
“Sir, have you been drinking?” the P.P. captain asks. “You know that alcohol is banned outside of any and all government functions, which would be a violation of section code 33.CFHJA-9. That is, of course, if you have been drinking, which you haven’t denied….”
Brad’s face slowly turns dark red. He’s drooling something from the corner of his mouth.
Our Personal Cleanliness Processor beeps happily as it rolls back and forth, drinking up Brad’s colostomy tube liquid from the floor.
The other four People’s Policemen step forward in unison. The captain lovingly caresses the handle of his cattle prod.
“I haven’t been drinking, officer. Honestly. They just announced it on Cooking with Roanne.”
“Mmm-hmm,” the captain says. “As I was saying, we received activation of a Level Magenta Teamship Emergency, which means something has happened to your Super Mega Vision Box Mini Stratopad Ultra. You know how important the well-being of your Super Mega Vision Box Mini Stratopad Ultra is to the collective happiness of the people.” He looks at the Super Mega Vision Box Mini Stratopad Ultra, which is broken and shattered next to Brad’s Hoverchair. He goes over, picks it up. “Who…did…this?”
“Well, after they announced me as the winner of the Roanne Rewards on Cooking with Roanne, we both got a little excited…” I say.
Brad’s eyelids are closed, twitching.
“Also, you might want to check on my Co-Habitation Teammate. He doesn’t look so well,” I say.
Brad makes a gurgling noise, like the sound a colostomy bag makes when it gets full, except maybe a little louder.
“Are you telling me how to do my job, sir?” The captain adjusts his beret with one hand.
“No, no—I would never do that, officer. Never. But I think in all of the commotion, the Super Mega Vision Box Mini Stratopad Ultra fell and broke, which is why you received a Level Magenta Teamship Emergency.”
“Well, it’s an inanimate object, obviously, and it didn’t do this on its own.” The captain drops the Super Mega Vision Box Mini Stratopad to the floor in disgust, then cracks his knuckle into his other knuckle, “So unless you plan on blaming Roanne Rutherford, or your Personal Cleanliness Processor, you or your Co-Habitation Teammate are responsible, which would be a violation of National Security Measure 98.JLKEU-5z, which would require Punitive Measure 3.”
The four People’s Policemen behind him grin. One of them giggles softly.
“It was Brad, my Co-Habitation Teammate. He accidentally dropped our Super Mega Vision Box Mini Stratopad Ultra after the Roanne Rutherford announcement,” I say. “But it was an accident. An honest accident.”
Brad moves a little at the mention of his name, one of his feet bobbing, his eyelids fluttering like busy bird wings.
“Is this true?” the captain asks Brad.
“Gurgle,” says Brad. “Ooo. Gasp.”
“Men, implement Punitive Measure 3,” the captain says. He turns to face his men. “Rogers? Where the hell is Rogers?”
A short thick man with long nosehair steps forward, dragging his cattle prod. “Rogers, sir. At your service, sir.”
To do this, viagra pfizer canada a physiotherapist applies a wide range of Kamagra Products. When you will reach an generic cialis sample online pharmacy, you will find also herbal vitamins for calming purposes, improved heart health, lower cholesterol, colon cleansing, liver tonic, antioxidants, enhanced memory, decreasing stress, and many more. In time of making online order, you have to be sure enough that the company is a genuine one and providing you the safe medicine. for getting this kind medicine you have to achieve on your own. tadalafil 20mg price The three key solutions tend to be that are effective in giving relief from the condition. canadian viagra professional “Mmm,” Brad says. “Bargh.”
“Rogers,” the captain says. “You’re new here, aren’t you?”
“Blarghle,” Brad says.
“Yessir,” Rogers says.
“We need to break you in. Implement Punitive Measure 3 on this delinquent who caused the Level Magenta Teamship Emergency,” the captain says.
“Okay,” Rogers says. He approaches Brad. Brad stirs very briefly, like he’s having a bad dream. Rogers extends his cattle prod, and zaps Brad in one of Brad’s fat rolls.
One zap. Brad convulses a little, and flaps an arm.
Two zaps. “Um, garg, fuhnp,” Brad says, his eyes almost opening, then closing again.
Three zaps. Brad says nothing.
“Good work, Rogers,” the captain says, slapping Rogers on the back as if he’s trying to separate his spine from the rest of the body.
“Cough,” Rogers says. “Thank you, sir. It was my pleasure.”
The captain turns to me, “Punitive Measure 3 has been completed. As a result, your Teamship Points will be lowered by 10,000, and this transgression will be recorded on your permanent P.R.A transcript. You also will not receive any National Cake on Restoration Day next month.”
“But my Co-Habitation Teammate, Brad…”
“If you have any health concerns, you will need to file a report with the Board of Homeland Health on your Super Mega Vision Box Mini Stratopad Ultra’s Board of Homeland Health application. Then, your concern will be placed in the queue in the order in which it was received, and—”
“But my Super Mega Vision Box Mini Stratopad Ultra is broken,” I say. “You were just holding it. You picked it up—”
“If you have any technological problems, you will need to file a request with the Council of Digital Happiness by using your Super Mega Vision Box Mini Stratopad Ultra’s Council of Digital Happiness application,” the captain says. “And if you interrupt me one more time, I’m going to hold you in contempt and implement Punitive Measure 4, which is harsher than Punitive Measure 3.”
I say nothing.
“Have a good evening, sir,” the captain says. “Long live the people.”
“Long live the people!” the other four People’s Policemen echo.
They close the door.
My Personal Cleanliness Processor frantically beeps while trying to roll up onto Brad’s doughy leg.
***
The Council of Digital Happiness sends me a new Super Mega Vision Box Mini Stratopad Ultra the day after Brad dies, which gives me something to do while my Office of Homeland Health request is processed, which takes four days. After four days, the Office of Homeland Health finally sends two workers in full protective suits—boots, body suits, gloves, and helmets, all of which are branded PROPERTY OF THE PRA OFFICE OF HOMELAND HEALTH—to remove Brad, or what used to be Brad, who has started to smell sour and attract flies and worms. The workers apologize for the delay. After pulling at Brad’s body for half an hour, they call two more Homeland Health workers, and finally drag Brad’s body off his Hoverchair and onto a Hovergurney for transportation to the People’s Mortuary.
“For the people!” they say halfheartedly as they close the front door.
The absence of Brad’s large presence seems nice at first, and my cybermail tells me I will receive additional details about my meeting with Roanne shortly, but I receive nothing further after that, and I find myself unable to sleep, awakened by nightmares wherein Brad’s corpse lurks over me and pulls at my skin, and I always feel the emptiness of Brad’s big Hoverchair, which I’ve moved over into one of the corners so it’s out of the way. Plus, despite my Personal Cleanliness Processor humming around the apartment at all hours, a stale scent of Brad still clings to the walls, smelling like old fried chicken dipped in gasoline with a pinch of moldy onions.
Later that day, my P.N. shows up. A thin, tall, crooked-looking woman with a long nose, she wears a white nurse outfit, with a white hat, and a large button on her collar which reads:
SMILE.
IT’S A BEAUTIFUL DAY.
She constantly readjusts her button in between giving me a sponge bath and emptying my colostomy bag.
“Nice button,” I say.
She smiles, pulling her crooked nose down until it almost touches her hairy upper lip. “I am forbidden by government regulations to have a personal conversation with you, but I acknowledge your compliment.” She dabs underneath my arms with a sponge, the cool soothing touch spreading down my side. It feels nice.
Last night, I had a dream about Roanne. We were at dinner in a restaurant, and I was thinner and sat in a real chair, in front of a table with real food: flat iron steak, corn on the cob, baked beans. National Cake for dessert. Roanne, seated across from me, was holding my hand, gently stroking my fingertips and flashing her ivory smile. Suddenly, savagely, I leaned over, picked her up, set her on the table, crashing all the dishes and food to the floor, and made love to her, or how I imagine real love is made, naked and without clothes and with loud noises—which I also imagine are much more gratifying than cybersex—and its slow build of text followed by its climax of symbols like !!!!! or ,,,,,,,,,,, or #####. But whenever I touched her, I received a jolt, a shock which surged up and down my spine. The shocks made me dizzy, but I couldn’t stop touching her, and she stopped smiling and pushed me away, frowning. Then she stood up and opened one of the restaurant’s windows. Torrents of hummingbirds poured in, blurry wingtips and small beaks rushing together to form a magnificent buzzing cloud, and as they reached me and I fell backwards, I heard Roanne say, “And that’s how you get that nice, tender sear. That’s all we have time for today. I’ll see you tomorrow!” And then I heard an unseen audience applaud and go wild.
“What are you doing?” my P.N. asks in a tone that makes me realize I’ve done something wrong. She covers her button and gawks at my mid-section.
I look down at my erect organ.
“Oops,” I say. “Sorry.”
After that, I get a new P.N., an old, pear-shaped man with a wide mustache, a squashed forehead, leprous skin, and rough, calloused hands who touches me like I’m diseased.
He’s not as gentle as the old P.N. Not as talkative, either.
***
I’m watching a Cooking with Roanne rerun on my Ultimate Vision Box 1.0 on Monday, the episode where she makes lamb and peas.
Outside, a hummingbird brushes against the tiny window in the front door, buzzing.
“And that’s how you make lamb and peas,” Roanne says to the applause of an audience of government workers.
My door rings, so I whir over on my Hoverchair to see the door slide open, revealing Roanne Rutherford in a pristine white dress with a low neckline, a diamond necklace around her graceful neck. Red high heels.
“Michael Bunbella?” she asks.
“Eeeeeeeeee!!!!” It’s the first and last time I’ve ever made such a noise.
“I’m your new Co-Habitation Teammate,” she says, brushing past me, towing a miniature stove on wheels. She sets the stove up in the corner and immediately starts to prepare a half rack of pork baby back ribs and mashed potatoes. “We’re going to get along famously. No more of that Foodbag sludge.”
“Good gravy!” I say, still at the door, my head spinning, dots peppering the edges of my vision, sweat dribbling down my armhairs in meandering rivulets.
“First, you rinse the ribs under cold water, which I’ve already done for the sake of time. After that, gently pat the ribs with a towel, like so,” she says.
She gently pats the ribs with a towel.
“After that, we will apply a dry rib rub, like so,” she says.
She applies a dry rib rub.
“When you come back from commercials, we’ll learn how to make home-style mashed potatoes,” she says, smiling, beatific.
I learn how to make home-style mashed potatoes. And then I eat the most delicious meal I’ve ever had while Roanne Rutherford watches me closely, her eyes blinking slowly, her chin resting on the heel of her beautiful hand.
***
It’s been almost ten days since Roanne Rutherford became my new Co-Habitation Teammate, and I don’t think I can take it much longer.
Every weekday, from twelve to one, regardless of what we’re doing, she’ll start preparing a meal, announcing every delicate step to me as if I am her audience. Outside of that one hour, she seems fake and dull. We have cybersex at least once a day, and when we finish I’ll look to where she sits on her XXXXXS-sized Hoverchair, and her cheeks will be flushed and she’ll look happy and satisfied, but somehow it all still feels completely unauthentic.
Every other day, she’ll leave momentarily, and will return more energetic than ever before.
While she’ll let me have cybersex as much as I want—which is nice, I guess—she won’t allow me to physically touch her. I found that out the hard way. In a playful mood one afternoon as we were watching a Cooking with Roanne rerun—the one where she makes wood-fired oven pizza on a ceramic stone—I reached out to touch her cheek while she was sitting next to me in her Hoverchair. She closed her eyes and smiled, and it seemed like she was enjoying it, but then, as if remembering something important, she pulled away, pushing my hand away with hers, whirring to the opposite side of the room in her Hoverchair.
She told me I couldn’t touch her, and when I asked why, she changed the subject, talking about how we would get along famously and no longer eat Foodbags, and about how she was thinking of putting in an order with the People’s Nursery for a Co-Habitation Teammate Junior that we could raise together and how we could name him Michael II.
One night, I hear her moving, so I open my eyes, and she is standing over me, inches away from my face, peering, and her eyes keep blinking, making a clicking noise.
Blink-click.
Blink-click.
Blink-click.
When she realizes I am awake, she backs away, and lies back down on her Hoverchair, where she pretends to sleep, but I swear I can see her staring at the ceiling.
The next day, I ask her about it, but she claims she doesn’t remember anything, and that it must have been one of those weird dreams I always have. She always changes the subject if I make her uncomfortable, which happens frequently.
And she never goes to the bathroom.
And she always says the same things, over and over again.
And I’m getting tired of her cooking. She never makes the same thing twice, even if I request it. She’s a great cook, and she works so hard at it all, but sometimes I find myself hungering for my old flavored Foodbags. Sometimes I just get tired of the constant change.
***
Today, around noon, we are in the middle of having cybersex when she stands up, in her green dress with a black necklace, goes over to her stove, and starts cooking. “Today, we’re going to learn how to make nice, rich tomato bisque,” she says.
Frustrated, I whir over to her stove in my Hoverchair. “Roanne, we were kind of in the middle of something,” I say.
“First, we heat the butter in a large soup pot over medium-high heat, like so,” she says.
“Roanne,” I say. “I love you, but this isn’t working out.”
She heats the butter in a large soup pot over medium-high heat.
“Please talk to me,” I say. “Roanne…please? I can’t take this anymore.”
“Then,” she says, “We’ll add the bacon, of course, but continue stirring until most of the fat is rendered and the bacon is crisp.”
“Roanne.” I try to rise out of my Hoverchair, which I haven’t done for years, pushing down with my hands, trying to propel myself out so I can stand up.
She adds the bacon.
I slide out of my Hoverchair onto the floor. I slowly stand, my log-like legs clenching and quivering, and I use the side of my Hoverchair for support, pulling my body up, the muscles and tendons in my arm pulling and stretching and tugging, pain screaming down into my shoulder blades.
She continues stirring. Her eyes flicker at me. Her irises surge.
I try to touch her, but she pulls away, and I fall into the stove, knocking it over, sending her soup pot splashing onto the floor, causing my Personal Cleanliness Processor to come happily chirping and whirring. Roanne’s eyes lock onto mine.
“Please stop,” she says. And then she tells me how we’ll get along famously, and how we can raise a family together, and how she will cook new and exciting things.
“Nothing you say ever…makes…sense,” I say, grabbing her shoulder with one hand while steadying my balance on the Hoverchair with the other. “Do I mean anything to you?”
Her shoulder feels cold, and this time she doesn’t pull herself away, but the longer I hold her, the warmer my hand gets, until it almost feels like electricity surging into my fingers, shooting up my arm and into my chest.
“Michael…” she says.
“No more cybersex…if you love me, I want you to kiss me,” I say, and my hand is tingling, burning, smoldering, searing. I lean in to kiss her with my mouth open, but at the last second, she jerks away, and I fall, and I grasp for her shoulder, for anything, my fingers curling around the top edge of her dress, ripping part of it down and off as she steps back and I fall to the floor.
Roanne Rutherford stands before me in half of a green dress, and she is absolutely beautiful, without a bra, her slender, tight stomach and perfect breasts, glorious and flawless. She wears no underwear, and beneath the rip, where her belly button should be, appears to be an outlet.
“Roanne,” I say, pointing to her outlet. “What is…”
She smiles at me, then frowns, and cocks her head to one side. “Boop,” Roanne says, her cheeks flushing with embarrassment.
I hear my front door slide open, and I try to stand up, but it’s too late. The room fills with the red uniforms of the People’s Police, and I look up, calling for Roanne, but she’s gone and I can’t see her, and the People’s Police captain is the same as last time, the muscular man in the beret, and he taps the handle of his cattle prod with one hand while looking down at me.
“I need Roanne…I need to see her,” I say. “What’s wrong with her? Can you tell me why I…”
“No, big fella. I can’t tell you anything,” the captain says somberly, kneeling next to me with a sad look on his face. Several of the policemen murmur in stoic agreement. “However, we must take punitive action for your transgressions against Ms. Rutherford, who is a national treasure existing for the people.”
“For the people,” the other policemen echo.
“Implementing Punitive Measure 20,” the captain says.
As the captain looks at me, and slowly extends his cattle prod towards me, a hummingbird gently lands on my index finger, its wings stopping for just a second, and it feels like plastic, like metal…cold…and its eyes look at me and blink-click, tiny flashing red dots, before it lifts and buzzes away.
And then electricity pulses through me, and I am drowning in its burn.
________________________________________________________________________
About the Author
Travis J. Pike is an MFA Candidate as well as the 2013-2014 Fiction Fellow at Wichita State University. He enjoys eating red meat, losing at fantasy baseball, and making origami out of form rejections. This is his first publication.
“Fandom” © 2014 Travis J. Pike
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