Ricky liked bars. He liked the dim lights, the flashy ads for beer, whiskey, Alovar’s Pure Columbian Snow, The Fast Method, “clinically proven to keep you fast 15% longer than the leading brand.” He liked how the aromatic smokes formed weather fronts, a high-pressure zone of ganja sweeping away a low-pressure tobacco front, both swirling together and mixing as they dance to the dim ceiling. He especially liked the pretty women and macho men reeking of desperation.
Bars liked Ricky too. He made good money picking up Johns and Janes. Maybe not as good as during the Death Machine Riots. He liked to remember the cash he had back then, when he charged premium because of the very real personal danger he faced if Joe Public found out he had a Machine. He saw the frenzied mobs tearing apart shops and pubs, trampling and beating to death the owners of Machines, or a lot of the time just poor guys that happened to get in the way. It was funny, in a sickening way, to think that they were killing people, because they were afraid that the Machines were killing people.
Who knows, maybe they had been. At first they claimed only to predict death, with 100% accuracy, but no guaranteed time line. The predictions seemed oracular in that if a person struggled to prevent their personal prediction from happening, some ironic twist of fate would guarantee that a “plane crash,” or “car accident” would happen.
A lot of strange things started to happen when the Machines appeared, when they were in supermarkets and bars, right next to the bubble-toy machines and crane games. Enough planes fell out of the sky into people’s homes, and a lot of out-of-control cars plowed through the bed-rooms of sleeping couples that it seemed like the machines were engineering fate when people tried to avoid it. So the government stepped in. An attempt at outlawing the ubiquitous Machine was an un-enforcable disaster, so instead they regulated made it so people couldn’t avoid their fate after having it predicted.
And that is where Ricky and the bar stepped in. He operated a Black Death Machine. It wasn’t free, like the Clinics were, but it offered the freedom from having to face your death regularly if it turned out to be an avoidable doom.
He sat with his back to the bar, one angular elbow propped on the bar, the other lifting a fizzy concoction to his full lips. His knobby knees were spread-eagled carelessly into the flow of traffic coming to and leaving the bar, so that he not only took up the stool he was sitting on, but made those to either side fairly inaccessible also. His foot tapped off-time to the beat of the digital juke-box as his large, dark eyes scanned the crowd. Ricky knew that he was a very pretty man, and dressed-down in a t-shirt and black jeans to allow the viewer to pay more attention to his features than his clothes.
An older woman approached Ricky. She was attractive enough, but he sized her up by the way she forced herself to look casual as she took a drag on her joint; he read her overly supported bust line and perma-dyed blonde hair like a tawdry novel of lust and desperation.
“Hey honey, what’s your death?” she asked, fragrant smoke lazily escaping her lips and nose to curl up past her glazed eyes.
Ricky had to decide: did he want to get laid, or did he need work? ”Cancer,” he replied, and took another sip of his Coke-and-coke. The boring answer. If he’d wanted a little trim, he’d have said, “Firing Squad,” and he’d even forged himself a Death Card to prove it. It never failed to start a conversation. Sometimes a pressing mortgage payment made a decision for Ricky.
She continued to try some small talk, to which Ricky replied in monosyllables until she moved on to the next guy, trying to buy a drink or joint with a currency that was quickly losing value: the allure of her decaying flesh.
He continued to scan the room for just that right brand of desperate human. He didn’t want to waste any time on a Train Wreck, driven to intense neurosis and looking for that last bit of affection before facing a government mandated and facilitated untimely demise. Conversely he didn’t want to listen to any preening Old Ager babble about long-term plans and dare-devil stunts that Ricky just didn’t give a shit about. He was looking for the guy or girl who seemed just lonely enough, who was having a hard time getting a date because he or she didn’t have a death card at all.
Every time he approached a likely client, he’d ask, “Hey buddy/honey/babe/man/etc., what’s your death?” He hoped he or she might reply, “Oh, I don’t have one yet.” Often they were younger men and women, afraid of the controls that would be placed on their live should it be found they had a preventable death. Sometimes they were idealists who just thought that a person’s death shouldn’t matter so much, that insurance rates and payment terms on a loan shouldn’t be determined by something a person couldn’t control.
Ricky would work his sales pitch based on the reason they didn’t have a Card yet. ”I can get you a Card. You always hear about Old Agers making a difference, right? Why not be one?” or, “Yeah, those Feds shouldn’t be so nosy, right? But, wouldn’t you still like to know?”
He was frustrated that there weren’t any buyers tonight. Everyone he approached was a Cancer, or a Heart Disease. One of those fates that was worrying, but not consuming.
He downed his last drink. Feeling spun and horny, he was determined to get laid if he wasn’t going to find work. He looked around for the fried-out blonde with the nice tits, but was disappointed that he couldn’t find her. He stood and began to walk towards the door. Someone tapped his shoulder and he turned around.
Ricky had to look up as he was confronted by the easy smile of a tall, blond, chiseled, viking of a man who was adorned with the trappings of wealth: a subtle pin-stripe suit, obviously hand-tailored, an expensive, gold, ruby-studded watch, and the nicest pair of leather shoes that Ricky had ever seen. His only flaw was a pair of platinum-rimmed eye-glasses that actually made him more attractive; they reduced his stature to that of an approachable human being, rather than a God of Asgard. Ricky found himself hoping for romance, rather than business with this man.
“How can I help you, Mr…?” Ricky asked.
“Hendstrom. You can call me Phil. Are you Ricky?” He extended a well-manicured hand.
As soon as the John dropped his name, Ricky knew that it was going to be strictly business. He tried to keep the disappointment from his voice, “Yes, sir, Phil. What can I do ya for?”
The long glance that Phil gave him and the wry smile that formed on those gorgeous lips gave Ricky some hope for a romantic encounter, maybe after the “business” was done. “Why, Ricky, the same thing you do for anyone, I suppose.”
“Well, buddy, there’s things I’d do for you I wouldn’t do for no-one else.”
Phil put his hand lightly on Ricky’s fore-arm, then he straightened and his smile disappeared. Ricky was afraid he’d made a mistake. ”We’ll have to see about that. When can I schedule an appointment?”
Ricky adopted a more professional expression, “Tonight would be good, if you’re staying up. The Machine don’t take too long, but a card takes longer.”
“The Machine.”
“Wanna follow me home?”
“I’ll ride with you, and catch a cab after.”
“Whatever floats your boat man.” Ricky didn’t know whether to see that as a good sign, or bad.
Ricky stepped out of the bar into the moonless, chilly night air. He hadn’t bothered to bring his jacket, and he shivered as he exhaled onto the door mounted breathalyser on his car. ”All the drugs in the world been legal for five years, and we still gotta do this shit. Don’t make no sense.” Ricky griped as he sat down and opened the passenger side door.
Phil didn’t respond, and remained silent during the drive to “Ricky Ricardo’s Massage Parlour.” It creeped Ricky out, and his attraction for the blonde giant was quickly cooling.
At Ricky’s home and place of business, he led Phil into the basement. Phil looked around the room at the steel racks, suede whips, leather straps, and heavy chains.
“Is this a hobby of yours?” Phil asked, seeming interested.
Ricky was fiddling with some sort of old-fashioned mechanical combination lock, but he looked up when Phil finally spoke. ”Huh? Oh, yeah, a bit. It’s mostly a cover for the Machine, but the cops and feds think that the Massage Palour is a cover for the BDSM shit, so I keep them happy, and they think I’m only up to something slightly illegal.” He smiled as he explained his scheme, he thought it was clever as all hell. The whips and chains were fun on occasion too. Phil seemed to be warming up again, but Ricky was beginning to think he’d be too much trouble to bother with, perfect abs or no.
Ricky finished dialing the combination, and opened a small wall panel that swung outward on well concealed hinges. The Machine sat in it’s alcove, silent as always, very small for a device that had such a large impact on the world.
Ricky turned, gestured towards the Machine and said, “Just put your chin in the cup and your fore-head against this…” His voice trailed off as he saw the gun in Phil’s hand.
Ricky couldn’t think of anything better to do, so he raised his hands above his head, and said, “Guess I’m not getting laid tonight.”
“I’m sorry, Ricky, you’re a sweet kid…”
Ricky interrupted, “Whatcha got to be sorry for, we’re all friends here, right?”
Phil almost seemed to be talking to himself, “The machine has got to be wrong… nothing to die for…”
“Whatever you say, man.”
“What’s your death, Ricky?”
“Cancer.”
“Don’t bullshit me, I saw you use that one to get rid of that whore.”
“Alright, man, keep calm. I dunno. Never used the damned thing.”
“Use it now.”
Ricky placed his sweaty fore-head and chin into the machine. Two seconds later a slip of paper silently slid out of the machine’s printer. In bold, black print it said: CANCER.
Ricky stared at the slip in disbelief. “Well, whaddaya know…”
The room flashed white and a deafening reverberation rattled chains on the walls as the gun bucked in Phil’s hand. Ricky’s body slammed into the wall, knocking the Death Machine over into a rapidly spreading pool of blood and viscera. The room shook twice more as Phil put two slugs into Ricky’s brain to make sure that fate had been thwarted.
**
Phil couldn’t think straight. He sat in the doctor’s office and tried to focus. The damned headaches had been building for weeks before he’d even killed poor Ricky. He could scarcely believe he’d done it, but the remorse that he still felt could not suppress the elation which welled up when he remembered that he’d cheated fate, proved that the damned machines which he’d helped designed were not perfect after all.
It didn’t make any sense at all for him to commit suicide, no matter what that little slip of paper had said 6 years ago. He had the world to lose. Money, men, women, power, he had it all, and he was happy god damn it
He couldn’t hold on to any thoughts for too long though. He was afraid that his headaches were literally killing him, and his emotions were a maddening surf of swelling rage and ebbing despair. At times he couldn’t even remember why he’d shot Ricky.
The doctor came into the room and sat down next to Phil. ”Mr. Hendstrom, I have some questions I need to ask you.”
“Huh? Oh, sure, whatever. If I can concentrate that long.”
“Have you been feeling any unreasonable urges recently, since the headaches started? Any unpredictable violent impulses?”
Phil sat up for a moment, then forced himself to sound relaxed, almost successfully. “No, that’s a strange question to ask.”
“Well, Mr. Hendstrom, I have some bad news for you. You have a tumor in your brain. It’s in an area that often causes uncontrolled aggression, or delusions and we may need to confine you.”
“Yeah, that might help, until I’m better. As long as it’s not too long, I have business to attend to.”
Uncontrolled aggression… poor Ricky.
“I’m afraid you don’t quite understand. It’s inoperable. Terminal. I’m sorry, Mr. Hendstrom.”
“I don’t understand. I can’t do anything?”
“Your last several months of life will be highly painful, and you’ll be suffering from constant delusions and delirium. Mr. Hendstrom I’d highly suggest taking this new Euthanasia medication.”
Phil couldn’t help but laugh.
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I loved this story! I was entertained the whole way through and literally on the edge of my seat waiting to see what would happen next. I think you created a great story. One that is in fact publishable, and you could probably even expand on it and make a full length story of it. I know I would buy it when it came out. I think you have a unique future world here, and one that would really suck to live in, but it’s great to read about.
Keep up the great work.
I wasnt sure what it was that Ricky was suposed to be. But the message I got was that you cant control your own fate. whats ment to be will be. Great story.
I loved this, even though I don’t entirely understand it. I’m not clear on how/why his having a CANCER card would turn off the slag at the bar, as opposed to something preventable. Why would “firing squad” get him laid? Only for its conversational value?
This might sound strange, but not understanding was part of my attraction to the story. Especially with speculative fiction, I MUCH prefer it when a writer does not feel obligated to establish all the rules and conditions of the world of the story at the onset, so that the narrative starts out with something that reads more like an encyclopedia entry. It is so much better to let the details dribble out amongst other work (scene-setting, characterization, plot action, etc.) and let it fall into place. Nice job there, with the exception of the problem I mentioned above, but I might just be thick and it’s very early in the morning!
I like the Philip K Dick-ish premise, with none of his slapdash description and awful dialogue. He’s good on idea and weak on execution and you are strong on both in this work, so good that I WANT MORE!
You write very economically which tempts me to conclude that you wanted to keep this story as short as possible, but I don’t think you’d lose many readers if you maybe used more conversation (perhaps as a way to explain the romantic economy of Death Cards, what answer would have scored him some business and why, and perhaps give the reader a better sense of whether the Death Card thing was an all-consuming cultural obsession or whether this bar was one where it happened to be more emphasised). Fleshing out the motivations and background of Phil wouldn’t hurt, either. The reader is left guessing whether this was his first/only kill, why he chose Ricky, and why he wouldn’t know if other people had faced deaths other than what was predicted.
Crap, re-reading my review, I’m realizing it sounds mostly negative. Re-read my first sentence before going on to the niggling details:
Only two niggling details! And that second one is merely a suggestion, as is the thing about puffing it up. You probably already know that shorter stuff is more marketable, so there’s that to consider as well. I hope I come across more of your stuff, or you can add me if you like. CANCER was a pleasure to review.
An original, entertaining, and (for the most part) exceptionally well-written short story. I love the nonchalant bisexuality of this.
Proofreading notes:
Pure Columbian Snow = Colombian? The country?
bed-rooms = bedrooms
it seemed like the machines (strictly, this should be seemed as if)
un-enforcable = unenforceable
regulated made it so people (odd run-on sentence here. At least put a comma before made.)
bar, so that he not (no comma before so that)
juke-box = jukebox
placed on their live = lives or life
pin-stripe = pinstripe (also pin-striped)
human being (Do you really need the word “being”?)
fore-arm = forearm
feds think that the Massage Palour (typo?)
it’s alcove = its
fore-head = forehead
he’d helped designed = design
happy god damn it (terminal punctuation missing)
I had to read several passages twice or more times to understand what was being said. I think this was due to that smallest and greatest of writing snafus: the absence and/or overabundance of commas. Other than that, I think the story flowed well and achieved its thematic aims, with the possible exception that it didn’t really address whether fate is avoidable or not. Or did it? Ricky’s fate was cancer, but he died instead of gunshot wounds. Or did he die at the mercy of the cancer that was eating up his killer? I don’t know, because I’m not entirely sure if all tumors are considered cancers. One other thing: I suggest somewhat greater clarification of the early explanation of the death machine history. It wasn’t entirely clear where or why the death machines came from, why people killed people who owned them, or what the government did to control the situation.
Overall I really liked this piece. It was a little hard to get into, but it completely redeemed itself with the ending, when the reader is inside Phil’s head instead of Ricky’s. Have you thought of expanding this, making it a larger work? You seem to have a lot here that you’d need more space to fully go into.
Because this is a longish piece I was making notes as I went along.
Paragraph One – All the information in it could be given elsewhere. Your first paragraph needs to grab the reader’s attention and hold it. This one doesn’t. Your description is good but it’s not rivetingly interesting.
Paragraph Four – It seems like you switched sentences midstream. “regulated made it so”
Paragraph Six – Since you described Ricky as pretty, angular probably isn’t meant to convey skinny or bony. So it’s unnecessary; all elbows are angular. Also, it doesn’t ring true that a guy would think of himself as “a very pretty man.” That strikes the reader (at least this one) as a phrase a woman would use.
Paragraph Seven – It’s a bit awkward as it is. Instead of “he sized her up by,” just have her do those things. If he’s sizing her up, you can point that out after. The reader will understand that he’s sizing her up by the behavior you described.
Paragraph Eight – Particularly great dialogue & description. Keep that in any revisions.
Paragraph Sixteen – I like the viking description. However, it makes the other adjectives unnecessary. When someone hears “viking” they already think “tall, blonde, and chiseled.” The same is true of the rest of the description. You don’t need “trappings of wealth” and “expensive.” The rest of the description says that on its own.
Paragraphs Seventeen – Twenty-three & Twenty-eight – The dialogue here is weaker and cliched in places, most noticeably “what can I do ya for.” That’s understandable if you want Ricky to speak in cliches, but the rest of the dialogue comes across a bit stilted as well.
The story really started pulling me in after that, so problems became harder to notice. That’s a good thing. I did notice when Ricky thinks he might not want sex with Phil “perfect abs or not” that it would be hard for Ricky to know if Phil actually had perfect abs, hidden as they were by the pin-stripe suit. Between shirt and jacket, you can tell if someone has a decent build, but you have no clue of the ab quality under there.
I really loved the story after you’re in Phil’s head. He’s, frankly, a more interesting character than Ricky. Especially after finding out he helped design the machines. Or is that one of his delusions? Of course, if he helped design them, it seems like he’d know how they work, whether they’re fallible or not. I did love the twist that Phil’s cancer is what made him kill Ricky, making the prediction correct.
I’d love to see this piece after a revision, or even expanded into something much longer. I’d like to spend more time in Phil’s head, or even even read more about the death riots. Even keeping it short, though, this piece has a ton of potential. Good luck and keep writing.
I like the underlying hinting at the bi-sexual nature of Ricky, who to be Honest I don’t think should’ve died. You could’ve fleshed the story out a lot, with background information, and it would actually be better like that, or so i think, because it was kinda confusing about the “what’s your death?” thing, because you didn’t really explain why that was (as some might say) a “pick/chat up” line. However the description was crisp and cool, almost like Stephen King writes his narrative, and overall the story was good.
Just a little bit of background and you’ve got yourself a book mate!
Great story, with an amazing twist. Your craft is telling and your plot was unique. Minor errors in grammer and spelling, aside of which you pulled off quite well. I would really like to read more of your work.
I really liked this story. I’m all for speculative fiction, and I think this is a very cool example of it. I loved the What’s your death recurring line as well as the general attitude of the population in this story.
The one thing I had a problem with was the doctor’s dialogue with Phil. The fact that he suggests confinement when Phil says he hasn’t had symptoms. Tumors can cause that behavior, but it’s not definite, so the doctor wouldn’t threaten to restrain him. I dunno, it might just be me.
All in all, I think this is really good and original.
“so instead they regulated made it so people”—-did you mean to say “regulated it”
“She continued to try some small talk, to which Ricky replied in monosyllables until she moved on to the next guy, trying to buy a drink or joint with a currency that was quickly losing value: the allure of her decaying flesh.”—excellent paragraph, very amusing.
“afraid of the controls that would be placed on their live should it be found”—-placed on their life
Very creative piece, the entire time I was reading it I was constantly trying to guess where you were taking it, and I constantly had my hypothesis proven wrong. With every twist and turn you enthrall the reader making him want more. I enjoyed how in the beginning you make the reader think the man is a simple drunk who enjoys getting laid, but then slowly allow the reader to realize he is more then that. The writing itself is very stylish, and enjoyable to read. The way you portray the inner cognitions of your characters is excellent, and even though the story is short the reader feels that to an extent he knows your characters. Other then the few comments I left in the beginning that seem to be simple edit mistakes I cannot think of any other corrections. Good job, and thanks for the pleasure your piece brought me.
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