Stalker 2B - #6
A futuristic virtual reality tale of odd droid attraction and circumstance.
“...In this VR fantasy session, you are Jenna,” the VR voice from the booth transically stated.
Jenna had OCD, and Tourette’s, it dominated her existence. Involuntarily, eternally, incessantly counting tile, drawers, the buttons on passerbyers outfits, the asbestos specks on the ceiling, the freckles on ones face, as well as counting, counting everything else, constantly touching door knobs, endlessly clapping, and relentlessly spinning around, ceaselessly twirling that hot pink scarf of hers she wore around her ponytail, always in twos. In addition to those ‘pleasures’, she would also, uncontrollably shriek and shout out the most vulgar of words, Exorcist-like, violently twisting her head when she would do so, again, and again, always in twos. “Ass Pussy Spunk Guzzler!! Ass Pussy Spunk Guzzler!!” Ironically, she was a single, perpetually solo, all of her current meals, were for one.
Jenna’s lawless, loud as fuck, subliminal, visually evasive rituals, usually took place in front of her khaki-colored life-less-life and her communist fashioned, flavorless, judgemental, snickering older model droid, coworkers, in a cream, promotion-less, taupe, perpetual office space of beige energy and beige microwavable food. Her cubicle was a cell of manilla folders, a 36 inch high ‘in’ basket and and 8 and a half inch ‘out’ basket with Top 40, 1980’s jazz muzak played way too loud, out of biscuit tinted corner speakers. She loathed droids, just as much she loathed working there, at that bland rendition of Haiti.
She had always hated droids, when Jenna was 16 her mother was murdered by one, one of the millions of civilians killed by one of the invisible stealth drone-droids from the last World War. The state had given Jenna a bossy, condescending Fem-droid to help raise her and look after her, in her own home, while she waited on foster parents, foster parents that never showed up, as her Tourette’s took a dive for the worse. For more than half her life, Jenna associated Tourette’s and droids with the worst time she had ever been through. Jenna had carried the sand bags of Tourette’s, the maiming wicked disease and her robot prejudice since then. Her dream was to be normal, and that all the bots would be infected with a virus and fuck off and cease to exist. The weight of her illness and her stinging hatred, hung on her frame like decomposing bodies and she always felt as if she was on the verge of bursting.
“Turtle-Heading Horn Snoggler! Turtle-Heading Horn Snoggler!” She was a slave to her Tourette’s jerking fidgeting, and chained to a tight and stale, bland life. Jogging on a drifting treadmill of nothingness, in a river of disappointment, with a clear recycled plastic bag over her head, surrounded by dagger like mirrors, all pointing, aimed at her vital zones.
Jenna was suffocating. Still she involuntarily, eternally, incessantly counted tile, drawers, the buttons on passerbyers outfits and asbestos specks on the ceiling, as well as everything else, constantly touching door knobs, endlessly clapping, and relentlessly spinning around, ceaselessly twirling the hot pink scarf of hers she wore around her ponytail, always in twos. Again, in addition to those pleasures, she would also, uncontrollably shriek and shout out the most vulgar of words, Exorcist-like, violently twisting her head when she would do so, again, and again, infinitely, forever, always in twos. “Shart Lathered Booger Burger!! Shart Lathered Booger Burger!!” On top of all of these actions, always, always in twos, she struggled in a ‘could-of-should-of-would-of world of regret, this was her endless, underwhelming railroad, she worked on and on, and on all the live long day, long, this was her prison, this was her seventh layer of hell. A sour-apple bottom, a worthless dime. A hot woman, dipped in striking curves, dashing looks and magnetic attraction, with a suicidal soul, bleeding steadily out of her lovely capsule. “Cock Gobbler Poop Squeegee!! Cock Gobbler Poop Squeegee!!”
The only thing that helped her feel vaguely real and human was her evening visit to her local dive cyber-lounge. She’d plug in for about an hour a day after work, from about 6-7 and she’d be in her own version of OCD VR, Virtual Reality heaven, in a gorgeous, glorious grocery store, enlightened, stocking colorful produce around dazzling displays, and up and down immaculate aisles of glossy, brand new boxes of cartoon hampered, ADHD enhanced sugary cereals and sparkling dew laden ruby red, red strawberries and cobalt blue detergent bottles with yellow caps and swirling heavy handfuls of now extinct organic rust dipped sweet potatoes and emerald juice filled pickle jars, cartons of decadent premium ice cream loaded down with whirling candy bar moose knuckle tracks and cans of beans with festive vintage backgrounds. Her Gods, Cap’n Crunch, Uncle Ben, Aunt Jemima, Betty Crocker, Paul Newman The Jolly Green Giant, Tony the Tiger and Little Debbie, just to name a few, the whole sanctified gang was all there.
This was her Queendom, where she was free of her ‘illness’, of ‘Ass Pussy Spunk Guzzlers’ and the perpetual fidgeting, this was her place, a calming chill place, where some cutie pie of a guy silently watched her stock with slightly obsessive adoration sitting patiently on the glistening clean floors, or following ‘sweetly’ behind her, quietly, harmlessly lusting after her. This place, her place, surrounded by the layered sounds of tranquil fluorescent light buzzing static white noise layered over the soothing echoes of a stormy rainforest, layered under orcas and dolphins singing comforting underwater lullabies. This was her VR world, she could have it her VR way.
She sighed. She’d give anything for that world, to be her real world. “Thoughts become things,” she sadly, yet hopefully exhaled the words as she tapped hopefully on her ear lobes and ran her fingers over her ponytail and her hot pink scarf in her hair, always in twos. “Pig Fucking Shit Waffle!! Pig Fucking Shit Waffle!!” Jenna unwillingly ejected and vomited this putrid statement from her mouth, in complete contrast from her more melancholy last words and disposition. “Thoughts become things.”
Her cyber-lounge had a gold glow twinkling from it’s icy center, 1000 amber whiskey bottles with warm stage lights behind them were delicately placed in towering columns lining the inside of the bar’s back drop, which was an open fogging massive freezer, creating a wispy cloud of cool vapor that crept and wrapped and clasped it’s airy clutch, around everything in the bar, like a spell from Middle Earth. Like staring at the sun’s rays swallowing cumulus nebulous on a savagely stormy day, the caramel bar, radiated a huge flush of genuine energy, a neon honey hive with an ethereal aura. The place was a buzz with divinity, it was too keen to have a name. Although ‘Divinity’ would have been a killer name for it.
The whiskey tasted like kerosene sweetened with the sugary nectar of summer sunshine. It was the only bar in town that served liquor and virtual reality. Although mostly all dim lit bars and clubs believe that they do. The bar owner bottled the sweet stuff in the middle of the bar. This was his dying, mysterious theater, wonderful world of whiskey making, surrounded by the pillars of the glowing gold liquor. His loves. His everything.
The bar owner, the one with the cute butt, the trusting, smiling eyes and brows, the trust fund left to him by his previous owner, the passion, the mild disposition, the motorcycle, also had a vast home-grown knowledge of whiskey making and motherfucking Superman dimples. He also was a humanoid. A rich robot (bitches!). He was cute! He turned and looked at Jenna and winked at her, at you, she blushed, you blushed. So cute.
His name was James. James was a workaholic, the bar was his life, and 9 times out of 10 you could find him there. He worked the cyber booths from 6:30-7:30 to take a break from his tedious whiskey duties, and give his VR bar / programmer and his mind a break...and to spy on virtual reality sessions of his customers. He had OCD too, (who doesn’t) when it came down to his whiskey, everything had to be perfect. Seeing, spying on the various, VR dreams and lives, made him laser focus on his life more, and what he could do to improve it. Spying on people’s minds also aided him in curing his gnawing anxiety. The spying it, it calmed his obsessive, perfectionist nature. This odd little thing, this habit of his, James, being a slight voyeur perv, looking in on his customer’s fantasies, their VR ‘seshes’, was the only thing that would help him cure these spikes of uneasy, antsiness in his chest, limbs and motherboard. He especially enjoyed Jenna’s, her VR ‘seshes’ were the best, which he usually caught the second half of.
He handed her a pair of VR viewers when she walked in. He was expecting her, as usual, “Here you go pretty,” his crush energy towards her was electric and palpable. He liked her, liked her-liked her, very much with a cherry on top, annoying OCD, barking Tourette’s and all. James found her beauty intoxicating, and her to be unbelievably interesting. He needed to understand how she worked. Just visualising her made him feel so vulnerable. He genuinely felt she could spice up his va-nilla tainted story. “Thank you,” she said taking the viewers from him, not noticing his eyes studying her. Jenna said, “Greasy Muff Snorting Nerfherder!! Greasy Muff Snorting Nerfherder!!”
Jenna ignored him completely, all though she counted the 7 buttons on his shirt and the beads on his buddhist bracelet, 25 to be exact, James was non-existent to her. Ignoring frigging people, this was a talent she had perfected from many, many years of pretending everyone she encountered was invisible due to their ill treatment of her due to her ‘illness’.
As soon as she got into her booth and placed her VR viewers on she knew today’s VR session was completely different than her u-sh, she went with it anyway. She needed a change. And if the session sucked she would ask for her credits back. She experimented, it was thrilling, fleeing away from her norm. Jenna had nothing to lose.
In this VR session everything was different. For starters, she was not a stocker in a brilliant grocery store stocking colorful, lovely stock. James was there, and she was boning him. She was violently smashing him, milking the fuck out of him. They were in a darkened hotel room of mirrors, Jenna banging James in a chair, facing away from him, her black dress dripped off of her, her hot pink scarf, her ponytail, smooshed his face, her scent, tickled, caressed him all over, he inhaled her, in an infinite room, an abyss of reflection. Their bouncing actions reverberated all over the room as she pounded her weight in to him. Rubbing his hands up and down on her heavy, heaving breast, Jenna made James repeat after her.
“Repeat after me, I love you. I love you. You are my everything. Everything.” Suddenly standing up, she got up and looked at him, an enduring, hungry look, blowing him a kiss before she left the room, a long, lasting, lanky corner of her whirling hot pink scarf took it’s time leaving the room.
He slunk down in his seat and slammed the back of his head into his cushioned chair, and sighed, “Dammmmmnnnn.” He fixed himself up, checking himself out in the walls of mirrors. A room of 1000 James’. Immediately he followed her into the darkened, completely black hallway.
He could still smell her sugary perfume and salty sex on him. Mmmmm her scent. He followed flickers of light to get himself free from the slim hotel space, and found himself outside, even though he really didn’t know how he got there. He looked around, he was on his block, everything was recognizable, he was literally on the street his bar was on, this was his stomping ground. He knew exactly where he was. What a relief. With great familiarity he moved about his town. She, Jenna was nowhere to be seen. He inhaled. All he had to follow her, was her scent. Mmmmm her scent. He headed left up the street.
He looked at the murky pastel coloring of the dusk brushed sky. Two planes buzzed overhead, one a sky writer, with poofy smoke that read, ‘I love you,’ another plane passed by with a banner that read,
‘You are my everything.’ And she was his everything, he thought this as he saw the ends of that hot pink scarf of hers blowing and stretched behind a corner. Suddenly from the surrendering skyscrapers Jenna’s head popped through one of the many windows, her curviness still swelling through the window, then another two Jennas popped randomly out of other windows. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing. He was thrilled to see so many Jennas, and beyond frightened at the same time, Then another two Jennas, and another two Jennas, and another two Jennas popped out of all the other windows and so on and so on, all dangling that hot pink scarf of hers now winding its way around her ponytail and her neck, all of this, all of her, out of all the motherfucking windows, shouting, “You are my everything! I love you!”
All the Jennas dropped the scarfs out the windows, they feathered out and down, cradling the gentle currents of the breeze, taking their time to rest on the chilly pavement, yet when the hot pink scarfs of hit the ground, they exploded with the force of 10 ton missiles. Massively destructive bombs of spectacular force, are exploding all around him, murderous shrapnel and chunks of brick and mortar are tumbling all about, in an instant he was in a war zone of a crushing magnitude, the world, his world was crumbling all around him. Seas of buildings fell before him in exultant waves, yet miracuously he was unscaved by the hot pink scarfs. Somehow, he knew he could not be injured or harmed in this VR world. And he wasn’t.
James covered his eyes, he inhaled, oh her scent ...he followed her deeper, and deeper into the concrete jungle. Blindly he was lead by her scent. James floated, he walked through an intersection, cars sped around him, blurry blocks of metallic fiberglass, the drivers were all shouting, were all screaming, all continuing the chant, “I love you, you are my everything.” An amphitheatre crowd of voluptuous bodies, all the same person, 1000 beautiful Jenna’s yelling, “I love you, I love you! You are my everything! You are my everything!”
Showy, attractive, fragrance, fashion, top models and lawyers on collosual imposing advertisements, superhuman hieroglyphic deities looked down on the city and melted into pleading, needy versions of her, that face, Jenna’s face; with that hot pink scarf of hers flowing in the distance. The matte cold, black bold Times New Roman font characters on the ads, letters and numbers, their addresses, their motos, their websites on the ads transmogrified into a graffiti of her color, her complexion, her body, her body parts and spelled out the words, ‘I love you, you are my everything!’
Still he chased after her, he couldn’t stop himself, every person he passed on the street embodied some lovely, juicy little part of her, all adorned in that hot pink scarf of hers. The silky hot pink fabric scarfed up the town, like a rosy glossy paint consuming the town in one swallow like a velvety blob. He ran so fast, not knowing if he was going in the right direction, he ran, ran, and ran, he didn’t know if he was running towards her or from her, or if he still wanted her or if he was he frightened of her, he ran and ran, looking back only catching the last word on an ad boundlessly duplicating itself, in Jenna's exact creamy bronze skin tone, the phrase, ‘Everything. Everything. Everything. Every…’ and that’s when he saw her, his love, his thing.
She was standing in front of the only tree on the block, the only tree, on a darkened, decaying street, the landscape of heavy hanging clouds of grey and black morphed into terrifying twosomes of troubling twisters, clusters of tornadoes, that hovered low in the sky, menacing shadows hunted him, hurricanes of buildings hurtled around Jenna and James, in the eye of the storm. Their souls and hair blew all around them hectically. In the chaos of this rapture, Jenna and James were wolfed down whole, gobbled up into a canopy of hot pink Pepto-bismol. James unable to breathe, unable to inhale, was drowning in a drain of boiling liquid hot pink, yet he still reached for Jenna. James couldn’t stop himself, Jenna comforted him, smiled at him, and kissed him on the forehead and whispered, “Wake...up.”
His eyes flashed wide open, his pupils were watering fountains, yet in an instant were completely bone dry. “Hey, wake up. I think, my VR code was totally wrong or maybe that machine is malfunctioning.” He took his shades off to wipe his watering eyes, at which point she said, “Gasp,” she said the word just before she actually gasped, which is ridiculously hard to do, as she finally recognized him, his face. James.
“You were in my VR dream. Slutty Douche Canoe Pirate! Slutty Douche Canoe Pirate!” she giggled.
“I was?” he said, knowing he was.
“You were,” she said.
She paused and stared at him for a beat. “Crusty Smega Rag Muncher! Crusty Smega Rag Muncher! I usually order Stocker 2B, and this was something else. Entertaining, most definitely odd.”
He grabbed her viewers, and synced them with his. Oh, I see our programmer entered your code wrong. Stalker 2B. You normally order Stocker 2B. I know you like to stock. I saw one of your VR’s programs by accident when we were enhancing our system last year.”
“Oh, I don’t care,” Jenna said, finally flirting back with him, she touching then grabbing his forearm. She grabbed it twice. His arm brought her to life, the feel of his warm, welcoming skin, the prickly sprouting hair on his arm, the rigid muscle beneath, made her tingle. Mmmm touching, she thought, she couldn’t remember the last time she touched a person. A real person.
“You like stocking?” He asked her already knowing the answer to the question.
“Butterface Maggot Loaf Eater! Butterface Maggot Loaf Eater! “ Yup. I’d love to do it for a living. Stocking that is. Somewhere just chill and peaceful. I’m stuck in my current 9 to 5 though.”
“Oddly enough, I have a 1st life position available, here in my bar, the money’s good and I’ve been looking for a person, a real person, I can pass on my passion and legacy to. I could pass that legacy on to you, I could teach you about whiskey, the history, what it takes to create my whiskey, whiskey craftsmanship. You’ll be my stockperson and my apprentice. If you are interested?”
“I don’t usually make decisions like this so rash, but I’m in. “Circle Jerking Taint Fuck! Circle Jerking Taint Fuck!”
“You can start now. Come along, follow me,” he said.
“Sure,” she said, as he quickly traded places with the scheduled programmer, who was back from his break. The nerdy, soft spoken programmer attempted to tell James that the booth Jenna just exited was the broken one. The one that blended one’s subconscious with random elements, including the programmers. The broken booth should have been labeled Out of Order and should have not been used. They both ignored him, as James pulled Jenna away toward the glowing bar.
“Okay,” he said hopping over the bar, signaling for her to do the same, which she did clumsily, needing a little too much help from him getting on and off of the bar, James looked as if he was helping an oversized baby. As Jenna made it to the other side she basked in the glow of the bottles, that lit her up like a Egyptian goddess. She immediately counted 292 bottles. Perhaps he was right, she thought, maybe this place could be her new Queendom.
“Meat Curtain Motorboat Nazi! Meat Curtain Motorboat Nazi!” I’ve always wanted to be behind here,” she said, her hands gripping and then patting the gorgeous horizontal detail on the repurposed old cathedral door, which was a part of his bar.
“Me too,” he said. “I mean, I’m glad to get the help. Have you here. Have you here. Have you here. Have you here. Have you here.” He said as he lightly tapped his temple. James the Droid was malfunctioning. He was bugging out. He could feel a slight breakdown, his brain circuits felt short. He cleared his throat, maybe she didn’t notice. She did. A happy thought torpedoed through Jenna’s head, Yey! He has a splash of Tourette’s...too. She relaxed deeper than she would have around some other ordinary stranger, and made the decision, that James was someone she could finally be herself around.
“G-g-g-g-glad to have you here. Welcome.” James stuttered the sentence out awkwardly. Shit! James was still malfunctioning. He was a hot ass mess. He smiled at her as she clapped and spun around, twirled around twice. “Follow me,” he led her into the middle of the bar, where the warmth of the lights were cancelled out and chilled out by the arctic nucleus of the icy cool freezer.
Guiding her, before him, ahead of him, he checked out her ass. “Ladies first,” he smirked, like the Cheshire Cat taking her all in, he put his hand on her lower back, just above her side swaying hips, he inhaled her, mmmmm, visually, that hot pink scarf of hers, as he propelled her to where he stocked the bulk of his flavorful, colorful booze. Jenna walked into the icy mirrored room of liquor, as James savagely sucked down her body and her curious and naive demeanor. He salaciously licked his lips like LL and sneakily slinked that hot pink scarf of hers down her back and into the deep bowels of his jeans back pocket the attitude of a snake.
“It’s a bit brisk back here,” she touched her neck, in search of something, she patted her ponytail, her scarf it was gone! That hot pink scarf of hers. She couldn’t have lost it today, it’s was like her favorite thing, she thought, not knowing James had it in his possession. It was her silky history, her DNA, it kept her feeling grounded, peacefully secure and cozy, like it was the only thing in her world that was truly was under her control. Her pout turned into fretting and then grew into an immensely heated, pulsating panic attack. Poor Jenna continued to keep reaching for the scarf, patting and patting the back of her neck, hungrily grasping for it. “Gushing Cum Jelly Donut! Gushing Cum Jelly Donut! I lost my fucking scarf!”
“I know. I know. I know. I-” James said, whispering softly, under his breath, as he tucked the scarf deeper and deeper into his back pocket, before vigorously ripping it out of his pocket glamorously and presented it to her. “I literally just saw it on my floor, I was wondering how such a thing would get back there.”
“I wear it in my hair,” Jenna said trapped in his handsome eyes, not feeling her natural thud of Tourette’s throbbing through her veins momentarily.
“Here, let me put it in for you,” he said, not waiting for a response, James was already walking behind up her to do so. Jenna allowed him to tie the scarf on her ponytail, her fem-colored half-yard of self-confidence, she felt as if he had given her power back, when in fact he had somehow already stolen it. She hadn’t even noticed.
“Now let me introduce you,” he fancied his hands up above one of the pyramid towers of the frosty whiskey bottles, and bit at his lower lip, drinking her all in, getting drunk off her curvations, trailing her the same way a hungry camouflaged lion would stalk a clueless furry house mouse. James prepared to devour her in every way imaginable, “These are my babies, my creations, my whiskey. My loves. My everything.” She belonged to him now, forever an alluring servant to him in his Kingdom, the broken computer thought.
“Dingleberry Pie-Eating Fucktard! Dingleberry Pie-Eating Fucktard!” Jenna squawked, she was so overjoyed to have found a job that suited her, with a real boy at that. A man, that liked her, an intelligent business owner. Her Mom would have been stoked for her, Jenna daydreamed about a chipper future for just one quick flash.
“My love. M-M-M-M-My Everything,” James said to Jenna, gazing at the pretty booze then at her, glitching again he could feel all of his previous obsessions liquefying into her...or was that a glitch. Either way neither Jenna or James felt more alive.
You have 10 seconds to continue this VR fantasy session. Please enter more credits to continue this VR fantasy session, press A to continue as Jenna, press B to continue as James…
...3, 2, 1...You are no longer Jenna. End fantasy.