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Portions of this story may be used in short critical reviews. Reproduction, in whole or in part, for commercial purposes is strictly prohibited. *** WARNING: This story contains coarse language, descriptions of activities that may be forbidden by law(s), and adult situations. It is intended for a mature audience only. All references to actual people, places or things were employed intentionally and for satirical or artistic purposes. *** This story contains the abbreviated form of the pressure group 'PETA'. For those unfamiliar, this acronym stands for 'People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals. I also realise that there is a distinction between porpoises and dolphins. I chose the more familiar latter term to describe the same animal you'd see watching the old TV show 'Flipper'. SLOW PLANE TO AUCKLAND By Jacquie Windsor APRIL 2004 Too many teardrops for one heart to be cryin' Too many teardrops for one heart to carry on You're way on top now Since you left me You're always laughin' Way down at me But watch out now I'm gonna get there We'll be together For just a little while And then I'm gonna put you Way down here And you'll start cryin' Ninety-six tears Cry Cry ? and the Mysterians The last band from Flint, MI ever to have a Top 40 radio hit?circa 1966 I. Hawkley Smoot was ready to do something right drastic. The traffic on the way to his job at the office was terrible. To top it off there was a construction site on the lane ahead. The Ethics Ministry was erecting a seven-storey office on land it appropriated from several small businesses?forcing them into exile on Pariah Island, some eight miles out in the foggy gulf carved between the capital city and the rest of the state. Just in the lane ahead, as Smoot revved the motor impatiently, one of those big cranes lifted a six tonne slab of pre-formed concrete up into the air. It was straight over a private citizen's car when the cable snapped, sent the work in process into a nose-dive that cut the car in half, killed two of its occupants outright, and started a small fire. "Fucking union job, I bet," snarled Charlie. Charlie was sitting in the front passenger seat of Smoot's late-model AMC "Gethsemane", a gutless piece of machinery that had been bought as a stop-gap measure until Smoot had enough money to buy a better car. He had his eye and his heart set on the new Ford "Naugahyde" ? a racier sports car that all the better people drove. "No shit it's a union job," agreed Smoot. He turned to Charlie and grimaced. Both men worked at Geo-Tastix Inter-Modal, a private firm specialising in some kind of third-party product for export to China for final assembly. Neither Charlie nor Smoot understood quite what the product was, although Charlie had been doing metals engineering safety test design work on it. Through heavy bureaucratic interference, many American firms had been compelled to implement not just safety tests, but also tests to determine which safety tests were the safest. Smoot's own business card proclaimed that he was a consultant. He carried a laptop to work, wore a business suit with a necktie, walked crisply through the corridors at the office, and had absolutely no idea what his job really was. Nevertheless, he urgently read every e-mail and memo crossing his desk (or his desktop) and replied within a prescribed time. And there were meetings. There were finance meetings. Health and safety meetings. Consolidation meetings. Agenda-setting meetings. Human resource issue meetings. Consulting meetings. Smoot had made a mistake once. He asked to see the minutes of the previous meeting of one of the committees he sat on. That error won him a visit to the VP of Communications and External Supplementation. Just think of a vice-principal of a high school. That's what the VP- CommExSupp was like. "We don't keep minutes as per the constitutional challenge of Wisconsin vs. Peak-M-Up Note Pads, Inc. You should know that, Smoot. It was in the memo of, um, yes, here it is." Then the VP-CommExSupp lowered his voice and intensified his stare: "And Smoot, I have here your receipt as 'Read And Filed'. You DID file your memoranda properly, didn't you Smoot?" It would have been insane to protest. Smoot had pretended to suddenly remember a squash date he had with an unnamed co-worker and left the veep's office intact. II. The traffic jam near the new Ethics Ministry site cleared up as the fire died down and a group of disinterested union types collected the ashes of the burned-out car and allowed everyone to proceed. Even as Smoot passed them, a government commissar was on hand?armed to the teeth with six different types of weapons?to prevent any lawyer from interfering with the job at hand. Sixteen lawyers a year, on the average, lost their lives when attempting to file suits on behalf of victims like the ones in the car. The government had no qualms about kneeling to the whims of the unions, regardless of human or economic cost. Right in front of the GTIM office, a glass and steel structure huddled among all the other downtown towers, Smoot elbowed Charlie in the ribs and pointed at a dishevelled gang of protesters. Their signs read "Stop Animal Testing". "Shee-it, Charlie, lookit that! Dumb hippies don't remember they got rid of animal testing about 14 years ago. What a waste of skin!" "Hey, it's not all bad," observed Charlie. "Those dudes there make $1,500 a week protesting causes?no matter what. And you had to ask me once what that 'Cause Tax' was for on your paycheque!" "Damn. I can't fucking buy a break," Smoot complained. "And they get theirs dished out like rutabaga surprise." "For what those dudes make," added Charlie, "they ain't no rutabagas in that diet. It's all rhino horn stew for them." "Hope they fucking choke on it," Smoot grumbled. III. The elevator guard let them inside. He escorted them along the route to the stairs. "What's up with the elevator?" asked Charlie. "Maintenance," offered the guard. He was one of those guys who never said more than one word unless he had to. So Charlie and Smoot didn't ask any further. To save their breath for the 12-storey climb to their workspace. The 12th floor was festooned with balloons and banners. "It's A Surprise!" "Pour La Sante!" "There's A Spectre Haunting Europe!" Ridiculous. Charlie left for his spot in the land of ergonomically-designed desks, curved surfaces that defied most logic?formed out of coloured plastics? out of sorts with the orthogonal nature of the building?Charlie had always said that round pegs were, indeed, made to fit into square holes. The Double-Plus Furniture Corporation, with ample federal incentives, was able to contract out enormous quantities of peculiar chairs, desks, lamps, and space dividers. In turn, GTIM got a generous infusion of cash each year it forced its employees to sit in beanbag swivel chairs. And such. Smoot figured the day's celebratory atmosphere was due to someone getting a promotion. He'd forgotten that his birthday was today. It coincided with the same day Henry David Thoreau was imprisoned so long ago. As he rounded the corner, there stood his well-kempt consultant group, led by the mononymic Rashid, a garrulous Asian with nothing but praise for the corporation and nothing but contempt for work of any kind. He was a representative of the Unaffiliated Gay Homosexual Service, a federal bureau especially created to bring business life to heel in light of any particular fetish that happened to make newspaper headlines that week. But Rashid wielded almost inhuman power in shaping policy at GTIM?without him the federal support would blow away and everyone there would have to quit and find real jobs. "What's going on?" asked Smoot. "Why, honey, it's your BIRTHDAY," Rashid announced. "Happy Number Thirty to YOU." Right in front of everyone, Rashid grabbed the reluctant Smoot and placed his lips smack together with the consultant's. For what seemed like three hours, Rashid plunged his tongue straight into Smoot's mouth, unleashing some sort of spice-ridden, fish-like, garlicky, tobacco-free odour that the reluctant employee accepted with remarkable stoicism. As if the deep deep kiss wasn't enough, Rashid grabbed Smoot's ass and half-pretended to insert his finger into the birthday boy's ass. The rustle of polyester to polyester lasted too long, screaming in Smoot's brain over the noisy crowd celebrating his thirtieth year on Earth. "Ugh," scowled Smoot, finally able to wrest himself from Rashid's enthusiasm. "Now Smooty dear," teased Rashid, "you oughtn't be naughty about it or maybe it's another visit to the VP-CommExSupp. You don't want that, I hope to God!" "Naw," shrugged Smoot. "But couldn't you at least try a mouthwash once in a blue moon?" "I do use a mouthwash," cried the falsely indignant Rashid. "What? You don't enjoy 'Eau De Poisson'? I declare you Barbarian. For you are as insensitive as a mule! Shame! And?Happy Birthday!" IV. On the ride home, Smoot unhappily shared his birthday experience with Charlie. "Oh, I know what you must have gone through. We ourselves had a little visit from the Poetry & Sensitivity Commissar." "I wish! P&S is the sweetest!" Smoot practically shrieked. "Didn't you tell me there was some fox running that thing?" "Yeah?Xaviera Juarez y Something-Or-Other. Long black hair. This real tight skirt that had to be painted on. And those luscious tits that just don't quit." "Lucky bastard," Smoot growled. "I get the ravishing Rashid tongue- kissing me and you get Miss Chiquita Con Carne reading you fucking poetry." "It's not as cool as it seems," smirked Charlie. "It was all in Portuguese or something?couldn't understand a word of it." Smoot shook his head in annoyance. The annoyance wasn't just at the contented grin crossing Charlie's mug. The gridlock on the interstate was unbearable. Since the accession of the Demopublican governor, two of the freeway's three lanes were reserved for paid-up members of the Social Organisation For Teamwork?a vague political action group responsible for most of the crazy policies that Smoot felt were destroying America. Ordinary citizens crowded into single bumper-to- bumper traffic on one lane while the lobbyists and leftists cruised past in hybrid cars that looked like they belonged in a Disney cartoon. The sour taste in his mouth wasn't just 'Eau De Poisson'. Without warning, Smoot snapped and lurched the vehicle into one of the nearly empty lanes reserved for the socialists. He shushed Charlie's feeble protests and ordered him to think about the Poetry chick's boobs or something else. "I know it's a risk but it's just five clicks to the exit. If I stayed in the other lane we'd be on the highway until dark, practically." Smoot had calculated the risks of getting caught and made his move. Within minutes they were off the freeway and onto the suburban boulevard where each man had their own apartment. They'd gotten away with it, Smoot was sure. V. The next day at work, Smoot's superior asked to see him. Hank Collinsworth was an old boy from the same good college that Smoot had attended. Although twenty years his senior, the boss stuck to the same kind of conservative values as most of his staff, including Smoot, in spite of an increasing awareness that the government types were rapidly ruining the firm. Flanking him in the office were two people who looked to Smoot, suspiciously, like the same hippie kids he'd seen yesterday waving signs for free government handouts. No wonder he still lived in a cheap old bachelor apartment. The piercings, tattoos and long hair kept Smoot wondering, almost aloud until he bit down on his tongues, if one kid or the other was male or female. Even though one of them had a soul patch he couldn't yet verify their genders. "Smoot. This is Anne and this is Greg. They're from the Data Collection Group." The DCG was a well-known government bureau which had overseen the commandeering of military satellites for the purpose of tracking ordinary citizens. "I'll take over, old man," beamed Greg, the one with the soul patch. He threw a batch of digitally-enhanced overhead images taken from an orbiting satellite. Clearly, there was a picture of Smoot's car in the reserved lane. Several photographs, actually. "You punks use satellite technology to catch violators?" demanded Smoot. "No wonder my deductions are bigger than my take-home pay. Whatever happened to good old motorcycle cops hiding behind billboards?" "We don't trust the cops," smiled Anna, brushing aside her hair along with Smoot's indignation. "Yeah, but this is ludicrous," Smoot scowled, looking over at his boss to confirm his annoyance. "What a complete waste of tax dollars. And what a complete perversion of my rights as an American." Greg shifted in his seat, scratching his ear. "Well, the way we see it, anyone who's voted for the Republicrats his whole life, it seems, well, wouldn't have too much left you could call 'rights'." "Left. Rights," giggled Anna. "Fact is, you're busted, Smoot." "Wait a second," argued the consultant. "How the fuck do you people know how I voted? It's a secret ballot." "We're from the DCG," answered Greg. "We collect data. That's what we do. We know a lot more about your eccentricities than we could list here. Our MilDefSats are trained on you twenty-four-seven, along with a few other of your type." The pair of hippie kids got up, stuffed the photos into their backpacks, and left. As they did, Anna handed him a pink receipt?an 'invitation' to attend a Sensitivity Training Class that evening. "Isn't there something you can do about this?" Smoot asked Hank. "Not much, I'm afraid. I'm hanging by a thread anyhow. They took my wife on the occasion of our twenty-fifth anniversary, remember? Since those laws banning marital fidelity as a perversion, I've been a suspect too." "When are people going to wake up and smell the communists?" Smoot pondered aloud. He thought, too, about Nancy Collinsworth, Hank's attractive trophy wife and high-school sweetheart. She was still quite a catch?even in her mid-forties?a curvy brunette with big boobs and a nice round ass. She certainly didn't make Hank look too bad in spite of his balding head and growing belly. "They traded her, so to speak, for a motorcycle mama that I can't take anywhere. She won't go to the spa or the gym either. She's almost inhuman. I hate going home from work any more." "Where's Nancy then?" asked Smoot. "Oh, it's terrific," Hank replied. "They hitched her up with some PETA types. Three guys. Said something about needing to expand her horizons into group sex and communal life." Smoot created an unkind mental image of Nancy getting gang-banged by earthy men?imprisoned for a crime unthinkable just a few years earlier. "If it's any consolation, Smoot, Sensitivity groups aren't all that bad. I heard they've got some adorable chiquita reading poetry up in Testing." They both laughed. VI. The appointment time arrived and Smoot had dutifully reported to the old Ethics Ministry building in the downtown core. The biggest office tower in town, it had been appropriated from the Mutual Insurance Company when their directors were purged. Special Auditors, appointed by several political action groups with no financial experience outside of a fondness for 'environmental accounting', successfully proved that the insurance companies had not sufficiently addressed the rights of endangered species. Under the authoritarian auspices of the sweeping Bio-Ethics Act, all the insurance companies were held liable for failing to insure individual animals that had been put at risk. As insolvency loomed for insurance providers of all sizes, the Bio-Ethics Act was expanded to include species that had vanished even before the arrival of mankind on earth, including the Australopithecus, Cro-Magnon Man and other advanced primates. It was the final nail in the coffin. Smoot noted wryly that the elevators worked in the Ministry's stolen building, too. He went up to the suites held by the Sensitivity Commission and its staff. He hoped surreptitiously that the fetching Xaviera would be there?at least it would make the penalty more palatable. To his dismay, he found Rashid in the waiting room. "Tut-tut," Rashid clucked. "Not you," groaned Smoot. "I was expecting Xaviera What's-Her-Tits." Rashid grinned insolently. "You aren't here for poetry, honey. That's Poetry And Sensitivity. This is the Sensitivity Commission. They're two totally different things." Smoot's confusion was obvious and obviously understandable. Several government committees, commissions and departments used the adjective in their acronyms. A solitary sign hung on the waiting room wall amid perplexing 'community art'. Since the art schools were busily churning out hordes of untalented and puerile painters, sculptors, mimes and street performers, the Demopublicans hired them en masse to create 'art' that wouldn't fetch a nickel at a yard sale. The news channels once reported that a street performer got a $300,000 government for her performance of "Aggravated Salad". In that 'piece', she sat in a fancy restaurant and ate her greens with a spoon instead of a fork. The sign amid the ugly swirls of affected art demanded in large block letters: 'HOW DO YOU FEEL TODAY?' "Like I give a fuck," Smoot mumbled. "What? I didn't hear that," said Rashid. "Oh, Hawkley, don't worry. It's all recorded and we'll unscramble it with some little piece of technology we inherited from the CIA. Then maybe you'll learn to keep your bad opinions under wraps." The big ethnic man soon invited Smoot to join him along to a small room equally defaced with 'art'. A short man, as always indistinguishable from a hippie or a street performer, offered the consultant a glass of water and three tablets. "Swallow these," he said. "Is this necessary for 'sensitivity'?" snorted Smoot. "You hippies can't do anything free and above board, hey? It's always drugs and brain-dead policies for you, ain't it?" "What. Ever." The hippie staff member spoke the single word as though it were two, in the manner of valley girls and dolts. Smoot reluctantly took the pills and swallowed them down with the water. He fell backwards into Rashid's waiting arms, was lifted onto a flat table, and passed out within seconds. VII. The consultant came too on his back, covered by a knitted quilt. "You have been branded a Free Enterprise Criminal," came a voice from somewhere. "You have thusly been sentenced and everything." Smoot blinked uneasily. There was clearly something wrong. Everything on his body felt wrong, as though wax covered his entire form. He blinked and felt a wisp of long hair covering his forehead and both cheeks. He lifted his arm to brush it away. As he did, his arm rubbed skin, and a terrifying sensation of lust gripped him. "What?" he said. Yet the voice he heard escaping his lips was a mere peep. A soft and feminine voice. Like the sweet sirens who sang love songs on the forbidden private radio stations he listened to when he tired of the endless drivel of socially conscious programmes dominating both AM and FM airwaves. Congress had outlawed most popular music in favour of drab and uninspiring folk songs, or wailing experimental jazz that sounded like drowning cats, or tripe from a previous millennium like John Lennon's maudlin imperatives about what he might 'imagine'. "Free Enterprise ?" he started. He had to stop again. It wasn't his voice. It sounded so soft and sexy. He put his arm back down and tried to get his bearings. Again, the inside of his bicep touched flesh and he felt a surge of sexuality he wasn't aware he had. "Take it easy for a few minutes," came the voice. "You need to relax and adjust. To be sensitive. That's what this is about, after all." Smoot felt somewhat relieved. "As part of your Free Enterprise Expurgation Treatment," rasped the voice, "we have had to create certain social enhancements for you." "Like what?" wondered Smoot. "Like this," answered the voice. Smoot wasn't even aware he'd said that out loud. The quilt was drawn away and the consultant was raised to a sitting position on the edge of the sensitivity table. When Smoot looked down, prepared to lift himself onto the floor, he noticed the hair falling into his eyes and a set of the largest breasts he'd ever seen protruding from his chest. And the floor seemed farther away. He almost had to jump down. "What the fuck?" he squeaked. "You persisted in your bad ways," announced the voice, "and so you have become punished as a free-enterpriser. To put it simply, we've decided you should have a sex change." "What?" "From now on you'll be Holly, not Hawkley. We think it's a bit more appropriate for you." Holly scowled at the surgeon, focusing well enough to see he was the same fellow who'd gotten Smoot to eat the pills. "From now on, you can make your living with your body, just like all Republicrats think about women anyhow." "I never did," squeaked Holly. "I am an unmarried man, for Christ's sake. I don't even qualify for violating the Marital Fidelity Law." "You vote wrong and you drive wrong. That's enough to suspect all sorts of things about you, Holly," sneered the hippie doctor. "Now you'll learn all kinds of sensitivity and correctness of thought. The hard way. You're now just a five-foot-three strawberry blonde with 32G boobs and a tight round ass." Holly grabbed her breasts and felt the thrill running through her body. "These things must be twenty pounds! Why doesn't my back hurt? I doubt I should be able to support them." "Funny thing about Carpathian Tungsten Alloy?it strengthens anything, even a spine. Yes, Holly, you'll be able to bounce around for hours without any problem at all." VIII. The next day, Holly got the unhappy news from Rashid that her consultant job had been given to somebody else?somebody less distracting to the co-workers than, as he put it, 'some white trash with obscene boobs and a bad driving record'. As Holly spoke with the non-governmental organisation crony, she saw her termination notice arriving on Smoot's fax line in the apartment. She unpacked the two suitcases provided by the Sensitivity Department after her sex change and reluctantly removed Smoot's clothes to make way for her new wardrobe. She even unpacked an array of cosmetics and cleared an area on the bathroom counter to set the little containers. She wondered what she was going to do. The termination cheque, and her IRA, would scarcely last more than half a year. Without Smoot's resume there wasn't much chance of getting another consulting job. Maybe there was something in the classifieds that would get her by until she figured out what to do with her life. Her thirties were starting out badly. Among the things packed into the Government Issue suitcases was a collection of compact discs. Each one was marked as a subliminal recording ? oddly so, since Holly had enough sense to know that a true subliminal recording wouldn't come with a warning label. Each wrapper likewise proclaimed that it was PETA-approved, with the frowning seal pup logo: 'None of these products were tested on animals.' "How could they be?" wondered Holly. "How can you hypnotise a baby seal?" Each tape was designed to help her dress properly in her new wardrobe, to simplify the difficult application of make-up, and to provide direction for simple hair-dos. The band playing over top of the messages was 'Apathetic Devastation '? one of the noisiest group of thugs ever funded by tax dollars. Holly remembered how much she hated the two dozen new payroll deductions for various cultural ministries that peppered the new government. In spite of the tapes, it still took Holly just about three hours to get ready, even if it was merely to pick up a newspaper. But, with a fresh complexion, a simple fluffy do held in place with barrettes, and a black tank top with pink stars stitched over her nipples, she felt confident and sexy enough to venture outside. The short white skirt, embroidered with silvery sequins, massaged Holly's hips, and she teetered on a pair of 3 1/2 inch black pumps on the way to the newspaper vending machine. She grinned appropriately at the several glances she received. The tingling in her breasts never really seemed to go away. Although constantly aware that she was still Smoot in a petite but top-heavy frame, she found the attentions of men to be exciting and even emotionally fulfilling. At least she looked like a woman. She'd heard of early experiments that left the subjects in a stasis somewhere between male and female. Holly picked up the paper and went back inside. She immediately went to the professional want ads and was dismayed by the results. Most of the jobs were Sensitivity Approved. A blurb explained that SA jobs were explicitly out for anyone who had a criminal record or a government- imposed sex change. "I should've looked at these ads before," Holly cried silently. "They're offering piles more money for consultants than I was getting at GTIM." Tucked among the hundreds of SA careers was a small black and white piece of text that brought a sudden hope into Holly's heart: "Changed into a girl against your will? Or suffering from the effects of a governmental inquiry? Or charged with tax avoidance? HAVE WE GOT A JOB FOR YOU!!!!" Holly thought the fourth exclamation mark was a bit much. "Call 555-3591 to get a fair kick at the can. You owe it to yourself. DON'T DELAY!!!!" Again?four exclamation marks. Holly would have been convinced to call with only two of them. IX. Holly navigated through an automated phone messaging system until she got to a service representative from the enigmatic company calling itself SPC Personnel. She was invited to a live interview. Charlie had called while she was on the phone. She listened to the urgent message. "Smoot?or Holly?whoever you are today. Listen, I am in a great deal of trouble right now. I-I-I don't know what to do. Call. Please." Holly figured Charlie's panic would go away. She had an interview to attend. She searched through the closet of clothes and found nothing in there appropriate for a job interview. Everything was tight, or low- cut, or garish, or all three. Ultimately she decided on a slippery blue top, with impossible spaghetti straps, that clung to her big breasts and forced them together to create a deep fleshy valley visible to anyone. The fabric left almost nothing to the imagination; her large nipples poked right through as Holly smoothed the top and looked at herself in a wall mirror. She picked out a stretchy orange skirt after strapping on a garter belt and fishnet stockings. Once her black shoes were in place, lifting her heels another four inches off the floor, Holly shrugged and figured her selection of clothing was too sluttish if anything. But with the interview time looming there wasn't much she could do about it. "Besides," she mumbled, "there's not much other to pick from. Tube tops?" Holly fixed her make-up and hair, admiring the hot chick in the bathroom mirror ? one that Hawkley Smoot might have drooled over but never managed to talk into his bed. The SPC Personnel building was a low cinder-block structure on the way out of town. Holly parked the car and went inside. "Good day, young lady," said a kind female voice. "Are you here for an interview, sweetheart?" Holly gave the file number provided by the telephone conversation earlier in the day and the receptionist found the necessary paperwork in a file folder on the desk. "Is that a handgun in a shoulder holster?" Holly wondered aloud as the middle-aged lady handed the folder over. "Oh this old thing?" smiled the receptionist. "I thought handguns had been outlawed," Holly said. "How did you manage to get one?" "Here at SPC Personnel," answered the woman, "we believe in Satyagraha and other means of non-violent protest." Holly ignored the inherent contradiction of Gandhi's philosophy and carrying a weapon: "But Satyagraha is sort of a religious thing, isn't it? I thought the government frowned on that too." "You're a smart little thing, aren't you?" grinned the receptionist. "Boobs and brains ? is that your story?" She pointed at a couple of blank lines on the papers contained in the opened file folder. "Why don't you just sign right here and leave the mystical Oriental religion stuff to us professionals. We'll need your former signature there." She pointed at the top line. "And your new girly name right there underneath." Holly signed 'Hawkley Smoot' on the first line and then a simple 'Holly' on the next line. It felt wrong to write 'Holly Smoot'. "Since you're such a curious little thing," continued the woman, "Eastern religions are allowed under the New Age Ordinances. It's just the Christian churches that the authorities had to close. Synagogues too." The receptionist guided Holly to a blank screen where a camera was set up to point at a stool. "What's this all for?" asked the busty blonde. "It's for your SPC Personnel Employment Card," explained the lady. "You'll need a new ID card if you want to work for us. Your own driver's licence is probably a little bit out-of-date, anyhow, given your present circumstances." "Oh," Holly nodded innocently. "Does that mean I passed the interview? Did I get the job or what?" "Not yet, sweetie. Now sit up straight on the stool and look right at my hand here while I take your photo." Five minutes later, her picture was processed and laminated onto an ID card bearing a magnetic stripe and a sixteen-digit code on the front. "It says Holly Dirnebauer on here. My last name is, I mean was, Smoot. Not Dirnebauer." "Dirnebauer sounds a little better, I thought," said the receptionist. "So I just took the liberty of entering it into the Central Data System for you." Holly was a little irked at all this taking of liberties going on in her life these days. Nevertheless, she followed the woman's beckoning to a large and sterile room, refreshingly devoid of all the so-called artwork that pervaded most public and commercial buildings. She sat down on a seat that was offered her and waited a short few minutes before the interviewer was to arrive. The interviewer was a stocky fellow in a casual business suit, the sort of guy that Smoot might have gone golfing or bowling with. "My name's Walter Ferris," he greeted her warmly, pressing his hand to hers in a sincere and gentle handshake. "And you're Holly Dirnebauer, now, I hear." She nodded. He pulled out a cigarette pack and lit one. Holly stared curiously. "You?you're smoking in a public building," she cried. "That's illegal I thought." "Not here at SPC Personnel," Walter countered. "You want one?" When she was Hawkley, she had enjoyed an occasional puff in moments of anxiety, so Holly reached across the broad desk and picked up the pack. It bore most of the familiar, if now banned, logo and coloration of Winston cigarettes. But it also had a line drawing of Superman, leaping as in flight, holding a lit cigarette between two fingers, crying 'Winston! Fumo Liscio!'. "What are these? Spanish cigarettes or something?" asked Holly. "Italian, to be truthful," answered the interviewer. "Since the Tobacco Prohibition Act was adopted you can't sell American smokes." "I thought the TPA was a United Nations thing. Didn't it affect every country?" asked Holly. "Oh. Italy's exempt. You see, and it's a funny story, that Mussolini had bought up the European marketing rights for Superman from DC Comics in the old old days. And the UN has this funny rule that any European Union products showing a copyrighted American cartoon character can be exported without penalty." "But wouldn't kids wind up thinking that if Superman smokes then they can too?" Holly challenged. "You'd think that," agreed Walter. "But we didn't come here to discuss international law today, Holly. We came here to talk about a job offer." "Oh right," smiled Holly. She exhaled the smoke from her lit cigarette and crossed, then re-crossed, her legs. X. "I'll be blunt with you, Miss Dirnebauer. We run a sex and pornography business here at SPC. You certainly have the looks our customers and audience want." Before he could continue, a knock on the door rattled Holly's suddenly less cheerful attitude. "What is it Ms. Kay?" Walter demanded. "Just a phone message from somebody named Charlie for Holly here. It sounded like he was underwater or on a cell phone in a tunnel. Or something. He sounded pretty excited about something." "Did he leave a number?" asked Holly. "No," answered the receptionist. "He said you'd know how to reach him." "Great. I don't know how to reach him. That's the problem. Well, one of the problems. It seems I have two problems now." Holly was mildly despondent. What the hell was his old work mate up to? "That will be all, Ms. Kay," interrupted Walter. "You may leave. I am sure there's something to do up front." "Well," shrugged the woman. "I was just so kind of curious. Is Holly hired?" "Shoo," intoned Walter, making a brushing motion with his cigarette hand and blowing a nasty cloud of smoke her way. "We're still negotiating." After the receptionist departed, Walter turned his attention back to the foxy blonde sitting in his office. "Holly. We have dozens of exciting and lucrative possibilities for a young lady with your obvious assets. I mean big lips, big hair, big tits. You could make thousands each month." "Or I could go on Solidarity Assistance," Holly countered, citing the euphemism for the national Guaranteed Annual Income plan introduced by the Demopublicans. "Not a chance," argued Walter. "Solidarity Assistance isn't available to convicted criminals. You ought to know that." "But I also know about the Feminine Empowerment Act, which forbids the proliferation of the traditional sex trade," Holly shot back. "They couldn't have been deducting that from my paycheque if it wasn't for a real programme." "That's where you're slightly mistaken. The FEA just applies to biological females and voluntary transsexuals. You must've missed reading Article Eight of the Act. It's posted up on the wall, there, right by my certification from the Kirk Institute. You're not covered by nothing, honey, except a thin top and a short skirt." Holly moped. "This is just a big pile of bureaucratic bull-shit nonsense crap." Walter stubbed out his smoke. "You know, Holly, your language could use a little brushing up. It's real sweet that you can use big words like 'bureaucratic' and 'proliferation'. But it's even sweeter when you don't." "Great. You want me to act like a dumb bimbo?" asked Holly. "How about 'Fuck you, creep'? Is that retarded enough?" "Do you know how great your tits jiggle when you start fuming like that?" teased Walter. "You're a natural. You're hired." To seal the deal, the SPC manager got up from behind his desk and walked over to Holly, reaching down to rub her left breast. He must have known the effect. Holly felt the familiar thrill shooting down her reinforced spine. Each nerve was electric with a sexual excitement foreign to her when she was a man. And Walter's firm squeeze intensified the thrill. "Your brain says no, Holly. But your body says your brain is a big liar." XI. The short stacked blonde took a quick tour of the sex club while leaning heavily on Walter's arm. Her mind had wandered quite a distance from the urgent messages she'd been getting from her old friend Charlie. The interior of the plain industrial building was a lot bigger than it seemed from the outside. There were literally dozens of sections to the place and Walter seemed happy to show Holly as many as he could. She was getting more accustomed to walking in heels too. There was a large room set up as a dance club, rooms for private lap dancing, a studio for photography sessions, rows of smaller rooms with beds or cots in them, and endless corridors, it seemed, connecting the main floor with a mezzanine and a subterranean level. One hour might have passed. "See, Holly?" Walter said reassuringly. "It's not a bad place. I think you'll have fun working for us. Now, you've sucked dick before, haven't you?" Holly let out a gasp. "Don't be so shocked," he stated bluntly. "This is a sex club. You didn't think you were just going to shake your boobs and wiggle your ass for money." "I was kind of hoping," Holly replied. "Can you dance? Some of our more reputable criminals have done this long enough that they're feature dancers in the lounge. But most of you need an awful lot of practice before you get to that level." Holly couldn't dispute that. She had seen the stage and the poles in the large room and doubted she even had the confidence to pull it off. Or take it all off. "Here," offered Walter. "Why don't we try in here for a week or so and then you'll be good enough you can probably shoot a porn film." He opened the door to a brightly lit room where Holly met two other women. "Janet? Miriam? This is Holly," explained Walter. "You can show her the ropes and then get yourselves busy." And he left. Janet was a brunette, maybe a half a head taller than Holly, with long braided hair and breasts perhaps a cup size smaller than the newcomer's. Miriam was a bleach blonde just Holly's height, slightly bigger boobs, and more severely proportioned. Her waist was impossibly thin and her butt stuck out wickedly. "Hi Hottie," said Janet, extending her thin arm to shake Holly's hand. "I'm Holly. Not Hottie." She shook Janet's hand anyways. "What are you in for?" "Oh. I got caught in a sting operation," Janet said. "There was this on-line auction for a collection of banned opinion-based books by a few talk radio guys. Got arrested along with about fifty other guys. At least I was lucky enough to get a job here." Holly pondered that for a moment. She couldn't understand how becoming a whore could be considered lucky. "What about you, Miriam?" asked Holly. "And, God, you look stunning in that bustier." "Thanks, Holly," answered the girl. Her ample breasts were shoved upwards and outwards, the lacy top of the garment barely covering her nipples. "I was a Methodist pastor. I got arrested when I refused to go along with the Religious Freedoms Act." "What's that all about?" pursued Holly. "I was never really much of a churchy kind of guy." "Well, you have to allow equal time to alternative religions," Miriam explained kindly. She had a sweet voice that made her sound many years younger than her body might indicate. "The Hindu Affirmative Group sued me and, well, I ended up here sucking cocks for a living. But I still pray every day so it isn't so bad, I guess." She lifted a tiny gold cross, suspended from a thin chain around her neck, for Holly to see. When she let go of the religious symbol, it disappeared almost completely into her cleavage. "You can just watch and learn, first," said Janet. The taller brunette went over to a far wall. Holly hadn't noticed a row of holes before? nine of them?spaced about a yard apart. There was a bit of padding along the baseboard, with trays of juice, bottled water, and lipstick tubes at three intervals. "I know what those are ? they're glory holes," Holly cried. "Holy crap." "Don't shrug it off too quick," Miriam said. "You get $150 an hour in here and an extra hundred for every twenty-five you suck in one day." Holly looked on as Janet peeled off her tight top and bra and knelt up to the wall. She squeezed and fondled her breasts, waiting for a cock to appear. It didn't take long. Holly observed the technique Janet used. Tongue. Lips. Writhing on the floor on her knees. "How will anyone know that I'm ready?" Holly whispered to Miriam. "There are cameras in the side walls," Miriam answered. "And if there's more than one that wants you, you can use your hands too. That's why there's three holes each." "They're watching us too?" gasped Holly. "And we can't see them?" Miriam tittered. "Most of these guys I don't think you'd want to see." "Do you swallow too?" asked Holly. Janet was nearing her customer to completion. Her head was bobbing rapidly. Then Holly heard a taut rap on the wall separating the trio from the compartments on the other side. "Oh ? you hear it?" Miriam whispered. "When they tap they want it to go on your face. That's what the tissues are for. Thank God for non- running make-up, eh Holly?" "Yes. Wonderful." Holly looked down to see Janet pop her lips off the stranger's cock and flip her braids back. She jerked the dick expertly, kneeling backwards slightly, face tilted up. At once the cock exploded, shooting a stream of cum straight onto Janet's neck. The second white jet hit the right side of her nose and splashed across her cheek to her ear lobe. The last stream dropped exhausted onto Janet's breast and slowly ran off onto one of her slender legs. Then the limp cock vanished and Janet cleaned herself up, preparing for more work. Holly followed Miriam over to the wall and removed her top, copying Janet's provocation by squeezing her breasts and smiling goofily as the cameras displayed her availability to the monitors inside each booth on the other side of the wall. She was petrified when a limp cock edged through the nearest hole. "Sometimes they like you to lick it hard for them," Miriam explained in a whisper. Holly cringed at the thought, expecting a greasy taste to flood over her tongue. She was astonished to discover that the flavour was delicious. Like barbecue sauce. No wonder she'd witnessed Janet sucking that first one with such gusto. Holly's second cock tasted like cinnamon. Another was cherry marmalade. Butterscotch. Broccoli. XII. "All those cocks tasted so good," enthused Holly during the girls' first break. "One even tasted like broccoli. I love broccoli even though most people don't." "It's some kind of chemistry thing," Janet explained. "They're nice enough to make it taste good anyhow." "You can have the shower after Miriam," Holly offered. "You've still got a lot of cum in your braids. Must be hell to wash out." "Thanks, Holly. I really like you. You're pretty darn sweet." She finished smoking a Winston and got up to replace Miriam in the shower. "You gotta believe it. I think that one guy must have shot it in my hair like four times or something." Holly sat and listened to the radio after the pretty brunette got up to leave. WISH radio still had a talk-show format. The announcer introduced the daily Saddam Hussein hour after a few short messages. Senator Saddam was a strangely popular American icon these days. The International Court Of Tyrants had ordered the aged, yet surprisingly coherent, ex-dictator of Iraq returned to the US during the last years of the old Republicratic Administration. The ICT was a global debate club situated on the East River in New York City, in the same building vacated by the United Nations. The group's Tyranny Council, replacing the old Security Council, included such luminaries as Fidel Castro Jr, Pol Pot's son, a descendent of Chinese Communist butcher Mao Zedong, and a big woman from central Africa who publicly admitted to cannibalism. When the ICT coup took place, led by the younger Castro, nobody in the US had paid any particular attention to it. There wasn't much faith in the UN that preceded it, and curiously most of the ambassadors to the world body stayed on to represent their nations in the new group. That changed when crazy initiatives started affecting American domestic politics. The group declared that Saddam had been held long enough in the US that he possessed de facto citizenship. He waited just about five seconds before leaping at the opportunity. He took up residence in a fashionable suburban neighbourhood. The Demopublicans, naturally, embraced the move and invited Saddam Hussein to join their party and begged him to run for a vacant seat in the US Senate. The Republicrats, in a fit of pique, boycotted both the citizenship and the election. They expected the mass of Americans in the constituency to likewise join the boycott but were outmanoeuvred by a clever media campaign. The Republicrats' last-minute decision to field a candidate was thwarted deftly when a car carrying the nomination papers was reportedly seen in a handicapped parking stall at a mall. It was immediately, and suspiciously, tagged, towed, crushed and melted within minutes. Saddam won by a landslide over an independent candidate who wanted to legalise child pornography. It was a dark day for American politics. The radio programme had scarcely begun when Janet returned from the shower room. Holly left too soon to hear a public service announcement mentioning a warrant for the arrest of her old friend Charlie. The scheduled break was over quickly enough and all three transformed criminals went back to work. "Back to the candy factory," joked Miriam. Holly couldn't dispute that. XIII. "You'll be able to afford a down payment on a new car or something pretty soon," said Walter as Holly reported to work the following day. "Oh, you know it," giggled Holly. "I even got my first bonus yesterday. I was a cock-sucking machine." "Glad to see you're enjoying yourself, darling," said the sex club's manager. "And today, if you'd be into it, we have a scheduled shoot for a new movie. The American Civil Liberties Union has sent down an executive producer and a whole crew. I showed them some of your previews from the booths and they were pretty thrilled at having an opportunity to get you." Holly was still daydreaming about a new car. She wouldn't even have to stop at the sporty Ford "Naugahyde" at this rate. With a few weeks of sucking flavoured cocks at the sex club, she figured out that maybe a Daimler-Chrysler "Bloodbath" was even in her price range. The fuel economy was awful on the two tonne car, but its owners tended to enjoy better service at EqualityBurger and other hip nightspots. "Holly!" Walter announced sharply, snapping the busty blonde out of her daydream. "Oh, sorry Walter," she peeped. "I was just thinking about something. That's all." "I was asking you about appearing in a porno. You have to learn to pay attention, sweetie, or you'll lose all kinds of opportunities." Walter was adamant. He'd learned that the criminal mind responded better to orders than to mild suggestions. He knew that the transformation had created an enthusiastic sexual plaything in Holly and in all the other women who found employment through his simple one-column-inch advertisement. "I've never even thought about it, honestly," Holly replied. "I've seen porn flicks before, but..." "It's a fabulous idea," Walter interrupted. "You've got the fresh look that almost guarantees big-time sales and good reviews on the ACLU website. If you do good enough you might even outsell the Bush twins." Holly had seen the film Walter talked about. Even in their forties, the Bush twins were known to party hard and perform sex acts on their cable reality show that would have made Paris Hilton blush. That is, before the heiress was forced into penury by the present government. The Hilton hotel chain was forced into bankruptcy protection after it contravened the Public Safety Act. Privilege and wealth was now taxed into oblivion and redistributed by weekly lotteries. The poor Ms. Hilton, along with her entire family, was relocated to the US colony of Greenland where they knitted mittens for the Inuit. The porn film took a whole day to shoot. The ACLU producer and his crew were spectacularly impressed by Holly's enthusiasm. "Five money shots," leered the producer, "are sure to make 'Busty Criminal Sluts #4' one of our best money makers." The demure blonde was a little embarrassed at the constant direction to smile right into the cameras while cum was spurting on her face and breasts. "Your blushing really adds a sexy innocence," encouraged the ACLU representative. "It makes it look like you're really sorry about your criminal past. And the anal scene was glorious. Those boobs of yours really turned me on. I hope I get to fuck you silly if you're ever performing in Chicago." "Your account will be about a couple grand bigger now," Walter told his newest hire at the end of the day. "That new car can't be far off I bet." "Did Janet and Miriam make movies too?" Holly asked before leaving the sex club. "Naw," winked her boss. "Some criminals do have limits, you know. But you're the type I think would do anything for a buck." Holly frowned. "Oh, don't be mad about it," Walter added. "I meant that in a good way, you little slut." XIV. Holly got a clever idea. She didn't have to settle for the promiscuous wardrobe that had been left for her. Why not simply go down to one of the boutiques and get into something more practical? She slipped into a seersucker blouse, wriggled into a black skirt, and went to the garage. Holly decided to try Huffington's Department Store. She knew that place catered to women with her breast size. An old flame once admitted to him that it was the only place she knew in town that carried prettier bras and more stylish tops in her size. Holly found that, indeed, the ex hadn't lied. There wasn't just a good selection of larger bras and lingerie. There was also an entire floor dedicated to modest sweaters and tops that might do something to conceal her ample breasts. "I don't mind showing off a bit," Holly confessed in her thoughts, "but work is one thing and grocery shopping is quite another. I'm just a little tired of men talking to me like I have no face." She picked out a good supply of tops, longer skirts, a pantsuit, and even some shoes having somewhat less than 3 1/2 inch heels. High heels weren't necessarily much of a discomfort, given Holly's reinforced spine, but the provocative way they made her ass wiggle and her breasts jiggle brought more attention than she sometimes wished. She brought the load of new clothes up to the cashier. The shopping trip, including all the time in the fitting room, had chewed up most of her free day. She got a deep appreciation of why it took women so long to get ready. "And how will you be paying?" asked the sweet young thing behind the till. "Credit or debit?" Holly pulled out Hawkley Smoot's debit card without thinking and gave it to the girl. "This card is cancelled," stated the cashier, unblinking. "Oh. Oh God. I never thought," Holly stammered. "Do you have another card?" asked the girl. Holly thought for a moment, then retrieved the identification card supplied by the sex club. If it contained her personal data, then it was always possible that it accessed the thousands she'd already earned. The girl ran the card through the electronic scanner and Holly heard a friendly beeping sound. The cashier, though, frowned and stared at the screen and then at Holly. "Miss Dirnebauer? I am afraid I am going to have to get my supervisor to approve this transaction." "Why? Is there something wrong with my account?" asked Holly. "I'll let my supervisor explain and get her approval," muttered the cashier. She left the station and returned shortly with a statuesque, partly-greying, woman with a nametag that read 'Ms. Valeria'. "Miss Dirnebauer?" she asked crisply. "Holly, yes, Holly Dirnebauer," acknowledged the blonde. "This card is not accepted here at Huffington's," said Ms. Valeria with an abruptness causing Holly to tremble. "And why not? My money is good." "Not here at Huffington's." Ms. Valeria accentuated her mood by thrusting Holly's card back into the shopper's reluctant hand. "I'll have you know that your kind if absolutely not desired in our store." "My kind?" Holly squeaked. She noticed that Ms. Valeria's loud tone had attracted others' attention. Holly didn't want to create a scene. She knew she had the money. She just wanted to complete the purchase and leave. "Yes," hissed the tall store manager. "You see, Miss Dirnebauer, I am a true and honest transsexual. I take my femininity very seriously and I cannot have the good reputation of my life choices ? not to mention the credibility of Huffington's ? ruined by some cheap criminal whore." Holly was deeply embarrassed. The store manager's voice and tone brought unnecessary attention and some obvious whispering and tittering from the other women who patronised the upscale store. "Just these things?" Holly begged. "I just need some things that aren't so..." Ms. Valeria cut her off with the wave of a hand. "You are a disgrace to every honest lifestyle transsexual, transvestite, and crossdresser. I can't even begin to imagine what you've been doing with that filthy mouth of yours." Holly gave up trying to convince the matronly transsexual. She meekly placed the ID card back in her purse and left the big pile of clothes on the counter for the clerk to replace on the racks. "I'm sure your kind would be most welcome at Stripper's Discount or Slut's Paradise or some other store that caters to criminal bitches like you, Miss Dirnebauer. Good day!" Holly was practically in tears by the time she'd gotten to her car in the lot outside. XV. Holly treated herself to another day off. After having a luxurious bubble bath, she chose a typically bountiful underwired bra?in lime green?with matching panties, and surrounded her curves with a loosely drawn translucent ivory robe. Even her slippers had high heels. Nothing provided by the courts was what she'd call practical. All her clothes were sexy and most impractical for much other than the line of work she'd gotten into. She grabbed a container of yogurt from the fridge and settled down to watch some TV. Holly tried to find something entertaining among the 553 channels provided by the monopolistic Elephant Broadcasting Corporation. Almost everything was daytime dramas, tampon and soap commercials, or those repetitious news loops that mixed fashion and killing sprees in seamless succession. Holly spooned out a helping of yogurt and licked it lazily. The remote selected a news show. There, in living colour and live action, was a speeding vehicle pursued by dark sedans and shot from above by several helicopters employed by the EBC to get every exciting moment of the police chase. Holly peered closely at the screen. "That car. That colour. That's Charlie." The blonde girl shifted in her chair and sat the container of yogurt on a nearby table. "What the hell is Charlie doing racing around the city?" she wondered in a half whisper. "We've lost contact with the suspect," announced the chopper's reporter. "His vehicle entered the Jimmy Carter Habitat For Humility tunnel approximately three seconds ago and we have lost, repeat, we have lost visual contact." Back in the studio, a fluffy-haired woman, probably in her forties but heavily made up to look twenty years younger, pretended to furrow her brow and affected an air of false concern. "Marty. Marty," she purred. "We're here in EBC 'On Time News'. We're all concerned here. Concerned that this suspect might try to escape on foot through one of the dozens of conduits out of that tunnel. What can you add to that?" "Blaise? Blaise," answered the airborne reporter. "We've absolutely considered that and radioed down to the black sedans you see below..." A visual blinked on the screen, displaying a computer-generated car and several occupants that appeared to be crash-test dummies. Holly shook her head in astonishment. "Why wouldn't they just show the actual cars? I don't think government agents honestly look like crash- test dummies." The television continued its report. "Yes, Blaise. The police- affiliated agents have taken our advice and they're jumping out of their cars at relatively high speeds. Some of them are rolling along the asphalt now. They're preparing to fan out and search all the conduits. Yes, Blaise. You have it here first. The police-affiliated agents have once again tuned into the 'On Time News' to find out just how to catch a dangerous criminal." "Marty," called back the studio anchor. "How are the agents doing?" "I see one clutching his sides," answered the on-scene reporter. "Many are hurt. Two are not moving at all. The sedans, many of them, have either vanished into the tunnel or have rolled harmlessly to a halt on the meridian. Um, Blaise, this doesn't look good. I believe most of the agents are now entirely incapacitated from the high-speed manoeuvre." "That's terrible!" cried Blaise. "How could everything have gone so wrong? Our computer simulation showed that everything would work out perfectly." The anchor straightened and looked into the camera. For a mere moment Holly believed she detected a genuine emotion from the newsperson. "We leave this live report for now," grinned the dispassionate Blaise, "and bring you another breaking story. Yes. It's a three-headed mutant kitten who understands non-linear system analysis." Another reporter appeared, holding an orange kitten with three heads. "Yes, Blaise," beamed a distinguished reporter. "Rascal here can create Mandelbrot sets out of hairballs. Isn't that just adorable?" "Sure is..." Holly clicked off the TV set. An hour later she heard a desperate clanging on her doorbell. XVI. "Charlie! How did you get out of the tunnel? I just saw you on TV," squeaked Holly. Her former buddy from Geo-Tastix Inter-Modal stood on the doorstep for a moment before rushing past the scantily-clad blonde and into the suite. "Holly ? all I did was keep driving. I knew the news would be all over it so I just did the least obvious thing they'd think of. Just drove out the other side of the tunnel. Did all the agents jump out of moving cars like I thought?" "Yeah," Holly replied. "But what's going on? Why are you on the run?" "It's a long story," Charlie intoned. "I wouldn't want to bore you to death." Holly looked at the desperate man. His eyes kept wandering to her cleavage instead of focussing on her face. "Listen, Charlie, if you tell me what's wrong then maybe I can help. I can't do anything with you just staring at my boobs." "Sorry," Charlie said, blushing. "It's just that, well, the short part is that I have the remains of Ralph Nader in the car trunk. I was trying to get them back to GTIM to the DNA revivification laboratory." "What the hell for?" Holly demanded. "I?I'm a part of the Free Libertarians United For Freedom," confessed Charlie. "You're a FLUFF-y?" cried the blonde. "God, I thought they were totally illegal." "We are," shrugged Charlie. He straightened his loose necktie and licked his lips mindlessly while staring at Holly's chest. "President Franken mobilised just about everything at the government's disposal to uncover and stop our plot to revive Ralph Nader. As you know, Nader is the only hope to get rid of the Demopublicans once and for all." "I knew Al Franken would be trouble," Holly added, "when he made that dolphin his National Security Advisor. That stupid fish has caused more trouble. Forcing movie-makers to have at least twenty per cent of each production to include that dolphin sensitivity shit." "It's pretty awful," agreed Charlie. "Even that remake of 'Repo Man' was unwatchable and I didn't think anyone could ruin that one. The trawler race through the Panama Canal was just not the same as the Aqueduct scene in the old version." Holly interrupted. "What are you going to do? I mean, when they catch you they'll probably turn you into a girl like they did to me?" "Worse than that," Charlie responded. "They'll amputate my legs. Another one of those legal fuck-ups brought by the Attorney-General." Holly wondered how aging rap star Eminem was ever approved by Congress for the important post of Attorney-General. His law degree was nothing but an honour received from the government of Burkina Faso. Who knew that such awards would become legitimate once Dolphin Nation took over the administration of the Ivy League colleges? "I don't want to spend the rest of my life confined to a wheelchair," Charlie practically sobbed, "even if I do get a privileged parking spot at the mall. Holly, you have to help me." "How can I though?" Holly countered. "I don't have any kind of power over the government. You can't fight City Hall." "Yes, I know," said Charlie. He wagged his head slowly. "And I wouldn't ask normally, you know, but I expect you've made a lot of money in the sex business and it would cost a lot to fly charter to New Zealand." "New Zealand? What's with New Zealand?" Holly was perplexed. "Holly, it's the only place we can go where the dolphins and the idiots haven't fucking screwed everything up. And it's fucking expensive to fly there too. You have to help me." Charlie sounded desperate. "And I know that GTIM has a laboratory there, too, from when the outsourcing revolution hit. It's my only hope." XVII. "I was saving up my money for a new Daimler-Chrysler though," Holly whined. Charlie let his rage get the better of him. "You unprincipled bitch," he yelled. The big man reached back and slapped Holly hard on the cheek. Holly reacted suddenly, surprising even herself, slugging Charlie hard in the stomach. "It's my body out there earning my living," she squealed. "It's my money. All mine!" Charlie grabbed his midriff and doubled over onto the carpet. A stream of emotion flooded into Holly's brain, triggering an overwhelming remorse, and bringing out a humble maternal instinct she never thought she had. Quite as unexpectedly as her swift retaliation, Holly leaned over the agony-wracked body of her old GTIM buddy and touched his shoulder softly. "I am sorry, Charlie. God. I am so sorry." The busty blonde leaned forward and rubbed the prone visitor's tummy. "Please, Charlie, I am awfully sorry." Her loose robe fell open as she tried to soothe the fallen man. "My. Fault." Charlie's agony was real. He looked up through bleary eyes to gaze upon Holly's enormous breasts?jiggling mere inches from his lips. "Oh, goddamn it Holly, I am so..." He leaned up and seized the sexy little blonde by the shoulders. Charlie pressed his face into the deep valley between her breasts. Holly, responding to her own sexual urges, straddled Charlie's legs and immediately felt his huge cock poking up through his loose pants and into her crotch. It took Charlie half a minute to get Holly's bra off and unleash her monster tits to hang right in his eager face. He mobbed them with wet kisses. Holly went crazy with desire. It took forever to get Charlie's pants off, but when she finally succeeded, Holly took his pulsing cock, pointed it into her pussy, and started to ride it like it was the end of the world. "Fuck me Holly," Charlie gasped, losing his mind in the sweet taste of her gigantic breasts. Holly admitted silently that, even in the throes of passion, Charlie, like most men, would never look her straight in the eye with boobs as big as hers. Even while getting ridden like an animal on her apartment floor. "To hell with it," she promised herself. "Who needs a new car? This dude is a fucking great fuck!" XVIII. "Wow. You're unstoppable, Holly," Charlie acknowledged, enjoying a spontaneous blowjob while driving to the airfield where the charter flight to Auckland awaited. "Just don't make me crash or nothing." Holly would have answered if her mouth wasn't filled with his cock. Nothing tasted better to her, after breakfast, than a coffee-flavoured dick. Coffee with double cream it turned out. The car felt sluggish with the heavy polystyrene coffin in the trunk. Still, they made it in time to the airport. "I'll be your pilot," said a strangely familiar man dressed in jeans and a Boston Bruins jersey. "But it's a little bad flying on vapours these days. I'll just have room for one of yo