Hot Blood: Seeds Of Fear Part 7

The phone on the table next to her rang shrilly, and she set the gla.s.s down, answered it.

"h.e.l.lo? Hi, Steve," she purred to one of her regular customers. "Is your wifey asleep? Great. Yes. Uh-huh. I bet you are hard, Stevie.

"I've got something with me tonight that's hard, too."

Steve stayed on the phone, angry at first, then scared, then weeping.

When she was through, he asked if he could call her again.

The phone rang, as it did more and more often these days.

So many calls, so many callers.

Many times, they didn't like what Cynthia wanted to offer them.

With most, though, it only took a phone call or two to turn them on, just as it had been with her.

Then they were easy to control.

But it was getting harder with each caller.

It took more and more of her to keep that control.

Cynthia grunted as she fought to pull herself up from her sticky, crusted bedsheets. She spent most of her time here these days, the phone now moved to her nightstand, where it was within easy reach.

Cynthia was naked, as she was all of the time now. She found that clothing of any kind, even a loose robe, chafed the many wounds on her body, some still oozing fluids, some scabbed over, some already covered with thick, ropy scars.

There were far too many to worry about Band-Aids.

It was difficult to walk now. She was weak so often, and it was hard to maintain her balance without any toes. The neighbors had started to complain, too, first to her, then to the building manager, about the screams, the strange smells coming from her apartment.

"Cynthia?" asked the voice on the receiver, and it trembled through her.

Her ex-boss. Her ex-lover.

"h.e.l.lo," she croaked, her voice hard and hoa.r.s.e. It had suffered the most over the last six months or so, through all of the shouting, the shrieking, the crying. The toll of that stress was as apparent in her voice as it would have been in the lank, l.u.s.terless hair or wrinkled, saggy body of a burned-out topless dancer.

For a moment, she felt like she had when he had fired her; when the man who cut himself had called her for the first time.

Powerless. Out of control.

Pus.h.i.+ng that aside, her hand fumbled for something on the nightstand, just out of reach.

It sparkled in the low light of the room as she brought it around, settled back in bed.

It was awkward to hold the knife these days. All the fingers on her left hand were gone, and on her right hand only a single finger and thumb remained. This, she found, was the minimum number of digits necessary to hold the knife.

"Ralph told me to call you."

"He did? What else did he say?"

"He said I'd never forget it."

"Ohh, you'll never forget it. I'll make sure of that. You'll never forget."

"What are you doing?"

"I'm stroking the tip of the knife over my skin . . .ahhh . . . goose b.u.mps are covering me everywhere," she whispered.

Clumsily she moved the knife, trembling a little when the tip of the blade skipped over a scar, slid through a raw, wet patch. She sought out something she had given to no caller as of yet; some part of her body that was whole and unscarred to offer him.

To control him.

"Ahh," he groaned, a noise that sounded as if it were ripped involuntarily from somewhere deep inside him.

"Ummm. It feels nice. Doesn't it?"

"Yes," he answered shakily.

He hesitated briefly when he heard something in the background, underneath her heavy breathing; the corrugated sound of metal cutting into something soft.

The knife moved against her, into her.

"Yes."

Warmth spread within her, upon her.

Her voice cracked with pleasure.

"Good. So good."

She screamed, her hips bucking up from the bed uncontrollably, shuddering with the powerful waves that crashed through her, the warm liquid that spattered over her.

Through everything, she heard him, on the other end, gasp through the spasms of his own o.r.g.a.s.m, his breath grating in her ear.

She smiled fiercely as her vision lurched, dimmed.

It came out with little difficulty, and she held it glistening and dripping in the blackness of the room. She was surprised by its smallnessa"no bigger than her fista"and the fact that it still shuddered timidly in her hand.

"Never forget," she muttered thickly as the receiver dropped to the bed, the still-beating heart squeezed slickly from the ruin of her hand.

Cynthia was in control.

BLACK AND WHITE AND BED ALL OVER.

James Crawford.

They were wild and crazy times. Hollywood was still new and stars were being born every day. You couldn't turn around without b.u.mping into someone who had just made a film. Studios formed and disappeared. Cameras cranked nonstop and movie productions were multiplying like rabbits.

There were actors and then there were the Stars. The brightest of the stars weren't just found, they were made for the camera. An actor might be typecast, but these new players could do anything. No stunt too dangerous, no pratfall too outrageousa"they were like the early G.o.ds of film.

There was jealousy, of course, but most of us were in awe of them. Many a live actor would have sold his soul to be able to do the things the Animates could. Director didn't like your looks, you changed them. Got flattened in a bad fall, reinflate yourself and do something else. They were amazing.

They made us laugh and that was a good thing, because some of them were not so comical in private. Some of them could be downright nasty. I'd heard stories about pranks Animates had pulled on Reals, stunts that put the less resilient Reals in the hospital. They were wild, and there wasn't anything anyone could do about them. I mean, how do you lock up someone who can turn into a pool of ink and pour himself down a drain?

There was also talk about what happened to Reals who had s.e.x with the Animates. No one had any specifics, but the word was, it wasn't anything you'd ever forget. A friend of mine had heard there was a special wing at the laughing academy reserved for those Reals crazy enough to do it with an Animate. He said they were all checked into the rubber room wearing the latest in straitjacket fas.h.i.+ons. I told him he was full of it, but I was curious.

My name is Josh Merriweather and I come from a small town in the East and made my way west by working odd jobs till I got to California. Once there I found HOLLYWOODLAND and my fate was sealed. It was magic and I wanted to be part of it.

There were jobs all over the place. No one knew what they were doing, so everyone was making it up as they went. I worked behind the scenes on a couple of pictures and even did some work as an extra.

I had heard some of the others talk about the Animates, but hadn't actually seen one. Sure I'd seen them on the screen, but I'd never met one on the street.

Then my life changed, maybe not for the better, but it changed.

The word was out that one of the newer studios was looking for help. No big deal; until I heard it was a studio that only produced Animated films. That's all I had to hear. I think I knocked a couple of guys over as I ran out the door and made a beeline for the Fletcher Studio. It wasn't far, so I ran all the way. When I got there, I was so out of breath that I couldn't even tell them why I had come.

Finally I caught my wind and told them I wanted a job. They sent me to talk to the head man. Mack didn't much look like a tyc.o.o.n, but he had given a start to some of the biggest Animates in the business. I admit I was a little in awe of him when we first met.

"Well, kid, what do ya want?" Mack looked up from a viewer as I came into the room.

I knew what I wanted to say, but my tongue had gone on strike.

"You want a job?"

I took a deep breath. "Yes!"

"A man who knows what he wants. Good. Okay, you're hired. What's your name?"

"Josh, and I just want to saya""

"Enough talk; you think I've got time to interview every little schmuck that comes along? You can thank me later. Now I want you to run these pages over to that big building over there. Can you do that?" I nodded my head so hard, I could hear my brains rattling around. "Then go already."

Off I went, and that was the beginning of my time with the Fletcher Studio. Wild times and a couple of scary times. I got to work with the Animates, and for the most part they were a swell bunch of guys. Maybe "guys" is too loose a term; they were a swell bunch of clowns, dogs, creatures, and things. It was amazing.

My job description varied from day to day. One day I was a gofer, the next the light man. I never knew where Mack would send me next, but for him I would do anything. Which is what got me into the biggest trouble of my life, because one day Mack asked me to do something that again changed my life.

It started out like any other day. I was running errands and stopping to watch the filming whenever possible. Mack had three Animates he was grooming for stardom. Two had really good careers in radio and comics, and one had something that Hollywoodland had patented . . . s.e.x appeal. I had seen the studio's other stars, the mumbling merchant marine and the big blue Boy Scout, but I had yet to catch a glimpse of her.

It was about time to do a deli run when Mack saw me and called me over. "Hey, Josh, I got a job for ya."

"Yes, sir, anything you want." Mack liked enthusiasm.

"Great, I want you to get your a.s.s over to Stage Five. Tell the director you're to talk to Tiffany about the matter she and I discussed."

"Tiffany?" My blood started pounding. I was finally going to meet her.

"Yeah, Tiffany. Josh, you do this for me and I'll make sure you go far in this business." Mack clapped me on the shoulder and pushed me toward my destiny.

Tiffany had it. She had already done a couple of films for Fletcher Studio, and the audience loved her. There was a bit of innocence mixed with a whole lot of l.u.s.t. You saw her up there in a short little skirt and garters and you had thoughts that could get you thrown in jail in most states. I'd seen her on the screen, and now I was going to see the real thing. Hooray for Hollywoodland.

I found the director, Mack's brother Morrie, and delivered the message.

"Thank G.o.d!" Morrie seemed genuinely happy to see me. "That little tootsie has been driving me nuts. I want you to go to her dressing room and help her."

"Me?" My throat closed up and my knees developed a rhythm all of their own.

"Listen, kid, Tiffany likes them young and handsome. You play your cards right and this could be the day you become a man." Then he looked around to see if anyone else was listening and said under his breath, "Just watch out for yourself, and if things get too weird, don't be afraid to run for it."

"You mean, she might. . . ?" I began to wonder if this really was a good idea.

"I mean the little honey has a libido the size of Texas. She's tired of the Animates she usually hangs around with and wants a Real to play with. Sometimes it can get a little hairy. You got a problem with that?"

"A problem?" s.e.x toy to an Animate? What if the stories I had heard were true? Would I ever have another chance to find out? Curiosity got the better of me and I shook my head no.

Morrie took my shoulder and guided me on my journey. "You're a great conversationalist, kid. That'll come in handy. Now, get in there and make her happy."

Tiffany had her own private dressing room, with a big star on the door. I found a s.h.i.+ny surface to give myself a quick brushup and then I went to tap on the door.

"What do you want, punk?" a voice snarled as I raised my hand. I looked around, but didn't see anyone. "Right in front of you, you stupid Real."

I dropped my hand and stared into the rather belligerent expression of the star on Tiffany's door.

"Are you going to tell me what ya want? Or are you just going to stand there with your d.i.c.k hanging out?" My mouth opened and I looked down quickly to check my fly, but before I could answer, the star said, "Trying to cop a peek at the Star? Hoping maybe you'll see her in the altogether?"

"No!" I blurted out. "I was sent by the director to see if... if... I could ... I mean ... if she needed ..."

"I know what you think she needs!" snarled the star. "What she doesn't need is some Real hoping to get lucky."

Its little mouth twisted up to spit, but suddenly the door swung open. "What is all the noise out here?"

She was amazing. About five feet tall and with so many curves, I didn't know how they all fit. Everything about her was black and white. Her dress, what little there was of it, was jet black. Her eyes and lips just as black as the dress. The most amazing thing was her skina"there was no shading, no hint of color; it was the whitest thing I had ever seen. Put them all together and they spelled Tiffany.

Tiffany looked at me and then her attention swi-veled to the door. "You! I told you it was over between us."

"But, Tiffany ..." The voice had dropped down to a whine.

"Leave my b.u.t.t out of this. I'm sick and tired of your jealousy. Now, get the f.u.c.k off my door before I call security."

If the star had a tail, it would have been between its legs. It slid down the door to the floor. Two points acted as legs and two others gestured like arms. "Honey, listen to me. I can change. I promise you."

"It's time for a change and you're not it." With one shapely little foot, in an ebony stiletto, she kicked him down the hall. "And I'm warning you, turn up on my door again and I'll nail your little glittering b.u.t.t there for good."

The star gave me one more sullen look and then slunk off down the hall. Tiffany watched him for a second and then turned her attention to me. "And just who might you be, tall, dark, and fleshy?"