Whoever tells you dystopia comes with no perks has certainly never visited New Gomorrah. A place as cursed as this one is bound to have a nightclub or bar on every other corner because how else are people to cope with the fact that their entire planet is nothing but a gray and neon sprawl choking on end-stage capitalism? A healthy dose of sex, drugs and alcohol will keep you running (on fumes, but running anyways) through the end of the world and then some, through the tortuous caprices of editors and the looming threat of a deadline; the fact that the Viper’s Fang shared my wisdom was merely a coincidence.
As soon as the purple sky stopped weeping acid rain, I made my way out of the hostel and headed for the nearest watering hole. On the way I bought some clothes to better blend in – a bright neon yellow jacket, pants with enough pockets to stash a month's supply of narcotics, and a pair of gold-rimmed sunglasses that somehow did not make me blind in the perpetual twilight of New Gomorrah. Ripped straight out of a bad Blade Runner copycat, I looked just like a native of this steel and silicone shithole.
I palpated the gun hidden below my undershirt; seventeen rounds nested in the clip in case my intended interviewees proved less than hospitable or some random junkie wanted to get too frisky. I had a second gun tucked in my left boot and another one closer to my cloaca than I would have liked – I would rather go down in a blaze of lead and hellfire than submit to another cavity search.
Five blocks down, I turned a corner and slammed face first into a strip of clubs and strip clubs that seemed to stretch all the way into the horizon – nothing but loud music, cheap drinks and bright holographic adverts for tits, ass and all the other flesh that would tingle my loose standards were I not on the clock. Once again, being a connoisseur of decadence played to my advantage: I instinctively knew any of these places offered a fifty-fifty chance of spiked alcohol and organ theft, and yet the real danger was wasting my time. The Viper's Fang does not stick anywhere for long, so any wrong choice of a joint meant missing my one shot.
As I prowled the strip, I made a mental scan of the different venues and trimmed my possible choices. Beaumont’s was too loud; there were not enough breaks in-between lousy techno beats to weave a scheme. Mnemonic was too high-end; when you're aiming for asymmetric warfare, money is always an issue. Fourth Law was too distracting; the tits on that robot chick could zap even a priest into carnal submission.
There.
Five drunken idiots gathered around another two in front of a small pub, cheering on as the pair traded blows with their mechanized fists, each punch sending small shockwaves that made the ground thrum against the discordant cacophony of lousy heavy metal music playing from inside the venue. I glanced at the half-lit letters that announced the place’s name – Hotwire Hell – and checked all the boxes: violent enough for a bunch of bloodthirsty roughnecks who fancied themselves revolutionaries, check; cheap drinks and edgy music, check; lowbrow as could be, check. The odds were good with this one. I straightened my posture, puffed my chest and strutted past the urban gladiators and into the stinking black.
Although the principle of might makes right is ever-present in the game of multiversal politics, ruthlessness alone is often insufficient to win in the long term. The big fish of Midgard – the Immortal Empire, the Emerald Hegemony and the Solar Dominion – know this very well and have diversified their strategies to remain supreme: diplomacy can be much more useful than a doomsday weapon, and the hand outstretched in friendship often brandishes an edge far sharper than the blade of open warfare. Politics is the playground of alpha predators, the banquet table where empires gorge themselves fat without paying any mind to the vermin that crawls under their feet in search of scraps.
Yet even bottom feeders form their own hierarchies, building kingdoms of grime and shadow. Crime syndicates, terrorist cells and petty chiefdoms, they all play the same game of power and profit that makes the Multiverse go round. On occasion, one of these small fish might grow large or bold enough to pose a legitimate threat to the big fish, and this will be its trial by fire: it will either carve for itself a place at the top of the food chain or be devoured by the overlords for daring to disturb their precious status quo. The wheel turns forevermore, and the would-be challengers bide their time.
Not that any of this shit matters to the Fangs, of course. As soon as I went through the door, I felt the impulse to wipe my ass with my draft and flush it down the toilet, then go live someplace no editor or agent could ever find me and drag me kicking and crying to explain myself back at their office. A hairy mountain blocked my way, four heads taller than me, muscle straining its pelt almost to the point of bursting, fists still clutching the victim whose blood pooled at his feet, eyebrows on his weathered simian face arched with a mixture of surprise and annoyance at my interruption, lips curving into a grimace as he spoke the fear of God into my cold-blooded heart.
"Do you mind?" The creature said with the tone of someone caught using a bathroom stall. "I will get to you when I’m done here. You the candy man? I don't recall any lizards."
I tried my best not to reach into my pockets or look at the poor sod who gagged and begged through a broken jaw, then did what I know best: take advantage of any situation involving drugs.
"“Depends," I said. "You the Fang who called?"
He drove his foot into his plaything's knee and bent it the wrong way; the crunch was drowned by a shallow scream, the man’s voice fizzling out into sobbing as the troglodyte finally let go. Then the overgrown gorilla turned to me and said:
"Let's go, then. Everyone’s been waiting for you."
On the insistence of my editor and their lawyers, I will state that I have never sold narcotics, purchased narcotics for anything but my own recreational use, or otherwise profited from the commerce of narcotics. I have no reason to lie: any time I've given anyone drugs, it's always been for free. That said, I know of no law that makes it illegal to pretend to be a drug dealer. It's not like I had a choice: it was either playing along until I could figure out a way to state my true intent or getting my head ripped off my shoulders by one of my intended interviewees before I could even pull out my recorder.
The brute led me to a dark corner where some ten Fangs lounged in various degrees of stupor; a few heads turned towards me as my feet met the empty bottles that littered the floor. They were as ugly as I thought they would be: ragged leather jackets that looked like they had spent some days in a landfill, unkempt beards and pelts, fingernails black with oily gruel, faces that I wouldn’t kiss for all the whisky in New Gomorrah. All of them were packing guns which hung lazily from their belts where everyone could see; at first glance they looked ridiculous, but few things are as dangerous as a trigger-happy drunkard with a plasma blaster. Ungainly, unsightly, unfuckable. My unfortunately sober brain quickly decided I had no way out but through them – whatever happened now, there was no turning back.
“Candy man’s here,” said my guide. Then he pushed me forward and into the deep blue neon spotlight.
The person that looked like the leader – an educated guess I made on the basis that he was the biggest, ugliest and meanest individual in the room – placed two rolls of bills on the table. He dragged his tongue through the miasma of hard liquor that bubbled in his mouth, words starting out as a drawl and ending up in a blurted torrent.
“It’ll be two Naxatras vials, three Snappers, fifty grams of Fleck, fifteen rolls of whatever you lizards smoke nowadays, and a flask of absinthe. I think this should about cover it.”
Part of me wanted to gape my mouth like an idiot, and the other wanted to squeal like the first girl I ever fingered. Once again, my stash proved to be the difference between triumph and failure, between sleazing my way into the next chapter and my adventure ending abruptly with a knuckle sandwich. With skill honed through years of substance abuse, I unloaded everything the Fang had required of me; though it was tempting, I did not pocket the money.
“On the house,” I said to surprised and pleased murmurs.
The leader of the group did not seem as enthused. He leaned in closer, what smarts or paranoia he had pushing its way up from the bottom of his intoxicated brain.
“I ain’t ever heard of a dealer who gives his product for free. Whatever you’re playing at, spill it, or I spill your guts all over the floor.”
“Oh, please,” I answered; it’s a true professional’s signature to handle aggression smoothly. “I know what you’re thinking, but seriously: do I look like a fucking narc to you? With the amount of stuff I’m carrying, The Man would lock me up until this planet shits itself and dies.”
More murmurs, a couple of laughs; I was still on track, so I went all in.
“No, no. I’m not a narc and I’m not a dealer; I’m just a lizard with a gizzard and a really sweet business pitch for you all.”
“And what would that be, mister…?”
“Gathers, Duke Gathers. And what I’m here to offer you is some well-earned exposure,” I grinned and prepared my next act: if there’s something R’lek taught me is how to suck up to imbeciles to get my story. “See, I’ve been hot on your trail for some time now, following your exploits and successes. And yet, I find myself alone in my admiration. It seems the Multiverse at large just hasn’t taken notice of you.”
Groans and muttering. Not even half a breath in and I already had them eating off my palm.
“Yeah, I know. I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but that’s the truth. It’s also fucking unfair if you ask me: a group of uncompromising freedom fighters such as yourselves should at the very least enjoy some infamy, yet even those assholes in the Serpent’s Forearm are better known than you. But do not worry – this is where I come in. How do you like the sound of your own biopic, an in-depth dive into the triumphs and struggles of the Viper’s Fang?”
“A book? You’re talking about a book, aren’t you?” Wow, they caught up fast, a credit to their kind.
“Indeed. Think about it: your names and actions forever inscribed where everyone can learn about them, the Library itself forced to keep your record despite their petty disapproval of you. What greater triumph is there than your memory living on within the very guts of your nonbelievers? And in exchange I ask only that you allow me to experience your lives firsthand. I promise that I won’t be a burden and that I’ll make sure to record everything down to the dirty little details.”
The leader and the ape – now I realized he was the second in command – whispered in each other’s ear and nodded. Beneath my clothes, the guns seemed to palpate in anticipation of everything breaking down at the last minute and having to shoot my way out.
“And if we allow you to join us… you’d keep us supplied?” The ape said. “We need to make sure you can pull your own weight.”
“Of course,” I said. Not what I was expecting, but I’d take it regardless. “My stash’s big enough to keep you rolling for as long as you need.” It was not, but that was a problem for tomorrow’s Duke Gathers. For now, I had my victory, so I might as well enjoy it.
“You sure are a strange one, Gathers, but I think we can use a chronicler.” The leader stood and extended a gnarly, coarse hand. “My name is Kisla. Welcome to the Viper’s Fang.”
I wish I could tell you what followed – I really do – but the never-night of New Gomorrah and the stroboscopic noise of the Hotwire Hell blurred my memory into a vomit-shaped puddle of light and sensation, drugs trickling down my arms into the expectant mouths and nostrils of the Fangs like I was a messianic purveyor of narcotic deliverance. Nightmarish faces and malformed laudations floated above me, a cacophony of ecstatic moans and bloodthirsty roars coalescing as the trip funneled me down the twisting paths of my own brain cortex and deeper into the purulent core of our celebration. And as our debauchery raged in all its perverted glory and the Fangs bobbed and twisted and clashed in their orgy of unleashed endorphins, a feeling took root somewhere in my amygdala, flashes of yellow making me jolt and gag with the overwhelming weight of what I had gotten myself into, screaming of my damnation and what a good time it was going to be.
It felt something like this:
Then I spiraled up, up into the endless ceiling and the promised paradise of my own glorious disconnect.