"Kill and Cut"

Posted by Menagerie on July 17, 2004 at 09:18:51:

KILL AND CUT
The rented truck wheezed and sputtered its way up the ramp, finally coming to a grateful rest at the light. “Didn’t think we’d make it,” muttered Freddie to no one in particular.
Alex was studying a map. “That way,” she announced, pointing to their right. The light turned; Freddie coaxed the truck into the turn and then gave it the gas, and the vehicle lurched forward.
“Careful!” exclaimed Ralph. “I want to get it there in one piece…”
Before them, the gleaming lights of the city; skyscrapers reared above them like angry giants. And dead ahead, the giant Civic Center, and its marquee: WELCOME FEMINA MARKETERS OF AMERICA.
“Made it!” exulted Freddie. “Let’s figure out where we go…”
The loading bay to the trade show floor was in the back. Two disinterested union men loaded their precious cargo onto a fork lift, backed it off the truck and onto the parquet floor. Most of the exhibits were already up—colorful booths, flashing lights, and massive signs displaying company names and slogans overhead: MAMA GYNA’S LADY LOGS, declared one.
“I love that stuff!” Freddie cried. “Maybe they’ve got samples.”
Ralph was already sweating, unpacking their invention. “C’mon, Fred,” he grunted, as Alex busied herself setting up the compact little display booth. “You’ve got all night to feed yourself. This has got to be working in time for the 6 AM breakfast.”
Ralph had invented it; Freddie, a marketing whiz who’d come right from Babe-a-Licious Foods, had made a small fortune on stock options and put his money behind it. He had guessed right, that when the government had legalized the consumption of human meat, the market would come from the male 18-55 year olds with a hankering for female flesh. Consecutive years of drought had caused meat prices to skyrocket; it had happened before, of course, but the world was in a hedonistic mood—the proliferation of sexually related services on the Information Superhighway had left the bluenoses unable to stem the tide, and every social barrier had fallen. Cannibalism had been just one more; even when the shortage ended, the taste remained. Babe-a-Licious had delivered, with everything from Teat Treats (kids would rummage through the bag to find the strips with nipples), Bun Bites, Gamsicles, and Puss ‘n Chews. Freddie had designed the company logo, a grinning, cartoon girl sticking a fork into her own gigantic breast; he had even come up with the name, femina, they used for female meat, and it became the industry standard.
Femina was an overnight sensation, and Babe-a-Licious had trouble keeping up with demand. Poor families sold their wives and daughters at the processing plant; they brought top dollar—after all, a three ounce bag of Teat Treats sold for $5.98—but after a while, even that incentive wasn’t enough to keep the chains moving. However, Babe-a-Licious and its competitors were generating so much cash, they were able to quickly form FMA and hire high-caliber lobbyists; within six months, Congress had made virtually every crime a capitol offense at the judge’s discretion, and the femina processors were designated points of execution. Street chicks who sold dope, hookers, bunko artists, shoplifters—all were convicted, herded together and transported to the plant whose water tower was decorated with the painting of the girl sticking a fork into her tit…
Alex had no sympathy for them. They knew the law; it was their own fault. Besides, she was rather fond of femina herself, and had had plenty of opportunity to enjoy it. She’d come from a well-heeled family, attended Bryn Mawr, gotten a Master’s in Business Administration; Ralph was an engineer and Freddie a huckster, and neither of them had any idea how to handle money. Alex had lined up the leveraged financing, took orders, placed ads in trade publications; and, when the time came, she did the grunt work, too. She took off her suit jacket; her rayon blouse was soaked in sweat and clinging to her ample bosom as she labored over the display. She bent over to lock the legs, her well-padded bottom jutting out as she strained at the pegs and sliders…
“Hey, is this little beauty on the menu?” Startled, she jumped up; a florid, beefy fellow in a turtleneck was standing behind her, grinning.
“Harry! Guys, this is Harry Edmonds, President of Babe-a-Licious.” Freddie was pumping Harry’s hand furiously. “Wait’ll you see it, Harry; it’ll knock your socks off.”
“Looking forward to it; demonstrations all day tomorrow, right?” The head of the nation’s biggest femina processor looked at Alex, winked; she blushed. “Hopefully, she’ll be first in line for the tests.”
Freddie laughed, a sound Alex didn’t like at all. “Harry, let me introduce my associate, Alex McGuigan; she’s our Chief Operating Officer—and no, she’s not going to be run through the machine. At least, that’s not the plan.” As Alex timidly shook the large man’s hand, he winked. “Too bad,” he chuckled, and Alex shrank away, still staring at him.
“And this is Ralph Sims, the designer of the Chick-Nik,” Freddie went on; Ralph, wrenches in both hands, muttered hello. “It’s going to revolutionize the business, Harry; you’ll save ten grand a year in labor for every one you buy.”
“I’ve heard that one before, son,” the president smiled. “Every one I’ve tried left more meat on the carcass than it cut away. They’ve doubled my costs, not reduced them. But—“ and he mussed his ex-employee’s hair, “I have faith in you, boy; you brought Babe-a-Licious to the top of the heap, and if anybody can pull this off, it’s you!” And with a wink over Freddie’s shoulder at Alex, the big boss of the femina business was gone.
“Wow! Did you hear that?” Freddie exclaimed breathlessly. “We’re gonna be rich! Alex, have you lined up the girls for the demos?”
Alex checked her chart. “One at ten, one at two…three at 3:30, to show off the rapid packaging and switching. The Show Manager is supposed to deliver them a half-hour before each demonstration.”
“Better be sure,” he said, grinning. “If we’re short one, you may need to volunteer!”
Alex smiled, faintly; a woman in this business got used to that kind of humor. She’d seen enough helpless girls killed and butchered by Ralph’s machine, terror in their eyes, that it wasn’t much of a joke. “Don’t worry, Freddie; we’ll keep the chain moving. Almost finished, Ralph?”
“Almost.” The inventor was tinkering with the gearbox on the contraption. It was solid, lightweight aluminum; a conveyor on the front, with shackles for the woman’s legs, fed into a windowed box—specially designed for the trade show, so observers could watch the woman’s body being separated into primal cuts, boned, and packaged. Chutes at the far end caught the finished product. The “Chick-Nik” logo on the side featured an abstract drawing of a young woman, divided into a half-dozen pieces; Freddie had put his graphic design skills to work on that one. “Saves me the cost of hiring an artist,” he had said, and Alex had to admit it was striking; she imagined herself as the stark figure on the side of the machine, being torn asunder, legs this way, torso another…
“Let’s go grab a bite, Al,” Freddie was saying; “Ralphie can catch up later. I wanna see what’s new.”
Alex figured her senior partner would be making a beeline for Mama Gyna’s, and she was right. On the way they saw another machine that automatically boned and spiral sliced human thighs; a Vac-Pac company, bright pink teats and ruby vulvas mixed in with the purplish cuts of loin and shoulder on display. A relatively new industry trend was fattening of the stock; some femina processors were keeping their condemned prisoners a few weeks and feeding them high-carb meals to up the yield. A firm that sold feed rations had on display a complete, freeze-dried woman, posed sitting with her legs splayed, her belly and back cut away so customers could see the thickness of the fat between her skin and muscle. Alex hadn’t been squeamish in the presence of dead, mutilated women for a long time, but this one brought an uneasy feeling in the pit of her stomach. She looked around; most of the live women in the room were naked or nearly so, smiling and holding up signs that said things like, LET UNCLE CANNIBAL’S SMOKEHOUSE SHOW YOU HOW TO TURN ME INTO A CURED CUTIE!
They finally worked their way to Mama Gyna’s, and sure enough, there was a big plate on the counter piled high with cylindrical sticks of meat; some brown, some reddish, some pink and covered with multi-colored flecks. Hooked up to the overhead billboard was a garish, plastic 3-D version of the Lady Log trademark—a cartoonish woman’s head, smiling and winking, attached to one of the cylinders, with stick figure arms; one hand making the “OK” sign, the other holding a scaled down Lady Log. Freddie dug in; the balding fellow in the button-down sweater who was manning the booth recognized him. “Freddie Moore!” he said. “What’re you doing here? Thought you were gonna grab the loot and scoot!”
Freddie laughed through a mouthful of Log; Alex sampled one of the red ones—hot sauce, kinda good, she decided. “I’m back in business,” he said. “Got a new invention that’ll cut industry costs in half.” He chewed carefully on the mouthful of Log. “What is this, trim?” he asked. “This has gotta be hand or foot, right?”
The bald guy nodded, sadly. “Rump is out of our price range, these days. We have to blend foot with pelvic trim. I mean, it still tastes good—but you, I guess you can tell.”
Freddie nodded. “Who’s your supplier?” he asked between bites.
“Modern Femina,” the man said. “Ass has doubled in six months. If we jack our wholesale up any more, your Babe-a-Licious buddies will crowd us off the shelves. How’s it taste, little lady?” he abruptly asked Alex.
She nodded. “Wonderful. I can’t tell the difference,” she lied. She could; Lady Logs had been one of her favorites—the guys were always bringing it back for lunch during long days at the office.
He looked mournful. “Maybe I can get away with it,” he said, hesitantly.
Freddie grinned, winked. “Harry Edmonds is here,” he said. “He finds out you’re substituting inferior cuts, and you’ll be out of the stores before you can say ‘Bun Bites’.” The man looked crestfallen. “Cheer up, dude,” Freddie said. “My invention will make rumps and everything else cheaper. Visit our booth tomorrow to see the demo.” He pointed their way; the sad-looking fellow peered in that direction. Freddie looked, too. “Ralph is sure taking a long time; hope everything’s OK.” He headed back to the booth, gnawing on another Log; Alex trailed behind, taking in the sights of the trade show.
She stopped to check her pocket schedule. Show opened at seven-thirty after breakfast; she had wanted to catch the eight o’clock seminar on overseas sources of femina—China, in particular, had found it easy to follow America’s lead and ship both large numbers of condemned women and bulk containers of already-processed flesh, and it was important to keep tabs on the competition. Then came the first demo; she needed to be ready with the order book…
“Hey, there!”
She whirled. It was Harry Edmonds, a big smile on his face. “Thought I’d look you up; figured you’d be beat, all the way from Pittsburgh and setting up that gizmo. Care for a drink?”
She had one, then two more. The exhibitor lounge was luxurious; Harry laid a hundred on the table and the drinks kept coming. “Freddie Moore has one of the sharpest minds in this business,” he told her. “You’re lucky to be in with him. You’re in for a share, right?”
Twenty percent; her family, proud she’d gotten into the venture right after college, had provided her stake. She was drawing a spare salary, though, and Ralph and Freddie were splitting the early commissions. Harry shook his head. “No good,” he said. “You realize, if they keep the operation undercapitalized, that twenty percent won’t appreciate much. They’re not plunging returns into physical plant?” No, the construction so far had been by contract. “They’re using you,” he scowled. “You need to think about that. Where would they be without you?” That’s right, Alex thought, on her third Bloody Mary. Who was it who had steadied the balking women, screaming as they were strapped in? Who had lined up all of those live demonstrations, woman after woman killed, eviscerated, dissected by the machine? And as the satisfied customers watched packages of neatly severed loins, thighs, flanks pile up in the baskets at the ends of the chutes, she took their orders and parceled out sales commissions, half for Ralph, half for Freddie. None for her…
“Got a long day,” the businessman said, laying a meaty hand on her shoulder. “I’ll be addressing the First Plenary Session at one; hope you’re there in the front row!” Alex smiled up at him, fuzzily; he signaled the waiter, and another Bloody splashed in front of her. “Mind what I’m saying, now. This is a rough business; you need to start watching out for yourself…” And he was gone, his bulk in kind of a swaggering stride to the open entrance, other exhibitors deferentially parting for him like…like a torso being split in two…
Six AM was eggs, toast, more Lady Logs, lots of coffee. “Where’d you head out to last night, Al?” Freddie wondered. “We looked all over for ya.”
“Did not,” muttered Ralph, hunched over his plate, scooping egg onto his toast. “Big Shot here tried to pick up one of the come-on girls. ‘Used-to-be Babe-a-Licious’ doesn’t cut it, Fred.”
Freddie laughed sheepishly, popped half a slab of Log into his maw. “She sure looked good. I kidded her about testing the Chick-Nik for us.” He gulped coffee. “How was I supposed to know her sister was sold?” More Log and a laugh. “Hey, maybe we’re eating her sister right now…”
Over the tinkling of silverware and commotion of the buffet area, the P.A. was blaring out the day’s schedule: “Eight AM, New Sanitary Guidelines for Disposing of Drop, the Bean Room…International Marketing and Procurement Opportunities, the Gein Room…Comparative Slaughter Methods, the Fish Room…” Freddie nudged Alex and pointed to the serving line; four big, gruff-looking guys wearing private security uniforms were loading up. “Why are they here?” she asked.
“Protesters,” he said. “Citizens Opposing Woman Slaughter.” He shook his head. “If they hassle you, just be cool and tell the Show officials. They told the papers they had plans to disrupt the convention. And keep an eye on the machine!”
“Jesus, yes,” Ralph chimed in. Alex sighed, made a note on her program liner, and thought about Harry Edmonds again: Where would they be without me? The P.A. announcer was saying, “…and be sure to stop at booth number twenty-three at ten o’clock for a demonstration of the new ‘Chick-Nik,’ a slaughtering and processing machine that will revolutionize the industry!” A grin split Freddie’s face. “That’s us!” he crowed. “Hope you got her greased and ready, Ralphie!”
Ralphie muttered to himself, fussily blending his Logs and eggs. He was an Engineering School dropout who just seemed to sense how a mechanical device would work by eyeballing it. He’d patented his unique process of taking the meat off the bone in a single, time-saving swipe; it had been his chance meeting with Freddie at a femina plant, where he was trying to pitch his idea to a disinterested foreman, that had convinced the young entrepreneur to bolt Babe-a-Licious and strike out on his own. They’d experimented for months, sacrificing woman after sobbing woman to get the machine tuned just right—this kill hadn’t been entirely clean, and the Lower Torso unit was yanking the legs right off, and there’s still too much muscle on that rib cage…until finally, after they succeeded in slaughtering and butchering two dozen women procured from the local constabulary in just a half-hour’s time, they were convinced they had the magic formula that would bring them fame and fortune.
Freddie didn’t have the plans to the Chick-Nik; the only people with access to them were Ralph and Alex, who had filed the patents and kept the blueprints and specs in a laptop. She guarded it zealously, kept it with her every waking moment with all the other stuff she lugged around in the oversized briefcase—order forms, contracts, pictures of the machine in action. Harry Edmonds had been astonished: “Just you? I swear, Freddie is taking advantage of you…”
She took notes into the computer at the International Marketing and Procurement Opportunities seminar; the FMA guy from the Beijing office had a film, nude Chinese women at the chopping block, their bodies dismembered by hand. Unlike their American counterparts, the women awaited their fates quietly. “Their families are well compensated,” said the man from the overseas bureau. “Just another way to get the upper hand on us in trade…” Afterwards, samples of freshly cooked Chinese and American woman were passed around; a little sweeter, Alex decided, and less grainy. “The low-meat diet makes a difference,” observed one manager of a chain of fresh femina distributors. Alex was the only woman in the room; she felt eyes on her full physique as she squinted through her glasses at the dull image on the laptop. You get used to it.
Questions made the seminar run long; oops, 9:30. She jumped up, loaded the briefcase and scurried through the door, the female meat dealers in the room appraising her big boobs and chunky rear as if they could see through the navy suit. “Sixty percent,” said one, and they laughed; another muttered, “You can’t get these street punks to yield more than fifty.” “Try feeding them out,” suggested a third.
“Thought you’d been made into Lady Logs,” kidded Freddie as she arrived at the booth, breathing hard. The first demo girl had been delivered; long, kinky hair, a scowl on her face, her wrists tethered by a three foot cord to her ankles. Tattoos on her butt and breast. Fifty percent at best. She looked up at Alex. “You gonna stick her in here, too?” came the surly voice.
“I was thinking about it,” Freddie answered. “C’mon, Al, get with the program. If I hadn’t been here talking to these fellas—” he gestured to three grinning Japanese businessmen, who were ogling the nude demo girl—“they would have taken her back.”
“My name is Vicki,” the demo girl said hopefully.
“You don’t have a name, sister,” Freddie responded. “Help me load her up, Al.”
The two of them secured the struggling, cursing street girl in the loading chute. They clamped the chain around her legs below the knees, then cut the cord; she wasn’t going anywhere now. Vicki looked in Alex’s face. “Bitch!” Alex smiled faintly; she’d been called that a lot. And ten minutes later, the woman who had called her that would be wrapped up in neat pieces at the far end of the Chick-Nik…
It was almost ten; a crowd of the curious and interested had gathered around the device. Ralph emerged from the crowd, popped open the control box. “Good morning, folks,” he stammered into the wireless mike. “You’re about to watch the next breakthrough of the femina industry in action. The fully automated Chick-Nik can process up to forty women an hour; it does away with the need for trimmers, splitters, and boxers. Your foreman, with a hand on the button, can do the work of six employees. The machine maintains itself, cleans itself; it does everything but kiss her good-bye.” A light laugh from the crowd; the girl locked in the chute looked frantic, eyes swinging wildly from one patron of the trade show to another as she tugged at the chains holding her to the device of her death. But with the exception of her—and of Alex, who was watching her intently—all attention was focused on Ralph and the control box. “Paying high wages to do the dirty work of butchering the carcass will be a thing of the past. Ladies and gentlemen—” Alex was the only lady there—“the Chick-Nik in action!”
Ralph started it; grinding gears brought it to life. Vicki screamed as the shackles drew her in. A sensor found her forehead; through the clear window, the crowd saw the stainless steel blade fire down and neatly sever her head. Suctions drained the spurting blood from the chamber; a rinse washed the red from the luckless punk’s body. Ralph was saying, “This is an approved chemical rinse, an antimicrobial agent. The woman’s feces and urine are removed and sanitized.” Another sensor found the headless girl’s pussy, and the blade flew toward it, split the body open. As the carcass rotated and the drop fell, mechanical arms cut it free. “The variety meats will be automatically separated by the Chick-Nik; liver and kidneys bring a premium, and this machine will remove them with no bruises or lacerations…”
The gutted body moved to the second section of the machine; a buzzsaw found Vicki’s backbone, split her neatly in two. Feet were removed from legs, legs from thighs, thighs from hips; each was wrapped in a flurry in clear, stiff plastic, deposited with an “Urk” into one of the baskets. “Watch this,” commanded Ralph with pride; another sensor came down, found the breasts, and a thin razor separated them from the chest, wrapped and expelled them. The crowd cheered and buzzed excitedly. Alex smiled, got her order book ready; the way Freddie looked, if he were to puff up a little more, he’d float away. And the demo girl’s head rolled down a chute, fell into a cardboard box. Her eyes were still staring wide.
The last chunk of woman, nicely packaged, was spit out of the Chick-Nic; Ralph killed the machine, and the roar coughed and died. “Any questions?” said the inventor. Most were about cost and exclusivity; Freddie and Alex answered those. Ralph shook his head to everything else; “That’s proprietary.” “Next demonstration at two,” called out Freddie. “There are a limited number of Chick-Nics available for immediate delivery; see my associate, the good yielder over there.” They laughed; Alex sat impassively, order book perched on her lap, meaty calves neatly crossed at the ankles. “Oh—and don’t worry; the demo stock won’t go to waste. You’ll next see her on your plates at tonight’s awards dinner.” And they laughed again, harder.
It was mainly small, local distributors; one man supplied banquets and parties. He shook his head at the Chick-Nic’s price tag: “I’ll keep cutting them by hand.” A deli meats company showed some interest. “Business is picking up,” he said; more supermarkets were offering their own femina. “We could probably use a couple; I’ll be by later.” No sales, though. Freddie said hopefully, “It’s still early in the show. Let’s grab some lunch.”
Cured thigh on a roll with mayo; Freddie grabbed a sack of Teat Treats, borrowed ten bucks from Alex to pay for them. “I’ll share,” he grinned; she sighed. As they chowed down, a naked woman, hands bound behind her back, was led past them by a neck chain. “Humane slaughter techniques,” said Freddie. “I caught the tail end of the seminar.” Suddenly, the woman stopped and spun around; across her belly was painted the word PROFITS. The guy holding the chain yelled, “Down with femina!”
It was COWS. Two more men had been hunkered down near the food line; they jumped up, pulled out fire extinguishers, started spraying the showgoers and the food. Local TV crews had been tipped off; they were waiting, zoomed in as the nude woman exclaimed, “The senseless slaughter of women for food must—” before she was tackled by a security guard.
“My machine!” Ralph cried.
He abandoned the lunch area, rushed to the trade show floor. The melee was winding down; local police joined the guards in subduing the protesters. A show official hurried to the front of the line, where dejected exhibitors glumly surveyed the ruined meal. “We were ready for this, folks!” he called out. “More food is on its way! Thanks for your patience…”
Freddie reached across the rickety little table, grabbed Ralph’s sandwich. “He won’t mind.” The cops dragged the nude woman past them; she looked at Alex and spit out, “How much are you making on the blood of your sisters?” Alex thought about Harry Edmonds again. Not enough.
She had time for Harry’s speech; he was President Emeritus of FMA. The turtleneck had given way to an expensive suit, tailored perfectly to his broad frame. “As we strive to produce a more uniform, consumer friendly product that can meet demand for femina worldwide…” She was right up front; he caught her eye and winked, then continued. “We must ensure that the entire industry benefits from innovative technological concepts…” He seemed to be talking right to her; Alex drew into herself self-consciously, almost missed the end of the speech and the standing ovation. She jumped to her feet last, drawing yet more attention to herself, and looked at her watch. Yikes, 1:30.
Again, the demo girl was already in position. This one was more sad than hostile. Plump, red hair. “Drunk driver. Killed somebody,” said Freddie; he was irritated. “I’m about ready to send you home, Al.” Fat chance, she thought; without her, he wouldn’t even be able to find his way out of this building.
The crowd was bigger this time. The weepy manslaughterer was cinched into the device with little trouble; she came apart wonderfully, fleshy cuts of meat landing in the baskets with a thump. The Japanese execs were there, and jabbered excitedly amongst themselves when the redhead’s pendulous boobs were chopped free and emerged gift-wrapped.
They bought a dozen; an East Coast killer, ten more. Alex was adding it in her head as she scribbled out the invoices; Freddie and Ralph would be making…more than she does in six months. Ralph was refusing comment on the Chick-Nik’s internal motor, the differential of the sensors, how in the world it could remove the pelvic wrap from the bone cleaner than a human being could; “I’m sorry; that’s proprietary.”
The crowd had thinned; Freddie had wandered off to the Lady Logs booth again. Ralph was gone. One more customer; eyes on her order book, Alex said, “Can I help you?”
“Mr. Edmonds would like to see you.” Startled, she looked up. A guy in a three-piece gray suit; he smiled faintly. She looked around, slowly rose; grabbed her briefcase. He led; she followed.
The meeting, just the two of them, was in the large, empty room where the humane slaughter demonstration had been; a few Civic Center employees were picking up discarded literature and straightening chairs. Harry Edmonds got right down to business. He liked her smarts, her attitude; he was looking for a personal assistant. Babe-a-Licious was getting too big for him to handle all by himself; someone to keep his schedule, keep track of performance, even sub for him on occasion. He would pay…Alex was goggle-eyed. She would, of course, be expected to contribute all of her expertise, including tricks of the trade she’d learned with her current employer. Their eyes met. Did she understand?
She did. The laptop was handed over. He smiled, broadly; so did she; they shook hands. “Welcome to Babe-a-Licious,” said Harry Edmonds.
“Stay seated,” ordered a voice.
Alex looked around, confused; Edmonds was slack jawed. The Show Manager, flanked by two security guards, strode into the room. “We’ve been watching you the whole time,” he told Alex as a guard wrested the computer from Harry, who didn’t resist. “At the request of your boss.” Ralph and Freddie came in; Ralph, as always, looked dour. Freddie looked hurt.
“I knew it,” he said. “I know how Harry operates. I saw him steal trade secrets at shows just like this, and I kept my mouth shut. But this is our baby—” Ralph sternly nodded—“and he’s not gonna steal it from me!”
Alex felt helpless; she saw Edmonds get up and hurriedly leave, without even looking at her. She looked tentatively at Freddie. “Are you going to fire me?” she asked.
And he laughed, mirthlessly, and said, “You’ve gotta be kidding.”
The CEO of Modern Femina, as it turned out, was a judge, duly sworn by the State of California. With the needs of the femina industry, thousands of people were employed as part-time judges, ready to pronounce the sentence of death at a moment’s notice…and in this case, ten minutes was all it took. Corporate espionage; guilty. Alex stood quietly during the makeshift trial at the MF booth, tears trickling down her cheeks. Her folks had taught her to be honest… The nude, freeze-dried woman at the feed manufacturer’s display seemed to be looking right at her.
“Wow…it’s almost 3:30,” said Freddie. Alex had gone from junior partner to condemned criminal in an hour and a half. “We’ve got a show to put on.”
For a change, Freddie had done some planning; only two naked women had needed to be delivered to the display. A show official held their leashes. “That ‘Number Three’?” he asked as Alex was prodded to the front of the machine.
“You got it,” said Freddie, handing him the judge’s writ. “Get her ready, would you?”
Off came Alex’s blazer and skirt, her pumps and nylons, her bra and panties, her rings and necklace…finally, her glasses. Massive breasts, white with bright pink aureoles, spilled out of the tight business suit; the meaty rump that had brought the attention of Harry Edmonds was ivory and squishy soft. Thick, creamy thighs and upper arms. Alex had the pale, spongy look of a girl who’d lived the easy life; the two young women who would join her in the Chick-Nik were hard and lean. They looked with surprise at the chunky, softly weeping woman as the official cinched the knots around her limbs. “Wha’d you do?” asked one. She looked up, her face jerking. “I-I tried to steal a million dollars,” she whispered.
Their mouths formed O’s; they looked at each other, forgot momentarily about their own plight. “Wow!” said one. “And I’m here on a lousy crack rap…”
Ralph had started his spiel; the crowd, this time, was huge. Alex’s eyes darted around the rapt faces; Harry was nowhere to be seen. The first street girl, with a shriek, was lifted by Freddie and the show official into the chamber; flip, zip, gone. “We’re here to show you how fast the Chick-Nik works,” said Ralph. “The fully automated Chick-Nik can process up to forty women an hour; it does away with the need for trimmers, splitters, and boxers…” The other punk was in the machine. “…kiss her good-bye,” and the crowd laughed. They always did. Packages of femina spilled out of the chutes; the transparent wall ran red, then pink, then clear as the rinse did its job. Freddie and the show employee grabbed Number Three.
Alex saw, through the tube, the blades hanging low, the sensors that would tell Ralph’s invention where her flesh met bone, how deeply to cut. The cuffs were cold around her ankles; the cords were slashed from her wrists, and her arms flopped limply by her sides. Her mouth twisted, her eyes were wet with tears; she looked up at Freddie, whose eyes were hard, even though his mouth was still set in a lopsided grin. Then the chain pulled her forward…
It wasn’t hard to tell Alex’s generous lumps of flesh from the spare ones gleaned from the other two women. Freddie fingered, through the plastic wrap, the enormous udders that had been attached to his junior partner. “Mr. Moore?”
It was the fellow in the gray three-piece suit. “Mr. Edmonds sends his apologies,” he said. “He was called away on business.” Freddie nodded, understandingly. “He’s extremely interested in your device; he has a big order in mind.”
Freddie brightened. “Sure,” he said. “Meet me at the awards dinner—” he fondled the breast, laying forlornly in the basket, and reached with his free hand for Alex’s order book—“and we’ll talk about it.”