Moral Zero Part I

Editor's note: this story contains horror-style imagery and potentially disturbing themes. Do not read if this willupset you.

*

By Set Sytes aka Dogmoral

"Men know they are sexual exiles. They wander the earth seeking satisfaction, craving and despising, never content. There is nothing in that anguished motion for women to envy." -- Camille Paglia

"All universal moral principles are idle fancies." --

Marquis de Sade

RULE

DISTRICT 5, HOTEL

He opened his eyes and stared at a ceiling crackling dust and grime, falling down in leathery bat-bits on his face.

Shit, said the man. He rolled over, his eyes leaking blear and sleep, and found his nose buried in a scratchy pillow that stank of blood and crime. He rolled back, tossing his body through the ragged sheets, holed and scarred from all the fucks given, all that lack of patience and restraint.

His hammer-blinking eyes squeezed out the last of the dreams and his pupils settled on a wall bleeding filth. Peeling plaster pooled at the base, wrapping in slinky curls and rolled about the carpet.

Shit, he said again. He untangled his legs from the mess of sheets, kicking them away with a sudden bout of fierce energy and relishing their grotesque tumble through the air to clump in a heap at the foot of the bed.

He lay spread-eagled, naked and stiff like some kind of dead martyr. After a half minute of nothing he scratched himself and rubbed himself and jacked himself into the sheet. It pooled for a bit, bobbing bits and streaks about like streaky bacon, if bacon were that schizophrenic mix of whites and glues. Eventually it all drained into the mattress; every room's cumdump, a sogging sponge of frustration and demons released. Within each air pocket of that thing swirled seas of blood and piss and shit with the semen, and they frothed about and the mattress sank deeper down, logged with the full enormity of humanity.

What a fucking hotel.

He finger-snapped the light on, and it fizzled and cracked itself on and off for a spell, until eventually it settled into a muculent insect-burning glow. Driblets of oil sauntered down the spine of the light hanging, bursting like seed pollen on the ribs of the carpet.

It's breakfast time! the man called out suddenly, his voice bouncing through the thin paper-shack walls into the room next door.

Fuck off! a voice answered back, then, as an afterthought, I'll be down in ten, lemme finish up here.

Another day, thought the man. Another day in Rule . . .

Mr White paused the smush of scrambled egg in his mouth to watch a drone buzz through the dining hall, the sound of its engine like a purring cat.

The beach-blonde haired man who was his next-door neighbour in this hotel was watching it too. Those fuckin things man, he said. What do they look for? It's like lookin for pissers in a public toilet. This whole place is a cesspool. He glared at the thing and shovelled bacon into his mouth, a drop of excess saliva dribbling out. Ha, sorry man, he grinned, a mouth full of pig and beans, and he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

Mr White didn't say anything, but lowered his eyes and resumed his breakfast.

The man who called himself Kidd Red finished his mouthful and licked the rest of the plate clean. Tasty filth, he smiled, and leaned back in his chair. An oversized cowboy boot was thrust up and heeled onto the table.

It's good fun though, ain't it?

Mr White swallowed, and shuddered as a long line of fat draped down his throat. What is?

The . . . you know.

Mr White's eyes narrowed.

You know the word. Don't make me say it. Playin the moral thing, I mean. Kidd Red yawned, stretching himself out lazily. Although, that said, it's a bit shit here, in District Five. I mean, when did you get here man?

Mr White thought for a second. Four days ago.

As long as that? Fuck man. That means I been here a week. And I only fucked three or four girls.

Three or four?

Kidd Red shrugged. Numbers, he stated, as if this explained everything. But let's look at the top illegals here right. He raised up a youthful, slim-fingered hand and began to count off. One, nothin that ain't monogamous. I don't much care about that one, I usually play alone, although I wouldn't say no to a crowd. But it ain't high up my list, and no biggie to break. Two, no outside ejaculation, all cumshots gotta be inside. Part of my practice anyway. Three, no contraception. Well, no kiddin. I ain't fuckin breakin that one.

Red sighed. This is a real lovey-dovey place, clear as shit. I reckon they missed a trick with the anal though. Strange thing to omit. You want all perfect borin couples with their perfect borin babies and yet you miss out the best method of contraception for an illegal. But I guess Five was a good place for us to start, right man? Easy-goin.

His accent was some southwest cock-of-the-walk and beach-bar blend that rolled off his tongue with laidback nonchalance. His face was relaxed and had been relaxed for three days now. He had a practiced grinning lip-curl that accompanied his flirtations or any slice of sleaze he was party to and proud of. His otherwise indolent, slow-blinking eyes shined brightly with every lopsided smile or infectious laugh, which was often. He always sounded like he might start a brawl just for fun, or spit to the floor with his boots up on the table, or burst out laughing at any moment.

From the moment he met him three days ago Mr White thought he sounded like a friend.

He nodded at Red's appraisal. What's the age of consent?

Shit, shouldn't of forgot an obvious one like that. It's prob'ly cause it's so dull. AOC twenny-five. I mean, really? The fucks to be done with that?

Easy to break.

Too easy. But you noticed somethin? Not much young meat walkin the streets. Everone in this district seem to be married women in their fuckin thirties and over. Which is another trick they missed, no big-time infidelity illegal. Where's the perfect two point four children now? Mommy's off getting fucked. Daddy's gettin blown in a parking lot.

What's the youngest you had then since you got here?

Nineteen. Nothin significant. She thought she were real dirty, but she weren't. She didn't have the heart or the mind to be corrupted.

Nineteen is really pushing it for an AOC of twenty-five. That's six under.

Kidd Red rolled his eyes. I can do the math, genius. She weren't interestin. No curves neither, which usually work good for exceptions.

Mr White finished his own meal and supped a bit of his drink, some milk that, in the circumstances of the hotel, looked dodgy and ran down his throat even dodgier.

Where do you want to go next then?

Red considered this, leaning so far back in his chair that it was a wonder it didn't tip over. Let's not make things too rough just yet. I reckon we ought to go to District Seven.

Mr White tried to remember what he'd read in the guide. Anal? he said hesitantly.

Red grinned, his boyish face happy and attractive. He was clearly handsome, his face slightly effeminate in its prettiness, his blonde surfer hair long and messy and curled at the ages. He probably spent ages in the mirror over it.

Hell yeah, he said. Same illegals as Five man, but with an AOC of eighteen, and a top illegal of sodomy. That's oral and anal, but emphasis on anal for top position. Top! That's fuckin gold man. Nice follow-up to this place.

Mr White groaned. You'll be in prison in five minutes.

Red laughed, showing off his perfect white teeth. If you're tryin to put me off, you're not doin a very good job. He flicked a crumb of fried bread off his leg and added, idly, Are you comin with me?

Yes, said Mr White, a little too quickly. I mean, he muttered, Of course I am. Somebody's got to keep an eye on you, keep you out of trouble.

Don't do too good a job amigo, Kidd Red winked.

Mr White trotted down the stairs, which clanked and bent under his feet, dented metal sheets clattering like he had hooves. On the grey bunker-house walls were graffitied all manner of obscenities and drawings of the greatest proportions; men and women and animals alike fucking and killing and killing while fucking. Caged lights crackled in the walls, fizzing with the rush of insects and oily with grime.

On the lowest flight was a grand artistic rendition of some seemingly apocalyptic scene, but it was smeared and sooted from some past fire, and whether the work was of a great battle, a religious revival or a ferocious orgy was unknown. Mr White peered at it as he dropped step to step, and he could just make out in the very centre of the piece some black shape, a human figure perhaps, but it could as well be a curious blot, a burned scar forming nothing but the centre of everything.

Mr White came out of the fire escape into the sun and met Red with his back to the wall, one foot up. Red was wearing shades and pendants on chains and was staring down the sun.

Hola.

How long have you been out here?

Red shrugged. He had a cigarette in his fingers dropping ash and his other hand thumbed his belt. You ready.

Mr White looked up at the sun, still blinking as his eyes adjusted to the light. It wasn't joyous and rich, it was thin, artificial, as though the sun was an imposter. Perhaps nought but a bright moon shone on them that day, as every day. Cutting through the skim of the city's milk. As though it were a bubble, and nothing could pass through and keep its lustre, its original power and integrity. Mr White waved a hand through the air and he could feel it. The cloy of the city, the milk, the soul. Sour and pungent.

You ready?

I'm ready. Mr White took a deep breath and the air was neither fresh nor clean.

Red looked at Mr White and grinned. Old habits die hard, don't they.

Mr White smiled and stretched a little. Yeah.

They moved off, Red leading, Mr White just a step behind. Red walked with his customary jaunt as if he thought he was a rockstar or a drug dealer or a pirate. He could have been all three and it wouldn't have mattered.

Mr White felt a dull, snapping breeze on his neck as though someone was clicking fingers on his skin. He reached up and found a button undone on his shirt, and he hastily rebuttoned and held his coat tighter to him.

Red glanced at him. It ain't cold.

I don't like it.

Red chuckled and kept on.

They walked through trash and bottles span and splintered as Red's boots kicked them away. Beside them cruel looking taxis vibrated back and forth along the road. They looked like they were battered out from sheet iron. The windows were frosted to obscure both driver and passengers, but the appearance was more of glass punched and cracked over and over, utterly smashed and held together with invisible tape. Like some crude icing rink after years of use without repair. The wheels were crags that crunched refuse and dead things under their merciless tread.

On their left buildings and shop windows were passed without comment or notice, all the same, all hopeless and blank. White lights shone into the day, advertising, always advertising, but without vigour, as if even the perpetrators of such had fallen to resignation, a disbelief in their products. Once in a while a tree was passed, but they looked plastic and they stood like statues, the leaves as still as iron claws. Beside every one were two benches, one on either side, blue paintwork scabbing away to show a brown leprous heart. On some sat people, and they all stared forward, even those in halting conversation. Talking as if ghosts in a foreign land.

You oughtn't have done that. An old man stared ahead and he blinked so slow and heavy that it was a wonder if he knew whether he was awake or asleep, or alive or dead.

I know it. His companion was emaciated, looking like something just dug up. You know how it is.

No I don't.

The man from the grave sighed, and the world seemed to fall off his bones. Every man wants to be seen as dangerous some point or another. Capable of such things. No man can go a whole life otherwise. Every man wants to know he's a danger. To be thought of such a way. For one moment or two.

You oughtn't have done it.

I know it. It is how it is.

Red and White walked on out of earshot and at length they came to a checkpoint cutting off the street. It clustered with police, in their black uniforms and black mirrored helmets.

You done this before?

Mr White shook his head.

It's easy. They got nothin.

They were looked at like robots handling objects but they gave their names in the booth and they were let through without further consideration. There were no niceties. They were ushered in and out and they walked away from the faceless stares, those expressionless things that seemed so alien and hostile, void of feeling. They walked away with their necks prickling into District Seven.

DISTRICT 7, HOTEL

Red took them in the first hotel they came to. It was a dive but they all were. There could be no being particular in Rule, not unless you had the extreme coinage to swing your way. They walked up to the check in and the owner, a hag with hair like an explosion, curled a lip of boils at them as they thumbed up the money.

Sign the book.

Mr White took the pen and filled in his name and signature. He looked up. What date is it?

The woman pointed behind her at a digital display, the numbers green and flickering like the lights of a dying bar.

He filled in the date for both of them and gave Red the pen. Red signed his name with the flourish of a drunkard.

Two d's in Kidd?

Yeah man. Double-D up front. He grinned widely and the woman scowled.

They came to their room, a miserable state as was their last. They'd only booked the one. Red bounced and rolled over both the beds, calling shotgun on the bed with the least stains and the least broken mattress.

What time is it?

Red pondered. Pizza time. Then chips time. Then bar time.

Are we getting a takeaway?

Well I'm not fuckin lettin that woman bring us anythin. Spittin be the least of our troubles.

Shall we head out?

Nah man. Not yet. Place got a phone. Boom, order, boom eat, boom go out, drink. Let's get this show on the fuckin road. Start with numero uno. I got a chasm in my stomach the size of a fuckin aircraft carrier. And half of that empty is chasin the dream of sweet alcohol. The only spirits I got a callin for.

I guess you want me to phone.

Go for it.

BAR

They had eaten the pizza and the chips, and Mr White had been amazed at how delicious they both were, cooked up from the grime and grease of the city. In cruel comparison the water out of the taps was bitter and metallic, but Mr White drank it anyway while Red drank nothing, waiting for the bar.

They had asked the woman at the front desk where the nearest bar was and she had stabbed her finger out the door. Left, she had said, her eyes like coals. They had walked out and turned right and found the bar just a short way down the street. It was dirty and the windows were scarred and cracked. A sign swung loosely from a broken post outside, glittering blue neon advertising it as a BAR by no other name. Inside it smelled of sweat and spilled spirits, and the crude perfumes of the men and women. They sat at the bar or around tables or milled in groups and some of the people looked at them as they entered and some of them didn't. The lights were low and shadows slung themselves drunkenly over breasts and stubble alike.

Mr White was sat at a table now, waiting patiently with a beer he didn't like for Red to come back from the bar for a second time. He sipped at it unenthusiastically, willing it to go down. After a few minutes of observing Red flirting with the buxom, scantily clad bar girl, and tipping her heavily, he saw him turn, brandishing his purchased wares with cavalier care.

Tequila! announced Red triumphantly as he brought a tray of shots, lemon and salt over to their table.

Tequila? Oh no.

I got salt and lemon too. Just what we need. Ready?

Not at all. Mr White looked sorry for himself but picked up the first of his shots and clinked it sadly with Red's.

Red looked Mr White in the eyes with a wicked grin and as if they shared some telepathic connection they both downed them in perfect unison.

Red flushed and exhaled harshly, smiling fiercely while Mr White gagged.

Go on, off you run, Red said throatily, and Mr White nearly overturned his chair in his haste to reach the nearest toilet. Neither had touched the salt and lemon.

I'll bring the rest of the shots to you! Red called out after him.

It wasn't an idle threat. Red pushed open the cubicle door, left unlocked in haste, and crouched by Mr White as he retched emptily into the bowl, saliva dripping from his lips.

What . . . do . . . you want?

I brought the rest of the shots. Red couldn't keep the grin out of his words.

You have got to be kidding me.

I paid for em, so you got to have em. That's the rules. And look, you ain't even been sick. You just thought you would, but you ain't.

I'll be sick if I have any more.

Well then you'll feel better, won't you?

Mr White's body told him that this was sound judgement. His mind was too clouded by alcoholic burn to think it through.

Red laid the tray out on the cubicle floor and held up a torn sachet of salt.

Here, gimme your hand. Red took Mr White's unresisting hand, raising it up to wipe his dripping lips.

There you go, Red said soothingly. He lowered the hand and poured some of the salt on to it where it stuck to the spit.

Red took another shot and offered it up to Mr White, holding a lemon slice in his other hand.

Mr White took hold of the shot with his unsalted hand and stared at it dumbly.

It's to drink, Red said helpfully. Preferably quickly.

Mr White sucked the salt, his hand and mouth acting together as if formed some rebellious coalition independent of the brain, and he downed it, quickly, clenching his teeth into the lemon a second before it fell out of his mouth as he retched again and his eyes streamed.

Quick man, this'll take the edge off. Red handed him another.

Wha?

It's water, it'll help.

Mr White threw it down his gullet as if it was life-saving.

It weren't water, it was more tequila, I'm sorry.

Mr White's head went right into the toilet bowl.

Don't worry, smiled Red happily, as he took a shot himself and coughed and his cheeks went red again. There's only four more left for you.

It was twenty minutes later and miraculously Mr White had drunk two more of his shots. One more had been spilt down the toilet (Red felt this was deliberate), and the last one has been finally drunk by Red himself, after rolling his eyes at the hopelessly negative Mr White. Still, he was a little proud of him. Or at least, he would be if he wasn't now slightly concerned that he had now consigned him to spend the rest of the night huddled by the toilet.

Real vomit was coming out now, in heaving splurts. Red peered in the bowl. Yep, that was sick alright.

That's the spirit amigo. Red clapped Mr White on the back. Get it all out.

Unnurrgh.

I'm surprised you can even be sick in this place. That shit must hit you pretty hard.

Ungh.

It's all in your head man.

Nugh. More vomit.

Fifteen minutes later and a slightly cleaned up Mr White was back at the bar with Red.

There you go, feel better? asked Red, as he beckoned the bar girl to take his order.

Yes. Thank you.

Don't mention it. D'you want more tequila?

No.

Six beers, hot stuff. Keep the change. The bar girl rolled her eyes but took all the money and gave a wry smile.

There's only two of us, reminded Mr White.

Red grinned. Ah, bless. He patted him on the back affectionately.