Psi-Sapper

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Fantasy  |  House: Booksie Classic


Early character sketch for short story

Submitted: June 01, 2018

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Submitted: June 01, 2018

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PSI SAPPER

By Alexander Guinevere Kern

Copyright A. Kern, April, 1999

 

His seven nesting auras were Rambo-fired peacock colors: lust grade gyreworks.

Degradonna could detect Samuel's spectacular field no matter where he chose to travel in the world. Bhagalpur, Aberdeen, Rio de Janeiro, Halifax, Chongquing, Thessaloniki, Krakow, Pitcairn, Reykjavik: his radioactive Hobosoul propelled him to jack around his coordinates with such jagged frequency that her Tracker heart was beginning to resemble a perforated pin map. Psi heister, could she but get a lock on him, she would snort his strength like snuff.

On her most desperate days, when the only energy she'd been able to psi jack was

 of the lowest quality available (tax collectors, seizure addicts, crotch vendors and loan sharks) she could even *smell* Sam's auric pheromone Influence, that unique rut perfume fermented only in his cells. Olfactory paradise, that was, like mainlining Sarotti chocolate.

But she possessed an indefatigable craving for the knave; and so she maintained the chasseur's patience . . . hot wired by her gyno determination. If she wanted to psi surf Sam Bell Harold's seismic waves of consciousness, she had damn well better be careful, *and* persistent. He knew of her kind; they had exchanged their threats.

It was another order of exchange she desired to experience with the Master of Duende. No other offered such a sublime Kundalini load. That man's charisma could fuel her for ages.

Of course, the very word "exchange" implied that she had something to offer Sam

in return. Regrettably, she did not.

She reached out with languid poise and touched one of the thousands of

holo potential cryptoglyphs decorating the walls of her studio and watched his occult image dive to the floor and shudder before her in three dimensions.

Heaven has a face. How familiar, the Raptor nose, the sunburned cheeks, the

Inquisitive salt spray eyes, (sloe cool under epicanthic folds) cam ray glasses perched atop his flock of smoky curls. The compu-sketch book (without which he was never observed) was wedged under one arm and his steel nun-chuks were dangling from his thong belt. Still wearing his threadbare hemp hewn baggies with the incongruously matched cloud loud New Rage T shirt. Muscle Cut like a panther wrestler, was this icon image mage, with a keen shear lathe for an intellect. He had expanded all the way to the dagger edge of Understanding, and swapped his synapses with the Divine; Degradonna fancied that she could see the solemn God of Inspiration sparking its genius wisdom through his eyes.

"Oh, Sonic Sam!"

She knew it was but a high-tech Holusion; yet she found herself gasping aloud. The man she had viewed flesh to retro flesh only once, (at one of his rare and coveted art ant farm openings) now gazed back at her with a bemused expression such as Aladdin's cantankerous Jinn might have worn, had he been an adventurer/artist inclined to mysticism instead of wish granting. As if to say: "Well, here I am, soul suckahhh. What do you want from me, as if I didn't know? Well, ya can kiss my raggly ass knickers, 'cause you ain't gonna get it. Now do us all a favor and take the Kervorkian express. Here's a plastique bag in case ya need one. I have future femurs to excavate and ancient philosophies to paint, and my creative ballistic is not for you to sap."

He had telekinet faxed her some such sentiment, once, after he had narrowly, but

neatly, side stepped her attack in San Juan. Degrading had been left with an aching

Vacancy that would accept no substitute for repair.

It had to be *this* man, and no other. He was the globally embraced Provocateur

and gifted pixel engraver. Critics hailed him as the Futuristic Durer, until he started

expressing his Muse in semi cryo genic media, and then the arbiters of ability were without an established mentor to which they could attribute influence.

Degradonna owned every tape recording, every article, biography, novel and video which featured her darling Target. He could not shield his assets or his aspects of King, his tastes, his viewpoints, his lusts were sustenance for all for a price. Everything could be discovered in the Info Age. Privacy: an outré concept, the dream of a dinosaur democracy.

She knew that Sam did not like that side effect of the new technology at all; he was a closed circuit, feeding off his own eccentric manna.

The scandal loop revealed that Sam loved sex in all its variant hues of definition; he was once quoted as saying that he would stick it in the moon, if he could reach it. (Sam might get yet his opportunity. Degradonna had read that the last manned flight to earth's sidekick planet had gone extremely well. There were promising rumors of colony development, in fact.) On the less prurient plane, he liked baked cinnamon appleskins and sushi on a string, hang gliding, and playing with his gyroscope. He owned millions of dollars worth of undesirable property, from Canada to Africa, from Greenland to Japan. Depleted oil wells, exhausted fields, toxic waste sites, abandoned buildings, derelict maxed out Landfills, remnants of scar country . . . Bell  Harold had a curious fixation with devastation, apparently.

An avowed dog lover, he owned three St. Bernards and four Rottweilers. His collection of Robert Crumb cartoons was priceless. He considered himself neither beneath or above Killing; he had been known to dismiss interlopers into his private affairs by engraving an Exit Door across their forehead and then opening it. Or sketching their body outline in charcoal on the floor, and making sure they tried it on for size. Bell Harold's spiked temper was consonant with his mental Ram, that was for sure.

Sam, Sam, she thought. Abruptly, she laughed, then, abruptly wept. He always had that extreme high pitch effect upon her glass emotions. Odd even a first rate holo video did not even begin to rein in his maverick momentum. Not enough, the Pseudoman would never do.

She needed odor, touch, taste, and the challenging vibrations of his voice. She*needed* to lie down in his bed of Power, and draw it bright and Nova robust from the source himself.

Degradonna sighed. She twirled her straw hair, and fiercely chewed a strand until

her mouth was filled with the taste of shredded desire. Her solar plexus ached, ached, ached.

Images, no matter how accurate or professionally conceived, were but *symbols*, sterile comforts; as in, no comfort at all. Hunger wants authenticity. As much time as Sam spent climbing his Out Of The Body Everests, it was clear that his energy was generated solely from within. She had to have *his* body; she *needed* him, needed to deplete, needed to absorb, needed to siphon his artistic ability straight from his neo cortex. Otherwise she would always be Salieri; he would always be Mozart. A theft for the sake of infamy and immortality: Justified.

Perhaps he had earned his quiet and legendary confidence by earnest study and

meditation, and kilned his skills by spending decades in his studio, painting his way toNirvana.

To Degradonna, this revelation was irrelevant.

His work outsold her manqué efforts thousands to one. It was not fair. She loved

their common art with equal voltage. Staring angrily as the Holoart, she tortured herself with fantasies. What was it like, to stir your admirers to jealousy with your original perceptions and turbo insights? What was it like to find every woman willing? What was it like to raise the heated column of Kundalini Ecstasy without exterior contribution from any source?

"Why have you the power, and not me?" she shrieked.

She hoisted her vat of turpentine and considered quaffing the solvent. Like Van

Gogh, she could lick the Ultramarine Blue, since she was blue unto despair. She hoped it would eradicate the longing, which gnawed at her unceasingly. Not fair, not fair, not fair,

thought she. That he would not grant her even a modicum of his . . . Enough. Suicide? Not Degradonna. As long as she could leech from humanity, she could bide her time until Sam's vagrant and independent path hit a bad vector and then . . .

Smiling, she gave Sam's smirk a vicious front kick; her foot appeared in the center

of his altered face.

Did she imagine it, or did sparks . . . ?

She inclined her chin and caught the wild power of the Peacock on her tongue.


© Copyright 2018 RexMundi555'.-. All rights reserved.

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