Moral Zero

Moral Zero

By Set Sytes

Dedicated to Nik Litherland

Because bad guys make the best good guys

“
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 whispering 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 rolling 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, thoug
ht 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 t
his 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 obviou
s 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 y
ou 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 wa
s 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 remembe
r 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 edges. 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.

DISTRICT 5, STREET

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 s
hirt, 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 building
s 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 had fallen to resignation, a disbelief in their products. Once in a while they passed a tree, 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 ought
n’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.