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The night was fast approaching; the tension could be felt throughout the Williams household. The past twenty-one years of his life
he had waited for this moment. He’d played the fantasy over and over in his head, envisaging thousands of imaginary role-plays.
Over Ben’s birthday dinner his father reminisced on how when he had turned twenty-one alcohol had been widely available. ‘Yep,
for next to nothin' we used to go out and get blasted. Five litres, six litres it didn’t matter.’ This kind of weekend extravagance
wouldn’t have left them financially crippled like it would now in 2028. There was a black market but it was only small and never talked
about. The difficulty in obtaining the ingredients meant that substitutes were used which had a whole host of side-effects (nausea,
vomiting, inability to walk and talk properly). Also the black market price was still 50% of the normal price so unaffordable to the
average person. The price was so high because the penalty for alcohol fermentation was death. Only thirty years previous a night
out would have cost only one tenth of a persons weekly wage. Now a night out cost a quarter of a families yearly income. Since
2010 the taxes on alcohol had been sent into an upward spiral by the all-powerful European Union. Word drifted about that out in
the dustlands outside of Europe no taxes applied. People never discussed this though. There was no point; it was impossible to leave
the Union as electro-magnetic fields sealed them within a European bubble. Also if one did manage to leave there was no guarantee
that survival was possible on the outside. It was the crippling taxes on alcohol, tobacco and petrol that had caused the uprisings of
2011 and 2017. Knowledge of these events was limited, as those survivors who had been involved didn’t talk about it. There were
reported to have been around one million premature retirements. Petrol cars had become obsolete, being replaced by state
owned hydrogen cars.
His twenty-first birthday marked the transition into citizenship. State education and examinations taught him the values
and morals he was going to need in latter life. State studies had shown that allowing this night out helped to burn out the youth in
Indieuros. His citizen card had arrived at the stroke of twelve state-sector-seven time. His parents had been putting money into
state drinking schemes since he was born. They had saved enough for a state night mark six.
|
State night mark six: The citizen has credit for -
Ten two unit alcoholic drinks.
Ten cigarettes/cigars.
Return petrol driven transportation.
[Extra option: Female prostitute.]
|
The car was to arrive around 20:00 sector seven time. Those less fortunate citizens who couldn’t afford this option would have to
take the dangerous Metro-Line. Tonight would be spent rubbing shoulders with the extremely rich. Men with plastic six packs at
ninety and women in perfect proportions. The ten drinks would be more than ample having never drunk alcohol before.
He would probably pass out after five. The unused credit would be kept on his account and saved till he had his child. The expense
meant that all spent their twenty-firsts alone. Even if birthdays fell on the same day for associates, it was strongly advised by screens
that you spend it alone. The drunken birthday goers were kept separate from the wealthy, influential state officials by mental tags,
which were stimulated when they thought of approaching the Europlus section of the bar. Their behaviour was being monitored
and manipulated for their own good at all times. He had heard of cigars as big as bananas and just as straight. The women
supposedly wore clothes that exposed their semi-natural bodies, some selling casual sex for a price.
The taxi had arrived, indicated by the flashing of the house bell light. His mother began to cry pre-scripted tears. Her baby was
going to become a man; it would be his night on the town. As he was about to leave, fresh suit rubbing from leg to leg, his father
stopped him at the door. "There you go son, happy birthday." He produced a shimmering gold-wrapped box. Inside lay a silver
cigarette case, with his name and number etched on to the plate. His father embraced him with the same level of emotion as he had
been allowed to do on the first day of his education. Ben placed the cigarette box inside the inner jacket pocket and took a lift
down to first level. The taxi was waiting around five bays away. The smell of petrol was so sweet and sickly that he breathed it
deeper and deeper into his lungs. The wonderful rare smell of natural pollutant. The tax on petrol meant that a tank full of petrol
was worth more than a thousand petrol cars. A 1965 Bentley could be picked up for the same price as a year’s subscription to an
electronic magazine. Slightly damaged petrol cars were left on ground level, providing metal shelters for the crazed anti-stateists. His
anticipation grew, cold sweat attracted towards the cotton shirt he was unused to wearing. A clammy palm wiped away the moisture
as the car swept its way to the club's first-level entrance.
The entrance was guarded by ex-military armed bodyguards called ‘bouncers’ who checked the entrant’s credentials.
The doorway was small; the steps leading inside must have been worth a fortune as they were wooden. There was a small cubbyhole just
inside where the guests' coats were taken and hung on plastic hangers. The towering bouncers checked his reservation. "Ben
19805701". They checked their list and then scanned his eyes with a hand held zip. "Check clear, proceed." They said with their
monotone, mechanical voices. His ticket in hand he walked down the stairs, his legs tingling with anticipation. The doorway to his
night was before him, getting closer step by step. The door lay stationary, sturdy on its hinges. It was an old fashioned manual door
so he had to pull his way in. There was even a sign on the door to indicate whether to push or pull. As if the citizens of the 20th
century had been mentally challenged. A waft of stale cigar smoke filled his lungs. This was it, this was the highest level. A place only
talked and dreamed about. Somewhere to spend your life when your number comes up. The peeled, dull and fascinating. The
shelves were lined with cups made of real glass. Bottles contained brown, yellow, green, red and clear liquids. All with that special
mystical ingredient. Impure, head-spinning, strong-tasting, so satisfying, desire-increasing, uncontrollable alcohol. He stood there,
barman facing him. "What drink sir?" He stood there uncertain what to order. The choice was so vast but he knew it all. Part of
student education was historical studies into the drinks of the twentieth century and their innumerable combinations. Those who
had excelled had been brought in to the bar elite, getting to work in such wonderful places. The psychotic effects of alcohol had
been much studied by psychologists before the profession had been banned. His dad used to like brandy and ginger ale. "I’ll have a
brandy and ginger please." "Ice sir?" "Yes please." The barman took down a glass and filled it with ice. He then produced an old
bottle of courvoisier and substitute ginger. The small schweppes bottles had all been used up by 2022 and the natural ingredients
were no longer available or legal. He watched the barman pour the brandy over the ice and then add a dash of ginger. "There you
go sir." "Thank you." Drink in hand he let his back sink into the hard surface of the longed-for bar. It didn’t seem real, the bar he
had dreamed about couldn’t live up to what lay before his eyes. Beautiful women in long, silky, sparkling dresses sat beside affluent
men, their chests heaving as they breathed. The women held long ivory cigarette holders poised between their fingers. Menthol
cigarettes burned back with orange glow towards their polished fake fingernails, which pointed enticingly in his direction.
Cocktail waitresses in short skirts milled about, some holding trays of electronically alarmed cigarettes. Ben used his ten
credits to get 7 cigarettes and 3 cigars. He placed the cigarettes one by one into his new silver holder. Real authentic cigarette,
guaranteed to give you cancer or your money back. Filthy, dark, polluting smoke, the show was about to start. A woman escorted
him to his table and sent over a waitress to take his next drink order. "A Jim Beam and coke please, thanks." A quaint light was
placed upon the table, emitting a feeble, energy-draining glow. The light was hindered by its shade. That was the beauty of it.
Inefficient, wasted heat and cheap design. The rules of the new world didn’t apply here. The lights dimmed as if they weren’t dim
enough. The long draped red velvet concertinaed curtain hid behind it a world of secrets and dancing girls. Ben would be
allocated a wife in two years' time, on his twenty-third birthday. A series of tests would be run to find a suitable match. Divorce was
now non-existent, mainly because it was illegal and punishable by banishment, which meant death. The curtains drew aside, the heat
increased.
The stage lights panned across to show a woman, maturely aged in her appearance. Her glowing red hair curled down in
twists around her face. A single circle of light illuminated her ashen white face. He sat transfixed having never seen a non-state live
show before. The piano began to play, the notes chimed separately but blended together to trick the mind into a melody. It was a
good old 90’s piano. Her voice rang out like a bird suspended on a warm current of air. Each note seemed to touch a part of his
intestines in a way he hadn’t known. Deep down they banged their hands together. The song ended, the woman bowed and
receded into the shadows of the stage. Next up was a magician. He ordered another drink. He had always wanted to try a lager. Its
freshness was supposed to be an amazing experience. It was served in a glass, just over half a litre, with condensation dripping down
the edge. His hand trembled slightly as he rose the glass to his lips. It flowed down his gullet coating his throat in an ice-like film. His
mind told him that he wanted a cigarette. He took one from his silver case and placed it into his mouth, orange end first, and as he
did so one of the cigarette girls lit a flame, lighting it for him. After a fit of coughing the act finished, his head swam and his body
tingled. He no longer felt as steady on his seat. His head swayed round and round trying to keep up with the spinning room. As the
room drifted from side to side he could see the working girls standing by the bar smoking. Their voices were deeper than ordinary
girls having inhaled smoke, pollution and semen for many years. Prostitution was illegal but the state police turned a blind eye to
those in clubs for the favours they got in return. He waved his hand in the air; the waitress tottered over to him. He slurred for a
whisky, his eyes transfixed on her skirt. It looked so inviting, he felt the urge to caress her buttocks, pull her on to his lap and let
her feel his excitement. He rose a hand to touch her then a signal from his brain aborted the idea and sent his hand towards the
table. The drink was clouding his judgement. He needed the toilet. He managed to haul himself up out of the seat and, swaying on
his feet, walk towards the bathroom. His body wasn’t used to the drink. After relieving himself he stood staring at himself in the
mirror. The mirror stared back. Something became alerted within the lower half of his body. His sex drive started to take control of
his thoughts. Outside the paid girls leaned at the bar, dirty but clean. The price of a girl was the same as around one litre of beer.
The price was so high because this was the top end of the market. A girl came in his grade six package. His parents had arranged
that as well although it would never be discussed. Bedroom activity was closely monitored by the state; sex was a mainly
procreative activity. Men’s excess testosterone was drained by the family doctor once a month. This was his only chance to be like
the men of the twentieth century, abusive, dominating and sexually driven. The club was like a state-free zone, he was no longer an
Indieuro but an individual.
The club owned the girls and up high above ground level were the apartments where any would-be lover man would
copulate with his woman. Ben’s attention was grabbed by the presence of a famous movie star and her ageing husband on the balcony.
At the bottom of the stairs stood a woman around 155cm in height exaggerated to 170cm by the shoes she wore. Her short, tight
black PVC skirt rubbed over the thighs of both her legs. Her cleavage drew a deep line down the centre of her chest. Her almond
hair sat graciously about her face, but this wasn’t relevant. To Ben she was sexy. Not attractive like girls had been portrayed before
but sexy. He didn’t want to spend time with her, meet her family, find out her innermost thoughts. He just wanted sex with her. He
wanted her to be part of him as they had passionate sex, not lovemaking but sex. After the straight whisky he needed a shot of
hydration. The barman had seen his sweat-laden face coming. The shot injected just above his forearm bought a sudden semblance
of reality back. His face cooled, the sweat dried to salt. He wiped his face with a damp cloth ordering himself a drink and one for the
lady at the bottom of the stairs. He looked over at her; she looked back clocking him, her expression not changing. Her
appearance was hostile but not all the young men could afford her prices. Ben couldn’t place her age. The features were young but
set amongst make up and wrinkles they had become confused.
The first sip of his fresh drink brought the lust back to his loins. He wanted this girl before somebody else took her. He
walked over his practised walk and pulled out his cigarette case, taking one for himself and offering one to the lady. He mentally kicked
himself for not offering her one first. Her slender fingers plucked it from the case and proceeded to place it in the end of her
cigarette holder. The encrusted jewels on the side indicated to the customer what class of prostitute she was. There lay five crystals
gleaming at him as he produced the light for her cigarette. She was of the highest class. This was also indicated by her having the
prime spot at the bottom of the stairs. She knew right away what he wanted even before he had come over. Eight years experience
was enough to sense the animal sexuality with which he ogled her body, even though he was trying to hide it. It may have been
the high end of the market but the sex still made her feel dirty; the money was just too good to give up. Ben took his card from his
pocket and handed it to her. She asked if she was the one he wanted, he nodded back. Ben drunkenly looked up the stairs, the
effects of the hydration were wearing off and the alcohol was once more taking control. He looked up longing to meet the stars.
She took him by the arm and led him to a lift. The lift journey took around two minutes. He spent the whole time propping himself
up against one of the eight walls. The customary ‘ting’ accompanied the doors opening. Ben continued repeating this sound "ting,
ting, ting" as he walked down the long corridor. They walked along almost side by side, her leading him. She rustled in her bag for
her keys. The walk took around ten minutes and in that time Ben managed to spill half his beer.
The door swung open and the velvet purple and red décor echoed its seedy feel over the whole room. These apartments
consisted of just a bedroom and a bathroom, as that was all they needed. In the corner was a mini bar, tastefully encapsulated
within a revised globe of the world. The girls were encouraged to try and use up their clients remaining credits of drink and
cigarettes so there was none to be credited to the future child. The room was decked out perfectly for its purpose from the
costumes in the wardrobe to the mirrors placed at revealing angles. The door slammed and she rubbed her hand gently over his
crotch. A passing moment of realisation flitted through his mind before passing once more. Boiling semen took its place, pumping
testosterone to his genitals and brain. With co-ordination fading fast he dropped the glass and made a fast falling dive forwards,
putting his hand up her skirt. She steadied him on his feet as he carried on hell-bent on caressing her flesh. Seeing an opportunity
for easy work she walked him over to the bed, sat him down and made them both a drink whilst his head drifted around between
his own legs. Around sixty percent of all the men she had brought up for sex had either fallen asleep in a drunken coma, couldn’t
get it up or got it up and out a little quicker than expected. If she was lucky this youngster would fall asleep, be taken to another
sex-free bed and wake up with only the vaguest idea of what happened the night before.
Her thighs glistened with milky whiteness. His vision tried harder and harder to focus upon a single spot. He tried
screwing one eye closed and focussing with the other but to no success. She lifted the skirt up, showing the black thong she wore.
She untagged the side and threw it to the floor. This blatant forward act made him realise once more why he had come to this
room. His drink slipped from his hand staining the carpet momentarily while the fibres reversed to their pre-aligned state. There she
stood, a woman of sex, right before him. She was a dancing black outline, her figure convulsed shapes. His head swam; the blur
took over. The veins in his temples pounded whilst he struggled to form the sheets in a protective web around him. His guts
wrenched tighter and tighter. The light's glare stabbed at his eyes. Even when the lids were closed the glow paid little attention to the
shields. He lay there a crumpled mess crossed between the recovery and foetal positions. Nature’s law, what goes up must come
down. For all the pleasure the pain must be suffered. No more purple, no more smoke, no more cabaret, no more drink, no more
oversized monkeys, no more whores. All that was left was the clean-cut living of 2028. The thought of what had happened between
him and that girl flashed past his mind as he passed back out to sleep.
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