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From: Andrew Roller <roller666@earthlink.net>
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Subject: {ASSM} girl patrol, chapter six
Date: Sat,  8 Sep 2001 20:10:04 -0400
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- NND ---------------------------------------------------------
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                                        Andrew Roller Presents
 
                                                GIRL PATROL

                                                 Chapter Six

         He'd learned to survive the werewolves and the vampires, and
he'd prospered.  He was known as Daedal Osiris, but he knew himself by a
simpler name:  Fat Arnold.
         For five billion years he'd slept under the unmoving Arizona
desert, kept alive by solar cells that slowly wilted in the hot sun but
somehow kept working.  Henry Dorkson had been an ingenious inventer. 
Just a trickle from the original solar array was all that was left when
Fat Arnold finally awoke.  But it was enough, just barely, to keep
Arnold from joining the dead.  In the meantime the whole planet had
slipped over the edge; nothing but corpses were left to roam now, plus
spirits and a few wolves.  And the occasional human, though they were
best off keeping themselves under wraps, like Fat Arnold did.
         Everyone Fat Arnold knew in Darkness City thought he was dead
like they were.  They thought he fed on the occasional human stupid
enough to wander into town, or on the ghouls, humans who had received
the kiss from a vampire but none of the benefits.  Fat Arnold kept the
requisite supply of ghouls on hand, but they were remarkably healthy and
fit, not half-drained like most ghouls owned by a vampire.  And with his
slowly-built garrison of ghouls, Fat Arnold began to play vampire
politics in Darkness City.  Now, with Vlad Tristen and Esmelda fled into
the past, he was number one, the head honcho.  And he planned to enjoy
every minute of it.  At least for as long as the sun lasted.  Fat Arnold
came outdoors, high up in his tower that loomed spire-like over Darkness
City.  He shielded his eyes, wearing sunglasses, and looked up at the
sun.  He let its red light fall onto his skin; he had nothing to fear. 
Not from the light, anyway.  But how long would it last?  How long
before the damn thing gave up the ghost and blew up?  For ten billion
years life had thrived on earth, and unlife too, without a thought for
the out-of-control nuclear reactor that blazed there in the sky, rising
in the east, setting in the west, day in and day out, seemingly for
eternity.
         Now eternity was over.  And it was Fat Arnold's lot to be stuck
at the end of it.  Arnold scowled at the sun.  The free lunch at
McDonald's had turned into a five billion year sleep and now the free
life-giving sunshine was about to turn into a bomb.  Vlad and Esmelda
had managed to arrange their escape into the past, but what about
everyone else, alive and dead, who lived on this dying planet?  Were
they just to sit here until the end?  Waiting to be roasted?  A morbid
fear that Fat Arnold had possessed, ever since he saw Willy Wonka back
in the 1970's, was that his overweight body would somehow be cooked and
eaten.  Well, the sun, whose rays seemed to shine so benignly down on
him, if somewhat off-color, seemed set to turn that fear into reality. 
Fat Arnold's only consolation was that the others, spread out below him
in Darkness City, didn't realize the end was near.
         Fat Arnold laughed.  Yes, the old lie spoken by crazy men in
his childhood was finally about to come true.  The end was really near,
and wouldn't you know, Vlad and Esmelda had left him in charge of the
place, like the last President of South Vietnam, appointed in the final
agonized hours of that country by its previous president, who fled
successfully to the United States.  Well, Fat Arnold might have been
dull and lazy in his youth, if not as cow-stupid as his playmates
assumed (He did, after all, follow the fall of South Vietnam avidly in
his father's Newsweek and Time magazines when it happened), but he
wasn't going to take the end lightly.  He was going to get out of here,
Fat Arnold growled to himself.  And he was going to pull out all the
stops to do it, just like Vlad and Esmelda had done.  He would build his
own time machine, and he would...
         Fat Arnold paused.  His chubby hands gripped the railing along
the parapet where he was standing.  The cryogenic machine!  It was still
lying out there, in the desert, under the waning sun.  If he got some of
his ghouls to set it up, he could go back.  To his past!  He could
perhaps even choose the same time he'd come from:  he could watch the
fall of South Vietnam all over again, perhaps even start his own news
network to cover it, live, ahead of Ted Turner and...
         The possibilities were endless, if only Arnold could get out of
here.  Children of his youth might have thought of space travel as a way
to escape.  But going to the moon or Mars didn't get you far enough away
from a star that was set to explode.  There was no way to get out of the
solar system and stay alive, out there in the dark reaches of space
between the stars.  And the next star, what was it called?  Fat Arnold
didn't know and he also didn't know if it was far enough away to avoid
the blast of earth's exploding sun.  No, the best bet was the past, and
Vlad and Esmelda, disappearing suddenly into it with the machine they'd
built, were proof, in their nonexistence, of the fact that time travel
would work.  Fat Arnold didn't know where the two had gotten the
know-how to build their machine, but it was sort of like knowing that
the Atom bomb had in fact blown up over Hiroshima; it was proof that the
theory could become reality.
         "How much time do I have?" Fat Arnold asked of the sun, as it
glowed hotly on his cheeks.  And the sun seemed to answer him:  "all
there is, provided you go back to where you came from."  Fat Arnold let
go of the railing and turned back toward the darkness of the rooms
inside his tower.  Somewhere amidst the pile of books and half-dead
computer memories that Vlad and Esmelda had left behind must be the
answer to their escape.  They had left him in charge of Darkness City,
but that was nothing compared to what they'd left, jumbled and seemingly
worthless to the average vampire, in their study.  Knowledge.  Fat
Arnold surveyed the room that had once belonged to Vlad and Esmelda, and
considered the cryogenic chamber under the desert.  Together, both might
be somehow combined to get him out of here.  It was worth a try,
anyway.  "Ghouls!" Fat Arnold called.  A human came rushing into the
room, well-dressed and ready for whatever its master commanded.  "Search
the computer memories for the word `time travel' and let me know what
you find," Fat Arnold ordered.  It seemed like a lame way to start, but
wasn't it Chairman Mao who had said something about a journey of a
thousand miles beginning with a single step?  Fat Arnold's father had
always quoted that to him when Arnold complained he was fat and his
father told him to exercise.
         "Is Master interested in travelling into the past?" the ghoul
asked with frightening perception.
         "Of course not," Fat Arnold answered.  "That's impossible. 
Vlad and Esmelda told me to work on this research project while they're
away.  Get busy; don't just stand there."
         "Of course, Master," the ghoul said in an irritatingly raspy
voice.  He went to a computer screen, tapped on it.  The screen came to
life and glowed into his face, much as the sun had been glowing on Fat
Arnold's face.  Behind Fat Arnold the door to the porch where the sun
shone was now locked; the ghoul must never know, as indeed Vlad and
Esmelda never knew, that Fat Arnold was human, living flesh.  It was why
Arnold always wore a cloak, pulled tight across the mouth and tied, to
cover his breathing.  It was why the fabric of the cloak was especially
heavy, to cover the fact that underneath his pulse was beating and blood
was flowing in his veins.  When he'd arrived in this God-forsaken future
he'd been an innocent, but he'd learned, the hard way.  And he'd avoided
becoming a ghoul like some many humans, those who survived anyway, did. 
Fat Arnold looked with contempt at the ghoul manning the computer.  He
thought he was so smart, yet there he sat, with breath easily detectible
coming from his mouth and nostrils, with his pulse almost visible in the
veins running along his neck.  Anyone who got close to him could see he
was a living thing:  a "blood doll", as the vampires disparagingly
called humans.  Despite his apparent stupidity, in the eyes of Henry
Dorkson and Milton, Fat Arnold had learned what almost no other humans
in this far flung future knew:  to live, you had to pretend to be dead.
         "I'll be in my coffin until the sun sets.  Let me know what you
find," Fat Arnold told the ghoul.
         "Yes, Master," the ghoul answered, tapping away on the computer
screen.
         "And make your weekly donation to my blood bank downstairs if
you haven't already.  Only a pint."  Fat Arnold grinned.  "You're lucky
my special medicines keep me from needing to drain more out of you."
         "Yes, Master.  So lucky," the ghoul admitted, still keeping his
eyes on the computer.  And so Fat Arnold went downstairs, along the
ill-lit circular stairway.  And down in the wine cellar that had so
recently been Vlad and Esmelda's, he got into the big black coffin.  It
unnerved him to sleep in a box; he'd passed five billion years unnoticed
in a plexiglass box.  But he did it anyway, for vampires were expected
to.  As he shut the lid he didn't feel like sleeping.  He felt like
being very awake, in 1978.  And he would kick the asses of two geeks if
he ever got back there.

30

----------------------- Dreamgirls! -----------------------
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-- Great art books by David Hamilton and Jock Sturges are at:
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     Man/boy love:  http://www.nambla.de  Politics:  http://www.lp.org
     http://www.isil.org  http://www.fear.org  http://www.fija.org
     http://www.aclu.org
-- Naughty Naked Dreamgirls (Library of Congress ISSN: 1070-1427)
     is copyright 2001 by Andrew Roller.  Dreamgirls, Naughty Naked
     Dreamgirls, and NND are registered trademarks of Andrew Roller.
     All rights reserved.
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-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
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