



                     VIRTUAL SEARCH

                           by

                       C. Lakewood


AS ALICE WOULD HAVE OBSERVED, "THIS IS CURIOUSER AND CURIOUSER." 



Part 4

"You see two numbers in front of you; one is red, the other blue," 
Jeo said.

"Yes!  As I said, they're about three inches away from the tip of 
my nose," Ashley snapped.  

"Get a grip, Counselor.  What happened to that famous 'steely 
magisterial control'?" Jeo hissed.  "By virtue of my...well, 
let's just say that I can manipulate SOME aspects of the game 
to assist you...IF you follow my directions.  Now, you're going 
to have to get even closer to those numbers.  If you lick the 
red one, you'll shrink enough to slip those cuffs off; then if 
lick the blue numeral, and you'll go back to normal...."

His last words were broken and fading.  Ashley realized that her 
battery was low.  "LICK?  But I couldn't do that...."  

Silence.

She discovered then that she actually COULD do that.  

Glancing left and right, she saw that she was unobserved and 
decided that, under the circumstances, she could sacrifice a 
bit of dignity for a continued chance to win this damn game.

After licking the big red 1, she felt no effect, so she licked it 
again, more vigorously.  Several minutes passed, and Ashley was 
beginning to make up new words with which to curse Jeo, while she 
suddenly felt dizzy...and then her clothes seemed to be looser -- 
MUCH looser.  Sure enough, she was able to slip the cuffs over her 
now-smaller hands.  "I wonder if I'm going to meet the Mad Hatter 
next?" she wondered, as she avidly licked the blue 2 in order to 
return to normal size.  

Nothing happened.

Nervous that "Agent Hal" (whoever or whatever he was) would return, 
Ashley impatiently licked the blue numeral again "to make sure" (or 
so she told herself), gave each of the naked bottoms a stinging 
slap and scrambled from the van.  Her shoes were much too big for 
her still-shrunken feet, so she kicked them off.  With her heels 
in one hand and her purse in the other, she darted across the 
street.  She couldn't save her panties, however, which slithered 
over her narrowed hips and down her legs, eluding her clumsy grasp. 
They were left behind, in the middle of the roadway, as she hailed 
a passing cab.

She exhaled and settled with relief into the cab's back seat.

"Where to, miss?"  The driver's accent was crisp, almost posh.  
And it was vaguely familiar.  She looked at photo on the hack 
license attached to the back of the front seat.

"Winston?  Oh...my...god!" she thought.  Aloud, she gasped, "I-I 
know you....  You used to drive a limo for a pineapple company."

"Oh, no, miss.  That was my younger brother, Cedric.  He's a 
chauffeur in the tropics; I'm a cabbie in Chicago.  But there 
IS a strong family resemblance, I'm told.  My name's Basil."

"Ah...um...okay...."  Ashley wondered to which game faction this 
character belonged.  He SEEMED nice, but she couldn't afford to 
be naive....

Then she felt a momentary vertigo, and -- presto! -- she regained 
her normal size. 

So, all in all, things could have been worse.   Maybe she could 
trust Jeo, at least to a point....  Damn!  The soles of her nylons 
were absolutely shredded.  She'd have to take them off and wear her 
shoes on her bare feet.  Fortunately, the process was easier than 
it might have been; she was wearing a garter-belt and stockings 
rather than pantyhose.  (It was obviously a MAN who'd programmed 
this set-up.)    

"And where was it you wanted to go, miss?"

"Oh, just drive around for a while...."  They were passing the 
"Art Frahm Gallery," and, despite herself, she reflected that 
someone seemed to have an apt sense of humor.  

Then she glanced at the electronic clock on a bank building and 
discovered it was going haywire: 8:38...3:10...6:22...12:04.... 

"Oh, shit!"

"I beg your pardon."

"No, no!  It's not you...."

"If you've got a problem, miss, perhaps you should consult my 
older brother, Albert.  He's headmaster at a school near here, 
a very learned, very wise man.  Right?"

Ashley was preoccupied with her discovery that something -- or 
someone -- was blatantly cheating by screwing with the time, 
and so she barely heard the cab driver.  She gestured, vaguely.

"Jolly good!" the driver said, cheerfully.  

But Ashley had always had an ability to multi-task, to engage in 
a primary activity but still have one or more thought processes 
running in the background.  (Winston...headmaster...Holy Crap!)

"No!  Take me to...um...Clark and Addison," she interjected.  
(Though the gates might not open for hours, she imagined that 
reproducing and stage-managing Wrigley Field should distract 
the machine enough to give her a breather.) 

"No game today, miss, I'm afraid.  Besides, given the shocking 
state of the streets, it would be bloody difficult to get there 
from here."  (Sure enough, with a few flickers, there suddenly 
seemed to be a lot of street repair going on.)  "But look, over 
there in Grant Park: the Summer Festival's in full swing.  I'm 
sure you'd find the Young Woman's Professional Association 
booth...ah, compelling."

The cab had slowed to a halt, due to the torn-up streets, and 
Ashley took the opportunity to toss some money onto the seat
(along with her garter-belt and ruined stockings), hop out of 
the cab, and scurry off in a random direction, despite Basil's 
protests.

She saw a YWCA advertising swimming lessons and, next door, a 
video store.  Pretty obvious snares, she thought.  Perhaps the 
computer had reached the limit of its ingenuity. 

As she passed a public phone, it started ringing, and she answered 
it instinctively.  Jeo's voice rasped, "Danger!  ANOTHER hacker is 
making his presence felt.  I can't find out much about him, except 
that he seems clever and very detail-oriented.  Get off the street! 
NOW!"

She dropped the phone and gazed around.  Up the street, blue 
vans were disgorging a horde of automated police officers -- 
aka "robo-cops."  The computer was mobilizing all its resources.
     
She started to duck into an innocuous-looking crafts shop, hoping 
that the "human" cops at least might be reluctant to risk potpourri 
asphyxiation by entering there.  But then she noticed the myriad 
rickety shelves filled with ceramic figurines, a cataclysmic 
accident waiting to happen if she came anywhere close.  She 
backed carefully out of the shop's entrance.

But where to go?  The nearby choices were not promising: Edwardian 
office building...adult bookstore...laundromat...pizzeria...tattoo 
shop...parking lot...bar...storefront clinic (advertising flu 
shots!)...newsstand...and, at the end of the block, a seedy 
theatre.  This last seemed her best option, though certainly 
not a very good one.  But a glance over her shoulder told her 
that the phalanx of police, reinforced by an angry mob of 
citizenry, had started to move in her direction, although it 
appeared that they'd not yet actually spotted her.  

Perhaps the fact that this was a decayed side street, physically 
near but socio-economically distant from Michigan Avenue, might 
somehow work in her favor. 

She made a dash for the theatre, as a strong Chicago wind gusted 
under her miniskirt, between her sweaty thighs and over her 
moist, pantyless crotch.  Was this part of what Jeo had meant 
by "detail-oriented"?

Just inside the theatre entrance was a glassed-in booth containing 
a bored-looking young blonde doing her nails.  She looked up at 
Ashley and said, in a nasal voice, "Too early for the show.  You 
here for the auditions?"

Ashley had no time to consider.  "Um...y-yes," she answered, 
dubiously.

"Straight on inside, turn left, through the door marked 'Private,' 
and follow the corridor."  She nodded and went back to her nails. 

It was dim inside the lobby, but Ashley found the designated door, 
pushed on through it, and followed a narrow hallway toward 
backstage.  At the end, she found herself in a large room that 
smelled of sweat and sex.  It held almost a dozen 20-somethings 
and was presided over by a stout white woman in her 50s with 
obviously dyed red hair.  She was apparently being assisted by 
an even bigger black woman with a glint in her eye.

"Auditioning?" the boss woman asked.

Ashley nodded.

"Name?"

"Marsh-a...Marsha."  It wasn't very ingenious, but it should do, 
in case the computer was monitoring conversations.  It struck 
Ashley that things were getting weirder and weirder.  When the 
game had begun, it had been clear that the action took place only 
in her vicinity.  Now, however, it was almost as though these 
characters' lives were unfolding whether she was around or not.  
When had she first noticed this phenomenon?  She couldn't remember, 
but maybe one of the hackers had introduced a bug into the system, 
inducing it to spin off to who-knows-where.  Or maybe merely being 
hacked (or was the term "cracked" now?) caused the system to 
ripple, with unforeseen consequences....

She shook her head and put such speculation behind her.   
    
"Okay," Big Red said.  "We got one unbreakable rule here -- 
amateurs or pros it don't make no difference -- pubic hair 
ain't allowed.  If you got any, get rid of it."

That rang a tiny bell somewhere in the depths of Ashley's memory, 
but then her concentration was interrupted, and she lost the 
thought.  The big black woman had pulled up Ashley's skirt and, 
seemingly unsurprised by Ashley's lack of panties, clucked at the 
neatly trimmed (but forbidden) curls and handed Ashley an electric 
clipper.

"Ah hopes y'all doan 'speck me t'do dat," she drawled.

Ashley shook off the impulse to flee; she was tired and needed to 
re-group.  And this place, oddly, seemed to offer some sanctuary.  
She did remind herself, however, that she was still in jeopardy, 
still on the run.

She sighed.
 
Grimly, she attacked her pubic hair with the clipper.  She 
might have gotten away with a once-over-lightly, but she was 
too stiff-necked to do anything less than a proper job of it 
(and, besides, she found the clipper's vibrations...soothing).

When she was satisfied, she put down the clipper and patiently 
waited her turn.  A strange calm had settled over her; it was 
as if she had nothing to worry about...for the time being.

As a result, she could pause in her frantic scurryings hither and 
thither for some introspection.  Why had she chosen this particular 
game?  First, it had seemed a good arena in which to exercise her 
strong, competitive nature.  Second, it offered the chance to right 
some sexist wrongs, and it WOULD have been satisfying to see a 
gaggle of smug, self-satisfied slobs led off in handcuffs when 
she beat the game.  (It was not so much a case of "sticking it to 
the Man," but of "sticking it to Men.")  And third, well, there was 
that other reason, the thing that she was often reluctant to admit 
to herself -- the secret excitement at the possible consequences 
if she LOST this game.

A disturbing thought flittered across her mind -- and was gone 
before she could really grasp it.  The feeling of urgency she'd 
originally had was draining away.  It was almost as if this latest 
hacker had the power not only to shape the environment, but also 
to control her thoughts and feelings.  No.  That's silly....        

		****************************** 

After an indeterminate while, her name was called.  She roused 
herself from a particularly juicy daydream, straightened up, and 
slowly walked out onto the stage.  The music started immediately 
-- "The Entertainer" -- and echoed eerily through the almost empty 
theatre.

As she started to dance, it was as if she were back in the "Pussy 
Galore Club" on that pineapple island.  The footlights' glare 
dazzled her at first, but the house lights were still half-way up, 
and her eyes adjusted.  Still, she had slipped off her heels 
(playfully punting them off the stage) and had thrown away her 
jacket before the audience began to be anything more than a vague 
blur.  There really weren't many out there -- but more than she'd 
expected.  Front and center was a craggy bulk that bore a striking 
resemblance to her bête-noire, Henry Hawthorn.  Seated next to him 
was a much younger man who looked a lot like Tim, her downtrodden 
administrative assistant.  She had her blouse off now and was 
playing with it like a bullfighter's cape.  Oh, god!  The next 
figure...Dave, the mailroom man?  (She wondered if would ever be 
able to look any of them in the eye again.)

The music was "Bolero" now...sensuous and implacable.

Farther along, there was Basil Winston, flanked by men who looked 
very similar -- his brothers, no doubt, Albert and Cedric.  (She 
suddenly had a nasty taste in her mouth.)  

And sitting just beside Cedric was...Juan Macias!  (Her asshole 
clenched convulsively when she remembered HIM....)

Everything was out of joint; it was almost as if she were going 
through some sort of dissociative phase.  Her body, in heat, was 
dancing, teasing, expressing her need.  At the same time, her 
emotions were being overwhelmed with the realization that she 
was strutting shamelessly in front of people she knew and worked 
with...and fantasized about.  And, all the while, her mind was 
reminding her, "This is just a game...and those men are merely 
phantoms plucked from your libido...."  (This last point was less 
than comforting.)   

Driven by the beat of the music, she tossed the blouse into the 
pit and began toying with her bra.  In the next row, there were 
people whom she'd never met, yet somehow recognized: scowling 
"Tanner" Thomson, leering Carlos Honcho, and even blandly smiling 
Dr. Nathaniel Craig.  And, behind them, dimly, a row filled with 
Sheriff after Sheriff after Sheriff...and their yokel deputies.

She had an urge to run, but knew that would be both dishonorable 
and futile.  She dropped her bra and cupped her quivering breasts 
-- though strippers, even amateur ones, probably had "tits" or 
"boobs" (or, she thought ruefully, in her case "titties" or 
"boobies.")  Well, whatever, they may have been small, but 
they were also choice -- natural, firm, and sweet.

Wiggling and jiggling, she told herself, "These men are here to see 
you perform...so go ahead a give them a show they'll never forget."   
She hadn't danced on stage either before or after that long, long 
night in the "Pussy Galore Club," but tonight she seemed to be 
moving more gracefully -- even more professionally, despite her 
shame...and her excitement. 
    
She squatted down and began to rotate her hips...slowly...giving 
her audience tantalizing glimpses of what lurked beneath her skirt.  

Then she bounced to her feet and flaunted her titties, jerking and 
grinding to the music.  She was begging -- but not for money, that 
would have been bad enough.  She was begging for applause, cheers, 
whistles...any sort of feedback from the impassive onlookers, some 
indication that she was provoking a lust in them that was as 
powerful as her own.  

But they remained silent.

And the lovely, educated, and articulate lawyer in desperation 
became even more meretricious...and needy.

She could smell her arousal.

Wiggling her hips coquettishly, she reached for the waistband of 
her and smiled as she tugged down the zipper.  She popped the 
waist-button, and the skirt slid down a few inches.  She turned 
and let it drop the rest of the way, showing them her trim ass.  

"Juan should be pleased to see it again," she thought, as the 
music segued into the frenetic "Sabre Dance."

Then she spun around, still shielding her crotch with the skirt.  
She felt sweat trickling down her thighs (at least she HOPED it 
was sweat).  She twitched the skirt back and forth, almost (but 
not quite) unveiling herself, spinning and twirling and flirting 
and teasing....

No cheers, no jeers....  Nothing.

"But there must be only a few seconds left," she wailed to herself.  
"And my time up here on stage will be over...."

She had just about run out of tricks to play with the skirt, and 
she realized that it was about time, as HE might say, "to show 
them your hot, wet, little honey pot."

It had ceased to be a game or even a competition.

It was therapy.

She triumphantly flung the skirt aside.... 

And the audience reacted, at last.   

		******************************

The grandmotherly clerk quietly unlocked the door and looked in 
on Ashley.  The game was over, and Ashley was sleeping like the 
dead...but with a beatific smile on her face.  

"Poor thing must have been really tired.  Over-work, probably.  
Well, I'll just let her rest a while longer...."

The old woman didn't bother to put on her glasses and check the 
printout from the pulse, respiration, and arousal monitors.  If 
she had, she might have been amazed that the fuses were still 
intact and then hurried off to phone for the paramedics...or 
Jerry Springer. 





