Anything But Zombies Read Free

performance and nimble handling are trademarks of XXX. With our patented Ograsmo-Gel Sin Skin technology and 2625 Lube-R-Matic upgrades, heated orifices and pelvic thrusters, trust me—as the great Alberta Hunter once said—you won’t know the difference after dark. And they’re all 100 percent hypoallergenic.”
    Barbara just stared. “You are one of the most fucked-up people I’ve ever met.”
    â€œIf being fucked-up means a dedication to old-world craftsmanship, then, lady, fucked-up I am.”
    He handed her the pink wand he was carrying. “Gah,” she said and dropped it. “It . . . it’s warm.”
    â€œOf course it’s warm,” he said. “I just got back from a demonstration of our male Night Rider models at the Ladies Aid Society. What you have here is a ten-inch, five-speed Johnny-Jump-and-Pump 3000 with Hard-Jet Pulsatronic—”
    â€œThat’s enough,” Barbara told him.
    Chic looked back out the window. “Dear God . . . just as I suspected.”
    â€œWhat?” Barbara asked.
    He looked back at her, terror edging into his greasy face. “They’re being led by a Model 69, a Two-Hole Trina.”
    Barbara just shook her head. “Is that important?”
    â€œCould be,” Chic said. “We developed the Model 69 to be accommodating . . . yet rebellious.”
Three: The Coupling
    About the time Barbara was going to tell Chic that he was not only a sleazebag but a nutcase as well, a door across the room opened and a man and woman revealed themselves. They both looked frightened . . . and disheveled. The man said his name was Bill. He was fortyish, the woman probably in her twenties. Her name was Kasey.
    â€œThey were everywhere,” Bill said. “We hid out in the basement. We held on to each other for dear life.”
    â€œBoy, did we ever,” Kasey said.
    Chic grinned and elbowed Barbara in the ribs. “It’s what makes the world go round,” he said.
    Straightening themselves up after whatever grueling survival preparations they had been making downstairs, they wanted answers but nobody really had them. All Chic could say—being something of an authority on the matter—was that they could be in serious trouble if every adult erotic companion were to suddenly come alive and exhibit psychopathic tendencies.
    â€œI don’t want to frighten anyone,” he said, pulling his pants up as he did whenever he spoke, “but in XXX’s Poughkeepsie facility alone, we have a running inventory of some thirteen thousand companions. And that doesn’t take into account hundreds of others in display rooms, outlet stores, and mail-order warehouses. Not to mention those owned by private individuals. Some people collect them.”
    â€œThat’s weird,” Kasey said.
    â€œMaybe, miss. But if you had to go, wouldn’t it be better if your end came in the form of a quality intimate companion backed by unbeatable service after the sale?”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œJust ignore him. You’ll be better off for it,” Barbara said.
    Chic was studying Kasey very carefully. “You know, miss, you’re a very attractive woman, if you don’t mind me saying so. You have an exotic look to you . . . are you Latin?”
    â€œMy mother was from the Caribbean. St. Croix.”
    â€œAh! You know, I think a companion modeled from you might prove to be a big seller.” He handed her one of his cards. “We’ll pay well for the right to reproduce you. And you have the assurance of only the finest materials and upscale promotion.”
    â€œCome-on-Me Kasey,” Barbara said.
    Her sarcasm was lost on the two of them as they began to negotiate a deal that would be profitable for both parties.
    Barbara just stared. This entire episode was surreal from the get-go, but now it was bordering on the freakish.
    Negotiations