Pornopsychedelica Read online

  PORNOPSYCHEDELICA

  by

  Chris Johnson

  A Wild Wolf Publication

  Published by Wild Wolf Publishing in 2018

  Copyright © 2018 Chris Johnson

  All rights reserved under the International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, places, businesses, characters, and incidents, are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events or locales, or any other entity, is entirely coincidental.

  Warning: the unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in prison and a fine of $250,000.

  Cover by Southern Stiles Design

  www.wildwolfpublishing.com

  Katalyst Part One

  1

  Party Popper

  From her exercise mat, Tomoko Iwamoto glanced at the digital clock and realised that it was time to get ready. She exhaled slowly, bringing her mind back from the depths of meditation to the gloom that seeped into the corners of the apartment and the Japanese pop that trilled from the radio. She stretched forward to touch her toes.

  A wall lamp threw light over her naked body and the clothes lying on the bed. The silk panties were first. They'd like those, same as they'd like the bra, low cut to show the deep swell of her cleavage. The stockings were hold-ups, blue. Tomoko rolled the stocking over her foot, pulling it gently over her calf to the top of her thigh. She went to the mirror on the wardrobe door and tied a red bow around her waist, adjusted the bra slightly, then reached to the corner of the bed for the holster rig that would hold the guns.

  Two old Steyr Mpi69 submachine guns, loaded with thirty-two round magazines. She cocked one by pulling on the sling at the forward end, lowered the weapon into the rig and did the same for the other. The metal felt cool against her skin, a hardness that moved back and forth across her thighs as she walked. She picked up two extra magazines, attaching them to the harness. Over the lingerie she wore a grey overcoat.

  She added red lip-gloss.

  •

  The tap of Tomoko's heels on the sidewalk never missed a beat.

  She cruised at a steady pace down Jalan Yap Kwan Seng, hands deep in the pockets of the overcoat. Tomoko always liked down-town Kuala Lumpur at midnight, when the streets buzzed with activity. The city made her feel like she was back in Japan, in Tokyo's Roppongi district, busy with hustlers, the smell of food bubbling in the pots of street-side cooks, neon screens glaring above.

  A guy in a silver suit made his way toward her, grinning until she gave him the stare, the one that said don't come any closer. He was probably an American, one with a well-practised technique to keep his ego intact, waving his arms and smiling.

  'Sayang, aku cinta pada mu,' a drunk said to her. He followed her for a few steps before staggering into a cleaning mech.

  Tomoko said, 'Sorry bang, you tak mampu.' You can't afford me.

  Corporate towers had emptied weary salarymen onto the streets, ties loosened, thirsty for alcohol and whatever soothing effects mama-san could offer, the proprietrix keeping them happy with conversation and dirty jokes. Street hustlers sold sex, or tried to buy it, flashing virtual pop-screens for clubs and fetish dens in men's faces, following them if they showed the remotest sign of interest. Some had cowboy hats, pushing pussy like it was some kind of life-changing product. Here the hustlers were mostly American, for no more reason than the ones in Roppongi were mostly Nigerians.

  The sign post for Jalan Pinang appeared behind the Big Boy donut stand and Tomoko crossed the street. A boy sitting on a scooter with spots and green hair flashed his tongue at her. His T-shirt said Pig Farm Whores across the front. He shouted something as she passed him.

  She reached Peter Yang's apartment block, colonial white.

  The guard behind the security desk looked like a ghoul from the static light of monitors, raised his chin sharply in her direction.

  'Cik nak jumpa siapa?' he asked in Malay.

  'Nani ga?' Japanese.

  He drew an impatient breath, spoke in slow English. 'Who are you here to see?'

  She opened the overcoat, wrapping the material around the guns so he couldn't see them.

  'Entertainment,' she said.

  The guard just stared.

  The glowing numbers in the elevator climbed to twenty-one.

  The guests from Peter Yang's party had spilled out onto the foyer, to the green marble floors bordered by blue walls and the tall columns with the gold frieze around the top. The place smelled of alcohol and roses.

  A woman approached Tomoko, carrying a single champagne flute on a silver tray. Tomoko accepted it, raising the glass to her lips for a light sip. They managed to exchange smiles before Giselle arrived, Peter Yang's secretary, a blonde with too much make-up and self-importance.

  'You're late,' said Giselle. 'Mr. Yang is waiting for you.'

  Two security guards escorted her down a short corridor. She loosened the belt on the overcoat, walking at her own pace.

  Yang's collection of artefacts lined the walls. A Mesopotamian stele and a tall Sueki pot, no doubt acquired illegally from the Shósó-in treasury in Nara. There was a jade pendant in a glass case, further along, a jade horse and a matching warrior. She knew the Chinese believed jade had a connection with immortality, and she wondered about Yang's interest in keeping dead things alive. She'd studied archaeology and history at Hiroshima University and learned that the past often had more life than the present.

  Tomoko reached a chrome balcony and looked down over the fifty or so guests, singing Happy Birthday in a mix of Mandarin and English. They laughed and cheered, swaying to a dreamscape of alcohol and narcotics. She made her way down the steps, the security still following.

  Yang had paintings on the walls by long-dead artists, a giant TV screen relaying images of the guests and the couples having sex on chaise lounges in the middle of the floor. Hired performers, just like Tomoko. She saw Peter surrounded by a group of his guests, hanging on his every word. His wife didn't look in Tomoko's direction but Tomoko sensed that she wanted to. Peter had his arm around her waist until he spotted Tomoko, then he lit the cigar he held in his mouth, blowing a line of blue smoke.

  He'd called his wife Kameko. She stood next to a hanging scroll by Lu Zhi. Rugged peaks thrusting from a winding valley dominated a small house, half-visible behind trees and bamboo. Kameko seemed so fragile, like Lu Zhi's ancient colours.

  Tomoko stood facing Peter and his wife.

  She'd stopped at the guy with tattoos down his arms, sat on one of the sofas with a blonde squatting over him with her back to him, riding his cock. She had small, perky breasts and was looking straight at Tomoko, her lip curled, teeth bared in a moment that seemed to catch her breath. Tomoko smiled, and the woman didn't seem to know how to respond. The guy suddenly groaned and lifted her up, jerking his cock and shooting a sticky line of cum onto her belly, pale spots marking her thighs.

  The man got up and made a bow, body slick with sweat, drawing a palm across his forehead before picking up his robe. The girl did a little shimmy and the applause increased.

  Tomoko opened the coat, as if about to shrug it from her shoulders. The guns slipped forward into her waiting hands.

  She swung round to face the guard behind her, jerking the weapon up and firing five
shots that ripped through his chest, two more puncturing his throat. The air filled with smoke and a fine scarlet mist.

  There was immediate panic, guests and entertainers screaming and running in every direction. She caught a naked woman by the hair and pulled her down to the floor, sending a man crashing over a table who got a little too close.

  Tomoko made a brief burst from the left Steyr to keep one of the waitresses out of the way, the floor tearing up at her feet as she ducked under the Yamaha piano. Then she opened fire on Yang's security appearing from the back of the room, firing over the guests cowering on the floor. Death and destruction became almost effortless, a pantomime of blood and flying splinters.

  She spun to face Peter's screaming wife. He flattened himself against the wall and Tomoko opened up with both guns, turning Mrs. Yang into a dancing puppet. Rounds punctured flesh, shattered bone, slammed into the wall behind her in little puffs of exploding plaster.

  Tomoko ducked. A fist swung over her head, barely missing her temple. She darted into the guard, under his arm, turning slightly, her upper arm parallel to the floor and her fist snapping out into his face. She felt the muscle and bone of his jaw tremble against the back of her hand.

  He growled and fired a single shot that cracked a mirror over Tomoko's shoulder. She slapped his wrist between her hands and the gun flew from his grasp. Then she drew a twelve inch knife, one hand throwing the overcoat open, lace straining, the blade cutting an arc through the air and slicing him open from left hip to right shoulder. Before the first drops of blood had spattered the floor she'd stepped back and then darted forward, the knife buried in his chest.

  From the back of the room somebody clapped. The applause started with a light patter, and gradually grew into a frenzy of clapping and cheering.

  Tomoko looked at Yang's wife for a moment, lying in a widening puddle of blood, then made her exit as quietly as she had arrived.

  Yang's staff were busy in the kitchen, keeping a steady flow of alcohol and food to his guests. The blonde and the guy with the tattoos had dressed and seemed to be in a heated discussion. Tomoko pushed past them.

  Outside on the street, Tomoko pulled a stick of gum from a pocket, looking up at the beacons blinking from the top of the Petronas Twin Towers.

  Pain had become a thrill, death an adventure. Life could be moulded and shaped, cloned and reborn. Just like Yang's wife. All Tomoko wanted now was to go home.

  2

  Trippin'

  'Hey, kitty. Where you going?'

  Tomoko turned. A man stood at the top of the steps to Peter's apartment building. He must have followed her.

  'What's your name?' she asked.

  'Patterson.'

  He looked like a pencil pusher, working nine to five in one of those defunct tower blocks. He was trying to look casual but didn't seem to know what to do with his hands.

  'So what's your business with Peter?' she asked. 'I don't think you're one of his usual friends.'

  'I work for an Off World travel agency,' he said. 'Mr. Yang does business with my company.'

  'Really? I didn't know Peter was into that.'

  'Mr. Yang's smart, he knows a good investment when he sees it.'

  She'd been looking for an opportunity, some angle to use on Peter, to destroy him, to kill him in a way that might have drawn a nod of approval from her father. Tomoko was thinking now, linking ideas and threads, moving people onto her game board.

  She curled her fingers through her hair and climbed the steps to join him. She took his arm and walked with him back to the elevator.

  'I've always wanted to go Off World,' she said. 'Maybe there are some shortcuts you can tell me about.'

  'Well it ain't that easy now. The flights have slowed down. If you look at transport manufacturing, there's rumours that the workshops are quiet and the hangars empty.'

  She gave him a look of false naivety. 'What does that mean?'

  'Maybe that the corporations have spent all the money they can on saving us, or maybe they've shipped out all the people they need. Who knows? Maybe Alpha 276 is full.'

  The elevator hummed, climbing higher. She felt his eyes trying to probe the dark folds of the overcoat. He chuckled nervously. She slid over to him, first one hand on the back of his neck. A kiss shortly after. His mouth felt stiff at first, like kissing an iguana.

  'What's it like working for an Off World courier? Must get you a lot of perks.'

  'I got friends,' he said. Hands on her narrow waist, under the rough canvas rig holding the two guns. 'I might be able to help you jump the waiting list, maybe even get you a . . .' he caught his breath, '. . . a crew job. Takes about nine years. Hope you're not in a hurry.'

  Tomoko stepped back. 'I'd appreciate whatever you can do.'

  'I might be able to help you out with a sponsor.'

  'That's great. Peter would probably kill him. He likes to have me where he can see me.'

  The elevator doors opened. They stepped out. Patterson was smiling like he'd returned with a trophy. They made their way toward a pounding tech-head rhythm. Holographic butterflies filled the air and a white tiger stalked the floor.

  Automechs had removed the bodies of the simulant guards, two of them using a suction attachment to clean up the mess. Tomoko could still smell sim blood. It smelled like blood, though strangely artificial. Just like protein steaks didn't taste quite like meat.

  Patterson's hand fell onto the small of her back. She forced herself not to squirm from his touch. Be cool, she told herself. She wanted to put a hole in his face. She needed alcohol.

  The first two drinks slid down her throat with barely a pause for breath. Patterson was getting into the flow, bobbing his head and waving his arms in a clumsy attempt to keep time with the music. Tomoko laughed, slopping a drink down her chin. She wiped the back of her hand across her mouth.

  'What's so funny?' He did a monkey swing thing, kind of.

  She moved into him, pressing her body against his. 'I love the way you dance.'

  More people had arrived at the party, crowding the floor. A wordless song wailed over the speakers.

  'Yeah,' he said. 'I like to dance.' He leaned closer. 'I like to be physical.'

  'Me too,' she shouted into his ear.

  While Patterson danced, lost in the momentum of his own gyrations, she swept her gaze over the room. Bodies swaying, twisting. Everybody fused together, like many parts of one animal. She heard laughter, hysterical giggles, felt the pulse of the music pounding though her chest. She watched the tiger for a moment, prowling an undergrowth of legs and tapping feet.

  Jimmy Ho, an old friend from when she lived in Japan, raised his glass to her, standing on the balcony close to the windows with their imported stained glass. She'd pulled the odd job for Jimmy over in Ipoh, 'taking care of business'. Making a death look like nothing more than a casual murder. The local police would never even bother looking into it, unless somebody paid for a licensed investigation.

  Ho seemed nervous, smoking a cigarette, hair tied back into a ponytail. She slipped away from Patterson's side while he was talking to a man he seemed to know, pushing through the dancers to reach the balcony where Ho looked out across the city. He didn't turn to face her, keeping his gaze on the lights below. 'Next time kill Peter.'

  She glanced across the dance floor, looking for cameras, security. Two guards watched them. She couldn't tell if they were human or sims. Patterson waved to her and started forcing his way through the dancers. 'I'm working on it, Jimmy. Where is Yang?'

  'Upstairs fucking a waitress. Who's the man you're with?'

  'An American.'

  He made no response, apart from a slight nod. 'You clean up here and come work for me.'

  'Sure thing,' she breathed.

  Jimmy's cell phone trilled a tune.

  Patterson took hold of her hand, pulling her back into the mix. They danced to a long glass table, the centrepiece a wooden guardian figure from the Kamakura period.

  'My kinda par
ty,' said Patterson, dragging the word 'party' out for a few extra seconds. Paaarteee. He had his arm tight around Tomoko's waist, his mouth right up against her cheek. 'You're gonna love this. These girls, they'll do anything.' He made a drawling laugh. They were popping snake and other drugs that could have been anything. A girl kissed Tomoko's cheek and pulled the overcoat from her shoulder, sliding the material down her naked arm.

  Patterson jabbed the tiny needle of a blue ampoule into his forearm. He squeezed the plastic end, dropped the thing on the table.

  Tomoko felt a sting.

  The girl was licking where a needle had penetrated the flesh of Tomoko's arm. Snake slithered through her bloodstream. She felt it climbing up her arm, slipping into her spinal cord, tail moving down the arch of her back, head winding upwards. She cried out, teeth bared in a grimace, sucking in a painful gasp. Then a groan, a sigh of relief. The snake coiled and went to sleep.

  Tomoko's pupils dilated. Snake dreams. Lights dimmed, colours flared like sunbursts. Walls shimmered and shrank away from her. The wooden idol on the glass table reached out for her. Come play with me, it said. She laughed then, and she didn't know why.

  Everything became a series of images, like a camera running at ten frames per second. She saw something and then the next instant was someplace else, all the information in between lost. Music pulsed, thrummed, pounded. She felt it sliding into her in a sensual wave, lifting her feet from the floor, trembling through her thighs. She saw snatches of things as she was guided through the party, vision zoomed in to small details. A woman's gold earring, shaped like two petals. It made her think of cherry blossoms and those softcore adverts that ran the monorail sidings.

  Freckles on a waitress's face. Kinda cute. She looked like her childhood friend who'd drowned in Otagawa river. They'd never found her body. A slice of cucumber on the floor at the foot of the steps. Then she was at the top of the steps and looking across at the guests, a drink in her hand. The glass was cold. She threw her head back and rolled it on her neck to her left, her tongue meeting Patterson's. His hand grabbed her breast clumsily, like a space monkey.