"It was starting to snow when I walked inside, into the tendrils of club warmth and reefdive rhythms. Past the cheap door muscle and detectors. Past the throbbing translucent panels where a woman stripped to the waist met my eyes and smeared herself against the glass for me to look at. Past the stoned and strobe-lit dancers, the recorded hallucinations and the chemical smiles. All the way in, I worried at it, like a wolf with a limb caught in a trap."
I'd been resleeved in who knows what, but I could see that it was bright red. I'd woken up alone. I'd found a note in my hand. A hand that was more the texture of carpeting and still effervescent red. Where was I? Was I home? How many centuries had it been?
And then the memories came crashing in. Earth 2030, my presidency at its zenith. My popularity soaring. The prosperity of the nation at an historical high. Then the assassin's bullet struck me in the chest. The pain from the gunshot ached once again.
The note in my hand said I would meet my envoy in this club. Looking for a likely suspect, I passed a mirror. At first I didn't recognize the model of the sleeve. It was red. In fact, I was so bright, compared to the rest of the club, it hurt my eyes. "Hey wait a minute, I recognize this. The kid next door had one," I said aloud to no one in particular. Then I was on the floor. Clutching my belly. Flipped to my side. Then suddenly stood up as if seized by some horrible, unexplainable tic. I was laughing uncontrollably, moving to hysteria. Then I was on my belly, again pounding the floor next to the heels of a gyrating dancer. I could not stop laughing.
Tickle Me Elmo. I was breathless they had resleeved me as Tickle Me Elmo. It was horrible. What would my constituents think?
That's when I saw her -- my contact. A woman, of course.There was no way they'd use a man, knowing what they did about my background. Abandoned by a marauding, unneutered Siamese before birth. Ripped from the paws of my feral mother as a kitten. Raised in a bread bowl on the kitchen table until I was too big for the table. My ambitions steeped by my campaign manager, who thought I was the smartest kitty in the county. No, it was a woman. Some urban executive aunt, a secret-service caretaker for the doddering former President Bush. You could tell by the red dress she wore. An understated beauty in a custom-grown clone sleeve, something from early 2006, something mannish and puerile. A Republican operative. No doubt about it.
"Welcome back to Washington D. C., Cato-san. Are you comfortable?" I was afraid she would reach out and tickle me starting the whole spastic effect over again.
"Comfortable, I look like a fucking toy! How comfortable would you be if you burst out laughing and did the most contorted and giggly lap dance right there in front of everyone. You've resleeved me as a fucking, exhibitionist toy with unholy sexual overtones."
I stopped for a second and examined my sleeve closely. "In fact, I'm an intact male again. Not neutered at all!"
Exactly, Cat-san, we want to you to be potent. To possess your natural killer tendencies for your run as President of the United States. You did such a good job the first time around and it has been such a long time since any Republican has held office. Not since Mr. Bush's daughter, Jenna Welsh Bush, held it. It has been 50 long years."
"So you're running Tickle Me Elmo for office of the President of the United States?" I was aghast.
"Yes, we believe the voters are just tired enough of the Democrats they'll go for a bright red toy instead. We think you will make an inspiring candidate, Cato-san. And we think you will do everything we ask because you are so grateful that we saved your cortical stack before you died completely."
As a Siamese-cross, I am able to absorb and process environmental detail at speeds normal humans cans only dream about. I could hear her thinking and I did not like what I heard. Looking around, I could hardly contain my anger at being resleeved in the ungodly red carpet. I wanted to reach out and remove her cortical stack with my claws, but i had no claws. I tried to hiss but all that came out was a giggle.
"Who are you?" I snapped.
"It does not matter who I am, you know who I represent," she said deftly skirting the question.
"Is this a solo act or do I have a running mate?"
"Cato-san, you have been shelved so long you do not realize that the President of the United States is a hereditary office. You will rule absolutely, with (she covered her smile) an iron hand."
"And what former Bush do I resemble? Who's gonna claim me as an ancestor, Barbara Bush?" Suddenly it struck me, the spastic giggling began all over again. I fell to my knees doubled over. Unbelievably, I walked myself across the floor with my feet, all the while, pounding away with one red paw as if some awful joke was contained inside my body. It was waiting to explode sending shards of Tickle Me Elmo into the dancers.
Yes, I knew the Republicans needed me and there was nothing I could do about it.
My apologies to Richard K. Morgan, author of Altered Carbon and Woken Furies. There is much here that I have lifted, all indicated in italic. Homage to Tickle Me Elmo TMX.
You wicked thing, you! I laughed so hard I hacked up a hairball.
Posted by: Aloysius | October 06, 2006 at 07:48 AM