Five years ago, the Medusa virus devastated civilisation. The only cure is a hormone passed through the placenta during pregnancy. Women are being kidnapped and kept pregnant by force.
Welcome to the age of the vaccine slaves.
1. All She Asked Is That I Keep You Alive.
If I were to take the gag out of your mouth, what would you say to me?
What would you offer me for your freedom?
Money, of course, because even now money equals power, and power is an end in itself when you have nothing else to believe in. I’ve often wondered whether this is the secret purpose of religion: to divert man’s attention from the destructive drive for power by offering him something elusive to aim for, like giving a bored child an immersive puzzle that’s impossible to complete.
How about women? Without doubt you’d offer women, whatever my proclivity, no questions asked, as though they were a commodity, a concept, something that might be traded on the stock exchange — if such a thing were still to exist. You’d offer me whole warehouses of your caged, skeletal creatures just to cut the cable ties trapping your ankles to the chair and binding your wrists behind your back.
Sorry, I’m not on the look out for a harem at the moment.
I wouldn’t say I’m unimpeachable, but you have no peaches that are of interest to me.
You’ve really done well out of the Medusa virus, haven’t you? And other men like you. But that’s the thing. Medusa has shown that sexual equality was a lie, a myth, a placebo, something that suited all men and some women, primarily those in Western countries who could go through their lives without being raped, beaten, and treated like a slave. In reality, the relationship between men and women was like the old special relationship between America and Britain: they pretended to share power, but the truth is one was violent and overbearing and the other pandered to this in the hope of being protected when it all went to shit.
Well it’s all gone to shit now, and there ain’t much going on by way of protection.
See these shivs — I made them from old bed springs. I’ve skewered more worthless flesh with these than a rat kebab seller in Trafalgar Square. I could prise off your kneecap with the sharpened point, ease it into your ear until the drum goes pop, stab you a second hole at the base of your throat and watch your eyes go wild as the air you breathe seeps out before it can get to your lungs.
All she asked is that I keep you alive.
She didn’t specify the condition you need to be in.
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