The Escapist | Page 8

was on a shuttle back from the Moon to Earth. I learned
later that it was nothing to do with coincidence. As she bent over me her cheap-looking
cleavage, which had been surgically enhanced to comic proportions, jiggled into my face.
Her special scent chemically engineered for her by Libyans wafted cloyingly towards my
nostrils.
"Well, if it isn't my little truncheon. I hope you spent that money wisely," she purred.

There was no way she was going to start something in this closed environment, but it still
couldn't be called the best of situations. I enquired if she would care to join me at the bar
for drinks and left my aisle seat to follow her aft. I tried not to smile as I sensed a myriad
male eyes following her aft with me. She was wearing a dress made of a material that had
a sheen like silk but fitted tightly like rubber. It was green. Today her hair was blonde.
She carried no bag, so unless she had a weapon concealed in one of her breasts she was
not armed.
We sat at the bar.
"Your round," said Freida. "You owe me 96 million Stolis, so let's start drinking right
away."
"You look well," I countered, as the barman prepared a Stoli on the rocks and a whiskey
and cranberry. Freida smiled like a pubescent Lolita, except she was probably five times
the right age. She was a miracle of contemporary surgery.
"And you look fantastic!" she returned, affecting coyness with a gently coquettish flick
of the head.
"So what is it you want?" I asked, tired already of these verbal games. Flirtatious banter
was Freida's hallmark. She'd made quite a success of what amounted to annoying people
into letting their guards down.
"I hear you're going straight on some research job," she finally answered. "Word gets
around. It sounds interesting. Tell me about it."
So I outlined, at very great and boring length, how I was doing research into mental
illness amongst private security staff on the job. I explained how I'd been to Nexus-7 to
interview some former guards and an investigator who had gone completely insane. Her
attempts to get a word in and prevent this clearly erroneous tide of verbal diarrhoea were
to no avail. I was finally interrupted by the call to return to our seats for re-entry into the
Earth's atmosphere and landing. I apologised for the premature interruption and promised
to finish the story some time later.
We landed in the City Spaceport where St. Paul's Cathedral used to be. As I left the craft
Freida scurried towards me and I found it impossible to rid myself of her. After a brief
walk we found ourselves at an exclusive duty-free stand selling real fruit and vegetables.
The tax on legumes was becoming extortionate. I decided that I'd had enough of Freida.
Choosing a sizeable courgette from the selection on show, as if to examine it, I inched
towards her. With a gesture from my free hand, I remarked how wonderfully ripe the
microclimate-grown star fruit looked on a shelf high up and to the left. She glanced
upwards and away. During her brief moment of distraction I served her an adequate but
not too harsh blow to the head with the truncheon-like legume I had been pretending to
study. She keeled forward and collapsed onto the citrus fruit section.
"Mind the oranges..." I exclaimed, to no avail. Her body sprawled amid a cascade of
all-natural Vitamin C providers. When the vendor rushed out, I slipped her ample

recompense for the damaged goods. Then I popped Freida into a taxi, closing her hand
around the vegetable of her demise, and sent her to the casualty ward of St. Margaret's
New Hospital. Not that she needed any medical attention - Freida was tougher than most
people and probably immortal. I merely thought it would be an amusing touch for her to
wake up in hospital just like the last time we met.
Back at my home I quickly checked my video-mail. There weren't many messages, just a
few advertising circulars which had penetrated my anti-junk filters, and a final ransom
message for a stolen sports car which I'd long since received the insurance money for. I
was reminded that I hadn't yet driven the McLaren F45 I'd had delivered a few days
previously. The McLaren had been an impulse purchase while waiting at the bar for a
free table in McDonalds. The new job made taxis more appropriate, so I hadn't found the
opportunity to take my new vehicle for a spin. After unpacking my bags from my lunar
trip, I went down to the garage and climbed into the sleek, sexual McLaren. The way
things were going, there didn't seem much