The Best of World SF by Lavie Tidhar (children's ebooks free online .txt) 📕

The hysterical music all 360 degrees around. The sirens of the bicolor and motor escalated Plymouth Prowler, in zigzag between the other cars, swallowing the elevated highway.

All that hate for such a little world.

And there she is, under the neon lights. Her stylized body, carved by the hungry times. The result is the same when using surgery. The eyes tell the difference. Turbid, under the random stroboscopic effect of the lighting glitches.

‘Just three credits,’ she insists, her ragged hoses do not show the skin. Not even the temporary tattoos help create an even surface. She also looks at my legs, but her thoughts are different. ‘Far inside they are going to charge you more.’

‘Need to see, before I make my mind.’

‘You can use a tourist guide,’ she says, and she hangs herself on my arm, the soles of her shoes, thin and a little bit bulgy, reveal their piratical origin.

I raise my shoulder, it’s not my business.

Our shadows tell less lies than in the past century. They’re almost as thin and tall as our very bodies. In the walls, the cockroaches wave their horns with a paranoia-free nervousness. They search, like the pedestrians, the green liquor that becomes blood.

Rue Chair, you can read on the metal plate. It’s not truth nor lie; but if they translate it, the meaning will diminish its antique glint. An alley, a corridor stuffed with merchandise. The smell is so bad, as multiple as the flesh that inhabits it. As cold and sharp as metal.

From sailcloth tents, the electric scream of the VR machines electrify the atmosphere. Under sheds, they sell frogs and fish of soft and spongy mouths; mutated bodies and special lube for the necrozoophiliac action.

People gamble over bouncing tables. They develop exotic dances. On tables, some men show the complex fungi web of their feet. Women prefer to show it in contrast with their boobs, they rise their arms and, from time to time, let the pus flow down like a caress, from the armpits to the waist, the legs… but not the feet, not often, at least… there is always a willing tongue, fingers that will taste before deciding to do more.

There are no blabbering people shouting and offering low prices. When you come to Rue Chair it’s because you know its meanings. You don’t wear distinctive clothing or carry the same old mask. You just walk and walk. You may, or may not, choose. That’s your prerogative, and the policemen that guard both entrances know it all too well.

The dealers don’t pretend, they remain seated, sipping laudanum. They don’t have merchandise on them, not even a little. They have even forgotten the traps. Their drugs are precise.

There’s more. Complex artifacts for the pleasure of pain; polychromatic, aligned on antique shelves. Windows where you can show your preferences. Gallows for the penis. Hooks to sink in every pleasure spot. Spasmodic discharging electrodes.

Cameras are forbidden. There are stories that tell of the punishments, rumors that travel from mouth to mouth. Never a real hint.

Rue Chair is a myth, a reality without substitutes.

‘I’m Adi,’ she says. Her voice is deep, the tone trying to overcome the coarseness of too much smoking with sweetness. She offers me one. Murat. The order of the characters reminds me of the legboned skull, the plastic container for an old acid used for cleaning bathrooms.

The smoke is less coarse than the fumes coming out from the sewers. More beautiful than her walk.

Her teeth have no cavities. In spite of hunger, her aesthetics are effective. Smiles that you dream about. Not relating to this.

Rue Chair is a rumor that overwhelms you from a young age. A legend that only gives you glimpses when you stop chasing her and you look for her with your life.

To our left, behind a crystal curtain, two women subdue a man. Their black leather garments are specially crafted to let you see breasts, pubis and buttocks. The man tries to kiss a little farther, searching for secrets, and the whip adds another line to his flesh. It’s not a drill. Nothing here is, but I know the basic order, that’s why I don’t join the viewers.

I found the first clue in a similar show. I got a real hint.

To reach Rue Chair you have to start a chain reaction. Desires ain’t enough. You have to make the first moves. With enough stamina. Without exaggerated hopes.

‘There’s so much more,’ says Adi, and she guides me through a serpentarium. The snakes react: they throw themselves to the glass window, showing their bifid tongues, their fang-free jaws. To my left, behind thin curtains, moans. The movement of the flaky bodies in agony.

We don’t stop. The walls are almost covered with posters and graffiti.

It’s not a vacant lot; the shop was set inside an industrial warehouse and the russet cross is visible. Between the machines with big gears and black oil are the white gurneys. The mutilations are plethoric in their shape. In their fluids and aromas.

A man has reached an agreement. He sets a woman’s torso and penetrates the wound in the abdomen. The movements of those lips, scarred, show a partial nerve blockage. The sensation reaches her. Also the tears, and she moans with a painful pleasure. But the man has only eyes for the sex. For the rectum that starts to expel feces with every thrust.

‘You’ve heard too much,’ Adi tells me, and straightens her black hair. She shows me the way, pointing with a finger.

To reach Rue Chair you don’t need questions. You don’t choose. You’re chosen. For your actions. For the places you visit. For your looks…

Every wing in this construction is a new catalog. Animatronic mannequins with warm skin and perfect movements. With faces identical to many movie stars. With bowels that perceive your deepest desire.

There are synthetic vulvas that know how to lodge your whole body. Penises with an almost infinite dilatation… Coliseums, bathtubs.

Rue Chair does not forget a single detail. A single dream.

Museums come to life. Crafty illusionist. Animal