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But the poor autocars try to tell themselves that the parts will help other cars, even though their selves will remain in the autocar yard, suffering and dying.

And all the little autocars cry out: “Why can’t they just crush us?”

And the elder autocars answer: “Don’t worry, eventually they will.”

Richard Stein said that he cried every time he passed an autocar yard. Now I understand why. It’s a graveyard for the not-quite-dead. And all of the metallic body parts whirl me dizzy-sick and disgusted.

“Why’d you bring me here?” I ask Christian, sick and hunched, drooling in the center of the lanes of Autocar City’s main street.

But he doesn’t have to answer. I see her. It’s the same blue woman I saw at the festival, the one with BIG eyes and deep red hair. Still naked but not dirty. As beautiful as a machine.

She’s coming to get her food. Two others join the advance. One is short and very thin, with short hair and large breasts, and the other has straight hair and Asian eyes, breasts perky but small.

The blue women seem to have the power to lure us to them, melding our minds to theirs, communicating with emotions rather than words. I find that the short-haired one is the oldest, almost a hundred years. The others are just children. One is seven and the other, who is my girl, is only four. Despite their ages, they all look their twentysomething prime. The youngest one comes running to us, childishly.

“I get the first one,” Christian says, meaning my BIG-eyed blue woman.

“Fuck you,” I tell Christian, very strongly, with all my steel-jagged emotions. That’s all I need to say to back him away from her.

I know that the girl is only a four-year-old. It sickens me if I compare her to a human four-year-old. But I can’t let it bother me. They’re from a different world, where sex is as common and no-big-deal as going to the bathroom. And, strangely, her immaturity makes the attraction stronger. She is innocence. Full of life.

When she arrives to me, all she does is leer into my eyes. Sucking all of my power into her possession. If she asked me to go into oblivion right now, I would do it for her. I would put on chains and be her food slave, a cow in a dairy farm. Sex slave to a four-year-old.

She puts out her hand and embraces mine. A slight smile on her face, childish, biting the corner of her lip in a mechanical way. Her fire eyebrows curl, and I’m sucked into her BIG pools again. Swimming in shiny blue-emotions.

And now I know I’ll actually get to taste a little while of this perfect creature.

As Christian tries to figure out how to get them back to our warehouse, I notice two small words printed on the blue woman’s stomach.

They say, “Pleasure Features,” with five arrows pointing at her pleasure parts: her mouth, butthole, both breasts, and her vagina.

Scene 13

Frog Crimes

We decided to have lots and lots of greasy sex with the blue women instead of going back to droming work, Mortician probably shitting his pirate pants right now — all of his anger drooling out the back, down his legs. He won’t forgive us.

I said lots and lots of sex, but I didn’t personally get lots and lots. I only got a little. The blue woman was so hungry that she shoved my shank inside her and made me cum in less than two minutes. And one spurt was enough to fill the four-year-old up. The best two minutes of my grim life probably, but a disappointment afterwards.

Christian, on the other hand, is lasting, getting sexed inside and out and all around his room, grunt-thrashing against the walls, trying to please the two beasts he has with him. But it’s more like them trying to please themselves. BIG hunger. BIG crash-noises and screams. The blue women can’t really scream, but their mouths can make a whistling sound. And they make him feel cheap.

I decide to peak in on them.

God’s Eyes:

My vision doesn’t come across right once it goes inside. Too much drum-movement, and a strobing light that Christian bought at a pawnshop four years ago goes pity-pity-pity-pity. A broken zoo of water creatures attacking a cloud person, shifting around each other for a comfortable screw. And the screwing works like batter-pulp, water sifting through hairs, going Mmmmmmmm

It all frustrates me. I go back to my corpse, to my blue woman, who seems very bored and agitated. She just stares at my self, says nothing, just stares. Eye-gazing and I am too shy to handle looking back at her, drinking on a cup of brandy.

Peripheraly, I offer her some of my liquor. “Do you want a drink?” Then I realize she’s only four. “Oh, nevermind. You’re underage.”

I feel like such a pedophiliac.

When the two blue women are done with Christian, they brush off some wetness from their smooth blue skin, curling sight, and then they depart. Leaving two things behind: One is my young blue woman, still staring at me without blink; the other is the performance of shutting the door behind them, which exposes us to a large gang of tree frogs, who are in the act of fleeing from something, like criminals.

“Why didn’t she leave?” Christian asks, gesturing to the blue woman.

Croaking frogs.

I shrug and he squats down on a milk crate next to me. Half-shaking from his fierce workout, he befriends a freshly lit cigar.

He says, “They’re like cockroaches.”

“Who?” I ask. “The frogs?”

“No, the blue women. They’re disgusting.”

Alarmed, I drink some brandy. “What…”

“Cecil was right. They’re dirty, disease-ridden whores. Disgusting.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I tell him, upset but not showing any emotion. “I like my blue woman.”

“She’s not leaving.” He looks at her — sitting there, staring at me. “What are you going to do with her?”

“I don’t know, keep her in my room,” I say.

“That’s disgusting.”

“Why do you hate them so much?” I drink. “They are so innocent.”

“That’s why I hate them. They are innocent. Innocence is disgusting.”

“That’s kind of a harsh statement,” I say. “What do you hate about it?”

“I just hate it. I hate kids, I hate retards, I hate idiots. Simple minds are boring as hell and I hate being around them. Innocence is just a nice word for ignorant, and I hate the ignorant.”

“Stupid people can’t help being stupid,” I tell him and take a sip.

“I don’t care. Stupidity is evil.”

“Evil? Calling innocence evil is what’s evil.”

“Children used to be considered pure evil once — born evil — because of their ignorance. Their parents would have to beat the evil out of them on a daily basis, so that they would not be evil in adulthood.  That’s why children are so cruel to other children and to animals and so on, because man is born from evil. That’s also why the only adults that are prejudiced and mean are the ignorant ones, who are too stupid to grow out of their childhood attitude.”

Christian puffs on his cigar. The blue woman watching the wheels churn in my brain.

“I don’t get it,” I tell him. “People used to beat ignorance out of their children? Those people sound like the ignorant and evil ones to me.”

“If I had kids I’d beat the evil out of them.”

“Well, you better not make kids then.”