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The Cellar City Chronicles

By Oru Manna All Rights Reserved ©

Other / Scifi

Chapter 46: Trap Takes a Trip

Martin leaned against the wall in the hallway leading to the dressing rooms.

That girl was something else. Sure she was cute – fuckable even. At first, he was content to mislead her, let her do an audition just to see her in some lingerie. He assumed that afterwards he could promise her a job, sleep with her and then give her cab money to get home.

Or not. She probably had enough creds for that.

But now… After that sexual explosion on stage, after feeling her cool hands on his face, after brushing one hand up the outside of her thigh –

He wanted her. And he wouldn’t mind showing her off, either.

So maybe he could crack open a position here for her. With a performance like that every night, she was bound to improve business.

He checked his watch. It was 1:17pm. He was thinking a late lunch somewhere in Sector 1. Bruno’s had some great meat.

Martin’s phone rang.

“Bitch-face” Was on the line.

Giselle.

Martin furrowed his brow, lips turning up at a half snarl. He almost decided to ignore it. With this Lenora girl in line for his attention, for a split second he thought about cutting Giselle off.

But he was certain that this girl couldn’t kill him in a thousand creative ways while he slept, so he answered the call.

“What?”

“It’s good to hear your voice too, pumpkin.”

“What, Giselle?”

There was a pause on the line, and then her familiar, condescending laugh. “Oh, am I interrupting a date? Tell the little tramp that I’m sorry.”

Perceptive, but not accurate just yet. Was he sensing insecurity? “I’m sure you can tell her yourself at the next Tramp meeting.”

“Oh, aggressive today. Should I change into my chaps and muzzle?”

Martin smiled in spite of himself. “What was it you wanted, Giselle?”

“What would you give me for his head?”

“What?” Martin pushed off from the wall and took a few steps down the hall. “Who’s head?”

“Don’t play dumb with me, Martin.” She warned, tone dropping. “HIS head. Your black-jacketed party crasher.”

Martin glanced towards the dressing rooms. “You have a lead on him, don’t you? You bitch; you’ve been hiding it from me!”

“Uh uh, Martin, play nice.”

“Play nice? You are specifically keeping things from me now.” Martin fumed. He could feel his face getting warm with fury.

“Who cares. I have the information now, which is what matters. What would you give me?” Giselle’s voice was like a slick caress.

Martin shivered and glanced once more down the hall, then turned his back on the dressing room. “If you gave me his head? In a bag, covered in his own blood, his head? You want to know what that would be worth to me?”

“Yes, that was my question.”

Martin paused. “When?”

“Tonight, I think. It’s nice out.”

“It’s a fucking moderated temperature down here, Giselle.”

She laughed. “I’m impulsive and I can’t wait.”

Martin thought a moment. “Are you taking anyone with you?”

“Concerned? Oh, baby, I love you too.”

“Well if he slaughters you I’d like someone to let me know so I can take you off of fucking payroll. Answer the damn question.”

“Useless.”

Martin laughed. “Useless? Really?”

Giselle sighed in exasperation. “I could always just burn my information and let him rampage your business…”

Martin tsked. “Fine. After you do it, bring me his crazy fucking head wrapped in that fucking black jacket and I will forgive your momentary lapse of forethought.”

“Martin, really stop acting like a child.”

Martin’s fury flared to life again. “I’m a child? I’m being purposefully driven into the ground, you psychotic slut! And don’t think I won’t find you if you fuck with me again, Giselle. You aren’t the only cold blooded killer in town. Remember that. I’ll be at Vixens.”

Martin hung up on her then, and let out a deep breath, smoothing his hands over his hair.

A presence behind him made him turn. There she was; his new affliction.

“Lenora.” Martin smiled and extended a hand. The timid smile stoked a different kind of fire in him, and the rage was left suspended over a new surge of want.


Trap arrived, limping but not broken, to the address he had so painstakingly recovered from Lenora’s little gray journal. She had been so busy getting ready that she hadn’t noticed his desperate machinations.

Turning pages was more of a chore then some would think.

Trap had just barely found it then he had to tear across the floor towards the shutting door to avoid being trapped in her apartment.

Now he surveyed the scene with a machine’s practical gaze.

Crank. A club name. So… trivial. Single syllables probably make it easier to say when one is on substances.

Trap wobbled around the side of the building. He kept to the darkness, freezing at any sounds that seemed too close for his comfort. Eventually he made it to some conveniently stacked garbage. Using all the dexterity that could be programmed into such a machine, Trap jumped and pulled and crawled his way up to a narrow access window. He wriggled his way inside and thankfully slid a manageable height down the inside wall to the floor.

It seemed to be an office of some kind.

Blinking, the dim scanner lights within his eyes flicked on and a hazy set of rays opened up the space before him. His stubby tail swished in the darkness, and in a manner appropriate for the breed he was fashioned after, he sauntered around the small office.

His eyes lit upon very few items. Nothing in this immediate location interested him. Paperwork would be useless to him, especially in this state.

The door was askew, and he used his head to bonk it open wide enough for him to scamper into the hall. He was in an upstairs part of the club – the large dance area barren beneath him. Blood stains and chalk outlines still littered the dance floor. Trap peered out over the wreckage with an inward sigh.

Silly XIII. You always make such a mess, don’t you?

Trap sidled down the exposed walkway, poking his nose into this room and that room, sub-par scanners flashing in the quarantined darkness.

Eventually he made his way down stairs to the dance floor, and there he carefully avoided the stains and outlines that haunted the expanse of laminated tile.

Trap painstakingly investigated every drop of blood he trudged among. Being of a sub-par device, he was only able to pick up finite details: A, AB, A, B, B+, A, A… Type was easy to discern. Hours later he came across a particular batch that was different than the others.

Not only was the reading horribly unclear, but there were several messy smears of the stuff, almost like someone tried to clean it up.

Trap blinked his eyes and began a brief scan.

Indiscernible.

Good, then this was what he was looking for. Bending forward, Trap scraped his sand-paper tongue across the smeared surface, pulling up as much of the stuff as he could, and swallowing it down.

Certain CAT models had unique storage. Most of the time, as repulsive as it sounds; it is for collecting biological samples of the owner, so that it can be easily and safely transported to the physician.

This would suffice for Trap’s means. It had dried, but the exfoliate nature of his ‘tongue’, along with a synthetic enzyme that can loosen ‘debris’ for easy cleaning (Another facet of a CAT – realistic but hygienic and sterile,) made collecting this old sample easy. Trap gave the room one more, long scan and made his way towards the front doors.

By the time he got to the doors he realized he wouldn’t be able to reach the door knobs, and had to forage off again into the darkness for a way out of the building. He let out one somber ‘mrow’ in place of a human sigh, and wobbled his way around, the blood sample clinging to his inner workings.

I have it now. Don’t you worry, XIII, I’ll take care of you.

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