Walter’s booth is small, windowless, across the back a moving cable where girls drift past, hanging from it. Walter undresses, pushes a button, and his sex robot is delivered. She slides off the cable. Onto the floor. A quiet crash. Walter looks at the girl, who looks very real. She opens her eyes fearfully. “Please don’t do anything to me.” She says in an extremely nervous, fearful tone.

“Nobody’s going to take you guys seriously as long as you have such god-awful voices,” says Walter, smacking the thing. Amazement.

He touches the thing. Warm. Fleshy. Solid. Little breasts, shaved pubic region. To the left of his booth Walter hears moans, to the right whimpers. His girl has the pretty voice of a fucking woman. “Hello, I’m Lisa. What shall we do?”

The thing breaks his train of thought.

“I’m going to rape you,” says Walter. “Okay,” says Lisa, beginning to perfunctorily rub her breasts. “I’m just doing this for myself.” She says. “I always rub my breasts…” Walter lands an uppercut to her jaw. The things don’t bleed, it’s a shame, he thinks, and says: “Shut up. Lay down and be afraid!”

“I’m terribly afraid.” Lisa whines. And tears gather in her eyes. “You’re too strong for me.” Now she’s crying. Real tears. She protects herself, squirms. Her flesh moves in flesh-like ways. And Walter stands there and looks down at her. He’s bored.

It could get dreary

For

DON

Watching the stream of customers excitedly enjoying new freedom in a new world. On the other side of the street a couple of Eritreans are being put into a gray bus. Raids against illegals take place daily. Finally getting things in order. Think the onlookers at such spectacles. Finally cleaning things up. The foreigners returned to foreign lands. “Political correctness belongs on the dung heap of history.” An old man from the ruling party quotes the German nationalists. Forget which one. They all look the same with their slight paunches. With their white hair, the red veins of an alcoholic on their noses.

Smart.

The entire area

Is smart. A Chinese IT firm with capital from many countries had financed and built it, and now it belongs to them, this part of town. Charming. Rubbish removal is accomplished by automated aliens, lighting turns itself on and off economically, the roofs are covered with solar panels, the shops are all cashless, with facial recognition. “Pay with your own good face.”

It’s a conveyor belt, a quiet purr, velvety smooth. A joy. Soho and Mayfair look like a sketch of the future drawn by a modestly gifted schoolchild. It only hurts for a moment. “Speaking of which.”

Says

THOME’S FATHER