Descending Road - SULIMAR AND ANNIE by Dana W. Paxson

SULIMAR AND ANNIE

1560 4D

The days ran by, and I was tired. Galrana didn’t kiss me again, not then, but I couldn’t take eyes off her except to make food for the grinds and corpos and bluecops and all the rest who came shoving through our little eating place. And she’d flash that smile at me when I’d dish up a few nice touches, like the layered slices of tuber in a spiral ring I did for a longbone lady Commissioner. The coin added up. I still liked Galrana, even when she hissed and snatched back a coin or two she pretended she was giving me.

And then I’d head out with Annie Thing, and we’d drop a lift down to Sobi or Rumchi or Poly Town, and bag and scrub and burn and haul the various bloody scorched leftover parts of arguments and love affairs and bad politics, and we’d sing. Cleaners always sing, sooner or later, and that’s expected even in the middle of a fest when the drums are going so hard you can’t hear us.

New lives from old ones,

New hopes from cold ones,

New blood from old blood,

Hand me down an arm!

Toast me with beam guns,

Stab so the blood runs,

Pack me in rock mud,

It gives my smile charm!

(Chorus)

Hey there Yorick,

Pass the paregoric,

The cleaners are getting on my nerves and on my mind.

Now, now, Boris,

Sing us one more chorus,

The cleaners get the bones and flesh, and leave the mind behind.

And so forth. Annie knew about twenty verses of this one, and I learned them all by the time two months had passed, along with losing any respect I’d had for the dead. And she’d banged me so stupid by that time that I had trouble lifting the spatula at Galrana‘s, so Galrana fired me. Three times. When she rehired me twice in a row without firing me in between I knew she was interested in me, and I started to add another layer of sweat to my world. Two women would be trouble.

Annie Thing took a dim view of the usual andro sex-with-humans pattern. The human, in this case me, was supposed to initiate the fantasies, the play, the moves, and so gong gong. But Annie had different ideas – she’d grab me by my greasy hair back at my cubby and climb up my back and down my front and that’s how we’d stay for quite a while, vertical, horizontal, and diagonal, any geometry you like, while we plugged in opposite parts and electrified our limbus nimbus.

I never knew what she’d try next. We’d slather in tuber oil, jack in the sensi, bang down screwstairs on my sore butt slam-humping the whole way. And then she’d clean it all off both of us, and we’d sleep, and when I’d get up to go work at Galrana‘s she’d be gone.

So off to Galrana‘s and more creative cooking, where I’d compose my own little songs about the dead while I flipped burg and tube, and pitched spices everywhere in cute little patterns. The corpos kept rouching it all down into bigger and bigger bellies, their gun harnesses straining with the added burdens, beamers and ballistics and cartcases dangling like tree fruit. I was impregnating them with fat, male and female alike.

Here’s what the heroes leave behind,

All maimed and deaf and dumb and blind,

All of the dying,

All of the crying,

But I’ve got to keep them on my mind.

(Chorus)

I’m just a cleaner, I clean up all the dead,

And once in a while, there’s living folk instead,

So if no one’s looking, I shoot them in the head,

But I still keep them on my mind.

Verse:

Here come the corpos with their guns,

They’ll shoot anyone who ducks and runs,

Anyone who’s praying,

Anyone who’s paying,

And anyone I’m keeping on my mind.

(Chorus)

Who’s in the hospital today?

Bystanders damaged in the fray?

Ree-generate them,

Dee-agitate them,

But don’t ever keep them on your mind.

(Chorus)

Here comes a corpo with his bat,

He’ll have a baby from his fat,

It’ll be a screamer,

So hand it a beamer,

And try not to keep it on your mind.

I got about ten verses of this one made up when I realized how sick it was, and I quit composing. For a while.

The months lengthened out, my stack of metal grew, Galrana got way too friendly, and I couldn’t suss how to slither out of it. So I didn’t – I slithered in instead. Big mistake.

No, maybe the big mistake was telling her anything about me, like the job as a cleaner. We were at her big place up in Naga. She blew sky high.

We were locked and rocked, you know, with the shock cord around our middles and naked face to face, and it was joyful and we started talking. Somehow it slipped out – my second job with Annie Thing, I mean, no, the cleaner job – and Galrana was out of the harness so fast it snapped back and caught me in the crotch.

“You turd! You’ve been in that filth, and you cook for me? How could you!” Her face, naturally dark anyway, flashed rage in her eyes.

“It’s clean, I scrub everything, there’s no–“

“Get out! Don’t come back to my place again, and don’t come looking for a job again! Get out! Shiteroach! Rotcock!”

Walking away from her place, I yanked my skinsuit into line and hit the screwstair down to my cubb, groin shooting pain. Oh well. No more need to keep her on my mind.

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	SULIMAR AND ANNIE 1560 4D The days ran by, and I was tired. Galrana didn’t kiss me again, not then, but I couldn’t take eyes off her except to make food for the grinds and corpos and bluecops and all the rest who came shoving through our little eating place. And she’d flash that smile at me when I’d dish up a few nice touches, like the layered slices of tuber in a spiral ring I did for a longbone lady Commissioner. The coin added up. I still liked Galrana, even when she hissed and snatched back a coin or two she pretended she was giving me. And then I’d head out with Annie Thing, and we’d drop a lift down to Sobi or Rumchi or Poly Town, and bag and scrub and burn and haul the various bloody scorched leftover parts of arguments and love affairs and bad politics, and we’d sing. Cleaners always sing, sooner or later, and that’s expected even in the middle of a fest when the drums are going so hard you can’t hear us. New lives from old ones, New hopes from cold ones, New blood from old blood, Hand me down an arm! Toast me with beam guns, Stab so the blood runs, Pack me in rock mud, It gives my smile charm! (Chorus) Hey there Yorick, Pass the paregoric, The cleaners are getting on my nerves and on my mind. Now, now, Boris, Sing us one more chorus, The cleaners get the bones and flesh, and leave the mind behind. And so forth. Annie knew about twenty verses of this one, and I learned them all by the time two months had passed, along with losing any respect I’d had for the dead. And she’d banged me so stupid by that time that I had trouble lifting the spatula at Galrana‘s, so Galrana fired me. Three times. When she rehired me twice in a row without firing me in between I knew she was interested in me, and I started to add another layer of sweat to my world. Two women would be trouble. Annie Thing took a dim view of the usual andro sex-with-humans pattern. The human, in this case me, was supposed to initiate the fantasies, the play, the moves, and so gong gong. But Annie had different ideas – she’d grab me by my greasy hair back at my cubby and climb up my back and down my front and that’s how we’d stay for quite a while, vertical, horizontal, and diagonal, any geometry you like, while we plugged in opposite parts and electrified our limbus nimbus. I never knew what she’d try next. We’d slather in tuber oil, jack in the sensi, bang down screwstairs on my sore butt slam-humping the whole way. And then she’d clean it all off both of us, and we’d sleep, and when I’d get up to go work at Galrana‘s she’d be gone. So off to Galrana‘s and more creative cooking, where I’d compose my own little songs about the dead while I flipped burg and tube, and pitched spices everywhere in cute little patterns. The corpos kept rouching it all down into bigger and bigger bellies, their gun harnesses straining with the added burdens, beamers and ballistics and cartcases dangling like tree fruit. I was impregnating them with fat, male and female alike. Here’s what the heroes leave behind, All maimed and deaf and dumb and blind, All of the dying, All of the crying, But I’ve got to keep them on my mind. (Chorus) I’m just a cleaner, I clean up all the dead, And once in a while, there’s living folk instead, So if no one’s looking, I shoot them in the head, But I still keep them on my mind. Verse: Here come the corpos with their guns, They’ll shoot anyone who ducks and runs, Anyone who’s praying, Anyone who’s paying, And anyone I’m keeping on my mind. (Chorus) Who’s in the hospital today? Bystanders damaged in the fray? Ree-generate them, Dee-agitate them, But don’t ever keep them on your mind. (Chorus) Here comes a corpo with his bat, He’ll have a baby from his fat, It’ll be a screamer, So hand it a beamer, And try not to keep it on your mind. I got about ten verses of this one made up when I realized how sick it was, and I quit composing. For a while. The months lengthened out, my stack of metal grew, Galrana got way too friendly, and I couldn’t suss how to slither out of it. So I didn’t – I slithered in instead. Big mistake. No, maybe the big mistake was telling her anything about me, like the job as a cleaner. We were at her big place up in Naga. She blew sky high. We were locked and rocked, you know, with the shock cord around our middles and naked face to face, and it was joyful and we started talking. Somehow it slipped out – my second job with Annie Thing, I mean, no, the cleaner job – and Galrana was out of the harness so fast it snapped back and caught me in the crotch. “You turd! You’ve been in that filth, and you cook for me? How could you!” Her face, naturally dark anyway, flashed rage in her eyes. “It’s clean, I scrub everything, there’s no–“ “Get out! Don’t come back to my place again, and don’t come looking for a job again! Get out! Shiteroach! Rotcock!” Walking away from her place, I yanked my skinsuit into line and hit the screwstair down to my cubb, groin shooting pain. Oh well. No more need to keep her on my mind.