The Dorian Gray Virus — A Novel Ch.1+2

Cyberpunk Literary Fiction, coming of age, Psychological Thriller

Viewers: 3mill+

‘Can you hear me?’

Over the live stream’s darkness, the chat-bar flashed a romantic green I am sure was made just for me. ‘If we are to be stuck together, I should tell you what I know. Why we are here. My name is Henri Hillstone, and this is:

The Dorian Gray Virus

Chapter One

“Fuck with the best, die like the rest.”

Locked in at his desk, a summer’s grind for this symphonic moment: Pakazs pressed, ‘Enter.’ The Big Brother Virus loaded. Brutally slow. It stalled at 98 percent. 99.

Down on his wrist, his stem-gate, permanent contact lenses connected to the neural node punctured to his skin to project his pad. A customizable screen set on six inches by five. It flashed blue with an incoming message from Mira G: Are you coming to Legion?

Pakazs muted her and everyone. Everyone who mattered was at the Legion of Hearts sports club, but Henri Hillstone. She was offline.

Her last message read, ‘Coffee before Legion?’

Maybe he wouldn’t go if the virus didn’t work and he could try to sort it before dad’s event tonight at the Nexus of the Arts exhibition center. Pakazs stretched his arms wide.

At 100 percent the array of monitors flashed green. He shot his arms high above his head and fell backwards to the ground. He yelped, stood staunch proud.

Pakazs yelled, “I am a digital god!”

He kicked the chair, shook his foot, and transferred the feat to the pad in need of a live test before putting it on Henri. Someone with top of the line protection.

The crown around the ceiling flickered red as knocks befell the door. ‘Who thought they were more important than my work?’ Pakazs seethed.

He snapped above his head. His room’s programable settings shuffled the wall of screens above his desk to the surveillance feed outside his door.

Father leaned a hand on the wall. Gloomy without being gloomy.

Terry Novak said, “Pakazs are you awake?”

“Yeah, one second.”

Pakazs’s fingers flew across his pad. He primed the virus to ship, isolating it to his right shoulder as the infection point. Anyone who touched it, would get the virus.

Among the clutter of equipment on his desk, Pakazs pulled one of the dozens of monitors forward on a mirror, ran a hand through his black greasy hair and snickered. Growing up was such a drag on the skin. A few lines of code on his pad on the other hand was immortal. With a touch of digital makeup, he projected his head Egyptian bald. Down the side of it, as if etched in sand, Pakazs typed to beam, ‘Love’ and on his white panel shirt beamed, ‘Hate’ over his heart in black tar oozing with his pulse. It dripped and splattered on his white pants.

Pakazs turned for the door, but only got a step before the rank of the bender and the lights set on laboratory stunned and blinded him. On his pad, he ran mountain breeze pine through the room, and dimmed the bleach white lights with a soft orange glow.

Another knock on the door, the ceiling flashed red, and Pakazs raced his hand to the wall’s screen to slide it open. He yawned, “You’re up late.”

Dad strolled in loafers, red satin pants, and a burgundy mosaic dress shirt. His facial hair projected intricate brass wires searing as he stroked his chin.

Father eyed the chair, him, and walked around it to the messy long desk and leaned in snooping. Terry said, “Burning the candle from both ends I see.” Pakazs snapped his fingers twice for the monitors to go cold. Father faced him and said, “The apple does not fall far from the tree. You got it double from your mother and I. It’s morning dear boy.”

Terry lifted one hand from behind his back, above his brow in an unfurl as he so often did with a paint brush to see for himself: Pakazs clapped twice.

The far wall’s tinted floor to ceiling window illumined with autumn dough and the green lawn shimmered around the spa in the backyard. Dad’s head tilted as he waltzed to the border for a better view of the future and how fast life caught up.

Pakazs slumped to his desk, righted the chair and leaned on it. He said, “So it is, and what has the new day brought?”

“Mostly responsibility.”

Dad twirled and marched a line twice to stop on his left, hand on his chin. He said, “Hillstone has invited us to a light breakfast. Since Nexus has barred me until five, I don’t see why we shouldn’t indulge the old bugger.”

Pakazs sat in the chair, leaned three of its four legs off the ground. He said, “People still indulge food in the morning? Now that’s barbaric.”

“Not out of pleasure. He’s calling in a favor as he does one for Mr. Hillstone about the introduction of his war buddies grandson. A dying wish was for him to be welcomed into a civilized and polite society. One Sebastian Monroe. Heard of him?”

“No.”

“Didn’t think so. Well, he’s inherited a fortune.”

A search on his pad ran empty. Henri was offline.

Terry said, “Apparently, he has a face only a mother can love. Hillstone’s words. He is to play our Henri at the Legion.” And be humiliated by the entire school.

Pakazs searched the sport’s club records. Beyond the name and his record of twenty-two and zero, a blank profile. Empty and impressive. Not as impressive as Henri’s thirty-two and zero, but enough to mean he was either a well kept secret or a favor indeed.

Dad said, “He is supposed to have a good record across the sea, but they uhm, play by different standards. We shall see how he fares against our town’s sweet-heart. What is she now twenty-nine and zero?”

“Thirty-two, and zero.”

“Impressive.” Terry said, stroking his chin. “Care to join us then? Hillstone has invited her and the Beaumont friend.” More than a friend, a well intentioned cur, but even that annoying thought was replaced by how these morning invitations might become more frequent after his father’s retirement. He pushed the idea away.

“I’m meeting Henri before the match already.”

That reminded him, he never did respond to Henri. Pakazs put the chair’s legs on the ground. She should know his answer for her was always yes, but Henri of all people, did not need any more excuses at her disposal. He fired an confirmation.

“Perfect. We can share the table.”

Pakazs laughed at fate. That’s why he was here, for the table. It seemed like Henri’s sweet, broke papa really did sell their table reservation. Dad all but confirmed this when he looked away, and from off his desk, by the soldering iron and a pearl pinky ring in progress, lined more multicolored rings equipped with attachments; Pakazs snagged the yellow and blue one. He slid the yellow on his pointer finger and the blue on the middle to hide them both.

Pakazs said, “Getting together first wouldn’t be much of a favor to this Sebastian. He’ll either be intimidated by Henri or in love with her; and likely to drop the ball.” He twirled his hand like father and then snapped twice, the monitors shined life.

He scrolled through his contacts, found Beaumont was offline. It will not look good to the mythology of Henri dating Malick because of money.

Dad sat on his desk and swung his feet as he stoked his chin looking without looking at him. He said, “Does this secret project of yours at least have a painting attached to the effort of spending the whole summer in the shade?” Father’s gaze lingered on the window, lost in contemplation. When Terry saw beauty, no matter the medium, he truly absorbed it. He’d immerse himself in the process of breaking down and understanding the whole.

A dying art, this depth of appreciation, and it taught him to respect critics, for Terry’s greatest asset as an artist was his ability to see beauty, not embody it. His goal was to inspire in others the same look of wonder he felt. Even on the eve of his retirement, the old man’s hunger for beauty hadn’t waned.

He too had grown fond of its taste. It must be what Henri took from every glance. If he could indulge the old man, then why not? Pakazs snapped thrice.

At the heart of his wide stark room, between two half-moon black velvet couches, a circular platform impregnated to the floor and ceiling hummed. It’s surface rippled with an aurora of light connecting floor to ceiling seamlessly to suddenly, shift into surreal grass fields. They lead to a cliff with a blue frank sky and a wind.

Like a tingle of déjà vu appeared a little blonde girl. Pakazs’s breath caught — as did his father, knowing without knowing, because Henri leveled everyone.

Once Henri Hillstone entered your life time started anew.

Her so young sparked the memory when they first met. How he made her smile with a projection of golden butterflies. His life began truly then. He took painting and hacking seriously to earn that smile. All he was, he owed in equal parts with his parents and Henri.

Hands interwoven behind her yellow dress, she knew it too, and noticing them, Henri waved. She smiled charmingly with wind running a cosmic hand through her lush long hair.

It pulled dad off the desk between the couches for a better look at a different future and past. Hand on his searing chin, the closer he got, she danced away giggling.

Terry redirect to the door to pull her away from the cliff’s edge. Henri flicked her hair and ran on ahead. Spiteful, she laughed, aging with each step. Never able to get any closer than the first sighting, the girl developed into the eighteen year old gem of Hillstone.

Dad stuck his nose to the meniscus of the projection. It put Henri just before the drop off the cliff’s edge. She waved. A foot off the ledge flickered her image to a child, smiling. Terry withdrew. He wiped his hands together, then his brow, and then rubbed them on his pants. Mr. Novak said, “You know I was worried when you quit Teacher.” He turned fully away from the projection, which triggered Henri to laugh and Terry, chilled, flinched.

He said, “I was worried that you were too young, but you have developed such a wonderful perspective over dimension. I am quite proud of you.”

Terry put his hands on the edge of the desk. He leaned down in a pike pushup, and Pakazs rolled his ringed finger, which brought Henri skipping down the cliff laughing. It straightened dad. Father gestured to the monitors, “How about your other project, can I see that as well?”

Unlike mom, he would never appreciate the glory of the Big Brother Virus. There was art and glitches, but viruses, dad claimed, lacked all artistic value.

“Not ready.” Pakazs said, “Plus, it’s more so mother’s wheelhouse. Speaking of which, is she coming tonight?” Mr. Novak stroked his chin.

“I do not know. She loves her nest-”

Pakazs interrupted with better alternatives: “Command center, watch tower, mission control-”

Dad reiterated, “She loves the city.”

That, they agreed. Father continued, “We shall see together if she can make it to our small town.” Terry swerved to him, and wondered aloud, “I wonder if it’s too late to install this piece to the end of the exhibit — you wouldn’t mind would you? What are you calling it?”

Terry liked it because it reminded him of his Solaris. If there’s one thing the old man appreciated its a feather in his hat. Pakazs’s typed on his pad, transferred a copy of the painting to him. “Do what you like with it. Its untitled. Pick a good one for me. I must finish my work. I’m still hemming my costumes for the festivities.”

He clapped, rubbed his hands together commanding the monitors into his costume selection titled: Funeral Attire. Busy without being busy, he shuffled through and as luck would have it dad’s pad glowed blue with the notification of an message — about time; impressed the old man was not pulled away sooner by some pressing matter.

Terry spoke without looking, his fingers dancing on his wrist with a more pressing reply, “Yes, yes, you’re mother is quite fond of her assembly as well. No rest for the wicked. I love you son.” It’s too early in the morning for Terry to be sentimental without being sentimental. Dad put a hand on his shoulder, squeezed affirm, and then left.

Before the door closed behind him, dad answered a call, “Hillstone, I am on my way now.” The door shut the room with silence, but Pakazs counted, ‘Five, four, three, two, and one.’

A green light flashed on his pad. It shipped. He loaded the Big Brother Virus.

As if streaming live, on his monitors Terry exited the hallway to the kitchen. None the wiser of his carry on spyware, it worked. Pakazs said, “I am a digital god!”

In the painting, Henri stepped down from the cliff, crossed the room, and wrapped her arms around him. She whispered, “Congratulations.”

Once he put the virus on Henri, he could be with her forevermore without heart attack if she was alive or not, as it should be. She should never be so far away from him.

Through Terry’s eyes, out of the house down the tilted path, he entered a ride. Their system scanned the old man. It drove off and did not catch the Big Brother Virus. Success.

In the chair, Pakazs leaned two of its legs off the ground. If he wanted to, he could infect the whole town with it, the world, and have eyes everywhere on everything and everyone. With enough memory storage he could record them, too. The next best experience to walking a mile in somebody’s shoes was the Big Brother Virus and seeing through their eyes. Perspective was king, and thee with the most eyes would know truth.

Henri licked his ear and whispered, “You’ve done it again, Sonny boy.”

“Don’t call me that.”

If caught with the world infected, he would earn a lot more than the explosion from the X-ray glasses he made in elementary school. He didn’t need the world; all he needed was Henri, and even if she found it — even if dad found it; there’s no real harm.

They would understand it was for the greater good. Pakazs put the two legs down and Henri’s yellow dress swooshed as she laid on the desk to dangle her head off.

She showered her hair for him. Henri Hillstone could be in the way, but never in the way. With a backwards smile, she said, “Don’t be like that old sport.”

“Don’t call me that.” Pakazs said, “You know what I like.”

Her tennis match was at 11. He’d barely have enough time to stretch, shower, and meditate before loading one last diagnostic on the Big Brother Virus.

It had to be perfect before he put it on her to not be noticed — for ignorance was bliss. Henri said, “Whatever you say, anon.”

Pakazs snapped, and Henri disappeared. On his pad, he scheduled a ride to arrive early at 9:30. He checked her profile; still offline. His message was left on sent and unread.

No matter, she would be at Legion eventually and he will be waiting. Soon. She won’t be far away for long. With the Big Brother Virus, Pakazs laughed, ‘Henri Hillstone will be mine.’

Chapter Two.

‘Ping of the Heart’

10:30, his message was left on sent, unread. Henri was offline.

Bitch was late, late. She would be on the court soon. Pakazs blocked the sun with his hand. They’d only have time for an espresso.

Outside the Legion of Hearts sports club diamond member’s entrance, he groaned scrolling through her history. Henri hadn’t streamed live in damn near a month — and this was why the virus. Off to university next year, she may disappear forever.

A wind gave him more than a shiver and pushed him. He ran to catch himself. Chased by laughter, and his own confusion at whom harnessed the stealth to breach his security.

Pakazs’s fingers flew across his pad to arm his quantum firewalls to obliterate the dastard to the digital stone age. His wrath was doused by Henri’s smile.

Overcome with the acme of foolishness. One; Henri would never hack him because of two — she couldn’t if she wanted to. With utterly zero skills in the department it’s also why Henri could in a bit of an oxymoron, her own type of infliction. In the face of Henri, it was fairly impossible to stay mad at her because true beauty does no wrong.

Henri Hillstone had true manners to be herself. It was hot.

More beautiful everyday, the summer’s stockpile of her absence was too much of an overload, Pakazs averted his gaze, awaiting Henri’s customary green light for formality. A formality Henri never quite managed unless she must.

Pakazs primed the virus, isolating the infection point it to his right hand. It shook as he hid it behind his back. She skipped closer with hands behind her back to mock him. Henri had an uncanny talent for knowing without knowing.

She said, “Careful Pakazs Novak. Or else you’ll miss it.”

He thought to himself, I don’t miss anything.

Pakazs said, “What is that exactly?” The sun shone bright.

Because he saw all of her: white and blue striped blouse, hemmed, three buttons with a gold popped collar, a skirt accenting, hiked up to flaunt her strong lush thighs. Her hair down. It deepened her tanned skin and framed bluer than they ought to be eyes. A series of black hair bands stacked up her left wrist covered her pad and all of his messages. On her right wrist dangled Legion’s gold bracelet for athletes, and in her left ear a pearl stud, pin, for third-person live streams. White shoes, blue socks, and on game days she wore men’s brief underwear. No. He didn’t miss a thing about her. Henri glowed without a single projection. No altercation, modification, panel or augmentation. Flexible where she must. Like with the golden collar to project her racket later. Or wearing the mandatory glasses inside the Legion to differentiate from the staff because she could never be considered for that. In a digital world, she polarized everyone with her frankness without being frank at all when she smiled.

Henri said, “Life, my dearest boy. You spend all your time fretting over the future, I would bet my heart, your whole summer got locked away in your lair-”

“Workshop. Laboratory. Temple,” Pakazs interrupted.

She countered, “Matter of light, it’s your bedroom. Playing for the past means this is it. Your mother understood that, but for you I worry. Watch where you wait too long or it will be your last — the push was a reminder it’s time to wake up.”

Henri smiled, and damn. The sky was so blue.

Pakazs said, “Not the whole summer. Today still counts does it not? I like to think I have a good foot in the both of it. The future that is, and the past. The present I paint.”

“Right you are when it comes to art. You think too small when it comes to counting.”

She closed the distance on him. Her embrace fucked with time.

Hit with lavender on the nose, pine on the end, seconds later Henri could be and was so far away. His hand shook full of rings. The middle blue ring hid the rest invisible. With his thumb, he rolled the yellow ring on his pointer. At the door, she waved.

Henri said, “Come on, I will not be late for you, Pakazs Novak.”

They were already late. Well, he was… she was always on time.

Henri was offline and Pakazs sighed as he followed her inside. If left alone for too long, she would make friends. Then he would never be alone with Henri.

A foot through the door, a host in a blue shirt and yellow vest offered Pakazs a pair of translucent glasses from a black box. “Welcome to the Legion of Hearts. Enjoy your visit,” the host said with a practiced smile.

“Thanks.” Pakazs lied.

The cruelness about this side of paradise was all the damn formality. In fact it’s what his father paid for, and the attention Henri adored. He slid the glasses off, twirling them as he moseyed over to the wall of six wine barrel reception desks before the lobby.

One stood ahead of the rest. The post filtered to the five, either left or right.

Henri was to the right. Two guests occupied the maître d.

The maître d’, an imposing figure, projected a two-story white wig. His sharp green eyes held an exaggerated pride as if he had a giant stick lodged up his ass — a scarecrow of authority.

Spotting him the old bird stiffened, in his silver vest that ranked Green Eye’s just below someone that mattered outside of here. It rattled the stick for his pucker caused the two guests to turn expecting a ghost. Their glasses set on the default of gold rimmed, black lenses and they promptly averted their sights of him.

A green light flashed from the old bird as manners dictated him to go first. “Sir.”

The forced politeness must’ve sucked the stick up the old bird’s ass to his throat for him to speak so graciously. “Please feel free to be treated by Amanda right over here.” He pressed a button on his pad, and the floor lit a green line for him to travel to the right with Henri.

The maître d said, “It goes without saying, wearing the mandatory glasses would be an insisting appreciation of mine. Thank you, and as always a pleasure Pakazs Novak.”

The guests murmured. ‘His son?’

‘Her son.’

Straight for Legion’s big guns, the old bird rolled their eyes and from the ceiling’s lasers beamed a red-X over his head. It bathed his body in a flashing red warning. As if he was five years old again. He walked extra slow over to Amanda.

Henri leaned against the station in the VIP member’s default pair of diamond glasses. They sparkled with mirrored lenses. Henri tapped the side of them for him to conform.

He slid his glasses on. His pad flashed skin options: the default pair, the VIP default pair, Legion’s shop, or to scroll through the hundreds of his custom designs.

Facetious only in the morning, Pakazs put on the diamonds. The pulsating red-X faded.

Logged into their system sprouted green grass under his feet. Hay itched his throat and stuffed lawn up his nose. He removed it at once on his pad.

Amanda, in a green vest, projected a poor, shameful imitation of Henri’s features, her blue eyes a pale comparison to the original. And if she couldn’t get it right, she should’t do it at all, but common courtesy died long ago.

Amanda said, “Hi Pakazs.”

A scowl from the old bird made Amanda reiterate, heels together, “Welcome Mr. Novak, a pleasure. It’s been a while since your last visit. We’ve missed you. I have your reservation marked. If you would please follow me. I will take you there.”

Pakazs nodded. He gestured for Henri to go first. She curtsied and strolled past Amanda through the sliding doors. On the way, at the maître d, Pakazs waved to give the stick up his ass a goodbye shake. He said, “See you later, Green Bird. Onward to civilization.”

They passed through the cloudy lobby to the rose garden, where the sounds of tennis and cheering filled the air. Amanda stopped them at a bamboo tiki bar that separated the VIP area from the public courts. She said, “I will confer with the host about your table. It should only be a moment.” And Pakazs lightly touched her shoulder with a smile.

He assured her and said, “Not a problem.”

Even though his table should be empty and waiting for him like tradition. He said, “Would you hate me terribly to ask to check if Sybil is on the floor? She’s the best.” They both knew she was working, but her sneer made it worth it.

“Sure.” Amanda marched to the task like a good, plain girl.

“There you go again thinking wicked,” Henri teased.

On his Pad, Pakazs itemized the Big Brother Virus into a library. It held two: Terry Novak and Legion Amanda. He entered Legion Amanda’s undisclosed live-stream as she conferred with the host, who said, “Is that little Novak? Is daddy coming?”

“Yes, it’s Pakazs.” Amanda said, “I don’t know about Big Daddy. Hey, is Vane still on — he asked. I don’t get what everyone sees in her.”

“She has a great ass. Yeah she is, and he’s in her section.”

In the shade, Henri said, “Who’s stream distracts you so? Is it Momo or Mira?”

Pakazs held a hand to the sun. That reminded him, he muted all of his classmates except for her, and decided to keep it that way. He said, “No one is more important than you.”

“There you go again thinking wicked.”

Pakazs stepped in the shadow’s on her right. He said, “How do you deal with being so well and thoroughly underestimated all the time?”

“It’s all about breathing. You ought to know by now life is a marathon. Once you can contrive pleasure from before their surprise, your revenge will be a disappointing climax.”

Damn the sky so blue. He said, “I don’t want revenge.” A cheer rose from the courts.

“Every win is revenge. Otherwise we wouldn’t compete in the first place silly boy.”

“Don’t call me that,” Pakazs grumbled.

“Pakazs,” a green light flashed from Amanda. She said, “Your table is ready.”

About time. They followed her.

Past the tiki bar, facing down the row of eighteen tables in a flower pattern of four around two. Captain Sibyl Vane maneuvered ahead of them in an oak vest, black pants — great ass. A tray held high over her head by fingertips did not so much as quiver through an authoritative ballet. She ferried: two cocktails poured to the meniscus and a tea cup on its saucer with a small spoon and pot, a wooden sugar caddy, side of cream, and a silver bowl filled with ice and three oysters. Amanda glanced at him to see if he checked out Vane’s fantastic ass as Henri did. He, a gentlemen, would never be caught in the act.

Pakazs voyeured through the Big Brother Virus as Amanda checked out her ass. Perspective was king. As they passed Vane, Henri mouthed, ‘You’re missing it.’

Sibyl bent to drop off the load to their rivals in diamond glasses. For all their life, Novak and Hillstone shared the reservation rights to court-3’s bud.

It was one thing to host, and another to be pushed. The true game being who outwitted who with their player and bets on Henri or Sebastian.

Amanda said, “Here is your table.”

On the ground around each table shone either a red or green squared line. Theirs shone green. Pakazs tapped the glass table’s parasol. The green-line flashed red, and kept their conversation within their table’s boundary.

He pulled out a wrought iron chair for Henri, and Amanda looked the other way because she’s never experienced a gentleman. Pakazs tucked Henri in.

“Thank you,” she said and he sat on her right.

Amanda said, “Captain Sybil Vane will be over shortly. I hope you enjoy your stay.”

She left the table’s boundary. Alone at last.

On Henri’s left, at what should be their table too, three men simultaneously adverted their diamond frames from staring as he scanned their profiles. Each their first time here.

She said, “How do you feel about the old man kicking the bucket?”

The question burrowed, like a punch into his kidney. “He’s not dying. Sheesh.”

Henri folded her leg. “Dying, retiring, aren’t they the same thing to a painter?”

The dastards at the table over cheered each other raising their oyster, the shell’s bigger than their hands. Pakazs looked away as they slurped and struggled and chewed.

Henri was offline. She said, “Those look good.”

Pakazs scowled internally. No one deserved so much time allotted to eat an oyster. It should be shot and over with in a second. They should be no bigger than the size of the thumb, two max. Aloud, he said, “It’s too early for all that brine and penny sucking.”

Cheers lit from public. Their classmates preferred that side of the net.

They beat their fists in the air, stood on tables in a zoo of different skins. From their glasses, winners of Legion placed bets launched fireworks.

On court-2, Momo, pin in her ear, bracelet on dark skin, dark hair, raised her gold racket like a forge made gladiator. Live streaming, she said, “I’m coming for you, Henri.”

Tradition was tradition and every Sunday before the new school year, Higher Heights rented the middle court for a mini tournament to decide who played tomorrow before school. Malick and Henri as reigning champs got pre-seeded. Like tradition, Momo won, and Henri would smack down some random for her daddy to bet on for quick cash.

It used to be fun, when she was little Henri sandbagged adults. Now she had a record. Now she had to win for daddy’s sake.

Meanwhile, the Monmouth table in the bud of court-2 remained empty. Tradition was tradition. Momo’s parents never came after it become clear she would never beat Henri.

“Tomorrow,” Momo declared to the world, “there will be a new Lord of the Court.” Stats maxing, she had been training all summer, streamed it.

Could Henri say the same from her vacation across the sea? Across the glass table, she folded her leg to match him. Knowing without knowing.

She said, “How exciting. You think I have a shot at losing? Wouldn’t that be a fun change of pace. Alas, some records should remain spotless. There’s something so charming of the symmetry saying, ‘and zero.’” Henri waved at the three men.

One flashed a green light at him, Pakazs ignored it for his pad. Henri was offline.

Sibyl, a soundless ballerina, touched the center of their table. It did and didn’t scare the crap out of him. Pakazs fell from his chair.

Against the fall, he grabbed Sybil. She helped right him to his seat.

Vane said, “Are you okay. I’m so sorry for scaring you.”

“Sorry, sorry” Pakazs said. “No, its my mistake. I thought I saw a black cat in a yellow dress. It meowed at me and said watch where you’re staring.”

His pad lit. The virus shipped. Three stored in his library.

Sibyl said, “That would be an odd encounter, indeed.” A perfect actress, she led the performance, said, “Cat or not, good omen or fortune, it’s always a pleasure to have you back with us Pakazs. First time this summer. Unless you snuck in when I was gone.”

“I would never do such a wicked thing. You are half of why I come.”

“You and your father are so funny.”

Pakazs wished instant death upon her. “In honor,” he said. “I think we’ll do a pitcher of coffee, milk and sugar on the side. A carafe of sparkling water and five of those chocolate muffins. One is never enough.”

“Of course.” Sybil, a true pro felt his shift and vacated at once.

Fantastic ass. Some people walked, and some people walked.

Henri said, “So you do know how to live. For a minute there I thought you would only order an expresso. God forbid a cortado. I’ve had enough of quick-men today.”

“Revolver or fencer?”

“Fencer”

“Oh dear.”

“Let’s just say overseas dinner can last up to four hours. Not to mention dessert. Speaking of which.” A green light flashed from Sybil.

Pakazs blinked. He would have to set up a map to link with Big Brother Virus when he started going places, and put bells and whistles on this one.

She deftly landed down the order as well as a carafe extra of sparkling lemonade, among a plethora of spare glass wear, different for each beverage, and a monstrous oyster on shell bigger than his face. Vane said, “In addition to your coffee, sparkling water, and muffins, I present a pitcher of our pomegranate lemonade as well as a belon oyster. Courtesy of the gentlemen over there.”

As Sybil walked off stage, the youthful of the three with an angel face rose and followed her. Pakazs snickered and Henri licked her lips at the older men.

One sipped at their cocktail and the other blew on his tea, blushing, pretending not to care as court-3 lit green for her match.

He said, “You are not actually going to eat a gift from the enemy. They are betting on you to loose. I think I know one of them. A painter, called by an herb or other.”

Henri lifted the massive shell in cheers at the stranger. She said, “It’s the friend that I like.” The friend in question lifted his cocktail at them and flashed a green light.

Pakazs folded his leg, spun the ring. She ate the monstrous oyster with no trouble.

She licked her lips as Pakazs poured water into a glass. The cup, programmable could hold the Big Brother Virus. He shipped it, and slid the cup to her.

Henri said, “Why is it that artist fear what they lack?”

“We all fear what we lack.”

“I don’t. It’s not charming.” She poured a glass of lemonade and sipped it. “Yum.”

Pakazs rolled his hand and said, “I can be quite charming if and when I want to be.” Henri poured him a coffee, slid it across the table. Knowing without knowing.

She said, “Oh, you can, can you? You simply choose not to be, tisk-tisk.”

Pakazs waved his hand at her. He said, “Ephemeral, if you wish for happiness, dear Henri sweet; never seek a charming man. My paramount concern for your Beaumont tryst. Please tell me it’s over with summer. Sooner the better.”

Henri said, “Who said anything about wanting to be happy? How boring. I want to live, oysters and all. Speaking of which, don’t look now, but here comes the next course walking over with our fathers.” He didn’t have to look. Suspense was often better.

“I shall see this poor victim soon enough. And you were just complaining about speed.”

“We eat first with our eyes, and oh boy, the grieving Sebastian Monroe does not look appetizing.” She boasted. “Extraordinary, really, it is a face only a mother can love. You really ought to see this; its like a bad smell that even after you’re warned you have to experience it for yourself, and promptly never seek it again. Woof. Perhaps he just needs to be cooked. On the count of three we will give him a hard boiled welcome together. Shall we. One, two…”

Pakazs said, “I’m no bully, Henri–”

Henri, hands on the table, feinted standing to look, and said, “ — Three!”

#steep

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