Restricted Fantasies Read online




  RESTRICTED FANTASIES

  BY KEVIN KNEUPPER

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional or imaginary. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Text copyright © 2018 Kevin Kneupper.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the copyright holder.

  Cover design and formatting by Ebook Launch.

  CONTENTS

  Seven Minutes in Heaven

  Restricted Fantasies

  Panopticon

  Second Honeymoon

  Irish Grudge

  First Contact

  The Only Way Out is Down

  Cheat Code

  Rumspringa

  Smartest Guy in the Room

  Pleasuredome

  Mailing List

  SEVEN MINUTES IN HEAVEN

  Just one more time.

  I pull the helmet from my head, fastening it back into place at the top of my chair. I unplug the data cables from my arm, carefully twisting them out of the ports implanted in my wrist. Then I swivel back to the holographic display. It curves around me, floating in the air over my workstation.

  Well, not my workstation. Temporary Labor Position #373867. But it was the one I sat down at yesterday afternoon, and by now it feels like it’s mine.

  I could go home if I wanted to. I can always go home. It’s not like I need to work. It’s not like anybody does. I get a monthly deposit into my account just like everybody else, minus ninety-five percent for my Total Goods and Services Plan. Enough to live a pretty happy life. No frills or anything, but I could just sit there and be happy if that’s what I wanted.

  But it’s not what I want. I want to work. I love it more than anything.

  It’s not the place. The building’s drab, and the walls are grey inside and out. The only decorations here are posters of the President. Not the President President, but the President of SocialCorp. Not that it matters. He’s the more important one these days. He smiles down at us from every angle, his skin a porcelain white, his hair still lush and full. It’s greying at the temples a bit, but he’s still the man he always was.

  We all heard the legends as kids. SocialCorp makes sure everybody knows and everybody hears. There were always new cartoon vids popping into the feed on my Pad, telling and retelling the stories. The history of how SocialCorp was made. About the old culture, the bad culture, the one he got rid of. How he realized that if it wasn’t on the feeds, then nobody saw it anyway. How he freed us from the way we used to live and built us a brand new culture from scratch. A cleaner one, a better one, a less divisive one. Control the feeds and you control the kids, says the President. Control the kids and you control the culture, and he knows what he’s talking about. He’s given us everything we have.

  I’ve been here maybe thirty-four hours, so it’ll be time to leave soon. Just one more time and I’ll leave. I stand and stretch. I’m a little cramped, so I flick my hands with a quick motion. The hologram inches upward in response. It’ll be another two, maybe three hours, and this time I’ll stand while I work.

  A servobot hustles by. It looks like a little white pillar about three feet high, wheels at its base and a tray on the top. It’s covered with the essentials: odor zappers, breath pills, amphetamines, and razors. I skip the amphetamines; this won’t be an all-nighter. Not two in a row. I grab a FizzyCaff instead, pop it open, and then I’m ready to go.

  I poke my finger at the hologram and the feeds start flowing. Where it all comes from, I couldn’t even guess. Some bot somewhere flagged it all for human review, pics and vids and chatter that looked like BadPosts. The bots aren’t smart enough to tell. They need us for that. Curators.

  They flow across the display, one after the other. “My cat is such a little bitch,” says the first, and it goes on and on. I don’t read the rest. Racy, but not so bad as to justify a flag. I swipe it green and it’s on to the next. A vid of a guy getting hit in the nuts. You can see some skin, but not too much. Swipe green, then the next vid, then the next.

  There’s a meter on the right of my screen, rising from the bottom to the top. I’ve barely made a dent in it: a few thousand points, and I’m gonna need a million. But with each swipe, I get a little closer. A picture of a treasure chest pops open each time I finish reviewing a post, and a number bursts out with what I’ve won. Ten points sometimes, sometimes a hundred. If luck’s with me it could even be a few thousand. Closer and closer to the goal every time I swipe. It draws me in, and once I’ve started I can’t quit. I can’t even take a break to piss. I mean I can, but I don’t want to, and there’s a servobot designed to take care of that if I really need it.

  I’m at about 45,000 points when I hit my first HatePost. The feeds have to be kept clean. Sanitized. A culture gets sick when you let the sick stuff in. The President says so, and he’s the one who’d know. It’s hidden inside a six-minute long vid of a dog chasing around a beaver. At the three minute mark, it all changes.

  A pic flashes across the screen: an image of Asia from space, grey mist swirling across the entire continent. “The Great Smog of China,” it says in big red letters. Then a city covered in sickly yellow clouds and a flash of text: “Climate Change Cover-Up to Juke Profit Numbers! Major Corps demand strict air regs at home, then send our factories to the Greater PRC where regs are a joke! Search for pics of ‘chinese air pollution’ on FreeCrawl and you’ll see….”

  A HatePost. If you let that stuff into your feeds, the network splits apart. A culture can’t maintain itself if you let in the voices of hate. You have to know the same things, read the same things, believe the same things. Otherwise you’re not a culture. You’re a company at war with itself, and a company can’t take care of its people if they’re busy fighting one another.

  I swipe red as quickly as I can, averting my eyes so I don’t see any more than I have to. Whoever posted the vid’s going to get a flag on their account, and I’m not risking one on mine. They’ll get docked some of their basic income for sure, even if they didn’t know that stuff was in there. Most people don’t; they just repost the vid without watching it all the way through. It’s still an infraction. The company’s tracking my eyes, and it knows what part of the screen I’m looking at. If I take too long to look away, I might get flagged for Problematic Behavior. I’d lose points for that, tens of thousands of them.

  And I need points. More than anything else, I need my points.

  I keep curating the feeds, keep swiping red and green. The treasure chest explodes each time, and each time I feel an eager anticipation, then a little glow of warmth inside when I see how many I’ve earned.

  A million. A million’s all I need, and then I’ll be done for the day. My eyes are so bleary I can barely even see. I couldn’t keep myself awake if it weren’t for that little treasure chest. It drives me. It drags me in. I’m at half a million, so close to the goal. My body’s yelling at me to sleep, but not just yet. I can make it there. The points come every twenty or thirty seconds, and every time they do it’s like a little burst of focus. A hit of dopamine, the good stuff, pure and uncut.

  Next up is a vid with a subtle pitch in the middle for an out-company cleaning product. I mark it HatePost; that’s how they seduce you. Get that one little sale, and pretty soon you’re signing a contract with another corp and they’re the one entitled to your basic minimum from the government. If you leave the corp, you leave the culture. You leave the family. You leave your friends, and you leave them forever. That’s what the President sa
ys, right there in the Little Blue Book.

  A political cartoon about the President. HatePost for sure, and it’s a big one. Five thousand points for catching that. Then a woman asking for help sending a message to her daughter, a subscriber of another corp. Not technically a HatePost, but it’s Problematic regardless. Talk to people outside the company, and you risk infecting the corporate culture with something dangerous.

  I flag it, and she’ll probably get a good talking to even if they don’t dock her monthly check. They’ll be watching her for sure. Biological families tend to subscribe to a Total Goods and Services plan from the same company, but when there’s a split, there’s a high risk of a cancelled subscription. A stupid move if you do it before the contract term, because the company’s entitled to your check until the very end. How the hell are you going to live for a year without a home, without health care, without food, without everything the company gives you?

  It’s just not worth it. The company’s usually a better family than the one you were born with anyway. And then there’s the matter of the points. You’d lose your points, and you’d lose your progress, lose everything you’d spent all those hours working for. You’d be starting from scratch, right from the bottom. And that’s a hell of a thing to do.

  I swipe and swipe and swipe. The time flies by; I glance at the clock, and it’s been around two hours. I didn’t even notice. It felt like it was only a few minutes with all the points I’ve been earning. I’m pushing myself so far I don’t even hear anything around me. It’s like my peripheral vision is gone. All that’s left is the screen. The swiping and the points. More than anything else, the points.

  And then it happens. The number creeps upward. I’m nearly there. 991,663.

  So, so close.

  I was tiring out, but I get a second wind. I flag a servobot and down another FizzyCaff.

  992,787.

  I keep swiping. I’m perked up again, the prospect of hitting a million giving me back all my energy, all my drive. At 995,000 I wave over another servobot, this time to take a quick piss. I don’t even move. A little tube snakes up my pants and after a minute or so I’m done. I’ve got to get ready. I don’t want to have to go when the number flips over a million.

  997,335.

  998,642.

  I’m so close.

  I’m buzzing with anticipation. My leg’s tapping up and down. I’m leaning forward in my seat. I can’t wait. I just can’t.

  And then a last HatePost puts me over the line. I catch a guy downvoting a picture of the President, and the treasure chest burps open. 2,000 points. Just enough to get my million.

  I jump to my feet, pumping my fist in the air. There’s a muted “grats” from the nearby cubicles. There’s people there, but I don’t know any of them. We say hi sometimes, but that’s not what we’re here for. We didn’t come here to talk.

  We came here to play.

  A pair of servobots hum towards me. I sit back down in my chair. They switch out the cables in my arms, jacking me into an entirely different system. When they’re done, I reach up towards the helmet on the top of my chair. I fasten it on, pull the visor over my eyes, and I can feel the servobots hooking it up to a port in my neck.

  And then I’m not there anymore.

  I’m back in the game. A dragon’s in front of me, big and scaly and mean. Fangs a foot long, sharp ridges running along his back, tufts of smoke snorting out of his nostrils. He’s killed me three times, but this time he’s mine. I look down at my body: muscular, sinewy, the physique of a barbarian. I’ve got the sword to match, strapped to my back. I pull it out and take a pose.

  6 minutes and 30 seconds left.

  I drink some potions. Fireproof my skin, put up a magic shield, buff all my stats. A bar shows up in the corner of my vision, showing me how strong I am, how tough I am, how much damage I can take. I’m ready.

  6 minutes.

  I charge towards the dragon. His head lunges at me. I somersault forward, his jaws snapping into the ground and missing me by inches. I pivot, thrusting my sword up into his neck. It’s a hit: blood splurts down onto me, warm liquid goo against my skin. I can smell his breath from here, an acrid sulfur stench that makes me want to retch.

  But I don’t. I’m a warrior. I cling to my sword, tearing through the dragon’s flesh. I’ve got him in a weak spot, and if I can pull a little harder, I’ll rip his throat clean out. But he’s not going down that easily. He rears back, lifting his head up into the air. I hold onto the sword for dear life. My body weight’s doing the work for me, cutting a gash down his neck. He claws at me, but his stubby little arms can’t quite reach. Then he starts shaking like a wet dog, hurling me this way and that until finally I can’t hold on anymore.

  3 minutes.

  I’m thrown to the ground. No sword, no weapon. I toss a rock at him. Doesn’t do a thing. I’m running, zig-zagging around the field of battle. Blasts of fire nip at my toes. I get hit on the leg: the skin’s scorched, but I don’t feel any pain. Just a light rumbling feeling that lets me know I’ve taken some damage. I see my health bar dropping in the corner of my eyes. He hits me again, dead in the chest. Another rumble, and now my skin looks roasted. It’s the same way he got me last time. Another one like that and I’m done.

  2 minutes.

  One last chance. I charge towards him, digging into his scales with my fingers. I climb up his leg. He’s shaking, howling, spraying fire. I make it to his back. I’m holding on for dear life, but all I’m paying attention to is my sword, stained red and sticking out of his neck. I wait for my moment. And then I jump.

  My hands hit the sword. I’ve got it. The force of it pulls me down, and it rips him wide open. He tries to scream, but his vocal cords are shot from the wound. He stumbles, then collapses, and I roll away from the corpse and onto the ground.

  1 minute.

  There’s a treasure chest behind him. There’s always a treasure chest. I sprint towards it. Put a hand on it. And like magic, it flips open.

  An ancient axe. Enchanted boots. A crapload of gold. And now I’m maybe one more kill away from another level.

  10 seconds.

  No time for anything else. I bask in the adrenaline rush, running a finger along my shiny new axe, trying on the boots and checking out how I look. The design’s amazing, they’ve got these little skulls on the sides, way cooler than what I was wearing before—

  And then it all goes black.

  I can hear the servobots whining as they unplug me and lift off the helmet. I’m back in my cubicle. Back in my life. No more sword, no more monsters, and no more adventures. I’m done for now. I’m beat. I’ve been at this for a full day straight, and I’m about to collapse. All I want to do is go home, go to bed, and get a good night’s rest.

  I’m gathering up my things. There’s a post up on the screen: a frowny face next to an article about recent cuts to the basic minimum income. Clearly a HatePost, clearly Problematic. What the hell? I flag it as both; it’d be stupid not to. I knew I’d get a bonus for flagging it, and boy did I: five thousand points. I feel a little surge of happiness, and I get a little energy back.

  I know I’ve been here forever. But it’s not that long in the scheme of things. I’ve done four days in a row before, one time almost five. I swipe another post, and then another. Just one more. Just another few thousand points. I’m thinking about those boots, about what I’m going to do next when I get back into the game. One more kill and I’ll hit the next level. I can do that in seven minutes, easy. Another million points and I’ll earn another seven minutes of play. I could be there in another hour, maybe two.

  An hour’s not that long. And besides, it’s good for the company. Good for our culture. I keep swiping. Just a few more. It feels so good every time that treasure chest opens up. I’m not so sure I want to go home anymore. Not just yet. Maybe I’ll stay that extra hour. Just get to the next level, and then I’ll be done. It’s not that big a deal. I’ll go to sleep right after. Just get back in ther
e, kill one more monster, and then I’m going home.

  I wave over one of the servobots. This time I take the amphetamines. It’ll make things a lot easier. I pop the pills, wash them down with another FizzyCaff, and turn back to my screen.

  Then I swipe and I swipe and I swipe….

  RESTRICTED FANTASIES

  One man’s dream is another man’s nightmare. I know that better than anybody. But it still surprises me, the things people fantasize about. There’s some twisted minds out there, and some twisted ways to live.

  Most people have dark dreams sometimes, and I get that. Lots of us even act them out. But some people go too far, and that’s when I’ve got to step in. This one was awful enough that it made me want to vomit.

  But at the end of the day, it was all just zeros and ones conjured from the depths of a very disturbed mind. A simulated reality tailored to someone else’s wildest fantasies. None of it was real, no matter how much it might have felt like it was. I had to keep reminding myself of that if I wanted to get through it.

  I knew what I was in for the moment I showed up at the outskirts of the city. It was ringed with a fifteen-foot concrete perimeter, an urban fortress walled away to protect it from enemies that didn’t even exist. Every few yards were those banners. They ran the length of the wall from top to bottom, bloody red except for the swastikas at the center. And it only got worse once the guards waved me through the gate.

  It started with the corpses, strung up on each and every lamp pole, dangling slowly in the wind. They’d been left to fester, puffy and bloated, hung there and forgotten like off-season Christmas lights. There were notes pinned to their chests, and I read a few of them as I walked along the street towards the city center. “Slav.” “Gypsy.” “Jew.” He wasn’t subtle, the man I’d come to see. And he was every bit as awful as the man he most admired.

  The concentration camps were next, the barracks lined up one after another on either side of the road. I didn’t catch much of them before I decided to just cover my eyes and stare down at the gravel in front of me. It was the people that got to me. They were watching me, fingers poking out through the chain-link fence. Men, women, and children, all of them thin as skeletons, moaning and wailing and begging me to do something. Begging me to save them, or if I couldn’t, for just a little crust of bread to eat. Or something to drink. Even a drop. They’d do anything for a single drop.