Free Rapacia: The Second Circle of Heck by Dale E. Basye

she said in a low rumble. “Like a morgue on Christmas.”
    Marlo gulped. “Right. Of course. Good job. Thanks.”
    Lyon and Bordeaux laughed in derisive unison.
    The girls neared a trio of long-legged women whose bodies managed to be curvaceous without an ounce of body fat. It was as if they had been designed by a college fraternity.
    “Oh my
gawd!”
squealed Bordeaux. “It’s Faith, Hope, and Charity! Those three supermodels that died on that humanitarian aid mission to Africanastan!”
    The three flawless creatures sprayed the girls with perfume as they stepped onto the escalator. Normally, Marlo would have doused them with pepper spray—as the staff of Scents and Sensibility back home knew all too well. But the particular fragrance that the three dead-yet-still-super supermodels spritzed upon her was …
amazing … delicious …
like an aromatic rainbow.
    “Chanel Number Six!” Lyon gasped. “It’s, like, supposed to be made from a patented blend of supermodel pheromones and puppy breath!”
    Giggling drunk from Mallvana’s intoxicating cologne, the girls stepped onto the escalator. Marlo gripped the plush, vibrating handrail. It felt cool andcalming to the touch, like petting a sleek Persian kitten, and sent waves of relaxation throughout her body, until she could barely keep her eyes …
    Marlo let go. She fought to stay focused amidst all the heady distractions. She concentrated on her surroundings, casing out this burglar’s buffet of retail riches.
    The first floor of the main rotunda housed a Heaven on Ice rink and Seven Deadly Cinemas Complex. The second floor, from what she could make out, was home to an Om Depot, Epiphany’s Jewelers, and a store called Cleanliness, right next to another store called Godliness.
    The girls alighted off the escalator and onto the gleaming, diamond-encrusted floor. To their left was a massive plasma-screen display—at least forty feet tall. On it was a gyrating, computer-generated teenage girl, dancing and singing into a sparkling headset.
    “I’m so cool. I’m so hot.
I am everything you’re not!
I’m as fresh as raw sashimi.
All the girls, they wanna be me.”
    The shimmering girl, her face lined with gold-glitter makeup, danced with an athleticism that mocked the laws of physics. Her voice hit notes so high that it probably sent dogs into seizures. Her silver spandex hotpants looked as if they had been applied with a spray can. Her poreless complexion was so fine that she not only reflected light but also exuded it.
    “My body language never stutters,
moves as smooth as melted butter.
I’m as steamy as a sauna.
You know my name: Yojuanna!”
    Marlo crossed her arms and scanned the screen, a display so large it hurt her neck to take it all in. Norm ambled next to Marlo and gaped at the pixilated pop-music tart on the screen.
    “I wish I was that sure of myself,” Norm muttered. “At least I think I do.”
    Takara skipped up to the two girls, clapping her hands.
    “Yojuanna B. Covetta!” she yelped. “I can’t believe she here!”
    “I’ve never heard of her,” Marlo said.
    “That’s because she was made in Tokyo,” Takara replied. “She was just about to make the big time before the accident.”
    Norm squinted at the display. Yojuanna now had a small keyboard strapped across her perfect abs, her fingers dancing across the keys like nectar-crazed hummingbirds.
    “She doesn’t
look
Japanese,” Norm commented slowly. “She looks …
everything-
ese.”
    Marlo turned to Takara.
    “Made?” she asked. “Accident?”
    Takara brushed pink bangs from her twinkling eyes.
    “She was made in Tokyo laboratory” she replied.
    “You mean like Frankenstein?” Norm asked.
    Takara held her small hand to her mouth and giggled.
    “No, not like a monster, like a
video game
. Digital. Perfect pop star that can be downloaded anywhere, always ready to sing and dance, never grow old, never have scandal—unless it’s a really cool scandal.”
    “So what