Free Skin on My Skin by John Burks Page A

seals, huh? That’s rich, son. Maybe if you had a truckload of these bottles. Maybe then, but doubtful. I can get you one of the seals…”
    “But there are twenty!” I blurted out.  
    “As I said, I can get you one. You can choose which. It doesn’t matter. But a full set? Oh my. Very optimistic son. I have to admire your spirit.”
    One seal wasn’t going to do me any good. “What would buy a set?”
    “Besides a truckload of whiskey?”
    “Right.”
    The Banker shrugged. “I don’t know. A Toucher maybe?” he laughed. “But you won’t find any Toucher’s out there, will you? They are all here, in the bar. No, no seals for you. Is there anything else you desire? Perhaps something not quite as expensive?”
    The scarred man was here. That meant his apartment was unguarded, again. My seals and a Toucher might be there. But had he come to Club Flesh following me? If he had, how had he gotten in front of me? I didn’t understand what was going on with him, didn’t get why he was following me. But he had my seals, here or back at his place. I was, for the moment, convinced of that.  
    And he had a Toucher tied to a bed.  
    “Is the seat next to my friend open?” I asked and the Banker nodded.  
    “Hand job and one hour,” he said, still appraising the loot I’d brought. “Four drinks. Sound fair?”
    “Sure,” I said, taking the tokens he pushed back through the drawer.  
    I didn’t have any idea what the big, scarred up man wanted, but I intended on finding out.

    The guards led me to the appropriate tunnel leading to my assigned booth and opened it for me.  
    “You can take your suit off in there, if you want,” the armor suited guard said. “It’s all sealed up and there is no danger. There’s a little space about halfway in. Your crap will be safe there.”
    I’d been there before and I knew the drill. I hadn’t taken my suit off then, either. Most people didn’t. I had no intention of taking my suit off now, but nodded anyway, hoping the walls were as good as they advertised them. I had, of course, been in Club Flesh before. It was one of the first things I’d done after the incident with my father, back when I’d discovered freedom really was just another word for nothing else to lose. Despite the horror of what my father had tried to do to me, along with the shock of what I’d done in return, I was ready to see girls. I’d scavenged for weeks to find enough trade material for an hour in the bar. And I got off all of about twenty-seconds into the experience. I’d been back a couple of times since, trading for something I couldn’t find. But I mostly limited my relief spells to porn videos in the safety of my own lair.  
    The club had changed little since the last time I’d been there and the owners had done their best to give it some resemblance to an old school, pre-plague club. Knowing that their customer base was made up of fanatical introverts, they’d also gone to great lengths to keep them isolated. The tunnel was sealed all around and you had little idea, as you went down it, that you were surrounded by up to eight people and the dancers.  
    “Let’s hear it for Kitty Cat Brown, ladies and gentleman,” the DJ said flamboyantly from the walled in booth at the top of the bar, overlooking the stage. “Kitty comes to us all the way from Miami, Florida, home of beach and sun. Tell us, Kitty… how the hell is it down in Florida?”
    The stripper didn’t answer. She looked if not numb, then bored. The DJ kept on. “That’s right, Kitty… they’re all fucking dead. Fucking dead in New York, fucking dead in Miami. They’re fucking dead everywhere but right here in Club Flesh, the very best in post-apocalyptic tits and ass brought to you by the fine folks of Fortress. Give up for Fortress, ladies and gentlemen! Fuck… ladies and gentlemen… that’s a riot. I don’t see a single fucking gentleman in this god damn house. More like a bunch of scummy ass scavengers,