The couple strolled the midway after dark — the smell of cotton candy and deep fryer grease wafted through humid air. Amusement rides assembled by drunks in the rain took riders in circles and loops. Squealing riders and barkers' voices juxtaposed calliope and rock music. 

“Chloe, would you like another corn dog?” 

“Not right now. But you know, the world can always use more processed meat products on sticks. They’re so . . . convenient!” 

Chloe and Randy guffawed. In the heat  their clothes reeked of weed and Marlboros and patchouli oil. People whiffed and warily eyed them.  

"Alive, alive alive! Freaks of nature revealed! Alive, alive, alive!" The barker stood in front of 
a tent. Colorful signs advertized curiosities and rarities. 

“Randy . . . let’s move on. I don’t feel like pickled babies and two-headed cows.” 

“Let’s do the funhouse. They’re always a hoot.” 

The Funhouse seemed a smallish ramshackle building. It was painted white with red and black advertisement. Stairs led to a front platform and the entrance. A bad recording of a wildly laughing woman seemed totally creepy, and added to the cacophony of music and barkers and carnival patrons. The building seemed to breathe; to expand and contract, expand and contract. 

“What the . . .?” Chloe and Randy looked at one another.  

Chloe woke alone in her SleepPod in WhiteSpace. 

Damn, I'd like to finish my dream, she thought. Years ago she and Randy had been horror aficionados, lovers of both shlock and quality psychological drama. Film and camp had filled their heads. Fear was a rush. A turn-on. They'd fed it with flicks, with nocturnal romps in the woods, with the exploration of  abandoned houses. She remembered parking their car on secondary roads, and tromping through the woods at night, tripping and falling. An old two-story farmhouse sagged between oak trees. She and Randy stepped onto the creaking porch and pushed open the door. The dark had drawn them in. She remembered wildly fucking, partially-clothed on a sagging, splintered floor; his driving her buttocks against wood as he’d thrust into her with his wild energy. She remembered the taste of banana bubble gum, Marlboro-tainted saliva, the aura of pot smoke and male pheromones. Now, he was dust. 

She got up, put on a robe, went to her FoodSpace and poured a JoltJuice. She'd have a YouthTox chaser. She got into the InfoPod for NewsFeed.  

"President Schwarzenegger and Vice President Dole attended the dedication of the opening of the first HospitalPrison in SouthRegionCalifornia yesterday."  

The politicians stood side by side in front of the compound and smiled and waved. 

"You phony, ignorant pig!" Elizabeth hissed under her breath. 

"Damned decadent American bitch-whore!" Arnold whispered/spat. 

Chloe deeply sighed, rose, finished her breakfast and dressed for her appointment. 
  
  

"Good morning. I have an eleven o'clock." Chloe stood and faced a large plastic CounterCube. 

"You're in space number three, Chloe."  

"Thanks." 

Chloe walked a hall and entered room number three. A gloved technician handled a cart with  highly organized syringes and capsules, and bottled water. "Hello . . . My name is Jackson" read his name tag. 

"Hello. Oral or intravenous?" 

"Hi. The needle, please." 

She presented her right forearm; Jackson slid the hypodermic into her vein and depressed the plunger. He stashed the used hypo in a container on his cart. Chloe stripped down; the thin mesh suit went over her body stocking; she put on boots and gloves.  She sat in the chair; he strapped her in. 

“Not too tight, is it?” 

“It’s comfortable, thanks.” 

“Oh, let’s not  forget your ViewFeed.” 

“Thanks.” He put the small wraparound eyepiece on her. 

“Later . . . “ He turned, pushed his cart through the door, and closed the door behind him. 
  

Chloe closed her eyes. NanoBurn gathered heat and rushed through her. Her insides fluttered; her anticipation grew in unmarked, expansive time. Pieces, flashes, came: blips and color and noise and odor filtered inside her. Take me. 

The stoned couple walked the carnival midway. His arm draped her shoulders. He had a shoulder length shaggy haircut; he wore a tee shirt and jeans. She wore a halter top and cut-offs; her long hair was parted in the middle and draped the sides of her face.  

“What kinda junk do you think is in deep fryer oil anyway? It’s gotta be, like, waaaaaay toxic.” Randy laughed. 

Chloe smiled. “Yeah. It must be pretty weird. Soybean oil and beef fat heated for days and weeks, taking in the essence of whatever is cooked in it! Nasty.” 

“Smells good though . . . “ They guffawed and leaned into one another, strolling and negotiating the crowd. 

“Hey, look at this place! I don’t remember this one . . . “ Chloe eyeballed the pseudo-ramshackle Movie House, located between Girlie Show and Freaks.  

“Let’s do it.” 

Movie House had a porch which was almost completely plumb with the ground; there were no steps. They conspiratorially eyed one another and stepped onto it. 

“Hey, where’s the ticket guy?” 

“I dunno. Come on.“ Randy pulled Chloe by the hand and through the door. The large room was gaudy: bright lights, red velvet, and brass surrounded a large snack bar. It reeked of popcorn with yellow penzoil and rotisserie hotdogs. It seemed a palace crammed into a shack. 

“Bite to eat?” A short, smiling man in a white tee shirt and black-belted white chinos stood behind the counter. His thinning brown hair was severely slicked back. “I love having friends for dinner.” His eyes gleamed.  

“Um . . . no thanks . . . “ Chloe mumbled, backing away. “Come on, Randy . . . let’s see what’s playing.” They walked down a short hall and pushed open the large double swinging doors. The theater was large and empty. No preview or film yet flickered. As they took center aisle seats it began to project over their heads. It was untitled; the camera zoomed in on a young man and woman entering a moonlit, abandoned house. Chloe grabbed Randy’s arm and squeezed. Their eyes glimmered and their lips slightly parted as film images reflected in their eyes.  

The young woman ran through the house, footfalls echoing upon wooden floors; the young man gave chase. Their breath was ragged. She tripped on junk and fell. The floor creaked; the cries of birds and stirring sounds in the brush entered through broken windows. She lay on her back; he knelt over her and highly pulled up her shirt. She unzipped her jeans and pulled them down; he unzipped his fly, freed his hard cock, and pushed aside her panty crotch. The couple seemed backlit; shadows of her breasts with their erect nipples played on a cracked wall; the shadow of his cock danced. He lowered himself and pushed his cock into her; she took in a breath and cried out.  

“Hey! That’s us! “ Chloe whispered. 

“Yes. Watch . . . “ 

The onscreen couple roughly fucked on the dusty, dirty floor. Chloe moved onto Randy in the wide theater seat, straddling his lap and holding onto his shoulders. They began to kiss; he moved his fingers in the denim cleft of her jeans. A flashlight suddenly blinded them. 

“Now, now, kiddies, we’ll have none of that. The last time I caught someone, I ate their livers with a salad and a nice cabernet. . . . “ he leered. 
  

A man looked into a monitor.  “Number three is coming out of it. Look at her.” 

“Yeah. Okay. It’s time.” 
  

“Chloeee . . . CHLOeeeee . . . talk to me. “ Jackson prompted.. She tensed in her chair and moaned.. “Chloe, are you okay? I’m taking off your ViewFeed now.” He slipped the eyepiece off her. He released her restraints. Her eyelids fluttered; it took a moment for her eyes to focus.  
  

Chloe stood in the lobby facing the CounterCube.  

“Will you be coming in next week, Chloe? We have an opening on Thursday afternoon.” 

“I’ll take it.”