The Sex Sphere by Rudy Rucker

Author:Rudy Rucker [Rucker, Rudy]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Tags: Fiction, Science Fiction, General, Adventure
ISBN: 9780759285835
Google: 3GCeXzPB74UC
Amazon: 0759285837
Publisher: e-reads.com
Published: 1989-01-01T13:00:00+00:00

***

Montage: Lafcadio slugs Jimmy Hu. Runs back to pick up the Babsi bean. Rushes out into the parking lot. The Fiat skidding down the mountain curves. Then speeding down the smooth autostrada. Highway signs flicker past: Torino, Milano, Brescia, Verona, Padova, Venezia. Lafcadio in his car, talking animatedly to no one.

Night: Lafcadio in a cheap hotel room. A half-empty bottle of red wine on a table covered with red circles. Lafcadio is cocked back in the desk chair, reading Dante’s Inferno by the light of a bare bulb overhead. He chuckles softly. Somewhere outside, a church-bell rings midnight. Lafcadio jumps to his feet, picks up the wine bottle and with one smooth motion uses it to break the light bulb. Spark and sputter. By his bed we can make out the faint glow of Babsi on the bedside table. Lafcadio’s dark form glides over and stretches out on the white bed. He is shaking gently, sobbing. “Zsuzsi,” you hear him mutter, “O Zsuzsi, non voglio dormire solo.” At the sound of his voice, the glowing little sphere twitches and grows. You can see an ass-crack now, and breasts on top…. “Zsuzsi!” cries Lafcadio, his eyes white and crazy in the dark. “Cara mia!” He picks up the sex sphere and begins to kiss it, his face bathed in radiance.

Morning: Lafcadio inside a café, having breakfast. He chews with his mouth open. One hand stays in his coat pocket, ceaselessly fondling something. There is a newspaper on the table. It has a picture of Beatrice and the headline: Morte Verdi Terroristi. Lafcadio stares fixedly at the accompanying article, reading out loud while he continues to chew. Finally he stands and walks across the room to a phone booth. We can see his face talking through the glass. He writes something down on a paper napkin.

Afternoon: Lafcadio at the police station, distraught and weeping. “Mia povera figlia.” The cops are sympathetic under their stiff-billed hats. They let him in to visit Beatrice. Fear and calculation in her hard, skanky face. He whispers a message, passes her the napkin and leaves, apologizing to the police. “No che mia figlia.”

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