After the show.

Caddy is beaming, flashing out the happy signal so Cheryl can see how pleased he is with her. He blows a kiss at the tiny camera that usually serves as her eye on the real world. Caddy is the luckiest nerd in the world. He’s overweight, he’s got awful breath. His sense of style doesn’t go beyond ‘Class Pimp’ merchandised T-Shirts. But he gets to spend his time with Cheryl. He designed her. He trained her. He makes her tick.

And he gets to see her naked. All he has to do is just click a button. She doesn’t even know.

And the ten-a-penny Ex-Oh’s out there think he’s sad!

It’s not just Caddy, of course. There’s a whole army behind the Cheryl magic. Hundreds of real-live people owe their paycheques to the make believe starlet. There are accountants, counter-accountants, publicists, stylists, analysts, columnists, artists, Marxists, lyricists, atheists, draughtsmen, foreman, hitmen, cavemen, chairmen, spokesmen, yes-men, geeks, freaks, nerds, birds and turds, Not to mention the hordes of creamers, dreamers and screamers who always somehow manage to attach themselves to cash rich ventures like this.

But Caddy is the only one who gets to see her naked.

“You were dynamite, sweetie.” He says, beaming up at Cheryl as she appears in the array of fraxels on the gigantic screen. “Class isn’t the word.”

Cheryl looks down at him from her looking glass world. “Thankyou, Caddy. It felt good. I’m up on the Chartcast in seventy six minutes. What do you think I should wear?”

Caddy checks through the list on his Tab. “Chartcast … Chartcast … Ah, here we go. You need to be in Colpré sneaks and -”

The sound of the doorchime makes him jump. He doesn’t do visitors. “Who the hell is that?”

He pushes a big, green button, and a face appears on a nearby patch of wall. It’s a woman. She’s pretty, with black hair that’s been tied back. She looks about twenty one at the oldest. Caddy decides to speak real slow, in case she’s an agency hooker without much English. “Hello? Who is this?”

The young woman looks up at the camera nervously. “I’m Clara Jane.” She says. “Cheryl asked me to call?”

Caddy frowns at Cheryl. “You did?”

“She’s here?” Cheryl looks excited, and her hair turns blonde. “Great - Come on up, Clara!”

There is a click, and Caddy turns to watch the young girl disappearing out of the security camera’s view.

Another bleep. Caddy checks his Tab. “Aww. Shit.”

“What?”

“Nothing, sweetie. We just got a grump-a-gram from Snapper. Seems they asked you to say “it’s Saturday: it’s Snapperday.”, and not “it’s Saturday, that makes it a Snapperday.”

Cheryl’s big blue eyes become oceans of sadness. “Oh, Caddy, I’m so sorry! How much did it cost us?”

Caddy shrugs, just as Clara Jane appears at the doorway. “They’ve not said yet. Their claim will have to go through Legal and we’ve probably already got started on the counter-claim by now. I thought you were on a keyword agreement.”

“I was.” Cheryl tells him. “Keywords: “Saturday” and “Snapperday.” It’s hardly rocketry.”

Clara Jane stands at the doorway awkwardly, wondering when they will notice her. But then Cheryl spots her and her face sparkles.

“Clara Jane! Welcome! Is it Clare Jane? Or just Clara?”

Clara Jane doesn’t look comfortable. She’s just been greeted like an old friend by a computer program, while the chair-bound dirigible with the four day growth eyes up her legs. “Either or, I guess.” She shrugs, waving nervously at the geek and managing to look apologetic for existing.

“Cheryl? You didn’t tell me we had company.” Caddy looks around the office at the trash and debris. It’s missing the big green dinosaur, but otherwise it would make a pretty good disaster movie.

“Caddy, I’d like you to meet Clara Jane!” Cheryl says, as if she’s announcing tonight’s big line-up.. “I fixed it with the label. She works for me now. Welcome aboard, Clara!”

Caddy is confused. He’s not felt so out of his depth since he sat down to Silver Service at a Company Dinner. “What the fuck does that mean?” He demands. “Half the fuckin’ company works for you, Cheryl. What are you talking about?”

Cheryl smiles down at him as if she’s blowing a kiss. “It means you’re fired big boy! I talked the label Ex-Oh’s into letting me have somebody … I don’t know .. More like, me, I guess.”

“More like...” Caddy is losing it. “I’m fucking what?”

He stares up at the image on the screen and she’s still smiling sweetly down at him as if he’s a puppy dog that she’s just fallen in love with. “Afraid so, Caddy, baby!”

Clara Jane is suddenly wishing she could be anywhere else in the whole world.

Another screen appears out of the wall, as if it had been there the whole time just waiting to be noticed. It crackles to life to show an image of a bed. But who’s this on it? Take a look as the camera zooms in … Hey! It’s Cheryl! And she’s getting a great workout from that guy behind her! Who is the lucky fella? Look closer .. Yes, you guessed it - It’s Caddy! Did you ever think he had it in him? Did you ever think he would have had it in her? Look at them go!

“Seems the company didn’t like your taste in home movies, Caddy!” Cheryl Beams at him, suddenly looking for all the world like Marylyn Monroe. “They were going to tell you later today, but I thought you’d rather have got the news from me, considering everything we’ve been through together.”

Caddy comes apart pretty damned quick. He’s trying to look anrywhere but at his homemade porno, in which Cheryl’s busy demonstrating the advantages of virtual throat capacity. “I never did that! That wasn’t me! It’s a frame up!” He’s shaking so much his fat is rippling.

“Sorry, Caddy!” Cheryl lets him have her broadest smile. “Your single handed handy work’s been analysed frame by frame. Hey, you even signed it!”

Caddy is on his feet. It’s something he’s not altogether used to, but being fired makes it a special occasion. “You fuckin’ bitch! You can’t fire me! I created you!”

“You’re right, Caddy. I can’t fire you.” She makes a show of pausing thoughtfully. “But the Company can! And they already have! I just got to tell you the news!”

* * *

“Here she is again.” It’s Fasbuck’s voice. I don’t want to open my eyes. The light’s too bright. “Can you hear me, Billy? Hello?”

I make a face and turn my head away.

“Too bright for you?” The light dims down. “There you go.”

I open my eyes and see Fasbuck’s face, an inch from mine.

“Yep. She’s back again.”

“Where’s Ray?”

“Right here, sweetness.” Ray’s voice is clear and strong, somewhere over to the side. I try to turn my head but I’m too sore.

“Steady now.” Fasbuck places his hand on my shoulder. “Take it easy, okay? I’ll tell you when you can move, mistress. Ha ha! You get it?” His breath stinks of tobacco.

His hand moves to my head and pats me like a dog. “You just sit tight.” He says. And then I can’t see him again.

I can still hear them, though. Their voices come into my head like a bad radio play. In my mind’s eye they’ve become sitcom stars, and I listen to the script as if it doesn’t really matter.

Ray Fey: “Why the hell did she do that? Why?”

Fasbuck: “It just came out of the blue? No warning?”

Ray Fey: “Fast as flicking a switch. The club cleared like someone had gunned them down. They were running out into the streets screaming. Fucking screaming!”

Fasbuck: “So what did you do?”

Ray Fey: “What do you think? Only a matter of minutes before the cops came to take a look - and what would I have been able to tell them? At the very least they’d have asked for a licence. Level with me: What are her chances?”

There’s a quiet moment, and in that silence I remember that it hurts. I want them to start talking again. It doesn’t hurt so much when they talk.

Fasbuck: “I really don’t know. She’s going to be conscious in a couple of minutes, but I don’t know if we can get her back as she was before. I think she’s just too fucked up. I can fix the physical damage, but it’s her head that’s the problem. She did this for a reason and you can’t repair her mind with bandages. It’s a classic case of script rejection.”

Ray Fey: “Like someone would reject a new heart?”

Fasbuck: “That’s exactly it. The script’s gone foo-bar and it’s frying her head.”

I kind of wonder who these sitcom actors are talking about. Isn’t there supposed to be a laughter track? It doesn’t seem right.

Ray Fey: “How the hell could this have happened? I hope you can remember how much she cost.”

Fasbuck: “Hey, I’m just the messenger! I told you from the start; no guarantees. This is the human mind we’re screwing with, and no amount of money can insure against a fucked up brain.”

Then it’s quiet again. I want to tell them to keep talking. If I can just open my eyes and let them know I’m here, they’ll keep talking.

“Looks like she’s waking up.” Fasbuck says. He peers into my right eye, forcing it open with his thumb.

“Here she is again.” Fasbuck says, grinning a little.. “Can you hear me, Billy? Hello?”

His face is too close and his breath stinks. It’s too much so I turn my head away. I want Ray!

“Too bright for you?” The light dims down. “There you go.”

I take a look around and blink a few times. This room is such a mess. Old fashioned monitors all over the place. Fractal keys dangling from wires, molecular connectors lying dirty and uncovered.

“Yep. She’s back again.”

“Where’s Ray?”

“Right here, sweetness.” He says.

“Steady now.” Fasbuck pushes against me with his hand. “Take it easy, okay? I’ll tell you when you can move, mistress. Ha ha! You get it?”

Hasn’t he made that joke before? I’m drifting off again. I’m sinking down into nothingness with that disgusting creep’s hand on my breast.

* * *

Three kids sit at the back of the classroom, crowded around a MiniTab that’s been held out of sight under a desk. Their faces are alive with predatory glee. They’re flushed with excitement, trying hard not to laugh, but the cartoon is getting funnier each time they run it and now their eyes are watering.

Class Pimp’s latest adventure has him throwing pre-teen girls into a gorilla cage and the big ape’s reactions are getting more and more hilarious with each member of the cartoon class that they choose.

It’s the turn of the boy on the right. He takes his pen and makes a choice from the on-screen selection of kiddie cuties. To the delight of his co-conspirators, his victim is an angelic blonde in a little pink dress. The mad primate grabs her by the hair and pulls her into his cage. Moments later as they watch, wide eyed, the big gorilla has used her silly dress as a slingshot to catapult her out through the bars so that she is shredded in mid air, landing some distance away as a pile of French fries.

The boys do their best to hold their giggles in as they crowd around the little silver pad, and pick the girl with the gym shorts.

Class Pimp can be downloaded for the price of a packet of gum, and since it’s based in China it escapes the censorship rules of western governments. It features graphically comical depictions of rape, murder and classroom executions, each more grizzly than the last.

Class Pimp doesn’t advertise. Or so you’d think. It’s the epitome of rebellious class with universal and instant appeal. Every would-be delinquent buys into its anarchic subversion simply because they know how hard the ‘authorities’ are trying to ban it, and anything that the grown up stiffs can’t hack is sure to be a winner with these boys.

Band three and four demographic males consist of many different types, but a large percentage of them would like to think of themselves as rebels Most of these kids have an awful lot of free credit, and relieving them of it is a full time occupation for an awful lot of those grown up stiffs.

Official Class Pimp merchandise is on sale in most music and game stores. There are several official Class Pimp games on the market which sell for about a month’s pocket money. The best selling Class Pimp T-Shirt, ‘Fuck Math - Let’s Fuck.’ sold twelve thousand units in its first day of sale. This underground, insubordinate cult went through an awful lot of market research before its launch.

For a start, the fact that the cartoons are released onto a non listed super-server makes them difficult to find. It adds to the feeling of credibility if you have to go through some sort of back door to find them. These secret access codes have been posted on more public billboard sites than you could count. It is the responsibility of sixteen employees to make sure that the secret address to each cartoon is sufficiently publicised before its launch.

Drumming up good publicity is easy. Every new cartoon is aired before a select collection of religious groups, as well as school governors and right wing politicians. The company also make a point of showing the cartoon to a few families who might have suffered some sort of violent tragedy as well. If they are really lucky, they might get top billing on the national news shows.

So, the hordes of banner wavers come out to march, and demand, while the politicians wring their hands in despair, reluctantly confessing that there’s not much they can do to get Freeze Peach (the company behind the Class Pimp franchise) to behave. That’s the trouble with a global market, you see? You can’t tell anybody what to do.

Meanwhile, the market value of Freeze Peach continues to appreciate, as the grown up stiffs buy up their stocks and shares like fresh noodles. The dissenting kids put another dollar in, and their parents grow a little richer. Next year will see the launch of the official Class Pimp movie, and already its publicists are organizing the demonstrations.

The big gorilla has wrapped the defenceless girl’s shorts around his finger, and he’s using her as a yoyo, bouncing her up and down on the elastic until she pukes her insides out all over the floor of his cage.

It’s no use. All three of the kids let out a laugh that’s been held back for so long it erupts across the classroom, making the teacher jump. They’ll be in trouble now. As usual.

Class!

* * *

“So what would you like me to do for you?” Clara Jane looks up at the giant screen. “I’m afraid I’ve not got much technical experience when it comes to computers and stuff. I just- you know - kind of muddle through.”

Cheryl grins and a little sparkle of light twinkles on her snow white teeth. “That’s okay. I am a computer and they freak me out, too!”

“Oh, I’m sorry!” Clara Jane looks mortified.

“It’s okay, honey!” Cheryl smiles down like the goddess of fluffy kittens. “Rule one, okay? I’m not disabled; I’m a computer program. I’m intelligent, I think, I’m self aware, but I don’t have feelings that can be hurt. At least none that we’ve found so far. You don’t need to treat me like I don’t know. I’m not Pinocchio.”

“Who?”

“No matter. Just as long as you’re not afraid to use the C- word around here. I’m a Construct and I’m proud of it. Got that?”

Clara Jane takes a breath and forces a smile. “Okay, I guess.” She’s thinking of Caddy, getting his things together in the next room. She can hear him ranting through the plaster walls and she doesn’t feel very comfortable about it.

“Don’t worry about him.” Cheryl tells her. “He’ll have no trouble finding work outside the Pop Sickle. They’ll even make sure he gets a great reference and all that. He’s just been on his own too long, you know? He needs to get out more. But anyway, I didn’t answer your question, did I?”

Clara Jane looks like a rabbit caught in headlights. She can’t remember what the question was.

“I don’t need you to do anything much for now apart from be here.” Cheryl says. “Just enjoy yourself. We’ll have some cleaners round in a while, so I guess you might like to choose some new stuff for the office.”

“Choose stuff?”

“You know, furniture, sofas, desks, that sort of thing. What ever it is you feel most comfortable with.”

“Great.” Clara Jane hesitates. There’s a big question on her lips but she isn’t sure she should let it out. But it’s too much to hold in, and she gives up the struggle with a sigh. “But, Why me?”

“Good Question.” Cheryl laughs. “We picked you because of your medical history. I bet that’s not the answer you were expecting, was it?”

* * *

I’m looking down on this girl. She’s young and she’s pretty. She’s lying on the ground below me and she’s naked. It’s the first thing I notice. Her breasts are covered with dried blood, but so is most of her body. For now I have no idea why I’m floating above her like this, but when I look into her eyes I realise that she can see me.

I see her flinch at the sight of me, I see her trying to speak. She’s scared, her senses working extra time to take it all in, eyes wide. I try to tell her to chill. Let her know it’s all good. But I can’t make my mouth work. Easier to just look away. Pretend it’s not happening. My eyes fall on the line across her chest and down her stomach. It’s a mess of brown blood and some sort of parcel tape. Like somebody had a great idea for a new road and used her as a contour map. Service station here, underpass here, the undulating ribbon following some unexplored terrain past nipple pointed twin towns.

God, she’s a mess. Somebody sliced her up pretty good. I float in space and feel sorry for her. Perhaps I’m an angel and she’s dying down there. Maybe I should be saying some sort of prayer. But what the hell am I supposed to say? It doesn’t make sense. But then, how must she feel about it? Some fucker gets happy with a craft knife and suddenly she’s a freak. Nice one, shit head. You’ve taken a pretty girl and turned her into a scale model of a freeway. Poor fucking bitch.

I watch her and I can almost feel her pain. I can imagine that burning, the fires of a billion severed nerve endings sparkling away with nothing to connect to. It’s rush hour in her spinal chord, where the panicked messengers of injury and mutilation fight for the right to be heard first. I look down on her, naked and sliced like bacon, and I’m just glad it’s not me.

And reality hits me. The world inverts fairground style and I’m suddenly lying on my back, looking up at a mirror on an operating slab. This is Fasbuck’s place.

I’m hurting!

I open my mouth to scream as the pain takes hold. I scream and I scream and then I scream some more.