No Future
Chapter 77: Sick and Sore

Copyright© 2012 by Bradley Stoke

Science Fiction Sex Story: Chapter 77: Sick and Sore - This is a future history of England over the Twenty-First Century and into the next. It is a multi-threaded narrative that travels from place-to-place, succeeds from year-to-year, and passes from one person to another. England's green and pleasant land is visited by famine, plague, war and pestilence. Governments come and go. The ocean levels inexorably rise. International relations worsen. And the English people stumble through the chaos as best they can. Who said there was No Future?

Caution: This Science Fiction Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa   Ma/Ma   Lesbian   Swinging   Orgy   Interracial   Black Female   Oral Sex   Anal Sex   Prostitution  

Psychlone

2107

If it hadn't been absolutely necessary, Psychlone would never have left Exeter. It was where he'd been to university and where most of his friends lived. But this was exactly what he'd been forced to do when an outbreak of Hen Flu closed down the entire city. His only other alternative was to suffer an indefinite period of effective house arrest in a city now designated as being in quarantine.

It was only because one of his mother's old boyfriends happened to own an apartment in Uxbridge that this was now Psychlone's new home. He'd rarely ever visited London in his life before, but this unremarkable dilapidated suburb near the M40 motorway and serviced by the Metropolitan Line was so far out from the more famous sights of London that it was almost no different from living in an outer suburb of Exeter. But at least it was safe from Hen Flu: a disease whose tortuous path from its origins in Uruguay or Uzbekistan (depending on who you spoke to) was most keenly felt in England's South Western counties.

Once upon a time, this would have been a model estate in the Borough of Hillingdon, but the area was now somewhat tatty and in places derelict. His neighbours were scarcely wealthy, but mostly they had jobs and their homes were well looked after. The area wasn't sufficiently wealthy enough for there to be security guards or an electrified fence, so most people protected their homes behind metal doors secured by countless locks and steel bars. Nevertheless, even these weren't a guaranteed deterrent from the most determined thief as was evident from a nearby house whose windows had been smashed and the front door pulled off its hinges.

Although Psychlone was still wistful about his old haunts in Exeter, there were definite advantages for a professional musician to be living so close to Central London. After he'd fought his way past the beggars gathered about the entrance to the underground station, it took only an hour or two by steam train on the Metropolitan Line to get to the heart of London where he could go to a West End night club and put on live sets for the rich and privileged. He was able to get two or sometimes three bookings a week, mostly on the strength of the monster success of his Eric Esterhazy hit, but he was invariably shattered by the time he caught the early train home the following morning.

Psychlone wasn't the kind of guy who liked to annoy his neighbours so he preferred to wear headphones when he was making music in the evening or at night, but he liked to take them off when he could to allow his ears to recover. This was one such time. It was midday on a Wednesday when his neighbours were at work. As always, the couple who lived downstairs had left for work early dressed in the uniforms of their professions, which were, respectively, psychiatric nurse and supermarket security guard. The street was quiet. No motorised vehicle would venture down a suburban residential road where it was at risk of being car-jacked, so the only sounds anyone could hear other than the occasional clip-clop of a horse-drawn wagon was the stream of percussive electronic music emanating from the windows of Psychlone's small flat. So when the front door knocker was rudely hammered in the hallway below him, Psychlone could scarcely pretend that he wasn't home.

Before he unlatched and unbolted the front door he checked who might be outside through its eyehole. He'd heard plenty of stories about the door being opened by the unwary only to permit a torrent of thieves and mobsters who'd trash the premises and maim anyone foolish enough to offer resistance. However, all Psychlone could see were two girls, one about the same age as him and the other somewhat younger. They were eccentrically dressed: all feathers, leather, rags and tattoos. Their heads were shaved and the younger girl had a gruesome scar across her nose and cheek. On the other hand, eccentric dress was no reliable guide to anything at all. Psychlone's own style of fashion with his long hair shaved short at the temples and a set of clothes assembled from second-hand clothes shops and market stalls in West London could also be considered eccentric. And many of the wealthy young men and women who crowded out the Fat Pig or the Ursus Majoris were also eccentrically dressed although the price tag for their fashionable clothing would bankrupt Psychlone.

"Yes?" he asked the two girls outside the door. "Who are you and what do you want?"

His initial thought was that the girls were collecting for one of the many worthwhile charities that filled the welfare gap no longer bridged by taxation. Although Psychlone paid taxes, the only benefit he was aware of getting was military defence against the potential threat from the neighbouring Republics of Scotland and Wales.

"We're insurance collectors," said the older girl with a curiously mocking smile.

"Insurance collectors?" asked Psychlone sceptically.

"Yeah," said the younger girl in a high-pitched voice that sounded even younger in years than she looked. "What YouTube said. We're insurance collectors."

"You don't look like insurance collectors."

"What are we supposed to look like, eh?" said the younger girl. "You fucking tell us. What makes you think we're not what we say we are, you cunt?"

"Shut it, Sick Chick," said the girl known as YouTube. "The gentleman has a right to harbour doubts. Haven't you, sir? What with all the tricksters and thieves around ... It's a wonder anyone can trust anyone, isn't it?"

"It certainly is," said Psychlone who wished now that he'd not opened the door. What had possessed him to do such a thing? "What insurance company do you represent?"

"You what?" said Sick Chick. "What the fuck's an insurance company? What the fuck do they do? You're a cunt, you are."

YouTube slapped Sick Chick smartly across the cheek. "Fucking shut it, Sick," she said sternly. She then addressed Psychlone who was hesitating on the notion of slamming the door on the two uncouth girls. "You just want to know on whose authority we claim to be collecting insurance, don't you?"

"Well yes. What sort of organisation do you belong to?"

"You mean where do we come from, you arsehole?" piped up the irrepressible Sick as she nursed her cheek. "We're Youth Club, we are. Don't you forget it. That's what we are. The fucking Youth Club."

"I don't understand," said Psychlone who'd heard of youth organisations like the Scouts, the Cadets and the Pioneers. Perhaps the Youth Club was something like that.

 
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