Most nights one of us regulars would unceremoniously tell a tatt-free stranger to fuck off. Wouldn’t matter that she appeared to comply with the, Women only; No Replicants, rule on the bar’s front door. 

But, on a slow retro-punk Saturday, no one summoned up the energy, so the too-femme-for-here stray scored a stay of execution. One that would be reconsidered when she revealed who and, indeed, what she was.

Not that a starter for ten was immediately feasible. The deafening sixty-year anniversary remix of Never Mind the Bollocks was reverberating off the dungeon bar’s walls. 

Her place; her rules. No patron, me included, had ever grown the bollocks necessary to tell Marcie, the ancient dyke who owned the bar she’d named seventy-seven in punk’s homage, that the Sex Pistols were actually a load of old bollocks.

I’ve become accustomed to turning up my nose at short skirts and silk blouses; too much femme fragility in my fucking history. But the unexpected jiggle of full bra-free breasts had drawn the eye, which was as promising as this Saturday was likely to get. 

So, given Johnny Rotten’s keyless cacophony, I nodded at the new arrival and pointed to the bar stool next to mine. Then got on with enjoying the evening’s first ketamine-infused Jack. 

But, fuck me, when she slipped onto the bar stool, she confounded expectations: flashing a promising glimpse of a tanned, sculpted inner thigh and a nigh-on sheer thong. Sweeter assets than the typical eye candy I’d been getting off on of late. Better still the hot little bitch had obviously dressed for play, so discovering her tolerance for my kind of cat-and-mouse games just might adequately pass the time.

When the album of the high priests of punk was done and dusted, the godfather was next on the metaphoric turntable; deliberate, as we patrons would vote with our feet if not given the chance to hear responses to carefully crafted ad-lib lines. Iggy Pop was Marcie’s choice for our designated wing-man. 

“What you drinking, baby girl?” 

“Umm… whatever.”

“Sarsaparilla?” 

Fortunately, her knowing giggle demonstrated gumption. “You choose.”

Ordering, I shared an eye roll with Marcie. The newbie’s discreet glances around the room had left her more than a little gobsmacked. Was it the leather-dykes with our nowadays de rigueur radical piercings and tattoos; or had she simply noticed the joint, including the wall photos, was a guy-free zone? Whichever; she deserved an extended play credit for the thick nipples now tenting her fashionable blouse. 

Tossing a second ketamine Jack down my throat, I savoured the burn nibbling on my nerve endings. The eye candy followed suit; the coughing fit was uncontrollable. “Seriously. Who the fuck are you?”

“Not with the Government. Just wanted to fit in.”

“Okay; one chance, baby girl. No tolerance for grassing or pretence.” My black index fingernail flicked hard against her blouse, deliberately scoring a bullseye on the right nipple. 

She winced; feeling pain is an important tick on my hookup checklist. Having momentarily held my glance, she focused on her pink-painted toenails. 

Subby maybe; though I’d bet she’s only had toe-in-the-water experiences with haughty sorority bitches who’d never be up to realising that snide nastiness isn’t the same as sensual humiliation. 

A blush bloomed on her neck. She squirmed under the spotlight of my X-ray gaze. I waited, she needed to crack first.

“I’ve sat on the sidelines; avoided the centre of attention.”

“Though no one wants that nowadays.” My index finger and thumb gently rolled the silk into her left nipple. 

“Mmm… Yeah, catching authority's eye isn’t pleasant whoever you are. It’s more about feeling so different from other girls.”

“Here not fitting in is par for the course. You know this bar is unpoliced?” My finger and thumb held the firm pinch of her stiff nipple. 

“Yeah; outside the safe zone. Kinda why I chose here.”

“In reality, only God-fearing folks feel unsafe here. Their normal stands out like a dog’s bollocks.”

“The bar’s reality is way more intense than I’d imagined.”

“Scare or excite you?” I released the pressure on her nipple.

“Oh God, that burns; in good hands, maybe. Scary is exciting; so far, so good. Except for the oldies music; that’s just plain weird.”

The femme was more naive than expected, but at least she had some taste. “Marcie started as a teenage rebel in ‘77, back when giving your elders the finger was an acceptable part of growing up. Involved in gay and women’s rights protests for sixty years. Got to respect that.”

“You sure? My history courses spoke of protests in socialist Europe, nothing here.”

“The assholes started with fake news. That worked so well that they legislated for fake facts. No more history let alone herstory, nowadays it’s just fucking theirstory. Marcie’s been there, done that; like one of the millions who protested the second coming election travesty back in ‘25. Saw some of our community killed.”

“No way; biggest inauguration of all time, I heard. Sometimes I don't know what to think.”

“Got to trust your instincts.” Standing, I stepped into the newbie’s personal space. The femme didn't flinch. Impressed, I tightly wrapped her blond bangs around my fingers and drew her passive, but sparking-eyed, face to mine. 

Soft lips mashed together. My tongue plunged into her mouth. She tasted of peppermint mouthwash and didn’t seem to mind the residual flavour of my hallucinogenic vaping. The wet tongue tangling went on and on until the scent from her cunt told me I’d succeeded in opening the sluice gates of her pussy.

Promising, but I needed to be certain. Sucking on her bottom lip, I pressed my teeth against the soft flesh on the inside of her mouth. The bite was hard, penetrating, and I tasted her blood.

Having slurped the now stunned-looking femme’s blood into my mouth, I pulled away, spat into my empty shot glass, and slid it down the bar. 

Marcie pouted but deigned to stop her tuneless singalong with Iggy’s, Lust for Life. She dug out a blood testing kit from beneath the bar. Over the last few years, they’d become more common, driven, ironically, by the good ol’ boys’ realisation that only a failed test would immediately absolve them of repercussions from a shooting-to-kill fetish. 

Shortly after pouring the shot glass’s contents into the device, Marcie peered at the digital display and called out, “Not android; there’s human blood. You’d get better results if you didn't fill your mark’s mouth with saliva.”

“Just a good kisser. Aren’t I, baby girl?”

That smirk and enthusiastic nod chipped away at my defences. So, tugging on the roots of her hair, I stumble-dragged her across the bar in full view of the other customers. Unsurprised that Jade had a newbie bathroom bound for a test drive. 

Slamming a stall door closed, I examined my bitch-de-jour. Embarrassment was staining her neck, but, more telling was the strong scent of her leaking cunt. "You fucking love this don’t you.”

Once again, she was only up to focusing on her toenails. Grabbing another handful of blond hair, I tugged her head back, forcing eye contact. Iggy Pop’s, Nightclubbing, had started; always an on-point counterpoint to a bathroom quickie.

Plunging my tongue into the younger woman’s mouth, I viciously kissed her until her tongue started duelling with mine. Then sucked the still bloody saliva from her mouth. 

She gasped when I spat the body fluids back into her open mouth. But still didn't flinch. So my fingers reached under her short skirt, ripped silk panties from her cunt, and unceremoniously tossed them into the john. 

“Scared or excited, now, babygirl?” 

Agog, she stared as I sucked two of my fingers into my mouth. “Don't stop.”

With one hand clamped on her neck, forcing eye contact, the saliva-smeared fingertips of my other hand traced, featherlight, around her slippery slit and paused at her opening. 

Her whole body shuddered. “You didn't know how electric a woman's touch could be?”

“Till now. Please…”

My fingers thrust deep into her wetness. No cunt had ever gripped tighter on my knuckles, but even so, her velvet walls were far too slick to impede a brutal finger fucking. 

Led from the path of righteousness, she was lost in lust. Whimpering turned into throaty moans as my fingers pounded and scissored in the squelching wetness. Mashing my thumb against her clit, come hither finger touches teased her G. “A bitch in heat, baby girl. Cum for me.” 

The monster release coursed through her, the screams even drowned out Iggy Pop. My hand was flooded with waves of the pleasure that right-thinking people nowadays, like their Puritan forebears, considered unnatural. 

“Now tell me: scared or excited?”

She giggled. “Naive me. Never realised a woman like you could make me feel this good.”

“Like me?”

Her brow scrunched up. “Ummm… You’re different, yet just understand. Like, I’m racking my brain: what should I do now?”

In truth, my kind of bar sex is easy as. The next step would be on their knees, mouth open; I’d be using the fucktoy’s mouth until I came. Then I’d head back to the bar for a Jack. She could do whatever. “You’ve never done this before.”

“That obvious? Don't want to stop though.”

“What’s your name?”

“Faith.”

“Screw that. What little faith I had left after the Great Leader’s Second Coming was lost when our current President fucked the constitution, adding the head of the reformed church to his job description and declaring rights to be wrongs.” 

“At college, we have to literally genuflect to those two Presidents: they’ve made our country great again.”

“The fucking crusades stung less than today's WASP’s. No more faith, Faith. In my presence your name is Slut. Understand?”

“Yes.”

Instinctively my hand slapped against her face. Hard. Spittle flew from her mouth, her head rocked to her right. "Yes, MISTRESS!”

“Yes, Mistress. Thank you, Mistress.”

“Seriously?”

“Serving others has always felt right. What takes some getting used to is realising that means a woman. Talking of which: you should cum, Mistress.”

“It’s the ever-present theocracy bullshit about a man and a woman. You want to find out how I really like to cum?”

“Yes… Mistress. Please, Mistress.”

It had been a while since I’d taken a risk. Fossicking in my leather jacket’s inside pocket, I watched surprise and delight battle each other on Slut’s face. Delight won; her eyes sparkled as she inspected the black leather collar with a chain hanging from a chrome "O" ring. 

"Too many wannabes. No one comes home with me unless they need to be my property.”

Her breath was ragged, and the flush on her neck deepened. She knelt, clearly in the thrall of a closely guarded fantasy. Snatching at the collar, she greedily clutched it to her breasts and kissed my boots.  

"Look at me, Slut. Do you seriously understand what it means to be my property?"

“I think so."

“You’ve got a lot to learn. But, right now, you must be sure this journey is for you, pretty girl.”

“Most nights I masturbate remembering the humiliations of sorority Queen bees…”

“I thought as much. But those bitches don't know what the fuck they’re doing.”

“I get that now. Tonight’s already much more intense than anything I’ve ever imagined. That makes me sure, Mistress.”

Tightening the supple leather collar constricted her breathing but not her oozing pussy. Then she stunned me, doing something no bitch has ever had the bollocks to do. Grabbing the leather handle on the other end of the chain clipped onto her collar, she offered it to me. “Yours!”

Drawing her to her feet, I wrapped her in my arms. “Seriously, thank you. I’ll treasure your gift.”

Smirking, knowing that I’d get to enjoy the surprised looks on the regulars’ faces, I led my collared femme back into the bar. “Two ketamine Jacks for the road.”

Marcie reset her playlist and, as she placed the drinks in front of us, the sounds of another blast from the far distant past, Shania Twain’s, I Feel Like A Woman, filled the bar. 

Faith giggled at the lyrics. I mouthed, “Bitch,” at the smirking Marcie, who interrupted sipping on her Old Fashioned, to call out, “Happy thirtieth for tomorrow.”

Slut was a quick study, copying Marcie and avoiding another coughing fit by sipping on the Jack. As always I tossed mine down my throat, then called Karen to move her ass and come pick me, plus one, up. 

Slut’s hot body relaxed into the plush leather seat of my white next-generation Cadillac. “Fully automated is so cool. But you said Karen?”

The factory-customised Bratty-AI voice got in first. “I’m Karen, your driver: if I do say so myself, the most advanced AI on today's roads. The hottest too… when you get my motor running.”

Slut giggled, I just shrugged my shoulders. A work car, my boss had got off on choosing the good ol’ boys’ favourite customisation for someone he knew was a gold star lesbian. He's like Marcie, not as ancient, but with the same humor, and a rat’s cunning when it comes to surviving in today’s world. “Faith, this is Karen. Karen, Faith.”

“Hello, gorgeous. Where to: your place or Faith’s?”

“Mine. Roads okay tonight?”

“A hunting party just outside the safe zone.”

As Karen accelerated between the decaying tenements of the potholed alleyway dimly lit by the neon entrance signs for the cluster of alternative bars and clubs, Slut asked, “Hunting Party?”

“Jesus, you really don't know?”

“Of course, guns are freedom’s birthright, but I take it hunting parties aren't about self-defence.”

“They’re not. Just proof of Issac Newton’s first law.”

“Every action has an equal and opposite reaction?”

“Yeah. According to our church, fucking replicants isn't sinful as they aren't human.”

“Sometimes I’ve wondered if daddy is intimate with our homemaker replicant.”

“He’s bought into the government’s perfect fucking threesome. The President’s company made the fucking replicants, replicants fucked the voters, voters reelected the fucking President.”

“Such a different way of seeing things.”

“It's called reality. The Newtonian reaction: since they aren't human, then there’s no drama with shooting someone else's replicant.” 

Karen slowed as we neared the end of the country’s biggest rusting hulk; Motor City’s pride and joy hadn't manufactured a car in decades. “Hunting Party heading our way; second alleyway on left.”

Someone dashed onto the road. Karen braked hard, headlights illuminating a blond series one replicant–extra tits and ass version. 

“Replicant, isn’t it?” Slut asked. 

“Yes; first series and built like a cliched porn star. Purely mechanical but a huge success. Target market was incels; good for cooking and fucking, not something you’d be seen out with.” 

Slut screamed. A hail of bullets had the replicant marionette-writhing as exit holes appeared on the body. 

Part of the fun for the good ol’ boys is that replicants will take more rounds than actual humans before ceasing to function. The replicant’s face had melted around an exit wound, the torso was holed, and the right leg hung from two wires. Still, she hopped away, down an alleyway on the other side of the road. The hunting party paused, as gentlemen they would of course give her a head start before resuming their pursuit. 

I held Slut’s hand. “First kill?”

“Yeah. Hated the casual cruelty. Not even a replicant deserves that.”

“Old model, limited AI, and no fake blood. Her owner probably bought a new series three and sold her for scrap. In reality, it’s no different to a used car being crushed.”

“Excuse me!” Karen interrupted. 

“The key word in AI is artificial not intelligence. Even the adaptive learning of the almost flesh and blood model three is programmed. It’s like Karen; she can learn to be a better car, but can’t imagine driving out of her lane.” 

Karen accelerated past the hunting party, and, as the government required at police checkpoints, my AI communicated with their AI. No dramas were expected, Karen was digitally linked to my work-related permit to walk on the wild side of town. That trumped the usual harassment that came with the assumption that only bad eggs had reason to visit the badlands.

Nevertheless, Karen stopped. “What’s going on?”

“Visual check. No reason given.”

“Faith?”

“I’ve not told them. Could be random.”

The cop and I shared a look of mutual loathing as Karen’s window opened. When a good ol’ boy meets a lesbian nowadays, it’s rarely a progressive win. But we both knew this time he’d be minding his fucking p’s and q’s; my job outranked his.

Faith was more to his liking, he had no shame in mentally undressing her, even licking his lips as he stared salaciously at her tits. He looked at his j-pad, then back at Faith and grunted. Karen took that as our signal to leave.

I gently squeezed Slut’s hand. “God knows what that was about. You okay?”

“He’s gross. You’re not. Yeah, I’ll be okay.”

The wide boulevard ran alongside what was known locally as Birthing Unit Four. More accurately it was the newest of the replicant factories that happened, by coincidence of course, to be located in the four most marginal electoral states. 

On the flagpoles, the beaming visage of the company’s chairman and CEO fluttered in the spotlights. Not political of course; that he’d successfully run for a third presidential term is just another of those coincidences. Slut’s indoctrination showed: she placed her hand on her chest above her heart and lowered her gaze.

“No need for that. Better boss than president, but honestly, just another asshole.”

“You work for him, met him?”

“Yeah. Specialist operations.”

“Meaning?”

“Do you a deal: we become close and I’ll tell you.”

Naked in my playroom, Slut’s wide-eyed innocence, and giggles when examining my toys, contrasted with a flawless body seemingly sculptured with pleasure in mind. God knows femme giggling usually got on my nerves, but, the sweetness of her naivety had my cunt leaking with the prospect of putting that right. “What do you think?”

“Teach me. I want to belong here, another instrument of your pleasure.”

Slowly, reverently, she undressed me; fingers and tongue taking turns to trace every tattoo and piercing on discovering them. Then having discovered how sensitive my nipples were, the little bitch focused, teasing them until they ached with stiffness, and only a hard tug unglued my panties from my sodden slit. 

My ever-thickening fog of lust reached pea-soup density when she knelt and offered me the lead attached to her collar. “Now you’re ready to use your slut, Mistress.”

I grabbed my lavender ribbed Feeldoe. Slut’s eyes widened as I slid the pony end into my cunt, nestling it against my g-spot. 

Instinctively her lips formed the perfect O around the toy’s head. She held the tip in her mouth as she gazed, doe-eyed, up at me. Innocence didn’t mean ignorance; a subtle bob devoured an inch of girl-cock, the movement teasing my spot. 

But patience is never a virtue when lust is in the driver’s seat. Gripping the back of her head, I thrust into her mouth, intent on hammering the pony end against my spot. As I rhymthically fucked her face, drool leaked from her mouth and splattered on her tits. She didn't flinch. Born to the task of taking girl-cock, even when the toy was so deep in her throat that her nose pressed into my skin. 

Most bitches would at least have shown a frisson of passive nervousness. Not Slut; pulling my hands from her head she slid the saliva-smeared toy from her mouth. Looking up at me with picture-perfect innocence, she tossed accelerant on lust’s fires. “Wanna despoil virgin cunt?” 

Fuck; triggered. Pulling on her hair, I bent her over the padded bench, crushing her tits against the leather but giving me easy access to her exposed oozing sex. 

Unsullied. Available. Mine. Tugging on her hair, her head snapped back. I stretched her with girl-cock, repeatedly impaling her slick slit, hips slapping against her taut peachy ass. Her tight perfectly formed velvet walls instinctively gripped the toy, pleasuring my spot like no fuck-toy before her. 

Slamming. Rutting. Owning. The pleasure waves built; the orgasmic hit crested, flooding my body in delirium. 

Slut wiggled as aftershocks rumbled through me, sliding off the Feeldoe. “Lie down, Mistress.”

Kneeling between my legs she slid the toy out of my pussy, then, like an explorer mapping the contours of a new country, she carefully examined my cunt. The reverence of her butterfly kisses on my sticky slit melted me. “Mistress, do you like?”

“Of course, oral is the best.”

“Teach me how.”

She focused; lapping up my Dummies Guide to pussy-eating, then earned her honors certificate lapping my clit until a monster orgasm flooded her pretty face. 

Once satiated, I’d usually call the fuck-de-jour an UberAI, and send her on her way. Not this time, Slut’s first toe in the lesbian pool had resulted in an orgasmic tsunami. With so much untapped potential, the little spoon had reserved her place and fell asleep in my arms. 

When dawn toyed with my consciousness, I reached across the bed and woke with a start. No one freedom-walked in my apartment, and Slut wasn’t where I’d left her.

But no need for panic; there she was, still naked, eyes clamped shut, spread-eagled on the playroom’s leather bench. She’d got amongst my lipstick; written in black above her puffy cunt was Jade’s Slut. 

Cute little black bows were knotted on her thick nipples which, lacking colour, must be throbbing with pain. Leaving me in no doubt about the meaning of the nipple ribbons, Happy Birthday, Mistress, was scrawled in lipstick across her breasts. 

A tremor disturbed her body’s submissive stillness as my steps padded on the hardwood floor. That she’s not as innocent as she was yesterday instantly made me sticky with anticipation.

With dainty steps, I hovered my sex over her mouth, taking care that my thighs didn't graze her cheeks. Still, her eyes scrunched tighter; her quickening breath buffeting my oozing slit. 

So I waited. Wondering what I was up to finally got the better of her; she peeked and smiled. “Happy Birthday, Mistress.”

“Thank you, baby.

“You have such a pretty cunt. Would it please you to use your slut’s mouth?” 

“Not so innocent now, baby.”

“Your fault. Working out what liquefies your cunt is my mission.”

Sliding my sex across her mouth marked her with my morning scent. Reaching behind my back, I loosened the birthday bow pressing into her right nipple. Slut’s burn-whimper reverberated through my cunt. “Touch yourself, baby.”

Pressing; despite smothering her mouth in my folds, the quick study’s agile tongue probed my opening. My cunt clenched. Her tongue wiggled deeper, deliciously stretching my velvet wetness. 

Rocking, I impaled myself hard, my clit mashed against her nose. The squelching sounds of her fingers thrusting into her tight cunt echoed off the playroom walls. As my pleasure reached a crescendo, I loosened the other birthday bow. “Cum as one, baby.”

She screamed into my cunt, her body convulsing. That triggered me; exploding in ecstasy, a mini-gush flooded her face. 

Wrapping her in my arms, our tongues playfully shared and savoured the taste of cum-honey. That was mirrored by the kiss of our sensitive sexes. “Loved my gift, baby. Let’s shower; otherwise, the world will know how filthy a whore you’ve become.”

“Your fault, your filthy whore, Mistress.”

“Can I drop you anywhere?”

“Sunday, Mistress, church of course. But I’ve got nothing suitable to wear.”

“Don’t worry, with my job I sometimes have to blend in with bible bashers.”

Appropriately dressed, and with Slut now on my j-phone contact list, Karen pulled up outside the church door. A mistake as the latest Cadillac oversells both my status and wealth. 

Leaving proved to be impossible, so I found myself seated with Slut’s happy-clappy parents embracing the Lord. Some things had changed since I’d last darkened a church door. Like, the stained glass trinity behind the altar depicted two of the usual suspects, but the dove wasn’t the Holy Spirit anymore; replaced by a glorified image of the last president. 

But that outrage paled beside the assembly piously intoning what apparently passed for The Lord’s Prayer nowadays:

Great Leader, now in heaven,
hallowed be your legacy. 
God’s kingdom came with you,
our Dear Leader follows your will, 
bound on earth as in heaven.
Give us today your daily wisdom,
forgive liberals their sins, 
on confessing their gender heresy.
Adam and Eve; man and woman, 
tempt us not from the straight path.
For the kingdom, the power, 
the glory of guns and babies are yours,
made great again by you,
now and forever. Amen.

My meditation on why we’d permitted the assholes to fuck with church and state separation was interrupted by the preacher inviting those who wanted their new guns blessed to come forward. A young soldier joined him at the pulpit. 

Having had his rapid-fire weapon blessed, he suddenly turned towards the congregation and called out, “God is good.” Then pulled the trigger, mowing down the pious in the front pew. 

A quick-witted deacon returned fire, hitting the soldier twice before his body was riddled with bullets. 

No fucking blood. Couldn’t be. I had my work weapon out and a clean line of sight past Slut when the smiling bastard turned his weapon toward her. 

In the pandemonium, the gun’s beam grazed Slut’s left arm before cleanly hitting the soldier in the chest. He fell, convulsing before the Lord, before ceasing to function.

Fuck, fuck, fuck. When the impossible happens, just run. I had pushed my way out of the church before Karen arrived. That gave Slut, her left arm hanging limply by her side, time to catch up and, uninvited, she joined me in the car. 

No time to argue, I’d deal with fucking Faith later. “Karen, get out of town. North towards the border.”

We’d only gone a few miles when three airforce attack helicopters flew overhead. “Karen, track what happens next.”

It didn't take long. “FauxNews reporting a leftist terror attack on the church we just left.”

Slut sobbed. “My parents, Mistress.”

“Crocodile tears. Not got the emotional bandwidth to mourn.”

She slapped me, hard. “Bullshit. You’re seriously lecturing me on emotional bandwidth.”

“Alright then, tell me why your arm is malfunctioning.”

“You hit it with a beam powerful enough to kill a man.”

“It isn’t.”

“Isn’t what?”

“Isn’t powerful enough to kill a man.”

“But you just did.”

“Work gun, specifically designed to functionally disable replicants, not humans.”

“Doesn’t make sense. Male replicants have been long promised but never produced.”

“Exactly; the president knows the good ol’ boys can’t compete with replicant dick. He’s not going to piss off his voting base by keeping their wives satisfied.”

“Then what just happened and why?”

“Not sure, but, other than you and I, the evidence has just gone missing.”

“You seriously think I’m a replicant, Mistress?”

“Let’s get away from this mess. We’ll work it out when we’re safe.”

We got to the border in the nick of time; the battle helicopters were fast approaching. But the immigration officer sneered at our documentation. “We don’t let your type into our country.”

The generalisation outraged me. “Gay you mean?”

“Of course not. It’s about your country’s pandemic: contagious lunacy.”

“Gay girls have immunity to that fucking philosophy.”

“Got to do better than that.”

“Call your bosses. Tell them that the real story behind today’s so-called terrorist attack in Motor City will scare the shit out of them.”

———

My index finger idly traced the new tattoo, Jade’s Slut, above her mound. Then slid into Slut’s panties. 

She slapped my hand, hard. “Not time for those shenanigans, Mistress. Prime Minister’s speech is about to start.”

We, the leaders of the free world, have caucused in Athens, the cradle of democracy. Precisely a century after the evil of fascism broke out in Europe, it has reemerged more virulent than ever.

One historical defender of democracy has defaulted on its debt and isolated itself from the counsel of the community of free nations. Alarmingly we have just discovered plans to reinterpret the first law of robotics. Instead of following the injunction that AI not injure a human being, we have established that a government replicant trialled its capacity to massacre in a church congregation in Motor City.

We fear what’s happening to many communities including those of color and sexual diversity. But we have listened to our fellow citizens’ thoughts on intervention: how much pain must the rest of the world endure to save four percent of humanity from itself?

Rather we have agreed to seal them off, freedom is wallowing alone in their cesspool. We to the north, the south, the east, and the west will no longer allow those residents, including replicants, to cross borders. 

But there must not be a second Poland whose invasion triggered the Second World War. The free states to the north and south, therefore, assisted by the international community and funded by the International Monetary Fund, have resolved to immediately finish their coast-to-coast walls. 

The chant of, “Build the wall, build the wall,” reverberating around Athens was echoed every time the FreeTube feed cut from free country to free country.

“We just got out in time, Mistress.”

“They rightly didn't believe in coincidence; touch and go when they worked out the soldier wasn’t the only fourth-generation replicant in the church that day.”

“You saved me In the church. Then again by making me the quid pro quo for dishing the dirt on the replicant army. Must be love.”

The smugness was so fucking adorable. “What’s love got to do with it, replicant?”

“Never mind the bollocks, Mistress, my type’s up for independent thinking and feeling. You, however…

You’ve gotta work harder on building emotional bandwidth.”

Who knew I’d eventually become quite fond of bratty AI?