Teddy Bix had an epiphany at the Body Exchange Consortium in the High Ball district of “low” Los Angeles. His new, teenage body shuddered with one orgasm after another as Liz Hydrangea plugged his brain into multiple digital Osterizers. No need for chemistry any more. The new age was all digital, microwavable, and wireless. Phantasms shot across Teddy’s neurons causing euphoric seizures. No drugs, just electricity. Teddy Bix tingled. His last body was wasting away in a disposal bin at the Lux on Strathmore Street. The body was old and could no longer take the pressure of radical ecstasy. At thirty-four the body just burned down like a wick in a puddle of wax. Time for an upgrade. Teddy just barely managed to connect with compu-services at Body Replacement Corp before conking out completely. During the intermission Bix had a dream:
He was a gender-blender robot: male, female, and every shade in between. Moxie-Doxie was the robot’s name and Moxie was a sex slave, lover, and investment counselor. The robot made a fortune for Mr. Orlando Spliff, lord and master. Spliff was an extreme sports enthusiast. He broke all records in the Olympics’ Punitive Games Competition using Moxie-Doxie as his consensual partner in pain. Orlando loved how Moxie squealed when the whip was strategically applied to the backside. Spliff excelled in the verbal abuse category. Humiliation added excitement to the performance. Moxie was the perfect masochist, drenched in urine and barking like an obedient dog. The Global Network gasped with paroxysms of appreciation. Spliff and Moxie-Doxie were Olympic champions, the perfect pair. After all the excitement Orlando became fatuous — couldn’t help himself — he fell like a sack of barbells into the carbon-fiber arms of love. It felt like a blast from the pits of Hell. He wanted nothing more than to melt like plastic and become a vestige of Moxie-Doxie. The dream stopped suddenly when Moxie-Doxie timed-out due to built in obsolescence. Spliff was heart shattered. He began to age rapidly. His features wasted away like shredded lettuce. His Whippet-like body became puffy with cellulite. He felt like an entree: fat patty with flaccid jowls. His baby-smooth skin developed craters like the landscape of the moon. Orlando was facing his own time-stamp dilemma and he was just about to expire.
Teddy Bix was having a dream, an epiphany. Something was rotten. The digital interface sputtered like a faulty modem. The reality of the situation was stretched thin, sliced and diced like a broken screen-saver. Bix could feel the tension. Something was behind the screen, stalking like a genetically altered leopard: predator versus prey. Darkness closed in — slammed down like a cold fusion explosion. The dream was snuffed — Bix broken.
The age-old machine shifted gears and contemplated. The machine felt the need for something new, something entertaining… anything, to stop the ever encroaching boredom.