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CYBABE by Jeremy Huppatz
The 'borged-up blonde over at the bar looked bored. If I were less suicidal and a whole lot smarter this would have been a problem for me. The only thing more dangerous than a homicidal cyber-psycho is a borg-chick with a whole load of adrenaline boost running around her system looking for an outlet. She had a cute face high cheekbones highlighting the cross-hairs etched onto her eye-balls, the chainmail dress matching her titanium alloy fore-arms to a tee. The dress was slung over a very tight and very black cat-suit which wrote “WARNING” all over her like bright neon lights in a dark alley. The chain links rippled every time she changed position and tinkled
musically well… as musically as the industrial grunge music popular
today manages to achieve possibly even more so. Her rippers
worried me slightly - she kept popping the 8 inch blades in and out of
her metal arms, and the rhythmic “snick snick” as they did so provided
a backbeat to the
Still - beggards can't be choosards and she was the only woman in the bar. I pulled a B&H spliff out of the packet in my overcoat's left pocket and sauntered over to gaze up at her face, which the amazon's heels raised several inches above my own. "Hi there. Have you got a light?" I asked, following a tried-and-true formula approach. "Sure." she mono-syllabised. She pushed her fist out towards me slowly and flicked the tip off her metallic thumb. A butane flame spewed out of the gap between her thumb and the razorblade claw and I lit up, trying hard not to singe my forehead more than necessary. "Want one?" I offered. "No thanks - I smoke these," she said, pulling out a packet of contraband tobacco cigarettes. I raised what was left of my eyebrows - impressive! This babe has contacts! "No probs," I stalled. "What's your name?" I asked her, drawing from the old testament of pickup lines. "Err..." she blushed. That's something you don't see very often from a chick with 8-inch blades embedded in her arms. "Hmm?" I grunted. "Well.. most of my friends call me Dice." Her rippers stopped their clicking. I could feel the tension radiating from her like a snake poised to strike but plowed on regardless as the smoke started to take effect. "Why's that?" "Umm... people have a tendency to laugh when I tell them my real name". I froze for a second, my instincts for danger finally kicking in. I started to back away nodding and smiling trying to put distance between myself and 80 kilos of amazonian cyber-spunk. "Yeah - my real name, it's Candice," she said, flexing her rippers experimentally. "Oh.... " a guffaw escaped my lips and I started to sweat with the effort of not using the obvious follow-up to an opportunity like that. I made it another 3 paces before I couldn't stand it anymore - my instincts for a good gag overriding my instincts for self-preservation in my dope-hazed state. "You mean..." (chuckle) "...like as in..." (guffaw) "...Candice Borgen?" Waking up in the hospital I remembered that she didn't get the joke.
She
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