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Pomeroy

Remember you are light, and to light you shall return is a steel-framed plexiglass box containing seventy-three identical sexbots in five alternating rows. They are all masturbating. Pomeroy has offset their timings perfectly; every five minutes, when they orgasm, their heads thrash in a wave from left to right like wind on a field of grain.

“Your technique is beautiful,” says Gillian. “Why is the product so crass?”

Pomeroy smiles a little. “The definition of beauty lasts. That of crudity doesn’t. This will remain beautiful even after the batteries die.”

“You think a lot of your own work.”

“Yes. I do.”

Gillian

“I couldn’t help but notice,” Gillian says warmly as she moves in closer, “that you’re wearing a white shirt and white pants. Not to mention white shoes and white socks.”

“Yeah… and that’s my white bike helmet, actually, over there.” The man seems to enjoy the attention; he puffs up a bit. There’s sweat on the bridge of his nose. “Why do you ask, little lady?”

“Just making sure.” Gillian bats her eyelids, leans in, and shoots him four times in the chest.

The critics are largely appreciative, except that jerk Myers at the Post, who calls it “flagrantly Tarantinoid metasploitation.”

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