A remarkable tale of primitive justice.

So there we were, right at the forefront of it all. Standing there. Cold, industrious. Ready. So very ready. It would be impossible to find the words to describe how ready we were. Suffice it to say we were ready.

Once more we see another of their ilk. You know who I mean, the dried husk of an empty soul, dressed shabbily not by accident but of course on purpose. And there he goes, leading his thin, waifish girlbot through the mall. So slight is her form that should a wave break over the ever so low wall around the fountain she would not only be washed helplessly down the east wing of the mall and through the kiosks of doom, she would be snapped in two. Like a twig. Like the bent stem of a hopeless plant never meant to survive the elements of our most hostile world.

And this is where I take up the reins. I turn away from the pitiful sight of the dried husk dragging the shapeless waif and look towards the restaurant at the southern end of this particular wing of this particular mall. Earlier I saw something that struck me. Earlier I did not have the courage, but my disgust at seeing yet another of these doomed and purposeless couples for whom death would be too kind a fate has given me the strength I lacked before.

Her name is Rebecca. I have the keys to Rebecca.

I will order a drink. And I will wait.

She is getting drunk with her neglectful friends. They barely pay her any notice, looking over and away from her. It brings a tear to my eye. These days such tears are rare. Rare indeed.

She is wearing a short, denim skirt. So short is this skirt that I can sometimes catch a glimpse of her bare hips winking at me. Such delight cannot be found on the back of a package of frozen peas. I know because I have tried.

"That guy is watching you, Rebecca. He's kind of cute, don't you think?"

If only they knew I could read their thoughts, emanating out of their most base emotions. This is how I know her name. And now there is only the deliberations necessary to close the deal.

"I'm Bargon of the Wastelands."

She giggles. "Hello, Bargon. I am Rebecca."

And I am never wrong.

Eye contact is very important when establishing a personal relationship with another human being. In my teachings at the school of men I can never stress this enough. To fail at eye contact is to fail at all that comes afterwards. And I never fail.

"I will buy you three more rounds of drinks so that you will be inebriated enough to follow the instructions I will give you in the parking lot."

She hastily agrees.

"That sounds absolutely wonderful," she tells me through her smile. No words are necessary. She swallows the first drink that arrives in quite a hurry. It is clear she would rather not wait.

The second drink arrives. She sips at it until the glass is half full and then throws her head back, laughs the laugh of a mad nun, and then polishes off the drink and looks to the bartender for the third and final drink that will lead us outside and into bliss.

This time she teases me. She takes her time with the drink, at times returning to attempt conversation with those who have reluctantly agreed to be her friends. They have turned their attention elsewhere. Completely. She is now mine. There is no turning back.

"I want to hear you slap your thighs together," I tell her. She laughs and is about to begin. I cut her off by grabbing her hand gently and shaking my head.

"Not here. Not now."

She nods. She begins to understand.

It takes her the better part of an hour to finish that third and final drink I have purchased for her betterment. She has had others before. She is well prepared. And finally, the time of truth comes. The glass is empty and she turns to me, smiling and ready.

"Shall we step outside?"

"That is my wish."

"Your chivalry outpaces you, Bargon of the Wastelands."

We find a quiet area outside, around the corner of the building where there is enough light for me to watch the glorious spectacle that is about to unfold. I lean against the wall and watch as she gives herself enough space, and gives herself enough room to begin. At first her thighs gently rub against each other, creating the first slow strains of music that brings light into my darkening heart. And then she moves more quickly, a dance that gives itself music and relies on no other source. Thighs are slapping, quietly at first, and then the music builds towards a dramatic explosion of perfect sound. It is beautiful. Within minutes she falls to the pavement, lifts her legs over her head and begins to slap her thighs together with greater impunity.

Such beautiful music. Before long others have joined her and it is like a chorus. I smile. Once again the world is good and right. Darkness has no quarter here.

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