"Thomas Marcinko - The Nixon Wrangler's Tale" - читать интересную книгу автора (Marcinko Thomas)

obedience. My street dealer was a liar. The brass really knew how to push
your buttons, but then they really knew how to sew in those buttons, too.
I kept trying anyway. "Work. Lone." My heart wasn't in it. "Good cop.
Work. Own. Rules."
The Chief yawned. "As of now you are suspended. Give me your badge and
your gun."
"All right! All right, you win. Show him in. Her. Whatever."


Her name was Marjorie Gatling: twenty-five, coltish, with wide blue eyes
and a poodle's tangle of light brown hair. She had a firm and certain
chin, and lips like bloody rose petals from the most expensive Designer's
Guild-licensed florist. She had an impeachment record I envied.
We kept busy. The Chief's worries were justified. Somebody was flooding
the market with cheap illegal milhouses: The only type of fleshkon who
fought back, who lied and cheated and fought, anything to stay alive.
We brought down a fabrication of nixons that escaped from Bolshevik Park.
The mediaglomerate needed a predator to cull the stalin and brezhnev
population, but they cut corners and ordered a bunch of cheap knockoffs
with a lousy sense of territory and direction. They tried to debate us
about which superpower made better color TVs. Marjorie's rebuttals reduced
them to tears before we hit them with the tasers.
Our last night together was great. Our sexual liaison wasn't supposed to
be permanent; just erotic distraction buttoned into us, along with its
convenient release, programmed to end before it got too serious. It kept
us calm and predictable.
Average duration of coitus: Eighteen and a half minutes. Her limbs, strong
branches, entwined me. Her skin was smooth as paper, sweet as lavender. I
was happy, till afterwards, when she wanted to confide.
"Sometimes . . . I think it's terrible, the way we treat them." She looked
at me with a shade of longing. "Don't you?"
"No. Certainly not. No."
"Don't you think they suffer?"
"Who cares?"
Later that night I watched her suck off another man. I looked closer and
saw that in fact it was a milhous she was fellating. And it was not his
penis that filled her mouth but his nose, that long bulbous ski-slope of a
horrible nose. In the dream I became that fleshkon, its nose my nose. . .
.
The mattress rustled as I jumped awake. Under it I'd hidden several months
of Guild-only gardening magazines I wasn't supposed to have.
I would not tell Marjorie the nightmare.
"You always want to be a Wrangler?" she asked, her cigarette (smoking
habit . . . button . . . probably sewn in circa the 2017 Reforms to keep
down pension costs) a bright orange dot in the gloom of my bachelor
boudoir.
"I'd rather not talk about it."
She blinked blue innocence at me. "Your father," Marjorie stated clearly,
"paid his debt to society."
I jumped out of bed and gathered up my uniform, making as much noise and