Home, home she rushes, her prize hot in her hands. The money; who cares about the money? What price divinity? She has wasted herself for lesser conquests than this, and would again. It’s a very good value for the price.
Home Salome goes, and sinks herself deep into the oxygenated gel of the chair’s cocoon. Lets her body shut down; lets her senses wink out. Weightless she floats, beyond sight, beyond sound, only a vague sense of proprioception and the delicate taste of herself to tell she is still embodied. A vacation from humanity, the manufacturer calls it, and undersells it at that.
Her dogsbody fags it for her. Like delicate mad fingers she feels it seize her brain in fire and whirl her away. She strides a world stage, and compasses the fate of empire. These early ones are so much more intense; the filters came later, the officially scrubbed and sanctioned versions of history. This one is raw, so much more raw. She growls with a stranger’s hunger, feels herself spark with a stranger’s desire. More than anything the pride, the mountainous self-regard that underlies all such recordings: look on my works, ye mighty, and tremble.
The taste of blood is in her mouth, copper pennies to pay her fare back across this unconscious river. The shade of greatness bends down for one red-stained kiss before she dwindles back into anonymity.