Three Scoops is a Blast! Read online

  Thankfully, cloning experimentation, combined with stem cell research, first extended human life and then guaranteed it. Everyone had a back-up body that was kept in stasis until needed. Regenerated frames were “born” at the age of 20 and terminated at the age of 50. Downloading and uploading of personalities was a well-accepted practice. However, there was a consequence to this stage of human evolution. Retaining the male of the species was no longer essential.

  The authorities – all women – wanted to keep men around anyway. They were good for some things, mainly having to do with night-time entertainment. They weren’t needed for manual labor or manufacturing jobs. Everything had become automated. As part of the process, a watchful eye was kept on robots to ensure they didn’t become too clever. The dangers of that scenario were well recognized based on the books and movie scripts of science fiction visionaries from the past.

  It was first decided the number of models of men allowed would be 57. This was an arbitrary figure, derived from an old advertising slogan. It had originally applied to the number of different product varieties offered by the giant food conglomerate, Heinz. Later, it came into common parlance in reference to mongrel dogs.

  When it was pointed out to those in charge this could be interpreted as somewhat insulting to men, it elicited mainly shrugs. Eventually, however, the number of male models was modified down to 20, the famous biblical “score”. The only true remaining vocational use of men was in some security assignments.

  A score of male models continued to provide variety. The ratio of women to men was also kept at an easy-to-remember 20 to one. The men knew they were on call to service the much larger population of women at the latter’s will. The system worked. The models of men chosen for preservation and cloning were mainly rootless types. With only a few exceptions, they were athletes and outdoorsmen, body builders and poker players who were able to occupy themselves when not on call. Nurturers were no longer worthy of preserving, since there were no children.

  There was a huge side benefit of this arrangement. Crime dropped dramatically. Since there were so few men, psychological profiling was much easier. There were only 20 male types to monitor. Whenever a crime was committed, it became simple to determine which of the 20 types would have been most likely to commit the deed. It narrowed the focus of criminal investigation, resulting in quick arrests.

  All of this explained why Pat and Chris, the police pair assigned to the case, were concerned when they heard about the vandalism at an art gallery owned by a well-known trendsetter in Green Earth City. Both the nature of the crime and the manner in which it had been carried out were not in keeping with what any of the remaining male models would have done. Flint-eyed Pat and burly Chris flew their Hyundai pod-mobile from Division One to the crime scene. After introductions were made with the sprightly but nervous gallery owner, the questioning started with Pat’s usual opening gambit, “Can you tell us what happened here, ma’am?”

  “I came in this morning at my usual time, 10:00 a.m. That’s after I bought a coffee and Danish from Starbursts. Right away, I noticed the damage. Somebody threw buckets of paint at the walls. This is a tragedy. These works are all in place for a lavish reception that’s scheduled for tonight. I’m trying to launch the career of my newest find, a genius. She’s about to cause a sensation in the art world.”

  “Who’s the new artist?” asked Chris, the tad more-refined member of the team.

  “She’s coming through the door right now. I voiced her after speaking with the police superintendent. Her name is Val and she’s a natural. Val, come and speak to the police, please. I’m too upset to say another thing. My reputation is on the line.”

  Val was taking in the damage. She looked incredulous. Blonde hair pulled back in a bun, above average in height and mid-way through her aging cycle, she was stand-out beautiful. Struggling with composure, she turned to hear the two cops.

  “So what’s your story? Are you famous or something? Is someone in the art world holding a grudge? By the way, in case you ladies haven’t noticed, there are no signs of forced entry. This was done by somebody who had access,” said Pat.

  Val exclaimed, “I’m just a manager for advertising on the web. But I’ve always had a secret passion. I love creating with oils and acrylics. I never thought it would lead anywhere. It was Jean who happened across my work at a local art show and insisted I put more effort into it. This has all come as a complete surprise to me, that I’m getting this kind of attention at a big-time gallery.”

  “Her work is amazing. Explosions of color. Wild expressionism. It’s not the kind of thing one sees anymore in our homogeneous society since FLYT,” said Jean.

  “Besides yourself, who has a key to the gallery?” asked Chris.

  “I always give one to my artist, in case there are some last-minute setup changes she wants to make. In a case like this, I’d look to Val’s family and closest friends for suspects. Someone near her may have stolen the key and come here at night.”

  It was Pat’s turn again. “That’s an interesting thought. What would be the motivation?”

  “I’ve seen it before. Val’s about to become a big star. This is going to take her out of her small world. Acquaintances we know are okay with something like that. But it threatens the status quo for those who are closest to us. In the old days, there used to be a phrase for it. Our nearest and dearest pigeon-hole us. They want us to stay comfortably the same. It’s hard work re-formulating a relationship.”

  “Hm. Well, let us get on with the forensics – see if there are fingerprints anywhere or DNA evidence. Also take some pictures. We’ll be out of your hair shortly.”

  Pat and Chris got to work. Jean cancelled the reception. Some members of the media came by for the story and Jean squeezed some publicity out of the disaster.

  Later in the day, Pat and Chris dropped in on Val at her home high in the sky in an 80-storey apartment building buried in a forest of others. The cops went there to interrogate Val’s long-time companion, Sandy. She was an obvious suspect.

  Sandy had hurried back from an out-of-town business trip to be at Val’s opening. Val filled her in on what had happened. Val’s clone model had been with Sandy’s for years. They had stuck together through their individual re-generations.

  As soon as Val opened the door, she knew what she had to do. This had gone too far. In tears, she blurted out. “I’m sorry. I confess. I damaged my own paintings.”

  Sandy was the first to react. “Why would you do that?”

  “Because Jean was right. I saw what my new career was doing to you and our friends. How much it was bothering everyone. It was taking up all my spare time. I’ve been completely pre-occupied for months. Plus I don’t really want the fame. What would that accomplish? It would take me away from you even more.”

  It was an emotional scene, Val crying and Sandy taking her in her arms to comfort her. Even the two experienced cops eventually felt moved by the sacrifice Val had made. In the end, all four women were reduced to tears and hugs.

  Ms. Phitts and Mr. Gatheral Spar Two Rounds

  January 29, 2010

  Hostess Betty Bernard didn’t know what she was letting herself in for when she invited the television producer Mark Gatheral and the newspaper critic Gracie Phitts to the same soirée. Mr. Gatheral was a corpulent, but still handsome, man of 45. Ms. Phitts was an attractive dynamic go-getter in her early 30s. They could both be charming, but they were also career obsessed.

  Betty was the socialite widow of an agri-business bio-engineering king. The bottom line, she was overburdened with money and loved inviting her friends and acquaintances to dinner parties. Her gatherings were a mix of people at the top of their professions. Unfortunately, she didn’t always do background checks or keep up with the latest gossip. While she didn’t have a mean bone in her body, it sometimes transpired that her guest list turned into a virtual setup.

  She held court on the 60th floor of a five-star hotel and condo complex just up
from the city’s waterfront. One particular evening in early March, 10 well-attired individuals perused, fondled and roamed among the mahogany, chintz, Wedgewood and Limoges of Betty’s home.

  The canapés and hors d’oeuvres were served and consumed in the living room as a prelude to the meal that was to come in the dining area. Mark and Gracie were able to keep their distance at first, by circling around opposite sides of the room. Once everyone was seated, however, and the two of them were facing each other across the table, the inevitable happened.

  The opening soup dish was a choice of hot turnip or cold potato. For those who picked the former, the atmosphere quickly turned nippy. For those partaking of the latter, gasps were soon heard from the gazpacho crowd. That was because Mark immediately had a go at Gracie.

  MARK: Somebody please take away Ms. Phitts’ knife. I was recently eviscerated in one of her columns and I don’t want it to happen again. This time, in person.

  GRACIE: That’s okay, as long as I’m left with a fork, so I can stick it into your pompous frame, Mr. Gatheral.

  MARK: Have I ever told you, Ms. Phitts, I consider you to be a B-list talent? Just a B-lister, my dear.

  GRACIE (taking a second to think about it): A B-list talent, you say. Okay, so maybe I am. I guess that means I should be kept away from the A talent. I need to be segregated. Don’t want to bother the quality people.

  Say, aren’t you the one who made a fortune on a reality TV show about teenagers riding around in the basket of a hot air balloon? They were flashing and mooning the deer and the antelope and people in shopping mall parking lots. Boogie Flights I believe it was called. A big hit.

  MARK: No thanks to you. I still remember the headline of your review. You must have been very proud of your creativity on that one.

  GRACIE: Yes, I liked it. “Bad Taste Pumped Up on Helium Turns to Tedium.” And now you’ve got a new show, “Snow Bored.” When you were younger, you were considered an auteur genius. What went wrong?

  MARK: What do you mean? I came up with the title Snow Bored myself. It’s a play on words with several obvious and provocative meanings. It helps to be an educated man.

  GRACIE: A bunch of randy college-age kids carrying on again. This time, they’re running around in the freezing cold wearing ridiculous hats and T-shirts. Or nothing at all. Every week someone gets voted off when they’re handed an empty beer can. It’s a glorification of stupidity.

  MARK: There’s a whole vibrant sub-culture out there that doesn’t get enough attention. That’s the crowd I appeal to. I’ve come to realize they’re my kind of people.

  GRACIE: Uh-huh. I know the intelligentsia likes to throw a bone to the hick fringe every once in a while. Saves them from getting beaten up. And making a fortune doesn’t hurt either.

  MARK: I must apologize, Betty. Clearly there is someone here tonight who is a less than gracious guest at such a fine social gathering as this.

  GRACIE: That’s true, Betty. And it really is nice of Mark to point this out so publicly. No doubt about it. This is the forum for us to air our differences.

  The hostess and the rest of the guests look increasingly appalled.

  MARK: You’re really bad at mixing in society, aren’t you? So you have a newspaper column and that’s where all your social faux pas get fixed. You have some scores to settle, I suppose.

  GRACIE: Are you telling me you really don’t know? The whole point of writing professionally is revenge.

  MARK: Didn’t you make an appearance at some recent awards show and throw up?

  GRACIE: That was because I have a chemical imbalance. My psychiatrist is always warning me about it. I take medication to control the problem.

  MARK: A chemical imbalance? Is that where flaky is added to crazy and the mix becomes unstable? By the way, why are you speaking with an upper-crust accent? My people tell me you’re from Toronto.

  GRACIE: I spent considerable time in London during my formative years. (hesitation) Year. (longer pause) Month.

  MARK: And when was that?

  GRACIE: While I was doing background research on a tip I received that David Bowie was having an affair with the Queen.

  MARK: Yes, I seem to remember the fiasco. It must have been embarrassing for you.

  GRACIE: Well it wasn’t my fault my informant got the wrong queen. Anyway, while I was in London, I absorbed the culture.

  MARK: You’re quite the sponge.

  GRACIE: Okay, speaking of flaws Clause, how about you? Look at the size of you. How did things work out at the food-and-drink addiction clinic you admitted yourself to? What’s that, your third glass of wine?

  MARK: I have a large body that needs fueling. I’m big-boned.

  GRACIE: And why did you miss our scheduled interview? I hear you’re always missing interviews.

  MARK: So what if I show up late once in a while? It doesn’t do anybody any harm.

  GRACIE: It’s stressful and it’s unprofessional. Reporters have deadlines, you know.

  MARK: Come on. I didn’t really upset you that much, did I?

  GRACIE: Yes you did and I happen to know you become stressed easily, too. My people tell me you keep checking yourself into the hospital to have your heart monitored. How hard do they have to search for it? Behind the big bones, I mean.

  MARK: I’ve never been talked to like this before. I know many important people in the entertainment business. I’m going to tell them to boycott you.

  GRACIE: You’re dreaming if you think you have that kind of power. Sure, some of them will agree at first. Then when I call them for an interview, they’ll get stars in their eyes. There’s few in your hoity-toity crowd can resist seeing their names in print.

  MARK: But, but…(turning to the hostess)…. Please accept my apologies, Betty. I feel I must leave. These insults are unacceptable.

  GRACIE: Likewise, Betty. I’m sorry about this extreme example of performance art. Good evening everyone.

  They took their exits before the entrée. On the way out, they both grabbed their coats.

  ~~

  A separate chamber gave access to the single elevator servicing the two top-floor penthouse units. As they waited in the harsh light, the combatants’ bubbling-over fevers cooled a degree or two. When the door to the lift finally opened, they boarded together and Mark ventured a comment.

  MARK: I missed our appointment because I was looking after my sick grandmother.

  GRACIE: Please. You’re lying.

  MARK: Was it obvious? You’re a tempestuous minx, aren’t you Ms. Phitts.

  GRACIE: Yes, I can be. But you really are annoying.

  MARK: I know. I must apologize. You’re not just a B talent.

  GRACIE: Oh? And what am I?

  MARK: B+.

  GRACIE: Gee. How nice of you.

  MARK: No, I’m having fun with you. You really do A-quality work. Most of the time.

  GRACIE: And how do you rate yourself, Mr. Gatheral?

  MARK: In these past few years, H for hack.

  GRACIE: That’s a little harsh. Try again.

  MARK: G for girth.

  GRACIE: I see you’re working your way back up the alphabet. Next, it’ll be F for fool.

  MARK: Please, Gracie. Can I call you Gracie? I thought we were starting to connect.