Inspired By PKD

By Raymond Towers

Philip K. Dick was one of the greatest and most influential science fiction writers of his time, of all time. Blade Runner, Total Recall, The Man In The High Castle, VALIS; all came from this man’s brilliant imagination. I have read PKD’s early novels. They have inspired me to write stories that are part PKD and part me. This is how I stand on the shoulders of giants. Rating: HIGH controversy.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Raymond Towers
• Release date: May 1, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463257548

Raymond Towers

Raymond Towers is an author of fantasy, horror and science fiction that strays away from the mainstream, plus a little in the way of true paranormal and other genres. He has written and independently published over forty titles, most of them full-length novels and collections, with several more on the way. The author has been a lifelong resident of warm and sunny southern California, a location that pops up frequently in his writing. At the moment, the author is looking for ways to reach new readers all over the world, in addition to pursuing his great love of writing and taking it to the next level.

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Inspired By PKD

Raymond Towers

Copyright 2019 Raymond Towers

Smashwords Edition, License Notes: This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Content Rating: All of the characters in this e-book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, whether living or dead, is purely coincidental. All characters depicted in sexual acts in this work of fiction are 18 years of age or older. This e-book contains a HIGH amount of controversial subject matter.

About the cover: The cover image is titled Nave Madre. It was produced by Eugenio Azzola and is being used under a Creative Commons BY - ND License.

About this title: Philip K. Dick was one of the greatest and most influential science fiction writers of his time, of all time. Blade Runner, Total Recall, The Man In The High Castle, VALIS; all came from this man’s brilliant imagination. I have read PKD’s early novels. They have inspired me to write stories that are part PKD and part me. This is how I stand on the shoulders of giants. Rating: HIGH controversy.

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Table Of Contents

Introduction

Dead Man’s Lottery

Lottery Chapter 1

Lottery Chapter 2

Lottery Chapter 3

Lottery Chapter 4

Lottery Chapter 5

Active Assimilation

Assimilation Chapter 1

Assimilation Chapter 2

Assimilation Chapter 3

There Are Worst Places

Worst Places Chapter 1

Worst Places Chapter 2

Worst Places Chapter 3

Worst Places Chapter 4

Worst Places Chapter 5

Swimming Into The Night

Swimming Chapter 1

Swimming Chapter 2

Swimming Chapter 3

Swimming Chapter 4

Becoming Aware

Aware Chapter 1

Aware Chapter 2

Aware Chapter 3

About The Author

Introduction

I will spare the reader a long introduction on how much I have enjoyed reading the work of Philip K. Dick. Suffice to say that this collection of novellas has come about as the result of reading some of PKD’s early work. In many ways, PKD was ahead of this time, in the mid 1950s imagining and writing about personal video phones that could record live events, armed spy drones and a government that is perennially spying on its citizens. I recommend reading PKD’s early novels for yourself.

Some parts of his novels will read a bit outdated when compared to contemporary fiction. I believe that PKD’s biggest criticism was how he would deliberately ignore the established science of his time, to give more fluency to his stories. For example, I found that space travel between planets was too easy, unbelievably easy, as in taking a few hours to reach other worlds, and a few more hours for the return trip. However, all in all, I feel there is a lot to be gained by reading and absorbing this man’s fantastic visions. Following are the titles of the novels I’ve read so far, preceded by the year in which they were published.

1955 - Solar Lottery

1956 - The Man Who Japed

1956 - The World Jones Made

1959 - Time Out Of Joint

1960 - Vulcan’s Hammer

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Dead Man’s Lottery

Lottery Chapter 1

‘When you were a boy, didn’t you dream of growing up to be a successful assassin?’ - Eleanor to Benteley, Solar Lottery, PKD, 1955

All Philip Decker wanted to do was score some weed. He’d been walking around the dead streets of downtown Los Angeles for about an hour by then, but since it was nearing nine o’clock that night, all he was coming to were closed dispensary shops. Thanks the bands of hoodlums that kept raiding those places once the sun came down, the normally busy venues were closing up early, instead of staying open until ten or eleven like they were supposed to.

Through their brightly lit storefronts, Phil saw secured shelves zealously guarding what he wanted, in small packs or pouches with a million zany names for the synthetic blends. Or more accurately said, Phil stared at what he could afford to buy with his meager twenty bucks. He sighed, rapping on the window lightly and uselessly as he stared past the black iron bars and thick pane of glass, hoping to be heard, before he moseyed on in search of another, hopefully open dispensary.

At twenty-five, Phil was a typical young man for that day and age. He’d done a couple of years of college before he’d dropped out due to the high tuition fees, missing in getting a good degree but succeeding in acquiring a huge amount of debt. The reason he’d left his pursuit of higher education was because, in the liberal state of California, white boys like him were restricted from getting technical degrees. Instead, the best jobs, or at least the jobs with the highest pay, were being awarded to the children of illegal migrants or to qualified young people from other countries, because, as the recent Cali slogan went, ‘We Are Committed To Ending White Privilege.’

The result was that Phil currently worked as a nighttime clerk at a mini-mart and gas station, in a bad part of town where Newly Entitled Asians, Hispanics and Negroes could freely, and legally, come in to poke fun at Phil for his ‘obvious’ connections to the hated ideas of White Supremacy and the Nazis of World War II. It didn’t matter that Phil had never sworn allegiance to any racist organization; the color of his skin was enough proof of guilt. Thanks to that, and to his Armenian storeowner and manager, Phil worked only three days per week and could barely afford to pay his rent. Never mind that Phil shared a two-bedroom apartment with four other white guys (and slept either in the living room or, if company came over, in the bathtub), and that his creditors kept siphoning the funds out of Phil’s bank account with zero remorse. All that pressure on his young mind was enough to give Phil the craving for weed, but alas, he didn’t have enough money for the natural version, only for the synthetic GMO shit, and even worse all the fucking shops were closed.

Phil meandered down the dark, dreary sidewalk in search of another dispensary. Because Los Angeles was a Sanctuary City, each and every street had a small community of illegal migrants living out of doors in tents or cardboard shelters, or sturdier structures if the squatters could afford them. Some of these makeshift domiciles had actual postal addresses on them now. It wasn’t as bad as San Francisco, which had become a real shit-hole thanks to the tens of thousands of squatters and homeless derelicts, where people were running around stabbing each other with infected needles that the local government was still handing out, but it was getting there. No, despite the strong stink of shit and urine in Phil’s immediate vicinity, it still wasn’t as bad as Frisco, not yet. Anaheim, for example, was getting pretty bad, as Phil had seen for himself recently when he’d visited his parents. Phil had a buddy in San Diego; maybe he could go there if he got kicked out of his place.

As Phil strode along, he kept a wary eye on the dozens of squatters, even as they kept an eye on him. Not that long ago, the Los Angeles City Council, made up of more illegals than legals, had decreed that minorities could not be at fault for attacking whites, even if the attacks were unprovoked. Apparently, the general idea was to turn Los Angeles into drug-infested and violent Colombia or racism-infested and violent South Africa. The city council’s harsh decree was still tied up in federal courts, so the likelihood of an assault on Phil’s person was about fifty-fifty, especially if he accidentally came upon any rabid gang members. These people around him, however, looked to be settling down for the night, drinking their cheap alcohol and stoking their little campfires, and not ready to jump on Phil’s back to start tearing his hair out.

Phil’s anxieties increased dramatically when he saw an ancient Cadillac cruising by in the far lane. It was a relic with a white top and, thanks to the low street lighting, either a root beer brown or dark orange body. The Cadillac slowed and made a broad turn at the intersection, creeping toward the sidewalk Phil walked on as if a drive-by shooting was about to happen. Phil glanced in all directions, knowing he’d gone far out of his usual haunts while in his desperate search for weed. He kept walking, more hurriedly than before, hoping the Cadillac and its menace were meant for someone else.

Hey, sugar, come talk to me. A sweet, thick voice crossed the divide between man and vehicle, from the front passenger’s side.

The sexy voice sounded human, and at the same time it didn’t. It sounded hollow, as if a person was speaking through a soda can. In TV shows and movies, Phil had heard how artificial people talked. That’s what it sounded like, like an artificial person was calling to him from the long, flashy car.

Don’t be scared of me. The voice purred, stretching a dark arm out, away from the car window. I promise, I won’t bite.

Back in the old days, didn’t mermaids and shit draw sailors toward sharp rocks, so their ships would crash into them? That’s what Phil imagined now; that the artificial woman, if it was a female since the robots were known to mimic a million voices, was a lure meant to send him to his doom. Phil didn’t have shit else going on in his life, and since he couldn’t outrun a Cadillac anyway, he gave in and approached the car.

After leaning in, he saw the artificial woman, a big, beautiful, curvy black chick, smiling back at him. The driver of the Cadillac was a white guy wearing sunglasses that surely had enhanced nighttime lenses on them, and a curious fluffy white boa around the neck. Phil’s first impression was that he was looking at a pimp and his sex bot prostitute.

Hi. The saucy sexpot cheerily greeted him. I’m Tammy. And you are?

Phil. My name’s Phil.

You’re a good looking man, Phil. The bot flirted.

I’m sorry. Phil frowned. I was just out taking a walk. He had to be careful here, regarding the local solicitation laws. You’re very attractive, but I’m afraid I don’t have any money for a date with a woman like you.

Tammy pouted at him, while the driver sidled up closer to her, to get a better look at Phil. Hey, man. You look like a guy who’s looking for a score. What’s your high, man?

They were probably cops, Phil assumed, trying to entrap him with prostitution or drugs. I was just looking for a liquor store.

No you weren’t. The driver shook his head. We’ve been tailing you for the last three blocks. If you were looking for booze, you already passed a street that had two liquor stores sitting kitty-corner from each other. What are you really looking for?

Why are you following me?

Answer the question, man.

Phil threw his hands up. All right! I wanted to score some weed! That’s all! Now what’s going on here?

The driver grinned. Tammy, you want to tell him?

The sex bot poked her pretty head out. I can’t say it out loud. If you come in closer, I’ll whisper into your ear.

No, thanks. I’m not interested. Phil said, ready to march.

Hold on, man! The driver called out. Back at my place, I’ve got Cloud Nine and Ripping Raspberry. How about that?

Those were synth blends, but they were expensive, high end shit that Phil couldn’t hope to afford. The bot was still smiling at him. I’m listening. What do I have to do?

See, you can be a good businessman. The driver kidded, while the bot waggled her finger to entice him closer.

I like threesomes. She whispered in her hollow voice. One guy on top and one guy on the bottom. I want you to be my second guy tonight.

Women, real or artificial ones, were hard to come by for young men like Phil. Real women would flock to the rich guys, even white guys and old guys, although the current social trend was for white chicks to hook up with minority guys. From the five white guys that lived in Phil’s apartment, including him, they could boast of exactly one real girlfriend, and that was only because her pussy-whipped boyfriend spent every last cent he had on her.

Artificial women were just as scarce in his income bracket. He could spend half his paycheck just to hump one of them, let alone dream about buying one. When Phil set his gaze on the black bot sitting in the passenger seat, what he saw was a delicious flavor of chocolate, with huge breasts and deep cleavage, under a flimsy wrap of glittery pink, purple and orange, and thick thighs covered in white pants. Tammy’s smile was focused on Phil, and that simple gesture did wonders for his lonely self. Besides, if the driver, whoever he was, could afford a bot, then certainly he could afford high end weed, on top of that maintained relic from the past he was driving. If I had a ‘puter, I’d ask for your name and make a search on it.

I’ll tell you what’s what. The driver said. If you jump into my back seat, I’ll uncode my ‘puter and let you run that search. I can’t just hand my ‘puter over, can I, if you might go running off with it. Then Tammy would have to jump out my car and chase you down, and trust me, she will catch your ass. What do you say, ace, you ready for an adventure with Tammy?

The bot started making popping sounds with her mouth. They shouldn’t have been sexy sounds, but for whatever reason they were. Maybe, Phil suspected, the bot was using subliminal sound frequencies to get him all stirred up.

All right. He decided. I’ll get in your car.

The Cadillac only had two doors, so he had to squeeze behind the front seat to get into the back. He did not expect Tammy to follow him back there, but she did. He did not expect her to start kissing the side of his neck, or to run her hand across Phil’s chest, or to open up his fly, but she did all of that, too.

When Phil opened his eyes the next morning, an unusual white ceiling was making circles over his head. The ceiling was unusual because it wasn’t the blue ceiling from the apartment he lived in. It wasn’t even the soft yellow tinge of the narrow ceiling from the bathroom he sometimes slept in. He remembered a wild night with a guy that had a lanky body like he did, and with a black sex bot that had curves for ages. The disconcerted young man remembered smoking a lot of high grade synth weed, and drinking a lot of expensive synth booze, too.

That was some fucking party. Phil croaked with his dry mouth, shutting his eyes and concentrating on preventing the room from spinning.

When he stabilized, Phil sat up and found himself in a huge bedroom, lying on a huge bed with soft and cool satin sheets. The wall paintings, the decorative vases and other knickknacks looked very...

Expensive. This whole place is fucking expensive.

Phil glanced over at a dark wood nightstand, counting several beer bottles and empty weed packets. He also noticed several opened condom pouches.

Because bots can get STDs. He remembered his host explaining to him the night before. I did not know that an artificial person could get sick like that. What was that guy’s name again?

Only a few seconds later, he heard a pounding at a door.

Manafort Gutierrez, open up! We are here on behalf of the California State Regulatory Commission. We told you we were coming!

Manafort? Wait, that was Manny from the night before, the guy who’d driven that archaic Cadillac. It sounded like a raid, and Phil didn’t want to have any part of that. His body felt extra sluggish as he left the bed. The windows were super thick and designed not to open. Phil could only stare out of them, discovering he was in a high rise of some sort. How had he ended up something like ten floors up without remembering it? The guys in the suits managed to overcome the electronic security lock by the time Phil reached the living room.

Have a seat right there. One man pointed, while several others shuffled around him to secure the rest of the apartment, or hotel room, or whatever Phil was in.

Somebody shouted ‘clear’ from the bedroom, and somebody else did the same from the kitchen nook, and lastly the bathroom.

We thought you were going to make a run for it. The suit hovering over Phil said. You said you wanted one last night on the town. I guess you weren’t lying. If you had gone on the run, you wouldn’t have been stupid enough to rent this room with your personal ID card.

Huh? Phil asked, his voice sounding garbled and a million miles away. It was the drugs he’d taken the night before. They were still affecting his brain. No, no, no. You’ve got the wrong guy. I’m not Manny.

I’ve never heard that one before. The suit chuckled, snapping his fingers for another suit to approach. That’s why we brought this guy. This will make it all official. Run a complete bio-scan, will you, Fred?

Affirmative. Fred said, in a hollow, robotic voice. Subject, stand and remove all of your clothing, please.

When Phil didn’t comply fast enough, two suits brought him to his feet and stripped him. The robot used several sensors, some obvious, some invisible, to detail the entirety of Phil’s body.

I’m not Manny. Phil persisted.

Right, right, you’re fucking Santa Claus. Do me a favor, will you? Keep talking. Tell us all about how you’re not Manny Gutierrez.

Whatever Phil had taken the night before, it was enough to prevent him from bringing up a lot of who he was. He did say what he remembered, about living with four other guys, where a blue ceiling was in the living room, and a yellow one was in the bath.

He’s really out of it. One suit commented.

The suit in charge turned to the analytical Fred. Why don’t you give me your results as you go along?

Affirmative. Fred nodded. Height and weight are within probability range. Facial structure is an eighty percent match, but this can be explained by a lack of recent pictures showing a clear facial image of this subject. Eyes match. Fingerprints match. Voice and body temp are both within range. Body hair and semen comparisons are unavailable. A scar on the lower left ribcage is missing.

Cosmetic surgery on the scar. Another suit said. This guy can afford it. They can do such a good job nowadays you would never know a scar was once there.

How about blood samples? Do we have any on file for Mr. Manny here?

Yes. Fred said. Samples were taken after the subject was previously detained on a minor narcotics charge.

So we get a new blood sample and confirm. The other suit shrugged.

The head suit considered it. We get saliva, blood, hair and semen. That way our butts are covered a hundred percent.

Here’s your semen. A suit on the opposite side of the bed pointed.

The man in charge strode over and looked. Two used condoms were lying on the floor, on top of a fast food container half-full of chili fries.

Tag ‘em and bag ‘em. The head suit nodded. At least we won’t have to wait around for this guy to jerk off for us.

I’ll collect the hair. Another man said, picking off a few stray hairs from Phil’s shoulder and dropping them into a tiny plastic pouch. Geeze, this guy is shedding all over the place. Fred, can you grab some saliva?

The robot that looked like a government agent asked Phil to open his mouth. It turned to the head suit. Saliva is contaminated.

How? The stern head man frowned and went to stand before Phil again. Open wide, Manny.

I’m not Manny. Phil reiterated, in a droning, garbled voice.

I said open up. The suit demanded.

Phil relented. The head suit showed a disgusted face and stepped aside. Another suit came in for a look.

I’ll write it down on the report. The other man said. Traces of semen or a similar substance are visible in the subject’s mouth. We can have him wash his mouth out, but we’ll probably have to come back tomorrow if we want a clean sample.

Provided he doesn’t suck some other guy off again. The head suit grimaced. Let’s just go with what we have. The Golden State guys should have been here already. You hear me, Manny? No more joyriding around town. You are hereby ordered by the state of California to remain on these premises until the GSRG people get here.

Phil felt so drained he simply nodded and sat down.

Phil woke up late in the afternoon, with his neck sore from having slept in a bad position. The first thing he did was open the front door, discovering two suits standing just outside. The men stopped chatting and stared at him, as if Phil might try running down the hall to get away from there. Since Phil didn’t feel like running, or like doing anything at all really, he simply waved and shut the door.

He felt nauseated and hot, so his next move was to head into the kitchen for a cold drink. Lucky for him, he found three beers sitting in the mini-fridge. After popping one open and glugging down about a third of it, Phil went to find the remote control for the big screen and turned it on. He sat there for a good fifteen minutes before it sunk into his head that he didn’t belong there. This prompted him to head back to the door.

Hey, there’s no food in here. Phil told the suits.

Order out. A suit told him.

I don’t have any money. Phil recalled.

Right. Your ID card is still good. Tell you what, why don’t you order something for the three of us?

I seriously don’t have any money. Phil repeated.

Hey now, The suit gave him an impatient look. I hope you’re not trying to make up some story about us stealing your wallet.

Phil glanced down at his body. He was standing there in his boxers, but just as with so much else that was going on, a lot of that still wasn’t registering fully in his head. I have no idea where my pants are.

They are in the bedroom, on the floor, at the side of the bed. The suit detailed. Your wallet isn’t in your pants. It is sitting on the nightstand along with your condom wrappers, unless you flushed it down the toilet or something.

Do not try to say we stole your wallet. The second suit warned.

With his chin, the first suit motioned Phil back into the apartment. Go in there and take a look.

All right, I will.

Phil was still nodding as he crossed the short living room expanse. When he realized what he was doing, he thought, there’s something strange, me nodding like a bobble-head would, and so he stopped. He saw the wallet; it was made of shiny flexi-gold and it didn’t belong to him. Phil’s wallet was made of plain, old, worn nylon. When he opened the very expensive wallet up, he found an ID card with the face portion marred.

This isn’t mine, it belongs to Manny. Phil mumbled, before he dropped the wallet on the bed and headed for the bathroom.

After scratching his balls and having a long piss, Phil went to wash his hands in the sink and for the first time saw his reflection in the small mirror above it.

Holy shit. Phil said. That’s not me.

Oh, it was his body all right, but the rest of him was different. His hair was dyed in a softer brown.

Wait, wait. He vaguely recalled. The bot with the huge titties did that. She said, oh, you handsome man, you’d look so much better if I cut your hair and styled it this certain way. Why don’t you sit down and let me give you a trim? Yeah, that’s what she said all right. He glanced around. But it wasn’t here. She cut my hair somewhere else, and she dyed it.

That much Phil could explain, but not the rest of it. His eyes were a different color.

Contacts. He said. Somebody put contacts in my fucking eyes.

Phil went back into the bedroom to retrieve the wallet, and he studied it while he examined his reflection.

That son of a bitch Manafort. Phil realized. He’s three years older than I am, but he’s five pounds lighter and ten times uglier. He cut my hair and dyed it the color of his hair, or his stupid bot did, anyway. He changed the color of my eyes, and now what? Now I look exactly like that son of a bitch!

Phil closely scrutinized the ID card. It wasn’t supposed to have a marred picture image. That was a felony charge for tampering with government identification.

I guess Mr. Manny doesn’t give a shit about that felony, since he made me look so much like him I could pass for his fucking twin now! All right. Phil nodded. I’m getting back at you right now, Manny, my friend. How you liking this, huh? I’m about to order an extra large fucking pizza, and I’m paying for it with your ID card! Eat that!

As Phil left the bathroom and traversed the bedroom, he looked longingly at that extra wide, extra soft bed that was so much better than a bathtub lined over with a sleeping bag. And I’m sleeping on your bed too, asshole!

The three of them were still eating their pizza, with extra pepperoni and extra, extra cheese, when a small entourage arrived. The first person through the door held one of the best video recorders on the market, and so did the last person to arrive. The two people who entered the hotel room between them, Phil recognized instantly, even if they weren’t wearing their usual television costumes.

The woman was Scandinavian and beautiful with her short red hair and clear green eyes. She was shorter than Phil expected, but she still had the famous bust that men’s mouths drooled over upon seeing her in the usual black costume, with a generous amount of cleavage showing. That would be the Queen of the Dead, Hellatia, modeled after Hela, the Viking goddess of the underworld, except at the moment she wore an unremarkable blouse and cotton pants.

Next to her stood a tall, blonde, long-limbed and somber man with the face of a warrior. He had an old scar across the left side of his face and dressed casual with a long-sleeved button shirt and regular jeans. When he was dressed up, he was known as the Draugar King, a Norse demon, invented for television really, who in the lore revived the dead so they could attack the living.

Phil knew who these people were, and he shuddered. He knew why Manny Gutierrez had so convincingly traded places with him.

Is this the mark? Hellatia casually motioned at Phil. You people had better be sure this time. We already had two impostors pretending to be him up in Ventura. We were halfway through an interview with one asshole when the results came back showing a negative match.

We do not want our time wasted again. The Draugar King emphasized.

That wasn’t our fault. One of the suits replied. It was your network that decided to record an interview without getting the official verification first. It won’t happen this time because we had several confirmations from our forensic bot when we first came in contact with this man. We are positive he is Manafort Gutierrez.

He’d better be. Hellatia glanced at Phil, before she gave the suits a threatening glare. I’m calling my make-up people. They’re waiting in the garage as we speak.

Go ahead and call them. The suit told her.

While the pretend Norse goddess took care of this, her tall companion eyed what was left of the pizza. Phil knew what was coming, so he said nothing as the tall man reached out to snag a slice.

Hellatia gave Phil and his boxers the up and down. Can we get more clothes on this guy? There’s something peeking out the side here that our audience won’t appreciate.

Phil wished he could have enjoyed the performance that came later.

The make-up and costume people had set a smoke machine by the hotel room’s front door. The door burst open, and in strode the Draugar King as if he were emerging from a grim fog. Dressed in animal skins and showing off a lot of lean muscle and several runic tattoos, not to mention long, disheveled blonde locks, the man pointed an accusing finger at Phil. You, Manny Gutierrez, you have been chosen! Are you ready for the after-life?

Phil would have cringed if the make-up people hadn’t coached him on how to stand and give off a swagger. He was wearing Manny’s enhanced shades, white fluffy boa and other flamboyant duds. All Phil had to do was keep his mouth shut and nod his head, and even he could carry that off pretty good.

He’d figured something out while he’d watched the people setting the scene up. The real Manny, or more probably his curvy bot, had hypnotized him into nearly forgetting he was Phil. He knew it was hypnotism because he’d seen a hypnotist do stuff like that to an entire class while in college. Every time Phil tried to say his name, his mouth would get caught up in a knot and he’d be unable to speak. He no longer remembered his surname, the names of his parents, his address, his phone number, or a million other things. The only things that he still had in his memory were the blue and yellow ceilings from the apartment, and the fact that he had an old chum living in San Diego. Whoever had blanked him out had worked him over pretty good except for that.

Come in, my queen. The Draugar King announced.

In entered Hellatia, wearing a long, red wig and a black dress that was haunting and wispy, except for the open front that showed off her ample and enticing cleavage. Phil still hadn’t gotten over how the beautiful woman with the piercing eyes had spotted his balls earlier.

You cannot elude your destiny, Manny Gutierrez. Hellatia, thanks to the smoke machine, appeared to glide toward Phil.

We will always find our quarry. The Draugar King followed close behind her.

Sit. She commanded, and Phil sat, on the fancy couch and with a celebrity soon pressed on either side. We have been searching for you for three days now. Where have you been?

Phil had been cued with an answer. Preparing.

For what?

For the chase.

The King deadpanned into the nearest video camera. The GSRG has run its latest lottery. Manny Gutierrez has been randomly chosen as the next Dead Man in the Golden State Running Game. Manny has participated in the pool of candidates for over two years now, earning a thousand dollars a day in potential winnings, the same as hundreds of other hopeful candidates have done. The difference is that Manny is now the active Dead Man. The longer he can avoid death, the more chance he has of turning his potential earnings into real, hard cash.

You have nearly seven hundred and fifty thousand credits in potential money. Hellatia informed him. And you’ve been the big spender, haven’t you? You’ve splurged into your future earnings and purchased a lot of high end merchandise, including a robot companion and a mansion on Billionaire’s Beach in Malibu.

Actually, Phil had no idea of what Manny’s spending was like. The man’s sex bot, vid-phone and antique vehicle were all gone.

You knew this day would come. The King nodded. You knew your name would eventually be chosen by the lottery commission after being part of it for so long, and you are ready now that it has come. All of those people that invested in you are expecting for you to win, and to win big.

How many days will you pledge to stay alive? Hellatia asked.

Phil was torn as to what to say next. There was a chance that the suits would figure out he wasn’t Manny, and it would all be over and forgotten quickly. There was also the possibility that Phil would really become the Dead Man, and that was a pretty bad scenario for him to be in. It was called the Golden State Running Game, officially, but it was also known as Dead Man’s Lottery. The audience watching the live broadcast at home would expect for him to ask certain questions, and he did. What are my options at this point?

You have no options. The King laughed darkly.

Not among the living, but among the dead he does. Hellatia countered. You, Manny Gutierrez, can take the easy way out. You can spin the wheel and gain a reward of between one and ten percent of your potential earnings.

One percent was $7,500, while ten percent was $75,000. That would have been good money for him if he were still Phil. If he had to remain as Manny, however, who knew how much debt that overspending asshole had accumulated? Besides, the rumor was that the easy way out was rigged on the lower end. Phil should have taken that route, except he would still have no money in the bank, and he would still be working at a dead end job with no pot of gold at the end of his rainbow. By trading places with Phil, Manny had in effect given a down and out guy the chance to reach the stars, if only he could live long enough to claim the prize.

What is my other option? Phil inquired.

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