Nestled within the DMV was Adam's Apple, the place to be if debauchery was what you had in mind. The club attracted a lot of local talent, many of whom had menus for their unique nocturnal services. Here, everything under the howling moon was negotiable. A dozen huge bouncers manned the ropes outside or watched the crowded interior.

Past the door into the ambient atrium, several raised dance stages dominated the main floor. From below, the dancers seemed taller and sleeker, offering those seated their best angles and generous peeks. An iconic rotating disco ball from the ceiling deflected green and red lasers shooting from the far walls, the beams exploding into multi-fractals. In the backroom, feminine silhouettes in black smoky lights, intertwined under an Eden theme of a holographic tree, apple, and snake. For those seeking a more intimate venue beyond the generic lap dance, stereoscopic hook-ups with synchronized scent-organ accompaniment were available to stimulate senses outside the human experience. They offered heightened states of eroto-phoria no drugs could induce.

Most nights, the main floor was standing-room-only with the local yokels. The crowd was mostly businessmen -- you could tell them easy enough -- out-of-shape pasty executives with corporate logos stuck to their man-boobs. Tonight, the fief Affiliates were loose, deigning to share the air with the cultural and economic trash. Representatives of the energy, software, medical, electronics, and even the soft drink industry were there to unwind after a conference ended. In Megacity East, aka the MCE, all corporate affairs were endemic and reserved for Affiliates of AEL unless it received an allowance to contract with extramural business. In other megacities like the GCE -- Greater Chicago Expanse -- or Emerald City, AKA Francis-Jose of North California, the paramountcy model was adopted in much the same way within those protective enclaves. Individual companies didn't worry about competition outside their fief market. Their job was to produce. Decisions to expand or defend market shares rested with the collective under paramountcy leadership. Being an Affiliate was akin to having a ticket on a super-liner, riding in comfort and protection with all-you-can-eat and drink.

A group of middle-aged men, unremarkable in every respect, sat in the half-moon booth of the VIP Lounge with six dancers and spending big. Other men accompanied them, those with unamused looks, company bodyguards in crumpled suits. Hard cash and hard liquor flowed in abundance, exchanged for erotic aesthetic and tactile titillation, cozy relationships these girls depended on and valued.

Warchild had joined T-Bone for a different purpose. The former wanted somewhere he could soak his raw nerve, someplace that deflected his pain at least for a few hours. T-Bone sought a similar place of distraction as well, where he could feed his libido. While the younger T-Bone was ebullient, Warchild was morose, unable to shake his visible glumness.

"Yo, what's the matter, man? You're bringing me way down," T-Bone said, shaking the older man. "Look at all the talents here. You're letting them go to waste."

Warchild shrugged.

"They're guaranteed to blow your mind and rocks off. How bout you lighten up?"

"I'm all right," Warchild replied in a sour manner.

"You don't look it, cabrón. Get your head out of that shit. Happens to everyone, me included. You don't see me crying 'bout it." T-Bone turned Warchild toward a blond making her way from table to table. "How 'bout her? Oh, hurt me."

Warchild leaned forward, a remorseful look on his face, putting a hand on the younger man's shoulder. He wanted to say something soulful to T-Bone but backed off. "I better go. Not cool to drag on you."

"What are you going back to, jefe? Move on, man."

"Intend to. Watch your ass." A strange warning.

"She can have it." T-Bone smiled and waved Warchild off.

Alone in the VIP area, T-Bone immersed himself in a nor-amphetamine euphoria without any baggage. Normally, this private corner was roped off to nobodies. Except now, he had a trump card -- he was famous. Young and full of aggressive energy, he didn't care about the scrutiny. He relished it. Tonight, his star shined in this corner of paradise.

The exquisite girl took his invitation and sat down next to him, the cream of femininity no straight man could resist -- early twenties, tall, lithe, blonde, and with a face that would free her from all responsibilities. These days, some girls were not born but made. Inside, many were boys altered in every way to become ultimate Barbie fantasies.

T-Bone ordered a stiff drink to settle a surprising anxiety. When he first saw her on the dance floor, from afar, the tight dress advertised a healthy chest and an athletic body. She snubbed the three-deep circle of rich businessmen and gravitated toward him. She'd snuck a gentle smile through, tentative and distant as their eyes met. Some duffus offered to buy her a drink. She declined with a coquettish smile and a shake of her head. Another tried talking to her; another asked her to dance. She rebuffed them all. She played with him from across the room, nursing her glass and sending out silent messages to him, which drove him wild. He was damn glad Warchild had left, leaving him to his heady business.

"Help, can't breathe," he managed his most direct come-on, summoning all his wiles and charm.

"Why is that?" She cooed with a bright grin.

"You took my breath away."

"How old is that line?"

"Did it work?"

There wouldn't be a sarcastic remark followed by a back turn -- not here. Not tonight. The sensuous sound of her voice moved over him, like silk on his skin.

"Oh, most definitely," she said flashing her perfect smile that made him stiffen.

At this moment, he'd forgotten his name.

A slow ballad came on cue. "Do you dance?"

"I'd love to."

Her touch was warm, her skin carmine, not synthetic and pasty. And there were no micro lines of implants. She appeared organic, at least on the outside. Sub-dermal was a different matter.

He'd managed not to step on her toes while she glided with grace. She brushed his bulge with her thighs from a few innocent pelvic thrusts.

"What's that on your neck?" He asked, making conversation about her tattoo.

"Oh, that's my dragon. She whispers in my ear."

"What does it say?"

"If I should like you or not."

"I'm very lovable, you'll see." He trembled like a teenager, flushed with heat.

After some heart-pounding minutes of close dancing, the pair grabbed a table in the VIP section, okay-ed by the headman to the bouncer guarding the lounge. T-Bone ordered more drinks as they chewed the language of strip-joint romance. She straddled him and unbuttoned his shirt. She glanced at his stomach, washboard and bare. He reached up into her tight dress, found the dental floss she wore and felt her wetness.

The drinks arrived by a waitress who interrupted the pair. The girl grabbed them both. "Let's go upstairs," she breathed into his ear.

He panted an affirmative, fumbled to roll up his sleeve for a debit scan, a deer in headlights. She surprised him by paying instead, took the drinks and beckoned him with her smile. Captivated, he watched her from behind, heady in her scent.

Upstairs held rooms with locks -- the private suites.

T-Bone threw off his clothing while she was in the bathroom freshening up.

When at last the girl emerged from the lavatory, her nakedness silhouetted against the light behind her took his breath away, her breasts far more prominent than the short dress had allowed. A goddess!

She had a tall drink he had bought for her, her fingers trailing up and down the frosty glass. She offered it to him. Without breaking his gaze at her, he gulped it down.

"Come," she said embracing him while feeling his member against her inner thighs.

"Tell me what you like."

"Just leave it to me, love." She descended to her knees and took him in her mouth. At first, he thought it must have been the ecstasy clouding his mind, but a few seconds later, his vision blurred into grayness.

Finally, into delicious oblivion.

She caught his collapse and dragged him to the bed. After rinsing out her mouth in the bathroom and slinking back into her tube dress, she unlocked the door. Outside waiting were three men with huge valises, two of them the same guys at the bar who had hit on her.

They studied her work, looking at the nude man sprawled out on the bed.

"He's alive?"

"Out like a baby," she said.

"Good way to go."

"We sure he's one of them?" The first man said.

"Better be or I'd wasted my charm and the twins on a stranger," she said.

"It's him," said the third man, tall and thin, closing the door behind him. "Get to work."

"How long do we have?" the second man asked.

"One hour," she said. "Then they will want the room."

"You know what to do, Casper. Move it."

"How's the bathroom?"

"Tub, like you wanted," she said. "It's heart-shaped for two."

"No sweat, I'll melt him."

Two of the men picked up T-Bone, one by his ankles, the other his armpits and brought him to the bath. The third cracked open the suitcases. Inside were gloves, gas masks, linoleum sheets and two large five-gallon jugs marked with skull-n-crossbones. Warning labels had H2SO4 stenciled on the bottle.

"Good night, sleep tight," Lockheart said looking at the body. He turned to her. "You don't need to be here. They got this."

She shrugged, looking at T-Bone, a sadness in her eyes.

"And thanks," Lockheart said. "Hate that you had to do this, Schatzi."

"Es hat Spaß gemacht."

"Not too much fun, I hope." He seized her bottom, pulling her into him.

She broke off his embrace. "I'm off to our second engagement. The night's young."

"I'll find you shortly." He winked.

She smiled and left the private suite.

Lockheart returned to check on progress in the bathroom. He found them hunched over the tub, each man wearing a full face-mask. They gave him thumbs up. Lockheart turned on the overhead air vent.

Casper unscrewed the cap of the caramel-colored jug and poured it on the naked body in the tub. The moment the liquid touched skin, it hissed as the tissue crackled, spewing hot acidic aerosol. On contact, the dermis began to blacken into a carbon residue of charred meat. Under a minute, the consuming acid exposed white bone.

"Whew," breathed the man with the jug, examining the disintegration of bone. "That's some concentrated shit."

"You two stay here and make sure you pull the drain," Lockheart said to the cleaners, covering his nose and mouth. "And bleach everything."

"No worries."

"When you're done, take the stairs out the back. You know where to go after?"

"The Black Irish, right behind ya."