This is an older writing that I came across buried in the archive, saved as a draft. Not very meety and only partially completed, but it could be the start to something bigger, and better.

As detective Bluem walked through the crowded streets of downtown, he was inundated by people trying to sell their home brewed concoctions that their creator said would cure just about everything from the common cold, to bald, from impotence to the most deadly diseases.

There were almost as many people selling false hope then there were SexClones. Detective Bluem had seen a few in his day – most SexClones were the property of the wealthy and elite – but most sat quietly, hardly saying a word, a far cry from the stories he had heard about genetically engineered people bred specifically to serve and obey whatever their owners told them, and to carry out whatever sexual fantasy their owners demanded of them.

Once the owners tired of their SexClones, they abandoned them on the streets, setting them loose. Most ended up in the slums of the lower level of the city, far from were they had previously called home, in the towering skyscrapers that rose over head.

As this thought ran through his head, the detective looked up at the building as it rose before him on either side in the early morning sun. Most disappeared over his head in the morning fog with only a few sky walks visible several hundred stories up. Even onn the clearest of days, the tops still were not visible.

Bluem looked back down at the SexClones on the street, who shouted their profanities at the people walking by or stood behind their pimps as they tried to make a sell. Most, detective Bluem thought, probably didn’t even know the name of the city that they were in. They probably didn’t know that they once lived in suites and villas that were miles about their heads. They only knew that they were hungry and living in a world that didn’t care for them, not one bit.

Detective Bluem continued walking down the crowded street until he came to 281st street to a door with a sign over it that simply read “Tail,” and waited out in front.

As he stood there a SexClone wearing a tight t-shirt that stopped just above her naval and nothing else below the waist except for some high heeled shoes, walked out the door leading into the “Tail.”

“Are you looking for somebody, baby?” The SexClone asked.

“Yes, and. . .no.” Detective Bluem answered back.

“Baby, I could do things to you you only wish your girlfriend would do.”

In response, the detective showed her his left hand and rotated his wedding band on his finger with his thumb.

“I would do things to you, she hasn’t done to you in years then, things that would make your eyes roll back into your head.”

“Again, no thank you.” He said as he pulled out a piece of paper from his pocket and pretended to read.

“Detective Bluem, I presume?” The SexClone asked as she placed a hand on her hip.

He lowered the piece of paper and started to ask how she knew that before she cut him off.

“How did I know that? I am the one that asked you to meet me here.” She extended her hand. “Trista Morgan.”

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