Read Biohell for Free Online Page B

worse.
     
    Now, the air smelled sweet,
fresh, alive, despite the toxic ash. Birds twittered in the trees and
their annoying squawking was birdsong. Franco felt lighter. There
was a spring to his step. He felt younger. Fitter. Stronger. Leaner. More
handsome. When he walked with Mel, he walked hand in hand. Their faces shone
with radiating love.
     
    But it got worse.
     
    Franco started to go shopping. He’d push the trolley, whilst Mel filled it with titbits for them to “snackle”
on whilst watching late-night movies, curled on the floor of Franco’s apartment
in a liquid-marble blanket, scented candles lighting the air with romantic harmony.
In the past, a supermarket was a dark and foreboding gateway to Hell as far as
Franco was concerned. The only time he ever dared venture into a supermarket
was to purchase a trolley of beer, much to the tutting soundtrack of mothers ‘n
babies and the disapproving scowls of smiley-uniform clad staff. Franco
shuddered. No. Supermarkets had been a place of mystery. And misery. Until he
met Mel.
     
    But it got worse.
     
    Now, Franco was prone to cleaning his apartment. He owned... wait for it... cleaning products. He had
a nice set of marigolds. He did his washing up after they’d eaten, not
on a six-monthly rotational basis when the mould threatened to take over the
asylum. He cleaned the toilet. Not just that, but every bloody day... or
even, even, even after he’d used it in response to a bad case of
Vindaloo-arse! Franco had once thought a toilet brush was something for
de-greasing his motorbike chain. But no. Mel taught him the error of his ways
with a smile and a wink and slap to his rump. Now, Franco washed his clothes.
In a washing machine. Dried his clothes. In a drying machine. He even ironed
his fucking shirts. Franco never even used to own a fucking
shirt, never mind iron a fucking shirt. But there he was, whistling
along to the radio, applying steam here, squirting a jet there. Ironing, man,
fucking ironing.
     
    But it got worse.
     
    This was the conversation as they
sat out in the BubbleCrane which arched from Franco’s apartment balcony on its
skinny alloy arm, like the distended, synthetic limb of some giant old crone.
     
    “Franco, my squeezy love?”
     
    “Yes, sweetie pie?”
     
    “I’ve been meaning to mention
something.”
     
    “Yes, my angel flowerpot?”
     
    “It’s a bit personal, honey
wunny.”
     
    Franco strained, peering down at
the thick ribbons of flesh which filled the streets far below, winding like an
albino snake between towering sky-blocks. Millions of people. Thronging.
Weaving. Jostling. The noise was a dull roar, muffled by the BubbleCrane’s
aural.field. “That’s OK, chipmunk.”
     
    “It’s about your tooth.”
     
    “My tooth?”
     
    “Your missing tooth.”
     
    “Oh, my tuff. Yeah. Got it
knocked out in a bar brawl hmm hmm not that I do that sort of thing anymore
oh no I is a good boy now a reformed character a man of improved moral fibre.
Oh yes.” He smiled. It was a noticeably gappy smile.
     
    “Well,” embarrassed pause, “I
thought you might like to get it done.”
     
    “Get it done?” The smile froze
and cracked Franco’s ice-lake face. Below, a tiny percentage of The City’s vast
titanic population seemed to be laughing, and not just laughing, but laughing at
him. The sound of a trillion organic life-forms from a thousand different
planets chuckled in parallel with his horror.
     
    “Yes. You know. A cap. A false
tooth. A denture.”
     
    “Why, in the name of Hades, would
I want to do that?”
     
    “To please little old me?”
     
    “Oh. That. Yes. Aha. Haha.”
     
    “I’ve arranged for you to visit
the dentist.”
     
    “The dentist?”
     
    “Yes. The dentist.”
     
    “Why would I want to visit a
dentist?”
     
    “To get your tooth done.”
     
    “Ahhh. Right. I see. OK. No
problem. Grasped that idea. Got it.”
     
    And so, like a good and wagging
dog Franco went along to the