The oppressive concrete island encapsulates reality for those who are unfortunate enough to be trapped inside the shores of that oily sea, the Gulf of Mexico. Ameko, the Rain Child, stares into the night sky in hope that one of the stars will fall next to her. Only a star could offer her the love she needs right now; to be enveloped in the atom mother’s heart. People assume that mutilation of the flesh is a sign of self-destruction not considering the possibility that the flesh is not what constitutes the person. Ameko shifts her attention from the starry sky to her wetwired memory allocation. I call out to her through the ether. I escaped a year or two ago, but only after I cleaned out many ghosts in my shell. Movement always happens across many planes. In order to move from this place, I had to move from everything this place made of me. Ameko is my only connection left, but I guess I would willingly be reminded of this inferno if it meant touching her without the thought, "This is the last time. After this, she does not exist." I refuse to let my friends become nothing more than static memory that could disappear anytime during a defragmenting.

The ambient terabits of Christ’s bloody teardrops fills the air with the smell of fish and saltwater like so much religious data trash and the sky with red ozone glow. Corpus Christi is a wounded city like Galveston and every other Hurricane plagued Babel. Everybody here is lost and speaks without understanding their neighbors. The one way out is the arching Harbor Bridge, and the only way off the Bridge is to jump onto a passing barge. Maybe if you are lucky, the barge will not head further south. This might seem like an exaggeration to all but the desperate, but plenty victims of desperation see my perspective in parallel and leap off that steel relic into the soapy brine below. The fringe of the city is the best place to paint in Ameko’s opinion. Fringes are always paradoxes because sub-atomic particles never really touch, and paradoxes are what keep the sub-conscience in perpetual motion. In addition, an undeniable eroticism comes from being so near infinity, which could be cosmic satisfaction. Only art satisfies Ameko. She paints her emotional reactions to the masturbatorial stimulation she receives when she concentrates on the fringe. Everything she paints is beautiful. I sell some of her work in galleries in New York, Milan, Paris, and Toronto. I send her all the credits, so she no longer has to resort to what occupation Corpus offers for a beautiful ripe young woman like herself.

Years have passed since the Global Village attempted to save the lost causes trapped inside these conservative districts, but mass retaliation from the religious right and the dysfunctional Corpus Christian pop culture ended all hope of even virtual freedom from the oppressive hands of this patriarchal society. The entire economy is built on the exploitation of women and the social activities that lead to that exploitation. Thousands of lonely men enlist here and live in a huge naval base that greatly expanded after Fascist Cuba invaded Haiti and war broke out between Cuba and the Dominican Republic. The war ended long ago as well, but the tension remains.

To provide entertainment for the estranged soldiers, at least a hundred strip bars or gentlemen’s clubs have been built along the freeway and mainstreets. The credits are great at these oracles of fetish. The men come in with half their paychecks from shrimping, fishing, or industrial work. They slide their credit cards through the slots the dancers wear on the taboo areas of their person. The filth still are not allowed to touch the merchandise, but the dancers have to bend over or crawl over closer to the men in order for the cards to access the slots. Some of the audience members start coming here before they graduate from middle school. Some of the dancers do too.

A young cute Asian girl approaches the stage from behind a screen showing flashing montages of pop media. Aquamarine light floods the stage and audience. Jungle music fades into hip-hop into trip-hop into trance into trip-hop into trance again. Ameko twirls onto the middle of the stage covered in a gossamer gown of hologram silk. Images of light flow from the gown and enter the minds of the onlookers. Everyone sees a different image in the hologram, but whatever iridescent dazzle the audience sees in the shimmering gown mockingly hides the forbidden flesh. As hard as a viewer may squint, they will never see Ameko’s naked flesh as long as that gown drapes her sensual frame. The music intensifies as Ameko slowly walks around the stage toward the audience. Approaching the catwalk, the light begins to dim into darkness. Hoots and hollers radiate from the crowd at this point. Apparently, this routine is familiar enough with some of the "gentlemen". A robotic claw of some kind lowers from the ceiling and rapidly pulls the gown from the temptress’s crouched body then retracts into the air. Instantly three things happen. A strobe begins to pulsate so rapidly that everything appears to move very slowly. A shower of water begins to pour from the ceiling onto Ameko and the stage. The trance music fades into a cover of "Sour Times" by Portishead.

Ameko stands up to reveal everything but her breasts and pubic area. She is wearing a silken bikini of the same holographic material as the gown. The cold water pours all over her hair and flesh as she moves with grace and perfection. Her breasts harden and her muscles tighten under the cold water. Goosebumps cover her flesh from shoulder to foot. The credit slot becomes visible along the small of her back. The crowd grows anxious to slide their sweaty credit cards through the slot so cleverly placed. Ameko grabs the dancing pole on the center of the stage and begins to caress it and press up against it. The symbolic phallus slides easily across the valley between her veiled breasts and buttocks teasing the crowd with the ridiculous possibility that this could happen to them one day.

The relationship between spectator and object d’art twists space and time when the object is a living thing of equal or greater consciousness. Unlike in a physical relationship, the object controls the spectator. The dancer cannot be disturbed or interrupted by the pathetic men. The men can display their desire in the form of remarks or their credits, but there is an understanding that the dancer will only dance and eventually disappear. The nature of the arrangement depends on each unique perspective. A dancer can feel shame in what she does, or pride in her power over men’s desire. An even more common perspective is the simple apathy that comes with desensitization or heavy drugs use.

Ameko only danced for three months before she began to paint. The whole experience was more or less an attempt to discover the intensities of her sexual self. She had always repressed that most tender part of her psyche. Now that the shows were over, she concluded that although she had natural sexual power, she would rather put it in the past and continue with her original passion, the visual arts. We had not talked at all during her Hajj into Tantric Shangri-La, but we never forgot each other. I had a transgender lesbian crush on her since ninth grade, and we had been friends for most of that time. When she suddenly messaged me across the ether one afternoon, it came as no surprise. We talked for hours about her artistic values, and I set up the arrangement we have now. You would think just anyone with a wetwire would be able to make art in unlimited quantities and sell it, but it is much more rare than that. It takes a lot of will power and shamelessness for a person to share that part of their mind that up until the last century nobody ever saw. I suppose one could consider this art-form to be just as exhibitionist as exotic dancing, but I think those people would never stop labeling things exhibitionist. If exhibitionism is the making public of our private selves then it depends on what one considers private and public. Its all a question of whether your flesh is kosher I suppose.

Rain is a very rare occurrence in the state of South Texas, so when it does rain moods are apt to change dramatically and all the vampires come out more or less. Ameko dangled her feet off the bridge as she held onto the rail and painted to me. This was no ordinary rain; there was thunder, lightening, and everything that makes great mood paintings. There is a damn good reason "It was a dark and stormy night" always makes a good beginning. High contrast images of teardrops morphing into mechanical harlequins enter my brain and print into my backup. Often images are distorted with smears that contain compressed versions of Ameko’s entire life. Montages are the best. Nothing is better than an image no individual produced. Images from films, from other artwork all mixed into Ameko’s original imaginations. Repeat a process of image creation, pause, restart process, pause, do it in reverse, do it negative. This creates some rather humorous images like meatballs in milkshake swimming pools owned by the greedy Ghandi Führer. Those sell well in Toronto.

In the middle of one of these montages Ameko turns around and stands up on the bridge. She hears wet footsteps coming up the slope of the Harbor Bridge. She sees a shady figure creeping toward her through the red curtain of the ozone night. His overcoat is gray and old like a middle-aged librarian’s and his hat is a gray fedora. "Excuse me! May I bother you for a bit?" The sketchy figure hollers through the moist air.

Ameko tenses, and we can hear our fear. "What do you want? Why should I trust some fucking stranger on the Harbor Bridge? This aint a singles bar you know. You are walking on holy ground pal. Nothing is sacred in this world except privacy on the cursed Harbor Bridge, and maybe blind albinos. Death is the only thing you can put faith in. I’m gonna jump and I don’t want you to stop me so leave me alone!" Inside our matrix, we giggle in hope it will calm our nerves. Suicide games were one of our favorite pastimes in high school. Ameko would hold razors to herself while I begged her to stop. Nobody dies of razors these days anyway.

The man walked closer to Ameko. She walked further away toward a gap in the rail. The gap was smooth and straight cut like it was designed to be a doorway to the netherworld. "I’ll jump fucker! Get away from me!"

"Don’t jump miss. I just thought I recognized you. Please don’t be afraid of me. If I have any perversions, they are all harmless. I hope you aren’t going to jump, ma’am. You’re too beautiful to do that. I know who you are, ma’am. You’re Rain Girl? I think that was your stage name." He stopped approaching her in hope that she wouldn’t jump.

"No I aint! And I never was! Although I can assure you that whoever this Rain Girl is, you never saw her. You only saw the flesh. You only saw the flesh moving around. If you had ever touched that flesh, you would have found it as satisfying as touching android flesh, cold and unyielding. Unless you’re perversions are more than just mental?" They were close enough that they did not have to yell too much. At this range, he really did not look that creepy except for the fact that he was on the Harbor Bridge at three in the morning in the rain. It is one thing when young artist types are in the rain at night by themselves. It is another thing for old men that visit strip clubs.

"I just want you to know how beautiful I think you are. How you move in the rain." He was silent after this. The silence was overwhelming. The rain seemed to grow silent as well. Everything was focused on this strange man. "I don’t think you should be ashamed of anything you did, ma’am. I think we are the ones who should be ashamed, but at the same time. What do you expect? I . . . I . . . I was in the navy for 20 years. I never got married or anything like that. I’m very grateful for what you did. It might seem crude, but its natural."

"Nature is what you make of it man. Just cause every other piss drunk asshole does it doesn’t make it natural. I’m not ashamed of anything either. I just don’t care about it anymore. And I’d rather not think about it now. And I’d rather like to be alone! You know, you can’t expect the rest of the world to try to satisfy your desires. You have to do it yourself. You have to find your own desire and then go after it. I’ve just found mine, and I’m not giving up because it seems unlikely. Everything is unlikely if you give up. God, just get away and get a life!" Ameko became very angry at this point and just wished he would disappear so she wouldn’t have to be so mean.

"Well, I have to admit. I followed you since you left the tattoo parlor. I never wanted to upset you. I just wanted to know if you would dance for me again, since its raining and all. I have tons of money. I’d pay you . . . please?" He held his hat in his hands and the water rolled off his bald head.

"Fuck man! Don’t you get it. Leave me the fuck alone. I can’t dance for you. My desire won’t let me. I desire something beyond the flesh. Something beautiful that lies within us all, but that is rarely uncovered. My flesh has atrophied from exploitation and possession. I was 19 before I felt my flesh and knew it was my own, and by that time, it was tired and sick. I have to heal my own flesh, and that means getting rid of what people like you put into me. This disease called society poisons my body telling me what I am when it contradicts all I believe. You, with your excuses for possession, are not getting near me. Get away now!"

She backs away carefully, but she is shocked when he runs towards her and dives onto her. She falls to the wet black asphalt. He is on top of her angry and breathing heavily. "You’re not getting away from me. You are beautiful and you must share that beauty. Its what’s best for the rest of us. If you won’t dance for me then I’ll move you how I want you to move. I’ll touch you when I want to touch you. I won’t pay you anything. You will just do what I say." He begins to take off her jacket and clothes. She squirms violently trying to get out from under his mass. "Help!" she screams across the ether. I was panicking the whole time. I was looking to see if the rapist was wetwired anywhere. In most metropolitan areas about eighty percent of the populous are, but you never know in Corpus. Of course, anyone with a taste for pornography would instantly have been wetwired as soon as possible. I searched as fast as I could through all the profile databases for the area. He hit her hard across the jaw. Nothing broken but spirit. Finally, I found the profile and wetwire port. "Ameko! Here is his port address. Upload as many montages as you can. Anything! Fill his head with your real beauty. Do whatever you can." The man continued to tear at Ameko’s clothing until he ripped through her skirt. He never expected what he saw there. It really depends on how you interpret it, but underneath her skirt and panties was not any recognizable genitalia. It wasn’t what he saw months ago at the strip bar. It wasn’t disgusting at all, but no matter what he did he couldn’t look at it. His mind just filled with images of velvet, leather, cold metal, and shit. He couldn’t stop thinking about shit.

Ameko screams into the blood red night air as she pushes as many images into his vision centers as she can. Unlike a cathode ray tube, you cannot just ignore the images. You cannot close your eyes unless you are skilled enough in the human hardware. The rapist fortunately was a novice dealer in child porn memories and did not know what to do. He could not see anything. The real world was somewhere behind these images, but he did not know where. He stands up and tries to stare at something, at the moon, or a spotlight. Finding nothing, he stumbles to the edge of the bridge where the gap in the rail invites him into the watery depths. Giving into fate and bad karma, he falls into the salt water. With the rest of the gloomy world gone and nothing but Ameko’s art going through his brain all he could do was smile. Down through the bay he sunk smiling. Up to the surface, he floated back smiling. He drifted out to the Gulf of Mexico smiling.

Ameko had a tumor taken out after she raised enough money from the art sales. This did not give any real reason for her to alter anything, but it gave her purpose. With this disease gone, her flesh was hers. She could do what she wanted with it. She cried in relief into the night as she draped her tattooed, pierced, enhanced body in what remnants of her clothes remained. She walked across the bridge to the north. The bridge always went north, but nobody ever went across. She walked to the nearest city, Portland, and bought a bus ticket to infinity.