Rebel Without A Mask

Chapter 6

For a month she watched, shivering in her so-called sheltered booth, wondering, What the pickle is going on behind that tent?

What the pickle is going on behind that tent?When Hilda first took over the vibrator stall, she embraced it like a religious convert. She wanted to share her happiness and threw herself into the trading of it.

She sold sleek ones, miniature ones, disposable ones, musical ones, some that vibrated the national anthem, flexible ones, stiff ones, ones that “did the works,” budget ones that “did bugger-all,” pretty ones, fast ones, slow ones, some with gears.

She even threw a vibrator event—upright vibrators “doing their thing” across the counter like a horse race—until someone complained.

She ran end-of-the-range sales, price-match deals, buy-one-get-one-free days. She made gift vouchers out of scented recycled paper and even had a secondhand sale—a bit off-putting, despite the “ten-ply soft-as-silk” wet wipes giveaway.

She did have her regular customers—and her incognito deals: women who wanted to remain nameless, who met in the dark, behind the unnamed covered-up statue in the Courtyard of Greatness.

andAnd despite Hilda’s “I’ll not tell a soul,” they still ignored her in public.

For every customer who enthused over her selection of lubricants, another walked by with a sniff; for every “that was marvelous, let me buy you a caffeine” customer was another who wanted a refund.

Some claimed they were “too noisy,” others “not for me,” while some even tried to barter her down, ruthlessly—like she was a nobody.

The o****m business was not all it was cracked up to be. It was as complicated as leading a city with none of the benefits, and being shunned by the other stall owners didn’t help. It riled her to no end, making her so angry she wanted to use her vibrators for something other than pleasure . . .

She began to crave control.

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Hilda waited, watched as the other stall-keepers packed up and left for home.

It had been a grueling day.

But then every day at the marketplace was grueling for her; with no friends and no network, she had to do everything herself, then trot back to the only place that would have her: Verruca’s home.

A place many on Earth would call a cottage. A place as far from the city as it was possible to be while still connected to the sewage system.

cottageA place that took ages for Hilda to get to—not that she complained. She hardly looked forward to “going home,” not with Verruca’s personal robot under her feet: a robot with a faulty dictionary app and an annoying habit of being where it shouldn’t.

At first, Hilda and the robot moaned about Verruca behind her back, playing tricks, laughing like schoolchildren—until the robot started to “walk in” on Hilda.

Even though she had a lock on her “me time” shed, a Do Not Enter sign on the door, and an alarm system that sounded like a dog mid attack, the robot barged in with no warning, no apology, and a stare that would crumble even the most confident.

The “me time” shed was where Hilda evaluated, appraised and, well, had a good time with her new vibrators. Hilda had taken over the shed when Verruca told her to evaluate and appraise her noisy equipment “somewhere well away from the house.” A soundproof place that had low lighting, soft cushions, and a useless lock, but then any lock was useless in that robot’s hand. Cyborg, as she had taken to calling him, could unpick a ball of tangled wool in minutes. Unlocking a padlock was a piece of piss to him, disarming an alarm system a breeze.

that She pointed to the ancient, insignificant old hut at the back of the garden.

No one knew much about it, except that it was pretty ugly and had been dumped there by the hippies back in the days before women ruled.

Cyborg had a fixation for it; there was a soothing hum about it that he liked to retire to. When Hilda took it over, he was confused. He still wanted to sit there . . . and he soon developed a knack for arriving when Hilda was in positions that required decent lighting and soft music for dignity.

In fact, Hilda gave up the idea of “trial runs” the day Cyborg walked in on a particularly intensive assessment involving candlelight, whale music, and Hilda’s legs in the sort of position that made her look like she’d fallen down the stairs and wasn’t likely to recover.

Cyborg broke into a robotic skip. “Hilda’s dead! Hilda’s dead!” he shouted, setting off the alarm system.

Verruca rushed in, took one look at Hilda’s onesie—tossed aside like an empty crisp packet, her eyes shut mid moan—and just as quickly rushed out with an “Oh.”

If anyone could hate a robot, it was Hilda.

She stared at the marquee of a tent. Something told her a change was on the horizon . . . and that change had something to do with the tent.

She tugged on a corner, desperate for a peek, but it was nailed fast.

Cursing under her breath, she headed to the Courtyard of Greatness and waited behind the nameless statue.

A cloaked figure approached.

Hilda shone a light into Vegas’s face.

Vegas squinted.

“Who’s it for this time?” said Hilda.

“I am not at liberty to say,” said Vegas.

Hilda slid her pseudo-leather briefcase onto the foot of the statue. She brushed imaginary dust from the top like she had all the time in the world.

Vegas looked around with impatience.

Hilda clipped it open, then paused.

“Will you just get on with it,” snapped Vegas.

Hilda pulled out a recycled customer bag from inside and, with a great amount of ceremony, shook it open.

Flap!

Flap!“Easy,” said Vegas.

Hilda stopped. “What?”

“Statues have ears,” said Vegas.

“Pfff,” huffed Hilda. “It’s vibrators you’re buying, not spy equipment.”

“Mex calls them dildos,” said Vegas.

“Mex would,” said Hilda. She slid a portable vibrator into the bag, then stopped. “So, one of these is for her?”

Vegas blushed.

Hilda laughed. “Thought she’d be too old for that malarky.”

“Just hurry,” said Vegas. “They’re waiting.”

Hilda, taking her time, slid a “flat pack” vibrator into the bag, followed by a retractable one.

Vegas made to grab.

Hilda hung on . . .

“Not so fast—I want to know what’s behind the tent.”

“None of your business,” said Vegas.

Hilda tugged. “Then I’ll take these back.”

“But we’ve paid you,” said Vegas.

Hilda laughed.

“Mex will have me hung by my toenails.”

“So one of these is for Mex?” said Hilda.

is“Just hand them over,” said Vegas.

Hilda put on her best soft face. “There’s no need to be so ruthless. We used to work together, remember?”

Vegas said nothing.

“The good ol’ days?” said Hilda.

“Hardly,” muttered Vegas.

“Could we not, you know, do something together—for old times’ sake?” Hilda pulled her best smile.

“Just give me the goods,” said Vegas.

Hilda’s face hardened. “Why do you do this to yourself? Pick up incognito for others like some dogsbody?”

“No one else wants to deal with you,” said Vegas.

Hilda’s face dropped.

Vegas softened. “It’s a figurine, if you must know.”

Hilda said nothing.

“To inspire and uplift, OK? Now don’t ask me anything else.” Vegas made for the bag.

Hilda snatched it away. “A figurine of what?”

Vegas sighed. “Guess.”

It didn’t take long for Hilda to work it out; she’d been watching that Deidre. It was either that damnable Beryl or worse: Legless.

“But why so big a tent?” said Hilda. “What the pickle are they doing under there?”

“DBO said they’re perfectionists. The footman says they’re milking it.”

Hilda tutted to herself. “Everyone thinks control is so easy.”

Vegas took her bag, looked inside. “Any batteries?”

“Rechargeable,” said Hilda.

Vegas inspected them with a “Hmm.”

“It’s all there,” said Hilda. “Oh, and I’ve thrown in my new all-singing, all-dancing vibrator, or dildo, as Mex would call it.”

dildoShe walked away with a chuckle. “Just for you, for old times’ sake; let me know what you think.”

Vegas lifted up a vibrator, turned it in her hand. If this is an “all-singing, all-dancing dildo,” then I’m a footman’s crotch.

If this is an “all-singing, all-dancing dildo,” then I’m a footman’s crotch.