The Hate Triangle

                                    

                                              
Her russet eyes stood out, through dark mascara, heavy makeup and curly hair. There were several things I disliked about the girl; her open, shameless flirtation with Sophie being one. The dress she wore, an embroidered, simple number, suggested she'd been living in a bus shelter, a vagrant of sorts. She smelled like cheap homebrew perfume. Yet, my gal, my lover of nine years, seemed infatuated with her.
                          
I pictured luring this tramp into the toilets, grabbing her throat and strangling her. Playing out the scenario in my head, I couldn't see how I'd be able to accomplish such a deed without getting arrested. I wondered how modern-day murderers get away with it. Gang killings had increased tenfold in the last few years alone, crime still thrives despite Yellowcop, and yet I can't work out a single tactic. Throughout the entire conversation, I debate in my mind whether I would be capable of it. Am I that kind of person? I asked myself.
                          
"Did you know snuff is bigger than pornography," said the hoe, going off topic.
                          
Her remark sparked something in me, an idea. "I'm down for it, if you are," I told her. "I hear the money they make is astronomical." This annoyed Sophie. I could see it on her face. I didn't care. She didn't even introduce me. She made it out as if I was just another stranger mink-blocking her.
                          
"I gotta go," I told them, fed up with bullshit.
                          
Sophie grabbed my wrist. "Where are you going?"
                          
"To work," I told her. When I saw her confused face, I clarified, "The Illium is waiting." I left her alone at the Redhouse Bar with her new friend whose name I didn't bother to remember. I felt no guilt leaving her. Whatever is meant to be is meant to be. Not that it didn't make me angry; I broke my nails clenching the upholstery on the subway train seat.
                          
I found the hotel in a state of anarchy. The cleaning bots were all offline, the catering kitchen was out of supplies and a group of pharma-tourists, who have been dumped at the wrong destination, were orchestrating a mini-riot, blaming the Illium's night manager for something it was not responsible for.
                          
The first message came in while I dressed for duty.
                          
~jock47: u mad???
                          
My ongoing anger prevented me from responding. It raged like a forest fire, burning fuel that had accumulated over the years. I had to deal with this some other way. No more arguing, no more screaming at each other, and makeup sex lacked the lustre it once possessed. This is not the first occasion. I had swallowed my pride along with my self-respect and forgiven her countless times.
                          
"You are required on Floor 18," said the omnipresent night manager.
                          
"I'm busy."
                          
"Please make this room turnaround your priority."
                          
This is my life, I thought to myself. I'd been reduced to a slave, taking orders from a machine. A rebellious urge compelled me to defy this thing's instructions, quit on the spot, let this soulless hotel go down in flames. Without humans, the smarties are nothing but bossy robots.
                          
"Security Two is waiting for your assistance."
                          
Mutty Kanya.
                          
Being one of the few human beings employed by the Illium Hotel, Mutty became the defacto go-to guy for companionship. I pack up my insolent pride and headed upstairs. Between dancing for money at the club and cleaning up after pretentious assholes at this hotel, my career options were bleak. To add to my grief, competition from robots was stiff in both cases. It's one thing to have a cleanbot do it better than you, but a modified sexbot dancing...? Unless I learned how to build, program, or fix one of these machines, or became rich enough to own one, my usefulness as a human being had in a way become redundant.