The Cannibal Lottery

The backroom of the clinic was hot and smelt like ozone. Machinery lined the walls and hummed dully. Exposed wires hung like vines. The extraction station consisted of two side-by-side screens and an elaborate operating table. A young man was lying in relaxed unconsciousness. The sensory helmet obscured most of his face. An IV dripped steadily. He was covered in plugs and sensors.

One screen showed a sunset cutting through a city scape. The other a cartoonish image of the boy on the table, sitting in a waiting room that looked like a dentist’s office. The rig operator was sweating profusely and rolling his eyes at the screen. He was pale, bug eyed and too thin.

“I can’t sell this,” he said. “I’ve seen enough.”

“It’s good stuff. Keep looking,” the cartoon said.

“It’s basic. No one’s buying anymore. Not this. You got anything else or you leavin’?”

The cartoon avatar could only shake his head. There was nothing else. Just like that the boy on the table was unplugged and shoved out the door. There was no transition therapy, or wellness check. More importantly, there was no cash card, voucher, or redemption code. He hadn’t eaten in nearly forty-eight hours and his hunger was manifesting as extreme indigestion. It gurgled at the back of his throat.

He staggered to his feet and dusted himself off, feedback buzzing behind his eyes. The guy could have at least told him what was selling, what people wanted. The private market was more transient and niche than the stream. Pain lanced through his head, deep, stabbing. Usually, feedback was mild, like a sinus infection. With some aftercare it passed easily, but he had been to three clinics today, handled roughly by all of them.

He headed toward his apartment, passing pawn shops, liquor stores and pay day loaners. The stream rolled on cheap holo projectors. Casino arcades flashed hypnotic light arrays. Winner, winner, winner.

His place was part of an apartment block. One of two dozen in the neighborhood. They were all falling to pieces, cheap crumbling concrete. The foyer was a single hallway with an elevator on one side and a stairwell on the other.

“Hey, Talon, over here,” said Erikson, his next-door neighbor. He was lingering by the stairwell, wearing a concerned look. “I’ve been trying to message you.”

“Phone’s down. What’s up?”

“Listen, when was the last time you paid rent, man?”

“Uh, it’s been a while, honestly.”

“Damn, look, I think you just got evicted. I saw management changing your locks. Totally sucks but I was able to grab some of your stuff. They were gonna toss it out. I wouldn’t go up there unless you got some cash. They’re looking for you, I guess.”

He gestured at a few boxes up against the wall. It wasn’t much, some clothes, chargers, and a handful of odds and ends. After a brief glance he saw something was missing and nearly panicked, but he assured himself it was well hidden. Erikson wouldn’t have known to look for it. Neither would management.

“Thanks for this,” Talon said. He appreciated his friend’s efforts, but his situation was deteriorating in a frightening way. Erikson shifted his weight in the doorway.

“Take what you need man, I’ll look after the rest for ya. I’d offer to let you crash at mine, but yeah,” he said. “It’s early, the AC’s still serving, come with me.”

Talon Alverez had no money, no phone, and now no place to live. In desperation, he found himself nodding in agreement. His stomach immediately dropped, pulse quickened, and his palms began to sweat. Was he really doing this? Could he? He thought about his parents and started to feel sick, worse than the acidic gurgle of hunger. Was it a betrayal to his mother and father to even consider it? To himself? But he was hungry and didn’t know where his next meal was coming from. He felt suddenly outside of himself, like he was watching someone else. That made it easier.

The two men passed video banners advertising massage parlors, arcades and of course the stream. It showed a girl cliff diving; a celebrity eating a rare delicacy; two men fighting, all from the user’s point of view.

“So, you alright?”

“Not really.”

“Oh, right. Obviously not. I mean, you’ve just seemed off for a while now. Since I met you, I guess.”

“You’re right. It’s not just my place. I have no content. No one is buying anymore. I’m completely broke.”

His friend could only nod in sympathy.

The AC camps could be found in most low-income neighborhoods. There was one a few blocks away. It was composed of a series of semi-permanent tents. It looked like vendor’s row at a music festival. A chain-link fence guarded the whole thing from outsiders. Talon actively avoided the place and approaching it sent him into a panic. Erikson seemed to know his way around and Talon followed him in a fugue. Sweat beaded his forehead, palms clammy. He couldn’t still his heart and the world felt out of focus. As they passed through the open gate someone shoved a flyer into Talon’s hands.

THE ANTHROPOPHAGIST COLLECTIVE

In the year 2025 our benevolent lawmakers saw fit to legalize the consumption and distribution of human flesh. Our collective was formed soon after. We are a coalition of likeminded individuals looking only to better our communities. However, we are unable to take even fledgling steps without first addressing the stigma that plagues us. To that effect, here are a list of facts:

• We do not kill people for food.

• We do not assist suicide.

• All meat and byproducts are ethically sourced.

• We do not farm meat.

• Anthropophagy is not just cannibalism it is a form of recycling.

The mess-tent was like any other soup kitchen. There were rows of picnic tables, and a serving station. They grabbed trays and got in line. Before long, they both had a roll, bowl of stew and cup of coffee. Ingredients were not listed. Was the roll made from bone flour? Was the coffee spiced with blood? Was he about to eat someone’s mother? The thought left him shaking, close to vomiting.

Erikson began eating without any small talk. Talon watched him spear a chunk of meat from his soup and wolf it down. He looked at his own bowl. The broth was red, greasy.

“Look,” Talon said. “I appreciate your help, but I can’t do this.”

Erikson just shrugged and reached for Talon’s tray. “No worries, man.”

He wanted to throw the tray in his face, tell him he would never be so desperate, but he was hungry, and had come willingly. As he left the camp, Talon thrust the flyer at the man who had given it to him.

“Come back anytime,” he said chuckling.

People often pontificate on the things they would and would not do but in Talon’s experience you never know how you will react to something until you’re in the moment. When his parents died, an uncle he had never met, decided a burial wasn’t warranted. Their bodies were sold and processed for food. The fact haunted him. Someone, possibly many people, ate his mom and dad. He swore to himself he would never turn cannibal but with hunger burning his esophagus he had followed Erikson. He realized he didn’t know what he was capable of, what he was willing to do to survive.

Eventually, he found himself at the apartment block. The locks on his door had been changed and an eviction notice posted. After looking over his shoulder, he forced the lock. It was flimsy and gave easily. The room was mostly empty. His furniture and the last of his stuff was piled in a corner. None of it mattered. There was only one thing he needed.

One wall of the studio had a row of drawers. With a little finesse the bottom drawer slid out. He had painted a bit of plastic and cut it to size. It fit perfectly in the space beneath the drawer. There was a hole at the far end that worked like a handle. He fished it out and tossed it aside. Relief was instantaneous. His log was safe.

Talon was a private content coordinator. The stream allowed users to share their memories but there was a private market for users with a full sensory rig. It was more than a POV of someone’s memory. It was a sensual experience, visceral. He sold his memories to the highest bidder or through a clinic if he was desperate. The difference between rig work and the stream was that he lost everything. It was cleaved away. No longer his.

That was why he kept the log. A list of everything he’d sold. Everything lost. It was a pocket-sized moleskin journal. He stashed it in his coat and slipped out again.

Sick from hunger and with nowhere to go, he headed downtown. At a public charging station, he caught his breath. He watched a video banner of the stream. A man was greeted by his dog. A family visited a national monument. Someone in a ski mask spouted conspiracy theories while looking in a hand mirror.

Soon, the bars and lounges were closing. Crowds of people were making their way to 24-hour environs. The casinos and arcades never closed.

Talon noticed a young guy walking alone. Old instincts clicked on. The guy was obviously very drunk. Forcing nonchalance, Talon sidled up behind him. Like they were old friends, he wrapped his arms around the stranger’s shoulders and steered him in a different direction.

“Hey buddy. Let me help you to your car.”

“Apartment’s this way,” he slurred.

“Yeah, yeah, come on. I’ll get ya home.”

No one even glanced at them. Before long, he had the guy in a blind alley. He only protested slightly as Talon searched his pockets, took his devices and wallet. Then checked his shoes size (guy had small feet) before he took them and left.

He pocketed all the cards, cash and vouchers and threw the wallet out. It was certified human leather. Bile scorched his throat. The shoes and phone were easy to sell. He knew a few low-level fences.

The first thing he did with the cash was get something to eat, coffee milk with nutrient infusions and a bacon egg and cheese from a bodega. It was lab grown but it beat cannibalism. Talon had stolen before, often and felt no guilt. In his old life he was a pick pocket and a stick up.

When he was sixteen someone told him about the rig clinics and the private market. People wanted his memories, wanted to feel what he felt. At first it was baffling. Why would someone want to relive his life (the hunger, the beatings, the poverty) but the money was okay. It was enough to live on, enough to stop robbing tourists. When he ran out of memories he created content, sold sunsets and cityscapes but now no one was buying. He didn’t know what people wanted.

He had nowhere to go so he went to an arcade casino. The place was dim but grossly appointed with neon, the floors a garish purple pattern. Lights flashed, the wheel of fortune spun, people chain smoked, drank, ate lab grown crab meat at the buffet. Sex workers and pushers eyed prospective clients. Somewhere, a slot machine paid out big. Somewhere else a guy mortgaged his house for another round of dice.

The sensory rigs were tucked away in the back. He plugged in. When living memories all you needed was the chair and helmet. None of the drugs, or invasive sensors were required. He already knew what he wanted: Pet the Cat.

Pet the Cat was the first successful sensory download, the first stolen memory. It was also one of the cheapest. Talon felt an intense connection to the memory. He had sold so many of his own he was possessive of it.

The test user had been a nine-year-old girl. She was about to get her first pet. Her excitement was tangible, overpowering. She laughed riotously and you laughed with her. The kitten hopped out of its box. They locked eyes, and it was love at first sight, unconditional love. Soon, the cat was in her lap, and she pet the cat.

Talon pet the cat too. He lived in that moment, felt the softness of its fur, breathed in the musty animal odor. He pet the cat and pet the cat until he was so lost he was practically asleep. He pet the cat.

He had done so much sensory work he was able to hijack the memory, use it for his own purposes and get something like sleep. After all, he had nowhere to go.

At some point he received a notification, an invite to a private chat.

The chat looked like the casino’s bar. A rail thin avatar was waiting for him in a high-backed chair. Her hair was done up in an elaborate victory roll. It was an expensive avatar and he felt underdressed next to her.

“Pet the cat, classic.”

“Do I know you?”

“No, but I know you, Señor Alverez. Come to my office. I’ll send an escort now.”

He logged off. There was no sense of time in the casino. He didn’t know if it was day or night. A woman with an anonymity veil was waiting for him, hands crossed behind her back.

“Come along please.”

“What is this about?”

“Her ladyship wishes to speak with you.”

“Got it.”

Talon had been in enough dicey situations that he understood he didn’t have a choice. This woman was likely the casino’s fixer, the elite guard. The manager’s office looked more like a private room at a lounge then a place for conducting business. The door sealed seamlessly into the wall as he entered. Overstuffed leather couches lined the walls. There was a holo, screens on every wall and a few tables scattered about.

A woman was sitting on one of the couches. The guard took a seat in her proximity but not too close. Everything was very relaxed, but Talon was keyed up. The manager looked like her avatar: victory roll, tall and thin. Her eyes were so dark they looked black in the low light. She wore an elaborate silver pants suit. It gleamed like chain mail.

“May I introduce you to her ladyship manager-owner Lucinda Florez,” the guard said.

“Thank you for coming to see me.”

“Yes of course. You mentioned that you knew me. I feel a bit at a loss here.”

“I do know you. You’re quite famous in certain circles. Did you know that? I’ve experienced some of your work, haunting stuff, truly.”

“Uh, thank you. Yeah, thank you very much.”

“Do you believe in fate?”

“I’m not sure.”

“I do. Let’s start with that. I believe things happen for a reason. The likelihood of you wandering in here right when I have need of you is laughably low. I’d say next to impossible. Yet here you are. So, it must be fate. Don’t you agree?”

Talon could only nod.

“Our monitoring system showed that you were in something like REM sleep, a restorative cycle. You fell asleep petting the cat. That’s quite a feat. It takes talent, know how. It’s impressive. Look, I can tell you are in dire straits. You stink my friend. You look skinny. Your vitals are all over the place. You came here because you had nowhere else to go, am I right?”

“You’re not wrong.”

“I rarely am. Do I scare you?”

“No.”

“Good. I scare people sometimes, but I assure you I am a kind soul, a caring individual. You, my friend, are an artist and should be cared for, nurtured because art is a gift to all mankind and here you are delivered into my loving arms. Truly, this moment was meant to be.”

“You’re going to take care of me?”

“I’m going to offer you a job. Meaningful work.”

“I’m listening.”

“Up until now you have been flying blind, abused and manipulated by the clinics, not earning what you should. Right now, some pervert is salivating over your first kiss, but you have nothing to show for it, not even a memory. There is another way, a better way,” she stopped there and examined her nails.

“What way is that?” He couldn’t help himself.

“Start taking requests.”

“Requests?”

“Yes, mijo. I’m surprised you haven’t stumbled into request work already. It’s a burgeoning revenue stream for people like you, after all. I know many individuals with specific tastes that are willing to pay. No more guessing, no low balling.”

“What do I gotta do?”

“Have you heard of the cannibal lottery?”

***

The elite guard’s name was Mia. She drove Talon to a company apartment and inserted him into a suite. He’d only ever seen places like this on the stream. She showed him the amenities and how to adjust the apartment setting. There was a closet with a few simple outfits, food in the fridge, and screens in every room.

“Phone,” she said and tossed him a box. “It has three aesthetics: watch, lapel and handheld. Choose whichever you like. Eat something and clean yourself up. We need you feeling good, understand?”

He did. If someone was going to experience this, he couldn’t feel greasy, or hungry or sick. This was a couture experience. Lucinda had made that clear.

“My details are already on your device but is there anything you need from me in this moment?”

“Some information maybe?”

“Of course, ask me anything.”

“Do you think I’m going to make it out of this alive?”

“You absolutely will. There are laws that prevent killing people for food. These can be circumvented, obviously. But, more importantly: we can’t harvest memories from a corpse. However, that is not to say you will be unhurt, you understand? You could wind up a multiple amputee,” she said. There was the briefest of pauses, a quarter intake of breath. “Listen, her ladyship really is a good person. She really does respect you and want to help you but that doesn’t mean she’s not dangerous.”

She pulled off her veil and revealed two cyberized eyes. Her head was shaved, and she had cranial augments, hardware in her grey matter. She was missing an ear. The veil was slipped back on with fluid nonchalance.

“Let your imagination run wild,” she met his gaze. “Tomorrow’s the day, rest, wash. I’ll come for you when it’s time,” she said but something held her. “Look, you don’t have to do this. You’re a small community but there are others. We could find someone else. You could walk out, call it off and there is no recourse, but we take care of our own and all this could be yours. Think about that.”

The moment she left, he vomited in the kitchen sink. Was he really going to do this? He wasn’t scared of losing his limbs, or pain. It was the second half of the request. Even when he had been hollow from hunger he was unable to cross that line but he had gone to the AC with Erikson. He had toed the line and almost crossed it just because he was hungry. Here, now, he had the opportunity to make a calculated move, not an act of desperation out of necessity. He could take control of his own future. They were offering him a new way of life. That’s what it all came down too. He wouldn’t have to rob, cheat or sell himself.

“Do you believe in fate?” Her words echoed back at him.

He did what Mia the cyborg said. He drank filtered water, took a shower and changed his clothes. The food in the fridge was decadent by his standards but he couldn’t enjoy the meal.

When night came, he couldn’t sleep. He scrolled through the apartment settings and induced relaxation with the neural editor. It lured the GABA from his nervous system, and he slept without dreaming.

***

The cannibal lottery had its own arena. One side had seating and the other three massive screens. It was all on the stream, but subscription was required. Talon was in a locker room. He was alone. His hands were shaking, nervous sweat beaded his forehead.

Legal cannibalism had been a part of society for quite a while, and it was an expanding industry. The AC was one side of it, and the lottery was another, something funny to watch, to pass time with, falling somewhere between a gameshow and a sport. Of course there were others. The Church of Savory Eucharist was the fastest growing religion and made a sacrament of eating human livers. Every day, Pelops’ Café served animals fattened on human flesh and had hundreds of locations globally.

An attendant had come and gone. Before anything Talon was tested. He had to be safe to eat after all. They took a blood sample, tissue, and swabs. When everything came back okay, he was given a white robe to change into and several injections to further ensure the safety of the lottery’s consumers.

There was a light above the door. When it turned red, he was to go to the field. He tried to keep in mind that he was here for a reason, that this memory would be sold. Too soon the light buzzed a malevolent crimson, deep and bloody. He didn’t remember his parents well, but he found himself thinking about them. What he could remember and what was in the log. There was a constant contradiction, pain and happiness in almost equal measure. Did he really owe them? Did their death’s matter more than his life? He couldn’t understand why his parents had done these things or why people wanted to buy them. He didn’t know what people wanted.

He realized as he stepped out onto the field that in a way it was a kindness to be rid of these memories. It was a burden that only existed in his logs. He could read about it, see that it happened but it felt distant, unimaginable that it had actually happened to him and not some stranger.

He found himself in a loose queue of a dozen men and women. Their faces surprised him, ranging from indifference to excitement. There was remarkably little desperation, malaise, or panic. Most of them seemed resigned to their fate, if not eager. It occurred to him that he was likely the only one planning to sell the memories. Most participants were interested in the prizes or were simply clout chasers.

The first contestant stepped onto the podium, a middle-aged man with a mustache. There were two wheels of fortune. One was to determine what he would lose, if anything. The images ranged from a single finger to all four limbs. The other showed what he could win: money, cars, devices, any luxury you could imagine but always there was an additional prize of meat. No contestant went home empty handed.

The screens showed closeups of each wheel and the contestant.

He spun the first one. It made a satisfying bloop every time it passed a potential item. It was colorful. There were lights and the announcers said funny things. The wheel landed on left arm, above the elbow. The audience roared.

Dissection would come later. In the end he won a vacation. The cameras followed him into an operating room with cheerleaders behind protective glass.

“Be aggressive!” They chanted.

The limb was removed, and he was wheeled away to after care. He gave a thumbs up with his right hand. Soon, it was Talon’s turn.

***

“How’s it all feel?”

“Great. I think I prefer it.”

“You’re joking?”

“Maybe.”

Mia had picked him up for phase two. The pair had become fast friends. Talon had even shadowed her on a few jobs for the casino. They were headed to the spot, some high-end restaurant the client requested. Talon had won big and lost only medium. Later, Florez explained that they had always planned on replacing any lost limbs, but the knowledge might have ruined the moment for the client, so they decided to keep it a surprise. Mia glanced briefly at his new hand.

“Are you going in for the skin treatment?”

“Nah, I like seeing the hardware. It’s cool, right?”

“If you say so.”

Her augments told her that this was false bravado. He looked shaky, ill. Dark circles shadowed his eyes and his skin was red and blotchy like he’d been crying.

“It’s not the prosthetics,” he said after a moment. “It’s this.”

“What?”

“I don’t know if I can eat a person. I probably met them. I did. I mean we were all there, together.”

“I’ve had it. A lot of people have. Fifty years ago, people were weird about eating crickets, and lab grown meat. I don’t think it’s a big deal. Anyways, a job’s a job,” she said finally.

“It’s not that. I’m not just grossed out,” and so he told her about his parents.

“I hear ya. Look, I can’t help you work through something like that in a twenty-minute car ride but think of it like this: you only have to do this once and then the memory is gone.”

They sat in silence for a while. He reached into his pocket. The log was tattered, greasy from constant handling. He was distilled down into those pages but in another way, it wasn’t him at all. Everything in there had been sold, removed, like it never happened. Before he even realized it, the window was down, and the log was airborne.

“What was that?”

“Just some trash.”

“Oh okay,” and she rolled her eyes and laughed. After a moment he laughed too. It was a high forced sound.

The restaurant had been closed to other customers. It spoke to the client’s wealth. Talon’s winnings were being prepared. He was to eat alone and then his memories of the lottery and meal would be extracted.

When it finally arrived, and the server laid it in front of him, it looked like a stuffed pork dish. He retched as he brought the first morsel to his lips but forced it down. As it rolled around his mouth, his synapses became excited and something clicked. He loved it. Silent tears streamed down his cheeks. He loved it.

***

As they were hooking up the IV and plugging him in, he felt oddly calm.

“Mia, is this the company’s rig?”

“Yes, it is,” she said over the intercom.

“There’s more I want to give.”

“Let’s see how this goes.”

“No, I don’t want it sold. I just want them gone.”

“I understand. Give us whatever you got.”

When he woke, he was confused for a moment but there was an overwhelming feeling of lightness, he smiled at the people around him.

“Where am I?”

“Do you remember me?”

“Yeah, Mia. You’re my friend Mia.”

“That’s right,” she said. “Talon, you’re going to be okay.”

He clenched his fists experimentally and found himself staring at his hands. One was flesh and blood and one was blue steel. He wondered what had happened.

***

Derrick C. Salas is a writer and artist living in the Pacific Northwest. He has a four-year degree from Western Washington University.