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Consent




 

Consent

 


“Mmm,” Patnixon purred as Henrykissinger unlocked his lips from hers.

“Are you ready for the consent form?” Henrykissinger said, reaching for his iPhone18.

“Mm-hmm.” Patnixon slid her thumb down her perspiring cleavage and pressed it onto the fingerprint box of the consent form displayed on the screen. The box turned green and closed. Henrykissinger smiled. Patnixon smiled. A new form popped up on the screen. A breathalyzer test.

Henrykissinger opened the drawer of his side table and pulled out a long tube with a small box at the end. He attached the box to the miniport of the iPhone. “Blow,” he said, inserting the tube in Patnixon’s mouth. Patnixon’s cheeks ballooned like a trumpet player’s. They watched. The screen turned orange. Calibration recertification overdue. Patnixon frowned. Henrykissinger frowned.

“You have the MobileCondoms app?” Patnixon said. Henrykissinger nodded. “Order a gross of condoms. The delivery technician has a breathalyzer we can use.”

“I already have two grosses.” Henrykissinger took a deep breath, just like a prisoner would do back when they used the gas chamber, right before they released the gas.

“Oh?” Patnixon said. “You told the dating coach we were in an impending exclusory courting association.”

“They’re really old, expired probably. I should order new ones, you know, for us,” Henrykissinger said, tapping the MobileCondoms icon. “What the hell, I’ll order another two gross. We’ll use them, right?” Henrykissinger smiled an unconvincing smile.

Patnixon frowned. “Let’s check the expiration dates,” she said. “The Red Meadows Homeless Shelter is always looking for condom donations, if they’re not too old.”

“Sure,” Henrykissinger said, getting up from the couch. “I’ll be right back.”

Patnixon sat up and grabbed the bottle of Jim Beam mango-peach flavored bourbon from the coffee table. She took a deep breath and chugged down a third of the bottle.

A couple of minutes later the doorbell rang. Henrykissinger rushed out with two boxes of condoms in his hand, which he held behind his back as he opened the door to the MobileCondoms delivery technician.

Patnixon took another slug from the bottle and waved to the delivery technician.  “I need the breathalyzer.”

 
Andrew Hogan

 

Andrew Hogan has published more than ninety works of fiction in the Sandscript, OASIS Journal (1st Prize, Fiction 2014),The Legendary, Widespread Fear of Monkeys, Hobo Pancakes, Twisted Dreams, Long Story Short, The Lorelei Signal, Silver Blade, Thick Jam, Copperfield Review, Fabula Argentea, The Blue Guitar Magazine, Shalla Magazine, Defenestration, Mobius, Grim Corps, Coming Around Again Anthology, Former People, Thrice, Foliate Oak Literary Magazine, Black Market Lit, Paragraph Line, Subtopian Magazine, Pine+Basil, Festival Writer: Unpublishable, Fiction on the Web.

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