Antor watched the clocks on his screen. It was midnight in some parts of the world. 1^st January, 2166. He refreshed the page. This took some time. He knew it would. There were at least 25,000,000 other users doing the same thing. His AirCooler beeped and coughed—he didn’t notice this. His eyes were fixed to the screen, glasses misty, cheeks greased with sweat. Any minute now and Heaven MILF would be his.

It had been 70 years since the last MILF. Advertisements for her began the year before. “IT IS THAT TIME AGAIN. THE TIME THAT COMES ONCE IN A CENTURY. ONCE IN A GENERATION. 1 OUT OF 100. AND THOSE ARE YOUR ODDS. BID NOW FOR THE NEXT MILF: HEAVEN MILF®.” The waitlist was long and expensive. Antor entered one portal to another to another until he finally paid for his spot at the top of the waitlist. He remembers that one day clearly. How he looked down at the many usernames below him, everyone a fraction of a second too late. BPhazarika25 was number two. AANTORR65 was, obviously, number one.

Everyone was after Heaven MILF. The many advantages of enjoying her body, thighs, ass, face, neck, were made evident in ads on forum-boards across the globe. “TO ENJOY HER IS TO ENJOY LIFE,” the ads said. But it was not the usual MILF this time—that much was certain. Beyond the many palpitations of pleasure she would give, it was said that Heaven MILF would extend your life. “WITH EACH THRUST, YOU WILL BE ADDING 1 YEAR TO YOUR LIFE. EACH THRUST. EACH THRUST. EACH THRUST. 1 YEAR. 1 YEAR. 1 YEAR.”

Pictures and videos and VR campaigns didn’t even run of what she would look like. It didn’t matter. She could look nothing like the beautiful, coquettish, full-bosomed MILF of 2096’s Dream MILF, “EVERYTHING YOU’D WANT,” and no one would care. She could look nothing like the smart, sexy sex kitten of 2026’s Bookish MILF, “THE FIRMEST NIPPLES,” and no one would care. Everyone from D-list celebrities to billionaires were after her. There was a frenzy, deep devotion, and media sensation, if you know where to look.

In Antor’s tight-spaced 9th floor apartment, he sat in one corner. His windows were closed. Curtains pulled. His chair and PC were moved well out of range. He had locked the front door before he sat down, heart beating and ready, before the computer, fingers on the touchpad. Beside him, the AirCooler beeped again. And again. And again. It was blinking red—something new had entered the atmosphere of his apartment.

Again, he didn’t notice. He waited, the site still loading. But then he heard a creak. A loud scraping of a chair. The rattle of metal and objects. Antor sprang to his feet. He walked closer to the door. In the next room was everything else—the bathroom, kitchen, dining, front door. He pressed the HerroX button on his ear, letting the security feed into his eyes.

There was someone in his house.

Visible in the shade of the next room, was a man, seated in a chair by the table. He had a plate in his hand, a knife in the other. “I know you can see me in there,” the shadowed man said. “You got a HerroX set up.” He pointed his knife up toward the camera. “You hide it well, but I can see it. Will you come out now?”

“I will,” Antor said. He pressed his ear, turning the camera off. He walked out into the next room. “Lights,” he said at the ceiling, and the lights came on.

The man at the table was middle-aged, with skin tanned and thoroughly pockmarked. His hair was black like tar, and cut in a style popular in the Ripping ‘30s: hair cut right up to the tip of the ears on one side—and down below the earlobe on the other. If his hairstyle didn’t age him, his clothes certainly did. He had on a sleeveless beige turtleneck, sleeveless burgundy coat, and a dark beige ab-shirt. The sleeveless fad was at least 5 years old by now. All Antor could think is that he looked older than he was.

“I wasn’t sent here to talk business,” the man at the table said. He put the knife down. “But I can talk business.”

On his plate—it was Antor’s plate—was half of a sandwich. Rudimentary stuff: wymn bread, thong tomato, babymaker cheese, and a slow-steamed duck brisket. “I hope you don’t mind,” the man said, “I took the liberty of going through your freezer.”

“That’s fine,” Antor said. “Who sent you? What exactly do you want? Are you going to eliminate me right here?”

“One question at a time, cowboy.” He took a bite out of the sandwich. “You should know I charge for questions,” he said, his mouth full.

“What did he pay you?” Antor asked.

“You know who sent me?”

“No,” Antor said.

“I figured you nerd-types know everything.” He picked up the knife again, pointing. “I bet it kills you inside not knowing, don’t it? But that’s fine. That’s why I’m here.”

“What do—”

“How about I ask the questions now, huh? That alright with you?”

“By all means.”

The man reached into his coat, pulling out a holographic clipping. “Recognize this?” He threw it on the table. It skidded down to Antor.

Antor picked it up. The clipping was about the size of a fingerprint. It was autoplaying videos of silhouetted, shapely women, writhing against black shapes of men, short but well-endowed. It had “MILF®” written on one corner of the clipping, and “HEAVEN MILF®” on the other. In the middle was inscribed a token number: #000000000000002.

“I know you recognize it,” said the man. “Where’s yours?”

“It hasn’t printed yet. The page is still refreshing,” Antor said, before looking back: “Or maybe it did.”

“I know what yours will say... It ain’t gonna say number 2, we both know that, don’t we?”

“Can I ask a question?”

“No,” the man said. “I was hired to eliminate you, Antor Shapla. You know how it goes. You would’ve done the same thing yourself.”

“I wouldn’t. I can’t,” Antor said. “Look around this little place. I couldn’t afford it.”

“Save the chickenshit for someone else. These are prime cuts,” the man said, tapping his plate. “Prime produce. And I spotted the HerroX first thing I got here. So, don’t play chickenshit with me.”

“Alright.”

“It’s like this, cowboy: That Heaven MILF isn’t for you to have. I was paid to eliminate you—obviously to a permanent end. However, if I were to be paid an additional 2.5CR, things would go down a lot smoother for you.”

“How smooth would that be?”

“This smooth: (1) You pay me 2.5CR. (2) You TransferX it to me right here, right now. (3) You give me your Heaven MILF clipping. (4) I leave your chickenshit apartment—you’ll never see me again. (5) I hand the clipping to my client. I’ll tell ‘em you’re unalive, and that’s that. You get me? You’re unalive. You leave. No one ever sees you—not in Dhaka-1, Dhaka-2, Dhaka-3, nowhere.”

Antor pressed his ear. He scrolled with his eyes and prepared a TransferX. “I’m sending 5.5CR. I’m more than doubling what you were paid.”

“Hmm,” said the man, “figured you’d do that.”

“I keep the clipping,” Antor started.

“Sure.”

“You leave, we forget any of this happened.”

“Sure.”

“But before you do, I want more thing.”

“The name of the guy who hired me.”

“Yes,” Antor said.

The man at the table pressed into his ear. “Incoming transfer from XBBD. That you, chief?”

“It is.”

“Accept,” the man at the table said. He put the knife down. “Always love doing business with you creeps. Just sit on your computers, dick in your hand, fighting for women who don’t mean shit. It’s always words and negotiation. Never lifting a finger.”

“Who hired you?”

The man eyed Antor, he saw something strange just then. He took another bite of the sandwich. “His name is Abu Bakker.”

“Who is Abu Bakker?”

“Him.” The man pointed at the clipping. “He lives in H13/1, R308, in Gulshan 5, Dhaka-2. He wants Heaven MILF—more than you. Needs it, too.”

“Is that right?” Antor said.

“Yeah,” the man said, before pausing. “You know what I been wondering? What do you get out of it? Is it the life, or the sex? That’s what I been wondering. With him, I can tell. With you, I don’t know. You’re what, 30-something? What d’you want, more life? I can get you more life. You heard of livranium? That’s what they’re using on her, I’m sure. It’s already out—for one-tenth of what you paid for, for her. I can get it for you, if that’s what—”

“It’s not,” Antor said. He was looking at his watch. “This is taking longer than I expected.”

“Man, fuck you. I don’t get you,” the man said. “I’ll be out of your shithole as soon as my transfer’s complete.”

“No, not this,” Antor said. “That.” He pointed at the plate, the sandwich. “I poisoned every food in my house. I assumed someone would try to come and eliminate me.”

“What was that, rat-fuck? Don’t you chickenshit me, you p—”

“I’m not chickenshitting you.”

“Then wha—” the man’s speech stopped, sharply. “Bh—” he retched. His eyes searched frantically—the plate, the table, the room, something. Veins were forming from beneath his shirt, crawling up to the throat. He retched again, body shaking, again, again. Then: “Blug—” He began vomiting, red vomit, profusely. At once. Large chunks spread about the table. It was green and yellow along with the red.

“My timing wasn’t far off, then,” Antor said, pressing buttons on his watch.

The vomit kept pooling, an endless stream. His teeth began to loosen, twist the other way. And as the vomit increased, one by one, those teeth fell out, some flying. And so, too, did the large masses and clogs of blown arteries and large vessels, flying out all, more and more, until ultimately, a large lump made its way up through the sternum, up through the throat, up the larynx, but then it stuck. Lodged there at the back of the mouth, the lump shook and grew. The vomit was all now stuck under its weight, pushing up, pushing out. The man’s neck began growing from the back, swelling and swelling and then the back of his head burst, spurting all that was in him out. Everywhere. The stream, the chunks, bits and pieces of the lump plopped out. Slowly, slowly, the vomit ended.

Antor pressed his ear. “Cancel the transfer.”

He looked at the remains of the man on the chair and table. He was no more.

Antor looked upon the mess, the puddle on the floor. “How far is H13/1, R308, Gulshan 5, Dhaka-2?”

It was sometime well past midnight. The city was lit green and LCD-blue. There were only the smiles of billboard faces and taxi sides. Everyone else was home, or on their way home. Antor was out on foot. An ant down there. He’d taken a capsule lift from Dhaka-3 to Dhaka-2. The lift moved sideways and sideways. Antor saw the skyscrapers grow, the lights undarken, the cars travelling on roads and then the sky, higher and higher.

When he stepped out, he was in Dhaka-2. There was a full deck of 90-something passengers, but they all dispersed behind him, melding with the city’s many streets and stations. H13/1, R308, Gulshan 5 is 1.4 kilometers to your right.

Abu Bakker’s house was large, palatial, and out of the way. There were fewer cars parked on the road, fewer buildings and tall smiles. You have arriv— Antor pressed the HerroX off.

He walked up the ramp to the house and its large front gates parted automatically. He entered the lobby, walked past empty sofas and security posts. The place was barely lit. Antor could hear the HerroX cameras above him squeak and turn, following him to the elevator. The building had two floors: the first floor appeared like one long waiting room. Abu Bakker must live on the second.

Antor got on the elevator and it automatically went up.

A few seconds, and the doors parted to a mostly black level. Antor went in. The elevator closed behind him and the lights dimmed. He walked in the darkness—near total darkness—you could only make out the smooth white shapes of aluminum furniture.

“Antor Shapla,” said a voice, from somewhere. Antor traced it to the left-hand corner. He saw the outline of a man there. “AANTORR65,” the voice added. Antor walked toward him.

“Lamp light,” said the voice, and a soft spotlight fell on a corner of the house. But not in front of Antor—it was at the opposite end of the room. The man he’d seen in front of him was gone. Antor turned behind him to see, far-away, a man seated in a hoverchair. The man laughed.

“Sorry for the parlor trick,” he said. “It will be the last, I promise.”

“You have HerroX Pro V4,” Antor said. “Didn’t realize it hit the market.”

“It didn’t,” the man said. He twirled his finger. “Come, AANTORR65. Come. Saved you a seat.” Another hoverchair rose slowly from the floor.

Antor made his way over. He saw details of the man more clearly. He was old—older than anyone he’d ever seen. Wrinkles ran from his forehead, drooping down to his brows, covering half of his eyes. It’s a wonder how he saw. His cheeks were sunken. His nose was small, flat, more bone than flesh. His lips were thin and dark. There were wrinkles and folds all about his face, but were no blemishes anywhere. The skin was smooth and pink. His hair was slicked back, the same color as him—you’d almost not notice until he moves.

“Abu Bakker?” Antor asked. “BPhazarika25?”

“Sit, sit,” the man said. “And yes.”

Antor sat down slowly, eyeing the old man the whole time.

Abu Bakker pressed buttons on his chair, and a small, circular table rose up between the two of them. A gold-metal glass, with a lid on, stood in the middle. Abu Bakker bent and removed the lid. A bubbling, black-red liquid sloshed in circles inside. “Please,” the old man said, “help yourself.”

Antor reached into his pocket and took out the #000000000000002 clipping. He placed it on the small table.

“I suppose you want to get right down to it,” Abu Bakker said.

“If it’s not too much to ask,” Antor replied.

“By all means,” Abu Bakker said. “Well, you’re here, so I guess Lutfor did his job. Tell me, how did you leave poor old Lutfor— uh, the man I sent you?”

“The man you sent to eliminate me?”

“To fetch you,” Abu Bakker corrected. “I imagine Lutfor offered to buy him out, hmm? Double, or triple, perhaps? I knew he would. That’s why I met him in my house, in person. To bring you here. I knew you’d kill him, and I knew you’d come.”

“And now I’m here.”

“Obstinate,” Abu Bakker said. “You’re obstinate. No one can tell you otherwise, ever, can they?”

Antor looked around the darkened room, scouting its edges.

“The cameras are all off. And I’ve sent everybody home for the night. We’re alone,” Abu Bakker assured.

“I don’t intend to sell her.”

“You don’t need the money, is that it?”

“I’m not selling.”

“I’ve inquired about your finances,” Abu Bakker said, leaning forward, “I’ve seen the statements… savings… earnings. You’ve saved, saved, saved—these last many years, you have worked to the bone, working from your computer. You’ve amassed a good fortune. And you save every penny, until suddenly... last year. A substantial MILF bid. HerroX setup. Cybersecurity. Finer food, finer wine. You’ve seen some listings, too—here in Dhaka-2. You’re moving up in the world?”


Antor had his eyes to the floor. He began, after a pause, “I’ve done my research on you, as well.” He looked up. “With all due respect—”

“With all due respect, then, you know me,” Abu Bakker said. “Every code you’ve ever written, every work you’ve ever done, that HerroX that you’ve purchased, it is all me. It is off the back of my work. All that I’ve ever done. And you’re like me, I can see that. And you even beat me. Got to Heaven MILF before me. I commend you, I do. But I have to ask. Why do you do this? Keep doing this? You’re like me, yes. But, with all due respect, you are not a great pervert.”

“I’m sorry,” Antor said, “I’m not selling.”

Abu Bakker bent his head. There were no bald spots; a perfect hairline. He scratched at the back of his neck. “I’ll be honest,” he said. “I brought you here to be honest. No security, no eliminators, no cameras. I know intimidation won’t work on a man like you, but you can’t fault me for trying. I have to try everything, because she means everything. You don’t know how much.”

The old man’s eyes settled on the table. He reached out and fingered the clipping. “Do you know what it is to live for something?”

“You can buy livranium,” Antor said. “Wouldn’t be hard for a man like you. Just send someone—”

“Boy, all of me is livranium,” Abu Bakker said, lifting his head. “I take it every hour. Before they were done testing it, I’ve been taking it. But I am not talking about living… I’m talking about living for something.”

His eyes turned back down to the clipping. “Do you remember the last MILF?”

“Vaguely,” Antor said. “Dream MILF?”

“Yes. Dream MILF. She was true to name. ‘EVERYTHING YOU’D WANT.’ They made her special. Of course, they are all special, but this one was special, you know how? It was the way they advertised her. It was genius. The campaign went like this: the image of Dream MILF—her lips, her eyes, those breasts, her calves, the toes—was projected into the dreams of each and every red-blooded man. We all saw her, at the same time, every night. It was called MILFcasting. And we all dreamed and longed for her.

“I got on the waitlist before everyone, bid before everyone, outbid everyone,” Abu Bakker continued. “I tracked down the MILF server’s IP address, right down to the area and time zone. I waited for the clock to strike midnight. It was an island somewhere in Thailand. And I waited and I bid. I got her. All to myself. I printed my clipping, I pushed it into the drive and she came to me, waiting for me by my bedroom. But something happened. Do you know what?”

“Vaguely,” Antor answered.

“She unzipped me. I threw her to the bed. I heard the springs bounce, shrieking to the pleasures of her body already. I threw my shirt, my clothes, I don’t know where. Hers had already slipped off, some hanging off the edge of my bed. I slipped in slowly, one knee at a time over her body, and I looked it over. Her breasts looked right back at me. She was shy, I could tell, but not shy of her body. She said, “Come inside,” and I went in, taking in every inch as I could of her. And that’s when it happened. Maybe I didn’t notice before, but it started with her lips. They disappeared for a moment—static in its place. Red, blue, green, black, white noise. Then her breasts disappeared. I could touch them, but they weren’t there. Static, white noise. They disappeared then came back, disappeared then came back. All of her began glitching in this same way: her thighs, her neck, her legs, her eyes, they came and went, came and went. I felt myself shrivel inside of her; I backed away. I lost her, though she was lying there right before me, those same words hanging off her lips. “Come inside.”

“What happened was every man was thinking of her still. And as they dreamed, fantasized, those magic parts of her body went with them to their dreams... their mind’s eyes, running up and down her like mine did. They were enjoying her like I was. I crawled out of bed. Turned back once more at her. Those hot-smooth curves were there a moment, and gone the next, turned to sharp, jagged shapes, figures like data, automations replacing skin—mounds of flesh gone to sputterings and distortions. I pulled out the clipping from the computer. I did this so harshly that it broke, shattered into million broken circuits. That was the end of her… The MILF Corporations, I imagine, wants this forgotten. Lost to the last century. I imagine they made Heaven MILF the way they did to rectify things. She promises life, I believe?”

“She does,” Antor answered. “You didn’t know that?”

“I didn’t pay too much mind to the advertising this time around. It doesn’t matter to me what she looks like, what they promise. I just want her back. She could be anybody, look like anyone.”

Antor observed the gold-metal glass. The black-red drink glimmered in the light. “What’s in the drink?” Antor held the glass by the stem.

“I’ve signed this house over to you.”

“What?”

“Everything is in your name,” Abu Bakker said. “The house is yours, the property, the cars, computers, house, cybersecurity. I have signed everything over to you. You don’t have to lift a finger. It’s been done already. Just give me your clipping. I have a small loft, at the edge of Gulshan 3. Just let me have the clipping and be with her—alone—and that’s it.”

“You’re—”

“This is what you want,” Abu Bakker said, “isn’t it?”

Antor looked around.

“What are you? Is this not what you want?” Abu Bakker asked, sharply, a snarl curling up beneath the old wrinkles. “What sort of man are you?”

“I– It is,” Antor said.

“It’s yours now. Just reach into that pocket, give me your clipping. I’ve seen it in the scan, I know it’s there. Just hand it to me and have everything,” Abu Bakker said. “Everything. Everything, everything.”

Antor saw his black-red reflection in the glass, circling, bubbling. He put the drink down. “Who is this for?” he asked.

“Not you.”

“Is it for you?”

“No,” Abu Bakker replied. He looked him in the eyes.

They stared at each other for what felt like a minute, two minutes. Antor shook his head. He got up.

“No,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

“What? What do you mean?”

“I’m not giving her to you. I’m sorry.”

The old man didn’t get up. He only glared. “What would you know, huh? What would you know what to do with a woman like that? You, you punk. To seize her in your arms, to take her home, and make her say ‘Mickey Mouse?’ Huh? Would you know the first thing about that?”

“I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, you’re sorry. You know what you’re choosing between? My life and being with her. You punk.” He grabbed the gold-metal glass and took it in his hand. Some of the drink sloshed out, sprinkling the carpet and furniture. It burned through the fabric and dissolved white aluminum.

“I’m sorry.”

“Just do one thing for me, will you?” Abu Bakker said, taking the glass to his lip. “Just one thing. Fuck her right.”

“Don’t talk about her like that,” Antor snapped.

“Oh, is that what it is?” Abu Bakker said, and he sipped the drink. One long, long, long, whole, gulp. Some of it oozed from the sides of his mouth, drippling down to his clothes, arms, legs, shoes. They were corroding, consuming, leather, cloth, skin.

By the time he put it down, there was froth—white, and black with secretion—foaming from his mouth. He threw the glass across the floor. It didn’t break, it rattled and rattled and rattled.

The old man examined his hands and arms. There were veins, black and blue and green, crawling from the fingertips to the forearms. Reaching higher and higher. And within an instant his arms hung flaccid from the sockets, drooping down from the sides of the hoverchair. He reclined back, head to the ceiling. “Sky… light,” he said. But his voice was too dim. He only saw the matte finish of the ceiling. More of the foam, secretion gushed from his mouth, and as the liquid slid, the flesh beneath it blistered. His skin grew paler and paler, submerged mostly in the white-black liquid. His body was still. It was his head and legs that mostly jerked. “S’y… ‘igh’,” he murmured, his voice a gurgle lodged in the throat. “S’y… ‘igh’.”

Antor reached into his pocket and took his #000000000000001 clipping out. “Computer?” he asked, testing the HerroX Pro V4 that was now his.

“Yes,” it replied.

“Where’s the PC?” he asked, “and the bedroom.”

“To your left, start of hallway. And to the right, end of hallway.”

Antor left the area and made for the hallway. He turned to behold Abu Bakker. He was entirely white now and melting, his flesh rotting colorlessly and in seconds. One of his eyes had fallen, was floating now in the puddle by his legs. Abu Bakker was no more.



Antor opened the computer drive and pushed his #000000000000001 clipping in.

“WHERE WOULD YOU LIKE HER?” came a message prompt in his eyes.

“Where does she normally come?” he asked back.

“BED ROOM,” came the return prompt.

“Bed room,” he answered. Then he heard a rumbling and a screeching sound. It was from the next room.

He walked to the end of the hallway, stopping at the door on the right. He pressed his ear against the wood. There was someone inside. He backed a little. “Open door,” he said, and it slid open.

There was a woman in there. She was beautiful, slightly shorter than Antor. He didn’t look her much in the eye. “Oh, there you are, baby,” Heaven MILF said.

“Hey,” said Antor.

“Where do you want me, baby?” Heaven MILF asked. “I’ve been looking at all the angles in the room, and I think—”

“No,” said Antor.

“No, baby?”

“Not that,” said Antor. He walked into the room. The door closed behind him. He sat on the bed.

She sat down next to him. “What do you want me to do, baby?” Heaven MILF asked.

“Talk,” replied Antor. “Do you know how to talk?”

“No, baby.”

“I killed the bad guy,” said Antor.

“I’m so proud of you, baby.”

“He’s gone. They’re gone,” said Antor. He turned his head up, looking her in the eyes. “I did it all for you.”

“Where do you want me, baby?”

“I gave up everything for you,” said Antor. “Wasn’t it for you?”

“I think I love you, baby.”

“You do?”

“Yes, baby.”

“Do you believe in love?”

“Yes, baby.”

“Do you believe in love?”

“Yes, baby.”

“I love you, baby.”

“I love you, baby.”

“I’m so proud of you, baby.”

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