The following document (recently donated to the Museum of Fragments) was found in the ruins of Manchester. As with all our exhibits, it raises more questions than it answers. Several attempts have been made at completing the two extant pages; we prefer it as it stands. A faint glimpse of a long-lost world. Date: unknown. Please note: The museum advises that the fragment contains information of an adult nature. View at own risk.

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A-LIFE n. abbreviation of artifaecial life; the process by which sinformation is evolved until it simulates, and is no longer distinguishable from real life; any product of this process.

AMOUR n. human love for a fellow creature or machine.

ANAL-YSIS n. sinformation taken via the anus.

A.N.U.S. n. abbreviation of Auxiliary Nurturing System. Aurafice common to both male and female machines (and therefore seen as superior to gender-specific models) used for the introduction of artifaecial information to the body. Compare Vaginode.

APHRODATA n. the female goddess input into nymphomation; also known as Intra-Venus. Lover of Zuice.

ARTIFAECIAL a. not originating in real life; an imitation of life.

ATTRACTION n. the measure of how much beauty a sinput possesses. Measured in attractons.

ATTRACTON n. the unit by which attraction is measured. One attracton is equal to pure blandness, ten attractons equals pure beauty.

AURAFICE n. an orifice in the body specially designed for the taking of nymphomation.

AUTOGEN n. product of hatch technology.

BABY n. the outcome of unprotected sex between a human male and a female.

BABY-DATA n. the outcome of unprotected sex between a mail sinput and a femail in a nymphomatic system.

BASTADATA n. an illegal offspring of two sinputs which are not properly married in nymphomation.

BEAUTY n. the amount of attraction installed in a sinput in order to facilitate nymphomation. Compare with Ugliness.

BIO-PLASTIC n. the material from which biorgs are made.

BIORG n. a loving combination of flesh and machine.

BIORGASM n. what happens to a biorg when nymphomation takes hold.

BIORGY n. what biorgs get up to when too much nymphomation is introduced to their systems.

BLOW JOB n. (sl) another name for cunnilogo or fellatio.

BLOW-UP DOLL n. an early attempt at an artifaecial doll, which allowed humans to have sex with inanimate matter.

BORBI DOLL n. the most sophisicated doll of the early twenty-first century. The girlfriend of RoboKen with whom she produced the baby-data called Borble.

BORBLE n. the first true child of the nymphomation. The child as product, where the product is the future.

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In the bathroom, combing some grease in the hair, suddenly this blue shiver lit through me. Pointed little fingernail scratchings, back of the neck, tingles. From the street below, the noise of the crowd; gathering laughter, making blaze. And there's me with the deep skull rendezvous. Feeling so up for it so suddenly, I was in two minds to maybe, yeah, go answer the call, go fetch Dugg, tell him to bring the dark along. A shadow in the mirror, lingering smile, just behind and ten miles away. A hint of pheromone, a taste of sugar. If you can't get laid on the last night of the year, well when can you?

Trouble lies along that way, which is why. Last time I'd let him out, Dugg had gone a little wild on me, despite the promises. I was scared of him doing wrong, ruining it for both of us. He could sleep this time.

I shake off the feeling, turn around; the shadow turns with me, and then it's gone.

Vanished.

When I get to the club, of course everyone's twice-ways drunk and half-past wild already, with five hours still to go till midnight's global kiss. I was used to being the loner by now, well practised at getting off on other people's getting off, but the fever of the countdown caught me unawares and strung out. The madness was on sale and the dancers were circling each other, male and female, like animals. I could taste the sex in the air, like a blind dog can feel the moon rise. I just couldn't connect to it. I did the dance, drank the booze, even talked to a girl or two, tried to forget the incident in the bathroom. Then the cops came to get me, scouring the crowd.

Ten minutes later I was being driven towards Old Trafford, where the Monastery is, which is the street name for the sex-offenders' prisonship. Along the wet streets, people were dancing, which just made me bite down harder. The chief cop, a woman called Kinsey, had simply told me that my shadow had escaped. Then she'd shut up, left me alone in the fear, because Dugg was a peaceful little pervert usually, and nobody, as far as I knew, had ever escaped from the Monastery before.

My questions to Kinsey brought no response, not until we actually came within sight of the prison. I wanted to know how Dugg had managed it.

'You give it a name?' was all she said, and the way she said it made me ache with shame, because I know the normals just don't understand.

The Monastery ship was looming large across the river, with all its lights misted by the downpour, and a wailing from the sirens. This vast floating bulk of caged life. And as we drove over the road bridge to the other side…

Towards the other side…

Always, traversing this bridge in happier times, I had sensed the meaning of those words, and welcomed it. Now I was dreading the passage. Again I pressed the cop woman for details. 'At least tell me when he escaped,' I asked.

'Is the time important?' Kinsey replied. 'Did you feel something?'

I nodded.

Then she told me the time of his escape, and of course it was 6.35, right when I was greasing the hair, and the feel had sizzled me.

It's strange, but you always know when the darkness is feeling lonely. I might be down in London on business for instance, no matter, I can feel it. In boardrooms and offices, on trains or in taxis, wherever I am; when Dugg wants to fuck, somehow it gets through to me. It's not like I get a sudden erection or anything crude like that, because that's impossible without Dugg being there; more a feeling of being needed, deep down, like I said, in the skull. The shiver, the tingle, whatever.

'But how?' I asked. 'I mean, it's not possible, is it?'

Kinsey turned away as the car swung into the dockyard, where a frazzled guard checked our IDs. On the wall beside him someone had sprayed the words gnomes go home. Around the gateway a bunch of applicants were waiting, desolate and soaked through. The prison must've called off all hand-overs, because this sorry crowd was shouting at the guards to let them inside.

No deal.

But we went through easy, and as the car pulled to a halt, already I was feeling the guilt come over me; if only I'd let Dugg out. If only. He was allowed out five days a year and I'd only used up four of them. He was due another, and with the year coming to a halt, he must've been terribly desperate.

But escape? How could he do that? He'd been well behaved on all previous leave-days, following the rules, well except for the last one, but that was a blip perversion, nothing serious. A few more months, he was due out for good, and I know how much he's been looking forward to his freedom. Believe me, I know.

What could have made him so crazy?

In 1999 I was classified as a Class E sexual pervert, which is the weakest kind, no trouble if properly controlled. Well there you go, because one day I let the thing inside get out of hand. It wasn't a serious incident, and nobody got hurt, at least no-one except myself, and that's what I'd paid for anyway. But the act got reported by some professional voyeur, and the next thing I was dragged before a judge, who ordered the pain inside me removed.