ASH DIVERS
A TOPICAL TALE by strzeka (01/25)
With respect to the victims of the 2025 winter wildfires in Los Angeles
The lights in this unrenovated studio were the old kind. They not only lit the place as brightly as the sun, they also made it as hot. Make‑up stood by just off camera, ready to apply yet another layer of antiperspirant foundation to the faces of anchor MacKenzey Stilt and his guests. Luckily, the three interviewees this morning wore their own solutions to a sweaty visage. Their faces were covered with leather and steel masks and only their eyes were intermittently visible. Their heads were bald and glistened under the harsh lighting, almost as distracting as this morning’s star guest’s aluminum torso stump boot which allowed him some degree of mobility.
Anchor Montgomery Stilt welcomed his viewers back from a seven minute commercial break, hoping that the tantalising shot of Hadden Fennimore’s silvery half body onscreen for three seconds before the break was enough to pique the interest of viewers. Fennimore and his cohorts, Barclay Sandoval and Chandler Floyd, had encircled Stilt in the intervening period. A panopticon camera on the coffee table was used for close‑ups, otherwise studio shots from one solitary camera was used during cutaways. Stilt continued where he had left off in his teaser. He sounded excited, his speech too fast and an octave higher than his natural register. He sounded deranged.
– It was inevitable after the western suburbs were abandoned. Properties were protected by law enforcement for a few weeks and by private security companies for a few months. Then the rains came and turned everything to stone.
He looked expectantly at the half man next to him.
– Ain’t nothing like a shower a rain to turn a pile of burnt crap into concrete. If it been left for so long, it either not worth worrying for or it ain’t in any danger of being looted. Not until us Ash Divers come along, that is. Ha! Me and my crew reckoned to find the stuff that ain’t in danger.
– You’ve been wildly successful from what I hear.
– It’s what made us famous. The houses be gone, the yards be caked over but if you know where to look—man, that’s where the good stuff is. Down in the cellars what no‑one can find.
– You find them.
– Sure I do. When you’re as short as me with your eye on the ground all the time, you get to learn the lay of the land. You take a walk with me through the badland and I’ll show you how to strike pay dirt.
Fennimore laughed at his own audacity. His cohorts obediently joined in half a second later. Fennimore sure weren’t gonna be showing any tv audience his secrets.
– May we talk about how you came to be disabled, Hadden? It’s a remarkable tale of determination and inspiration.
– If you say so. I don’t see the inspiration in amputation myself but I am told by many people who tell me they are a-prayin for me that I am an inspiration to their soul. I call ballsheet. Ain’t no‑one gonna look at me grindin’ along in my casing through the empty boulevards in the ash and dust and muck and thinking, man, I wish I could have what he has. Tha’s just ballsheet, know’m sayin’?
– I understand. What actually happened? I understand it happened after the fires.
– Sure did. I was waiting for the place to cool down, both literally and figuratively, if you know what I’m sayin’. I knew that after a big fire, people just want to put it behind them, put it in the past and forget it. Bad karma, you know, man?
– Sure. Go on.
– They came back to pick up what they could find. A twisted heirloom. A burnt photo album with pictures of gran’ma. A kid’s teddy bear with its legs burned off. Just like me, haha!
– But that’s not how you lost your legs, is it, Hadden? I thought it was more dramatic.
– It sure was. You have time here to listen? I don’t wanna be interrupted by no insurance advertisement.
– No. Go ahead.
– So it was just about the first time we went searchin’ after everything cooled down, after the big rain. That’s when the security left. They din’t see no point parading along empty streets of black tree stumps. Tha’s when I decided to make my move, see? I know there ain’ gonna be nothin’ for pickin’ on the floor after the looters and thieves and general public assholes been there pickin’ through the sheet. The real pay dirt be underground, away from the fire.
– In the basements, as you say. But not every plot has an undiscovered basement on it, Hadden. How do you find the hidden basements with their treasure?
Stilt was personally curious despite the exhortations he could hear in his earpiece from the producer upstairs to get to the point. Hadden was quite determined not to reveal the truth, not all of it, especially not on local tv.
– They give off a different vibe, man. I can feel a change in the air. It’s kinda like gravity gets lighter when there’s pay dirt under ground.
It was a nod towards the truth. The truth was so intimately personal that it would never be broadcast anyway, even if it were accepted as genuine.
– So you’re able to sense some magnetic change in the ground if there’s a hollow basement under the crust of ashes on the surface?
– Sure! That’s exactly it. Like a magnetic mandala suddenly spinning different. That’s how it is, know’m sayin’?
Stilt was unsure if it was the kind of explanation his producer wished to hear but doubted the half man would be divulging his trade secrets in the hundred seconds remaining before the top of the hour newscast. He had not revealed how he lost his legs either. Upstairs was silent on the subject. He decided not to press his luck.
– And what do you do then, Hadden?
– Then I mark the spot with a big cross like on a pirate map so’s I can find it again. Actually, I shoot a panorama on my phone so I can recognise the place. I spin around on my stump and make a video for reference.
The producer’s voice in Stilt’s ear had ironically found the mention of Hadden Fennimore’s stump distasteful despite the metal‑clad stump being visible under Fennimore’s hoodie.
– Wind it up, Monty.
– That’s fascinating, Hadden. Thank you for coming in this morning, gentlemen. KMLA‑tv wishes you success in the future. And now over to Red Stiletto for the weather warnings and local news where you are.
He stared into the camera and revealed porcelain teeth in his best American smile for too long, until the red indicator lights on all video cameras blinked off. The interview had been completely useless, apart from filling the void between ad breaks.
– Thanks a lot, guys. That was great. Maybe we could have you back some time soon, maybe with someone whose jewelry you found.
– Sure, we could do that.
Sandoval and Floyd carried Fennimore across the studio to his trolley and lowered the aluminum casing between short supports which held the torso socket firmly in place. The floor manager offered them coffee in the green room but Fennimore had no interest in delaying departure. He pushed his trolley into action and scooted outside, followed by his crew. Floyd mounted his bike and arranged his gloved artificial hands onto the handlebar while Sandoval, the only non‑amputee of the group, fitted Fennimore’s metal socket into its holder welded to the sidecar’s floor. The trolley itself fit easily into the unused footwell. Sandoval mounted his own hybrid bike and pulled away to take lead position through the dystopian streets back to the charred abandoned compound which Fennimore and his handless lover called home.
While countless thousands of Angelenos had abandoned the metropolis and its devastated suburbs, ash divers had moved into the brutalist buildings which the fires spared. Fennimore helped re‑purpose a long low structure which turned out to be a forgotten transfer point called Beaulieu Vale for a proposed light rail line cancelled twenty years previously. In typical L.A. style, the facility’s car parks had been constructed first. The station was situated far outside its relevant residential area and commuters needed to drive themselves before they could access it. A shallow underground car park was built for future administrators who would never commute to their employment by public transport. Fennimore claimed a corner of the space, which featured additional cubby holes and deep ledges possibly intended to hold electrical equipment but which were perfectly suited for habitation by a legless man. There were four other households who shared the underground space. They overcame their mistrust of each other as the months passed and the atmosphere at the best of times was similar to the camaraderie at a rock festival. They were on first‑name terms with each other but everyone kept their affairs private. They were all ash divers but none of them shared information of mutual interest or news of their prowess.
Fennimore removed his and Floyd’s leather masks first. They were both inspired by those worn by dystopian warriors in old disaster movies, more theatrical than aggressive. Fennimore owned leather hoods which completely covered his head. They were useful on the job when the dust flew and got everywhere. The two amputees were both hungry and eager to return to the latest prospective find. Having achieved so much already that day, although it was not yet noon, Fennimore suggested they spend the rest of the day planning their moves. In the meantime, he would shave their scalps if Floyd fetched a few cups of water. There was a regular leak near one edge of their shelter which produced a liter of potable water every hour. It was considered very bad form to collect water without replacing the bucket so none of the precious water was wasted. Floyd looked forward to gripping his lover between his stumps while Fennimore shaved his scalp. His tanned scalp was a fantastic contrast for his long dark chestnut‑toned beard. Fennimore looked pretty similar except his beard was even longer and even darker, almost black. It was a fine thing to be close enough for their beards to meld. Floyd held Fennimore’s legless stump between his legs and Fennimore held Floyd with genuine flesh hands. In this way, they slumbered and shared each other’s body heat, their masculine scents and stumpage.
KMLA‑tv was accruing an unusual amount of feedback from viewers who had caught the ash diver’s interview. Some were angry that the station was offering moral support to scavengers and parasites. Some commended facing up to the reality of recovering from the loss of half the city. Yet others had been fascinated by the masked half man and were intrigued to hear more about his personal history. One sole viewer simply wanted to know where Fennimore had got his aluminum stump socket. Despite his personal distaste, the morning show’s producer caved in to popular demand. He called Montgomery Stilt back into his office and demanded a subsequent segment, or better still, two segments of five minutes each to explore in depth how the hero of the ash divers, the legless Hadden Fennimore, operated and how he made a living from the crusted remnant of a discarded city.
Hadden and Montgomery were victims of the second tsunami of fires which swept down from the hills three weeks after the first wave. It was odd to speak about them using terminology associated with the violence of the sea but everyone agreed that the flames acted much like water. Just as it was impossible to protect a beach front property from destruction by the waves, it was as futile to expect a forest hillside residence not to be consumed by fire.
Pure fire. Creative destruction. A new morning, six o’clock, twenty-three degrees with a breeze from the sea. The charred plot did not stink. Fennimore and Floyd had arrived twenty minutes before sun‑up and enjoyed the silence. There were no birds, no insects. Everything which crept and crawled through green underbrush and across damp green lawns was gone, never to return. Floyd had allowed Fennimore to exchange his trusty wooden hands for a pair of farmer’s hooks, a sure sign that his lover anticipated discovering the way in today. Floyd’s hooks were ideal for delicately peeling back the scorched karst and the wasted years. He had lost his hands in a simple road accident soon after he got his licence. He went through college with the help of colleagues who were attracted to him for his prodigious beard growth. They were infatuated by Floyd’s face and when he failed to return to lodgings one evening, his entire house set out to discover where their idol was. He was in a coma recovering from the emergency amputation of both hands which had been sliced off by the split disc brake of the motorcycle he had collided with. No guilty party was found—the other party had lost a foot. The truck whose erratic behaviour had caused the wreck disappeared into ignomy.
Despite all that, Floyd was proud of his hooks and artificial hands and all the other devices which his lover willingly exchanged for him on a daily basis. Theirs was a unique relationship. In any other circumstances, they might have been opponents or competitors for status. They had both stood tall in their twenties, learning the ways of their respective gangs, learning how to respond to infringements beyond what was tolerable. Ignoring boundaries, testing mechanical superiority with ever more audacious bikes. Then the fires burned everything away. Floyd and Fennimore had often seen each other roaring along the boulevards, vigilant for intruders, tolerating each other’s presence on the borderlines between their areas. With no buildings left, there were no more customers. Patrolling past a burn‑out junction, Fennimore spotted his spiritual twin parked up and pulled over to say howdie. Even then they resembled each other. Leather from top to tail. Floyd’s fake arms were obvious. Black carbon from elbow to wrist and hooks poking forward like a pair of middle fingers eternally gesturing an obscenity to the world. Fennimore had not noticed his opponent was disabled and respected the man even more. Before sundown, both men knew enough about each other to know their rôles in their respective gangs were over. They wanted each other and they had been together ever since, through Fennimore’s leg amputations.
They came as a blessing in disguise. Fennimore left Floyd to work on his bike one morning and said he was going to check out the plots along Seventh. He discovered an already opened basement still containing a mostly undamaged safe and set about examining how best to coax it open. It suddenly shifted and its lower front edge toppled onto Fennimore’s thighs, cracking both femurs and crushing tissue and blood vessels. Fennimore passed out from the excruciating pain and remained that way for an unknown length of time. Floyd discovered him that evening, alerted by Fennimore’s weakening calls for help as he crept through the burnt remains. He alerted nine one one and Fennimore was ferried to central hospital where his crushed and blood‑starved legs were disarticulated, removed in their entirety, and his glutes repositioned to form cushioning for his torso stump. He was completely legless. Only his nut sack and micro‑penis remained between his legs. They were uninjured but many weeks passed before Fennimore’s libido recovered enough for him to experience an erection. His glans was broad and handsome, topping the shaft of his penis which extended an inch from his belly. Most of the time, the penis was flaccid and hidden inside Fennimore’s body cavity. He could insert a finger to arouse himself and masturbate by gripping the shaft between a thumb and index finger. As his stump healed, he felt growing delight by realising that the entire area had become an erogenous zone. It was highly sensitive in a most pleasurable way. Fennimore’s purple bell now spent most of the time outside his body, almost negligible. Despite that, Fennimore enjoyed the complete gamut of sensations associated with sexual arousal.
He was discharged in a cheap wheelchair, wearing a plastic torso socket with a flat base. He looked like a man trapped in a suitcase. Within minutes of his return, he was scooting around on a skateboard which would be his chosen transport for the foreseeable future. The wheelchair was next to useless in the hovel where Fennimore and Floyd shared space. Fennimore soon learned how to handwalk and negotiate his surroundings. He wore a hoodie over his polypropylene shell. Nothing more was needed. The shell was pliable and felt unpleasant in the heat against his skin. He thought of other options and had the idea of having a metal corset made to envelope his stump. Aluminum might be light enough to hawl around. One of his gang associates was experienced with smelting aluminum. He made spare parts and accessories for their bikes. Maybe he would be interested in the project.
Floyd rigged a way for Fennimore to ride pillion by simply adding a couple of leather belts across the seat. He would have to pay attention to balancing, no easy task without the counter‑balance of legs. They arrived unannounced outside their associate’s workshop, unheard over the screech of metal on metal as grinders and lathes urged reluctant steel into new forms. Fennimore demanded Floyd lower him to the floor and handwalked across to where his acquaintance, Ulric ‘Rico’ Harper, was measuring the tolerances of a steel disc. The movement caught his attention and Rico jumped at seeing Fennimore’s familiar face approaching from a most unexpected angle. They exchanged their gang’s proprietary greetings and Rico expressed his amazement at seeing Fennimore as a legless torso.
– I wanna talk about you makin’ a metal version of this here plastic cage I’m sittin’ in. See, I need some protection for my stump when I’m scootin’ around. This plastic shit is wearing out. I want you to make me something which covers my legless body, maybe up to my tits, what I can slide into and walk around on.
– Like a big leg stump sorta thing?
– Let me think. Yeah, like a big leg stump.
– Well sure. We’d have to make a mould of your body but I don’t see that being a problem.
– I can tell you how they did it at the hospital.
– Sure. That would be useful.
Floyd spent a few minutes in the meantime chatting with a friend who had given him support after he first joined the gang. He had naturally thought the man was simply being friendly towards a new member, a green rookie with much to learn. In fact, the man immediately had the hots for Floyd’s artificial arms and wanted the kid to jerk him off with his hooks, one of his greatest fantasies. Floyd’s interest waned before the affair reached that climax but the men maintained their respect for each other over the years. The friend was working on a customised sidecar and Floyd immediately realised how much more convenient it would be for Fennimore to ride around in something similar rather than gripping onto an old leather belt for dear life.
Six weeks later, Fennimore took delivery of his permanent aluminum shell and Floyd helped his artisan friend to attach the spanking new streamlined sidecar to his Harley. Fennimore left his polypropylene corset behind and hauled himself into the sidecar wearing his curvaceous thick metal outer skin. It felt cool and dry compared with the plastic version. The base of his shell was no longer flat. Fennimore had wanted a rounded base, completely enclosed. It extended up over his belly almost as far as his chest and could be secured with thick rubber suspenders over each shoulder.
Fennimore immediately felt more disabled and relaxed ecstatically into the inability to support himself. The base of the socket was not stable in any position. He was compelled to hold himself upright on his hands and whatever contact point his thick metal socket touched. It was this intimacy with the surfaces he handwalked on which led to the realisation that he could feel and recognise them with his broad sensitive stump and micropenis, always erect now in firm contact against the metal socket. He could sense the difference between damp and dry sand, fresh light ash or old compacted ash, various grades of concrete and most unexpected of all, there was a slight change in contact, a kind of increased vibration, when he stumped across a hollow space like a hidden cellar or basement. With Floyd’s assistance, he conducted some experiments at abandoned plots, heaving his metallic weight to and fro across the ash‑encrusted floor, his stump and micropenis in complete perfect contact inside the half inch thick aluminum base. The socket rolled effortlessly forward and in any direction. Fennimore directed all his sensibility into his leglessness, primed for the mysterious change which might indicate a hidden underground space. Floyd used his naked worker’s hooks to scrabble through the crust of ash and blown concrete dust in search of a hatch or some kind of entrance to a stairwell. Over a period of twenty days, they inspected four vacant plots, uncovering two basements. Fennimore made a videonote of their locations and the two amputees planned their future actions.
The law was ambiguous. After such a long interval since the initial destruction, searching through the rubble could no longer justifiably be called looting. There was nothing left to loot, as any cursory circumspection would confirm. Neither amputee had any interest in keeping the possessions they uncovered. Their greatest challenge was opening safes in order to discover the name of the rightful owner from the inevitably present documents. Their logic was simple. Owners of recovered material would be grateful enough to the amputees that they would almost certainly reward them financially. And the amputees would graciously accept the cash, rather than demurely refuse.
Floyd returned to his old haunt to respectfully request the assistance of one of the best safecrackers on the west coast. The man was a founding member of his old gang and now lived in semi‑retirement with a handsome pension, paid from interest on a lifetime’s gratitude from law‑enforcement authorities and original owners. He remembered Floyd and sympathised with him for the loss of his hands. He agreed to accompany the amputees after they had gained access to their first safe.
One of the experimental plots provided pay dirt. After Floyd had removed the scorched karst by scratching away with his hooks, the corner of a trapdoor appeared and three hours later, Floyd was able to heave it open. There was an extension ladder just inside. Floyd lowered himself as Fennimore watched over the edge, lying on his metal belly. The space was less than a dozen square feet. A cash box on a single shallow shelf had a key in its lock and Floyd opened it to find signed contracts for two Hollywood productions, neither of which he had seen. But he recognised the name of the owner. He lifted a paper up for Fennimore to study in the fading light. Fennimore was pleased. With luck, they might strike it rich, assuming the safe contained valuables. The actress in whose cellar Floyd currently stood was well known for her generosity towards charities and good causes. Fennimore chuckled under his breath at the idea of meeting her and seeing her react to a legless man encased inside an iron stump. It was aluminium but she would not know.
Several evenings later, the safecracker lowered himself carefully into the basement space and inspected the safe. It was completely standard, used in their thousands by people with a secret or two. They were also simplicity itself to open without authorisation. Floyd and Fennimore waited some distance away, providing silence for the man. There was no birdsong, no chirping insects, no passersby, no children playing, no traffic. The ocean was calm and there were no trees with leaves to rustle. The safecracker worked his magic and called the amputees over to see what he had revealed inside the safe. More copies of contracts, insurance policies all for the same actress in her real name, only once mentioning her screen name, and on top of the papers, a blue velvet jewelry box contained a pair of sapphire pendant earrings of a distinctly dated design. Floyd took possession of the contents and placed them neatly into his back pack. The safecracker climbed out and the trio left the plot. The trapdoor to the empty basement remained open. Wind would fill it with ash soon enough, concealing its existence.
Fennimore found the actress’s private phone number and sent a brief message with photographic evidence that the contents of the safe had been rescued. Several hours passed, during which time the amputees suspected that the number had been disconnected, before a reply arrived suggesting a meeting over lunch in a downtown hotel. A limousine would meet them and ferry them to the hotel. Fennimore replied that he and his colleague were free to meet the actress at her convenience. Four days later, a white limo pulled into the surface parking area outside the abandoned metro station. Floyd was wearing his newest denims and artificial hands with tight black leather police gloves and Fennimore’s metal socket gleamed after being polished especially to look impressive. Their bald heads gleamed in the same way and their massive beards had been soaked and sun‑dried into some kind of acceptable shape. In truth, they both looked magnificent.
Selena Reyes was surprised to see the grinning bearded half man swinging his way towards her in the hotel lobby, followed closely by his spiritual brother on two healthy legs. She leaned down to shake the offered hand and returned the customary pleasantries expected on meeting strangers for the first time. As Fennimore moved aside, she took hold of Floyd’s mechanical right hand and recoiled slightly, quickly recovering after realising that naturally enough, both men would be partners, brought together by their remarkable recoveries from their disabilities.
– I’m very pleased you could come. I hope I’m not interrupting you in any way. I’d hate to think you were inconveniencing yourselves on my behalf.
– Think nothing of it, ma’am. It’s a pleasure to be able to return your property to you. We never expected it would be in such stylish circumstances.
– Oh think nothing of it. It’s the least I could do.
They entered a private dining room and were shown to their places. Fennimore was assisted onto a plush seat and after a momentary hand gesture by the maître d’, a silk sash was discretely produced and Fennimore was shortly bound around his metallic midriff to the chair. He found the sensation erotic, not being able to move himself in any way whatsoever. After they were settled, the hotel staff left them in peace to conduct their business or peruse the bill of fare. Floyd angled his upper body at unnatural angles to lift the metal business case containing the booty onto the table in front of him. Selena Reyes and her minders followed his actions with interest. She had naturally become accustomed to seeing and working with amputees on her first film, the futuristic desert fantasy in which the leading actress herself was an arm amputee.
– Here are all the contents we found in the safe, ma’am. It was quite empty when we left. Two of us checked.
– Yes, this is all there was. I am very grateful to have these contracts back again, although you must realise that other copies exist and the productions they refer to have been completed already. It’s the contents of this little box which I am so very happy to have again. You see, they were designed and made for my great‑grandmother before the family was driven from Budapest. That’s in Hungary, in Europe. They had to get out when the government allied itself with the Nazis, you see? Well, it’s all in the history books. All very complicated. But this is all my great grandmother could bring, smuggled over the border somehow. When my grandmother played her first major rôle, she wore these earrings in her dance scene with Cary Grant. Oh! They looked so beautiful together! Everyone thought they were destined for each other—in real life, I mean, not in the film. But it was not to be. I think my grandmother was so disappointed that she associated these earrings with the failed love affair and never wore them again. My mother inherited them, of course, but they were far too old‑fashioned to wear. And here they are after I thought they were lost forever.
– Perhaps you could wear them in your next film as a symbol of resurrection from the ash and flames.
– Oh, they already are. Ash and flames of a century ago. No, I wouldn’t wear them for a rôle but I will never forget your part in their history. Now, shall we order our meal? We can talk later.
They did talk later, until Selena Reyes announced she had to make it to another appointment and was whisked away by one of her associates. Another gentleman, slightly officious in a dark suit and tie, but friendly enough, approached them and sat down.
– Miss Reyes asked me to wait until she had departed before discussing business. Gentlemen, if you would provide me with your bank accounts, Miss Reyes would like to compensate you for your efforts.
Fennimore provided his account number, assuring the officious gentleman that he and his companion were a couple with a shared bank account. Not being overly concerned with their private living arrangements, the man thanked him and announced that some compensation would be transferred within the next few days.
Fennimore checked his bank balance at the beginning of the next week and discovered a hundred fifty thousand had arrived in his account. It was the first of several similar recoveries and rewards. Fennimore’s bank balance soon reached a million and continued to grow. Those former home owners whose property was recovered never failed to compensate Fennimore and his associates. They also maintained secrecy about the proceedings, not wishing to alert the authorities.
The inevitable eventually happened. Word got out and reached the media, leading to the interview at KMLA‑tv. Now they approached Fennimore and Floyd once again, encouraged by high ratings and greedy for more. The amputees were a little wary about exposing further details of their modus operandi but Fennimore reckoned that if challenged, they would have enough support from some very powerful figures, not to mention tacit support from insurance companies who no longer needed to compensate for recovered valuables. The two men agreed to return to KMLA for a much longer session which could be edited to various lengths for inclusion in different shows.
The segments proved popular. Viewers expressed interest in both the act of rescuing precious heirlooms believed lost forever and the two heroic invalids who had beaten their handicaps to pursue their ambitions with dedication and honour. A decision was taken to explore the viability of both a three‑part documentary series and a drama series recreating the inspiration which had generated such esteemed gratitude and relief. Once again, Fennimore and Floyd were invited to attend a meeting with more senior executives at KMLA‑tv who hoped to persuade the half man and his handless partner to relinquish rights to their life story from fall 2024 to the present. They envisioned a miniseries showing the devastation of the city, the desperation of the citizens, the inspiration of the amputees and the ambition to achieve success despite the most pitiful physical restrictions and the harshest of environmental conditions. There was more money to be earned by simply selling their story. The men were both flattered and intrigued, both willing to embellish their life stories to make underground life in Los Angeles more visually and emotionally interesting than it actually was. They were offered a sum neither felt able to refuse and media representatives were left with the unusual dilemma of casting actors for the rôles representing two severely disabled main characters. No‑one had ever heard of a legless leading man.
After several weeks of creation and revision, the first few instalments were written. The storyline revolved around the birth of the idea and the physical challenges faced by both leads. It would be easy enough to find a handsome young actor to play Floyd. They made artificial arms for theatrical purposes. Actors simply slid their hands into sockets and, apart from an extra couple of inches in length, their artificial arms looked completely convincing. But Fennimore’s rôle was more problematic until one executive finally came to the almost inevitable conclusion that the best way to cast the legless man was simply to invite him to play himself. Artificial intelligence could easily take care of the man’s dialogue if he had an unpleasant voice, for example, or was continually unsure of the script.
Fennimore understood the problem. Floyd preferred not to repeat his strenuous work for the cameras and a ten year younger up‑and‑coming Latino actor with a flamboyant Zapata moustache agreed to don two artificial arms with steel hooks and learn to use them for the estimated ten weeks long shoot. The tv station introduced him, Demetrio ‘Rio’ Brizuela, to Fennimore at a downtown lunch, where production dates would be finalised with all necessary permissions and signatures. Rio and Fennimore hit it off immediately, much to the relief of the tv executives. Fennimore promised to ask his friend Floyd if he would teach Rio how to use the new non‑amputee hooks he would have to wear on set. Rio was enamoured by the half man’s spectacular bushy beard and doubly intrigued to see the amazing aluminum stump which his new friend used to move around. It made a fantastic clunk when its tip hit the floor. Rio was excited about wearing hooks. It was taboo to mention such things but Rio had always secretly admired amputees, having grown up in a lawless gun‑happy environment. There were plenty of victims. He knew friends and classmates who were missing a leg or a hand since they were just kids.
Production started in late autumn, at the same time of year as the amputees’ first explorations three years previously. The working title had been Ash Divers and it became the final name, for want of a better alternative. The pilot was completely fictional and explained how Fennimore lost both legs after being trapped half in, half out of a burning car. The few scenes requiring him to have legs were played by Rio with Fennimore’s bearded face AIed over Rio’s own. Rio’s amputations were similarly attributed to the fires and he supposedly met Fennimore during rehab in a groundbreaking scene for US television where the shape and length of Rio’s computer‑generated arm stumps were deliberately treated as phallic symbols.
With the preliminaries out of the way, the basic premise of Ash Divers was unleashed on an expectant audience. In each episode, Fennimore, heavily masked in leather, explored a genuine ruin, handwalking through the destruction, anticipating the tell‑tale change in lighting and background music which signified that he was picking up the Vibes. Rio knelt and tapped the filth encrusted floor, searching for a clue to allow them access to the basement. In this alternate tv reality, Fennimore himself had the necessary skill to open the safes, accompanied by suspenseful music. Then the contents were displayed and the genuine owner, seemingly always an elegant young star, was contacted leading to congratulations and celebrations all round. The plot of the following five episodes followed a common theme. Fennimore and Rio were fictional best friends in adversity who came together to symbolise the phoenix‑like regeneration of the city, showing how disabled and discarded homeless streetlife played their part in the glorification of L.A. Their fictional home conditions were never shown.
Shooting took nine weeks and editing another six. Ash Divers was an immediate success for KMLA‑tv, syndicated throughout affiliated stations in their time zone. Reaction was mainly positive, although some delicate souls purported to be distressed by the dreadful disabilities displayed. But they were reassured by seeing how well the amputees faired in their unusual work. When the time came for Rio to return the pretender’s artificial arms to the production company, he asked if he might be allowed to keep them, pointing out that they had been custom made for him and that the sockets would not be suitable for another user. He was allowed to keep the arms with no charge and his alter ego embarked on a second career as a bilateral arm amputee. Thanks to Ash Divers, Rio was popular enough to land a minor role as a superhero with electromagical hands in a production for children. In reality, Rio wore his basic hooks all day, every day, and had no compunction in asking outsiders for assistance when his overlong prostheses proved inconvenient. His natural hands, clenched in hidden fists for many hours every day, became so accustomed to the initial discomfort that Rio preferred to use hooks in all aspects of his private life. His friends and family were unconcerned by his insistence on remaining in character. They paid little attention to his hooks. Rio considered how a genuine pair of prosthetic arms, sized appropriately for his body, would allow him to eat and drink and dress himself and do everything else which a bilateral amputee undertook using hooks.
Shooting for the second series of Ash Divers was complete and the last episode was scheduled to be broadcast three or four months hence. The station had not yet decided on a third series but Rio and Fennimore were both confident that they were on a roll. They intended to milk the situation for all it was worth. Between shoots, Fennimore and his genuine lover Floyd continued their professional exploration of broken and discarded plots, several of them destroyed, scorched and glazed by repeated waves of fire.
Rio did some secretive research and discovered a Mexican surgeon who had inadvertently implied in an amputee admirer’s forum that he would perform elective amputations for a suitable price. After several personal message exchanges, Rio drove across the border to meet the surgeon in Tijuana and the following day became a bilateral amputee. His forearms were reduced by half their length, long enough to allow the use of the same pretender arms he had worn for nearly two years but too short to use for anything more than gripping a glass of water. He had deliberately compelled himself to wear hooks for the rest of his media career and was delighted with the rounded brevity of his healing arms. He had seen older men with similar disabilities in San Salvador, drinking smoking and playing poker with their camarados in the town square.
He recovered in Tijuana for several weeks, pampered in public by admiring fans who aspired to growing the same kind of bushy Zapata moustache. They had no idea that their hero’s bandaged arm stumps were brand new. Everybody had always assumed the guy had no hands. His old pair of pretender prostheses were expertly shortened and adapted for use with his tender fresh stumps and eight weeks after his transformation, Rio returned home wearing the same pair of hooks looking very much the same as he had since becoming a photogenic ash diver.
He told no‑one of his amputee status and was grateful to be between boyfriends. He surveilled the town from his fortieth floor downtown apartment and revelled in the new brevity of his old prostheses. He was soon in possession of two new pairs of customised artificial arms fitted with both hooks and a remarkably life‑like pair of inert wooden hands. He was inwardly amused by the irony of losing his own handsome hands in order to wear immobile rigid wooden substitutes, but the insistent erections from which he was never free when he contemplated his hooks or his destroyed arms proved that he was comfortable with his lifestyle choices. He not only faced a future as a crippled private citizen but all his future professional rôles would be for arm amputees. His penis twitched and he took himself quickly to the bathroom to manipulate his handsome tool with both hooks, alternating strokes along the left and right surfaces of his penis until he ejaculated. He threw his head back and laughed at the absurdity of his situation. Since he was eleven, he had loved pleasuring his cock and enjoyed running his long fingers along it, gently rubbing the shiny purple glans with a fingertip. Now there was only his dick left. He would never feel anything again with hands or fingers, never feel their warmth caressing his dick. He learned to adapt and urged erotic tenderness from his hooks.
Having made his name and reputation as a hook user, Rio encountered none of the unaccustomed public negativity which new amputees must confront. To all intents and purposes, his appearance matched that of his tv persona. Only the most perceptive fan might notice that his artificial arms appeared shorter than onscreen. His original pair of pretender arms had been modified with a heavy hand and the black carbon sockets were now only slightly longer than his stumps. The hooks provided extra length but the artificial arms and hooks were more intimate and Rio loved seeing that even his prostheses had lost length. His two alternative newly custom‑made pairs were of a conventional length, letting him appear normal in evening dress or in a motorcycle jacket with only the hooks or his wooden hands apparent at his cuffs. One slender boy with a beautiful smile and black eyes approached Rio after spotting him in a club frequented by homosexuals, one of the last gay venues still allowed to operate. The boy said hello and explained how he admired the character which Rio played. Rio basked in his praise. They spoke for twenty minutes until Rio’s attention was required elsewhere and the elegant boy melted into the background hubbub. Two weeks later, they met again under similar circumstances and this time, Rio approached the boy. He had thought about him during the intervening days, often when he ran his hooks along his penis, wishing he could have his hands back for the next ten minutes.
The boy was overjoyed by an invitation to share Rio’s apartment. Rio was overjoyed to have a pair of gentle hands again. The boy voluntarily took on all responsibility for Rio’s prosthetic maintenance. He washed and conditioned Rio’s stumps every morning and evening, ensured that clean pressed stump socks were always available and that his prosthetic limbs were disinfected and deodorised on a regular basis. He changed the tension bands weekly to keep the hooks looking as smart as possible. He made sure Rio’s wooden hands gleamed and shone in the California sunlight. Rio wore them often now his boy did so much for him. They both enjoyed Rio’s efforts to use the wooden hands for some minor practical purpose, clasping them together in an attempt to create some kind of grip between slippery rigid fingers. Rio loved the additional disability and the boy loved to see his handsome hairy heavily moustachioed hero helpless.
Series three was granted the funds required. Fennimore and Rio signed fresh contracts. There were to be changes. There was to be more social conflict. Rival gangs of ash divers would follow the man with the silver stump, law enforcement would present difficulties and elegant debutantes who had lost their homes would beg the amputees for special attention in return for special attention of the predictable kind. Fennimore understood sooner than Rio where this was leading and warned him that Ash Divers was about to turn into Ash Divers of the Rich & Famous. Rio was content to contend with L.A. stars on a romantic basis but the legless homosexual Fennimore with his inch‑long micropenis was less keen on exchanging close‑ups of his glittering aluminum stump socket for close‑ups of his stump in some starlet’s boudoire. The new team of writers wanted less stump and more tit to boost ratings. Season three saw ratings drop. The writing team assured KMLA that it was due to viewer fatigue, which often struck after the second year of a show’s existence. Fennimore refused to even consider a fourth series unless new writers were found but Rio was in two minds. He knew Ash Divers needed a new direction and that series three had been a ratings disaster. After consultations with KMLA’s senior executives, they agreed to a fourth series only on condition that a new writing team was found. They also insisted that their fees were doubled. Both men would be Ash Diving millionaires if the fourth series was a success.
The new writers were enthusiastic fans of the show. They were a team of four budding authors who had met at UCLA and discovered their affinity for the most deviant drama series ever to air on tv. During their last year, they had competed with each other to create their own fantasy plots revolving around the Ash Divers. They let their imaginations rip, padding out the cast with similarly maimed figures who helped or hindered the heroes. Daring‑do made an appearance with the Divers threatened by new fires and earthquakes while on the job, making the episodes resemble cinematic serial adventures of the Fifties. Word reached them that KMLA‑tv was firing the writers who had spoiled Ash Divers because of resultant poor ratings. The show’s future was in jeopardy. They quickly collated their writings from a couple of years past and forwarded them to KMLA. To cut a convoluted story of red‑tape and legalese short, KMLA bought the existent scripts and after further discussion with Fennimore and Rio, the new amateur team of writers was booked to create the scripts for series four and beyond.
The scriptwriters were hesitant at first to meet their real‑life heroes but Fennimore and Rio were used to meeting nervous fans and quickly put the young men at ease. They had both been shown excerpts from the new scripts and were impressed by the young writers’ knowledge of disability resulting from limblessness and the unrecognised benefits of cumbersome prosthetic devices. When one of the writers discovered that Fennimore’s life companion was the original real‑life Rio, he suggested that Floyd be brought into the future productions as some kind of associate, perhaps a friend or tutor for Rio. They shared the same disability and it would be exciting to create scenarios where the pair were regularly topless except for their prosthetic arms. Both men were accomplished and skilful hooks users and the layout artists went to town on scenes in which close‑ups of the artificial arms and hooks played a logical central rôle. The producers studied the new suggestions and the tentative new scripts for the next series. They knew there was still a wide‑ranging audience for Ash Divers because of continuing complaints about the third series. KMLA‑tv could repair its tarnished reputation with the fourth series which would more than compensate for the disappointments of the third.
The last episode of series four introduced viewers to a fictitious Ash Divers Central HQ, where a wide variety of good‑looking male amputees, all under forty, worked conscientiously on plotting rescues for lost and missing valuables. Fennimore continue to handwalk in his aluminum shell but was met by other legless torsos who used crutches and extended shells which either narrowed to a single central curving tip or with two cylindrical extensions intended to resemble stumps wearing stubbies. The headquarters were tastefully decorated with dark red and grey flooring and wall covering, providing the ideal background for long lingering shots of the legless swinging their mobility aids to move around the set. In keeping with Fennimore’s and Rio’s own hirsute faces, most of the other characters also boasted extravagant facial hair of one kind or another, including muttonchops which had last been seen publicly in the late Seventies, sixty years previous.
Dust Stumper was the fictional name of Fennimore’s newly appointed assistant in the last episode of series four. He was played by Lars Holger Pedersen, a former USAF instructor who had come a cropper when a missile blew up during a demonstration. He lost his right eye, as well as both hands and both legs above the knees. Despite his injuries, he maintained his flirtatious blond bearded and blue‑eyed masculinity, set off with a large brown leather eye patch. He was personally genuinely comfortable with his prostheses. His height was reduced from six foot seven to five foot one. Despite having relearned to walk on state‑of‑the‑art prosthetic legs, his character wore only a rigid polypropylene torso stump socket from armpits to the tips of his leg stumps, halfway down his thighs. His short leg stumps were encased inside the device, immovable. He found it unexpectedly erotic and began to understand why Fennimore preferred to encase his stump in metal rather than spend precious time conditioning stumps to do what healthy limbs used to accomplish, not realising that Fennimore had no stumps.
The Dust Stumper was fitted with top quality professionally made prosthetic equipment which, being custom made for him, he was entitled to keep for himself after the production was completed. His plastic thighs were fitted with long aluminum stubbies which narrowed to conical tips, two inches wide. He guffawed with hearty laughter while testing the metal stubbies for the first time. He had become used to artificial legs. The short, delicately shaped stubbies seemed ridiculous in comparison but Fennimore himself assured him that he struck exactly the perfect balance between butch masculinity and butch complete amputee helplessness. They both laughed together at their situations, two handsome men respected for their prosthetic prowess.
Series Five opened with Fennimore swinging himself carefully through a scorched forecourt. Out of focus behind him stood his assistants, Rio and the Stumper. Neither of them had hands and Rio used gnarly worker’s hooks. Everyone knew and recognised Rio’s artificial arms with their big steel hooks. The Dust Stumper sported thick cylindrical aluminum crutches which extended to his armpits. He stood on metal thighs, both with hemispherical tips. He maintained his balance with his long metal arms in a similar fashion to Fennimore. He was unable to balance upright without support and derived intense pleasure from being a quadruple amputee, limbless and additionally crippled by restrictive prosthetic equipment.
Viewers admired his physical beauty, a blond Adonis in contrast to Fennimore’s dark masculinity. Years of experience made the Stumper’s style of walking easy work, propelling himself with long metal peg arms. They were crutches for people without hands. His expressionless blue eyes concentrated on following Fennimore through the detritus. Fennimore called him ahead, exhorting him to knock away lumps of congealed ash and dust with his peg arms. Close‑up shots of his eyes and handsome blond beard were a homoerotic departure, themed around the attraction to bearded and muscular men. Then he leaned on his crutches concealing the remnants of his once handsome arms, alternating them as he shifted weight from one stump to the other inside his aluminum shell.
Outside of production times, Lars Pedersen wore his everyday prostheses. He walked confidently on his artificial legs, sometimes exposing them by wearing shorts but usually they were concealed under beige chinos. He wore his hooks with unusual elegance. His movements were controlled and precise. Like most bilateral arm amputees, he had tried most varieties of prostheses but returned to the most basic and best, a pair of unassuming body‑powered steel hooks. They were silent, reliable, always ready for use, lightweight and attention‑grabbing. He cocked his head from side to side when he used his hooks, trying to compensate for the loss of depth of vision. It made him look coy, or vulnerable depending on one’s outlook, and it made him attractive to both sexes. Little was known of his past, probably because of his military service and its confidential nature.
Series Six, Episode Three. KMLA‑tv followed as Fennimore and Stumper discovered a large basement which had lain undiscovered for so long that bushes had grown over it before they too succumbed to another wave of fire. Stumper poked through the debris with his peg arms and after he had cleared a path, Fennimore heaved his metal stump across the ground, accompanied by the score which always suggested building excitement. There were a few patches of bare concrete where the original oak parquet had been scorched and turned to dust. Fennimore placed his stump socket into the bald spots and after some suitable cross‑cutting to drag the scene out for another forty seconds, he called Rio over to scrabble around with his hooks in search of a possible doorway or trapdoor into the basement which Fennimore was certain existed. He could feel its existence vibrating in his erogenous zone. His micropenis was fully erect in agreement. Fennimore leaned forward slightly, forcing his penis into the meagre bulge reserved for it and his look of achievement was caught by the cameras from two angles. He looked over his shoulder at Stumper and beckoned him forward with a head gesture. Stumper rocked his body and his quasi‑stubbies crushed ash beneath them as his peg arms drew him forward. The two amputees, clad in thick aluminum, were on the brink of their ever greatest discovery as the channel broke for important messages from their sponsors.
After heavy machinery had opened an access to the basement of the burnt‑out plot, Rio made his way down, his legless compadres watching him explore the inner chamber. Something quite extraordinary appeared and shooting was halted while a discussion was held with the station’s lawyers. Permission to continue was granted on condition that every move was recorded for future reference. Viewers were treated to the discovery of a large grey safe, which the safecracker duly opened while the legless amputees looked on impatiently, as well they might. The process had actually taken nine weeks. The burnt‑out shell of a house had belonged to an upcoming starlet and her sugar daddy, both of whom had succumbed to the lethal effects of fentanyl in the intervening period. Fennimore knew fentanyl’s unexpected toxicity well enough from the legless friends he had made on the streets. Men who had fallen into unconsciousness while kneeling, only to awaken twelve, fourteen, sixteen hours later with legs immovable due to tissue death caused by lack of blood circulation. The weight of their bodies on their bent legs cut off blood supply. They returned to the street months later, legless, balancing on skateboards. It was as if skateboards had been invented in LA specifically for the sole purpose of letting legless young men rejoin their gangs. A skateboard was useless to Fennimore until he had his aluminum shell made. It had served him well over the years. He still loved the sensations it generated in his stump and genitals and the sound it made, as well as its perfectly balanced weight.
The treasures which were recovered from the safe astonished the world. The safecracker was the first to recognise that they were no longer dealing with trinkets which Hollywood divas might appreciate getting back—bracelets and necklaces with a genuine diamond or two worth a couple of hundred grand. These were tantalising enough for Ash Divers and Fennimore and Floyd had made a living from them before that. This time was different. The tv cameras followed closely as Stumper allowed the precious stones to run through his hooks as Fennimore watched and the lawyers itched to launch themselves higher in their careers.
There followed a break in production while the providence, the guarantee of authenticity, was researched and confirmed. Fennimore’s aluminum stump had uncovered the missing Tangmere Diamonds, gifted to Princess Diana on her thirtieth birthday and later sold by her after her divorce. It had never been known to whom. The jewels were assumed to be in a Saudi Arabian safe. Instead, Rio had opened their leather case, encrusted with sapphires, and lifted the Tangmere itself with his filth‑encrusted hook in a fire‑ravaged mansion overlooking the Pacific Ocean, watched over the next eight weeks of syndication by over fifty million viewers. Fennimore and Rio rejoiced together, often joined by their co‑star and very good friend Lars Pedersen, both encased in their aluminum shells with Lars still wearing his peg arms. Their images spread everywhere, three grand heroes arisen from the constant California fires, providing entertainment to millions and economic restitution to the selected few, all thanks to the mysterious microvibes Fennimore insisted he could feel in his stump.
Pedersen and Fennimore became close friends, not only because of their excellent collaboration while working on Ash Divers but also because of the similarity of their disability. During the pause in the production of series six, Fennimore and Pedersen paid a visit to the prosthetist who had arranged to have Pedersen’s extraordinary peg arms made. While Pedersen’s pair were genuine peg arms fitted to his arm stumps, the pair which Fennimore requested would require additional work processes. The best way to manufacture the crutches was simply to cast them in the traditional manner and add the crossbars later. Fennimore still had his hands and he could grip the concealed crossbars. He wanted his peg arms to terminate in exactly the same hemispherical shape as his friend’s crutches. Rio joined him on most of his trips to the prosthetist and to the secretive underground foundry where the master of deviant prosthetic equipment held sway. He listened to his customers, both completely satisfied with their rigid lives, and assured Fennimore that his healthy arms could disappear forever inside heavy peg arms. He would scrape himself along though life on the tip of his torso stump and the broad rounded tips of his peg arms.
It was a decision which influenced his future life choices. He delighted in being limited in his mobility by his heavy cumbersome crutches and Floyd once again found himself running their peculiar household and caring for the voluntarily limbless Fennimore. He was encouraged by several amputee acquaintances that above elbow stumps were far more satisfying, especially if he genuinely intended to continue using his peg arms. He would no longer need to suffer the calluses and blisters which his crutch crossbars caused to his hands. Fennimore and Rio made a journey to Mexico again where Fennimore underwent two amputations to remove his arms immediately above his elbows. Over the months following his recovery and healing, he was fitted with several prosthetic adaptations, the best of which were identical peg arms to those which Lars wore with the sole difference being that Lars could exchange them for his familiar pair of below‑elbow hooks, whereas Fennimore would need to learn to use arms with artificial elbows and hooks. With the money earned during production and the regular cheques from residuals as the series were rebroadcast around the world, Fennimore indulged himself by experimenting with ever more severe disability and ever more outrageous prosthetic solutions. He and Rio had earned their retirement and considered using some of their money to move away from their friends and neighbours in the ghost metro station. They might find accommodation downtown where they could both share their lives in comfort, spending their days with limbless street people.
ASH DIVERS
