Space Noir Bar
What Happens in Space, Stays in Space! by Mike Marino
Calling Earth! Calling Earth! Come in Earth! Do you read me? Atomic Commando Cody lasers ready to fire and launch from the outer fringes of the outer limits of outer space. Flying silver disks composed of strange heavy metal alloys are attacking every capital on Earth from Bejing to London to Moscow to Washington. It was an age of sci fi action..giant saucers, 50 foot women, Amazons from Mars, mutants and nuclear bad asses...all on a rampage to ravage the Earth.
That was the accepted perceived imagery of beings from other worlds attacking Earth from the infinite reaches of space in the long ago forgotten 20th Century. Intergalactic tourists in search of a Disney-esque planet for a two-headed alien fun filled family vacation...and what happens? Earthlings immediately pull out their nuclear zip guns and atomic switchblades to re-enact a Day the Earth Stood Still gang fight scene from “West Side Story” complete and replete with atomic choreography designed to defeat the show tune minions of Ethel “Martian” Merman...there’s no business like space show business..cue the chorus boys in fishnets and cabaret berets so they can dance their sweet asses off.
It was the race for space copulating with the arms race to see who could bluff the best..the east or the west, that fostered this fairy-tale silver screen projection of erroneous perception.
I had spent hours watching these old films in the basement level of the Retropolis Propaganda Ministry as I scoured archived holographic discs re-mastered from archaic outdated records from something quaintly called the “television”. It was required viewing during my orientation once I had passed the exams to get my Retropolis credentials and security clearance to have access to cases as a freelance investigator for the Prometheum Division of Intelligence...the top secret investigative wing of Retropolis for the consortium of populated and colonized planets in our Solar System known collectively as Dystopia.
I made a decisive choice early in my life to earn a living as a professional gumshoe. Gumshoe! I crossed paths with that term while reading and maxi-pad absorbing one of the “outlawed” books by Raymond Chandler, an obscure noir mystery writer of the 20th Century. Black and white words and paper bought and sold to make black and white dark mood ring films.
I was not only fascinated by the stories he would deftly weave, but damn, I had a fashion hard-on for those jaunty fedora hats! Today’s space wear leaves much to be desired. There is no fashion sense whatsoever in my Century, the 30th unless you find tinfoil pants titillating and metal alloy thongs a thrill. All that is missing is beanie copter head gear to go with the oxidizer fueled jet pack back packs.
I also read the other banned books . You know, the 20th Century “Future” books... “1984” by George Orwell and “Animal Farm” laughing now at how the future was envisioned back then. Utopia gone wrong. They were wrong..it is much worse..but it’s the deck of marked cards we have to play with or pass when we sit down at the casino’s big table and then do the best we can with the hand we are dealt in a rigged game. The future was far and away not Utopian orgasm, it was a disfunctional Dystopian Dictatorship rendering the vox populi castrated of thought and emotion.
I followed in the wingtip footsteps of my fictional predecessors who set the literary precedents for back alley noir, the brotherhood of crime writers. I joined the ranks as a writer of mystery novels. My two professions, as writer and detective, have proven to be the perfect fornication partners. You can blame my addiction on Raymond Chandler and Mickey Spillane. Neither is around to be tried and convicted...case dismissed gentlemen..you are free to go.