Space Noir - Prelude to a Prey Lewd
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basement level of the Retropolis Propaganda Ministry as I scoured archived holographic discs re-mastered from archaic outdated records from something quaintly called the “television”.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.
On the other side of my two headed P.T. Barnum carnival coin I admit happily to a degree of degenerate sex addiction. One on one, two plus two equals four, pick a gender and take a gander or a goose or go for a group grope awash with blindfolds and handcuffs. Sex to me is the breakfast of champions and in the 20th Century I would have ended up on a Wheaties Box with Kaitlyn/Bruce Jenner endorsing Vaseline.
Next to fucking, I find reading sexy, in fact, almost ejaculatory as literary orgasm is reached when the last period takes a bow and places itself on the page, end of the performance, SRO, applause, applause.
So what can match your first fuck? To me it was the first books I ever read as a child. The wonder of words and stories, and admittedly I started reading 20th Century lit as that was the pivotal point in Earth’s history….(You don’t know who you truly are until you know where you came from) I would read bootlegs of encyclopedias from A - Zed and was hungry for this knowledge as each page turned and revealed Parisian poets long forgotten, Austrian composers whose concertos are no longer heard,what a great bird the phoenix must have been had it existed, what hieroglyphs were and why and what, and why was the War of 1812 called the War of 1812 and why wasn’t World War One called the War of 1914?
Tom Swift Collections of real “boy” adventures in airships and radio electronics and all manner of other Dick Tracy electro-wizardry we acknowledge today with a strained yawn. But I didn’t yawn at these yarns...I wanted more, I was an adventure junkie, addicted as I was to sex and drugs, a young wino lying face down in a gutter of literature waiting for my connection to supply me with the lit fix a word junkie requires..Twain’s Tom Sawyer and secret caves, Huck Finn and riverboat pirates meeting up on the road with Steinbeck’s wrathful Joad grapes.
I soon found myself floundering on storm tossed oceans, setting sail with Jack London books to Zanzibar or Manila with portraits and tales of sea wolves and typhoon storms riding the waves to the east with a harpoon in one hand and chopsticks in the other to feast on 14 year old whores in Bangkok bordellos and great giant bowls of William Burroughs in Chinese opium dens. Hold the egg rolls and pass the pipe and re-write the fortune cookies in Mandarin so Lao Tse could see far out to sea...far out..further...way past Kesey’s cuckoo’s nest
Herman Melville’ whaling classic “Moby Dick. (Not to be confused with the psychedelic band Moby Grape) Here’s my business card. Just call me Ismael if you will as I seek out a tattooed Queequeq searching for Moby Dick with one legged Ahabs, while enjoying the pages of Sinbad’s travels and travails, while Jules Verne launched me in a rocket to the man in the moon so I could take his place as king of the mountain crater and then round tripping back to earth with force of a zero gravity sling shot to begin my travels to fight and defeat the mighty H G Wells Morlocks in mortal time machine time travel portal combat. The books were pounding images into me with the force of the butt of a .45 knocking me out cold in an abandoned warehouse..or whorehouse..who can remember anymore...then along came Tolkien and Kerouac...hopped up hipster hobbits can be habit forming on the narco Jack K road where the Anthony Burgess sideshow with talking bears look for honey, finding it’s all gone but uncover Vonnegut’s flashback time travels...travel, adventure, freedom … books led me on my own path of travel and adventure and I can only blame the written word, or praise the written word depending on if you look at the glass half full of Jamaican rum. Matters of personal reality relevance, mental measurement and a dose of subjective optimism.
That was long ago...the 20th Century..a forgotten time lost in the fading light of a gas lamp obscured in the fog shrouds that enclose the wee small hours of the old days..no one alive today remembers those days...it’s all on vis-discs now. No one reads books anymore (it’s illegal) and illiteracy is the law of the land decimated by the cult of texting which was implemented seductively as a covert government viral additive in the 20th Century to destroy all language. Libraries no longer exist (they were shut down..overdue charges apply) ..Alexandrian repositories razed into rubble and cinders by injecting the numb fuck dumb fuck factor or game proliferation turning the mental plane from one of self to one of avatar, reality held in check and sense of self was no longer allowed entry to the big show...life was a game..a worthless commodity...the game will go on...it fears not death by a pinball machine with a five o’clock shadow..who does..who knows..the Shadow knows!
Hell this is the 30th Century, the Age of Dystopia, as we mark time, and for me the galaxy is my turf. I ‘m Doc Yucatan. I am a criminal by definition, as a writer. New books are forbidden unless approved by the Censorship Branch of the planetary council for content. My writing looks under the rocks of history and the present and it is not a pretty picture brother. So I write under a assumed name and print my own books off on an old mimeograph machine I acquired during an excavation project of Old Moscow that was used for the production of revolutionary pamphlets used to incite riots in the early part of the 20th Cent. I also was in possession of an illegally obtained item called a typewriter. Marvelous machine for producing ideas and dangerous concepts.
My real job however is pounding a beat as a detective for clients who hire me to track down a missing male or female sold into sex slavery as sex and domestic slavery was now in fashion once again as were human zoos where Subs from Retropolis were placed on display along with prisoners from alien planets for the enjoyment of the population. Toss the Christians to the lion of Judah it’s time to make human pasta for the Rajah and the Rasta.
In addition to my private practice, I freelance as a private investigator for the government’s Prometheus division of the Congress of Retropolis as Earth was now called ...space detective... planetary private eye...gumshoe...private dick….and the story I am about to tell is true...even though now in retrospect it seems like a dream…. a dream that soon turned into a nightmare that haunts me to this 18 hour Retropolis day of the search on behalf of a client for a missing sister who had been abducted by a race of eroti-bots who turn males and females into half-human/half machine sex machines...real Inna Gadda Da Vida stuff as she and i began our search for the missing sister on a plane of sex and the mystery of the Strip Tease Falcon! Let me start at the beginning…..
1947...Roswell, New Mexico, Earth Sci-fi hi-fi so high saucers from spaced out outer space, stone-henged, stoned age and crashing just outside of Roswell with a klaatu, barada, nicto thud, loaded with debris and Michael Rennie-gades who now become the alienated of the alien nation – born in lunarcy, and cloaked in secrecy with lunar cretin secretions giving birth to bugged eyed, anal probers and wild eyed UFO’ologists
This all on the helter skelter heels of Rockin’ Robert Goddards rocketry revelry and associated atomic badda - bing badda boom boom bomb tests near A-Bomb Alamogordo, Flashback Gordo!
“Waitress, could I get a big ass plateful of radiation and isotopes with a side order of mushroom clouds please?” Muchas Garcias, Martinez…Holy Hiroshima, Batman! Nagasaki nuked, Fatboy Wonder…duck and cover, duck and cover..and damn, do I miss the cold war. The bomb wasn’t all bad after all hell it gave us silver screen scream direct from the new mex white sands wilderness, giving birth to Gojira and the 50 foot wo-myn, the atomic hula with large, massive coconut breasts the size of Jupitor, cleavage as deep as the Grand Canyon and as delicious as Venus in a wet sweat of passion. Outer space implodes, explodes and exposes inner space with Aldous Huxley Little House on the Mental Prairie, windows wide and doors unlocked and open….
In the 20th Cent, every kid wanted to be an astronaut thanks to “television” as it was known then then. A “box” filled with Saturday morning cartoon shows with Space Commanders with decoder rings and garish clowns in bizarre regalia regaling them with a saturnalia of commercial blatherings competing headlong with puppets and cartoons for the attention and cash of the Jetson’s gen who were hopped up like junkies on smack cooked up by the corporate oy manufacturers. Something called Hula hoops as large as flying saucers making an orbit around the non-hula female waist while yo yo's ran up and down on a string like a dead body floating in the water. It was the age of mechanical toys and space age plastic dolls that did everything but fuck.
Before holographic toys of my century, boys in the 20th Cent were game for Robots from outerspace with armies of rock 'em sock 'em robots invading toy train earth and fighting off the legions of Amazon Barbie women with Commander Cody Decoder Rings. Led into battle by General Mattel..."they're swell!" great bastions were made from Erector sets to keep out little rubber cowboys and indians while GI Joe went into battle with a Buck Rogers battery powered ray gun from Ronald Ray-Gun to storm Fort Apache and and Rin Tin Tin. Cap pistols exploded and Lionel trains crashed into lincoln log buildings...long ago in a toy retro galaxy far, far away...a time before Atari...a time before the internet...when imaginations ran wild and Betsy was wetsy and Cathy was chatty and Barbie and Ken were an item before Ken got gay...and Barbie jumped under the covers with Skipper....action figures with rubber legs and arms that could be twisted sister by your mean little brother....train sets and turntables....mechanical robots and talking dolls...Cowboys and Indians and Good guys and Bad guys all tossed into the toybox cabaret at night to see the stripping Barbie in a Peep Show Betty Boop Booth playing with her own erector set....it was the age of nostalgia...yo yo's, Pee Wee Herman bicycles with the emphasis on bi- as it goes in cycles...flashlight tag and dodgeball...Barbie and Barbie...doll on doll action ...action figure on action figure action...Gi Joe and GI Jane....ah...Retropolis..wind me up Sparky...my batteries are full and I'm on cruise control...
The only other planet I had been to was Mars. The casinos and whorehouses of the moon don’t count. The moon had been colonized for centuries and although the freedom movement to have it reclassified for economic reasons as a planet has gone underground as most of it’s leaders have been arrested and asteroided to the isolated penal colony A-11 located in the Temple-Tuttle Leonid Quadrant
A messiah from Mars...code-named on the wanted Tel-Vis as Martian Luther King (named after a forgotten civil rights worker from Retroplins own past) rose from the planetary plantation pulpits to lead the masses in a series of Freedom Marches on a scale seldom seen in any of Retropolin occupied orbs. Then, as quietly as it began, the Masters would sweep Martian racial and cultural differences aside, they would fall in love and mate with a green Martian woman with three three breasts and two vaginas. Now you could actually say, and mean it..a bird in the hand is not better than two in her bush!
After sweating up the space blanket, they would soon produce an afterburner afterbirth of a pleasant placenta that would produce little green umbilical children and buy a little suburban green dog and tanks of multi-colored fish. Physical differences would melt away like heated cheese, with interspecies copulation and in time, light years maybe from now, the fornicated population wouldn't be white, black, yellow, red or green...but a soft, quiet, gentle faded grey.
My next interstellar journey would take me light years beyond Andromeda and mental stability. I would need a lot of sedation on Lobototranqs & Peyoticite on this one. A journey that had its Genesis on a cold, grey Centauri (old November) Retropolis day…..
The Centauri Equinox always brings a drop in business for those in my line of work, not that my agency was doing very well anyway. More time is spent in and out of the office drugging (it was all legal now) and drinking cheap Venusian booze. Drunk, drugged or sober, it was all the same to me. My partner, Sandoz Diego Cerveza and I were barely hanging on economically by the torn seams of a pair of fishnet stockings.
While most agencies got the juice freelance accounts from the governing congress we were hand the leftovers..the crap….the back alley shit cases no one else wanted. We were the alley dumpsters where junkies toss their used needles, gangs dumped their incriminating weapons and winos threw up on the Chinese restaurant scraps that no one was ever sure of their origin...an organic farm or the local dog pound or worse...body parts from the local flop. Losers that no one would miss who would disappear into a won ton soup disguised until you noticed one of the won’s or one of the ton’s, never sure which was what would end up staring straight at you from the bowl...may even wink at you when you realized it was a human eye looking for a fortune cookie.
In my line of work, sleep does not make peace with reality after defeating it. Dark shadows fall tall on the floor and the wall. The night becomes a hypodermic needle filled with sleaze, and greed. Money, sex, adultery! Choose one from column A or jump into bed with all three...what the hell a romp with a foursome for foreplay, but don't forget to take a gun and blast away at the demons The Sex is Free...the bullets cost a nickel each but well worth it for the big payoff.
Soon it's early morning, dark clouds rolling in..now if this were old Chicago, the dark black-thick clouds would be a deep blue, like the dark in an underground cavern, or the dank cigarette stale beer interior of some Retropolin saloon with hustlers and pimps and faded hookers and lost dreams. the jukebox stands lonely in the wee small hours of the morning corner, forgotten its promise of three plays for a quarter, a cheap street whore to say the least at that price, the kind with needle tracks up and down her arm, greenish hue with bruises and a shot of whiskey with a syphilis chaser and together, they all sit…stony silence until someone, probably from Cincinnati jams a quarter into the juke…the ancient 45 rpm takes it’s place on the spindle, while the needle takes it’s place in it’s waiting groove, moving gently c and almost lovingly, more black vinyl foreplay then anything else..the mojo goes east-west, and keeps on moving, gyrating actually, in it’s own dream, not shared, the dream is an erection, blues from the alley straight to the soul like a junkie jamming needle for a quick fix…close your eyes..enjoys the rush of making love on a dark and rainy Sunday to the stench of stale cigs in an ashtray, ..narcolepsy, necromancy, nothing fancy..just sex with the grateful dead… smile now…it’s a dark blue black morning, with a full mind sky of blues sunshine, and what the fuck, you got your blues on and his rocks off…you promise to call again..and the line is always busy when you dial, the line is always busy so you may as well head on down near the old faded opium dens in Chinatown. Charles Bukowski is waiting and Tom waits..both have a gun hidden...and damned if those pianos are drinking while the drunken barfly sings a song off key...and then the lights go dim...and it's last call for alcohol.and the dark night...the coal jet black night light flickers...it's time to wake up from your dream and face another day in another century, another time, another place..and this day would prove to be anything but ordinary
I had closed the office early for the day but had made a last minute appointment with a woman with a throaty sexual power packed voice who called me earlier in the day about a missing sister she suspected was missing and feared she had had been abducted to a distant planet I had only heard of. A planet of wanton sex and eroticism and a ecstasy producing midnight blue drink called Soma. The planet Robotia the sex and Soma capital of the quadrant.
Good soma (drinking or smoking varieties) was hard to find, too much Soma had a kick that caused a Jekyll Hyde transformation causing a frenzy of murder and rampaging rape, no longer gender specific that could go on for hours on end until the effects had worn off. There were never any criminal charges brought against a person or perp as they used to be called in pulp novels of the 20th Cent..on Robotia...you could murder, rape and engage in extreme BDSM legally...all you had to do was pick a gender or both and enjoy the macabre fantasy turned reality
To come down off a soma high you needed a huge combo amount of tranqs, cannabis and peyoticite and the planet Robotia to where I was about set a course for was the Soma and drug vortex of the universe which to me was my Cibola...I was Coronado searching for the lost city of sex and drugs...my pot of gold...did it exist? Was the phone call a mere illusion? Was someone, perhaps one of my drunken friends having a go at me to have fun at my expense...
The fog that dusk was as thick and heavy as steel reinforced nylons on an overweight hooker from the bordellos of Venus. As the fog thickened outside my window, I could make out her shadow back lit in the hallway closing in on the door of my office in down and out downtown old beat Detroit..once proud..now a gang war zone that even the cops were part of mayhem.
I was behind in the rent and utilities, in dead last place on the race rack and flat on my ass cash strapped..I couldn’t afford a 500,000 spae buck back alley blow job by a Neptunian nymph dressed up as a Catholic school girl, every mans fantasy even now in the 30th Cent. Catholic girls are now a race of vixens unto themselves and they had sex down to a science. they were , over easy, and we were hungry, so together it was a sexual plate of eggs and sausage. You don’t have to be Fellini to figure this one out.
These girls dressed in plaid skirts the catholic girls you saw in the hallway everyday who were damn near virginal but these were real ass kickers! Catholic schools still existed (The Pope was part of the Planetary Congress as church and state were now one) I went to one and in class I would drop a pencil or pad of notebook paper so I could bend down and grab a quick peek of paradise..I thought I was real nonchalant...well, forget about it..those girls were way ahead of us or at least was way ahead of me...as I would bend low to be subtle and unnoticed..I noticed that she noticed too and at the appropriate moment..her legs would part as wide as the Red Sea..yes, it was a miracle. A goddamned Catholic Miracle...bless me father for I have sinned..over and over again and again...when I die I may go to the Ninth Gate of Hell but in my life I’ve already been to paradise and back ready as always to bite the forbidden fruit...so to all of you in plaid skirts who walked the holy halls of Catholic School...you are the Eve’s the world...hold out an apple and we’ll follow you anywhere your estros leads us.
Our detective agency was faltering and my secretary, wasn't faring much better as she hadn't received a check either for weeks and she was a Czech, a real one from what used to be called Czech Republic, an autonomous republic no more, world geo autonomy was over, it was one dystopian world now. She was also a former shot put champ of that old Eastern Bloc (now Europa) so you know what they say...never bounce a check on a Czech. Thankfully she had a crush on me and could crush me with her thighs alone . She thrived on the atmosphere of our office and the lack of pay didn’t matter to her (she had two husbands that were filthy rich..and yes planetary polygamy was also now legal for both genders!) She had nothing better to do with her time or I'd have to answer my own phone.
Now I was in another frame of mine as the shadowy female figure in the hallway loomed larger, closer and began to take shape, I heard the door open gently, quietly, as only a frightened person will do. Fear makes us all cautious…
As she entered. I noticed that she had quite a set of upper knobs on her and legs! Damn those legs...they could stretch from Retroplis to Luna and I was ready to ride her rocket all the way from one end to the other. I also noticed, she wasn't the usual brunette that walks into a cheap detective’s office, in fact she was quite attractive with that Oriental look that brings a man to his knees. and there was something so familiar about her I couldn’t put my finger on at first. In my hungover haze there was something so familiar about her but couldn’t put my finger on it….I had seen her before...somewhere..in a drug induced dream haze? I could’t remember.
I sized her up and guessed she was probably an Asian from the Northwest Territories in Canada where you can’t really gauge a body shape due to the fact of the all the fur they wear...ever see an Eskimo Pinup Girl? Well ,beneath all that layering when stripped away along with pretense you'll find some awesome flesh with a hidden pubic pot of gold...I digress...and diverge...but I am diverse..
I could see she was a hot package, dynamite in fact, and could smell trouble, or was it that near tuna aroma emanating from somewhere south of her body’s equator where Brazil would be? It attracted me like a shark to a human happy meal. She dropped her coat to the floor seductively, I sat there immobile, she pulled out a cigarette, fancy French brand from Quebec or the nearby reservation where they're sold at discount prices. I was right...she was Asian, Indonesian in fact, with Eskimo blood that made my blood rush to all the right parts of my body
She walked seductively to my desk to take a seat, and what a fine seat she had. I could go seal hunting in her warm inviting igloo everyday if she invited me. She said very calmly but with a slight accent I couldn't place, (when it comes to the Bering Straits, accents have no bearing anyway) "Got a match?" I wanted to flick her Bic where I sat so played with my lighter, which you shouldn't do in public but I did anyway until it flamed up and ignited...I leaned in closer to her and her intoxication aroma, her perfume, the fish probably, had me on my knees...my flame met her tobacco and the room was on fire..or at least the region south of my pants pockets and belt.
She introduced herself as Asrini Pemalang, a beautiful name..she was Bacall to my Bogart. The lights flickered in the office...right on cue? For effect? or just bad wiring. I’ll have to get that fixed someday I told myself and made a note on a greasy page of an old notepad that had seen better days. It wasn't my pad anyway, it was a prescription pad I had lifted from my doctors desk the last time I was in her office for a full nude exam and to get a refill of my amphetamine. Which reminds me...my script for Loboto-tranqs was due for an illegal refill. (She was what we call a hymen happy sex addict..so as long as you fucked her often and well you got your tranqs. I had been addicted to them since the Big War and had grown quite fond of them...hell, I needed them to function.
Asrini relaxed, she inhaled, and then exhaled, inhale exhale, her chest heaving out forming massive canyons of cleavage you could mush huskies in...then in her low sexy voice began her tale of intrigue and asked for my help in retrieving her sister from the clutches of space pimps…
I was hooked by this mesmerising Asian Eskimo mix of the north and told her my expenses were 3,000,000 space dollars a day ($200 in 21st Century money)...she didn't bat an eye and pulled out 1,000,000 from her clutch and handed it to me as a down payment..I knew this was going to be trouble..she was beautiful, and smelled like tuna, pungent and intoxicating as a ladies roller derby locker room after a sweaty hour on the track. This sexy little Asian Eskimo was the kind of woman who could make a man an explorer and I wanted to be Henry Hudson and search her Northwest Territory for the fabled Northwest Passage.
I wanted to find her sister now at all costs. I loved the thought of 3,000,000 plus space bucks a day and the taste of Asian tuna..so together we set off for Robotia the last known location of the sister for the madness and adventure that lay ahead for me and this exquisite mesmerizing Asian- Canadian.
Our journey would transport us to the mechanical planet of Roboia for an adventure that created one hell of a romance as hot as a sun flare with this rich Asian-Eskimo Goddess. Her heat could melt the polar bears polar ice caps along with their sizable polar bear balls and freeze the hard-ons in the bordellos of Bangkok..ever been banged in Bangkok before? It's a rustic whorehouse where a blow job is mere pennies on the dollar...use Space Bucks and she'll go 'round the world' in less than 80 days, minutes, seconds....she was beautiful and talented and had a vagina as strong as a steel trap.
Robotia...it had the market on vice cornered in this teeming space colony, aliens from all four quadrants could fornicate furiously with machines and machinas legally and openly with pubic pelts woven from the genitals of their customers as it was customary to donate some. ... Con artists, hookers from Hale Bopp II, and pickpockets make fantastic promises to eager visitors who are promptly taken advantage of.
I knew about Rotibotia but had never been there or knew of anyone who had been there. It was an artificial planet where humans were transformed into half machine (the men) and Machina (females). I was the one planet in place in space where machines and machinas will end masturbation for ever!But also one of sexual pleasures at the hardware hands and sex organs of artificially intelligent mechanical Intel processor prostitutes where female and male robots which will be called Eroti-bots come fully equipped with amazingly lifelike vaginas, electro-labias and the genitals will be hard-on happy and hard wired to emit an electronic pulse that will be transmitted through sensors of the heavy metal hymen and designed to deliver a 220 volt jolt the human penis. The future of the Eroti-bots is not just a lap dancing A-I sex kitten for men. There will be eroti-bots for females as well. You've been using vibrators for decades anyway for that all pleasing "batteries not included" stimulation of sexual stimulation. Now you could lay back and let the Danger Will Robinson Eroti-bot do his work mechanically putting some real mecha-he-man push into his pulsating AI penis where you can adjust settings to orgasm, multi-orgasim, mega orgasm or even get juiced up and soaking wet by putting the penis pedal to the metal by setting it to a very intense Orbital Orgasm where you can run sexual rings around Saturn as his member explodes and expands to the size of Jupitor!
The nice thing about the Will Robinson model is that once it ejects its load of synth-cum it will automatically refill itself, and while doing so the timer says, "I'll be back!" The Terminator is now the Orgasimator. The machines will have names, be voice activated and disease free. Pregnancy? A thing of the past, unless you opt for the accessory package that includes frozen sperm from a sperm bank that can be injected and loaded into the load of your mecha-male, and then, through the act of intercourse, of course, voila! You can now give birth to a little R2D2 of your own!
The Female models will also have an Oral setting for one hell of Hoover vacuum blow job. The mouth, as the vagina will be composed of a fleshy realistic sexy synthetic material that will be able to gauge the pleasure level being attained, and in the case of the vagina, it can get tighter have more pull if it's warranted and the synth-mouth will have separate settings much as the penis on the male model has. It will have a low blow job setting of Gentle Genitalia and progress upwards on the sex scale to the tempestuous Tornado Vortex that could to suck a hockey puck inside out!
There will of course be various male and female bots that come in variety of racial models including Asian, so you can bang a gong or at least an Eroti-bot from Bangkok. Then there is the ever popular Black model male with adjustable penis size control from small, medium all the way to Biggie Size just as though you were ordering from Wendys! The Black Female Booty-Bot has one hell of motor hidden discreetly in her "trunk" or rear end and comes with a 300 horsepower thrust and four gears. There are also Lesbi-Bots and Gay-bots and even Trans-bots that have interchangeable sex organs and orientation settings. The Lesbi-bots come with AI strap-on technology devoloped my Microhard in Seattle, and Gay-bot has multiple settings from Oh Boy! to Lets Go Shopping! It comes in two models, Top or Bottom.
The Jetsons Models are a whole family of Eroti-bots that come as a complete set and you can have a robot romp with Judy or Elroy, they are machines so do not fall into the category of Pedi-bots, and will be legal in most countries, you can even have a robot go with Rosie the Maid, and if you’re lucky George and Jane Jetson can be set to "menage a trois" and you can frolic with both at once!
The eroti-bots are coming...the rise of the machines as they say...artificial intelligence and mechanical sex...disease free...emotion free...pregnancy free unless you opt for it, and some will even enter into marriage with their machines and their mates can be recycled in time for environmental reasons, and replaced at the local hobby shop.
Machina’s now were the mecha-goddesses of the galaxy. I, having never been with one, and preferring the flesh and body company of a real woman, Rertopolin or Venusian, I can’t honestly say if they are sexy or not..it's all up to individual taste...sex appeal is all in the libido of the holder.
Development f Femme Fatale Machina’s electronically laden with functional operating sex organs began long ago when a forgotten German filmmaker, Fritz Lang unleashed the False Maria on movie audiences in the cult classic film “Metropolis.” She was not just your average sexually leveraged buxom mecha-bombshell. Banging her probably was similar to having sex with a Jamaican steel drum without breasts.
Amazon women from the moon, devil girls from Mars, and mutant motorcycle bitches from Outer Space and and assorted narco neco nympho's from the planet Necrophilias were common fantasy in the Old Days. Not quite dead, but the Voodoo Queens of Old war torn New Orleans had a certain charm along with sexual spells cast with the ingestion of erotic elixirs and potent passion inducing potions that promote promiscuity and palate pleasing libidinous feasting to treat the hot, humid senses of sultry sex of the deep penetrating groins of a hungry male. It was a volatile mixture of day of the dead gang bangs and your basic zombie love of lust and longing. Getting screwed by a zombie with permanent rigormortis would be the attack of a perpetual hardon horror with a rigid mortis!!!
Humans ended up lifeless, emotionless, and sexless so they weren't much of a threat however the film could have taken a delightful detour in a Pod Sex Parlor. That alone speaks volumes and overnight...Pods would be sexy...or at last..at least. The pods themselves could be disposable like a used Cerean condom giving the pods a prophylactic nature that would emulate a weird vaginal driven vehicle for genital gratification and vaginal victory!!!
Toss away the inflatable dolls and look to the skies....towards the constellations of consternation...there is Genital Gemini and Vaginal Virgo...so what's your sign? It doesn't matter…
The Machina class prostitute is a mechanical female...make no mistake. Sexy, great lines and enough tech power under her alloy frame to give you a nice in a lifetime once over..they never get tired and have no sexual limitations as humans do.
Like all things mechanical they do break down. Then it’s time to bring "her" into the lab and put her on the repair rack. To examine her properly she has to strip for you and that is where the rack hoist comes into play. The rack itself is a hydraulic pole dance device for the machina to display herself with her bottom completely exposed, and her under carriage movable parts shamelessly and electronically forced to move and undulate to the audience of high tech mechanics with a voyeuristic bent. As she rises slowly on the rack..she is stripped completely with all her treasures exposed. Her microchip alone is enough to make a rocket go off by itself..
Once she's doing the high tech pole dance on the Rack it's time fire her up her with a high tech dose of electrical stimuli, making adjustments as diagnosed to guarantee the customer more bang for his space bucks. Her working area also has to be spacious, but small enough to be tightly packed with your goodies. A well charged rear end is crucial for optimum performance, a little wiggle action is good to have. Tuned up properly she will keep all her moving parts working smoothly when it comes to up and down and in and out action.Remember, a good tune up is like foreplay. If she needs a recharge just use the charger provided (cost is extra) and give her a jolt. The longer the charge the better will be your jolt and she'll go the distance for you down the fuel injected quarter mile track.
Her appetite you'll find is insatiable and her need for more action as well as yours is exciting! She's ready for anything. You can now play with her speed switches and cop a feel and check the different modes and settings. A good set of knobs will enhance the experience. It's nice to have a nice knob in hand to play with as the juice begins to flow from both of you, machina and man.
Once she's fully charged and ready for action, hit the switch to “ON”. Then begin to pump! She'll purr like a mechanical kitten and handle well. A machina with a full charge is like a nymphomaniac..she'll go and go for hours..until her charge runs out..then simply insert your male charger adaptor into the female electrical input one more time and you and she are off to the races!
Asrini and I planned to leave the orbit of Retropolis in two days. That would give me time to pack for the trip , turn my case load notes over to Sandoz and get wasted on Retropolin Soma and laid by a human female with the normal number of body parts (no assembly or batteries required) one more time at the Noir Bar, my favorite Dystopian dive in which to drown delightfully dissipated in and deliriously debauched without having a life preservers of emotions involved. Wham Bam Thank You Ma’am!
As I was packing up, “it” suddenly hit me! The “it” was where I had seen Asrini before. In the dense mind numbing fog of my drunks, deliriums and tranqs the media events almost eluded me, but, now it rushed at me with the impact of a Norman Mailer one page left hook description of a vagina.
It was during the recent rebellion..the one where a race of Lesbians, the Sappho’s tried to break away from the Retropolin government to declare autonomy and create their own sector. The short lived insurrection was given the government code name “The Lez-Erection.”
The “rebels” were infiltrated by a beautiful alluring agent of the Com-reds from the Asian Red Sector to obtain information and use it to crush the revolt. The dykes were doomed.
Retropolis was after all a Com-red Planet. Com-red was bastardized from the old term for Comrades..those merry men and women of Communism. Communism, Socialism and its offshoot -isms had not been wiped off the face of the planet after the cataclysmic Draconian Satellite Drone War of 2598. In fact, they grew proportionately larger and stronger as the Gulag Goliath devoured their former adversaries faster than a speeding laser ray shot from a satellite in space!
Western democracies that had reigned supreme cloning third world colonies for centuries folded like a cheap Sears suit after getting trampled under the heavy boots of the Eastern Sphere of Influence of the Red East and it’s army of mechanized mercenaries. Fighting machines supplied by the planet Robotia it turns out, arms dealers to the stars, (literally!) and the highest bidders from Triangulum to Centaurus A. Roboia was also the planet I was about to venture to in search of Asrini’s lost or abducted and in any case missing younger sister feared being transformed into a Robotian Machina prostitute. Forget Robo Cop. These were mechanical sex machines who could overload the libidinous circuits of a human male or female at the speed of sexual light.
The victors of the RED East, with the help of Robotian intrigues and arms became a virus of the vanquished Western leaning planets. Over time both became one as borders disappeared, absorbed by the Com-Reds, rendering global geo patterns vanished into an invisible vortex. Strict regulations and global government swallowed whole ideologies as smooth as a cheerleader gives a blowjob under the bleachers. The “left” was all that WAS left...as the right gave up it’s right to exist thanks to liquidation, sedation, re-education, intimidation, coercion, firing squads, and exile.
Today in the 30th Cent politics and sex, as always, still makes the merry world go on a merry go-round romp, and when you do it by political leanings I find the left as a governing body is as strict as a Mother Superior with PMS but the yang to the yin is that sexually the left is so much sexier than I could imagine the right could ever be! The Left has always been and still is a striptease act with as many costumes as there are fighting factions. The Com-Red female is a sexy Minsk minx stripped down on a rim-shot runway to a g-string Hong Kong Viet Cong King Kong thong exposing a hint of a super nova pubic clit cluster t come. The thong once removed can induce an orbital orgasm on the mental, physical and spiritual planes.
Liberal Democrats will straddle the fence, and being of a cautious nature will not spread their legs too far apart, and those madcap Libertarians will talk about sex, but still will be more comfortable masturbating. The liberal Democrats will only let you down in bed.
In the Solar System of Planetary Socialism, I find that a socialist from Saturn will talk all the way through the sexual act to the point of orgasm, thereby ruining any mood that may have tried to bubble to the Saturnalia surface for erection eruption, but on the upside they will want to include as many people under the covers to share the sexual wealth! You know, a sense of Plutonian Utopian Community. So forget a threesome….you might end up with ten alien participants in perfect sexual alignment, each and all with 10 different theories of how to achieve a sexual climax that is fair for everyone!
At the far-out far end, you’ve gone too far off the political spectrum, a damned Andromedan anarchist will want to explode an Asteroidal suicidal device first to get in the mood and then make you read hefty lefty leaflets on how to screw an anarchist in 10 easy steps. However Comrade, do you want an erection as vast as the Rings of Saturn? Do you want to have a Super Nova explode in your bootleg spacesuit in the Kremlin?
If the answer is Yes..then get in your time travel pod and head on back to the old, ancient, forgotten former USSR! Those Moscow Girls will knock you out…
In the 20th Cent Das Kapital was not exactly the Kama Sutra and the ABC’s of the KGB did not add up to a romp under the hammer and sickle bed covers. You could have a go with a steamy Socialist from Slovenia but a vagina from the Volga gave a command performance.
The Global Galactic Communist lover of my century does it for the party, so party on! Your hammer and her sickle could make for some red banner red star non-Tsar sex one of the most exciting experiences since East Germans tried to breach the Berlin Wall to freedom in the old days. The Communist girl of today will also use protection..red star sponges of course to block the little infiltrators from scoring a hit in the Motherland. Sometimes she will not use protection and will let the little sperm defect to the other side...so don’t get stalled in Stalingrad..keep pushing...Now that is how you fuck a communist.
Asrini was a covert agent during the Lesbos Uprising, and a damned good one too and brought the lesbians to their knees. Not surprising, as this red babe was as red hot as a comet and she had the tail to prove it. The revolution was soon put down over and she returned to her home base famous as the Vixen of the Volga before heading across the Bering Straits, the land bridge from Asia to the West to her ancestral home of what was once Canada. Her mother was Asian and her father an Eskimo. They both met and banged in Banff and Asrini was the pleasant placenta wrapped result. With her background and contacts and fame, I wondered as I stared into my broken mirror where I kept all the images of my broken dreams...why did she need me to help her find her sister? The plot thickened faster than coagulating blood from a head wound from a .38.
Asrini, my Com-Red Asia-kimo client was rich, famous and sexy and could give Lenin a hard-on as he lay in state (yes, he’s still there!) and lets face it. I wanted to find her G spot tucked away in her Red Square..I found my Com-red in a closet..in the 20th Century you had to search to find red star gold star vagina in places like Vietnam….North Korea...China...or Cuba...oh...or Madison, Wisconsin...Sex Workers of the World..UNITE! The next time you run into a commie bombshell..don’t say Fuck You….say it loud and say it proud...FUCK ME!!!.
As a student of pre-galactic conflicts of the years before the Great Neutron War, I read about the so called “cold war” of ideologies and the tug of war for the hearts and minds of people. Flashback to the archaic 20th Century. Interesting space in time to say the least. How could a war be “hot” or “cold” as though you could decide by the turn of spigot by choosing faucet C or faucet H? I guess one global government is the way to go if you put any value on a human life. War eats the young...politics fattens them up for the killing kiln.
Flashback! Reading was legal at that time and Earthlings had a choice in periodicals. Curious word, “periodicals”. It was a terminology for something called magazines and “news” papers..all since terminated as reading material so no longer a need for the terminology.
There was an element called the comic strip. One surfaced called called “Spy vs Spy” in a radical thought provoking mag called Mad Magazine. Unanimouslu amusing by standards of the times was a telly cartoon series about a communist re: Com-Red spy named Boris (Not Yeltsin) and his sexy, slender thin comrade Com-Red Natasha , two spies who hung out with “moose and squirrel” in a bizarre program called “The Rocky and Bullwinkle Show?” What the hell was that all about? A talking moose and a fucking flying squirrel? Talk about pulling a rabbit out of hat!
Com-Reds were fallingn out of the closet faster than patrons of a hot to Trotsky gay bar. Ultimately Com-Reds and Captains of Capitalism clashed in battle..two titanium titans doing a tango until only debris was left...and one man standing..The Com-Reds of the East victors who would re-write history and layout the blueprint for the future of Earth.
Rini Pemalang, as I learned later, was The Com-Red undercover agent who plied her trade, you might say combining two of the world’s oldest professions during the recent Lez Erection Insurrection. As a result she had access to and acquired documented secrets so dangerous to the government that she was in danger of elimination...and after it was too late. Covertly covering her beautiful ass..or so she thought. Her stolen hedge against the future were not assets...in fact they were a liability that threatened to toss her into a tempest she hadn’t forseen. Her handlers knew about the Strip Tease Falcon and now knew she had the documents to prove it’s existence and would be searching for it. He or she who possesses the falcon, controls the powerful mechanical planet Robotia and thereby rule the universe.
I realized now I was in danger as well. Was her sister really kidnapped and taken to Robotia? Did she even have a sister at all? Was this part of a master plan of hers for redemption and escape I had unwittingly been inserted into like a tampon on a rainy red day? Even menstruation was commie red!
It didn’t matter. She had pulled me into her emotional orbit and I couldn’t break free even if I wanted too, and I didn’t. She was a real dame, class and breeding that could bring the legions of Jupiter to it’s knees. She was packed, sacked, locked and loaded and was built with the seductive curves found only on a Venusian space station and just as powerful as the military might on parade formerly on Mars Angry Red May Day during it’s May Day heyday.
Her vagina was her weapon of choice, and what a choice vagina it is. It could make a man give up the secrets of the solar system in one orgasm as he was held helplessly, and happily as a hymen captive in her vaginal penile penal colony.
Asrini had an ass as perfect as an asteroid with a waxing and waning G-Spot in flux and had now entered the auditorium that controls the high tides of my wet dreams.
Her 5’ 7” frame was fully loaded with sex appeal and equipped with anatomical weaponry including a 35-23-35 figure sporting a 35C Olympic cup, flying saucer large brown eyes and jet black hair. This Com-red was in every enemy bed and the secrets of the Lez Erection spilled like sexual secretions in a cheap by the hour motel.
She knew how to seduce and sexually manipulate women and men reducing both genders to ashes. Along with penetrating the dangerous dykes, she managed to infiltrate top secret “foreign” agencies with her pelagic penchant for deep penetration of her orgasmic ocean where her legs parted like the Com-Red Sea and behold! A damn pubic miracle along with her red hot burning bush!
She was the type of person my parents warned me about.
Asrini had a proletarian pedigree that extends back to her father who was working and spying for the Red East Space Center on Ceres 12 during the heat of the Great War. The die was cast, after her graduation from a university in Bejing she was recruited by the secretive entity known only as the Bureau and began her training in the wiles of the spy trade. After graduation she was planted on Mars to infiltrate the Separatist Movement heating up in the underground on the planet, her target. Her mission gather intelligence and turn it over for analysis to bring the revolt to it’s inevitable end.
It was social networking and her extreme beauty that eventually blew the boudoir doors open of Martian underground society and secrets. She was ready to party for the party as she jump started the party herself with the eventual overthrow of the Martian rebel movement clearly in her pubic cross-hairs.
She had a proclivity for female dominance in the bedroom with her mate cuffed, gagged and bound while teasing and tempting her captive with an ample display of breasts adorned like a Christmas tree with nipple clamp ornaments hanging from her Merry Christmas Mammaries. She probably wore Gestapo boots to accessorize a pair of mistletoe thongs! Happy Holidays indeed!
Asrini the Red, was now in the land of the red planet. The Mars Bureau was tipped off and were onto the sexy red zeppelin. She was a spy for all seasons, until her season ended one day when she was arrested by the underground. She cooly and coyly plead “guilty” to all charges leveled against her and departed when she was deported to Earth as part of a prisoner swap.
When she was caught the Martian rebel authorities did it with big band fanfare which was embarrassing to the Government of Retropolis, but her celebrity preceded her she was now the maximum Martian Maxim material girl and the galaxy wanted more and more of this glamorous pin-up spy who could melt a glacier on Pluto in under 60 seconds flat!
Asrini shot into the media celebrity stratosphere, blazing a comet like trail across the media galaxy. She was the hottest “com-red” heavenly body in orbit. Retropolin News and entertainment outlets were on a feeding frenzy of what she was wearing, as she was now setting fashion trends and appearing on the cover with a full spread (I won’t go there) in the Saturn version of Maxim Magazine. She was also doing fashion modeling on the runway and ended up with her own Vis-Disc show! Bizarre? Wait! They also came out with Asrini Pemalang Action figures...it figures!
Stocking Stuffers...inflatable Asrini had to be next? Valve Placement? I’d take the real Asrini, but, if I can’t have her, then let’s go action figure Asrini! Now I did have her..or actually she had me in her world.
In the morning Asrini and I would fire up my fuel injected booster rocket travel Pod beginning our foray to Robotia in search of the mysteriou Strip Tease Falcon. Urban myth said that the mechanical planet itself, along with it’s race of erotibots was the creation of the scientists of the Planet Toho. They are the direct descendents with a lineage dating back the 20th Century creators of a series of Japanese films depicting a mutant atomic lizard known as Gojira/Godzilla! A whole series was made featuring this anti-hero including the lost episode called, “The Day Raymond Burr Ate Tokyo” a highly prized collectible today by sci fi geeks centuries later.
The Tohos, as they became known, emerged in the 25 Cent from a cocoon of isolation as a galactic political and technological force to be dealt with wearing diplomatic kid gloves. They were still pissed off about the atomic Amityville horror of Hiroshima where a gay Enola came out of the nuclear nightmare closet. Spreading the holy unconditional surrender gospel of mad mushroom cloud radiation.
They evolved into an advanced race of techno-freakoids dabbling in side show robotics. First as toys for little snot nosed Earth kids, before they moved on to highly advanced A-I industrial robotics rendering all former robotics along those lines outdated and inconsequential.
The big push began by the end of the 25th Cent when they had created an entire army of mercenary military bots for higher to the highest bidder engaged in petty territorial geo-porn squabbling over borders, race, religion and resources.
As the machines advanced they were put into use by the emerging Retropolin/Dystopian Empire during the Great War led by the victorious Com-Reds of the far out far off east. Once Earth was unified under Com-Red conquest, Retropolis was born. As a reward a century later the Toho’s were awarded their own planet, (which they were given permission to pillage and plunder as modern day Vikings) They were also allowed to set up Toho Entertainment Neighborhoods in major cities on Retropolis itself composed of delightful Erotoi-bot creations developed after the Great War for a rapidly growing marketplace for hyper hymen and power penile genital gratification.
I had done my homework on the history of the mystery of the Falcon. The original Mr. Toho was visited one dark night at his Okinawan summer hillside mansion overlooking the South China Sea by a duo of Peruvian Indians back in the year 2015, an age of sexual weakness. Twitter Tweet twits, political correctness and corrupt governments world wide . The Peruvians were big fans of Raymond Burr featured in the first English language version of Gojira. When they saw an old “video tape” and out-of-synch dialogue, they took it as a message that the Ancient Ones had returned to Earth.
Cave drawings and spoken tribal word stories relate how strange beings in strange ships landed in the Andes to visit this hidden race of Earthling and dazzle them by turning the plateau landscape into a giant etch a sketch by laser beaming circles and other symbols marking their territory as if they were a pack f mating wolves.
Before they left to explore orbs of interest they gave them a give of a glowing bird that was in effect a power source of knowledge and science that in the hands of a person or persons could harness the secrets and power of the entire universe. How they use that power is up the individual...either way...the glass of rum would be half full or half empty.
This same Falcon was kept safe for centuries then turned over to Mr. Toho by the Peruvian Raymond Burr Cult of the Andes. It was handed down Toho to Toho where they learned to unlock the Robotic Genesis Project that led to Mercenary Bots to establish their power base and the Erotibots to rack in the space bucks. It was kept in the Toho underground vaults where it also powered the mechanical planet of To Ho which is completely dependant on it for defense and it’s very existence. Without it they are powerless.
Toho’s R And R Department used the Falcon to develope the famed Eroti-bots…..which enabled them to ramp it up a notch utilizing their erotica expertise to experiment creating sex Cyborg’s, half sentient being/half machine sex slaves gathered from a universal garden of military and political prisoners as well as kidnapped beings forced to submit to transference. The Toho’s are major league. I am not.
If I was going to tango in a computer circuit circus I figured I had better Boy Scout myself and be prepared with an evening of debauched abandon in the robot sex bars and opium dens of the Toho District of Old Detroit with my friends, including the one and only, the publisher of my usually deadline late mystery novels, Arthur Burns, along and my agency partner, Sandoz Diego Cerveza.
The Toho’s not only created Robotia as a crown jewel of creativity but also developed erotic robotic Districts in major cities on many of the Dystopian Empire as a PR campaign by example of what a whole planet of Cyborg Sex and mind numbing drugs. Good for Eroti-tourism which is all the rage today. Nothing like a Eroti-bot laptop to get your Wi-Fi antennae erect for a strong signal. Homo-robo-sexual some where over the rainbow encounters were encouraged as today gay was the new hysterical and robo-lesbianism was promoted to flourish, mainly by the manly hetero voyeur crowd. Even Robo-pedophilia is not illegal with an underage bot if the robot was manufactured recently and at least 14 years old.
Old Detroit's Toho District ran parallel to the riverfront and was dangerous after dark. Hell, Detroit was just as dangerous in the light of day as a dame on PMS encased in a Kevlar bridal gown ready to toss a bouquet of grenades into a meeting of paraplegic Girl Scouts in a hospital ward with 6 boxes of cookies left to sell.
Across the river from Old Detroit was the district of Old Windsor, a former city of what was known as Canada, the land where Asrini had just left and entered my life.
Windsor...Ontario!!! Canada! Dangerous, sensual, sexy and very very….well, Canadian...all at the same time. Intrigue mixed in a syringe loaded with a wet dream dose of Canuck sex and suspense...rowdy rebels from French Quebec, hot body hockey players with large sticks who only want to score a goal in your net and puck you all the way from maple leaf Montreal to the land of the Eskimo nymphomaniacs, where it is intuitive for an Innuit to do it...whether on an ice floe or in an igloo...bone and boner chilling sex in the hinterlands for the hind ends. It's a rustic whorehouse where a Banff blow job is mere pennies on the dollar...use Detroit Currency and she'll go 'round the world' in less than 80 days, minutes, seconds....
Old Canada...founded long in the ago by good Nordic Nookie stock...a superior race of warrior women who ventured forth from Scandinavia to Greenland and Iceland and ultimately to what they called Vinland..then the New Found Land confound it...later...Canada...the land of Nanook and Nordic Nookie. A land of Scandinavian Warrior Princesses with Viking vaginas as strong as steel traps....
Yes...Ontario...Everywhere in this teeming Canadian colony, inter-galactic nationals fornicate furiously in fur hats. Detroit is just across the river so why not fuck there? Canucks, Con artists, hookers from Halifax, and pickpockets make fantastic promises to eager space travelers who are in a hurry to leave for safety after the danger dawns on them. Money and moose hides are the currency of freedom, and the hustlers have a field day conning the hopefuls and taking their last Loonie with nothing in exchange leaving them with dashed hopes, useless pennies, and dashed dreams of escape...back to their home planets and safety.
When Arthur and I arrived at the Robot Bar, Sandoz was already there and making small talk with one of the human waitresses when he saw us enter illuminated in the neon of the club’s entrance. “Hey Mates!” he yelled excitedly across the room and above the din of the crowd. Bloody Aussie accent always gave him away as a roo eater that couldn’t shake his down under roots.
“Sandoz, you always amaze me” Arthur said in a voice that betrayed his admiration for Sandoz’s proficiency with the opposite sex, human, alien or mechanical. “I swear you ugly sweat you must be part machine yourself. How the fuck are you...Mate. Ha, just want you to feel at home until you lose that hideous accent. I expect any minute to see an aboriginal woman on her bloody knees sucking on your pouch when I hear that goddamned voice of yours”.
“Alright boys, drinks. Arthur’s paying yes?” I said as I motioned for one of the Asian waitresses that cruised the customers tables in numbers so great I felt I was in Jakarta on festival night loaded on Soma and could take my pick of the litter.
Pleasantries exchanged, we got down to business. I had managed to persuade Arthur to fund the transportation and hotel costs of the trip to the Toho Robotia for both Asrini and myself. In exchange I would write a book on the investigation including all serial rights for mass publication...my ass against the wall i also gave p 50% of the serial royalties. Fuck it. I wanted the Strip Tease Falcon too..hey..absolute power corrupts absolutely, and I was ready to be corrupted with power..absolutely. The Falcon had been removed from the underground power vault of Robotia and it’s whereabouts had been unknown for decades. Did Asrini know where it was from lose bed talk by a Toho government official whose penis had a big mouth? Remember, Loose lips sink ships...yet they can also give a blow job that will make a man talk if done expertly by the right mouth. It was now a three way race for the prize between Asrini, Maddie and myself; the Toho's; the we-really-mean business Com-Red government and last but not least Narco Marx who it turns out waa the deadliest adversary we would face alone..while the Toho’s would kami-kaze themselves to regain and protect the power source at all costs.
Sandoz and I came often to this particular watering hole because of it’s unique perversity. Once a pervert, always a pervert I always say. The Tohos spared nothing in the way of bizarre entertainment and this joint was the jazzed up jumpin’ Marquis de Sade drunken dungeon of weirdness.
“Aye Bucko, they’ve got some new electro-mech- talent they brought in from the Leonid Sector. Some sort of experimental bots I guess,” yelled Sandoz over the ring-a-ding din of the crowd and the music and the whirring noise of the giant Toho robot strippers and the Asian flesh and tits and ass girl who directed the stage show yelling into her microphone “Hai, Hai, Hai”
I was all too familiar with the secret program. I was hired to investigate it and went with a delegation of Retropolin scientists, undercover of course disguised as a Dr. Farquahar to view the demonstrations. The Tohos had taken a childrens toy concept from the 20th Century and brought it from the drawing board to the sex bars in under 6 months .
“I know all about them. I was there when they developed them,” I said to hopefully end the convo and enjoy the show, but as usual Sandoz wouldn’t let it drop “I remember now. You had a mission you couldn’t talk about and made up some bullshit sorry ass story about some girl you got in trouble and a problem you had to fix..ha..yeah, you’re good at covering yer lyin’ arse…” There was something about how Sandoz always said “arse” that made me smile at his outlandish outback phrasing.
I glanced at Arthur who stared at both of us, actually more of a piercing glare with that alien in the headlight look he was famous for, but he was not aware of his excessive expressive facial fame. “What the hell are you talking about..secret missions...weird experiments...if this is all true why don’t I have a book by you about it or at least a few articles I could sell..you know by holding back you’re costing us both money asshole. Money, I might add that keeps my company open so I can publish your books to keep you in Soma and whores.”
I ordered another round of prized Canadian beer….hard to find on the black maple leaf market but safer than that cheap Neptunian crap a lot of the Detroit dives tried to pass off on the unsuspecting public laced with tranqs and food dye to bogus it up and make it presentable until the vomiting started..and it was unmasked as a counterfeit concoction.
“Alright Arthur, confession time. The Tohos were onto a project so deviant in nature we had to monitor it for the sake of Retropolin safety. You see they were committed to and have created a whole race of 20th Century Mechanical Barbie Doll Sex Workers intent on taking over the world of good old fashioned vice. They made one, a leader, a fascist Nazi Barbie robot, activated it and it’s A-I was so advanced i escaped from the toy store and requested political plastic toy asylum in waht was at one time South America... so don't cry for her Argentina, she's probably alive and well in Rio in Brazil!”
I could see Arthur’s brain in mathematical gear ..figuring out gross and net sales, agency fees and commissions and finally my paltry plate of royalties to be handed over...slowly as if I were a panhandler with leprosy. So I continued to fondle and play with his bottom line.
“Toho managed to capture her and by adding juiced up A-I programs they’ve created a community of sexually driven maniac female Barbie machine dolls whose intent it is to have sex with all mankind! Our Retropolin investigation led us to the Toho compound of composite materials where we managed to unearth the truth! So far there are now in addition to the pubic perfect Barbie...they have a legion of inflatable Barbies designated as Blow Up Barbies. We managed to confiscate one and she is a real valve buster as her valve is positioned properly in the pelvic region of the promised land of promiscuity. Retropolin research teams spent hours inflating and deflating, inflating and deflating until the doll actually achieved a form of blow up orgasm!”
I swear Arthur was pumping his primer at all this..book sales were sex to Mr. Burns. Space Bucks better than space fucks. Well, to each his or her own. I mind my own business, unless I’m hired for cash to stick it in someone else’s business.
“Arthur,” I flirted, “It gets better. Recently the Tohos unveiled the legion of Plus Sized Barbies with ample amounts of flesh north and south of her shaved Mason-Dixon Line and her shape a delicious meat and potatoes tits and ass look. She is large and she is sexy and she can take on Skipper and Ken at the same time and once done with them she's ready go at it with another plus size Barbie! We found out there are plans to create a conglomerate of Lesbian Barbie dolls with the sole purpose of hitting on Chatty Kathys, Talking Tina’s and to see if they can make Betsy Wetsy! Bet they can! The come complete with a double headed dildo with two business ends on it so they can use one side to insert and slide while also getting up close and vaginal personal with a partner using the other end. You know what they say...two heads are better than one and in this case...more fun too!”
Arthur was over the edge by now, and Sandoz had to turn his head so his leering grin wouldn’t spoil my aim as I went for Arthur’s the accountant’s books are cooked and not really in the black headshots.
“You see Arthur, next is right up your alley or your arse as Sandoz would say just to irritate me, Femdom Barbie is coming! She will be the real ball buster Toho is ready to launch in early spring. She'll have GI Joe on his khaki knees before you know it and Ken will tremble in fear at her feet! These Mecha-Barbies come with a bunker playhouse compound and nice clothes..this one will come with slave cage, cat-o-nine-tails, leather thongs and leather boots and a fetish for foot worship. It also comes with an erection erector set so Ken can build the dungeon she'll keep him in until she's ready for him!”
Arthur was beyond the point of no return...right there at the damn table . “Then of course there is Bordello Barbie. The Whore of Mattel..she's swell! Patterned after the famous Mustang Ranch, Bordello Barbie comes in a variety of racial preferences from vanilla to hot chocolate, all sizes from the Bridget the Midget Barbie who can stand upright while performing oral sex and in bed can be lifted up and down with ease while performing a ballet of pole dancing and lap dancing at the same time!”
I saved the best for last just as he was about to pull a Pompeii in his pants.
“Other top and bottom Barbies are in the works for gift giving Arthur...this eyar in fact..but beware of Mecha-Barbie. She and her artificial intelligence minions have plans for us...to enslave the whole human race as they run amok...and if you've ever seen someone run amok..it's not a pretty sight! Toho and Barbie are out to conquer the world and must be stopped before the toy stores of Poland and France fall. It's time for GI Joe and his little bag of Retropolin army men take a stand and fight to the end...we must...band of brothers...we have to BLOW UP BLOW UP BARBIE before it's too late...it's time for one hell of a Barbie Blow Job!”
Oh man...Arthur let loose. I never heard of a fucking Jewish volcano, but one just erupted next to me in the bar that night. I would write about later. Arthur was ready to sell it to mags until it dawned on him... he was the Jewish volcano!
Engaging in covert action on Robotia under the nose of the already paranoid Toho’s would not be an easy task, but getting there would be half the fun as we would have to make regular pit stops at various space stations put into orbital place by the phalanx of planets we would have to journey past on our way to solve the mystery and abscond with the fabled Strip Tease Falcon. Then what? It’s power was infinite in that it controlled all artificial intelligence in the galaxy. It had absorbed remote power supplies of mechanical cyborgs and stored the power in a power plant on Robotia. It was only a matter of time before the Toho’s would utilize this power to neutralize the power structure of the Dystopian Empire rendering it as effective as a neutered two headed Hydra Hound from the Baskerville Black Hole regency...that much was elementary.
I got up early, hung-over and over again and still smiling, thinking about how I had got Arthur Burns frustrated and watched his quantum erupt to a “hai hai hai” big kick finish. Now it was time to get our asses in gear and hit the happy space trail so I fueled up the old classic Nicto rocket orbmbile manufactured by the now defunct Klatuu Barada assembly plant with factories located under the rocky surface of the ninth moon of the planet Gort. At one time they were the premier prestige vehicle of inter-planetary travel...now merely an interesting nostalgic machine on a par Jack with the no longer made Volkspacevagen made on Venus...and the yellow dwarf Yugo Gremlin from the Yelm sector.
OK, it wasn’t pretty, in fact it was a junker, but it had a souped up metallic hydrogen power plant with modified twin SRB solid propellant boosters to give the Nicto enough juice to escape a planet’s gravity to go boldly into space to galaxies far far away. She may look like space shit, but when when the space shit hits the Van Allen Sansa Belt Action Zone, it’s time to break on through to the other side past the magnetosphere and get ready to was your woody and ride the wild surf of space.
Asrini was ready, willing and waiting when I pulled up to the private docking port of her penthouse at the Penumbra Arms. This girl was class all the way. ut of my league Arthur admonished. Her lifestyle was bought and paid for by the highest government bidder as she played both sides of the intrigue coin. I was outclassed and I knew it..she was Lady..I was the Tramp, but the smile she gave me as I gently penetrated her port was not condescending one proton iota. Her bag was packed tight and I could see the outline of a laser Luger holstered at her side adding in effect a third semi-auto breast locked and loaded and ready for action.
“I’m ready” she said with a smile as inviting as a hopped up hooker on a full hypo. I helped her with her bag and she slid seductively into the seat next to me. Only the thrust shifter stood between me and a scene from an old Fellini film.
“It’s gonna be a bumpy ride,” I said in a caustic throaty feminine imitation of a voice I had heard somewhere before. “We won’t make Robotia by tonight...probably take two days the way I estimate it. So we’ll stop at Saturn for the night and probably make Robotia after we clear Pluto and Goofy, the Disney planets.”
As I fired up the boosters I noticed a look of consternation come over her face. “What’s wrong? Did I say something to blow my chances?” I immediately knew I had put my foot in my ample mouth with that last remark. What the fuck was I thinking...I wasn’t gonna make this dame. She was Venus and I was Puck... not to be taken seriously.
“No, you didn’t” she said with a pout that was as sexy as it gets. I wanted to take her in my arms and protect her and die for her. “Then what, what?” The pause was pregnant and it was all because of my unthinking verbal semen that the convo got knocked up. At last she spoke, and I could see tears welling up in her giant brown eyes.
“I was hoping we could stop off at the Barbarella Planetoid Space Station instead of Saturn proper. I used to stay there in between uh, assigned assignations, you know. I needed to decompress and they know how to release sexual inhibitions after a long day on the job.”
Then the unthinkable happened, I opened my mouth, insert .45 and blow your brains out. “Sex to unwind after a day on the job of sex? Shit, that’s all your job was..fucking for secrets like bobbing for apples in someone’s pants!” I could see my words cut deep and it was too late to take the words back. “Fuck you!” She screamed, “Just..just go fuck yourself. If you think you’re gonna fuck me you’re out of your galactic mind.” Dead silence and I nonchalantly set a course for the Barbarella Planetoid Space Station. If I wasn’t gonna make it with her, then I’d do it with an android.
“OK, I’m sorry. We’ll go to Barbarella. I’m sorry,” I repeated in my best apologetic dog with a tail between it’s legs voice. “I’m sorry too,” she said. “I just know we may not come off this mission in one piece or even alive, so we may as well have one good day before they punch our card yes?” She was right, I melted and smiled. “You’re right. the course is set!” She smiled broadly. I leaned over close to her and said softly..”Now..will you get off my back?”
Next stop Barbarella...I popped in an old 32 track tape of Duran Duran and off we flew.
Barbarella is not a planet per se, or purse say, or say, that’s a nice purse, but rather a space station, an artificial planetoid, an adult alien playground of diverse perversity. In effect the Barbarella space station is a hemmoroid in the vast ass of space located on the inner ring of the behemoth planet, Saturnalia, especially at night where for few space bucks you could enjoy a Saturnalia night special with all the psychedelic psycho sexual trimmings simply by following the psychopathic yellow brick road.
Saturnalia is a planet of immense impropriety where as it’s satellite Barbarella was Dystopian debauchery taken to the extreme edge of mental stability. To borrow and paraphrase the ancient ones..it is the hap, hap, happiest orb in Dystopia! I had wanted to come here for a long time, but couldn’t justify it on the expense account. My secretary and Sandoz didn’t like to cook the books and I couldn’t afford the ticket to ride on what the agency was pulling in. So now it was time to see ...see the stuff that wet dreams were made of...the Barbarella Planetoid!
Where else can you rock and roll on the solar systems most intoxicating Soma drug theme park ride. That's right, we're talking the Roach Clip Roller Coaster where it rocks you while you roll your own! It's all part of the far out fun and like wow excitement of the solar system where Soma, ganja and good times are as normal as inhaling and exhaling.
It’s also a cannabis wonderland of weed with themed robots (Toho creations once again...they own bot market!) Reggae Mouse Mickey, Ganja Duck Donald and Voodoo Goofy! If you're looking for angel dust, don't be surprised if Whacked Out Tinkerbell doesn't dive bomb you with a dime bag of hallucinogens as you begin your journey through a real three dimensional dementia of Fantastic Fantasia Fantasy in the tunnel of love with your plastic fantastic lover. The Bob Marley Mad Hatter Mansion is full of voodoo and magic as you step through the looking glass and bang a gong and hit a bong with the animated automatronic rasta singers.."oooo mon....oooo mon..." be sure to sing along as the gods must be crazy after all!!!
Maryjane and Peter "Waterpipe" Pan take you on a journey where somebody speaks and you go into a dream as you float down the river on a ride that includes stoned pirates and alligators with carnivorous munchies in the fabled realm of Opium Land! Hap, hap, happy hopheads pop up out of the jungle on either side as the world famous Jim "Hempy" Hensons Marijuana Puppets do a real Jamaican jumpin Jupiter jump up ceremony amidst the driving beat of drums and "oooo mon...oooo mon" punctuating the smoke filled air with enough cloud cover to give even an abstaining celibate from Ceres a contact high. It's a laugh a minute Bob Marley Mouseketeers.
Who’s the leader of the band...as plain as you can see....Marley Mon, Marley Mon, with a big ol' bag of weed! Everybody sing along! Don't forget to pick up your very own custom made voodoo doll ..curse not included but guaranteed to work on that Martian bully who is driving you to suicide because you are as weak and mentally unbalanced as they come. Stick a pin in it...toss it in the fire you just set in the gym, or put a bullet in it when you waste the rest of the kids in the cafeteria...it's fun..it's thrilling...it's deadly....and you'll love stepping through the looking glass at the Barbarella Planetoid where Cannabis is bliss and Soma Meets Reggae and Weed!
The Barbarella Bimbo Annex next to the main theme park has more rimshots and fun than an evening of Rodney Dangerfield’s stolen jokes and offers rides aboard the Mighty Twin Matterhorn's that form the mountains of the all new Carol Doda exhibit complete with snow capped peaks in the shape of Massive Matterhorn breasts to climb, mount and conquer. Whirling Tea Cups are nowhere to be found. Instead you can climb aboard the Lily St. Cyr D-Cup Twirling Dodge'em Bumper Boob Cars. Realistic mechanical tits that you control as you plan your D-Cup Demolition Derby by bashing and banging into your opponents well endowed lifelike breast mobiles.
In the all new "Vagina's of the Caribbean" attraction you can board the water canon boats shaped like atomic tits and with a push of a button you can activate the water cannon nipples to spray your opponent and knock them off course. After a cool experience on a hot summer day like this, take a refreshment break at the Mothers Milk Breast Feed Cafe where Orange Whips are served up in delightful suck-a-way breast shaped containers while you enjoy the spectacular effects of the all new Lactating Niagara Falls where Captain Oedipus and his Bi-Sexual Buxom Beauties entertain with fan dancing under the stars while you enjoy sucking on your very own personal "boob" During your vacation on the shores of Lake Lactation, treat the family to a ride aboard the all new Tampon Submarine ride into a cavernous automated vagina, or try your luck as an Amateur Stripper at Strip-o-Rama where you can dress as your favorite dominatrix from Betty Page to that girl on the phone your boyfriend or husband has been calling. Lifelike automatons kneel and beg while you beat them to a pulp...fun in the sun as you get hip with whips. Strip-O-Rama has Peep Show Alley where all tastes are catered to in the privacy of your own or a double booth. For the truly macabre enjoy the stripping action in the "John Wilkes" Booth where nude models re-enact the assassination of Abraham Lincoln, only this time instead of Ford's Theater, old Honest Abe is a drag queen waiting to go on stage in North Beach.
Gay? Not that there's anything wrong in the 30th Century with it so if you're gay or just hysterical...enjoy the flamboyant Fairyland where you too can be Tinkerbell's best friend and a Lost Boy or Girl no more quoth the raving. You can enjoy the Ed Wood Angora Singers do "Mincing with my Baby" and a few Broadway tunes from the new musical...."God, I Love to Shop!" The Isle of Lesbos ride is another fun packed adventure attraction for girl on girl giggles, or hop aboard the Tranny Train and ride, ride, ride!
As a vacation destination, Barbarella sun, fun and buns! Clothing is optional in the park and men are reminded to get that silly smirk off your face...you're not really hung like a Louisville Slugger and your balls are not National League material. In Bimboland...Vagina's are Victorious and Tits and Ass Rock!
We spent the day and part of the night waxing and waning on drugs and pseudo sex stimuli simulators and hit the sleep tubes wasted and numb, but knew we had to pull ourselves together in the moan of the morning of the day after the night before.
The next day would bring a crashing reality to light...and it all began in a backstreet Barbarella barwhere I got a peek into a part of Asrini’s past, hidden in the dark, when Vector Laslo walked up to us in the bar. Vector Laslo, notorious, rebellious and dashing hero of a failed attempt at revolution on his home planet of Clitoria, not far from the Barbarella asteroid. As he walked near us in a confident stride Asrini looked up and I could see her eyes fill with tears and could tell her heart was awash in love and passion….and it was all for this...a lost love from the past. He had managed to elude the police and made his way to Barbarella, the one neutral orb in this quadrant.
He bent over kissed her hand. “Vector!” she cried out with obvious emotion. She stood and hugged him in a movement so endearing I wanted her even more now than ever. I could feel the pounding of two hearts in love but was soon to learn their story.
Asrini was a seasoned Comred agent, Vector a former professor at the Clitorian University. They met when Asrini was assigned to infiltrate his clandestine organization as a spy. While she pretended to work for the underground getting the revolution fired up she fell in love with him and confessed that her original mission was aimed at bringing him down and turning him over to Clitorian authorities, allies of the Retropolin Com-Reds He must have been a masochist as the news obviously excited him enough to light the fuse of his libido..he too fell in love with her in a swirl of revolution, intrigue and violence.
One day as they were making love, their passions were overshadowed by the stomping of Comred boots and the roar of tanks rolling down the center of town . They managed to barely escape to Barbarella, a neutral zone to obtain papers to exit the asteroid as the Comred bloodhounds were hot on their trail. Arrest meant certain death, but first Vector needs a cover story bide his time, so he buys a bar, names it Vectors Cafe Jakarta and hires a cyborg piano player named Sam who plays "As Time Goes By" ad nauseum.
One day as Vector is working on a booze order in the back he says, "I thought I told you never to play that song? I’m sick of it! Don’t you know any Jerry Lee Lewis tunes for Christs sake!" It is then, that Vector notices Asrini looking hurt at his comment about her favorite song. He apologizes and says, Play it again Cyborg!
Rini was now wanted by Com-Red Intell and had to leave faster than a speeding bullet. That’s when she walked into my life. Now Vector Laslo walked back into hers.
Almost immediately the embers in her heart spark into flame, and Asrini is torn by the passion of love from the past the political passions that mix with the emotion of love that Vector has ignited. Makes for an awkward, yet interesting physiological ménage a trois, non?
I invited Vector to join us. Later that night after visiting with the couple, Vector let the booze do his talking and had one of those reflective Frank Sinatra 3 o'clock in the wee smalls moment with a drink and a cigarette...pained at seeing Asrini again..."Of all the bars and gin joints in the world, why did you have to walk into mine?"
Along with us in the bar were a group of Comred officers who were also in their cups. The Comred officers break into a guttural patriotic singing of Back in the USSR, while the Freedom Fighters at the bar, including Vector counter with Led Zeppelin medley.
I excused myself early and went upstairs alone. I had the desk clerk send up a sex cyborg and had room service bring up a bottle of Soma and a side order of Tranqs. Pleasure before business I always say….and finally drifted off to sleep after I was spent. I set the damn cyborg to auto pilot after we had sex and it quietly masturbated as I listened to an ongoing lullabye of mechanical orgasms.
Then...the dawn….We had a long way to go yet in our quest so imagine our surprise when I was rudely awakened earlier than planned by a knock at the door of our adjoining rooms. “Who the hell can this be at this goddamned hour of hell?”
I grabbed my cold alloy gun and cocked the trigger ready for anything. Half asleep I opened the door. It was a young kid, hotel bellhop with a look of panic and agitation permanently etched on his face. “Are you Doc Yucatan?” I did check in at the desk as Doc Yucatan. “Yeah, waddaya got?” The police are in the lobby and want to talk to you ..quick!” Confusion, panic, adrenalin...all emotions were colliding a once...what had I done...what did they want with me..maybe it was Asrini they were after..guilt by association. Only one way to find out. Face the music and do the dance…
Head pounding, I lumbered half drunk hungover blind to the lobby to see what the police wanted with me. Can’t be too serious as they sent a scrawny bellboy with a bad complexion to roust me before my first drink and not a SWAT team of fast food workers with paper hats demanding my head or a raise in the minimum space wage.
“Ah, Mr. Yucatan. We appreciate your kind cooperation. Thanks for coming down.” The words were too gushy for my unsophisticated taste, but I felt cocky enough now to utter an acknowledging grunt “What can I do for you...uh..let’s see..Captain?” His shoes gave him away. Not worn like a working stiff who pounds a beat. Probably the ass on his pants was shiny from sitting on it all day delegating the real work to mindless subordinates. All the beat cops and enforcement cadre throughout Dystopia were cyborgs...the detectives were bi-peds from various planetary sub-jurisdictions.
“We have a murder on our hands and it seems according to witnesses it was committed by a female Retropolin..Your Kind” he managed to elongate the word with an air of contempt attached to it tighter than the grip of a bi-sexual drag queen Cassiopian cocksuckers mouth.
The perp was a female from Retropolis. I recognized her name, named Dorothy. She had a rep back home as a tough case and had four arrests under her belt already for murder back home but no convictions. Smart girl. I managed to piece the case together as the Captain relayed what he knew about. She was under surveillance but managed to elude the cops who had her on a watch list, but no warrant to arrest or detain her.
Dorothy landed on Barbarella to have a sit down with the Wicked Butch Bitch Witch of Barbarellas Brighton Beach waterfront district. Instead of working out a deal to contract out as hired assassin, Dorothy’s main line of work, there ws an attempt instead to enlist Dorothy into a life of prostitution and hypodermic needles. “Ever make it with a little person, my dear?” she asked as the Wicked Butch lifted Dorothy’s gingham space polymer dress to get a peek, which piqued Dorothy’s long suppressed libido. “First it was the Catholic nuns, then a priest, a cross-eyed altar boy and now this shit” she screamed!
It was at this point that confusion ran rampant. Witnesses say Dorothy pulled a Ruger ,44 mag auto pistol from her garter and pumped 6 rounds into the hideous hag, screaming red faced and in a blind fury “MAKE MY DAY BUTCH!” Munchkins dove for cover, but, later as witnesses, many reported that they heard three shots being fired from the Yellow Brick Road Sassy Knoll. It was also reported (perhaps erroneously) by the great great etc grandson of Brian Williams that Dorothy swiped the pair of ruby red pumps Butch was wearing at the time. NBC-EIEIO declined to comment. The ruby red pumps may have belonged to a David Bowie collection at one time or another, but that is a spider from Mars of a different color.
The neighborhood also included three escaped convicts from Neptune on the lam. A heartless traumatized tin man;, a salacious brain dead straw man on medication and a libidinous lion with lustful leanings...all with cavorting carnal desires and misdirected sexual intentions to “do” training bra Dorothy who just one month prior started having her periods, or as she said in later interviews, “I went from tampons to tornadoes overnight, then I met these three cheese omelette weirdos. Disgusting, rusting and dusty. Foul mouthed midgets and hot to trot horny hags. It was like being back in Catholic school with everyone trying to get a peek up my skirt to see if gingham has a G-spot.”
Her road less traveled began after touchdown from a black and white tornado from the opium fields of the rectangular Retropolin district of Oh My Kansas to a technicolor tenderloin district of of the Ninth Gate of Barbarella in a neighborhood of hoodlums, gangsters and pimps all controlled by a crime syndicate of snarky syncophants known as the Lollipop Guild which made the notorious Westies mob of old NYC look more like the singing Beastie Boys fighting for their right to party.
After the gun smoke cleared Dorothy was as dazed and confused as a Led Zeppelin song and kept calling for her mob contact Auntie Em, Auntie Em when out of the clear blue a rather fetching witch known as Cabaret Dietrich, a real manly Marlene who was the dead Butch’s sister emerged. She was simply smashing with a fabulous fedora fetish and an unappeased appetite for marijuana smoking farm girls. Ding dong the Butch was as dead as a doornail and Dietrich wondered what kind of a whack job would kill with a gun and not the obligatory rural black and white farmhouse! It was time for revenge and Dorothy was called to a sit-down by Dietrich and was told she had to get out of Dodge by sundown and to return the ruby red pumps she kept as a kill trophy.
She promises, but, later in a dark dank beer joint she meets Glinda the Bukowski barfly who kept waving a swizzle stick she drunkenly referred to has her magic wand. She sees the enticing piece of jailbait enter the Yellow Brick Dive which was part of the truckstop complex where she plied her trade. Dorothy wanted a ride, to anywhere extradition safe, and Glinda was only too happy to take her for the ride of her life, but not to safety. Instead, Glinda runs a tab she never intends to pay buying the young killer a Plutonian burger and a plutonium brew. Then she pumps her full of a few laced drinks, a snort of cocaine and soon Dorothy ends up in the back seat of a hot space rod with real hot “hey can I watch” Glinda with a real hot space dildo strap on. In exchange for her sexual favors Glinda offers Dorothy a hiding place in a place called the Warhol Black Hole in the Wall where she can fence the pumps for a few space bucks to Butch Cassidy and the Ru Paul Kid.
However, all that glinders is not gold, Dietrich is sulking and lurking in the shadows and at one time had also claimed Glinda as one of her cabaret conquests! She bursts into the car catching them in the back seat with there pants down, all the while screaming s stream of filth and threatening Dorothy with penetration by 100 Flying Monkey Dildos!
In her quest to escape her erotic escapade, Dorothy runs slam bang into a rusting bulk of a hulk of a Tinman who confesses he is actually the William Burroughs Steely Dan Dildo and by the simple act of squirting a little lubrication to him and to her, in appropriate places, they can be off , running and cumming to the races down that quarter mile estros fueled Yellow Brick Road dragstrip for that wonderful wiz jizz that was jazz.
Steely Dan takes Dorothy by the hand to a seedy back alley bar to meet some friends, two more losers, you know the kind that still haven’t scored at the mall by closing time.
The dive was loud and brassy and sassy.“I guess I’m not in Retropolis anymore!” she screamed orgasmically. “Seems more like a jumpin’ jive juke joint on Planet Harlem on a Saturday night…” It was a real weird Andy Warthog experience. Dig the scarecrow dude with the day-glo jacket and velvet hat in the corner blasting powder up his nose with a lion doing Lenny Bruce imitations while finger poppin’ beatnik midgets are flying higher than Judy Garland with an arm full of junkie juice. The scarecrow cat is howling like a Ginsberg ginsu knife slicing through the night, while the lion blushes as he touches himself in an impure manner..”forgive me father for I have sinned, but hot damn it felt good! And don’t tell me you don’t diddle under your cassock you perverted Cossack!”
The lion is cowardly inwardly and outwardly, and no longer king of the forrrressssttt he said in a loud leering Lahr voice. “I’m a queen now and no animal is safe!” So the tin dildo, the straw pimp and the lion with tender loins began to blaze a stairway to heaven in an opium field of dreams where they were greeted by a wizend old Chinese wizard dressed in a colorful hanfu with embroidered dragons and yes, Flying Monkeys!!! As the old Kong Fuzi confused them with more Confusion confusion handed them of them each an intricately carved pipe of curious dreams and vivid visions Dorothy realized she had come up against the gatekeeper of the Flying Monkey Dildos.
Fully loaded and Orientally disoriented they hit the road for Warhol Wall that lay just over yonder, at least according to the magic talking Chinese Tao dog known as Wild Blue pointing with his blue point tail to an obscenely beautiful twin towered structure glowing a brilliant pulsating emerald green, it was either Hole or Humboldt County in old California, same thing... Dorothy had managed to lift one of the flying monkey dildos for research purposes only. Gratifying self gratification or Newton’s Law of Self-Gratifying Gravity, what goes in must come out!
As they entered Hole they were taken to the Wizard of Warhol himself who promised to help them escape the clutches of the law in exchange for the Ruby Red Pumps in Dorothy’s possession, possession being 9/10ths of the law and nt the kind that required an exorcism. The Tin Man Steely Dan Dildo got afresh load of lubrication, (batteries not included..he was a solar self charging unit, environmentally and vaginally friendly!) The Scarecrow Schizoid was given a supply of meds for not only him, but all those others locked up inside his chaotic psychotic imagination. As for the Queen of the Forest, the Wizard gave a free sex change at the Kaitlyn Jenner Clinic and a contract for a gig as a drag queen at the Peonie and Pansy Nightclub, the hot spot for female lionesse impersonators, in the nearby town of Long Wang on Suc Muc Dik Avenue on the Penis Peninsula. As for Dorothy?
She was granted asylum in a space asylum on Lunatic Luna and got to keep one of the Flying Monkey Electro Dildos. In the opium field in a haze she admitted later in a Spacegirl magazine interview, “I had made it with the Tin Man Dildo all night long, both of us stoned to the bone and I must say, he was cocked and locked and loaded. A flying Money is fine for beginners but once you’ve had a Tin Man you never go back!”
So she said her goodbyes before hitting the highway..”I love you strawman, stay on your meds or you’ll end up with hypodermic needles of fully loaded tranqs in you, and if they lose one, well they’ll have to tear you apart as it’s hard to find a hypodermic needle in a haystack!” To Lionesse now going by the name of Roar Paul, “I know you will look even better with boobs than I do! So knock ‘em dead Babe!” and as she boarded the bus she remembered her night of erotic pleasure with the tin man dildo...she smile and said, “I’ll miss you MOIST of all!”
At this point Asrini came downstairs looking for me. Her bags were packed. “What’s going on? What’s happening?” She cried out. “Nothing babe. Just trying to help out the local cops with a case.” ThenI turned to the Captain. “I’ll work on it when I get back from Robita. Got a case I’m on the trail off right now..should wrap it up in a couple of days and will get in touch with you then.’
We shook hands and Asrini and I walked back to my room to get my bag and load up the Nicto and head for Robotia. “What was that all about,” she asked in her best little girl voice with matching look of innocence on her face. “You don’t want to know” I said. As she ascending the stairs I noticed for the first time..she was wearing a new pair of shoes..a pair of ruby red pumps...I shook my head...I didn’t want to know. I just wanted to get to Robotia and get lucky with a bot with a body built like a brick asteroid or an Indonesian in ruby reds...or which ever came first.
I estimated our ETA to Robotia would take one galactic day, not counting the 24 hour security quarantine time we’d have to endure at the gateway asteroid Toho 4, the Ellis island of Robotia. Before anyone was allowed to dock at the Robotia port you had to clear customs at the mechanical hands of Toho’s crack robotic security team. Papers checked and rechecked, weapons checked and rechecked and a damned valid reason for visit also check and rechecked and verified.
If you weren’t there for drugs and eroti-bot sex ...why go?...Toho 4 wasn’t an unpleasant experience by any stretch of the penile implant. It was a pleasure palace planet of it’s own, more of a small mini-orb in reality..and the best part ...the sex was with flesh and blood humans or reasonable alien facsimilies that may have a few quirks in their make up.
The area was broken down into neighborhoods...since most Retropolins are bisexual anyway Asrini and I headed for a taste of the same sexual desert. Ok, I admit it, along with many others in my camp who like to camp it up with a good romp under the covers and who had space-aged wet dreams over a giant female.
Lets face it a 50 foot woman with ten feet of solid protruding flesh breasts are a sex dream come true for the natural breast feeding nippple sucking instincts that we keep hidden under the covers of pre-maturity mandatory masturbation. A 50 foot woman has to have a hungry voracious vagina with a three foot opening surrounded by a lumber jungle of pubic hair so thick you could build a raft of them and sail inside her "tunnel of love" to explore the orgasmic river of no return that will take you deep inside her magic kingdom of orgasm as a full grown human dildo on a journey to the center of her moist sexual earth.
I've looked for them in the carnival atmosphere of a purely carnal context, but, there are "real" female giants. They don't all need basketballs in hand to whet our sexual fantasies. Forget the basketballs and volleyballs, they can grab a hold of our own balls in a firm grip in their capable hands, and for most of us that would do nicely. More than nicely. These "giantesses" as they are referred to are viewed as not just large tall voluptuous women.
In simplistic terms and allowing the appreciative male perspective of the long and the short of it to creep into this piece, we love Retropolin and alien breasts of all stripes. They excite the male of the species better than a ribbed condom on a virgin, and these very same, fine, firm breasts are also responsible for pushing the Retro lesbian envelope through the sound barrier with a gravity defying G-Force for the internal G-Spot as well. Some of the male species like small breasts on a woman and a boyish body much as Hemingway did, but, for the most part...Give Me A 50 Foot Woman..or Give Me Death! Where the hell is Rick Moranis and what is this anyway, "Hey, Honey, I Shrunk My Husband and The Kids!"
There is a euphemism in here somewhere for Jack and his Beanstalk. How Freudian is that. While Jack was whacking off his beanstalk he dreamed of a giant and a goose! In a midget version of Chinatown on Toho 4 you can imagine traveling in another dimension, a dimension of sight, sound and imagination....imagine if you will a person who can stand up and give a blowjob without having to resort to knee pads? Is this the Rod Serling opening for a sex filled journey into the libidinous Twilight Zone? Wrong! Besides a stand up blowjob? No such thing...I don't believe it...it's impossible you say? Don't bet on it. The sexual yang to sex with a giant yin is located at the cross hairs of the the sexual crossroads where Twilight Zone Boulevard and the Yellow Brick Road meet in a fornication of fetish and fantasy.
This is the psycho-sexual universe where a person of standard vertical stature can get his or her rocks off by making it with a female Neptunian dwarf. This lustful dwelling on dwarves is highlighted in two old Earth films. The Wizard of Oz of course with it's plethora of hot bod Munchkin babes with rotund behinds ready to be mounted by man or woman, and the ultimate subliminal film....Gulliver’s Travels where the kingdom of the Lilliputians entice, engross and eventually enslave him. The are small fry by any standard and on a sliding scale his penis must be the relative size of a giant redwood on old California's northern coast!
Toss in some Venusian fairies and Martian leprecaun’s and goddamned if Tinkerbell ain't hot to trot and a couple of doses of her fairy dust will have the same effect as a full load of Soma! So don't be surprised if that stranger next to you on the street on Toho 4 is looking high and low for more than a pot of gold. No Siree...he's after something better than gold and rainbows and four leaf clovers. He wants to get down and dirty with a leprecaun or a the very least a fairy.
Never mind Gulliver, who was too gullible to have survived one hour in bed with the notorious Neptunian midget known as the flesh and blood R2D2! She has midget pussy power with a G-Spot G-Force of Mach 10. On bottom or top she can be the Top Gun.. It's a small world indeed....and lets face it...less can be more!
We video’d ahead and made reservations at the Toho Motel 666 spend the night and made dinner reservations at the adjoining Rick’s Cafe Retropolain where we would begin our search for Asrini’s sister, Mary Asteriod and the fabled Strip Tease Falcon...he who controls the Falcon controls all of Dystopia.
In the vacuum of space we spotted Toho 4 finally after a day’s journey. We docked and checked in with Toho Security and handed over all our papers and answered anal probing questions. Full security checks on us would talek 24 hours so we checked in at the hotel and headed for the Cafe. I was at first unaware that the cafe cabaret t is owned by Asrini’s former lover. She recognizes the piano player, Spam, a three headed Hydra from the old days in the Red East, and asks Spam to play "that song" Spam feigns ignorance on which song it is, but Asrini "refreshes" his memory and he reluctantly launches into "Rocket Man"
As the notes permeate the saloon, the song reaches the ears of Rick in the back room..he storms out face as red with anger as a giant red star in a dwarf nebula and says, "I thought I told you never to play that song?" It is then, Rick notices Asrini and sitting at a table. Old embers spark into flame, and Asrini’s passions from the past ignite. I thought to myself this could mak for an awkward, yet interesting ménage a trois, non?
Later that night as they relived old times I was having drink after drink...a real Frank Sinatra 3 o'clock in the wee smalls moment with drinks. Soma and a cigarette… By 4 in the morning Asrini and I left for our rooms and she kissed him goodnight.
As we walked away I swear I hear him mutter under his drunken breath…”Of all the Soma bars and sex clubs in the galaxy...why did she have to rocket into mine?"
The morning after the dark night that preceded it, is always a day of psychological snakes while shaking off the effects of too much Soma and Arcturian Ale. It hits me with the force of a nuclear reaction splitting my mental atom, leaving me dazed and confused (I heard that line somewhere before) I feared my own reflection in a mirror on those mornings for all I ever saw staring back at me was a cheap human hotel room mattress with too many stains on it. I was the mattress and I could only guess at what the stains were and who left them there as a marker to celebrate their various and varied sexual victories.
Asrini on the other hand always, the sober one who took the high road as I wallowed in the late night gutter woke up refreshed and alive with happiness...I could only guess this time it had something to do with last night and our close encounter on the path with her mysterious past that almost took her under the casa blankets with an old flame fanning her passions.
We were given clearance to leave Toho 4, make the two minute jaunt and dock on Robotia. As we were checking out of the hostelry I was handed a strange message by the hotel clerk dressed in black. “I can’t read it Asrini. Appears to be some sort of coded message in a language I’m not familiar with.’ Asrini could read and speak 5 planetary languages and 4 Retropolin languages and dialects. When she was spying for the Comreds of the Red East she was a trained linguist and code breaker. as well as a sharpshooter with her vagina.
She took the piece of paper from my hands and as she read it I could see her eyes, beautiful as they were normally, now enlarged and I swear I could see the entire Milky Way in them sparkling and bright as the rapid fire bursts of a galactic Gatling gun tearing into the flesh of a Regulus Regulator.
“Oh no!” she cried out. “It’s from Maddie Harry. I used to work with her during the war with the Antarians. She was good, almost too good and the Bureau doubted her loyalties to the party. After the wars she disappeared and never left word with me so I was never sure if she left or was killed by our own agents. She is alive!” she said excitedly as a bum who found a good sized cigarette butt on the ground at a space bus terminal.
“She wants us to meet her at the Old Chum Cabaret. We must be careful though, it’s owned by Narco Marx and wants the Strip Tease Falcon and will kill anyone who stand in his way. I’ve dealt with him before!”
I took it all in as she spoke. Her words and warnings were sharp as a machete decapitating my already shrunken head ready to be hung on a warriors beaded belt in some forgotten lost world. I had heard of Maddie as well and was looking forward to meeting her. Asrini Pemalang and Maddie Harry, the doublemint twins of espionage who used sex as a weapon of subtle interrogation where their willing subjects gave valued information as easy as a school boy jacking off to a International Galactic Geographic Magazine with a hologram essay on the tits and arse of a lost tribe of Penumbrian pygmies.
Fat ass Narco Marx who would kill his own child to get his fat hands on the Falcon … Comred agents who had been clumsily tailing us all the way from Saturn and the enforcers of Toho itself who would vaporize me in a speed of light minute if they knew my true mission to Robotia. As for Asrini? She would be Cyborg’d and transformed into a Transsexual Transformer Tyrannasaurus Sex Robotic Sex Worker if we were discovered and captured. The key to our quest to find the Falcon and Asrini’s sister Mary Asteroid was now in the hands of Maddie Harry . Something told me..it was all one big ball and I was next up at the plate to bat.
Robotian night life was a dream sequence of unreality, at least as I knew it, so I wanted to experience as much of it as possible without blowing my internal circuitry. We were to meet Maddie Harry at 10 pm at the Old Chum Cabaret but talked Asrini into arriving early to have a few Soma’s and Robotian beer, not the best beer for a buzz in Dystopia but would do the job.
When she arrived a 8 pm it was already in full swing! It was showtime at the cabaret boys and girls, and those of you in between! "Life is a cabaret old chum." I just had to say it, and now that it's broken free of my cranial orbit we can take a delicious look up under the Catholic schoolgirl skirt of delightful debauchery found in the night time twilight zone of the dark side of the cabaret moon.
The Old Chum Cabaret was nothing more than one large breathless bordello laden with lacy robot boys in fag drag with tight mechanical waists, while macho manly female eroti-bots donned fedora's looking for some same gender vaginal gratification and satisfaction. Someone had opened Pandora's box of jazz and jive, and Robotia was hell bent for leather and in leather to get it on with a mechanical dose of topless and bottomless displays of wet and wild faux genitalia with a delightful dash of BDSM found usually in the flesh at a Fomulhaut fetish ball.
Yes, boys will be girls and girls will be boys and the Robotia cabaret scene was locked and loaded on kink. Tin allow transvestites in tights, Mecha-Marlene Dietrich Dream Machines in top hat and tails, while the topless black machine chorus girls were ramping up the libido factor with bare breasts bouncing and flouncing like two bronze baby moons with nipples extended like 50,000 watt Newtonian reflector telescopic arrays emitting a radio signal of pure sexuality. The whole scene was in full swing with unrepressed sexual freedom and expression. Female Cyborgs frolicked playfully baring all while mecha-boys in full drag regalia were traversing the transvestite trail to the land of libidinous Oz, following the Yellow Brick Road of good old fashioned degeneracy where midgets camped it up with the best of them, and Dorothy was making it on stage with Glinda the good witch in a lesbian frenzy free for all! Cue the Flying Monkeys!
The neon stage was exploding with exotic dancers who danced, singers who sang and exotics who exotic’d. There was plenty of Soma and cannibis and clientele to add to the highly charged adult sexual nature of the show. From it’s flood lit stage it has spawned the famous and the infamous including Maddie Harry who we were to meet in two hours. She performed on the cabaret circuit during the last Antarian war, managing to extract classified information from seduced military officers who fell under her cabaret spell of flesh and promiscuity. She was not a machine, but a highly charged Retropolin vixen on a mission.
The Old Chum was owned by the notorious Narco Marx and gained an unholy rep as a drinking hole for artists, poets, writers, and other drunks to visit, sit and try to outwit each other in verbal fencing matches with as much caustic wit as a flock of bitchy self absorbed drag queens. Soon, the cabaret experienced urban renewal as the old ghetto mentality of sit and drink was replaced by flamboyance and panache of a red light district. It came complete with a bright whore red windmill on the roof that would keep Don Quixote busy for hours dreaming his impossible dream.
While most cabarets had “rules and regs” for the regulars, the “irregulars” followed no rules. They were non-existent while flesh, machine and fantasy merged into a Picasso dreamscape.
Everything on the stage was ripe with sexual innuendo and it moved to a new neighborhood. One removed far away from modesty, as topless dancers and transvestites could now rub elbows and perhaps other body parts with patrons which included not only the straight community, but also Gay men, Lesbians and Transvestites...Strange bedfellows indeed, but interesting wouldn't you say?
Porcelain boys with too much moulin rouge and highlighting eye-popping eyeliner were parading around the tables. Women in mens clothing were becoming the norm and Lesbianism was now flaunting itself openly and deliciously. Fuck the Age of Aquarius...this was the dawn of an era some historians have referred to as that of the Pink Millenium, while on the streets the pink punks strolled along mincing to the symphony of sexual abandon.
Alien and machine cabaret girls and cabaret boys pranced and danced in a sequin dream sequence, wearing enough sparkles and spangles that would give Liberace's candelabra a hard-on! Weird? Sing along everybody...grab your fishnets and tank tops and let loose boys..girls...boy girls, girl boys.
It was the age of the new Lost Generation of old Paris, the Left Banke lefties of literature and artists that included the man's man, Ernest Hemingway, tolling Spanish bells in the thick of the battle, while Pablo Picasso misplaced breasts on canvas, a cubist butcher of body parts that somehow made sense in a mad way as they hung framed in the salons and galleries. Diego Rivera's industrial murals mouthing socialist messages to the working class, while Frida Kahlo self-portraited herself as though committing portraiture masturbation. Gertrude Stein enjoying the lesbian fruits of her lover, Alice B. Toklas who could whip up a batch of brownies to die for, and to fuck for.
It was now the Age of the Machine and Sex and the Great Gonzo Gatsby was gasping for more...and so was I! More Soma barkeep..and keep it coming.
I kept looking at my watch and watching the seconds morph into minutes, minutes into hours when a little after ten pm Maddie Harry entered. She was stunningly beautiful. it was the second coming and I was ready to get my Retroplin asteroid rocks off!
Mata Hari! The name alone evokes images of an erotic and exotic temptress awash in a raging sea of spies, sex and foreign intrigue. Secret meetings in dark clandestine alley’s against a film noir backdrop of double-crossing double agents who pass along mysterious coded messages in invisible ink. Betrayal is around every corner.... This is the fully loaded conspiracy laden and emotion packed canvas that is the background for a portrait of the life and times of Maddie Harry. Now this legendary sex spy had me turned on and my booster rocket was ready for lift off...
Flashback! The time is 2970. Those goddamned 70’s! The Age of Dystopian Disco! The event…the last days of the Antarian Wars were raging on the outer limits of the Magellan Galaxy. The Antarian planet was home to the closest life forms outside of our own Milky Way, but it also had the the most adamantly rebellious who would rather die off as a race then join the Dystopian Empire. The Dystopian die was now cast.
Antararian President Narco Marx, yep, the same escaped war criminal Narco Marx who wanted the Strip Tease Falcon to get even with Dystopia and would kill us to get it, launched the first offensive of it's universal wide conflagrations that engulfed our home galaxy in bloodshed and war. It would end in defeat for the Antarians even with their superior balance of determination and cosmic chutzpah.
Link Wray weapons of mass destruction filled the battle orbs... spies, such as Dystopian Com-Reds Asrini and Maddie were recruited and put to work to gain valuable intelligence on the "enemy" who is defined as anyone in the opposite camp.
Maddie Harry was the cream of the crop. An exotic dancer, planetary performer, temptress, seductress, courtesan and one of the most sexual spies of all time along with Asrini. Here I was now at a cafe cabaret with both of them at my table. A delightful piece of male meat between two pieces of sweet bread from the ovens of the Estros Asteriod...bakers to the stars!
She used her sexual skills, fetching good looks and ample body parts combined with not just a little bit of nudity to work to her magic on her target marks extracting information from them in greater quantities than a male ejaculation. In fact, in many cases, it was the male erection that enabled her to lead her prey around literally by the short hairs for the long run.
Soon she was making the rounds of the local cabaret stages as an exotic dancer. Sex appeal was dripping from every pore on her body on stage and few men, and some women, couldn't resist her gyrating gravitational pull. She was a whole package of promiscuity with a body that was built as shapely and as firm as a Spica Star shithouse. Her fame spread faster than the legs of a ten space dollar whore who was offered a one thousand Canadian space dollar Loonie.
She was A List. A hot property. Her most famous trademark was her stripping for the audience, slowly to let each layer of clothing shed and flesh revealed to claim victory over the male hardon and the protruding nipple factor of her female admirers in the audience. She soon was shed of clothing, and all she would end up wearing was a gaily colored jewelled bra with a dazzling display of arm bracelets and ornaments including a beautiful studded belt fashioned by a jeweller named Nudie who had a small orbiting design shop inside the Constellation Mall of Orion on Radiant Rodeo Drive.
As her fame spread, her clothing was shed. More nude photos, more nude dancing which all led to trysts with the enemy of both sexes and multiple partners at the same time. Of course the effete artsy Antarian crowd thought her act cheap and tawdry, and maybe it was, but 10,000 Antarian male erections Can't Be Wrong!
Along with fame she was a courtesan to numerous wealthy patrons due to her sensuality and eroticism. She primarily had affairs with military men from different Antarian armed force branches. These same military men would be her sworn enemies as war would break out soon.
Some high in the military hierarchy were aware of their officers loose lips sinking space ships with the flirtatious minx with small breasts and a hungry sexual appetite. She was a true Bohemian but the Antarian intelligence agencies of began to see her as a dangerous woman because of her promiscuity, and also as a valuable tool to garner intelligence information from the enemy for the same reason. While her vagina would do all the talking, she would listen carefully.
As the war intensified..Maddie Harry disappeared. Was she captured and killed by the Antarians or by the Com-Reds who may have suspected her of being a double agent. We thought we never know the truth for sure, but as they say, whoever “they” are...The Truth is out There!
She was an original. The first Femme Fatale that even James Bond would have fallen in love with given out secrets known only to Britain’s MI-5. It was a film noir scenario, before there was film noir. She managed to be a Bond Babe and when it came to sex and spying Maddie Harry was the space age Pussy Galore!
While waiting for Maddie to arrive I kept ordering drinks and thinking about the room we had just checked into. It was one of those retro jobs, the kind of deco decadence you find in old Miami where retired earthlings used to flock to to retire and die in a tropical Jewish cemetery amid the palms and psalms.
I noticed the hallways, foyer and our rooms had a plethora of paintings of a velvet underground nature. If you end up buying a sleazy motel with hourly rates I have found the perfect decor art to go with the shag carpeting, mirrors on the ceiling, stained mattress and broken towel rack with hand towels made from Brillo Pads.
Velvet is Velveta! Elvis on velvet? Captain Kirk on Velvet? It's what garage sales are made of. Ok, so maybe it's not high-brow fare found in the Louvre, but, after all, art is in the eye of the beholder, and this particular genre is certainly part and parcel of the "velvet underground" that can trace it's roots of fiber artistry to the 14th Century in the Far East. Elvis may have left the auditorium five centuries ago, but, fiber arts is here to stay in Retropolis and now I find on Roboia as well. It is a weird discipline, but such an individualized one it's a more free form free spirited craft, similar more to improvisational jazz than to a structured symphonic piece.So, the next time you see an Elvis on Velvet at a local garage sale, look at it differently. Perhaps it’s a result of basic urban arts evolution in the field of arts, and not a mutant piece of pop space culture kitsch. Maybe, just maybe it will leave a lasting legacy for posterity as this form of art is passed down generation after generation. Kirk Out
As I amused myself musing, the door to the cabaret opened and in walked a vision that could have adorned a velvet holographic painting..it was Maddie herself in the flesh and not a series of holographic hallucinations on a cheap space motel wall.
Maddie was stunning! Asrini was stunning! As they kissed the greeting that long lost friends give each other, stunning was not the word. Super Nova is a word that comes to mind. I was watching two brilliantly beautiful breast adorned comets with blazing tails collide, leaving me in a debris field of degenerate high voltage vulva voyeurism. I could imagine making it with both at once...but bullshit...we’ve a job to do first...do or die..life or death in a race to outrun our own home team, the Com-Reds and outfox the Link Wray legions of Narco Marx not to mention getting a camel toe toe hold on Toho treachery that lie ahead of us..a hidden deadfall waiting to impale...and as the man once said…”I never impaled!”
Asrini was smiling as bright as the Northern Lights on a light show dark night. “Maddie, this is Doc Yucatan, the best detective space bucks can buy!” I let the sarcasm ride like a winning streak pile of casino chips on a roulette table. My smile was juvenile I’m sure, intimidation intimated by my lack of a cohesive sentence in response. “Yeah, nice to meet you Maddie. Heard a lot about you, and been a big fan,” I blurted out before it was too late to take it back. A Fan? what the hell was I thinking? That may have been the very problem...I wasn’t thinking!
As she sat down it was with such quiet sexuality all I could say to myself was “The Eagle has landed” and I wanted to plant my flag on her surface and collect her moon rocks.
She was all business however, and got to the point. “I’m glad you came Asrini, for a number of reasons. Mainly though to warn you that Narco Marx knows you’re here and his agents have been following you since you got clearance and docked.” This didn’t bode well, I thought. “I know where the Strip Tease Falcon is and your sister too. Narco has your sister, she’s here on Robotia and is planning to turn her over to the Tohos if you don’t cooperate with him to find the falcon and hand it over to him. Otherwise your sister is destined to be a cyborg hooker and you and Doc will be toasted by an army of Link Wray Evapo Ray guns...batteries not included.
The game was afoot! No one spoke like this anymore so I never spoke it aloud but enjoyed the words as they rattled around my head as if they were a load of ball bearings in a disco ball pinata. I wasn’t all that familiar with Narco Marx. Who was he? Where did he hail bop from? How did he get so powerful anyway? So many questions and Maddie had the key to unlock the mystery of Narco Marx and after a few Soma’s was ready to spill her guts.
Her story began to unfold as mysteriously as a stripper shedding her feather boa and exposing her heaving upper heft to a delighted, yet drunken crowd of cosmic degenerates.
“Narco Marx, or Dr. Karma Ghia as he as known then was one of the best scientists on Retropolis. He and his associates assigned to the Atmo Agency were working on a way of atmospheric transference for the Oxygenisis Project,” she explained with an accent I couldn’t put my finger on. Sounded Slavic, Eastern Bloch Head with a twinge of Rus from Old Moscow, and lets face it...Moscow girls really knock me out.
“The goal was to develop a way of replacing a colonized planet’s atmosphere, which could be hydrogen, ammonia or pure nitrogen, and replace it with oxygen utilizing its indigenous elements to cannibalize its own atmos and replacing it with oxygen to replicate Retropolin conditions through a code named protocol, Oxygenisis,” she explained as confidently as explaining finger painting to 1st grader. If she were a teacher I know I would have had a school boy crush on her and wanted now to clap her erasers and dip my fingers in her paint bowl. Class is now in session.
“Com Red Intel became suspicious when we found a lot of the research was missing from the computers and at first we suspected an alien agency had breached our security, but we found no evidence of that,” her voice now excited and raised a high note or two as the plot thickened. “We assumed then it was an inside job and switched our focus to Dr. Ghia who alone knew the entire process whereas the other sci guys only worked on phases of it not knowing the whole, only a small piece of the puzzle,” her voice saddening now at the oversight and lack of vigilance on the part of the Intell agency.
Now the story took another turn and got downright bizarre. “He left the agency under a shadow of suspicion, but we had no proof to arrest him,” she demurely said. A chance to subject a subject to torture had passed and obviously spoiled the Lubyanka limbo party.
Dr. Ghia began to morph into a megalomaniac and surrounded himself with a cardre of cosmic misfits who he controlled through Soma and charisma along with an all you can eat buffet of fear and intimidation. It was a comic cosmic cult of a deadly whistling in the graveyard nature. He also changed his name to Narc Marx as an ode to his growing drug dependency and to pay homage to Harpo Marx and Karl Marx, who I believe were a famous 20th Cent slapstick comedy team whose act consisted of a confusing confluence of proletarian pratfalls and comic totalitarian one liners and rim shots. Now that’s entertainment!
Let’s face it Killer Cults have two major components in order for it to grow and prosper by attracting adherents. First, you need a charismatic charlatan who acts as carnival barker to lure and seduce a following into buying a ticket to his or her freak show.
Second, you need followers. These can be found everywhere. Just look for the weak among the populous, those who seek but will never find what it is they are looking for and worse attribute of all to me...the need to follow! To acknowledge that you need a leader, is let come to the surface all that “I need a daddy as I was lacking one in my childhood” crap. The meek nor the weak will inherit the earth..Snake Plitzken and Mad Max will.
Get these pathetic psyche’s spinning on their mental axis-asses into the religio-sociological orbit of a sociopath’s solar system and the immediate gratification they have long sought is now being bought and paid for through allegiance and obedience to the gravitational pull and shift of the predators bullshit.
The end is usually the insane same, whether it’s from the Branch Dividian conflagration to crush Koresh in whacked out Waco, Texas or at the Jim Jones Club Dead Hard Rock Kool-Aid Cafe in a jungle to getting marooned and mooned by Rev. Sun Myung Moon in a compound a Long Wang or Suc Muc Dik 500 years ago. . Oh, if while reading this and you get thirsty….I just made a fresh batch of delicious Kool Aid..CHEERS!
Ground Control to Major Tom...Ground Control to Major Tom? Do you Read Major Tom? (static and silence) Retropolis...we have a problem!
The next Hale Be Bopp a Lula Comet UFO is ready for take-off...please fasten your safety belts put on your Nike gravity boots and our stewardess will be along with your choice of refreshments including vodka and pineapple juice with a cyanide followed by an arsenic chaser with whipped cream and phenobarbital..so lay back, relax and let the good times roll. As Nike used to say in old telly adverts...”JUST DO IT!!!
Narco’s plan was to use a space disc ship he had designed to hook up and back end the comet’s gravitational pull as a propellant to give them the thrust they would need to escape Retropolin gravity and set a course for Titan, the largest moon of Saturn which had a rich atmosphere, deadly, but easily converted through Oxygenisis to transform it in an agricultural paradise for a sustainable food supply. Early explorations had shown that water also existed on Titan s half the battle was won already. Saturn was in the beginning stages of colonization so Titan was the perfect jumping off point to begin is power surge to expand his burgeoning empire.
This was not a James T. Kirk led expedition in search of Klingons. Hell, no this Final Frontier was lodged deep space nine in the illusory world of Space Balls (“We are all Assholes!” cult condominium community association of the outer fringes of mental illness.
He took so much Soma and loaded up on tranqs that he began worshipping a rotating disco ball and pulsating dance floor with a Nubian giant girl with a bald head singing dressed in a silver tin foil space suit? I had the same vision once...but blamed it on the peyoticite and Soma combo I ingested earlier in the evening in the Venusian impersonator bar.
Trekkies beware. This was Mr Looney Bin and he told and convinced his followers that the Jefferson Star Ship he was ready to fuel up was now ready and they should all prepare for a one way ticket to ride to Titan.
They dressed in Johnny Cash cruise wear chic black uniforms with armbands as backstage passes to the Big Bopper Hale-Bopp concert in the sky. As Jimmy Buffet said..”it’s 5 o’clock somewhere” and Happy Hour was at hand….up up and away underway.
Meanwhile Hale-Be Bop a Lula Bonnie in the Sky with Diamonds did embark on schedule” and Titan and the universe was now within his grasp (he is now President and Supremo of Antaria which he conquered overnight with help from the Toho Robot Armies. Now he wanted to control Robotia and the Tohos.
Eliminating The Tohos would not be easy, to defeat them he needed a little help from a little friend...the deadly but fabled Strip Tease Falcon...and he would stop at nothing to gain it and the power it could generate. Soon he would hold the key to universal domination...but first he had to find the Falcon..and Asrini Pemalang and Maddie Harry both held the key to it’s discovery...and I was now an expendable pawn in a cosmic tug of war chess game...and I ain’t no Hale Bopp Bobby Fisher!
Asrini and Maddie were in a highly animated state. They had worked together in deadly dangerous situations displaying heaping platefuls of daring cosmic kosher chutzpah guaranteed to excite the senses, not to mention the Soma fueled hallucination of the hydraulic heaven of their rear ends rotating on my axis. hey managed to preserve their combined galactic sexuality with an invisible force field protective thong. These two were a deadly secret spy weapon...I’d talk believe me, no doubt about that and they also have a scented a weapon of mass and ass destruction in the form of a secretion they unleash from the vaginal quadrant vaginal. It happens at certain times of the month when she gives off a heavenly scent of estrogen. As she is busy marking her territory with her vaginal perfume the male is not only erotically entranced, but, is held as a sexual captive in a garden of estros. Sex researchers have found, and this makes sense, she arouses best when she is emitting her scent strongest just inches from the males nose, as well as that of the Lesbos Lesbians under the same spell! You go girls!
They, as all females of the species will do in most public settings, excused themselves to “powder their nose” together. Never once did I ever leave a table with Sandoz or Arthur and say “We’re going to take a leak” What is that all about? "Excuse me sir. Where are you taking that leak? I saw you try to steal it now where are you going with it" as though we're shoplifters at Leaks R Us. "Uh, nowhere, I meant to pay for it, not steal it. I'll put the leak back so that way I can leave a leak and not take one!" I would never take a leak ...honest...never. Maybe someone will invent an auto seat..you know like the light switch thing..clap your hands once and the seat goes up...clap twice it comes down..perfect for Father’s Day along with a card that says..."I do give a shit about you darling!"
I have also heard through the rumor mill, numerous complaints about the males non-compliance when it comes to putting the seat back down after we have taken a whiz if ever there was a whiz that waz...you ain't the whizzer of Oz so put the seat back down, very carefully, with great care. It has the crushing power the jaws of an alligator that could lop off a piece of your prized territory! So stand back and let 'er drop...be a man...slam it down...yell, “HELL YEAH” at the top of your masculine mountain and man up...go right up to HER and in your best defiant manly voice..look her square in the eye and say..."I put the seat down Honey, so don't be mad." That'll show her.
Why is it called a public “restroom?” (Who the hell rests in there? I just want to get in and get out before the guy next me decides to open a conversation with me I don't go in there to powder my nose or any other part of body..well, maybe once but that was in San Franciso and I didn't want to shine! Beware the Rise of the Auto Toilet Machines..it's here now John Conner!
Take your stance in front of the gaping yaw of the urinal...carefully unzip so as not the Bobbitize yourself on the way up when done...then you let loose...a fine stream that could snuff out a fire in Smurfland. When you're done..zip and go..and wait..this is the cool part..as you turn away from the urinal..it senses you and flushes automatically. It knows more than it lets on...it has you marked and tagged for extermination. I once went back to peek in the empty restroom after it flushed and swore the toilets were toiling and talking among themselves about their day..."All day Mac, zip, unzip, and they gotta be cute about it and aim for the drain openings like it was a firing range and their trying to qualify for sharpshooter or something. And that one guy, did you see him? Man, I swear he had plastic penis surgery and gave him a Mr. Potato head look. Watch out for him..he sprays like a shotgun all over the place and I want my Out of Order sign
As the tempting teases left to keep their powder dry, and in the midst of my musing mist regarding Terminator Toilets, I became acutely cognizant of a sweet, yet pungent aroma enveloping me. As the slightly feminine aroma grew in aromatic strength, a sinister slow creepy shadow fell across the table from behind creating an eclipse of the brilliant stage show lighting. All shadows from behind in the steamy fog night of mysterious Robotia were enough to kick your protection reactionary reflexes into warp speed factor plus one. My fingers reached inside my dingy frayed silver dinner jacket my fingertips dancing gently on the butt of my fully automatic Link Wray Laser Luger. I was coiled emotionally tighter than a sea monster from the Trifid Nebula.
As I turned in jerky stop action movements I encountered a rather dapper little alien man decked out in a striped electronic kaftan with blinking neon trim and a cone shaped red fez on his head. He looked like a Galactic Pez Dispenser and his odor was slightly feminine. My olfactory senses decided it was a cross between a garden of Amorphophallus Tianamen found only behind the chinese noodle factories on Bengkulu and that of a feminine hygiene product found south of the females physical equator colliding into each other.
I relaxed the grip on my trusty Link Wray as he tipped his fez and introduced himself with a bizarre growling accent I could not place. I was usually pretty good with accents but this palooka had me stuck in neutral for an answer. “Good evening Sir. I was sent by a mutual business contact who you wll soon meet..a Mr. Narco Marx,” he said with his voice raising a pitch as he spoke the hallowed name. “My name is Joel Faberge and I am a Fabulon from the planet Fabulous in the Formaldehyde Formation. Mr. Marx would like the pleasure of your company Sir, along with your two lady companions to discuss, um, matters of a certain bird that is of a mutual and beneficial nature to both parties, n’est-ce pas?” I was right, he was pez dispenser dispensing dialects and phrasing as easily as a tart candy tart himself. Strange little fellow..downright creepy in fact...reminded me of someone I knew in the past. A bookish fellow, yes, a Fabulon immigrant who owned a bookstore on Green Street in Old Sydney, Australia. Arrested for selling the Alice B. Toklas Anarchist and Chocolate Chip Manifesto Cookbook.
As I offered him an invite to join us, Asrini and Maddie had returned from their most excellent hygiene adventure, and something told me by the look on Maddies face Mr. Faberge was the cause of her consternation.
“Hello Joel. Vaporized anyone lately?” Her tone and demeanor told the whole story. “You little mincing fuckhead, what are you doing here following us as if I didn’t have an idea? Narco put his pet dog on the trail of our scent? Oh yes, Doc, this little Fabulon is a real prize. Weak and sniveling. Does Narco’s dirty work when no having his 16 nail manicure. Did you frisk little frisky? Always carries concealed will vape you for a free feather boa!”
Joel began to shriek, sorry but there is no other way to describe its bitch pitch. “You don’t have any sense of fashion and you can’t shop worth a damn..and..and...remember that soldier on leave from the Sagitta skirmish we met and double teamed? Ha he said my cock sucking was superior to yours, and he loved my chicken piccata better than your canoli’s!”
I thought the two of them would go at it right then in the middle of the cabaret show, and I didn’t want to miss the T and A grand rbt finale but what the hell a good down and dirty cat fight between a sexy covert black ops vixen and a flamboyant tri-sexual could be arousing. Asrini and I didn’t say a word during the initial fireworks but both of us had to stifle a laugh? I broke in when I found a breach in the screeching. “Lok you two. We all know what this is about, I mean why Joel is here and being fabulous” I said with a breaking smile, so lets put our petty diff’s aside and get down to biz, before he falcon gets any fabulous ideas and flies away again!” I looked over at he hurt expression on Joels face. He had been humiliated in public, so i leaned over to him, gave Asrini a wink and said to him in a gravelly whisper, “Your Chicken Piccata really that good?” His face lit up and he began laughing. ‘It’s better than her canolis!” he replied. A this point both had calmed down and began to laugh. We paid the check, actually I had Asrini pay it as I had her pay all expenses on this trip. I was near broke. We left and hailed a cab and were off to see the Fat Man, Narco Marx.
“OK, everyone,” I said. “Time to be fabulous and find this fucking falcon. We can all fuck later!” I noticed Joel’s face brightening. What the hell..never made it with a Fabulon before.
Narco held court with his gang of venomous thugs in an ornate penthouse overlooking the elevated cityscape. The decor was definitely a cross between an old 19th Century Arab harem and a cheap shag carpeted motel room one step above a homeless person’s cardboard box of the 20h Cent. Everything was done up in a gaudy purple haze. Curtains, thick rich Victorian or Andelian, I couldn’t discern the difference. Strobe lights pulsed from hidden recessed spaces in the room while dozen or more lava lamps oozed and undulated on the black light enhanced walls. Narco referred to it as cerebral antebellum….I just looked at as pharmacologic and surreal.
The furniture itself was overstuffed much as was our host, and all it was retro hovercraft so when you sat down you were immediately reminded of a suicide bean bag ride at the amusement park on the moon known as Bolinas that orbited around the hidden planet of Quatro Stroma in the Areola Galaxy.
When we arrived we got frisked by an overly frisky bodyguard, we entered to behold...behold? We weren’t quite sure what we were to behold. Asrini spoke first, startled it seemed as were Maddie and myself. It was Narco in a full tent kaftan dress and full face make-up singing solar system show tunes!
“Dahlings,” Asrini whispered in her best affectation,” He’s a mincing maniacal drag queen, but, he does have one hell of voice. No wonder he hangs out with Faberge and the other Fabulons!” Expecting to see an arch criminal with Querubian pinky rings instead we came face to face with a rotund planet of man in spiked heels, a see through teddy with garters, and mesh stockings. I hadn’t been this up front and personal since I was on a case at a transgendered summer camp of gender bending alien frivolity at Frankie's Fantasyland Bar and Grill, proving that alien girls, as well as alien boys who want to be girls... just want to have fun! You go girl!
He could have been a gay diva from Mars Is it a Devo? He was bizarre and his voice I have to admit..stellar and faster than a speeding falsetto...he could bend a high note in his bare hands, and who disguised as Maria Callas in Nureyev's body complete with ballet bulge.
He had an operatic rock and roll voice and was sporting a turquoise pompadour outer limits outer space hair-do that looks like he just stepped out of flamboyant flying saucer cabaret with a cadre of gay aliens and bi-sexual bi-pods. It was the Mikado meets Hermann Goering in eyeliner in a Berlin Bunker. It's "The Day the Earth Stood Still" with Major Tom screaming at ground control as lightning strikes Lesley Gore. It's Queer Eye for the Space Guy!
His flouncing around the penthouse in costume created a private show that was a collision of strobelights, smoke bombs and electro-synth-sound effects.
His kingdom was a fairyland...literally, no macho factory assembly lines in this place ruled by a gay Retropolin who did ask and did tell before it was retro fashionable, catering to an assortment of Glen or transgendered Glenda’s, dykes who arrived by bike, intellectual drag queens, street people, the wealthy from the world of art , writers, drunks, junkies, who wandered in and out of lucidity among the collective mass of the Solar Systems social sub strata of masturbation and creativity, and creative masturbation. You need to have your card punched to gain entree to this world. It was Schindlers A-List without the Nazi's but was a real space gas nonetheless.
He tossed in a few jokes with his routine. Why not? Jesus did stand up before Seinfeld, gigging at gatherings doing a magic act with parlor tricks and sanctimonious schtick, like that whole loaves of bread and fishes thing which led to a string of bookings and spoken word performances throughout the Roman Empire. (I heard he stole the Bread and Fishes routine from Rodneyious Dangerous Fieldious who first wowed the crowd while touring Mesapotamia with Moses and Abraham, the first of the Marx Brothers who played to packed houses of Philistines in their prime)
There are no others like Narco and when he expires his star will shine as bright as ever in the skies at night..pick one out yourself...it's him in the heavens..probably will be smiling down on us as he enjoys one hell of an eternal blowjob! Now that's heaven...Narco Style!
He waved us to sit down with a gesture of his hands that was more of a flourish than an invite. I made sure I sat between Asrini and Maddie to enjoy a private fetish fantasy moment in private as Narco ended with a big kick finish. Show Time at the Arturas Apollo was over. He bowed low and we applauded this looney tune as we played along. I looked over at Faberge and he had tears streaming fast and furious from his Fabulon tear ducts.
He sat his bulk in a floatation hover chair. “A please to see you two ladies again even though our last encounter was one of an adversarial nature. Asrini, especially you. We have so much unfinished business to complete, regarding the object in question which I assume Mr. Yucatan you have been brought up to speed on, yes?” I nodded in the affirmative “Roger that Narco, but I am here about Mary Asteroid and what has happened to her.”
Narc released a laugh from the inner earth of his massive girth. “Ah yes, lovely Mary. You do get to the point and don’t beat around the bush. I like that, yes, I admire that. I like a man who likes to talk to a man who likes to talk.” He was talking gibberish now as though reading from an invisible script written by hack writer Joe Gillis for Norma Desmond’s dead monkey.
“Now, we must toast our unique alliance and discuss matters of the falcon and Mary Asteroid. Faberge, please, the Cassini wine. I’ve been saving it for just such an occasion.”
Glasses filled, we toasted our host “To the Falcon” Glasses clinked and kept a wary eye on Narco and Faberge. I didn’t trust either of them, and ime would prove I was right on the money with my assessment. Narco was no fool..he was fat, yes, but not a fool. He would also prove to be deadly as we would soon find out as competitors also in search of the Falcon would drop like flies on a flophouse floor!
Narco Marx was, is and always will be one of those perennial preposterously pompous planetary psychos of the first star magnitude. As bright as Sirius...as infinite as the universe...and more dangerous than an Amish sex fiend on Viagra during Rumspringa Break.
As the Nebulon liquor continued its unimpeded flow in torrential typhoon torrents I reminded myself that Narco never gave anything without expecting something more in return on the scales of balance in unbalanced return. He wanted the falcon more than a hooker wants to get paid and move on to the next mattress. His conviviality hardly masked his subterranean intentions. Asrini, Maddie and I, none of us strangers to the old out of nowhere double cross were on our guard.
I especially, as it didn’t take much booze anymore to slow my reaction time when responding to an action that required calling on my trigger finger for assistance when backed into a corner before ending up as a bullet riddled cadaver on a stainless steel slab at the coroners.
“You will forgive my abruptness if we dispense with any more small talk s can get down to business,” Narco declared and snapped his fingers he pointed with a practiced flourish to a small wooden box on a table in the shadows in the corner for the fabulous Faberge to fetch. The perfect trained dog to serve his master. The box, was held carefully, almost reverently with much ceremony and when opened and it’s contents of Robotian ganja offered to us, his guests, I guessed we were guests. but, just easily we could already have been his prisoners. I wasn’t quite sure at that point.
Robotian ganja was a potent and powerful smoke highly coveted throughout the galaxy, and the combination of Nebulon drink and the strain of Robotian Dead Head Panama Red grown in great quantities could send you into orbit around Robotia’s twin Cheech and Chong moons where the killer weed was sown and grown.
I was no stranger to galactic drug use. For years I was hopped up on amphetamines from Alpha Draconis, Robotian weed, Martian mescaline and Retropolin LSD.
Great triumphant trumpets heralded my as yet unknown literary emergence from a cocoon of anonymity, at least in my own mind. The weed and LSD created the images I clearly wanted to plaster to the blank pages of my writing journal, spray can graffiti on an alley wall, while the high octane speed created an amphetamine anthology that to his day I cannot understand when I read my old journals. It wasn’t the drugs fault...alone. I had a chip on my shoulder, and did not have any literary muscle to exercise or flex yet. A writer has a voice, mine was unsure of itself at the time, and the drugs didn’t make the interpretation any clearer. In effect, I was speaking in tongues, numb tongues I might add..I was not a loud voice in the wilderness...I was a comfortably numb space mime!
Soon I added opium, morphine and hashish to the volatile confusion of psychedelic fusion. Now in Retropolin retrospect I could make sense of it all and it was no longer a blurred and scattered jumble of jigsaw puzzle pieces. It was actually beginning to take shape and form so now, overly confident, I put the galactic pedal to the alloy metal to increase the intake of pills and anything else I could get my hands on, uppers, downers, (Darvon a favorite) benzedrine, dexedrine, mescaline, LSD, marijuana, opium, morphine, and strangely...booze..
I was a human yo yo on a short fuse string, ready to burst into flames any minute. To counteract the uppers, a shot of heroin, to corral the heroin, more uppers. Eventually I was back down to a reasonable level of weed and speed, and damned if alcohol didn’t enter the spotlight center stage always fueled by speed weed as I now referred to my laced reefer.
A juncture had been reached as a new frontier began to unfold. Narco as it turns out was our new guide and his was evident as he laid out the best laid plans of mice and men on the table.
I felt my jaw tighten as he began his discourse. “We all have a vested interest in the recovery of the falcon. I have my own reasons which I’m sure you suspect. Asrini, yes, I have your sister, and can assure you, for the moment she is quite safe and unharmed. Maddie, you and I will have to cooperate and perhaps cut a deal to join forces you and I share an addiction for power and neither of us is a child. As for you Mr. Yucatan, you have been drawn into a dangerous situation and I am afraid there is no escaping it.”
He was right of course and all the more reason I wanted to cold cock the sonofabitch and erase the smirk from his face.
Narco had a way of laying his cards on the table that brought out the animal killer instinct and desire in a person to leap across the room and take his fat neck in your hands and squeeze until breathing stopped..on his part.
“The Com-Reds have been following all of you since you left Retropolis. Toho Intel knows you’re here, and in fact are tossing your hotel rooms at this very moment so it behooves us all to band together and find the falcon before they do. You might begin your quest in the Labian Ghetto, the Kotex Vortex and look for the Rabbit. Once you find the rabbit, I surmise you will also find the falcon. I am not as uh, mobile as the three of you so I will make this one time offer...find the falcon, bring it to me and I will not turn Mary Asteroid over to the Eroti-bot Project...I will partner with you Maddie which will also ensure your safety from being vaporized by your former Com-Red comrades and, ah yes, Mr Yucatan you, Asrini and Mary Asteroid will be given safe passage back to Retropolis, accompanied by my men who are quite handy with weapons,and you Sir, will take with you a hefty sum of space bucks in your pocket to keep you supplied in your various vices until the sun explodes!” He laughed with such largess that I thought he would explode or implode before the Retropolin sun did.
Narc was good. I had t give him a silent standing ovation. I felt he had a secret dossier on me that peered into the recesses of my soul, my past and my weaknesses..in fact he knew the right buttons to push on everyone in the room. My willingness to face dangerous situations while stoned, Asrini’s love for her sister and Maddies lust for power and he played us like a finely tuned keyboard, using our individual weaknesses to set us up for the mission and quite possibly...the kill zone!
The first place to begin any search for stolen merchandise or evidence at a crime scene is in plain sight. The Falcon was too well known to have been smuggled off the planet while avoiding detection by a vigilant and well trained Intel organization. Especially one as advanced and thorough as the one in place by the Robotian Toho network. Even the slithering servile Faberge couldn’t escape its detection, and he was an expert at deception and pulling off a feminine haute couture look without batting an elongated eyelash. Even I, a burger and brewski man had to admit his Banana Flambeau was out of this world.
The hiding in plain sight theory was backed by Narco and we were off to find the falcon, the wonderful falcon of an odd Oz. The weekend began with great buckets full of galactic anticipation found only in the adrenalin rush of a Saturday night falcon fever. If Narco didn’t have the damn falcon in his possession, who the hell did? What other players would benefit most from its capture, and more importantly had the means and the balls to pull it off? Narco, Asrini and Maddie could only think of one local group with enough chutzpah to score the bird. The all female Labia Hill Gang. Asrini and Maddie all knew more about this espionage stuff than I did and both Asrini and Maddie had quite a set of invisible balls themselves.
Labeled gangsters by the Toho reactionary Supreme Council... the Labias were not mobsters. They were worse. They were revolutionaries! The so-called “underground” whose uprising by half completed cyborg Amazon women against forced complete “erotiobotizatian” was put down with great force by the machine machismo of the full robot mecha-army at Tohos disposal. The half robotic cyborgs were no match and the rebellion, far from over, merely went underground to continue the fight.
Lucky me, instead of a carnal pleasure carnival cruise with two sexually exciting and talented human Retropolin dames I was instead going on a journey to the center of Robtia’s revolution which was still smoldering in the streets in small pockets of resistance. The resistance movement was minimal at best and the Labias were outgunned at every turn.
We left Narcos penthouse with two of his gunsels in tow whose task it was to make sure we didn’t run out on the job..we all had reason enough not to, but such is the thinking of a suspicious criminal mind. Fortunately I had managed to talk Narco into returning our guns..I was not about to fight Tohos, Com-Reds and Revolutionary Labias without firepower. Asrini and Maddie also had their weapons returned and both were highly trained in the school of one-shot one -kill arts. We traveled to a neighborhood at the far east side of the city, where the Labia Hill Gang held their ground. It was dubiously referred to on Intel charts at Robotias military headquarters as the Kotex Vortex, or among the rank and file, the G-Spot Ghetto
Revolution! It happens in the best of families. And you say, you want a revolution...that’s all well and good, but, ask yourself, do they all work as the warranty suggests, or is the reality that they are a worse curse than what they've replaced?
As a political and social scientist, I register a negative-two, positively, or lower on the Richter scale, and yes, no social scientist degree, and yes, no -ologist attached anywhere in my name, cart or horse, fore and aft, so don't anticipate any salivatory revelations or orgasmic illuminations in this piece, this, this peek through the peephole of history at the paths followed in revolutionary orbit in a rebellious solar system of social issues and rights of the people. I am merely a dumpster diver in the overflowing trash bin and clutter that has lived blissfully ignorant and comfortably numb on political issues for 35 years.
Writer’s words aren't gospel, although some writers will claim they are the second coming of Jesus H. (Hemingway) Christ, truth is...forget the words, and realize it is between the lines, between the sweaty sheets of literature, that you'll find the message, as well as the white space between the words...or what a writer doesn’t write but actually omits, that tells the story and pieces the puzzle together. The old one hand clapping Zen hipster zinger.
Somewhere, soon after overthrow and the mask of reform is ripped from the face, the revolution and it's leaders reveal themselves for what they are and the people’s message soon gets trampled by the very same crowds who not long before, stormed the Winter Palace..the fever of revolt is usually followed by the fervor of excess and executions, retaliation replacing revolution, and the monologue of a demagogue’s diatribe turns into a comintern compost of collective constipation.
Revolution is an internal family affair...like incest its best kept hidden away in the closet of the trailer. It's a social fabric that has torn, and in time inbred, ready to come apart at the familial seams it seems. It's a case of weird Uncle Hector fucking his 13 year old first cousin dressed in a sheer see-through frock behind the barn, why? Because he can, and the resultant child is a mutant, born with three heads similar to a freak farm animal on display at some roadside rattlesnake farm.. Revolution is not like war where the factions are delineated by a "border" and participants from outside the "family."
Nope. Revolution is a good old fashioned down home brother sister fuck. Which brings me to my point about keeping a revolution hot and juicy and alive after it's initial success...it needs the social version of KY jelly to keep it aroused to achieve what it craves....a social orgasm of formidable change of epic proportions. Don't be confused either, nor mislead with the term "civil war" ... no war is civil and when two same family sides parry, it is rebellion...nothing more, nothing less....
As we neared the 10 square blocks of the Kotex Vortex I noticed the neighborhood, was contained far away from the main bordello boulevard of the Eroti-bot entertainment district. Can’t have a revolution screwing up the screwing now can we?
It was a small walled big balls city-state on it’s own, inserted as a tempestuous Tampon into the vagina of daily planet life containing the flow of revolt and absorbing the estrous cycle of anarchy it produced. The outer layer of the walls of the Labia’s were completely surrounded by watch towers, armored personnel carriers and armored personnel as well. Sporadic gunfire came from inside the confines of the G-Spot Ghetto as it was also known. It was now or never our chance to penetrate the Labia’s outer and inner wall that acted as protection and a stronghold..perhaps a bad choice of words. Perhaps not!
We had mapped a location in the wall near the wide expanse of Urethra Franklin Boulevard
were rebel Labias would enter and leave, in and out, unnoticed by the guards. The hidden entrance was called the rabbit hole, and you had to be as mad as a hatter to go in there under the present circumstances, but seeing as being killed by three other competitors for the falcon seemed our only other option, we opted to follow an imaginary rabbit into Robtias Rabbit Hole and begin our adventures in Revolution Wonderland with a full rebel army of notorious victorious clitoris at our disposal.
As we entered the devastation of a once vibrant section of the city known as the Kotex Vortex I was sickened by the ruin that surrounded us. Buildings leveled in many cases, some emaciated resembling a lost work of art by an ancient artist named Picasso, famous for placing on canvas an ear where an eye should be and juxtaposing a penis in place of a brain. Two heads to his amazing talent were better than one, and frankly I tend to favor the advice I get from my below the belt brain, although it has been the cause of contention on numerous occasions.
The rumble of laser artillery created a landscape of rubble in an attempt to level the revolt and bring it to it’s knees but, to no avail. In fact, it fed the freedom fighting frenzy with an increasing vehemence and hunger for revenge and victory among the PMS driven felonious female felons of the Kotex Vortex’s Labian Underground.
Sporadic Labian sniper fire was being returned in exchange with hit or miss results as we crouched low in the dark wending our way to the relative safety of the rebel headquarters. As we nervously kept out of harms way, I couldn’t help mulling over in my head the puzzling parting words of Narco. “Find the Rabbit and you’ll find the falcon!” Was it the fat man’s attempt at Zen one hand clapping crap? A punchline by a cheap comic at an improv club? Or...did it actually have meaning and merit?
I repeated the words over and over, in an attempt to make sense of it under my breath, quietly, yet audible to Asrini and Maddie. Asrini tossed me literary life preserver first as I was a man overboard and over my head in strange waters in the middle of a revolution that had nothing to do with me.
“The Rabbit, Mr. Yucatan is a person..not a thing,” she began. Damn I wish she’d call me Doc so the sexual gap with close causing our ignitions to spark. “The Rabbit is the codename for the Labian leader.” Now we were adding more confusion on top of an already confusing situation, codenames always threw me a curveball and bang….here was another one.
“Why “The Rabbit”? I queried in a haggard, tired voice. I was bushed and beat and still hungover. Someday I’ll get my ass into rehab if the urge to place myself in a state of mental urban renewal ever overcomes my desire to tranq myself into my normal sated state of mental urban decay.
At this juncture Maddie chimed in. “She started the revolt inadvertently, through her public speaking against Erotobtization of females and was arrested by the authorities, then released, but now felt she had a mission to follow as the practiced increased and more females were rounded up from the solar system.”
As we crossed the war zone this woman, this rebellious Rabbit began to take shapely shape and come into machete sharp focus as clear as a set of night vision binoculars aimed at the night time bedroom of a female exhibitionist masturbating under the glow of a faded yellowing street lamp.
Maddie described her with what I felt was a more than appreciative tone that hadn’t gne unnoticed by Asrini either. She was, according to Maddies description a Venus de Milo prick teaser with a gorgeous set of super legs, a voluptuous expansive chest ready to explode in a volcanic eruption of heaving cleavage with a bikini wax look south of her border. Christ I was already ready for a second coming. She sounded like the eighth sexual wonder of the world. An iconic beauty complete and replete with combat skills that would make a Navy Seal look like a wimp and a mastery of martial arts that Mr. Miyagi would be proud of. Not to mention a knock down drag out sexy rear-end that could only be described as Mounds of Joy and breasts that could double as two of the finest pinnacles of the Colorado Rockies, perfect for climbing to plant your flag on her mighty twin peaks.
On the sexual battlefield apparently she was one hell of a frisky fondle of perfect body proportions. She could attract a female as well as a male and anything inbetween. She was a military strategist who gained cult rebel status of iconic proportions and appeals to both genders. Her bi-sexuality appeals to the gender bender fan base as well. I couldn’t wait to meet this rebel with a sexual cause sporting a three speed Atomic Thruster. I couldn’t help imagining her as an Erotibot, chauvinist dog that I am.
Find the Rabbit and you find the falcon. Now it made sense...the Rabbit had the falcon and everyone who wanted it wanted to find her as well. Paybacks are a bitch. I also got the impression that Asrini and Maddie wanted to find this rabbit, but for different reasons still unclear.
What was clear was that the Rabbit had gone underground...deep underground and we all had something to lose if we failed...our lives. As we finally arrived at the Labian headquarters we were about to enter and go down the rabbit hole. As we forced the damaged door open I couldn’t help pondering...how the hell did Asrini and Maddie know about the emergency entrance and exit to the Kotex Vortex? It was a secret right? How could Maddie describe her in such detail from rumor and hearsay, with Asrini assenting t it’s perceived authenticity? So many questions...no answers. Either way, she was a remarkable feminist and rebel leader from all accounts. Find the Rabbit and you’ll find the falcon..find the Rabbit and you’ll find the falcon..it was now clear and simple. I was either about fall into a bizarre wonderland or open the door that led to the Ninth Gate of Hell...
I had to blow the rusted lock off the steel door with my trusted Link Wray Ray Gun the most powerful handgun of the day that included a deadly vaporising disintegration setting. Developed 30 years ago by an arms scientist named I Claudius Faubus Wallace, the company’s motto summed up the guns purpose succinctly...DISINTEGRATION THEN, DISINTEGRATION NOW, DISINTEGRATION FOREVER. It’s saved my sorry drunken ass many times. One day...five Retropolin years ago I was on a case involving a gang of mineral thieves I was hired to track and bring into Promethean Headquarters. They were stealing power crystals used for fuel and mutant munitions. Seems a little coup d’ grace was in the works on Planet Hydra.I got lucky and cornered one red handed, or blue handed in this case. Hydrans are one colorful race and had three heads allowing them the distinction of being the only sentient beings in the galaxy who could read, think and give a decent Hydran blowjob all at the same time.Shots were fired, I fired back with my accurate Link Wray and wounded one of the blue tri-heads. As it lay on the ground bleeding its lavender blood slower than a stopped up catsup bottle I stood over it..game over and asked it one simple question “Did I fire six shots or only five? To tell you the truth in all this excitement I kinda lost track myself. But being this is a Link Wray XL, the most powerful ray gun in the galaxy and could blow your three Hydran heads clean off, you've gotta ask yourself one question: "Do I feel lucky?" Well, do ya, you three headed punk?I wasn’t always that lucky, and sometimes ended up on the other end of the stick sporting a few broken ribs and face stitches for my trouble. The price you sometimes have to cough up to stay in this game. That’s when I obtained an illegal Link Wray Ray Gun the type of which had been banned by the 252nd Retropolin Congress. I had my black market contact, Izzy the Jew from Jersey jack a shipment of guns to get one of these babies.
Now I was in business..a real bad ass dime novel drugstore cowboy..and no more broken ribs or legs. One more leg fracture and I’d be limping along like Walter Brennan with my limbs so pliable I would be able to wrap them around my head and bounce on my ass.As we forced headquarters door open we were immediately spotted by a military drone that began unleashing a barrage of disintegration pulse artillery shells in our direction. Usually deadly accuracy was their destructive calling card but with rapid reflexes we all dove into the doorway onto the concrete floor littered with empty disintegration small arms shell cases from the last battle the Labians had with the overwhelming forces of the Toho’s before going underground.Labian Headquarters had been completely abandoned, Now how the hell will we find the Rabbit Labian leader and hence the secret location of the fantastic Falcon to free Mary Asteroid and save our own skins in the bargain. It was all a crap shoot now I thought until Asrini fessed up. “Maddie and I know where she is, c’mon. Keep the Link Wrays on max and turn the safety off,” she hollered with the authority of a dominatrix as we raced back the street, this time dodging small arms fire from two directions. We were now now in the crosshairs of a crossfire between the Toho’s and the Comreds who had pursued us in stealth mode from Retropolis. We ran through the streets firing blindly in all directions. “Goddamn it, if you knew where she was why didn’t you bark it out sooner. Might have saved us from almost getting fried and vaped.” The it hit me with the impact of a crash dummy hitting the wall. “Excuse me.” No answer. “EXCUSE ME! You know where the Rabbit Hole is? Why didn’t you say so and how do you know?”
We kept running while Maddie jumped in with a double barreled reprimand, short but sweet, if you like that kind of thing. “Fuck off Yucatan. We had to check headquarters first to see if we could get any help getting through the Valium Vector, held by holdouts with a slight drug and gun problem who also want to murder their way to power. They hate Labians as much as they hate Toho’s.”Asrini stayed focused and fired volley after volley while sprinting through the shower of firepower being leveled at us. The two of them were in great athletic shape for this shit, while I felt as tired out as a Chinese ping pong ball after ten rounds of fierce competition in Pyong Yang between the current laser pong champs Suc Muc Dik and Long Wang Chung.Now, as though I were not having a great time, we had to fight our way through a Disneyland theme park of hypodermic hipsters who could smell fear ten blocks away and were as thirsty for blood as a fresh Tampon.
It didn’t take long to reach the Valium Vector when shrapnel balls were being lobbed at us from the rubble surrounding us. The Hypo’s had spotted us as I spotted some of their stolen Toho armored vehicles racing towards us with their Red Zeppelin flags flapping in the rocket fires red glare of Toho artillery, Comreds small arms fire and a flotilla of drones in a flying wedge formation heading for victory in the vector. The Red Zeppelins, as the Hipsters called themselves, only waged war with the Labians for control of the Kotex Vortex up until now. Unfortunately we had now brought the entire para-military planetary war into their living room. I had a feeling we would not be greeted by a Red Zeppelin Welcome Wagon and free ticket to ride a Thorazine Train to a stairway to heaven.
As a very impressive, but slightly battered command vehicle slammed to a halt some very nasty looking armed hopped up thugs emerged. These were not Mousketeers. These were born killers with some very serious derangement issues. We were dead meat and I never even got a chance to bang Asrini or Maddie or both. My bad luck was on path of a winning streak…. of losing!
A Red Zeppelin gang tank flanked by a flotilla of smaller armored vehicles dead stopped in front of us. Heavy metal military looking dread tread contraptions from an earlier era, time warped junk yard dogs with rusting weapons protruding from slits. Mobile fortresses with unforgiving fire power and enough bite and bark to accompany the gauntlet of the generalissimo machismo that soon flowed from the big kahuna with the torn faded insignia haphazardly sewn onto his army surplus chic non-com uniform that suddenly made him a faux general.
He also sported a pair of Midas Memphis “thank you very much” gold lame pants and over sized orange sunglasses. Great, I’d seen this kind of character before...in cartoon but, never in real life! A paramilitary picture of imperial perfection if this were a backwater banana republic or Graceland whichever comes first. If Elvis had really left the auditorium he ended up here as a cyborg celebrity just in time for the next dinner show! Viva Robotia!
The “Gen”, as he was called, and his merry hypo hipster hop head henchmen approached us armed with older version Faye Ray model guns, usually available on the cheap at the army navy girl scout boy scout surplus stores along with small mess kits that can be converted into small land mines to blow the small 15 inch legs off of a midget and other terrorists posing as little people.
At it's highest setting, sedate stun, i is no match for our state of the art rock, cocked and locked trusty Link Wray Defender with it’s “kill them all” max setting models as advertised in Field and Stream of Consciousness magazine and other guns and ammo periodicals periodically produced by Ted Nugent XXIII Publishing.
My confidence level increased exponentially along with my adrenaline as I began to feel more and more like Snake Plissken being flanked by the Laura Croft Tomb Raider armed and fabulous Doublemint Twin cheerleaders. I could see out of the corner of my eye Asrini making a subtle move for her weapons safety catch. Maddie followed suit. What the hell, we were ready for anything. “Hold it ladies. Not yet. Too many of ‘em and too much armor protection,” I mumbled. Asrini shot back with one of those “put your tail between your legs “ admonishments, “I’ve dealt with this space trash before, you haven’t. Gotta stand up them to gain their respect.”
I nodded and surveyed our situation. Not good at first glance. We were surrounded now on Robotias Valium Vector streets, beat streets, hard streets and harder alleys than I ever saw even in Old Detroit. These streets were smaller, and more cramped with rubble from ongoing battles between the competing gangs keeping the area cloaked 24/7 in the perpetual dark purple haze of artillery and small arms gunfire with a hint of grey and black from the smoldering ruins. Even the broken sewer lines leaking and seeping to the streets had smoke on the water.
This place was a Skull Island in the ocean of black hole degenerates and galactic junkies with it's faux Chinese restaurants, one room Soma bars with broken stools, deep within the loins of the tender, with row upon row of skids, all in narcotic film noir sequence, dark, and slow. I had the feeling I was walking upwards against the downward flow of a thousand liquid rain children freely falling from the skies, the other children having broken free from the split apart pinata and spilled out, falling and bouncing down the streets to hinder our quest for the Falcon. We did in the end dodge them artfully as we tread deftly as we avoided pharmacologicl projectiles from space, fired from the Robotian moon at the behest of a beast from the outer rings of Saturn’s rear end planet, Uranus, yer anus, jumpin' Jupiter yumpin Yiminy.
All of the Red Zeppelin gang members had the same vacant look. Crazed and deranged thanks to the popular street drugs. Lenny Bruce junkie juice flowing hot and steamy, and dealing from the bottom of a marked deck of cards at a pharmaceutical convention, with unconventional doctors in attendance, wearing togas stolen from New York City bath house locker rooms with fat sweaty Greeks and those from the Baltics with secret rings...eating lunch naked with William Burroughs and a typewriter with keys that stick and ribbons that were worn and faded.
Even the junkettes, the young gang girls were strung out, but my x-ray vision allowed me a gander at nubile puberty ready breasts just peeking above the skin with a pink nipple tipped volcano cane ready to erupt with passion as pubic hair began to sprout it's fertile garden below. It was an erotic Robotian visual voyeuristic symphony performed by an orchestra of puberty creating a variation of a hypodermic dream version of the War of 1812 Overture for the libido literate.
The “general” himself was no prize either. He was notorious in this pus filled little pool and as he approached I could see he was flying high with a jet stream fix in his arm, a communist Com-Red sympathizer, (they paid the most to mercenaries) and his amphetamine adrenaline anxiety was at it’s peak.
“Asrini and Maddie. My my my,” he chortled with a smile that went from grim to delighted as soon as he saw who they were in the dense smoke that enveloped us like smoked salmon in a fish shop in Marseilles. A cheeky cheek kissing frenzy followed between the trio as pretentious as an over acted scene in which some deranged limp wristed playwright has combined elements of “Richard the Third” and “Deliverance” being presented on stage by a hysterical gender bending theatrical troupe performing perchance in the round of Saturn’s left wing rings.
“And who is this delightful gentleman?” he queried of Asrini. I always cringe when a man in gold lame pants and blue eyeliner a little too thick “queries” I decided to take the initiative and go on the offensive. I reached out, grabbed his hand and squeezed it hard, you know manly man grip and pumped it hard. Real dick shit macho crap to intimidate. Unfortunately it backfired on me...his grip was just as strong and the look in his eyes betrayed him. Great, another admirer, but put the brakes on lad yboy...you’re not gonna put the pedal to the metal with me sweetheart. I could tell by the look on his face...he understood.
“Doc Yucatan” I said firmly. His response was unexpected. “You’re the one that has a 1,000,000 space buck reward on his head by the Com-Reds. The Toho’s aren’t too happy with you either. Any of you. Rewards on all of ya and ha. They also want you alive, or at least one of you, doesn’t matter which one. Hell, they know what you’re looking for. The whole goddamn quadrant knows….it’s the Falcon and the Rabbit has it...doesn’t she ASRINI!”
I didn’t like the tone of his voice as he screamed out her name. “What’s your problem asshole?” His face brightened. “Ah, you are protective I see. Well, let me assure you Yucatan. Asrini is beautiful yes, but even more intriguing is her intellect. She hasn’t told you has she?” At this point he doubled over in laughter.
I leaned towards Asrini and asked under my breath, “What haven’t you told me, dammit? You know I had a feeling this whole trip was a bad idea. Like the Edsel or the Corvair!”
The General couldn’t contain his laughter any longer. Follow me to our bunker, a lot safer there...Robotian reinforcements usually arrive by now with fresh ammo and you could end up with some nasty wounds. You’re gonna love his one Yucatan! Oh gawd, you’re gonna love it I promise!” As he exploded in a gale of laughter we followed the General to safe harbor amid the smoke and grime and the rubble and I couldn’t help but notice the pale worried looks on both Asrini and Maddie’s faces. Everyone seemed to know what was going on except me. I felt as though I was in that dream … the one where you enter the room and everyone is dressed in formal wear and you’re buck naked. Now I could also claim that along with be bucked..I was being fucked.. by experts.
We followed the Gen to Red Zeppelin headquarters, or a reasonable facsimile of one if and only if your army consisted of The Three Stooges. Sweaty pipes overhead leaking hot water gave the impression you were entering a incontinent rainforest or Seattle in the wet season which is pretty much 13 months out of 12 every year. A real bakers dozen.
In fact, speaking of Seattle and bakers, the building was nothing more than a converted franchised Retropolin Starbucks turned into a Robotian Starbunker during the Coffee Wars when Starbucks tried to caffeinate the galaxy by invading each planet, one at a time to gain a frappuccino foothold the same way Dunkin Donuts attained donut hole dominance by introducing it’s Alice B. Toklas Tonkin Bay Tokin’ Cannabis Croissants.
The Toho’s were not taking it lying down. Cyborgs, being half machine are not Cappuccino drinkers and do prefer their own special Robotian blends such as homegrown WD-40 mocha while the human Japanese Toho’s had a yen for zen blends. The Coffee War lasted all of six months and Starbucks left as battered and bruised as Juan Valdez falling off of a rocky Columbian cliff with a dead donkey.
Dunkin Donuts however did prospered as Robotia was a police state after all!
“Nice place Gen,” Asrini said with a smirk in her voice. “You always were a snarky bitch Asrini,” the Gen replied. “Sit. Coffee?” We all shook our heads. “Got any Toklas around here,” I blurted out. “I could use a bot buzz about now.” The Gen snapped his fingers and his toady brought out a tray of some of the best buzz donuts a mechanical planet could offer.
As we got buzz bombed we got down to biz buzzed. “My men can get you safely the Rabbit Hole. We can’t go any further. Too dangerous,” he explained. “Once there you’re on your own but you won’t have any trouble, as I’m sure Asrini can get you in and out without any problem.” Why would they let Asrini in without question? More damned questions on this quest fest and not one answer, and Asrini was not about to spill her guts. Who the hell were these Rabbit Hole Amazons anyway, and more importantly how do they know Asrini.
The Gen and all of us were as comfortably numb as a coma patient in Bellevue awaiting transfer to a cuckoo’s nest. At last he spoke. “I have three conditions and unless you agree them ...No Deal!” We had no choice so we bit the bullet. “Fine. First, we will require half the reward money for the Falcons retrieval. Second, arrange with the Tohos a sit down with us to discuss amnesty, and third,” damn I hate pregnant pauses as much as I do a pregnant girlfriend. “Third...Maddie stays here.” I sat up fast, “As a hostage?” He smiled benignly, “As a guarantee, Mr. Yucatan, as a guarantee. You can’t be too careful, now can you?”
Maddie said is was fine with her. She had grit and spunk as well as body as hot as a comets tail. “Agreed,” I grumbled. “Good. Then we can begin. I’ll tell you what you are up against Mr. Yucatan in case you weren’t fully filled in. The Rabbit Hole Rebels are dangerous..real Eves of Destruction!”
It all happened faster than a meteor crash landing on a blind man in the desert. Asrini and Maddie were well heeled with Link Wrays and in one well choreographed swift Swiss movement drew and fired relentlessly vaporizing not only the Gen, but the armed hulks who stood guard at the only exit and who would have certainly done massive bodily damage to yours truly in the doom and gloom of the dark, dank room. The Gen had no intention of letting Maddie leave with us, that was apparent. Even more apparent in hindsight was that Maddie had no intention of remaining behind at the Red Zeppelin version of the Bates Motel. She and Asrini thought and acted in complete unison. One mind...two great bodies loaded with action. I could feel the rush and smell the resultant vaginal discharge flowing like hot lava and I smiled as I thought to myself...how nice it would be if I were Pompeii!
The stench of the vaped body count added the musty smell of the standing water and dead space rats and the fog of death mixed with the smoking haze from the crashing rubble breaking up outside from the pitched battle between the Red Zeps on the ground and the surrounding allied forces of Tohos and Com-Reds and their magnificent armed flying drones...death from above raining down on the Vortex. I knew the Tohos and Comreds wanted us too, but strangely enough I had the feeling they were clear cutting a path filled with dead Zeps so we could reach our destination. A reality check reminded me...they both wanted the Falcon too and were strange allied bedfellows now, but I had an uneasy feeling that once we had the Falcon in our possession they would turn their attention to our ultimate demise before concentrating on eliminating each other. Meanwhile at the end of this deadly rainbow Narco Marx would deal himself into game for his grab at the pot of gold, and would in all likelihood be the last man standing, along with Joel Faberge the Fabulous Fabulon assassin and part time hairdresser and maker of feather boa dream catchers shaped like Sock Monkeys.
The lasers and phasers were heating up the grey dark of the night, maybe it was dusk, you couldn’t tell the difference between the grey ash and smoke of battle, a nuclear winter effect that would cut off photosynthesis in any case for struggling flora reaching out for a drink of sunshine. Even our clothes became covered in dust...in every direction it was grey, black and faded dirty white. Pleasantville revisited or the back lot of a Tim Burton film where grey card tones trumped a box of Crayola’s. Even the M & M’s were black and white and all the jelly beans are masses of melted colorless gel with islands of sweet sugar the attract the holy roamin’ empire of rodents claiming the black back alley’s and stench filled sewers shooting steam through vents creating islands of global warming for the hopeless homeless winos and junkies to ward off hypodermic hypothermia hypothetically.
Asrini stopped fast, alarmed. “Look. We’ve got big trouble,” we whispered. As my eyes focused through the gauze of grey I had to agree. “Shit. Who the hell are they?” Silence except for the fact that dead ahead the streets were alive with the sound of music. As I listened intently I recognized the songs...BROADWAY SHOW TUNES being sung by two opposing female gangs carrying chains, knives, guns, all old school and all with a look of murder in their eyes.
“Asrini, who the hell are they?” I wanted to know. I could tell by the look on her face and Maddies reach for her Link Wray it was just about showtime at the old Appollo. “OK Doc now we have a fight on our hands. Those are the Ethel Mermans, and the Bob Fosse Fishnets...two sworn enemies, one is pure Cyborg and the others are full fledged escaped Erotibots that have been fighting over turf for generations….they’re tough in tights and we have to get through them to get to the Rabbit Hole.”
Terrific. I hoped to hell, PMS did not effect female Cyborgs or Eroibots. I was stuck in the urban battleground of two gangs - real Sharks and Jets shit set amidst a stage of Robotian urban decay, switchblades and guns where a cyborg lesbian finds love in the heart of Maria, a Puerto Rican Erotibot but this insane turf war threatens to keep them divided. Through it all the gangs wage war wearing Kevlar fishnets using outdated guns doing lavish dance numbers that would make the Bloods and the Crips wince. I kept waiting for the Rita Moreno Latina-bot to strut her stuff showing her best skirt lifting legs as fireball sexy Latina hot as they come...on fire causing a burning yearning sensation in a man’s groin as she took gyrating and thrusting to a sexual plateau to the tune of "Everything's Free In Robotia!”
Well great, I thought. Show tune gangs!!! Give my regards to Broadway....sing 'em loud and sing 'em proud! There's no business like show business and damn it..no tunes like show tunes! It's time to man up with a fishnet chorus line of Broadway show tunes. Damn the Ethel Merman torpedos, full Sondheim steam ahead. Don't worry about masculinity atrophied or your wrist gone limp...it's Broadway, and you’re a Jet all the way, from your first cigarette to your last dying day! Afraid you won't be a man anymore because you have an urge to hum or sing a gay white way tune...don't worry..and don't ask/don't tell William. It's overture time This is it, the night of nights...It's time for Henry Higgins to come out of your closet to liberate the Liberace that lurks by candelabra light in all of us..yes, you too!
The smell of the greasepaint and the roar of crowd, the chorus girls, and yes, effeminate chorus boys too, fishnet stockings, tights with bulges battling, sweet nutcrackers and Desmond tutu's...spotlights and orchestra pits...backstage frolic with onstage follies. A real man can crush a beer a can with one hand and make Busby Berkeley have an orgasm with a display of flawless manly choreography ...one, two, three kick...all backed by a legendary back line of high kicking long legs with thunder packed thighs dripping with sensuous sweat, attached to a fantasy female with spangles and tassels that sparkle and dangle.
"Hair" with nudity and music...the two basic food groups of hungry Broadway theatergoers...of course nudity goes with french fries as far as I am concerned so wherever I can get a taste..I'm in!
All Hail Ethel Merman, and when Warner Bros. cartoon characters break out into song singing.."this is it, the night of nights..." grab your best pair of fishnet tights...and let loose a vocal volley...remember...don't ask..don't tell...but above all never mind what others may think of you and your manhood...just smile and keep a stiff upper lip...and be tall and proud as you show off your truly limp wrist!!! The curtain began to rise and we stepped onto the gang war stage...locked and loaded..It was now showdown showtime Gang...one..two..three...kick...one...two...three...kick!
According to Asrini, the humanoids were called the Eves of Destruction allied with the Rabbits rabid legions to hold the Vortex at all costs. These were the front line gang grunts assembled into protective cocoon platoons sworn to protect the Rabbit and to keep the Toho’s and the Eroti-bots from possessing the prized Falcon. If that happened...the Eve’s would lose their only bargaining chip and would surely be defeated by the Erotibots merciless mercenary onslaught . Next stop...Erotibotization and the galactic bordellos. Both factions fought fiercely in this ghetto tough girl competition. I wouldn’t step into the ring with them with 10 Rowdy Roddy Pipers backing me up! It would be like tossing Shirley Temple from the deck of the Good Ship Lollipop into a life raft with Rhonda Rousey on a methamphetamine rush.
I could see why the Eves were kidnapped..they were magnificent!
Take a cup of female domination, add a heaping hymen tablespoon of labia laden lesbian fantasies to excite the eroticism in male and female alike, then add a delicious dash of a sexy female warrior in a leather loincloth with a dripping wet crotch, and you have the recipe for perfect Amazon Queen. The Amazon Warrior has been a large piece of the fabric of the sexual imagination for centuries. Some guys fantasize about having their ass kicked by one, while some females develop girl crushes on these mighty women as adulation and admiration grows in the camps of both genders who passionately place them on a pedestal as the ultimate woman and Goddess!The Amazon has pervaded pop culture in many guises from Wonder Woman on the small screen to the modified version as the modern day femme fatale of the big screen for a healthy dose of tongue in chic and tongue in cheek eroticism.
The sexiest example of "pop goes the Amazon culture" was the fetching 20th Century Xena, Warrior Princess in her erection causing leather loincloth, and super thighs to kill for. Her somewhat "submissive to Xena" girl wonder, Gabrielle helps Xena not only win the day in battle but, also helps to groom her mentors hair lovingly stroking it in a somewhat sensuous manner, and keeps Xena's sword sheath well oiled and slippery. Nothing like a well greased sheath to accept the deep penetration of a long, broad sword after the sexual heat and fury of battle! Gabrielle also looks after her other "needs" and vice versa. That's what warrior friends are for. When it came to genital stimulation for males and females...Xena was a temptress with a raging inferno between her thighs guaranteed to raise an erection as formidable as the Walls of Jericho, and cause a monsoon drenching in even the driest vaginal region. Surfs Up! It's high tide at Vagina Beach!
Asrini noticed the look of utter uterus awe on my face. “Down boy. They’ll eat you alive. Some men are merely the other white meat to them while most are usually looked at as a can of dented Spam.” My smile gave me way. I’d be happy being roadkill served up at one of their all you can eat buffets. Hell an orgy of orgasm is about as organic as it gets and beats Tiberian tofu grown synthetically on the Tiber colony.
Maddie laughed as though she could read my mind as easily as a Mickey Spillane novel. I was an open book and both girls were turning my pages and playing with my flyleaf.
Maddie offered a little more insight. “I fought side by side with the Eves when n assignment. They’ve been kicking ass in combat since they escaped the Tohos and the Vortex Wars began at Fortress Vagina. These are seasoned vets Yucatan.”
“These legions of blood thirsty labias make for one hell of a display of girl-on-girl do or die to the death display of feminine force and power! Watch out guys, these girls would and could literally cut your balls off Remember...a hungry hymen is not a happy hymen,” she concluded.
I couldn’t help but notice in chauvinist mindset that they also were buck naked up topside. To prove I am not a chauvinist, I have always supported a woman’s right to bare her chest in public! This is a free galaxy after all and besides Gloria Steinham had one cute cottontail!
These Eves were held in high regard and many of them engaged in their first girl crush on a sweaty, well built, powerful comrade in arms (and in bed) female dynamo that was all muscle flexing female panther, while they dripped sexuality by the gallon. That's one way for a woman to win a slave-girl for girl on girl in the bed chamber! Rewards have virtues and lets face it, warrior women make for strange but delicious bed-mates!
Some of these females had enough fleshy Retropolin tits jumping up and down to raise the erection factor where the mere sight of exposed breasts were enough to defeat an onslaught of erection crazed males mesmerized by fleshy mounds of mammaries adorned with nipples the size of broadsword shields on the attack...and if it was that time of the month, a particularly vicious assault could be expected. Even Toho men who have engaged in combat with them paused in battle when menstruation was at it's bloody peak leaving a deadly liquid trail dripping like a raging river of no return behind them as gallons of victorious vagina viscosity oozed creating a particularly blood curdling sight that stopped the male dead in his tracks. Where were tampons when you needed one.? Speaking of tampons, it reminds me of the story of the little Dutch boy who stuck his finger in a dyke..man was she pissed! That is another story…
Asrini interrupted by wet day dream eruption just as errant laser fire began blasting our cover in a crumbling building. “You want tough? Try the Rabbit herself. She is a military genius and I might add, hot as the surface of the planet Mercury. That’s why the Tohos and the Com-reds have a price on her head. The Tohos because she is head of the revolution here against their ertibot apartheid policy and the Com-Reds don’t want her leaving and stirring up resistance in the Dystopian sectors. They want her neutralized. It’s our job to recover the Falcon and get the Rabbit to a safe planet.”
“Bullshit Asrini. Our job...my job..I was hired to find your sister. Period. Now we end up in a revolution, where most likely we get our asses shot off and waiting for us behind door number three is Narco Marx, the Ming the Merciless straight out of a midnight madness movie and a bunch of bozo’s with guns from a comic book or a Vonnegut novel!”
Bam..a shrapnel grenade went off near our makeshift foxhole of brick and stone. “Yeah, I’m listening. You know I didn’t realize we’d be vacationing in Club Nuke damn it. To borrow a phrase..here’s another fine mess you’ve gotten me into!” Asrini laughed it off. ”You’re playing with the big girls now Doc.”
This was insane and reminded me of a dream I had once involving battling females in sex crazed Switzerland during the 13th Century where William Tell was shooting apples off his son’s head, rapists were stealing "virgin cherries" and holding Heidi down by the pigtails while she yodeled for help!
My voyeuristic pigtail yodel daydream was interrupted by the sounds of racing footsteps closing in on us at a heart racing jet pack drag race pace. As I sought the sanctuary of darker shadows, Asrini and Maddie stood up erect ready to red rover the intruders who managed to breach our ramshackle perimeter. Or so I mistakenly thought. Instead they began waving wildly at the three armed thugs approaching us head on, weapons raised. As they got closer, they stopped and began laughing hysterically and waved back.
“Maddie Baby...damn it’s you and I see you brought that delicious can of Eskimo tuna with you. Good to see you Asrini. What in hell you doing here? Back to join us?” Maddie threw her head back laughing. “No Art. We’re looking for the Rabbit. Got a bit of a squeeze play going on with the Toho’s and Com-Reds too so we figured this was a safe harbor and hopefully we’ll pass go and collect 2,000,000 space bucks too!”
I came out from my burrow, ego bruised by my show of cowardice more curious than ever. Who were these three? They were female in appearance with a slight rustic yet exotic look about them. Asrini not forgetting the social graces handled the intros. “This is Doc Yucatan a private dick from Retropolis..” ( I hated when she referred to me as a “dick”...Doc the Dick! Looks great on a holographic biz card!) “Doc this is Art Deco and the ravishing goddess in yellow battle gear is Long Wang and the purple delight is Wang Chung. The Tranny Squad from the Monte Rock Feather Boa Brigade of Brigand Babes.” I was meeting a human Chinese meal with weapons and could probably end up in the sack with them for the price of two egg rolls at the Suc Muc Dik nightclub in Chinatown in old Detroit. “Pleased to meet you...Art...Wang...Long” I couldn’t say “Long..Wang” with any sense of decorum.
Transsexuality is universal in my Century..in fact bi-sexuality is also galactic. Hell we fuck robots, and electronic hermaphrodites fuck themselves.
As science became more advanced and stone age 21st homophobia was left in the lobby with the Rainbow Hat Check Girl trannies and tranbots have become some of the fiercest fighting femmes in the gender bender galaxy and are prized highly by the Tohos as Erotibots. Sexy cyborg chicks with dynamo dicks.
According to a song by a 20th Century rock group "Girls will be boys, and boys will be girls, it's a mixed up world" In fact, that mixed up world is a delightful copulating cornucopia of tantalizing T-Girls with enough sexual horsepower under their well endowed hoods to fuel inject the Erectus Eruptus factor of their many admirers. These surgically altered buxom beauties possess that physical combination of south of the border male genitalia and north of the border female rocky mountains that fascinate and capture the hearts and imagination of male and female alike. These beauties break the down the barriers and excite the latent or blatant bi-sexual responses from the male of the species with a gravitational pull that can't be ignored.
If you venture forth stepping briskly through the vanilla looking glass you'll find that you have penetrated Alice's Sexual Wonderland. If you are in search of the Holy Grail of the bi-sexual merry-go-round ride, you'll discover it in the hurricane tempest of the T-Girl! The tranny is not only regal and resplendent in her looks, clothing and physical makeup, but also personifies the ultimate result in the sexual metamorphosis for those males who feel they are a female being held captive in a male body, but they also have the balls (real balls!) to do something about it.
The T-girl throws off the sexual shackles society has forced upon her in the name of fear and homophobia that society has used to inhibit their freedom of sexual expression. All she wants is to be all the female she can be to borrow a military recruitment phrase, as she emerges as a transsexual army of one! It's the yin and yang of attraction simply enough, and what the hell, a little bi-sexuality attraction to a tranny goes a long way!
The transsexual not only comes out of the closet, but, does so with fabulous flair, honey dripping honesty and penis erecting panache. These are not crossdressers or transvestites. No sir, these are females trapped inside a male body, an Alcatraz of flesh that inhibits the person’s freedom to choose the gender that best addresses her emotional needs for expression, as well as the desire to parade proudly as the woman she has always wanted to be. The best part is...this is nothing new. This T-girl romp under the sheets has fascinated humankind since the days of the Iron Age! Yes, I could somehow relate the iron age to the birth of the chastity belt but will save that for another time.
“Down Doc!” Asrini blurted out admonishingly. “There’s plenty of them here so if you don’t bang Maddie you might get lucky with a tranbot!” Everyone had a good laugh at that of course at my expense. Oh luck be a Tran-Lady tonight. “Can we get going please before I get Wang Chunged tonight?” I said sarcastically.
Art agreed. “It gets worse at night. The Tohos have modified the Erotibots withe built in night vision and we only have a few old models. We’ll have to jetpack to the Hole. Gawd will she be glad to see you two, and Doc you can probably have a go at a nice rebel Eve of your choosing, but if not...Long Wang will be glad to do a lunar landing on your moon...you know..one giant Wang for mankind!” I had to smile at that one. Hell, at least it wouldn’t be a total loss.
In the grey dark I hadn’t noticed the jet packs they were wearing. Damn near antique RT-450 models. They weren’t as fast as the newer XT 5000 but would do in the cover of dusk and dust to elude the Erotibot mercenaries and reach the safety behind the front lines of the Eves of Destruction..then...The Rabbit and the Falcon. All I had on my mind was getting back to Old Detroit and an evening of drunken debauchery.
“Ok, Asrini you ride with me, Maddie you’re with Wang, and Doc, you can saddle up with Long Wang.” We each grabbed the hand straps in front of our assigned and were ready to rocket and roll. As the packs fired up small arms fire erupted around us, but as soon as we were up up and away we shot out of range in the bosom of the gathering dark of night.
I have my own jet pack back at the office on Retropolis. Sleek silver jet job which produces a G-force for easy excursions on the planets with less gravity and magnificently manageable in the atmosphere in the Retropolis gravity field. The system is highly responsive in flight, to the point where I need to closely control my head, arm and leg movements in order not to enter an uncontrolled spin as a Mad Hatter Tea Cup Whips and Chains ride at one of the Betty Page S & M amusement parks favored on the de Sade moon of the Pandoran planet in the Marquis Galaxy. The engines on my pack and all jet packs require precise alignment during set-up in order to prevent instability and a NASCAR spinout. A computerised electronic starter system ensures that all four engines will ignite simultaneously. In the event of a spin, the wing unit can be detached and both me and the wing unit will drift gracefully to Terra Firma on separate parachutes, shaken, not stirred.
I always packed solo...now I was holding on to an Oriental pilot that I wasn’t sure had the skills of a fortune cookie! “Ready for lift off?” Long Wang inquired. “Give it a goose Wang, ready to rocket and roll!” I replied nervously. What if I lost my grip? What the hell could I grab to hold on to? His name is Long Wang, so if he lived physically up to his name and actually had a long wang, maybe that was a clue. Long Wangs long wang would act as an airborne tether. No time to think as we left the ground with fuel packs sputtering dangerously until the fuel ignited completely in both engines and we were Peter Panning smoothly except I was flying with Tinkerbell while Asrini and Maddie were tripping with Little Red Riding Hood and Little Miss Muffet. Christ, if Arthur and Sandoz saw us now they’d swear they were watching an Ed Wood movie. Art Deco yelled out, “Not far now, but better to fly over than dodging laser fire all the way.”
We could still be shot down from the ground or dethroned by a drone, but in the grey-black smoke and haze we weren’t an easy target. “There it is!” Maddie yelled. I couldn’t see a thing, but all the others were excited leaving me feeling like I was Helen Keller at an art gallery NOT appreciating the treasures hanging on the walls as though they were cattle rustlers in a dime novel strung up by vigilantes with the townspeople gathered around singing “Amazing Grace” while children ate cotton candy and used slingshots to fire rocks at pinatas so they could run off with jawbreakers and toy guns. “Where is it? I can’t see anything!” I cried out. “It’s a rift to a parallel universe, Yucatan. You’ve heard of a Worm Hole where you enter in one location and emerge at the other end in another location?” Art Deco replied. “Only this is the Rabbit Hole and we keep it hidden and guarded. An Oriental Eve found it quite by accident incidentally. Not only does it take you to another geographic location..but, it also takes you to a parallel universe so finding the Rabbit, the other rebels and the Falcon is impossible unless you know where the rift is. It’s Paradise Lost and Found!”“Hang on!” bellowed Art and suddenly there was a force of energy that almost loosened my grip on Long Wang. Lightning surrounded us with a cacophony of zaps and pows, bangs and booms. As we entered the Rabbit Hole our velocity increased voraciously as it propelled us into it deeper and deeper. I felt like a jet packed penis penetrating Heidi Fleiss.
My the noise and lava lamp like lights we were traveling through had my head in a leg lock. Except for the flashes of light everything everywhere was black...blacker than I had ever experienced before. We emerged no worse for the wear and were now in the parallel universe where refuge seeking rebels could regroup, plan and plot revolution and protect the Falcon from those who would use its uncanny power to crush resistance and impose its power and impossible restrictions on any planets freedom. I was prepared for that aspect of our adventure, and looking forward to meeting “The Rabbit” I had heard so much about.
I also wanted to explore this new universe. Parallel universe that is...maybe there was another me here, but mostly it was the attraction of real women in great numbers, like Surf City, two girls for every boy so I could wax my woody on a sandy beach and hang ten with a Pineapple Princess. As we landed on soft ground my head and my eyes began to clear and I could hear the shrill call of a Mandorian mockingbird, very rare as it could speak in different planetary languages. I had one for a pet once as a child, but it flew into a glass building blinded by sunlight and was brain damaged and from then on only spoke in tongues and became a Southern Baptist.I also noticed something else. Flowers, trees, a red sky and magenta colored grass and a clear sparkling stream with singing fish not 50 yards away. The air was clear..no dust, no haze, no dark. There was color everywhere. Bright colors and intense rainbows crisscrossing the sky with a Monet flair. The perfume of flowers intoxicating and addicting and sensual. My senses were on overload taking it all in. Nature as I had never known it in the grime of old Detroit, was now making love to me on a bed of jasmine and feathers. As I was taking it all in Asrini broke my concentration. “Well Doc, here it is.” Then Art Deco chimed in speaking to Asrini and Maddie and said something that confused me even more. “Welcome home ladies. The Rabbit has been expecting you. You’re welcome to Yucatan. We need someone like you. Welcome to the Revolution!
Working in the dark underworld of Dystopian Retropolis as a detective everything and every client was a study in psychological black and white, right and wrong, yin and yang. Making matters worse, the physical Dystopian decay of a distressed Detroit was my habitat of gloom, doom and death by drone amidst the crumbling buildings lodged in a “peoples” society under constant scrutiny and surveillance by a paranoid government. Life was bleak on Bleeker Street...and even bleaker on Beaubien.
I had embarked on a journey, a questionable quest fueled by my desire to have Soma infused drunken sex with an Eskimo-Asian who entered my office, my life, my mind early one evening. We left the void of everyday Detroit life, entered a vortex of revolution, chased by a trio of gangster and government agencies hell bent on killing us once we had the “treasure” in hand and no guarantee we would come out of this unscathed or DOA.
Now into the rift in the universe I was awash in colors and scents, surrounded by innocence, not malfeasance. I had entered the Rabbit Hole and Art Deco was the Mad Hatter conducting a symphonic scene from “Fantasia” complete with dancing brooms as I still lusted after Asrini...the Fantasian Asian.
I had officially stepped through the Psychedelic looking glass and Mickey Mouse had become Timothy Leary on purple haze and I was enthralled by the sensory deluge of a fugue in spiritual redundant repetition
Everything about the Rabbit Hole burst forth on the anthropological horizon as blinding as a Clockwork Orange Julius Soma flashback. It was the placenta of an orgasm of light and color and lava lamps and light shows and psychedelia along with enough sexual hallucinations from the vaginal vortex of the groin.
I looked around me in awe as I swore I could see and fathom, not imagine, and positive they were not holograms, but an army of Hi-Ho it’s off to work we go dwarves, My imagination not were fueled by chemicals for once saw dangerous dancing dinosaurs, macabre mops, beastly brooms and flying flaming fairies all set to a musical backdraft that put you into a blue moody mood of moody blue hue where pink Floyd flamingos dancing fantastic fandangos descend from a Jimmy Page stairway to heaven. It was the flash from an atomic detonation or a Family Dog light show at the ancient Fillmore Auditorium listening to Inna Gadda Da Vida on purple double dome.
Amphetamines and marijuana sang while mescaline and acid were the opening act, as Snow White turned into a pile of cocaine and Sleeping Beauty took a hot shot of heroin, while Mickey joined the SDS on LSD and took to the streets of Chicago with a gang of dancing brooms that eventually met their demise on the campus of Kent State a few years later. The Seven Dwarves became the Chicago Seven Dwarves and went on trial for Fucking up Beethoven...and Donald Duck was banned in Sweden for not wearing pants. The Revolution was on...It was time for Mickey to turn on and drop out...and remember...you don’t need a weatherman or a mouseketeer to know which way the wind blows!
The film of my silent mental movie broke as Art Deco cried out to a group approaching us from a hill dotted with small cacti and azul flowers I had never seen before, “OVER HERE! I’ve got Asrini and Maddie with me too. We made it. Tell the Rabbit!” The object or rather objects he was Gettysburg addressing were just making their way down a pale blue hill dotted with peyote cactus...I remember a Navajo friend of the old tribal school told me once..”No need to search for Peyote..the Peyote will find you!” He was right and I couldn’t wait to try this potent alien strain on for psychedelic size. With drugs, as with Armani Gemini Gucci Gumi Asteroidal suits...one size does not fit all. (I found out later the flowers were a highly potent strain of wild Soma plants.)
As the strange group approached I noticed they were all females, undoubtedly the Rabbits Hymen Hutch of revolutionaries. Muscular and well built is putting it mild. These were marble sculptures in the flesh. The cream of the galactic crop kidnapped for the purpose of being transformed into Erotibot Sex Cyborgs but had managed to escape and had been holding the Tohos at bay for years eluding capture and liquidation...they were the last line of defense between us and the falcon and eventual freedom. I only hoped the ringleader, the enigmatic Rabbit would agree with my synopsis. I had a practice to return to, a manuscript I had to write for a book for Arthur to publish and utility bills long overdue. On top of all that I had to steal some more script pads from Doctor Ekins desk and I was more than ready for a week long fall down in the gutter binge of sex and drugs...now that’s entertainment if you’re a high school dropout mystery noir dick lit writer and a private eye with a public dick.
Asrini gave the order to move forward and follow the female phalanx as they had stopped 50 yards away but motioned for us to come with them. “Don’t worry Doc. This is the easy part. Up the hill and across a stream and then “home plate” as you like to say,” she said with more sarcasm than I thought was necessary so rebutted with “Not home plate you sarcastic bitch, I always said I like to get to First base . FIRST BASE..you know..and I’m sure you do know. Probably had more pucks in your net then most!” I could feel an edge in my voice that had me at the point of no return unless I held it in and smothered it with a pillow and let it grab it’s last gasp of volatile air.
She was right though. It was all about sex. The universe is about sex and sex is a sport now and always has been. As we headed for the hillside I decided to engage Asrini once more in a battle of wits, knowing full well even on an intellectual playing field she’d kick my ass.
“Look Asrini, I have noticed over the years a correlation between sex terminology and the lexicon of the locker room, but then again anyone who knows me also understands that I tend to find that common denominator in as simple a phrase as “Happy Meal” or “Gimme an F” or “Would you like that Biggie Sized?” Sports and sex are not strangers in a strange steroid laden bedroom of of boudoir frolic.” I was proud of the fact that I had the rollerballs to take her on and my momentum foolishly urged me on, lured in by her momentary silence and perturbed look.
“In fact,” I continued, “The Holy Bible of Jockdom, Gladiator & Sports Galaxy Illustrated, is for the most part devoted to which college quarterback is being tapped for the Eagles or Packers, but the masses go for asses and the annual Nude Alien Edition bears or rather bares this out rather nicely. Tits and Ass will replace baseball stats every time!” I said emphatically.
I was on a fucking roll. “We all remember the first time we made it to first base in the back seat of Buick? Even better, remember that first line drive and home run when you slide into home plate and your crowd of testosterone did the wave and your jumbotron went ballistic? Again, sports terminology got your batter, batter, batter up and you finally didn’t strike out! Let’s face it Asrini...these were the play offs and damned if you didn’t go for the gold for the penis pennant of victory or in your case, the Vaginal Olympic Gold!”
Maddie was laughing and jumped into a private battle that now was no longer contained. It was turning into a carnal conflagration! “Hey Doc, don’t forget hockey. You did reference it Mr. Macho and isn’t it a coincidence that Puck rhymes with Fuck? After all the purpose of hockey is get your puck into Asrini’s net isn’t it? Using your big stick and getting your “puck” in her “net?” Maddie scored big time. She opened the floodgates and now Art, Wang Chung and Long Wang wanted a piece of me and the action deserting a sinking ship like wharf rats who’ve eaten too much heroin on the docks of Marseilles.
Art Deco was a real fucking comedian. “Basketball is the best. I mean the whole purpose here is simple enough and that is to get your ball into her basket without an assist and without too much dribbling. Dribbling tends to spoil the mood.”
At this last comment Long Wang decided to take the plunge filling in any conversational space to deny entry to any pregnant pause that may rise up and quell the anger and buffer the opposing teams. Already I was outmanned by two females and three transsexuals. I had to wonder, how many trannies does it take to screw in a lightbulb? I don’t know either and I wasn’t about to bend over and become a socket to find out.
“I don’t know,” Long Wang bikini waxed poetically. “I find a little dribble goes along way to heighten a mood.
Wang Chung now wanted in and was an avid fan of fabulon transsexual football. “Look, football speaks for itself..it has fabulous ladyboy cheerleaders and every Fubulon high school has a bevy of he/she cheerleaders and the best part is they’re almost legal aged! You also want to get the punt in the final down, sort of like being at the holographic drive-in in the backseat of a sex pod and the hologram is almost over and you want your fabulon to say it’s ok and make it seem like it is actually his/her idea..and unlike football a turnover is actually to your advantage. Kick, Punt, Kama Sutra!!”
My gawd...Asrinis was laughing her sweet Asian ass off and Maddie was ready to roll over and masturbate in a field of hallucinogenic flowers and peyote! It was madness and Asrini made an encore appearance. “Don’t forget Doc. I know you sneak off to roller balls and roller derbys every chance you get. C’mon baby,” she said teasingly, “All that fuel injected estros sports entertainment. Amazon Queens ruling with an iron fist ..Betty Page’s with whip in hand...like the Falcon Doc, these are the things that YOUR erotic dreams are made of and there is something about an aggressive Female that piques your curiosity factor not to mention creating Yucatan erections stimulating and simulating a flag at full mast waving high in the dawn’s early light.”
Damn her! She could see through me like a broken window. She knew all along I wanted to bang her and now it was public knowledge, or perhaps it had always been public knowledge except to me.
Asrini got one final dig in…”Swimming? Don’t forget your backstroke and breaststroke and yes you are a breast man so time to dive in!” Asrini, remember that phrase “a bird in hand is worth two in the bush? Bullshit..my bird in my hand is not better than my bird in your bush!” There I practically said “I love you” in my own crass way and couldn’t back peddle now. They all laughed and Asrini replied..”Love you too Doc.” We continued to the hill and all I could think of to say to her, as yes, I was in love with her so I simply said. “Get off my back will ya?”
Walking up the small hill was no easy task. I was used to concrete under my feet and level ground in a city that had the pungent odor of an inner city alley after a hobo convention of cheap comet concoctions that would make a Sterno wino think twice before taking another drink. It was a insensitive manly environment where danger lurked and testosterone could save a mans life or make him foolhardy enough to get his asphalt hardened cahones in a sling and leave him in the emergency ward with a couple of broken ribs. It was that rush of the unknown that appealed to the death wish side of my psyche. I didn’t want to know the future. Surprise me sweetheart!
All around us were Soma plants in full bloom basking in the red sun of Robotia. I already felt light headed while the pollen drifted upwards as our tramping boots disturbed their slumber and we inhaled the intoxicant and let the Soma plant take root in our imaginations.
I was certainly in a real surreal world but questions remained. Big questions. “Art,” I queried, “If all of you know about the rift in the universe, don’t the Tohos know as well how to get in here?”
“The rift is fairly new Yucatan. Only discovered two years ago when a stranger who was trapped inside and drifted with it thanks to a faulty continuum and was found wandering about. He came through it quite by accident and showed us approximately where it was and is today. We keep it hidden and we used recon decoys in the past to lead the Tohos and the Erotibots far from it’s entry point while the rest of us did the jet pack boogie. Today the Tohos dont set foot in the Vortex and the Erotibots haven’t broken through our ghetto defenses. So far now at least we are ha, invisible and still they can’t pull the rabbit out of our mad hatter hat!”
Arts tale was interesting enough and impressive I must admit but two nagging questions begged to be addressed and answered. Why in hell were we on foot when we could be jet packing blister free and who was the stranger that brought this drifting rift of a strange land with him and whatever happened to him. I had to know...my curiosity was hot and ready to break the pressure valve of polite decorum.
“We don’ t use the packs for travel in here because we don’t know if the propulsion gases will cause enough edible pollution over time to eat away at it and have it go up in smoke leaving us visible and vulnerable. As for the stranger? His name was Ed Wood, Jr. “
Ed Wood I understood arrived with a cadre of cretins on the run from a nether realm in another quadrant on the planet Castroid. Ed was a revolutionary from a pathetic planet of droids whose artificial intelligence was similar to the Eroti-bots except for the fact they were not part humanoid, but pure mean machines that developed and learned to act on their own and whose primary goal was to enslave the humans on the planet and raise them as food for the munchie hungry cannabis cannibals from the Carnal Coitus solar system.
Ed had designed a scheme to thwart the A-I’s. He called it Plan 8, plans 1-7 sucked and were scraped before they could be implemented. Not disillusioned he buggered on with other like minded revolutionaries. They formed a nucleus of combatants who planned to invade the island headquarters of the A-I high command, assume power and dismantle the machines. They attacked by boats in the dead dread of night and began the invasion at sunrise. They were promised drone support from a neighboring planet as who secretly funded and supported the project. Nobody wants a planetary threat a mere 90 days away from their orb. The promised air support never came and Ed and Che Stadium, his Soma addicted seconal in command, a few remaining troops hid out in the jungles planning their next move.
This was when Ed Wood, designed his revolutionary Plan 9 while out of his mind in outer space. He built a large army of followers, mainly trashy transvestites and drug addicts and assorted sordid characters from the other planets nearby, including some a hardcore group of mercenaries called the Ru Pauls who arrived in black mesh stockings and angora sweaters and women's underwear led by a two headed hydra known far and wide as Glen and Glenda dressed in women’s clothing. It was the Flying Fagman from Outer Spaced!
Joining GG as he liked to be called were some heavy hitters in the mercenary universe including the brassiere wearing Ro-Man-Wo-Man and his bubble blowing machines of death and the feared Killer Klowns from Outer Space...the Russian mafia of the galaxy.
It was a drag queen extravaganza that under the big top of the cosmos will leave a lasting image of revolutionaries with two or more heads in space helmets wearing garters and fabulous angora sweaters...there will be monuments to Ed Wood, Space Revolutionary and Che Stadium, both in full drag..laughing their heads off.
Unfortunately they were overwhelmed and defeated but miraculously, as will happen in space, Che discovered a vortex by accident where they could hide and he led the remaining fighters including Ed into into unaware of what lay ahead. It was Ed however who discovered that there many “doors” inside the vortex. Some leading to other dimensions..some to distant quadrants across the void of space ...some to other spaces and places in time. He became so familiar in fact he became a real Casey Jones driving this train when he discovered Robotia and the revolution.
He and Che decided to hide out here, join forces with the revolutionaries and fight the Tohos and those errant Eroti-bots. When he met the Rabbit and she asked him why he would align himself with her forces, he said, “Look, I’m a revolutionary and an outlaw now...I'll be all around in the dark - I'll be everywhere. Wherever you can look - wherever there's a fight, so hungry people can eat, I'll be there. Wherever there's a cop beatin' up a guy, I'll be there. I'll be in the way guys yell when they're mad. I'll be in the way kids laugh when they're hungry and they know supper's ready, and when the people are eatin' the stuff they raise and livin' in the houses they build - I'll be there, too. just somethin' I been thinkin' about.”
I couldn’t wait to meet this group...a pair of fishnets, and I don’t care who’s wearing them attitude and a rush of Soma makes any day interesting. As we reached the summit of Soma Hill we saw a precision military encampment laid out below us in a small verdant valley, not at all unpleasing to the senses. Crude huts dotted the panorama with a large lodge not unlike a small fortress commanded the enclave. We paused before making our descent into the plateau.
“This is the Rudy Valley and that’s Ed Wood’s army and in the large building you’ll find Ed himself,” Art Deco informed us. “First line of defense to protect the Rabbit. Nobody would be able to break through.” We made our way down the north side of the hill and into the camp where we were immediately surrounded by a swarm of combat hardened vets. Asrini and Maddie ran ahead and started embracing individuals in the group while others came up to us shaking hands with Art, Lon Wang and Wang Chung. Again I was the odd man out and after much explaining of who I was and how I came infiltrate their peaceful, yet very wary existence I was welcomed with a few polite yet cautious grunts.
“He’s OK,” Asrini assured them as only a woman can do, and that pin we made our guarded way to the “big lodge” by what I finally deduced was a rag tag band of juveniles. “These are rebels? They can’t be more than teenagers.” I whispered to Maddie.
“They were teenagers when they arrived here. Buck up Yucatan, once here you remain at your present age, but once you leave your current actual age catches up to you.” Not only was I in parallel universe, but somehow had checked into the Heartbreak James Hilton Hotel in some time warped Shangri-La!
The Peter Pan legacy of angst laden juveniles who fend for themselves was alive and well it seemed here in The Rudy Valley The pan-demonium of psychotics from Lord of the Flies to the Lost Boys to Alex and his violence prone Droogies in A Clockwork Orange. In all cases, these kids, these James Dean rebels with a cause are examples of the classic Pan Syndrome, just add pixie dust, mental illness and someone singin' in the rain, and you have all the ingredients.
This cadre of kids never grew up, nor had reason to. They had it made to Never Land wearing tights that showed off a lost boys lost bulge in a region we now know as the Sansa Belt Action Zone. Is that a Peter Pan in your pants or are you just playing with your tinkerbell? These kids never made it with the prom queen to my knowledge and it was hilarious hermaphrodite homage at the very least and had all the potential for a gay bar in paradise lost at the most. Hey, it's 5 O'Clock Somewhere and happy hour is about to begin.
Peter Pan himself couldn’t have done better. Not a tough Sam Spade character but more of a cross between a young Leo Dicaprio and Ru Paul. It's like having Mickey Rourke play Barbarella (now that could be interesting!)
These kids, I found out later, were fierce fighters and the kind of Lord of the Flies comrades you’d want watching your back at all times. Most of the kids, homeless thanks to the war on their own planet started off as gentle and socialized but soon degenerated into wild animals like denizens from the Ninth Gate of Hell. The boys factionalize and the battle is on between conformity and individualism until they unite to fight a common enemy. One of those Red Scare things no doubt of Commies vs. Us paranoia scenarios of the early cold war 1950's of the 20th Century. I wonder how long they can stay united and not see begin to imagine me as an imaginary beast who eventually gets kidnapped by the gang of juvies so that tribute might be offered to an imaginary King Kong who is fookled into thinking I was a nubile white babe with pink nipples to fondle in his fortress of solitude, turning Fay Raye into a finger puppet, yes, use your own imagination, mine is busy right now with my own visual.
Or worse I could end up in a "Clockwork Orange" scenario of violence that violates all our precepts of what violence is all about. Would we all be sacrificed to the god Kubrick as we become a carnal feast for the beast f gratuitous sex and violence permeating this fest of fetish as though it were the Fulton Fish Market in NYC on a hot windless August day. The Rudy Valley, where Peter Pan does a Vulcan Mind Meld with Charles Manson. If only I can find a pair of white pants to show off my Peter Pan in all its glory. Maybe if I start singing in the rain it will be safe. If not then I'll become a lost boy vampire and feed only during menstruation periods..a lost boys breakfast of champions!
As we approached the lodge of Ed Wood, I could feel the tension in the air among my comrades. “Prepare yourself Yucatan.,” Long Wang advised quietly. “You’re about to meet Col Kurtz!!!”
“The horror...the horror” I kept repeating to myself. What the hell...As long as Asrini was at my side I felt safe...besides I love the smell of feminine hygiene products in the morning!
Music was assaulting and attacking from deep within the lodge hut of Kurtz. Loud and proud, louder as we closed the gap eliminating altogether the wide space across the barricaded compound as a smidgen of old White Out obliterates a writer’s spelling mistakes that arrive on a typewritten page quite by accident.I was plagued on this whole joyride with my head fronting as an antiquated pulsating neon jukebox in a dive bar. Someone invisible, tailing me in the dark perhaps followed me there and kept dropping old three plays for a quarter coin currency into a front slot to begin its journey at 45 RPM’s s the needle dropped into a groove. The music was a strange brew, a real he man brew of sound that I referred to as He Brew which was human he man music minus all the beards and dancing to Zero Mostel numbers.
A sensational sensual sexual saxual saxaphonic saxaphone barfly broad on her last buck for the evening filling the empty seat next to me at the Pacifico bar in Detroit at one a.m. “Excuse me. I have to make a saxaphone call. Can you tell the bartender to keep the blues away from the piano please and do something about that trumpet!”“Doc? Doc?” Asrini had penetrated my thought trance. “Yeah, yeah. Here, present and accounted for.” It was then someone pulled the plug on the jukebox and I was aware of the deafening strains of Richard Wagner’s “Ride of the Valkyries” at surround sound pounding from the compound emanating from a point dead ahead and our destination...the elusive Col. Kurtz. He commanded loyalty, perhaps out of fear maybe shared beliefs. Either way his followers would die for him, that was plain to see. They were Mouseketeers following blindly the evil version of Mickey Mouse. Why? Because they love and worship him. Who’s the leader of band? “C-O-L-O-N-E-L K-U-R-T-Z!”
Our guard left us at the door and with one swift deft motion indicated we were to enter. Cautiously I pulled the bamboo door open only reveal a dark interior with wafts and whiffs of Uranian opium billowing from within and rising high in the air outside. As I peered deep into the moody blue colored smoke screen I noticed a rather large humanoid ensconced in its hallucinogenic aura. His head was as bald as a lunar landscape and he was mumbling under his breath to no one in particular, in fact to no one at all. I I could tell he was alone in his world. Those he had gathered around him were mere theatrical props and one dimensional actors on a Samuel Beckett minimalist stage reading their lines for the 350th performance on far out far off Broadway to the entranced patrons of the arts slumming for the evening in fancy dress and already drunk on F. Scott Fitzgerald booze engrossed in a nude performance of “Waiting for Godot”
We entered his domain, the den of the lion, not knowing what his response to our intrusion would be. To my surprise he smiled broadly, acknowledging our existence. “Long Wang, long time, no see. Wang Chung you are a sight for these old eyes. Please, you and your friends...sit and relax. I knew you were coming. I could tell by all the activity in the Vortex.”“These are friends of mine Colonel. Asrini and Maddie, formerly Comred agents, and this rumpled character is Doc Yucatan. A detective from Retropolis who came along to help find the Falcon and of course the rabbit,” Long Wang explained.“I know all that already. The Toho’s sent an emissary under a flag of truce to make a deal with me for it’s return. In fact they made me an offer they didn’t think I’d refuse. I surprised them when I turned them down. They misjudged me. My son Fredo, who now works at a carnival as a barker running a tilt-a-whirl and guessing weights on Jupiter said we should take them up on their offer. I told him to never go against his family again!”
Then as if reading from a copious Coppola script he added “I've seen horrors, horrors that you've seen. But you have no right to call me a murderer. You have a right to kill me. You have a right to do that, but you have no right to judge me. It's impossible for words to describe what is necessary to those who do not know what horror means. Horror! Horror has a face, and you must make a friend of horror. Horror and moral terror are your friends. If they are not, then they are enemies to be feared. They are truly enemies.”He paused for that dramatic pregnant pause so cliche in film, then continued as an old vinyl record stuck in a groove “I worry that my son might not understand what I've tried to be. And if I were to be killed, Yucatan, I would want someone to go to my home and tell my son everything – everything I did, everything you saw – because there's nothing that I detest more than the stench of lies. And if you understand me, Yucatan, you will do this for me.The horror! The horror!”
I felt like a grocery clerk at a checkout stand waiting for the customer to indicate paper or plastic. I sat quietly enjoying the opiated rush that soon consumed me as his monologue droned on...and on...and on. “I know you have blood on your hands Yucatan. You must, I am never wrong about these things.”Col. Kurtz, as revolutionary Ed Wood, Jr. now called himself had frayed internal wiring and his mental connections no longer were traveling the same circuits.
He went rogue while fomenting revolution along with his compadre Che Stadium on the planet Castroid with a band of hired juvenile mercs, escaped runaway Regulators. His focus got lost but he, Che and their army of delinquents found the rift in a strange vortex that had many escape hatches. One led to present day Robotia where he developed an army of annihilation aligned with the rebellious Rabbit.“I remember when I was on Castroid during the revolt Seems a thousand centuries ago. We went into a camp to inoculate the children. We left the camp after we had inoculated the children for polio, and this old man came running after us and he was crying. He couldn't see. We went back there and they had come and hacked off every inoculated arm. There they were in a pile: a pile of little arms. And I remember I...I...I cried. I wept like some grandmother. I wanted to tear my teeth out. I didn't know what I wanted to do. And I want to remember it. I never want to forget it. I never want to forget. And then I realized, like I was shot — like I was shot with a diamond...a diamond bullet right through my forehead. And I thought: My God, the genius of that. The genius! The will to do that: perfect, genuine, complete, crystalline, pure. And then I realized they were stronger than me, because they could stand it. These were not monsters. These were men, trained cadres — these men who fought with their hearts, who had families, who have children, who are filled with love — but they had the strength — the strength! — to do that. If I had ten divisions of those men our troubles here would be over very quickly. You have to have men who are moral and at the same time who are able to utilize their primordial instincts to kill without feeling, without passion, without judgement. Without judgement! Because it's judgement that defeats us.”
I had heard this all before too. I felt I was reincarnated as Charlie Sheen sitting in an opium den waiting for a hooker, except this time I was the hooker.Long Wang noticed the look of fearful consternation on my facial facade. “He’s a genius Yucatan. I served with him in battle. He sees no grey, only black and white. His see only dialectic logic because there's only love and hate, you either love somebody or you hate them. He likes you because you're still alive.I mean, what are they gonna say about him, when he's gone, huh? What are they gonna say? Are they gonna say "he was a kind man"? "He was a wise man"? "He had plans"; "He had wisdom"? Bullshit, man! What are they gonna do when he's gone? One through nine, no maybes, no supposes, no fractions. You can't travel in space, you can't go out into space, you know, without, like, you know, uh, with fractions – what are you going to land on – one-quarter, three-eighths? What are you going to do when you go from here to Venus or something? That's dialectic physics.”
I was trapped in a room loaded on opium with a space cadet Dennis Hopper explaining physics sitting cross legged across from me as a deranged Stephen Hawking tossing physics and philosophy on a creepy Marlon Brando compost pile hoping for cohesion.Asrini and Maddie listened in rapt attention. My fuse on the other hand was getting short. “Love to talk more but we have a mission and a deadline. Can you get us to the Rabbit or not?” The terse tension in my voice could not help but be noticed.Kurtz paused and I felt at any moment I would be hacked to pieces as a sacrificial water buffalo. “Tomorrow you will go. Tonight you feast at a fest here. The Falcon and the Rabbit are safe I assure you. 12 hours will not matter. Now we fest. So leave your guns here and bring along the Canolis. It’s party time!”
We got up to ready ourselves for the feast, groggy and high already when the elusive Che Stadium walked into the hut resplendent with full beard and cigar in mouth and a smile as wide as the gulf between Retropolis and Luna. I swore he looked like a pop culture t-shirt I had hanging in my closet back on Retropolis in my apartment at the Buckminster Fuller Memorial Dymaxion Hotel next to the YMCA on Lower Mama Cass Ave. in Old Detroit.
His smile was as infectious as an airborne virus. “If you all will accompany me as our guests it is our honor to have you join us.” Good gawd he was as smooth as a chamber of commerce salesman at a snake oil medicine show or Kiwanis convention in Kalamazoo.
“Che, good to meet you,” I said guardedly. “But I do have one question, OK many questions but first where the hell are we. No one has actually been forthcoming on it?” He laughed one of those “don’t cry for me Argentina” laughs as he answered with the obvious pride reserved only for mighty Mongol conquerors who’ve dealt a deadly blow to those Germanic tribes of ancient yore along the Danube.
“You’re in the Village Compound of Suk Muk Dic in the lower Rudy Valley located in a rift in a vortex of riff raff and many many degenerate revolutionaries. I hope that answers your question. As for exact coordinates, unfortunately that I can’t tell you. Oh, not that it’s classified or anything. It’s a simple fact that longitude and latitude don’t exist here. It’s a fluid universe wrapped in a cocoon with a spun web of time and space fluctuations. Ha, the more realistic response would be is that we are in a burrito with loose meat falling out of one end except the burrito keeps repairing itself.”
Even his voice had the Latin swagger of a Desi Arnaz and Benicio Del Toro as did his steady bearing and “walk the walk talk the talk” gait in rumpled military fatigues and mud encrusted combat boots. I noticed Maddie looking long and hard at his khaki ass while I drooled for a cigar and a bottle of rum SOMA and a naked latin lover senorita with breasts as big as pinatas.
“Here. Have a copy of my book,” Book? What book? He proceeded to pass out tiny breast pocket sized books with plaid covers to all of us with a curious title. “How to Talk Dirty and Create Revolution and Influence People” by Che Stadium. “I call it my Little Plaid Book. Tactics and strategy and psyops in the first half, and a collection of Rodney Dangerfield jokes in the back. Love his routines….got a whole holographic collection of his. Great philosopher of the 20th Century,” Che said proudly...and obviously plaidly. “Take my book...please!” Where are the rim shots when you expect them? Loose the dirty comic and bring on the strippers with so many vericose veins showing that her legs look like they’re wrapped in road maps. Oh look, on the left inner thigh...it’s Pittsburgh!
How best to describe the hours leading up to dawn before our Falcon foray would come to fruition… let me take a shot at it. Pure unadulterated ramped up rampant debauchery enjoying an overdose of sexual amphetamines laid out on a banquet table with a tasty yet bizarre selection of sexual offerings of near voodoo practices among the village people of Suk Muk Dic that our party was not only privy to, but would also be engaged in as willing and active participants leaving us panting for more .These sexual practices were brought to this planet by Kurtz and Che, implemented as ritual and are referred to in the village as “the bedroom arts” complete with repetitive chants … “Does your poontang have a yen for yin or a thang for yang?” and “Do you ching? I Ching”
The Kurtz brand of sexual activity has been around since the last Ice Age on Castroid. It certainly heats things up enough to melt a Polar Ice Cap on Mars. I call it Sex on the Rocks, and bartender, I’ll have whatever she’s having as long as it’s Yin Yang Poontang. I do not celebrate celibacy. Poontang for everyone Barkeep ...set 'em up! As for the missionaries...burn them at the stake and Let's Party with a Game of Naked Twister where your yin (if you're lucky) may end up in somebody's yang!
The followers of Kurtz were pioneers when it came to free love and free sex where for three days it was a time of nudity combined with wild, three ring circus sexual activity. (Unfortunately we had to leave in the morning.) The sexual positions are enhanced with mating calls and words. For example, if a hulking Suk Muk Dic resident came up to you says, “Me want do it as does the deer!” Ok, we know it today as Doggie style but I guarantee you if you meet a young lady in a singles bar back in old Detroit and say “Me want do it as does the dog” You’ll get knocked off a bar stool..now if she says in reply, “German Shepard or Standard Poodle” ...you know you’re in Amigo!!
The rituals are however sexy as hell where you are encouraged to have a romp or two to manifest manhood and appease the gods of placenta. I spent many pleasurable nights in Tokyo worshipping at the Gonzo Ganja Ginza so can only imagine the results of these daily fornication frolics.
Some say the practices began, hidden perhaps in Tibet high on a mountain top where only the 102nd Dalai Lama knows it’s treasured secrets..hell no wonder he’s peaceful, he is contented and administered by virgin concubines who know the hidden secrets of sexual positions and secretions. No wonder he’s smiling all the damned time. Forget the butterfly effect..in the world of fornication festivities down on the carnal commune they also engage in what is referred to as “bundling” (I can hear it now..”wanna bundle baby? Your sack or mine?”)
Bundling is a bizarre practice where young couples of the Rudy Valley compound who intend to mate and marry with fuel injected hormonal tendencies, natural sexual curiosities and innate exploratory factors regarding the opposite sex can screw one another with the caveat that they are bound in space blankets on a bed with a force field separating them to prevent their sex organs from breaching the Berlin Wall to get drunk on the elixir of lustful libido mainly to prevent the groom from having his foray bungling in the bundle jungle.
Dawn comes early when you’re running on empty. After a night of sheer energy and ecstasy it was time to sober up, put a lock on our libidos and gyroscoping genitals to make the trip to the Rabbit Hole. Che would lead the way with a small platoon. He arrived to get us ready and damn if he didn’t look like he had slept for hours in a fountain of youth, refreshed and invigorated while I must have looked like I spent the night in a flophouse fighting off wino’s and thieves until daybreak. Art Deco was as decadent as they come and prefered his “own” company while Long Wang and Wang Chung had each other to yin each others yang.
Asrini and Maddie? Well, while I was engaged in sexual exploits with Sela Ward look alike twins into the wee smalls… they had doubled up with couple of blond Nordic looking bi-sexual beach boy type hulks, probably canal surfers on Mars. I never saw bigger smiles on a woman’s face until that morning. Perhaps after we get back home I’ll take up surfing and wax my woody too.
We hoisted our packs on our backs, checked our weapons, and headed out of the Rudy Valley to our destiny ahead. Little did I know that I was about to walk in front of a careening Iron Butterfly bus driven by a drug addled driver named Pink Floyd...the maddest hatter of them all.
We got underway early with the heat of the red sun of Robotia already steady as it pierced the sunrise and leveled the horizon. Che Stadium led the way with his band of merry men who would run interference should we happen to run into a freight train of hellfire from Toho “to protect and serve and kill” recon teams who may have breached the rift. I suggested a pile of donuts for a bait trap to delay them just in case this should happen, but as Che so succinctly pointed out...we had to move fast, no time for Krispy Kreme dreams. “We’ve got to move fast,” he said. “I’ve heard from intelligence that Narco Marx and Joel Faberge had offered their services as well to the Tohos along with the Com-Reds. We were now deep in the shithouse and only one direction left on our compass ...straight ahead.” I wasn’t about to argue. Narco was a formidable foe, not a faux foe by any stretch of any imagination.
It didn’t take long for the machismo to start oozing arguing over directions. Che declared, “We’ll take the Geo/Time Rift and be there before you know it.” His proclamation, though convincing was questioned by Long Wang. “If we take the GWB Rift we’ll get there a lot faster.” To which Maddie added, “The Dan Ryan Rift will avoid the morning rush and flux. It can be a real bitch this time of day!” Wang Chung, wanted to take the Chinatown Tunnel rift to pick up some egg rolls but his fortune cookie was overruled by Che, the Latino leader who craved a breakfast burrito that you could only get once inside the Geo/Time barrier at a place called “For Whom the Taco Bell Tolls”
Then the whining of the wailing wall began as Hymie Hymen Swartz, one of Che’s platoon leaders declared that the Breakfast Blintz at the “Cheeses of Nazareth” deli was to die for but only available by taking the Bris Boulevard exit after entering the Golda Meir Gateway Rift. Dublin Donohue suggested the Irish Eyes-Danny Boy Rift where everything was bright and gay...Long Wang agreed, for obvious reasons and Gino Dino Gambino wanted to go made guy all the way and take the Fongool Forgettaboutit Freeway rift near the Santa Luciano Coney Island where the gelato gushes from geysers and the Meyer Lansky Memorial Hot Dog Stand where a chili dog is not just a frozen chihuahua.
I knew this trip was gonna be a real Alice in Wonderland bitch! Rabbit Hole. What kind of a name for a Vortex Hole in the Wall gang of revolutionaries is that? Was I really going to finally meet this illusory bombastic babe who was giving the universe a kick in the status quo balls in the name of revolution? Would we actually get our hands on the famed Falcon? Would we even come out of this alive?
While I was lost in my own conundrum contemplating our quandary my Vidpod rang. It was Sandoz back at the office. “Doc, you’re still alive. Arthur hadn’t heard anything for days from you and I normally wouldn’t call but something happened you might be interested in.”
By now my curiosity was getting curiouser and curiouser. “We got a client who actually paid us cash?” I could sense the muffled guffaw stuck in his craw. “”Ha, no way. I man came by last night with a package for you. Actually some kind of object wrapped in old newspaper. Said you would be glad to have it but I should hide it until you got back, so I gave it to Ivana to stash at her place.”
I acknowledged his news but he continued somewhat cautiously. “Then this morning the police found him dead in our alley. Vaped. All ID missing. Inspector Bill Burroughs came by earlier nosing around to see if we knew anything about it and also...also...he wanted to know why you skipped the planet? I think he thinks you had something to with it. The murder I mean.”
I guess I got a little more than defensive. “Sandoz, don’t tell him a thing. About me, the Falcon and especially where I am. I’ll clear it all up when we get back. Give him a couple of space bucks if he comes around again. He likes a good bribe as well as the next cop. Look gotta go. Heading into a vortex rift and may lose my signal. We’ll be back in a couple of days and hopefully with good news...hopefully alive and not in an acrylic pine box.” Goddamn Burroughs..always riding my ass. No time to figure out who the dead man in the alley was or what he brought to the office in a pseudo cloak and dagger Dashiell Hammett reenactment. All that was missing was a battered trench coat, heavy fog and and that damned blues saxophone music I keep hearing since I began telling this story!
Asrini knew there was trouble. She could read my face as well as Helen Keller could finger her way through a braille lesbian porn mag. “Trouble?” she asked. “Real trouble sister,” I replied. “I’ll deal with it later. Just a dead guy in an alley and a mysterious package, and it ain’t even my birthday.”
We arrived at the vortex rift Che Stadium had chosen democratically by eliminating Long Wang and Wang Chung’s suggestions scientifically by a few rounds of paper, rock, scissors.
I was beginning to hate these vortex forays. It was like passing through a wall of Jello and placenta and when you got through it you were momentarily dizzy and confused. Art Deco was the only one who seemed to enjoy the experience. But then again he’d probably enjoy putting his head in a cannon to see how far it would travel without his body attached.
Into the Vortex we went and emerged in a verifiable mental institution of fantasy. I was waiting to see my first Cheshire Cat or Mad Hatter. I remember the tale from long ago. A newer version called “Wonderland Does Alice!” In this fantastic tale a young girl falls down the rabbit hole of puberty (code for loosing her virginity and lands in a fantasia world that would have been Mainstreet USA to Timothy Leary. The imagery and characters have a certain psychedelic panache surrounding them.
The story is just one in a long line of storybook children that would end up as a missing child on a milk carton with a full Amber Alert "Don't talk to strangers" ...yeah Alice, that Mad Hatter is about as strange as they come..."Just Say NO to Drugs" and here is your DARE t-shirt Alice...so what does she do...spends time with a hookah smoking caterpillar. Promiscuous? Of course she was...she only got larger so those below could peek up her gingham and gander. Watch out...that rabbit is looking for a hole! So save those milk cartons...you never know when they might become part of your family album. Drop a hit of acid or mescaline and turn on and tune into Wonderland...don't forget to bring the hookah and the condoms Amigos, along with Alice's training bra!
We had stepped through more than a rift in a vortex. It was a strange and mysterious land. It took time for my head to clear and when I was fully aware of where we were a thin man with a thin tie holding a thin cigarette with voice with an edge and staccato delivery of words that have been carefully crafted and formulated into sentences as powerful as a literary Gatling machine gun.
“Welcome. You're traveling through another dimension, a dimension not only of sight and sound but of mind; a journey into a wondrous land whose boundaries are that of imagination.” What the hell was he talking about? He was obviously high on something. He never cracked a smile. “Che, who is this guy? Is he crazy?” I asked in a high soprano voice of disbelief.
"Look Yucatan, there is a fifth dimension beyond that which is known to man. It is a dimension as vast as space and timeless as infinity. It is the middle ground between light and shadow, between science and superstition, and it lies between the pit of man's fears and the summit of his knowledge. This is the dimension of imagination. It is an area we call the Rabbit Hole Twilight Zone,” Che explained just as Art Deco cried out, “Look! That's the signpost up ahead ...our next stop, the Twilight Zone!"
The thin man with the thin tie led us along a thin patch through a small village worthy of P.T. Barnum. We met a plethora of amazing and bizarre characters. Mock Turtles, flamingos doubling as croquet mallets, a dope smoking caterpillar and everywhere signs...Eat Me! Drink Me! but none that said Bite Me or Fuck You.
I only hoped I had time to get loaded on some of their hallucinatory inventory. I could only imagine growing in size and shrink in size (how cool is that?).
At the edge of the village there was a caterpillar smoking a multi-stemmed pipe, the kind Turks use (it must have been the hookah that hooked me) and a Cheshire cat sporting a Lenny Bruce shit eating grin as if he just got back from Disneyland and had a corn dog and ate Mickey on a stick in one giant gulp.
Finally we came up on the Rabbits encampment. We moved at parade pace and as carefully as possible so as not to alarm anyone and have a phalanx of phallic removing lasers shot at our midsection
Then, for the first time I saw her….the Rabbit sitting on a riverbank with one of her captains passing a hash pipe back and forth as spoke with a fully clothed talking rabbit with a pocket watch. I know a few of us out there have experienced the same thing or something similar while in a drug induced altered state ourselves but in this rift it was a reality.
She notices us and gets up to leave with the rabbit down a hole. “Follow her,” Che said and we did, free falling all the way. When we landed we ended up in a hallway with more doors to open then Monty Hall has. Or even the Halls of Montezuma.
We found keys, lots of keys, and found one that unlocked a door that led to a garden, of marijuana but we were too big, in fact we were giants by comparison and can't reach the ganja so we have to go gonzo to get the goods. Art Deco sees a bottle that says Drink Me, probably a bottle of skid row booze from a Bukowsk bum wine stash. We empty the bottle with the style and grace of Tom Waits on downers, and damned if we don’t begin to shrink and our qualms are calmed like a handful of Quaaludes. The problem now is that we are too small to reach the key to the garden on the table high above now that we are the size of Thumbelina. Thankfully there is a piece of cake that says "Eat Me" on it...I've said that myself a time or two, both in anger on the street as well as passion in bed. I prefer the bedtime version.
We eventually gain entry to the Ninth Gate of Wonderland Hell
Now it gets real Cheech and Chongy as we run into a blue caterpillar this time with a purple hookah. The damn thing also talks and like any good pusher in a school yard offers us free samples of a mushroom guaranteed to get us blasted higher than a kite, while the other piece will bring us down to normal size. All this growing and shrinking has played havoc with us….imagine how the Rabbit feels as her tampon which doesn’t shrink her body does...especially during the shrink process ..she probably looks like a bomb pop popsicle on a stick or as a sexy lollipop to whet my appetite.
This vortex rabbit hole Wonderland was no Woodstock, you can be certain of that. I've taken mucho Soma and Anterian acid in my time and saw the Space Needle in Seattle melt before my very blood shot eyes...I saw Haight Street lift up off the ground and fly into the air...and I even floated encased in a soap bubble over Golden Gate Park, but ,damned if I ever smoked a bowl with a blue caterpillar or did smack with a talking cat. I don't know what Alice was on but we would have paid any price for a hit of that shit…
We were now officially in the hole and Art Deco did a little victory dance while Asrini smiled as if she were Yoda hiding a secret and Maddie was breathing heavily in anticipation of something. Wang and Long hugged each other and Che Stadium looked about ever vigilant for anything wrong. I on the other hand kept thinking about a mysterious bundle delivered to my office and a dead man in the alley that I was sure Inspector Burroughs felt I had something to do with. I don’t vape delivery boys. In fact, I tip them with petty cash in my desk just as I do a waitress or a hooker.
Now that we were within arms reach of the Falcon we were approached by one hell of a good looking rumpled female revolutionary ...the Rabbit herself. I wanted to be in her hutch from my first look. Damn she looked familiar. She noticed my salivating look and disguised heavy breathing. She walked up to me smelling of gunpowder and marijuana and wonderland sweat…”So Doc, how are you?” she said with broad smile of sunshine that melted my heart and fired up my libido. Damn it was her, Winsora! I couldn’t speak. She put her arms around me and led us all to her headquarters. Halfway there she whispered in my ear…”Hey Doc, "Is that a mad hatter in your pants, or are you just happy to see me?"
I was beyond disbelief! I was thrown bound and gagged off a Detroit riverfront dock and had washed up ashore battered and bloody somewhere downriver in the past amid a pile of nostalgic debris.
“What the hell are you doing here?” I asked, as puzzled as a 1st grader trying to comprehend the theory of relativity. She put her hands on her hips striking a pose of a insatiable sexual panther. Delicious hips I might add that I had held, kissed and savored in the long ago. It was Novira a real ray gun blast from a sultry sex soaked past.
“I’m the Rabbit, Doc. What did you expect when you left me without even a fuck you goodbye wham bam thank you man Hallmark greeting card in New York. Think I’d wait for you forever? Life goes on, and went on asshole... even without the arrogance of Doc Yucatan.”
Asrini looked at both us from one to the other so fast I thought her head would start spinning like Linda Blair’s. “Wait a minute. Don’t tell me you two know each other?” she practically screamed. I noticed out of the corner of my eye that Maddie had her head down and was facing away from us but could see the edge of her lip had morphed into a knowing smile. I always hated those “knowing smiles.” They stink worse than a garbage barge of psychological refuse that’s been at anchor in New York harbor in the heat of August for days left to rot until wharf rats with trenchcoats run rampant devouring the putrid remains of a few missing persons left amid the acrid floating garbage / slash / graveyard of New York’s homeless and unwanted and not missed.
I had met Novira (“Rabbit”) over 2O years ago. She was a newly arrived Indonesian woman who was recently divorced from a Canadian Innuit husband who had a propensity for violence.
She fled the border to Detroit and as she could type faster than Pee Wee Herman could come in a darkened adult theater and gave my imagination a sexual working over with a rubber hose of sensuality, I naturally hired her on the spot as my first secretary. I had just opened my own private practice along with my partner Sandoz who was a disbarred attorney. Soon Novira and I were lovers and did everything together. We were inseparable. That is until it came to talk of marriage. I was pretty strung out on drugs and barely keeping the agency alive and afloat and in no mood nor ready for a commitment and told her as much.
We took a red-eye to New York from Detroit one night. I, for an East Coast romp n strings attached..she with an emotional rodeo rope ready to ride me into marriage. Saddled, bridled and broken into a corral of domesticity.
That’s the night walked out of her...no, out of OUR life and into the dark of the night forever after she was sound asleep from the afterglow of sex and the head numbing effects of Soma. I thought I was free...but I never was..she was always there and would remain in my heart. Now this gentle lady stood before me in full tom-boy battle fatigues leading a revolution! She looked sexier than ever. Sweat and her intoxicating sex smell were drawing me in again.
Asrini was confused. I was confused. “You’re my sister,” Asrini said. “You never told me you knew Doc.” Now I was my turn to be confused “I thought you said your sister’s name was Mary Asteroid? She was kidnapped and being held. Look baby, no one could hold this prized filly down. Why the hell did you make up all this crap. If I had a grapefruit right now I’d smash it in your face!” Angry...you bet your life I was angry. I was living color livid and my blood was boiling and worse, I lost my erection!
Novira stepped closer, I could feel her warm breath my face as she mediated by breaking into the line of verbal fire. “Doc, calm down. After you left me I wanted to get as far away from you and Detroit as I could. My heart couldn’t stand it. So I came to Robotia to start a new life. Hell, Erotibots aren’t all bad, but I did have an affair with a married taxi driver that began one night who I met on my way to the Met. He was also from Canada so we had a lot in common. He was a real buff Eskimo from Banff, and was as sexually hungry as a polar bear in heat.” Already I could feel my non-erect member running for cover.
“Yeah. I can understand that,” is said as sympathetically as I could. “But...what about all this “sister” line of crap Asrini’s been forcing down my throat? You never told me about a sister!” I was red with rage by now.
“Elo, and I, Elo was my husband’s name, decided to end our relationship. We weren’t married but we did have a child..Asrini is my daughter.” She turned to Asrini and touched her cheek gently, much as she had touched mine in the past. You could feel the protons and neutrons of her love in her touch. “I didn’t want you to know you were a bastard child so brought you up as..well, your big sister telling you our parents were killed in Boston in a space shuttle collision with a drunken astronaut, a Scottish engineer named Scotty from a starship whose five year mission it was to explore space and go boldly where no man had gone before. Instead he had a few too many one night at the Roddenberry Bar in Roxbury. At least that is what I told you. Forgive me? Please?” Asrini was stunned but I would see forgiveness flowing inside of her as she hugged her mother-sister.
I was ready to explode with questions. “Why in hell am I involved in all this..this ...bizarre family reunion?” Novira paused and began pacing the floor. “I wanted my daughter back and safe with me. She had lwdt Robotia and had embarked on her own career with Com-Red on Retroplis as you know but along the way she met and fell in love with Vector Laslo and changed sides. She was now wanted for sedition and that means certain death by vaporization after a few weeks of torture.”
The pregnant pause that followed was about to explode in a pinata loaded with emotional placenta. “I had met Maddie here on Robotia and we were lovers for a time and are still friends. She recruited me when the Revolution broke out and found I had a real knack for it. So that’s the long and short of it.”
She mainly wanted to save Asrini and get her here safely I surmised and was correct. “Between you and Maddie would get her here away from Com-Red and I knew no harm would come to her with you two watching her back. I also needed to get the Falcon out of here and away from the Toho’s and any government that wanted to use it for power over benevolence. So Maddie planned it all out. We got in touch with Asrini through our network. She still believed I was her sister and we made up the cover story that I was kidnapped so she would not hesitate to come here. The Com-Red were close to capturing her. We told her to look up you Doc and gave her the money for your fee. Now you can return with the Falcon and Asrini if she wants to. I know she is in love Vector Laslo They really are a perfect couple dedicated to the cause. He’s on Retropolis now in the neutral zone.”
It was all clear now...the fog was lifting...I was hit with an emotional 2 x 4 but was regaining my comprehension slowly decompressing as a diver in bell returning to the surface after a journey to the bottom of a deep ocean.
Asrini was in tears...I started tearing up as was Maddie and Novira. We were all a mess. I started laughing and crying at the same time. My love making with Rini was as sweet as it was with Novira. I felt I had been to bed sweating up the sheets in the Paul Simon song “Mother and Child Reunion” Mother and daughter we’re sexual bookends and I still loved them both.
“In the morning you will return home with the Falcon which I will give you tonight but tonight we celebrate as a family. A lot of catching up to do! Maddie will go with you to help on the journey. You OK Doc, Asrini?” We both looked at each other and smiled. “Never better Novira,” I managed, “Never better”
Windsora was young when I met her. Hell we both were, and we both had a Jupiter sized chip on our shoulder daring each other to knock it off...but, we were in love and had our whole lives ahead of us, and both of us loved a good scrap and fight.
She was barely out of her teens and as salivatingly sexy as a beautiful Asian nymphette could be. You know the kind, you’ve seen her in the produce aisle at the supermarket. Sexy black hair, deep brown eyes squeezing defenseless cantaloupes while you fantasize about playing with her melons and copping a great feel before you move on to the frozen food section pushing a cart with a broken wheel.
She’s the kind who who could heat up a pair of Swedish meatballs faster than a microwave oven set on nuke. Her sexually was subtle, but simmering, hot lava pouring from a volcano. She did have a rabid curiosity about politics, science and social injustice. I was only fixated with getting her under the space blankets as much as she was wet for geo-political theory and quantum physics.
Our relationship was a delicious Lady and the Tramp trek into the exploration of human political exploitation and spelunking into the hidden caves of her sexuality punctuated with explosive and explicit love making, unbridled and unchained, sex with her was like tossing a piece of raw meat into a lion’s cage...Windsora, like her daughter Asrini was the lioness devouring my own sense of sexuality and she swallowed me whole at the same time . She was more erotic than a Swedish sex film...but after all, Sweden in the 20th Cent banned a cartoon character by the name of Donald Duck for years because he didn't wear pants! Half of Retropolis on a hot Centauri summer night in Detroit can’t wait to get out of their pants and into someone else’s.
She was as curious about the world and politics as she was about sex, a deadly combination for a post teen, that fosters a burning desire to save the world by getting involved in social issues while simultaneously ending up sexually aroused with a bad case of "fire in the hole" She had a voracious sexual appetite and can proudly say she took me where no man has gone before.... In between her sexual acrobatics she studied politics and revolution, peace and morality. She had and still has an aversion for Dystopia and is on a quest to right the wrongs of the entire godless universe
One day after I left her in that New York hotel room, Windsora left Retropolis for Robotia, where as fate would have it she met Maddie Harry just as revolution was simmering like a pot of hobo stew. They met while Jet Packing in the park and fell in love. Maddie had been involved in a few agency approved and some non-sanctioned tawdry affairs. One such personal affairs was with a Toho politician...who was not quite in tune with Toho;s sinister practices of kidnapping galactic females for conversion to cyborg Erotibot prostitutes. They had common ground. In time she discovered he had another woman on the side, so she left him. Her sexual appetite is now going unfed so takes up meditation and yoga. I guess there is solace in meditation, but, why meditate when you can masturbate?
The whole story began to unfold as the Soma and weed began to take effect on all of us loosening their tongues faster a plumber can free a u-joint on a clogged up drain.
Windsora’s eyes lit up as she regaled us of their affair. “After I met Maddie and became comrade in arms and bed partners I sent for my daughter Asrini, whom I had placed safely with relatives on Retropolis in Detroit when I fled Canada. She moved back here, with myself and Maddie, still under the impression I was her big sister, attending school here until she graduated, relocated and enrolled in the Com-Red Intelligence Agency against our wishes.”
Asrini explained in her Soma soaked raspy voice that put my libido in orbit. “I, thinking I could change Dystopia for the better from within. You know infiltrate and save the world, ha. What a joke!”
Idealism is a wonderful thing until emotions and passion cloud the issues.
“While I was on a covert assignment when I met Vector Laslo.” Asrini explained. Damn, he was so dashing and handsome. He could talk a good game and banter with the best of them with a rapid fire semi automatic wit and charm that completely captivated me. He would be perfect for Dos Equis beer commercials! I believed in him, and his cause so decided to leave Com-Red and simply vanished, I thought.”
The Agency was soon onto her and they wanted her on a cold hard slab in a Detroit morgue. She was on the run now, her mother-sister was underground with Maddie Harry, while orb hopping revolutionary bon vivant Vector was always one step ahead of the agencies out to do him in beer glass in hand.
Maddie was already a legend in the galaxy, but together with Windsora,
they were something else all together. So what is this fantastic fascination with lesbianism we seem to crave more than we crave banana splits?
Maddie said she experienced her first budding lesbian relationships in a boarding college with a roommate. “One night after hitting the books we decided to hit on each other and from there love grew like a mighty sexual redwood. I was also engaging in a sexual affair with my lesbian college prof who was conducting other lesbian concertos while making William No-Tell overtures to me.”
The hymen symphonies conducted by the professor, who was a vagina virtuoso, were apparently well tuned while her sexual performances were standing room only. In the end she was "outed" by the administration and admonished for her indiscretions. She was told to turn in her credentials and hit the road. Imagine what would have happened to her in 20t Century America's deep south bible belt? Burned at the redneck stake! Now if it takes place in a fantasy booth in old San Francisco's North Beach, I would have paid good money for that peep show.
Windsora is now completely smitten with Maddie and is thrown into the pubic briarpatch and soon they are under the covers of discovery copping females feels after they had both experienced brutal sex with men. So they do what comes naturally after such altercations. They become delicious lesbians, but, in one of those get your mind out of the gutter 360 degree turnarounds, they find more than sex. They also found true love and understanding.
All this unfolding during the 3rd Dystopian sexual revolution that was revolting to the establishment of the hypocritical homophobes and pubic pious who considered lesbianism pornographic and not romantic. The left wing, the liberals and the lesbian community however won the battle and the legions of lesbians were clitorious victorious,
Asrini however was my main sexual focus, at one time it was Windsora, and recently my attention also focused on Maddie. All three defined the sexual revolution by breaking on through to the other side of the looking glass of conformity. Lesbianism, and multiple sex partners...these three exploded d with much more freedom of expression and free speech..along with a dose of free love and political revolution... my doors of sexual perception were already unlocked...Asrini, Windsora and Maddie..move over and save me spot in bed!
It takes two to tango when you’re tangled up in the space sheets, and I was counting on at least one more dance with Rini that night before making our way back to Retropolis but...there was always the Laslo factor. Victor had penetrated the Rini vector long before I came along and knew he had to be on the perimeter of Rini’s mind at all times. All the love making we had enjoyed on Barbarella was probably fading fast into a landfill of mere sexual encounters encountered along the way of her vast career of espionage.
We freshened up in the guest huts cleaning off the grime and dirt from the previous days battle in the Vortex. We were drenched in the smell of electronic laser emissions and the faint perfume of gun powder. It was nice to feel almost humanoid again...we put our clothes in the Dymaxion dry air washers and soon I felt as fresh a as dapper Cary Grant instead of Mickey Rourke after splashing around a Bukowski booze soaked dreamscape.
Rini was absolutely stunning! She is a garden of breathtaking tropical beauty taunting the senses in symphonic harmony joined by the chorus of song of birds that would sing to her accompanied by the kiss of the wind in the chimes.
She can best be described as a beautiful Indonesian garden of flowers scented with the perfume of the Asia. She had already affected my heart, leaving a lasting footprint as she had carved a gentle path to my soul that would lead me to a gentle wondrous valley of love and peace and inner contentment.
I was merely her Western shadow. She was poetry in motion. I was the sunrise in the West, she the western sunset in the East. I was a lust filled volcano and she is the hot lava that consumed me.
I was “heart-stabbed” at first glance. The deep pools of brown in her eyes complimented the intoxicating tan brown texture of her soft body. Her spirit shot me out of the sky, and I had tumbled to earth helpless and willingly in love at her feet. I knew I was her captive now, and my heart and soul now belonged to only her even though we came from two different worlds that had collided like fiery comets blasting through the solar system.
We made sweet, gentle unhurried love before we joined the others for the going away party Winsora had planned for us. The Robotian sunset began casting cooling shadows as we lay in bed after a tango of love making, her head of beautiful hair resting comfortably on my chest.We were also two different races and after the sex I had to admit...I was totally immersed in her...I was in love! I had never known such beauty until I met and fell in love with her. All along I thought it was just a physical attraction, but damn...love. Neither one of us could tell who would get killed first given our lines of work...was there a future at all for us? For the galaxy? Was it all to be given to us only to have it hijacked by interstellar events out of orbit, out of synch, out of our control? What about Victor Laslo? I’d worry about him later. Right now I held Rini’s small hand and it was time to join the others.
The Neptunian wine flowed and our senses waxed and waned with each glass. Home grown galactic ganja lifted our spirits higher than a street preacher loaded on Jesus and Sterno. Rini and I took our place around the blazing bonfire, the smell of roasting pigs from Pluto brought gastronomical anticipation to a new level. The entertainment? It was enough to make a Hydra loose a head or two.
Sexy cyborg females, danced and performed. Move over Salome, and take yur seven veils with you. These Venusian vixens, former kidnap victims and transformed sex prisoners of Robotia were now liberated . They were now rebels recruited by Windsora and now carry Link Wray guns as a fashion accessory for a walk down the revolutionary runway. Tonight, they put that all aside, in our honor and with such sensual half human mecha-precision performances I imagined a holiday high stepping show at Rocketfeller Center in Sinatra City, formerly New York, New York with an exclamation point.
Nothing gives the debauched Retroplin male a more stand at attention military salute erection than the erotic reality check of a good groin to face lap dance. Need something a little more artistic? Then give a piece a chance by watching a whirly gig girl whirling around on a rim shot badda bing badda boom cheap comics strip club stage spinning like a out of control childs toy top on a pole. Male pleasure in the palace only?
Bear in mind that when baring it all these females were straddling the collective laps of the both assembled sexes. Rated on the Doc Yucatan erection scale ...no assembly was required. Windsora and Maddie were enjoying the show holding hands while their senses were spinning in bi-sexual gyroscopic tandem to the genital gyrations of these lap dancing female doing the erectus dance of the muse.
She may be a cyborg, but still humanoid so her weapon of mass and ass destruction is in the form of a secret secretion she unleashes to increase her vaginal intoxicant. It happens at certain times of the month, even to cyborgs, where she will gives emit a heavenly scent of estrogen marking her territory holding us as a sexual captive in a garden of estros.
I love the smell f Estrogen and a patch of wet vaginal hair in the morning!!! These cyborg girls certainly knew how to get my mojo working by working her own mojo just inches from my face, emitting her scent up close and personal! I admit it is a somewhat juvenile pursuit of mine when it comes to unearthing the mysteries of the vaginal universe in my exploratory quest for the meaning of life in a stale pitcher of Bukowski beer.
Before I pull a Pee Wee Herman here, there was also display of prowess in the cyborg mud pits. Female, humanoid or robot mud wrestling is about as erotic and hymen happy event as it gets. It is libidinous to extreme and can evoke an erection in the male of the species and cause a lesbian typhoon below the waist that can be biblical in nature.
In the erotic arena of "female" combat it is up there on the pubic pedestal with roller derby and girl on girl peepshows. In this case, no skates, just hard and fast girly action where the participating female has her hormones set to stun as she body slams her likewise naked opponent into muddy waters, no blues pun intended. It is part sport, part burlesque and all spectacular respectable spectacle. Lets face it, we are all just voyeuristic astronauts enjoying the ride into the outer limits of Planet Female when it comes to the finer art of mud wresling.
Drenched in sweat or covered in mud…it’s time to get down and dirty…with a great pair of sweaty and muddy knockers! Gentlemen start your engines…ladies put the pedal to the metal of your girl crush dreams…it’s time to get down with knockers up and get lost in a wet dream leg lock!
Mud wrestling by itself is a heavy artillery libido explosion, add to that mud wrestling by teams members of female roller derbies, and you can forget the Striptease Falcon. Hell, this is the stuff that mud dreams are truly made off.
When Asrini, Art Deco, Maddie and myself arrived back on the street just outside my agency in Detroit. I could sense something was wrong. Even the stage prop fog seemed out of synch with the alley cat mood of the neighborhod.
It was not a happy homecoming. As we entered my second floor office. The lights were dim and flickering as usual, bad wiring having a feast on power fluctuations. When I opened the door, the scene was a troubling one of a ransacked office, furniture turned over, file cabinets emptied of their contents, all strewn about, a real pro job of tossing the joint.
Once the initial shock, one insignificant nano second in time pulled a Jimmy Hoffa and disappeared, I was astounded to find my agency partner Sandoz pretty well beaten up bloody and slumped over limp on his desk cut and bruised. Not exactly a welcome home Hallmark greeting card.
As my state of emotional flux went up and down with the buoyancy of a fresh body tossed off a dock and into the dark half Canadian waters of the Detroit River before it floats downriver somewhere near Toledo. I was fluxed, yes, but now realized, we were all fluxed and fucked too.
In the room was Asrini’s covert comrade and ego laden lover, Vector Laslo, whom I salaciously referred to on more than one sarcasm filled verbal moment as a pompous, arrogant bon vivant who would rather drink the King’s wine and screw a royal concubine than overthrow the throne if truth be told.
I had to admit I allowed a small smirk to form in my mind when first seeing the mighty Vector being held helpless at gunpoint by the fat man with a fez fetish, Narco Marx. The smirk faded faster than an early ejaculation while having sex in a barn with an underage second cousin in a dirty river town in Arkansas.
My tsunami of consternation was fueled as I noticed Joel Faberge, Link Wray laser gun in hand sitting smiling with that stupid Fabulon grin of his. His itchy trigger happy finger on his weapon with it’s red hot laser beam aimed straight bullseye on the mark at at my ticker. I could sense in his mental stage and see by the look of animal determination in his eyes he was hoping I would somehow do something stupid frothing with false bravado to draw fire so he could even the score. Joel had an itchy trigger finger, “Keep on riding me and they're gonna be picking iron out of your liver,” he said with lisping bravado.I remember hearing that line before which only goes to show you the cheaper the crook, the gaudier the patter. Seems I picked that up somewhere too. Where do they get the lingo?
Narco, as we could see held all the cards and I wasn’t about to call his hand. “I see you made it back safely Mr. Yucatan and with our prized Falcon. Hand it over at once or we will without hesitation kill your partner, Mr. Deco, Ms. Pemalang and yes, you too Maddie...we would have made a great team. Oh well, we must move along... oh, and please, all of you drop all of your weapons. I don’t want any fancy heroics to try my patience and end up in needless killing.”
I wasn’t about to make any fast moves. I didn’t know leaving one universe portal and entering another you could experience jet lag, but the last week had taken a toll on all of us. “Alright Narco, here’s the damned Falcon. It’s yours.” I handed it over and was beginning to get my survival senses kicked in gear...my next move better be awesome...or I was dead meat on a platter.
I never saw such a look of anticipation on a man’s face..or the amount of drool that it could produce in 300 pound behemoth bad guy. He ripped it from my hands and held it in the manner a young man holds that first pubescent breast in his hand copping a feel under the bleachers during a high school varsity football game. SCORE!
The look sooned turned ominous. “This is not the Falcon, Mr. Yucatan. It’s a fake. The real Falcon is made of a strange alloy, heavier than iron or steel...this is a cheap knockoff...probably made in the Gucci Galaxy by Rolexian counterfeiters...a mere souvenir! A toy! Where is it Yucatan..tell me or Asrini will be the recipient of a not so pleasant demise!”
“Hell, Narco. I don’t know space alloy from Shinola. This is what I was given by Windsora. Sorry if it’s a knock off. Look, I dodged lasers, revolutionaries, a deranged general with a bald head mumble quoting Homer, and your own amateur hour men too. I’m in no mood for this..What is...IS. Shoot her if you want...shoot me...maybe then I can enjoy the big sleep. I don’t care anymore!”
Just then...distraught as a spinster librarian who learns she is pregnant simply by reading the Kama Sutra Joel Faberge breaks down in tears and launches a litany of invectives directed at Narco. “You... you bungled it. You really fucked up his time. You and your stupid plan. No wonder they had such an easy time getting it here! You... you imbecile. You bloated idiot. You stupid fez head!!!.”
I offered Joel a used Kleenex from my jacket pocket which he rightly refused, it was old, it was used, i had the remnants of blood from many past broken noses. He sobbed until I thought his spigot would run dry. His emotional plumbing had sprung a leak. Then a break..sirens outside in the dark. It was Inspector Bill Burroughs. He heard through his agents who had been staking out my office awaiting my return. Why? I had no idea, but it would soon be made clear. He raced over as I was now in the building at 1300 Beaubien Street, second floor, Room 202...my office. I knew there had to be a problem...you don’t usually fire up a squad of police goons with sirens wailing to bring a welcome gift.
“Mr. Yucatan, I bid you adieu. It’s time for us to leave...I believe you didn’t know the Falcon was fake. You’re not that perceptive in this matter having no experience with it. I prefer not to speak to the police for, uh, reasons you well know. Come Joel..we will return to Robotia. I assure you, we will find the Falcon. By gad this has been an adventure Yucatan!” He bowed, tipped his fez and led a crying Joel Faberge out of the office, into the hallway and down the back fire escape.
When Inspector Bill Burroughs and the cavalry finally did arrived on the scene, Narco and Joel had already left the auditorium heading for a space freighter they had prearranged for their escape. Now they would be heading for the pleasure palaces of the Pleiades Quadrant in their addiction filled quest to quench their thirst to finally find the Falcon...Fat chance Fat Man!
Bill Burroughs was a cop...100% but strangely he was also a friend in a tenuous fashion, that would soon bridge that gap. Without his customary sarcasm and rapier wit Inspector Burroughs cut to the chase and announced point blank that Asrini and I were both under arrest for sedition, theft of Toho government property and the murder of the man in the alley. I knew we had been betrayed. I wasn’t sure by who, but I had a sinking feeling I had been set up all along from the very beginning. I’m usually right about these matters and when those feelings surface, they’re usually followed by someone biting the dust.
“You’ve got it all wrong Bill. I had nothing to do with the murder. OK, I did take the Falcon but not from the Tohos, but from the Rabbit. Besides...it’s not the real Falcon it’s a fake!”
He paused smiling broadly as cops do when they know they’ve caught you with your pants down, hands in the cookie jar. “You’ve been suckered Yucatan, sucker punched and you don’t even realize it. You have the real Falcon, please give me credit and don’t lie to me. I’ll take it now and also, regretfully, I will have to turn Asrini over to Comred intelligence. They’ve been looking for her for a long time. She switched sides long ago, and has been working with Vector Laslo fomenting revolution throughout the galaxy. There is a price on both of their heads. Did you honestly think I didn’t know that?”
It was now becoming clear to me. The Com-Reds knew from my reputation that I would bring back the Falcon and that Asrini would be with me and Vector would show up for the Falcon and for Asrini. They managed to bring Inspector Burroughs into the plan, probably with a fat bribe.
It was a brilliant coup and I had to admire the plan. I also knew Asrini was still in love with Laslo, how deep, I couldn’ fathom, but I could see it in both of their eyes when we ran into him at his saloon on Robotia. Our love making from Retropolis to the Rabbit Hole had not diminished the flame she kept for Laslo, but her love put a damper on my plans for her and I in the future. I could see we had no future..it belonged to them. For me there were always cheap hookers and booze. Not a perfect situation and it would be like replacing a Rembrandt with a paint by numbers landscape scene by a mental patient.
Inspector Burroughs derailed my train of thought. “You see old friend, I still don’t have the real falcon, just the fake souvenir you brought back with you, but, I do have two criminals to turn over to the Com-Reds and I have you for an unsolved murder. Case closed. Now where’s the real Falcon?” I was facing a murder rap now and that meant vaporization or exile to a prison asteroid for 50 years or until dead, no appeals in the 30th Cent. “I like you Yucatan, but this is business. Bad business for old friends I’ll grant you...but business we must take care of, you do understand I hope.”
Out of the clear blue back forty Art Deco chimed in. “Inspector. If you will call Yucatan’s secretary and have her bring over the package hidden at her apartment you will have the real Falcon I assure you.” I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “For the record, it was I who had the man in the alley killed.”
All I could utter was “Are you nuts Art. What are you saying?” The Inspector was as puzzled as I was. Art artfully explained. “The Rabbit knew full well Mr. Yucatan that you would get Asrini and Maddie to Robotia with your innate skills. The whole plan was a smoke screen to throw the Toho’s off the trail of our real plan. While you were fighting your way through the Vortex we had sent the real Falcon ahead with a courier who was supposed to deliver it here. The Faux Falcon was merely a decoy to keep them thinking the revolution still had it. I dispatched a recon guard soon after our courier left for Retropolis to ensure that he made it safely. Unfortunately, Narco anticipated just such a move so he sent two of his best men who had orders to do what was necessary to get the Falcon to him. He wanted it to establish his own power base on Robotia and overthrow the Tohos who without it would then be powerless. Asrini and you would have been turned over to the Tohos for the reward money.”
It was an incredible story that only got more incredible. “Our man was tailing our courier and as he was about to enter the building to turn over the real Falcon to your partner two of Narco’s gunsels tried to bushwhack him. It all happened so fast. Our recon guard reacted and shot both of Narcos guys first. One of them is the body you found in the alley Inspector. As for the other one his body can be found in the Detroit River. Two dead bodies would invite more questions and probing we didn’t want as it could have unraveled our whole plan. Narcos guy in the river has probably floated to Canada by now. Our agents then brought the real falcon upstairs to Yucatan’s office and told Sandoz to call his secretary to come get it and hide it at her place. No one would think to look there. Call her … have her bring it here you’ll see. One curious thing. As one of Narco’s man fell to the ground a snow globe rolled out of his trenchcoat and as his lungs were filling with blood...he kept mumbling over and over one word…’Rosebud...Rosebud” Very strange indeed.
Burroughs had his men wait outside as he digested all this new information. His job all along had been to give the Falcon to the Com-Reds who would notify the Tohos that they would keep it here and return it for the reward money. Nothing like a little interplanetary blackmail among enemies to keep life interesting
Asrini, Maddie, and Vector Laslo, after a rousing round of torture sessions at Com-Red headquarters, would under duress divulge valuable information to give the Tohos intel on where and how to breach the Vortex, find the camp of the Rabbit and the revolutionaries to launch a massive attack designed to kill and destroy them all. A win win it seems for them but a lose lose for us.
I turned to Asrini. “Why did you get me involved in this?” Burroughs jumped in, as usual and explained. “Simple. The Rabbit as you now know is her mother, Windsora, and IS the revolution. Also Asrini I think was falling in love with you, torn in half. If I were a woman I might fall in love with you too. She knew nothing of the whole plan at all. She was told you were the only one she could be confident in to pull the whole operation off. Both of you were kept purposely in the dark in case you were captured you couldn’t possibly have told them anything.”
“I’m sorry Doc. I didn’t mean to hurt you, I didn’t know,” Asrini cried. So we were both unwilling pawns on every ones chess board. At that moment, our secretary arrived with the real Falcon wrapped in old newspaper. At the same time Vector, Art and myself jumped Burroughs whose men were down the hall out of earshot. I took his gun and we all gathered our own weapons from the floor. We were now in control but what action to take next was not forthcoming.
“Look Asrini. We had a brief fling on Saturn, but I know your heart belongs to Vector so take my space pod and get out of here. Inside of us, we both know you belong with Vector. You're part of his work, the thing that keeps him going. If my orb leaves the ground and you're not with him, you'll regret it. Maybe not today. Maybe not tomorrow, but soon and for the rest of your life. I'm no good at being noble, but it doesn't take much to see that the problems of three little people don't amount to a hill of beans in this crazy world. Someday you'll understand that. Now Go!” Bogartian banter had infiltrated my mind once again like a goddamned Vulcan mind meld. She kissed me and said, “We would have made a good team Doc. But we’ll always have Barbarella!” I felt I should have said that
They hurried out the back of the building to my space pod parked in the alley, keys in hand. We all followed to make sure they would escape, but danger was ahead of the game. One of Burroughs men was waiting for them by the pod to make the arrest. He held a gun on them and was about to march them to headquarters when a I heard a rare old fashioned gunshot ring out and watched the cop go down like stack of dominoes. I looked around to see who fired the fatal and final blast. It was Burroughs! He not only had a second gun, an old revolver I had given him as a gift on his 10 year anniversary on the force, but he shot his own man. We all looked at him in disbelief….and relief!
“I’m tired of working for the Com-Reds Yucatan. Let them escape in peace” and they did. We watched until they were safely in the air. Art and Maddie said their goodbyes and left Bill Burroughs and myself alone in the fog to make their way back to Robotia by pod jacking a vehicle parked in front of a Chinese noodle factory. They had a date with a revolution, we had egg rolls and leftover fortune cookies
Bill, still holding the real Falcon in one hand and a smoking revolver in the other, walked with me in the fog in the direction of his paramilitary police orb to make our escape. He had committed treason and was now an enemy of the state. “Where to Yucatan?” I thought for a moment. “I know a cabaret for sale Bill.” He smiled and started up the cruiser. Vector told me he had put it up for sale through a third party to handle the transaction as he had to keep one step ahead of the bloodhounds now. Marked for elimination at all costs...and with him...so was Asrini.
Bill Burroughs and I did buy the cabaret and saloon….Windsora The Rabbit and her minions were victorious eventually over the Tohos. Without the Falcon, their power was diminished and they were defeated. Maddie was now back with her lover Windsora and would co-administer a planet where all the Cyborgs and Erotibots were emancipated and free at last, and all the Vortex gang factions were given amnesty and participated in forming a new society..Art Deco would return as well on a mission to kill Kurtz the loose cannon who could jeopardize the new government. Che Stadium went to another planet to lead a new revolution but was captured and killed by government forces. Long Wang and Wang Chung got married and opened a hair salon and did a booming business doing make overs on freed cyborgs. Sandoz now owns the detective agency with our secretary as his new partner and doing quite well. I guess I was better off running a saloon than running a detective agency. As for Arthur Burns...his publishing business has skyrocketed. He’s published a whole series of my Doc Yucatan novels and a comic book series featuring Asrini as a sexpot super heroine that I also developed. The movies and sequels can’t be far behind.
On my desk in the cabaret office I have two curious paper weights. One of a Falcon, and the other a strange snowglobe with a winter scene with snow falling on a tiny sled. The only inscription on it were the words of a dying man shot dead in my alley...Rosebud!
“Well Yucatan. We made it...Bill filled a couple of shot glasses and we drank a toast…”Here’s looking at you kid.” We downed our drinks and after a moment of silence I said, “Bill about that crack you made. You know, if you were a woman and all. You didn’t mean that did you?” “Forget it Yucatan. I was waxing poetic.”
So, whatever happened to Asrini? Vector and her hop scotched around the galaxy, winning battles and whole revolutions. One day in the quiet calm of one of Vectors victories Asrini held him tight, looked him in the eye and said she was returning to me.
Asrini came to our cabaret. I was in my office….door closed ….staring at the paper weights on the desk...my old Ruger pistol in one hand..a drink in the other contemplating my suicide and mustering up the courage to do the deed, when I heard Sam play “Smoke on the Water” It was our song...why was he playing it. Too many memories of love lost. I put the pistol down and with drink in hand went out of the office to question Sam’s bad taste in jokes. As I headed for the piano...there was Asrini. Beautiful as ever..with a jewel like tear on her cheek as she looked at me approaching. She had fallen in love and couldn’t deny it and rocket orbed herself to my cabaret. We married and she is my partner in the cabaret...in life itself.
A week later Bill broached the subject we all three had been curious about. “I wonder what Rosebud means...what is it?” I philosophised as best I could for a high school dropout “It’s the stuff dreams are made of Bill...dreams and nightmares.” Asrini looked at me with that adventurous look she always had...a brilliant dangerous glow emanating from her gaze. She smiled at me and asked what I knew she would ask…”When do we leave Doc?” Hell...we found the Falcon didn’t we. Whatever Rosebud was...where ever it was….together we’d find it...but that had to wait...I had already booked our honeymoon suite on Barbarella...that would be our first stop...and this time...champagne and Asrini...not cheap wine and one of those damned Erotibots!!!
Texte: Michael Marino
Bildmaterialien: Public Domain
Lektorat: Arthur Burns
Übersetzung: Mike Marino
Tag der Veröffentlichung: 03.07.2015
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To Jules Verne and H.G. Wells