Monday, April 25, 2011
Friday, April 22, 2011
An inexorable phalanx of generals the least of which cornered the market on pedantic abstruseness caused a minor stir in the king's rotund diet of fatified deep fried sprigs on a bed a nice mouse rice and while his liege rarely took notice of self flattering war making redundancies, a grain stuck in his throat and he coughed mightily for upward of twelve Centarian minutes, equaling roughly the rotation of the two moons of Califragilee, benefiting a legion of eight legged armor clad doo-dads a trench hold on the beach head of Twain, that being a triple threat of twos which turned into a kingly fit of sneezes and one balding general's dismissal via trebuchet in a bucket of hot molten lead. While the bubbling mass of sunken general flew gaily overhead, the doo-dads commenced to celebrate by dousing themselves in a fiery brine and convulsing madly to the wicked fine gyrations of Sand Flea and the Itchy Nematodes, amplified directly by wireless circuitry into their solid state heart musculature. They were scalding hot and joo joo bee'd so don't mind the rapid zine and croon aloud a fateful shroud of blissful girth and lay low the sweet soulful sounds of liver pounding liquidations and drown merrily for tomorrow you will die. For hours they sang until one by one they would crash into pounded surf dreaming of the morning when as one these octo-crustacians would rise and don swags of dredged diamond kelp, line up in choreographed wedges of designed catastrophe, then march toward the castle fortifications only to crash like broken waves on rocky balustrades. The king convened coughing and with a snotty backhand plummeted a second deaf general into oblivion, thrusting a third down a convenient garbage chute where bits of his decor jammed the recycling gears and started a modest kitchen fracas benefiting the culinary union a foothold in castle politics and thrusting the Spoon and Lever party to the forefront thus piloting the Fork and Knife movement which opened up opportunity for the nasty Implements of Destruction lobbyists access to castle kitchen cutlery and the imminent downfall of King Kirkus the Kninth, a fortnight into the past because of an errant positive energy positron, thus giving rise to a line of glutinous second cousins and a burp in time. As the gears ground to a salty stop, a second wave of eight legged doo-dads crowded onto the trampled beach and bulldozed sand into megaheaps that a subsect of engineering crustaceans labored on through the sultry daze to sculpt a fragile wall of silicon bulkheads honeycombed with tunnels and inner mazes, doors and windows, piled high with towers, lookouts and overhangs, fortified with trenches and curbs and sun drenched spikes. Onto this mighty structure the doo-dads coalesced and covered with their coral expectoration until the whole sandy conflagration hardened under the beating rays of sun and finally deflected the heat back at the throng thus scalding the beach and cooking the masses, but their work was done and they died in oven shells singing doo wah doo for we will ride the waves and climb the rocks of Ginroferos to the towers of Beaner the Crab where one by one we dive into a soupy broth where tomorrow we will die, alas. The architects and engineers added the final mournful strain, being the tinkers and thinkers, but they too perished amidst the undulating waves of superconductivity. The king meanwhile obfuscated weirdly into a bloated freshwater mollusk and with a flourish disbanded his generals and dialed C-A-T on the zoophone, and plus 67 for a reduced super feline gestation period, multiplied by one hundred thousand that being the least generational time required for the amplitude of mega futuristic catatonic cat-hysterical catapulting catastrophes. The kitchen sent up a plateful of kittens under glass by dumbwaiter to the king who swimming in his hundred gallon fish tank ogled the meandering mewlers and genetically fixated his goggle eyes at their nucleotides and Mendelian properties. A fresh tiger cat rose above the rest with a bulging forehead and rippling retractables and the king succumbed to a debilitating hunger, slithering a mucus dripping tentacle from within the tank to pluck one after another of helpless kits, leaving the one who scooted dodged and doubled back just out of reach, until the gorging king sated his cavernous hole and ducked behind a cratered coral reef to nap and dream.
Finally then a third wave of crouching doo-dads engulfed the beach and took up residence at the fortress thoughtfully constructed by the forward team, those who also thoughtfully cooked themselves and lay in wait, fermenting just so, just to the taste of the encroaching gourmands, while beyond the dunes and across the intercoastal, the transforming king called upon his generals to introduce his newly made minister of war, the razor sharp and whiskered feline, Madcat, who summarily ordered all generals to lick themselves clean and dine on fresh squid – nap today, for tomorrow you may die! Obstacle courses were devised and many generals stooped too low or lost their calcium reserves, becoming boneless and so a feast for the backup killer squid, in the Fields of Last Resort. Those that survived were battle hardened and convulsed in ecstasy, dining themselves on cephalopods, grinding the gristle of rubbery flesh between their gold capped molars. To war, to war. Unhearing, for the surf forever crashed within their echoing carapace, the torpid doo-dads sensed reverberation from the kingdom, calling to them, even as it did their brothers who carelessly threw themselves on the thorny walls of the king's keep, and they stirred, fueled by the meat of their kin, and scuttled over the salt encrusted turf to crash upon the enemy. Generals dug in, laying pitfalls and rolling in mud, while Madcat howled like a banshee in heat and scratched at the naked face and neck of her king. Blood droplets ran like a congealed froth to slap at the tiles, where they bubbled in the hundreds and crawled on four fingers to the castle walls and onto the field of battle. Clacking clicking skittering claws filled the hilltops and spilled black as slippery oil into the fields, generals rose from their nests dark as the soil they caroused in, and hefting steel and hewn lumber they waded into battle as Madcat wailed on the wall. The waves vomited upon the opposition and broke, while the rocky shore crumbled under the never-ending onslaught, and the king laughed as he stroked the red tinged fur of his devil cat. They watched until the sun crept low upon the dunes and fell beneath the windswept sea oats. A chorus arose , too doo, you craven masses fall below reticulated claws of awesome pain, die with us on a slurry of battle blood, mix upon the dirt and wash with us into the depths. Ah ha, doo wah, for tonight we die. For the pleasure of a cat and her king.
Finally then a third wave of crouching doo-dads engulfed the beach and took up residence at the fortress thoughtfully constructed by the forward team, those who also thoughtfully cooked themselves and lay in wait, fermenting just so, just to the taste of the encroaching gourmands, while beyond the dunes and across the intercoastal, the transforming king called upon his generals to introduce his newly made minister of war, the razor sharp and whiskered feline, Madcat, who summarily ordered all generals to lick themselves clean and dine on fresh squid – nap today, for tomorrow you may die! Obstacle courses were devised and many generals stooped too low or lost their calcium reserves, becoming boneless and so a feast for the backup killer squid, in the Fields of Last Resort. Those that survived were battle hardened and convulsed in ecstasy, dining themselves on cephalopods, grinding the gristle of rubbery flesh between their gold capped molars. To war, to war. Unhearing, for the surf forever crashed within their echoing carapace, the torpid doo-dads sensed reverberation from the kingdom, calling to them, even as it did their brothers who carelessly threw themselves on the thorny walls of the king's keep, and they stirred, fueled by the meat of their kin, and scuttled over the salt encrusted turf to crash upon the enemy. Generals dug in, laying pitfalls and rolling in mud, while Madcat howled like a banshee in heat and scratched at the naked face and neck of her king. Blood droplets ran like a congealed froth to slap at the tiles, where they bubbled in the hundreds and crawled on four fingers to the castle walls and onto the field of battle. Clacking clicking skittering claws filled the hilltops and spilled black as slippery oil into the fields, generals rose from their nests dark as the soil they caroused in, and hefting steel and hewn lumber they waded into battle as Madcat wailed on the wall. The waves vomited upon the opposition and broke, while the rocky shore crumbled under the never-ending onslaught, and the king laughed as he stroked the red tinged fur of his devil cat. They watched until the sun crept low upon the dunes and fell beneath the windswept sea oats. A chorus arose , too doo, you craven masses fall below reticulated claws of awesome pain, die with us on a slurry of battle blood, mix upon the dirt and wash with us into the depths. Ah ha, doo wah, for tonight we die. For the pleasure of a cat and her king.
Tuesday, April 19, 2011
mad libs and gahhh!
Mad Libs. Plug in your words and make up your own story for a change.
Description, family member, nationality, geometric form, fruit, an unusual number, adjective, drink, plural noun, adjective, made up curse word, adjective, adjective, made up curse word, m.u.c.w, m.u.c.w.
Food, tool, body part, occupation, furniture piece, body part, food, body part, m.u.c.w, m.u.c.w, verb, woman's name, verb, body part, adjective, noun, street name, plural noun, body part, food, condiment.
Verb past tense, food, room, occupation, noun, m.u.c.w, adverb, retail establishment, plural noun, something spectacular, adverb, clothing, adverb, m.u.c.w.
Verb past tense, street name, animals, plural noun, famous sport's figure, weapon, exclamation, dance step, body part, body part, noun, m.u.c.w.
Super hero, breakfast cereal, verb past tense, building, number, food, type of entertainment.
ok--don't read any further if you intend to carry on with the frivolities...
Description, family member, nationality, geometric form, fruit, an unusual number, adjective, drink, plural noun, adjective, made up curse word, adjective, adjective, made up curse word, m.u.c.w, m.u.c.w.
Food, tool, body part, occupation, furniture piece, body part, food, body part, m.u.c.w, m.u.c.w, verb, woman's name, verb, body part, adjective, noun, street name, plural noun, body part, food, condiment.
Verb past tense, food, room, occupation, noun, m.u.c.w, adverb, retail establishment, plural noun, something spectacular, adverb, clothing, adverb, m.u.c.w.
Verb past tense, street name, animals, plural noun, famous sport's figure, weapon, exclamation, dance step, body part, body part, noun, m.u.c.w.
Super hero, breakfast cereal, verb past tense, building, number, food, type of entertainment.
ok--don't read any further if you intend to carry on with the frivolities...
Tonight I met my (description) (family member)-in-law at the local la-di-da (nationality) restaurant where we sat in (geometric form)s and smoked (a fruit) into the wee hours. Off in a corner there were (an unusual number) (adjective) ladies sipping their (drink) and swapping (plural noun) about their (adjective) husbands. I wondered aloud what their (made up curse word) lives were like and how (adjective) it would be to have it as (adjective) as they seemed to. Maybe a bit too loudly I said “(made up curse word) (made up curse word) (made up curse word)'s.”
One of the ladies stood up with (food) in her hair and a (tool) in her hand. She was missing her (body part) but was dressed like a (occupation) with a heart condition. She walked over to our (furniture piece) and slammed her (body part) onto my plate of (food) and smooshed it around. Then she rubbed her (body part) and said (made up curse word) you, you (made up curse word). (Verb) up, or me and (woman's name) over there will (verb) on your (body part) and drag it and your (adjective) (noun) down (street name) until (plural noun) squish your (body part)s into (food) and (condiment).
Needless to say, I (verb past tense) up, and finished eating my (food). But in the (room) the head (occupation) spilled his (noun) noisily. My dining partner said “(made up curse word) this (adverb) (retail establishment).” Then we threw our (plural noun) into the (something spectacular) and left the restaurant. I was (adverb) and my (clothing) was (adverb) and I said “(made up curse word) and tiddly winks.”
We (verb past tense) down (street name) and suddenly were accosted by (animals) being ridden by monkeys carrying (plural noun). Their banner read 'I heart (famous sports figure)'. A monkey with a (weapon) charged me and howled (exclamatory remark) while (dance step)ing and sticking a (body part) into its (body part). We narrowly escaped into a (noun). I said (made up curse word).
Too late, (super hero) and (breakfast cereal) fell from the sky and (verb past tense) us into the (building) for (number) days. It wasn't a bad night, but I'd rather have (food) and (type of entertainment).
If you come up with something particularly funny interesting or life changing., i'd love to hear about it. Yeah...i'm just that bored.
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
spring and the little man in my garden
The William Shakespeare Mulberry is weeping quietly in my yard. I pruned him up this spring – cut him deep. Remnants of the past summer of his hairy dreams litter a sunken brick path now, and the little man who lives in my garden picks through the detritus. He is saying, 'tut, tut' like so much illusive Poo. The little man has been busy. How can someone so diminutive pack such a virulent punch? He is crooked from bending and creeping beneath the undergrowth, though at this early stage of the growing season he is fairly easy to spot. I can stand inside the picture window and see him easily as he sows his weed seeds like the curses that spew from his foul imp lips.
.
Yesterday I pulled binoculars from my closet to spy upon the circling hawks. They were hovering in packs over the near wooded lots of neighboring avenues. Toby stood against the window, thinking maybe I had spotted that rabbit he so doggedly pursues. I caught him lying on his side peering beneath the shed. Was he hoping the rabbit would come out to play? Probably not, as he oftentimes looks out the dining room window and menacingly growls at the fur-tailed rodent while it sups on shoots outside the front door. Fur-tailed indeed; but I would wear its lucky foot around my belt if I could catch it nibbling the shrubs down to a nub over the long winter dearth.
.
Today I will throw the trimmings on a fire and let the strong west winds carry the smoke away. I'll carve out another bed, lay the foundations of a short walking path leading from the fence to our short plank deck and try not to let the gruff rumblings of the little man who lives in my garden ruin a sunny day. The crisp air will cool my exertions while the wind cracklin blaze might muffle idle exacerbation from a gnome who dislikes fecund pleasantries. It's spring – bring it on. 
Sunday, April 10, 2011
anada Sunday comix
..............................click on pic to extraenlargefy aLiEnAnTiCs!!!
Monsters!Friday, April 8, 2011
from here to eternity, with a donut.
I'm colorless, and she's only legs hanging from a bathroom window. Together we make a fine couple. We fight crime.
-
Jolina, well; there is a body of sorts on the other end of those legs. Nobody ever notices anything but the legs, however... Back to Jolina as she scrabbles over the sill. Our perp is rounding the trash cans, while I've circled around front to cut off the nasty habit – yeah, he's done this more than once – and, boom! Mother f'er crashes right into me. That's right; 'course I see his lame ass coming so it's no skin off my dick, but he bounces out left and shreds off half his face on the pub's brick facade. It's fake brick, right, but it still stings. He doesn't know what hit him, literally, and Jolina pulls my arm back before my fist connects again, and again.
-
“Punk ass bitch; he's had enough.” She kicks him in the balls for emphasis. “Let's fly.”
-
Charming, that's a job well done. I pack up my bruised fist into an ice glove and we head back to the hov-vee. There's a com flashing on the unit; the indicator light is bleeping red. “You drive.” My hand smarts, so I sidle into the passenger seat and poke at the light with my uninjured left pinky. “Wonder what puke job is up next.”
-
Jolina smirks. She's smearing lipstick over her crooked maw. Why? “Puke. U-huh,” and she signals reverse. “Which way, stud?”
-
Ha. She's talking to me. Am I a stud? Well, sports fans, it's kind of hard to say, one way or the other. I got no pigment, not me or any part of me. Internal, external...it's all the same; kind of bland, just colorless and basically clear. And I have the wardrobe to match – just skin tight shorts and a breathable cotton wife-beater. I even have the cig pack tucked up underneath the shoulder. Speaking of that, I pluck out a menthol dink and self light, sucking in the vapor and letting it roll out my nose like a hangdog fog. “Ah, shit yeah.”
-
“Hey dummerassers, status report. Check in. We got a big night up ahead.” That's Basic on the dispatch. We don't know if Basic is a guy or a dame, and the crappy static console isn't helping. Jolina looks at me and tilts her head. I just shrug. We got a bet going, but so far...who the fuck knows?
-
“We got 'em. He's shit faced and bleeding behind O'Fuckyous.” Ha, Jolina hates these Irish pubs; she's a good Mexican Catholic, ready to lay down her life for the virgin Mary, but wouldn't give two good gaddamns for nationalism or the IRA. Besides, the new Irish only fight over grog brands and sneakers. Right now I'm wearing Limericks, sewn up tight by the wee lads and lasses of said county...and kindly little waifs they be...working twelve hour shifts and scrounging on their pimply potatoes. When Jolina catches sight of the pair she just tosses her head and spits into the wind. 'Bleedin' consumer.' That's what she says. Hmm; I am one, a demmed holdout; still shopping at the discount mall instead of the street boutiques like healthy god-fearing sorts.
-
It's only dusk and we've already turned one willy right-side-up. He'll be blinking twice before stiffing the Club again. No, we didn't leave our card, but who else stinks up your night and just walks away? It's the Crimerlings, that's who. “Queue up, fritz,” I lisp out of my left lip while sucking in air.
-
Basic squelches out of the box, “Full moon, my sweets; you'll have one hell of time tonight. Head out east to the Relocation District. There's some monkey farts giving 'em a hard time at the Dime store. Guess they've had their fair share of mellow, and more. Messed up a waitress, then chewed and screwed.” That's Latin for an eat and run. Small time, but this hole in the ground must be on the Company payroll.
-
“On it, homer.” I hit the red light and Jolina peels out of O'Whatever's gravel lot. The stones pock off the front window but no harm done, the glass is indestructible flixonite, though Today's Menu drops an L for two blurry flixs.
-
Rolling out of the bag earlier in the evening wasn't all that, but I got bedside dinks for a quick shake-up. Don't know what I did before these things reformulated...shaking off the sleepies after a long-knuckle shift can be treacherous. Coffee injections are just so yesteryear, and who has time to program a Mochacreme when your partner is out front laying on the horn? Demmit, she's a naggy little bitch, and perky as all getout at eighteen bells. At least the pushy cow had some bacon patch and a cuppa waiting for me. I just sipped and stared at her legs. No kidding, do not look at this chick's face when you're hydrating or you'll end up wearing it. Butt. Ugly.
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She shifted her bottom and that faux-Naug inched up just so. I remember now, sucking in and choking on hot froth. Jolina only laughed and jumped on the go-peddle, slopping hot joe in my lap. Demmit; too early for horseplay – but that's how our day, eh, night usually begins...
-
Right, now the sun is dipping behind the relo's skyline and by the time we hit the district gate the only light we'll have will be what we supply, and the Company's dim street lamps. Lucky for us the new bulbs emit refractory beams that curve around corners. Not much good for holes, but no fool in his right mind ducks down service channels; that's a society in itself, and every man is for hisself down there. Used to be the Company goons would drop a flush torpedo down the channels now and again, but that only crowded the streets with vermin. Live and let shit live, that's my motto – just steer clear of groping arms in the dark and it's hunky-dory.
-
“Two doors down.” The Dime store is a crap lean-to in the district. There's one on every corner over here; they serve up mellow and wenches to every moondog off the docks, but I guess this one took in some rough company off the Y. Penslar. Some of the crew threw the staff into the cellar and took ownership of the establishment. By the time we roll up there's smoke rolling out the doorway and water running in the street.
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Jolina stands on the brakes and we slerve onto a berm. “Nice landing.” She flips me off and rolls out.
-
“The firemen stop waving their hoses long enough to watch her legs stroll into their deluge. “Hey gams,” grunts one burly hose monkey.
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“Shoog,” Jolina purrs. She flips open her flixon. “Whatta we looking at boys?”
-
The captain steps up and slaps his men back to the job. “You're it? I called for Company goons, not a coupl'a weak-kneed Crimerlings.”He doesn't even spare a sideways glance for my partner, but is looking generally at me, or at my outline. My Limericks are sloshing in the puddles.
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“Hey buttface, we can nosh up your life easy as these drunken sailors – just give me a reason. Spill it,” I get up in his face and he can smell the pungent dink on my hot breath. He just leans away some and turns to Jolina.
-
“Alright, already. Hoses off, gents, axes out.” The crew grab their equipment and rush the store front, breaking up the entrance with their fire axes and they rush into the opening. “Staff is downstairs; you can question them soon enough.”
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Jolina is leaning back in the hov-vee and I'm stretched out against the windscreen puffing away when they limp out, a waitress and two big lugs. Not big enough; tonight they met their match.
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“Who's the boss of this motley crew,” asks Jolina. She's Miss Take Charge, and I'm content to sit back to take in the show. No one wants to talk, but the bruised waitress finally speaks up.
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“We don't usually get too much business this far up,” she begins. “But we got this rush of big doggies off'n the docks. They just come on in and bust up the place. Then Jolly and Doc was pushed into a corner; I started cussin' them, but they just knocked me around then tossed us all down the steps.”
-
Jolina stretches her Flixon and a triple row of head shots open on the screen. “Any of these pukes look familiar?”
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“No, no, no.” She continues scrolling. “Yeah, these two guys, for sure. And maybe three or four more.”
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Jolina tosses the Flixon at me. “Captain, we're done here.” This time she climbs into the passenger side while I slip off the hood into the driver's seat. “C'mon, daddy; cruise 'round this square for a bit. They'll turn up soon enough.”
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“Rough bunch of driftwood ain't gonna call it a night. Not this early.” Yeah, it's dark; but the night is young. We're just getting started, ourselves.
-
Most space captains couldn't care diddly how their men blow off some steam after a nine year cruise between Earth and the Outermost, but they would think twice about giving them leave to create undo havoc if they came back to their ships in two or three pieces – or not at all. This was a roughneck group of ruffians that were sure to catch hell if the captain got wind. He probably had by now, and no doubt sent out marines to bring them back for a spell in the brig...if they can round 'em up before we get our hands on them.
-
We cruise around for a good hour before Jolina spots a place and tells me to park. We get out in front of a lively scene where the lights are spilling out into the dark and the music is crowding the district's busy ambiance. There are more people leaving then going in, and that's a sure sign of trouble in the house. Just as we reach the saloon doors we hear a crash and broken glass.
-
“How we gonna play this, slick?” Jolina is pulling a brush through her ruby mane. Her hair is falling around her biceps.
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Then she cracks her knuckles. I flip my dink out the window and follow her to the walk. “We lose credits for a total loss; you do realize that, sweets?” She bends at the waist and blows me a kiss. Ahg; hideous. Then she slaps her thigh and throws it the opposite direction, bouncing the doors open. Aw'sh; I dash around to the alley and hope I can find access to the kitchen before she can get into too much trouble.
-
What a commotion. Is that a chair I hear breaking up against a wall? The scenario runs through my head like this: Jolina sways into the bar, her long legs out front and Park Avenue blouse typically open to the belt. There's no doubt in my mind the local girls will start hissing and throwing barbs. I stop to pluck a meatball out of a bubbling skillet. “Dude, that's a spicy meatball.” Fah, it's not even soy – totally synthetic, but my eyes are watering and I strike a hydrating dink on the spaghetti pot to suck away the heat. It's parked on my lip when I catch up to Jolina.
-
“Swing it, sis.” She's up to her old tricks; got a blond by the dark roots and lets her loose into a piledriver meathook, who goes down with the empty fluffer in a dizzy heap. Then she heel spikes a rather large tattooed gent in the testicles. Usually that works, but this guy must be stoned on mellow so he keeps coming. S'OK; I'm there quick enough and donkey clip the big fella into the jukebox. There's no help for it and he's a goner. Most of the bunch is down for the count by now, but Jolina is a mad dervish and the bodies are piling up. That's my cue.
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Gotta stop the madness; too much blood and the Company starts charging instead of paying. It's a fine line. “Chill baby,” I yell into her ear while ducking lunges, but all my luck is bad tonight, and Jolina catches me in the chest with her incisors and I feel the life spitting like hot lava from a pressurized blow hole out of my heart. “Aw'sh, you finged crazy bitch!”
-
I'm clutching at the spew, but without a plug she just keeps tearing into the crowd, who are running wild and screaming and generally dying in droves. Jolina is cursing and frothing, but at some point she acknowledges my plight and reigns it in. “Oh, bloody hell.”
-
As the blood spills from my veins, along with it goes the masking antigens; and my body, though pale, begins to materialize. Jolina can see me now, dying, in the flesh.
-
“You're a beautiful man, Johnny Doe,” she whispers. The last thing I see is a mascara tear running down her cracked face. Ah'sh, I'm thinking an eyeful of those killer legs would be the better memory to take with me into hell.
-
-
Jolina, well; there is a body of sorts on the other end of those legs. Nobody ever notices anything but the legs, however... Back to Jolina as she scrabbles over the sill. Our perp is rounding the trash cans, while I've circled around front to cut off the nasty habit – yeah, he's done this more than once – and, boom! Mother f'er crashes right into me. That's right; 'course I see his lame ass coming so it's no skin off my dick, but he bounces out left and shreds off half his face on the pub's brick facade. It's fake brick, right, but it still stings. He doesn't know what hit him, literally, and Jolina pulls my arm back before my fist connects again, and again.
-
“Punk ass bitch; he's had enough.” She kicks him in the balls for emphasis. “Let's fly.”
-
Charming, that's a job well done. I pack up my bruised fist into an ice glove and we head back to the hov-vee. There's a com flashing on the unit; the indicator light is bleeping red. “You drive.” My hand smarts, so I sidle into the passenger seat and poke at the light with my uninjured left pinky. “Wonder what puke job is up next.”
-
Jolina smirks. She's smearing lipstick over her crooked maw. Why? “Puke. U-huh,” and she signals reverse. “Which way, stud?”
-
Ha. She's talking to me. Am I a stud? Well, sports fans, it's kind of hard to say, one way or the other. I got no pigment, not me or any part of me. Internal, external...it's all the same; kind of bland, just colorless and basically clear. And I have the wardrobe to match – just skin tight shorts and a breathable cotton wife-beater. I even have the cig pack tucked up underneath the shoulder. Speaking of that, I pluck out a menthol dink and self light, sucking in the vapor and letting it roll out my nose like a hangdog fog. “Ah, shit yeah.”
-
“Hey dummerassers, status report. Check in. We got a big night up ahead.” That's Basic on the dispatch. We don't know if Basic is a guy or a dame, and the crappy static console isn't helping. Jolina looks at me and tilts her head. I just shrug. We got a bet going, but so far...who the fuck knows?
-
“We got 'em. He's shit faced and bleeding behind O'Fuckyous.” Ha, Jolina hates these Irish pubs; she's a good Mexican Catholic, ready to lay down her life for the virgin Mary, but wouldn't give two good gaddamns for nationalism or the IRA. Besides, the new Irish only fight over grog brands and sneakers. Right now I'm wearing Limericks, sewn up tight by the wee lads and lasses of said county...and kindly little waifs they be...working twelve hour shifts and scrounging on their pimply potatoes. When Jolina catches sight of the pair she just tosses her head and spits into the wind. 'Bleedin' consumer.' That's what she says. Hmm; I am one, a demmed holdout; still shopping at the discount mall instead of the street boutiques like healthy god-fearing sorts.
-
It's only dusk and we've already turned one willy right-side-up. He'll be blinking twice before stiffing the Club again. No, we didn't leave our card, but who else stinks up your night and just walks away? It's the Crimerlings, that's who. “Queue up, fritz,” I lisp out of my left lip while sucking in air.
-
Basic squelches out of the box, “Full moon, my sweets; you'll have one hell of time tonight. Head out east to the Relocation District. There's some monkey farts giving 'em a hard time at the Dime store. Guess they've had their fair share of mellow, and more. Messed up a waitress, then chewed and screwed.” That's Latin for an eat and run. Small time, but this hole in the ground must be on the Company payroll.
-
“On it, homer.” I hit the red light and Jolina peels out of O'Whatever's gravel lot. The stones pock off the front window but no harm done, the glass is indestructible flixonite, though Today's Menu drops an L for two blurry flixs.
-
Rolling out of the bag earlier in the evening wasn't all that, but I got bedside dinks for a quick shake-up. Don't know what I did before these things reformulated...shaking off the sleepies after a long-knuckle shift can be treacherous. Coffee injections are just so yesteryear, and who has time to program a Mochacreme when your partner is out front laying on the horn? Demmit, she's a naggy little bitch, and perky as all getout at eighteen bells. At least the pushy cow had some bacon patch and a cuppa waiting for me. I just sipped and stared at her legs. No kidding, do not look at this chick's face when you're hydrating or you'll end up wearing it. Butt. Ugly.
-
She shifted her bottom and that faux-Naug inched up just so. I remember now, sucking in and choking on hot froth. Jolina only laughed and jumped on the go-peddle, slopping hot joe in my lap. Demmit; too early for horseplay – but that's how our day, eh, night usually begins...
-
Right, now the sun is dipping behind the relo's skyline and by the time we hit the district gate the only light we'll have will be what we supply, and the Company's dim street lamps. Lucky for us the new bulbs emit refractory beams that curve around corners. Not much good for holes, but no fool in his right mind ducks down service channels; that's a society in itself, and every man is for hisself down there. Used to be the Company goons would drop a flush torpedo down the channels now and again, but that only crowded the streets with vermin. Live and let shit live, that's my motto – just steer clear of groping arms in the dark and it's hunky-dory.
-
“Two doors down.” The Dime store is a crap lean-to in the district. There's one on every corner over here; they serve up mellow and wenches to every moondog off the docks, but I guess this one took in some rough company off the Y. Penslar. Some of the crew threw the staff into the cellar and took ownership of the establishment. By the time we roll up there's smoke rolling out the doorway and water running in the street.
-
Jolina stands on the brakes and we slerve onto a berm. “Nice landing.” She flips me off and rolls out.
-
“The firemen stop waving their hoses long enough to watch her legs stroll into their deluge. “Hey gams,” grunts one burly hose monkey.
-
“Shoog,” Jolina purrs. She flips open her flixon. “Whatta we looking at boys?”
-
The captain steps up and slaps his men back to the job. “You're it? I called for Company goons, not a coupl'a weak-kneed Crimerlings.”He doesn't even spare a sideways glance for my partner, but is looking generally at me, or at my outline. My Limericks are sloshing in the puddles.
-
“Hey buttface, we can nosh up your life easy as these drunken sailors – just give me a reason. Spill it,” I get up in his face and he can smell the pungent dink on my hot breath. He just leans away some and turns to Jolina.
-
“Alright, already. Hoses off, gents, axes out.” The crew grab their equipment and rush the store front, breaking up the entrance with their fire axes and they rush into the opening. “Staff is downstairs; you can question them soon enough.”
-
Jolina is leaning back in the hov-vee and I'm stretched out against the windscreen puffing away when they limp out, a waitress and two big lugs. Not big enough; tonight they met their match.
-
“Who's the boss of this motley crew,” asks Jolina. She's Miss Take Charge, and I'm content to sit back to take in the show. No one wants to talk, but the bruised waitress finally speaks up.
-
“We don't usually get too much business this far up,” she begins. “But we got this rush of big doggies off'n the docks. They just come on in and bust up the place. Then Jolly and Doc was pushed into a corner; I started cussin' them, but they just knocked me around then tossed us all down the steps.”
-
Jolina stretches her Flixon and a triple row of head shots open on the screen. “Any of these pukes look familiar?”
-
“No, no, no.” She continues scrolling. “Yeah, these two guys, for sure. And maybe three or four more.”
-
Jolina tosses the Flixon at me. “Captain, we're done here.” This time she climbs into the passenger side while I slip off the hood into the driver's seat. “C'mon, daddy; cruise 'round this square for a bit. They'll turn up soon enough.”
-
“Rough bunch of driftwood ain't gonna call it a night. Not this early.” Yeah, it's dark; but the night is young. We're just getting started, ourselves.
-
Most space captains couldn't care diddly how their men blow off some steam after a nine year cruise between Earth and the Outermost, but they would think twice about giving them leave to create undo havoc if they came back to their ships in two or three pieces – or not at all. This was a roughneck group of ruffians that were sure to catch hell if the captain got wind. He probably had by now, and no doubt sent out marines to bring them back for a spell in the brig...if they can round 'em up before we get our hands on them.
-
We cruise around for a good hour before Jolina spots a place and tells me to park. We get out in front of a lively scene where the lights are spilling out into the dark and the music is crowding the district's busy ambiance. There are more people leaving then going in, and that's a sure sign of trouble in the house. Just as we reach the saloon doors we hear a crash and broken glass.
-
“How we gonna play this, slick?” Jolina is pulling a brush through her ruby mane. Her hair is falling around her biceps.
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Then she cracks her knuckles. I flip my dink out the window and follow her to the walk. “We lose credits for a total loss; you do realize that, sweets?” She bends at the waist and blows me a kiss. Ahg; hideous. Then she slaps her thigh and throws it the opposite direction, bouncing the doors open. Aw'sh; I dash around to the alley and hope I can find access to the kitchen before she can get into too much trouble.
-
What a commotion. Is that a chair I hear breaking up against a wall? The scenario runs through my head like this: Jolina sways into the bar, her long legs out front and Park Avenue blouse typically open to the belt. There's no doubt in my mind the local girls will start hissing and throwing barbs. I stop to pluck a meatball out of a bubbling skillet. “Dude, that's a spicy meatball.” Fah, it's not even soy – totally synthetic, but my eyes are watering and I strike a hydrating dink on the spaghetti pot to suck away the heat. It's parked on my lip when I catch up to Jolina.
-
“Swing it, sis.” She's up to her old tricks; got a blond by the dark roots and lets her loose into a piledriver meathook, who goes down with the empty fluffer in a dizzy heap. Then she heel spikes a rather large tattooed gent in the testicles. Usually that works, but this guy must be stoned on mellow so he keeps coming. S'OK; I'm there quick enough and donkey clip the big fella into the jukebox. There's no help for it and he's a goner. Most of the bunch is down for the count by now, but Jolina is a mad dervish and the bodies are piling up. That's my cue.
-
Gotta stop the madness; too much blood and the Company starts charging instead of paying. It's a fine line. “Chill baby,” I yell into her ear while ducking lunges, but all my luck is bad tonight, and Jolina catches me in the chest with her incisors and I feel the life spitting like hot lava from a pressurized blow hole out of my heart. “Aw'sh, you finged crazy bitch!”
-
I'm clutching at the spew, but without a plug she just keeps tearing into the crowd, who are running wild and screaming and generally dying in droves. Jolina is cursing and frothing, but at some point she acknowledges my plight and reigns it in. “Oh, bloody hell.”
-
As the blood spills from my veins, along with it goes the masking antigens; and my body, though pale, begins to materialize. Jolina can see me now, dying, in the flesh.
-
“You're a beautiful man, Johnny Doe,” she whispers. The last thing I see is a mascara tear running down her cracked face. Ah'sh, I'm thinking an eyeful of those killer legs would be the better memory to take with me into hell.
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Sunday, April 3, 2011
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