Index to the Galaxy

Chapter 1 - What Happens In Space - 4

Chapter 2 - Sex, Drugs & Fear  - 10

Chapter 3 - Poontang Pemalang: Sci Fi Eskimo - 17

Chapter 4 - Lesbian Revolt and Robot Hell - 24

Chapter 5 - Origin of the Striptease Falcon - 32

Chapter 6 - The Space Noir Bar -40

Chapter 7 - Attack of the Barbie Bots 48

Chapter 8- Intercourse for the Barbarella Station - 56

Chapter 9 - Dystopian Debauchery - 62

Chapter 10 - Art Deco On the Run - 70

Chapter 11 - Murder & Space Monkeys 76

Chapter 12 - Robotian Policia - 86

Chapter 13 - Sappho Strangelove -91

Chapter 14 - The Old Chum Cabaret - 97

Chapter 15 - The Rainbow Villian - 103

Chapter 16 - Narco Marx

Chapter 17 - Crosshairs of the Kill Zone

Chapter 18 - The Lesbian Revolution

Chapter 19 - Wonderlands Ninth Gate of Hell

Chapter 20 - Red Zeppelins

Chapter 21 - General Elvis & Space Junkies

Chapter 22 - Ethel Merman Fshnet Cyborgs

Chapter 23 - The Eves of Destruction

Chapter 24 - LSD 25 and The Parallel Universe

Chapter 25 - Mad Hatters of a Lost Dimension

Chapter 26 - Plan Nine Out of Your Mind

Chapter 27 - Col. Kurtz: Whose the Leader of the band?

Chapter 28 - Che Stadium & The Rudy Valley

Chapter 29 - Rush Hour at the Revolution

Chapter 30 - Is That a Mad Hatter in Your Pants?

Chapter 31 - "What's Up Doc?"

Chapter 32 - Last Tango in Space

Chapter 33 - Paradise Lost & Found

What Happens In Space..Stays in Space!

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. 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.

 

In the 20th Cent, every kid wanted to be an astronaut thanks to “television” as it was known back then. A “box” filled with Saturday morning cartoon shows with Space Commanders with decoder rings 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 toy manufacturers.

 

Something called the hula hoop was as large as a flying saucer making a carnal orbit around the erotic female waist while yo yo's ran up and down on a string like imitating the bobbing of a dead body floating in the water. It was the age of mechanical toys and space age plastic dolls that did everything but fuck. (Today in the 30th Century, dolls and robots do fuck and quite satisfactorily I might add. I had an affair with a female Turkish robot once that lived next door in a mechanical marriage to a former Greek farmer who had given up underaged sheep for her.)

 

Holy Hologram! Holographic toys of my century are the norm. Boys in the 20th Cent were game for Robots from outer space 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 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...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....

 

I had spent hours watching these old films on 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 security clearance to have access to cases as a investigator for the Prometheum Division of Intelligence...the top secret investigative wing of Retropolis and the colonized planets in our Solar System.

 

I had made a decisive decision 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 of bodies found beaten in alley’s and Bogart with an empty gun and a bloody nose administered in a bar by Ward Bond with a background of broken gin bottles and Elisha Cook, Jr. playing a sexaphone saxaphone sitting alone in a corner by the broken door of the stench stale smell of the men’s room with bullet casings filling the urinals.

 

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’s missing is beanie copter head gear to go with the oxidizer fueled Joan Jett jet pack and your Link Wray ray gun.

 

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 as Utopia gone bad back then. They got it all 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.

 

I followed in the wingtip footsteps of the fictional brotherhood of Sam Spade who set the literary precedents for back alley noir. I joined the ranks as a writer of mystery novels. My two professions, 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.

 

This is the 30th Century, and for me the galaxy is my turf. I‘m Doc Yucatan. I am a criminal by every definition as a writer. New books are forbidden unless approved. So I write under an assumed name and print my own books off on an old mimeograph machine my publisher had acquired during an excavation project of Old Trotsky Moscow. 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 Retropolis, as Earth is 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 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 planet of sex and drugs...along the way we encounter revolution and the mystery of the Strip Tease Falcon!

Chapter Two - Sex, Drugs & Fear

 

 

 

 

 

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 on a cyborg hooker from the asteroid Labia Coitus.

 

While most PI agencies get the juice assignments from the government office thanks to kickbacks and payoffs of which we couldn’t afford,  we were lucky to get the leftovers..the crap and scaps….the back alley shit cases no one else wanted. We were the night time dumpsters where junkies toss their used  Hep C hypo needles;  where the gangs dumped their incriminating weapons and the 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.

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 on Retropolis as  too much Soma has a mule kick that causes a Jekyll-Hyde yin-yang transformation inducing in some a thirst for murder and a hunger for a rampage rape, not gender specific I might add 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 from the prospective client 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 coagulated blood from  head wound. 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 the 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 space 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 our secretary, Madeline Kubla Kahn, wasn't faring much better as she hadn't received a check for weeks and she IS  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.

Right now I was in another frame of mine as a shadowy female figure (my new throaty Kathleen Turneresque client I thought in anticipation) 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…

Chapter 3 - Poontang Pemalang: The Sci Fi Eskimo

 

As the mysterious well formed female figure entered my outdated relic from the Mickey Spillane age office,  I couldn’t help but notice that she  had one hell of an upper rack on her... and legs! Damn those legs...they  were the Route 66 of flesh, the Mother Road bound for Woody Guthrie glory ending on a wet west coast, 2,000 miles all the way from Chicago or to put it in 30th Century perspective they could jet propel sensuously from  Retropolis to Moon Luna and I was ready to ride her rocket all the way from one end to the other and get lost in her vapor trail.

 

She wasn't the usual client that walks into a cheap detective’s office, all nervous and unsure of themselves. Quite the opposite. She oozed confidence, she could have been a dominatrix for out of line Disney Mouseketeers needing discipline.

 

Attractive? Youbetcha! She had that Asian look that brings me to my knees faster than a penitent in a Catholic confessional begging forgiveness for masturbation or murder, or both if your perverted serial killer.

 

My mental filing cabinet slammed open with a crash as I could see her face fully in the faltering light and my hungover haze. There was something so familiar about her, but I couldn’t put my finger on it….I had seen her before...somewhere..in bed? No, too classy for me. I was a pure street hooker and Cyborg erotibot degenerate. It would come to me eventually and hit me like a headshot from a Farganite sniper.

 

I sized her up and guessed she was probably she had Vietnamese roots and I could imagine a Ho Chi Minh Trails of secret secretions from tunnels of fun hidden deep in her jungle.

 

I also took a wild guess, that proved correct, that she also had Innuit roots from the great white north of wet beaver and cold beer somewhere in Canada where you can’t really gauge a body shape due to the fact of  all the fur they wear...ever see an Eskimo Pinup Girl? Well ,beneath all that layering when stripped away along with all pretense of objectivity, you'll find some awesome flesh adorned  with  a hidden pubic rainforest 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 Estros 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 unable to move.  Even the way she pulled out a cigarette from a pack of fancy French brand smokes from Quebec or the nearby reservation where they're sold at discount prices. I was right...she was Asian,  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 I 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 get a lungful of her intoxication aroma, her perfume, (the fresh tuna probably) had me on my knees...my flame met her tobacco and the room was on fire..or at least the action zone region south of my pants pockets and belt.

 

She introduced herself as Poontang Pemalang,  a beautiful name and damned if every old classic movie didn’t race through my mind like flashcards. She was Bacall to my Bogart. Hepburn to my Tracy. Yin to my Yang.

 

As she took that first long drag on her cig, 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 doctor’s desk the last time I was in her office for a full nude exam and to get a refill of my amphetamines. 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.

 

Poontang 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 half sister, Mary Asteroid, from the clutches of space pimps.

 

I was hooked by this mesmerising  minx 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 in the beaver pelt region... pungent and intoxicating as a ladies roller derby locker room after a sweaty hour on the track. This sexy little firebrand  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 be near her, I was already falling hard and fast. 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 made plans to set off for Robotia, the last known location of Mary Asteroid and for the madness and adventure that lay ahead for us. Toss in a few broken bones by Scorcese type henchmen and some Clockwork Orange street thugs who we would run into on the way, and it was a daunting dash through Apocalypse Now with a spoonful of Rebel Without a Cause!

 

Our journey would transport us to the mechanical planet of Robotia for a sexy romp of danger and intrigue  that created  one hell of a romance as hot as a sun flare.  Poontangs body and passion 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? As for Poontang? She  was beautiful and talented and as i would experience, she had a vagina as strong as a steel trap.

 

We planned to leave the gravitational pull of Retropolis in two days. That would give me time to pack for the trip , turn my caseload notes over to Sandoz and get  wasted on Retropolin Soma and laid by a human female with the normal number of body parts (no alien hookers from the Martian Mustang Ranch or an Eroti-bot ...no assembly or batteries required) one more time at the Space Noir Bar, the dive I owned in Detroit in which to drown delightfully dissipated in and deliriously debauched without having a life preservers of emotions involved.  Wham Bam Thank You Ma’am!

Chapter 4 - Lesbian Revolt & Robot Hell

I was packing up for the journey to the Ninth Gate of Robot Hell, when “it” suddenly hit me like a ton of space dung from a herd of pink and blue two headed Zharkovian zoo zebras from the  Buster Crabbe Cluster! The “it” being was where it was I had seen Poontang Pemalang before. (Don’t get me wrong...I’ve seen plenty of general “poontang” but not anyone even close to Poontang Pemalang herself, specifically!) In the dense mind numbing fog of my saloon drunks, fantastic derailing  deliriums doing demented dances at a mental prom night, combined with the tranquility of too many  tranquilizer trances, the media events that surrounded her almost  eluded me, but, now it all came rushing  at me with the  impact of a Norman Mailer one page left hook description of a vagina.

 

Poontang Pemalang had emerged from the primordial covert “dirty tricks” Retropolin era  during the uprising of the Lesbian Rebellion  where the Sexy Sappho’s tried to break the balls of the Retropolin government  in order to declare total auto-erotic autonomy  and create their own girl on girl land of labia libido. The short lived insurrection was commonly  known as  “The Lez-Erection.” The “rebels” were gaining ground, but soon their cadre was infiltrated by a beautiful alluring agent of the Com-Reds from the Asian Red Sector in order to obtain information on their game plan for victory to  crush the revolt. The dykes were doomed.

 

The agent? Yep!  Pontang Pemalang! She along with her comrade  sister in arms, Sappho Strangelove...a  double agent working for the German  sector. Sappo  was good, delicious in fact from what I had heard.  She did have one quizzical quirk in her personality that turned what could have been a minus factor into a plus factor in her line of spy vs. spy work.  Sappho who was at times as mad as a hatter as she had been diagnosed in a Munich mental hospital as having a multiple personality disorder. Split personalities had managed to forge a gang of Gestalt laden Gestapo Death Head Dead Heads who inhabited her psyche, imprisoning her in a shithole Schindler’s List concentration camp cabaret of schizophrenic voices in her head.

 

In time Sappho had effectively mastered the art of bringing to the surface the individual  personality from the mental dumpster  of Picasso persons  inhabiting her, rent free, that would best get the undercover job done. One minute she could be “Dr. Strangelove”….the next...a  tempting delicious Bavarian cream pie with enough sex appeal to breakdown the old Berlin Wall with half an orgasm. Are orgasms organic? Health food that’s not just for breakfast anymore? If so, make mine a double.

 

Both Poontang and Sappho were Com-Reds best agents. Retropolis was after all a Com-red Planet. Conquered by.those merry men and women of Old 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 2525. 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.  Robotia was also the planet I was about to venture to in search of Poontangs  lost or abducted and in any case missing  sister she feared was 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 26th 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.

 

Poontang  was a covert agent during the Lez-Erection Uprising, and a damned good one too and brought the lesbos to their knees. Not surprising, as this Com-Red babe was as red hot as a comet and she had the tail to prove it. The revolution was soon extinguished  allowing her to return to her home base now 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. She was the by-product of an  Asian mother and an Eskimo inseminator as Fathers are now referred to. They  met in Manitoba and banged in Banff. Poontang 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.

Poontang 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 let’s 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 could only find a red star gold star vagina in places such as the old USSR...Vietnam….North Korea...China...or Cuba...and 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!!!.

Chapter 5 - Origin of the Striptease Falcon

 

The dawn would come soon enough. I wanted to get a jump on the day so Poontang and I could get underway on our foray (and I hoped for some foreplay along the way!) We would take my d-lysergic fuel injected LSD 25 Model nuclear booster rocket jet camper to  penetrate Robotian  security in pursuit of the truth in our search for the missing  Mary Asteroid. .

 

Robotia was not one of those  big bang theory planets born of southwestern desert Navajo fire and ice. It  was a purely mechanical planet, populated with a spaced out electro-race of Exoti-Bot Erotibots created by  of the Ray Mond Burr scientists of the nefarious Planet Toho.  They are the direct deranged descendents, with a lunatic  lineage dating back  the 20th Century where they began as filmmakers and creators of a series of Japanese anti-nuclear 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 Ray Mond Burr Ate Tokyo” a highly prized collectible still today by Sci Fi mental case Lucas Loony geeks of the  post George Lucas generation.

The Tohos evolved,  ultimately emerging in the 25 Cent from a cocoon of isolation as a galactic political and technological force to be dealt with while 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 morphed into an advanced race of techno-freakoids dabbling in sideshow 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 21st Cent when they had created an entire army of mercenary military destructo-bots for hire to the highest bidder engaging  in petty territorial geo-porn squabbles  over borders and the three R’s ….race, religion and resources.

 

As the machines advanced they were put into use by the emerging Retropolin/Dystopian Empire during the Great War of 2348 led by the victorious Com-Reds of the far out far off east. Once Earth was unified under Com-Red conquest, it was rechristened Retropolis. Obviously someone in Com Reds PR department was a Fritz Lang fan.

 

As a reward for their service to the Com-reds, the Toho’s were awarded their own quadrant to create a mechanical planet, (and unfettered permission to pillage and plunder their galactic neighbors as modern day Vikings) They were also allowed to set up Toho Entertainment Neighborhoods in major cities on Retropolis itself composed of delightful Exoti-Bot Eroti-bot creations developed after the Great War for a rapidly growing  marketplace  for hyper hymen and power penile genital gratification.  Nothing like a Eroti-bot lap dance to get your Wi-Fi antennae erect for a strong signal. Homo-robo-sexual somewhere over the rainbow encounters were  encouraged as well 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 eroti-bot if the robot was manufactured recently and at least 14 years old and it’s circuits haven’t been tampered with.

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 2016, an age of sexual weakness. Twitter Tweet twits, political correctness and corrupt governments world wide . The Peruvians were big fans of Ray Mond Burr featured in the first English language version of Gojira. When they saw an old “video tape” including  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 Earthlings and dazzle them by turning the plateau landscape into a giant dog and pony show etch a sketch by laser beaming circles and other symbols marking their territory as if they were a pack of mating wolves.

 

Before they left to explore orbs of interest they gave them a gift 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 Ray Mond 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 Exoti-Bots Eroti-Bots 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 it’s defense and it’s very existence. Without it they are as powerless as a client with erectile dysfunction in a whorehouse.

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. These ain’t the Mets!

 

If I was going  to tango in a computer circuit circus I figured I had better Boy Scout myself up and be prepared by fortifying myself with  an evening of debauched abandon in the br I owned amid the robot sex bars and opium dens of the Toho District of Old Detroit with my friends, my  publisher of my usually deadline late mystery novels, Arthur Burns, along and my agency partner, Sandoz Diego Cerveza.

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 Poontang Pemalang  had just left and entered my life.

 

Windsor...Ontario!!! Canada! Dangerous, sensual, sexy and very very….well, Canadian, Eh?  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 Inuit 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....the land of Nanook and Nordic Nookie. A land of Scandinavian Warrior Princesses with Viking vaginas as strong as steel traps....

 

Canucks, Con artists, hookers from Halifax, and pickpockets make fantastic promises to eager space travelers who are in a hurry to leave Old Canada 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. Why escape Retropolis? 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?

Chapter 6 - The Space Noir Bar

 

 

Sandoz, Arthur and I came here often,  not just because of it’s unique atmosphere of its propensity for interplanetary proletarian perversity. (Once a pervert, always a pervert I always say!) but mainly because we owned this  drinking watering hole in the wall. We purchased a few Exoti-Bot Eroti-bots that spared nothing in the way of bizarre scintillating entertainment from the Tohos making our joint  the jazzed up jumpin’ Marquis de Sade drunken dungeon  of debauchery and weirdness.

When Arthur and I arrived just after 6 PM.  Sandoz was already there  making small talk with one of the human waitresses when he saw us enter from the illumination of  the flickering neon of the club’s entrance. “Hey Mates!” he yelled excitedly across the room and above the din of the cacophony 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 give you taste of your own bloody Aussie medicine to feel at home or at least until you lose that hideous accent. I expect any minute to see an outback 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 Old Tokyo’s Ginza on drag queen festival night loaded on Soma and ready to take my pick of the litter. I noticed there were more eroti-bot dancers than usual on the stage. Sandoz had purchased the extras when we were finally in the black and I felt comfortable that it was space bucks well spent as these delicious morsels were mechanical models more realistic looking and acting as well as more erotic and exotic than all the others we had purchased a few years ago.  

“Aye Mate, they’ve got some new  electro-mech-synth talent they brought in from the Leonid Sector. Some sort of experimental bots I guess,” yelled Sandoz over the ring-a-ding ding din of the crowd and the music in harmony with the whirring noise of the giant Toho robot strippers  with mechanical tits and hydraulic action asses all in synth synch by our  MC, Viet Minh, a  Vietnamese female cyborg ho ho ho Chi Minh comic and ring master who directed the stage show yelling into her microphone “Hai, Hai, Hai”

We had purchased the Detroit Bar in Old Detroit’s Greektown renaming it “The Space Noir Bar” to pay homage to my heroes of the old time silver screens black and white, blanc and noir suspense thrillers of murder, double cross and Bogart banter at 78 RPMS while Ingrid Bergman could jack a man off from across a busy Parisian Boulevard with a single glance  of one of her Swedish petri dish eyes and a galvanizing glimpse of one of her milky thighs.   Look ma...no hands!

Our saloon was in a building  which had been a crumbling landmark in the Greektown Robot Entertainment section of this soiled dove of a city. Arthur, Sandoz and I wanted our own Bukowkis bar that was our domain to use and abuse, and this old three story brick joint in a  city of towering skyscrapers of glass with no class came with a bonus in the form of an old 20th Century Wurlitzer jukebox that looked like a Radio City Music Hall R2D2 chorus girl full of Sinatra “wee small hours I’m gonna kill myself from loneliness” tunes. Sinatra! It  fit my penchant for nostalgia of days gone by faster than  a bullet through JFK’s head. The joint had the kind of character of  a broken down wheelchair with a crippling  charm all it’s own, without the stark singular sterility of today’s 26th Century froo froo fern bar feminization that made me cringe. The kind of frilly bars Norman Mailer would refuse to get drunk in.  

Downstairs as you walked or stumbled in, (your choice) was your basic neighborhood drinking saloon where the local drunks speak in hushed slurred tones in shabby ragged coats and fedoras with down and out  stains from old cold turkey sweats. Downstairs was an island of alcoholic lost souls, with wet cigarettes in the ashtray and stale beer breath filling the room like a cheap taxicab air freshener hanging like Jesus on the cross on the rearview mirror.

Upstairs above the bar was a huge storage annex we had renovated adding a stage area and seating in a nightclub atmosphere. We featured stand-up comedians on open night mics, robot impersonators (they had replaced female impersonators centuries ago..Goodbye Judy Garland...Hello Gort..Klatuu, Barada, Nicto!) Robots and Cyborgs had filled the entertainment field in battalions and human comics no longer stood a chance. Programmed computer chip schtick and rim shots were commonplace.

When I was on vacation in Sydney Greenstreet, Australasia I went into a small club on King Street and witnessed an attractive, fascinating, albeit strange female stand-up comic. She was a skateboarding guitar playing dark haired Asian cyborg beauty named, Viet Minh,  who had the patrons rolling in the isles. After her set I managed to meet her, told her about our club in Detroit and wanted to hire her as the house comic and to MC the other acts who would try out.

We dickered over salary and came to an agreement (“It beats working in a Vietnamese nail salon,” she said.) Now she runs the joint for us, does stand-up and hosts our full tilt boogie Robot Show on the weekends. She works the room with comedy that is appropriately inappropriate and sometime inappropriately appropriate.

Being an Asian cyborg her human half speaks fluent Vietnamese while her cyborg circuits are programmed in English. Also having a high powered Artificial Intelligence backup chip inserted in a highly  inappropriate area, she somehow managed to master the Andakerebina language, but  when you say “A priest and a kangaroo walk into a bar….” in Adarkerebina,  it loses in the translation,

Hecklers are no match for her caustic cyborgian comedian comebacks that have the effect of a boomerang bonk on the head. If her comments don’t quell the drunk, she  is cyborg equipped with a stun gun that fires rubber bullets to the head. “I usually wound 4 to 6 hecklers on a busy weekend” I heard her brag one night. One time however, a rubber bullet got lodged in a pathetically drunk patrons throat. He choked and croaked on the spot. Self-defense we told the judge. “You’re free to go” he said, after obtaining the customary bribe in advance from Arthur.

Other clubs tried to hire her away from us, but never managed to match what we were paying her, and being part cyborg, she was somewhat addicted to electricity which was hard to come by in this most electronic &  nuclear century, so we relied on our street contacts who provided her with ample male plug to female outlet syringes full of black market Tom Edison as she called it. She did her best work fully charged...don’t we all.

Viet Minh was at her best when riding herd on our All Robot Runway Review. What a light show! Robot impersonators, who were also electronic showgirls and showboys  fired up the raised stage hotter than an Australian bushfire. She would rally the Robot Raunchettes screaming “Hai, Hai, Hai” and work the crowd and herself into a “Miss Saigon” stage production frenzy.


Pleasantries exchanged, Arthur, Sandoz and I downed a few Canadian beers  before we got down to business. I had managed to persuade Arthur to fund the transportation and hotel costs of the trip to the Robotia for both Poontang Pemalang and myself. In exchange for his largesse,  I would write a book on the adventure  including all serial rights for mass publication...my ass was against the wall, I  also gave up 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. Even the Shadow wouldn’t have a clue.

Did Poontang know where it was from loose 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 four  way race for the prize between Poontang, Sappho and myself; the Toho's of course; and the we-really-mean business Com-Red government. Last, but by no means  least we would lock horns with a galactic gangster known as Narco Marx, who it turns out would be  the deadliest adversary we would face while the Toho’s would kami-kaze themselves to regain and protect the power source at all costs, and the Com-Reds of Retropolis would put a price on our heads, dead or alive for the capture of the Falcon for their own use and for information leading to the arrest and execution of a revolutionary called “The Rabbit” who was fomenting resistance against the entire Dystopian Empire in attempt to gain autonomy and equality. In Dystopian terms…”Fat Chance!”

Chapter 7 -Attack of the Barbie Bots

 

I outlined  the Poontang-Yucatan mission for Arthur and Sandoz, and was reminded of another obstacle we would would have to overcome in our quest besides the factions that wanted us dead or alive on a platter after we had led them to the Falcon. We would also be facing the new breed of psycho-sexual military Barbie-Bots developed by the Tohos as part of a sinister disguised project that began with a harmless enough front of creating the next gen of Eroti-Bots. Little did anyone fathom that these were merely the foundation for the next level...Lesbian Warrior Barbi-Bots….or a mechanical piece of ass that could fuck and kick ass.

 

I was all too familiar with the secret Barbie-Bot development  program. The Promethean Division of Retropolis caught wind of the project from a Com-Red undercover agent  they had planted in Toho R&D to ferret out any information that might surface of any new developments in research that might threaten Dystopian-Retropolin security and of course, dominance in the galactic equation.

 

They hired me to infiltrate and investigate it.  I formulated a plan blending in  with a delegation of Retropolin scientists, undercover of course disguised as a Dr. Farquahar to  view the demonstrations. Given primarily for the Tohos to give a demonstration of new military hardware available to the Com-Reds to use in the ongoing suppression of various uprisings that would spring up in the Empire in one quadrant or another. The Tohos had taken a children’s toy concept from the 20th Century and brought it from the drawing board to the sex bars in under 6 months . It took another 6 months to make them military ready!!

I mentioned this to Arthur and Sandoz. “know all about them. I was there when they developed them,” I said to hopefully end the convo I had started and sit back, drink 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 security. You see, the Tohos were  committed to, and have since created a whole race of 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 it escaped from the toy store and requested political plastic toy asylum in what 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 also 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!

Chapter 8 - Intercourse for Barbarella

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  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 of the missing in action, Mary Asteroid and  as a bonus, 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 electro-nuke-juice 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,  still smiling, thinking about how I had made Arthur Burns frustrated to a frenzy and watched his quantum erupt to a “hai hai hai” big kick finish. Now it was time for Poontang and me to get our asses in gear and hit the happy space trail so I fueled up the kick ass classic D-Lysergic 25  rocket camper manufactured at the still truckin’ along  Timothy Leary  assembly plant with factories located under the rocky surface of  Aldous Huxley-1, the ninth moon of the Planet Woodstock. At one time they were the premier prestige vehicle manufactures of inter-planetary travel campers thanks to two engineers, Mr. Haight and Mr. Ashbury who also designed the tie-dyed color scheme and sleek aerodynamics to ensure the vehicle would go Further. The company now was 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 Phlegm  sector.

OK, so the 25 it wasn’t pretty,  but it did have a souped up metallic hydrogen power plant with modified twin SRB solid propellant boosters to give the 25 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 wax your woody and ride the wild surf of space.

Poontang was ready, willing and waiting for me  when I pulled up to the private docking port of her penthouse at the Penumbra Arms on Cass Ave. in the gentrified art district of Detroit. This girl was class and ass all all the way. “Out  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 to get laid?” I quipped weakly. I knew in an instant 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...after fellatio. “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 UFO sized eyes.

Poontang was hurt. “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. Any USB port in a digital storm

“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 Space Oddity and off we flew.

Chapter 9 - Dystopian Debauchery

 

We made it to Barbarella in warpspeed, docked the 25 and checked into the Motel 666. Barbarella and all it’s pleasures await us. I wanted to have a go at Poontang of course, but she was still aloof and I was willing to settle for a Cyborg or Eroti-Bot...for the time being.

Barbarella is not a planet per se, or purse say, or say, that’s not a purse to be pursued at all. What is is a  space station, an artificial planetoid, an adult alien playground of diverse perversity. In effect, the Barbarella space station is a galactic G-Spot in the vast black hole vagina  of space located on the inner ring of the behemoth planet, Saturn.  When the sun descends, and  for a few measly platinum space bucks you can enjoy a Saturnalia night special with all the psychedelic  sexual trimmings simply by following the psycho-sexual yellow brick road.


Saturn is a planet of immense impropriety so it is not surprising to find it’s artificial satellite Barbarella dripping and oozing in  Dystopian debauchery taken to the extreme edge of mental stability. To borrow and to  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. Madeline Kubla Khan, my by the book secretary. and Sandoz  my erstwhile partner in the agency, didn’t like to cook the books, and I couldn’t afford the ticket to ride on what the agency was pulling in. I could barely afford the laser bullets for my Link Wray ray gun.

 

So now, with a large payoff after we found the Strip Tease Falcon as incentive,  it was time to cut lose to see the stuff that wet dreams were made of...the Barbarella Planetoid!
Where else can you rock and roll on the solar system’s 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 the bloody 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" Henson’s 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 with the Bob Marley Mouseketeers Minstrels.


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 26th 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!

Poontang and I  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 we 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 bar in the notorious Phil Spector Sector where I got a peek into a part of Poontangs  past,  hidden in the dark, when Art Deco walked up to us in the bar. Art Deco, notorious, rebellious and dashing hero of a failed attempt at revolution on his home artificial planet  of Clitoria,  not far from the Barbarella asteroid. He also owned the Fellatio Alger Bot Bot we were in. As he walked near us in a confident stride Poontang 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. “Deco!” 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.

Chapter 10 - Art Deco on the Run

 

 

Before Poontang succeeded as a seasoned Com-Red agent, she was a typical university student working towards a degree in Galactic Political Science as well as a minor in the Physical Aspects of Kama Sutra Power Positions.

 

Professor Art Deco was  her  liberal libertine promiscuous professor at the Clitorian University in Old Big Ben London. Prof. Deco,  having a ravenous River Thames appetite  for his 20 something female student bodies, had an affair with Poontang. It turns out it was more than an affair to remember, or forget has he did with most of his student smorgasbord of space snatch.

 

Deco was not only a cad, but a clandestine underground organizer, a known as Hot to Trotsky hell bent on fomenting a revolution to bring down the Com-Reds and free Dystopia from its iron fist. Poontang had, after cap and gowning it, gone to work for the Com-Reds not knowing of Deco’s Jekyll Hyde dual life. Little did she fathom that  fate would soon toss her and Deco  into a voracious vortex of intoxicating sex and intrigue.

 

The Com-Reds knew all about the elusive Deco organization, however, they were  not aware of Poontangs past college fling. So blindly  assigned her to infiltrate his clandestine organization as a spy to gather information from within to aid in bringing down the upstart usurping uprising organization.

 

Poontang  did as she was told, not knowing Art Deco was the mark, while Deco was not aware she was a Com-Red red hot hottie. When she finally made contact with Hotsky she found not only  a rebel with a cause but damned if it wasn’t  Art Deco himself ….her gyroscope went spinning.

This time, sex aside. she fell in love with him and confessed that her original  mission was aimed at bringing him down and turning him over  to Com-Red  authorities, 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 both now sweating up the proletarian sheets in a swirl of revolution, intrigue and violence.


One day as they were making sheet staining love, their passions were overshadowed by the stomping of Com-Red  boots and the roar of  tanks rolling down the center of London.  Poontang started to cry and Deco bid her adieu for her own good and  escaped to Barbarella, a neutral zone to obtain papers to exit the space station as the Com-Red bloodhounds were hot on his trail. Arrest meant certain death, and Deco needed a cover story to  bide his time until papers could be in hand,  so he bought a rundown piano bar called the Fellatio Alger and retained the  rundown 2nd gen cyborg piano player named Sam who plays "As Time Goes By" ad nauseum at Deco’s request as it had been his and Poontangs favorite song. In time,  as time  went by, he couldn’t stand it anymore. The memories were too painful, so Sam was told not to tickle the ivories with the tune anymore.

Poontang and I had no inkling we had entered the world of Art Deco by walking into the Fellatio for a few drinks to unwind after our flight.  She went up to the cyborg pianist and requested “As Time Goes By” and Sam the Cyborg, not having had the song deleted from his circuit board complied.  Why didn’t Deco delete it from his playlist? Simply because no one in the 26 Cent would ever request that forgotten moldy oldie. As Sam began to work the 88’s, the song filled the room making it’s way to the office  of Deco as he was  working on a booze order in the back. Storming out in a rage he went up to chastise Sam.  "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 was then, that Deco’s pale grey as steel eyes  noticed Poontangs big round browns with a deer in the headlight gaze. He is stunned, offers apologizes and says, “Play it again Cyborg!”

Poontang was wanted by Com-Red Intell now, most wanted list it turns out, and had to leave Retropolis faster than a speeding bullet.  That’s when she walked into my life. Now Art Deco walked back into hers

Almost immediately the embers in Poontangs heart sparked into furious flame. I could tell by the inviting estos scent emitting from between her legs she was being consumed  by the passion of a potent love potion from the past. You know the type, those pesky political passions that mix with the emotion of love that Deco had ignited not too many years before. Makes for an awkward, yet interesting physiological ménage a trois, non?

I invited Deco to join us. He was cordial and smooth as a lounge lizards gold lame pants. Later that night, while  visiting with the us and oozing charm with the impact of an avalanche in Switzerland, Deco 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 Poontang 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 Com-Red officers taking in the sex and drug joys of the neutral zone,  who were also in their cups. The Com-Reds break into a guttural patriotic singing of “Back in the USSR”  while the Deco Freedom Fighters at the bar, including Deco and Poontang  counter with “Smoke on the Water”.

I finally  had enough of Mr. Suave and realizing I didn’t stand a chance in Gary, Indiana Hell of getting any poontang from Poontang, excused myself early and went upstairs alone. I had the desk clerk send up an Eroti-Bot 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 Bot to auto pilot after we  had mechani-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 my 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 Link Wray and cocked the trigger ready for anything. Half asleep I opened the door. It was a young kid, the same desk clerk dressed in black I encountered when we checked in.  He had a look of panic and agitation permanently etched into his face more graphic than Mt. Rushmore. “Are you Doc Yucatan?” he asked timidly. “Yeah, waddaya got?” He answered shakily, “The police are in the lobby and want to talk to you ..quick!” Confusion, panic, adrenalin...all emotions were colliding in me at once...what had I done...what did they want with me. This is a neutral zone after all. Maybe it was Poontang they were after..guilt by association. Only one way to find out. Face the music and do the dance…

Chapter 11 - Murder & Space Monkeys

Head pounding from Tranqs, eyes red from Soma 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. They were waiting for me and I wasn’t ready for them yet.


“Ah, Mr. Yucatan. We appreciate your kind cooperation. Thank you for coming down.” The words were too gushy for my unsophisticated tastes, but I felt cocky enough  to offer an acknowledging grunt “What can I do for you...uh..let’s see by your insignia you are a Captain, yes?” His shoes gave him away too. Not worn like a working stiff who pounds a beat. Probably the ass on his Elvis Presley gold lame pants was shiny from sitting on it all day delegating the real work to mindless cyborg subordinates.

“We have a murder on our hands,  it’s not unusual in itself here, but this case is unique.It seems according to our  witnesses it was committed by a female Retropolin. Your kind so to speak, human. Your reputation as the best in your business on your planet we thought you might be so kind as to give us a hand with the investigation.”

The perp   was a female from Retropolis.  I recoiled, startled as I recognized who she was by her description..Dorothy Lahore. She had a rap sheet and a rep back home as a tough case and had four arrests under her belt for murder, two for littering and one for duplicating old Tom Jones 8-Track tapes to holo-disc format and reselling them for profit. Jones is regarded as a god in my century much as Jerry Lewis was in France in the 20th. Jones Mania was never ending!

Dorothy was shrewd ….not one goddamned conviction. The answer to why was simple. She was screwing every judge in town.  Smart girl. Justice may be blind, but it’s also horny.  She was arrested again recently for murdering a lawyer. Not too serious but she was moving up the scale, and the judge she was to go before was a hermaphrodite so he didn’t need Dorothy to get his moon rocks off...he could do himself, usually under his robe while sitting on the bench hearing a case. Dorothy knew she faced serious prison time this time so when she pulled some strings and  was released on bail, she bailed!

Dorothy left Retropolis in a stolen pod, for the neutral sector of Barbarella to look for work as an assassin with the Wicked Butch of the West  of Barbarellas Brighton Beach waterfront district. That fell through and there was an attempt instead to enlist Dorothy into a life of prostitution and hypodermic needles. “First it was the Catholic nuns, then a priest, a cross-eyed altar boy and now this shit” Dorothy screamed! She also snapped!

It was ten that all hell broke lose. Witnesses say Dorothy pulled a Ruger ,44 mag auto pistol from her garter and pumped six rounds into the Westie Butch screaming, “MAKE MY DAY BUTCH!” Munchkins dove for cover, many reporting they heard three shots  fired from the Yellow Brick Road Sassy Knoll.  Dorothy also swiped the pair of ruby red pumps Butch was wearing as a kill trophy.  The ruby red pumps belonged to a David Bowie collection, but that is a spider from Mars of a different color.

After the gunsmoke 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  and an unappeased appetite for marijuana smoking hot farm girls. Ding dong the Butch was  dead,  and Dietrich wondered what kind of a whack job would kill with a gun and not a black and white farmhouse! It was time for revenge and Dorothy was told by Dietrich she had to get out of Dodge by sundown and more importantly, to return the ruby red pumps she had robbed the corpse of.

Visibly shaken now,  Dorothy leaves and walks outside onto the street. The neighborhood weirdos target her immediately, including three escaped convicts from Neptune who were 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 was doing it right after she  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.”

Tin Man who confronts her first confessing that he is  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.


The three now take 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…” She took in the whole scene, including sizing up her three new companions. Dig the scarecrow, she thought,  with the day-glo jacket and velvet hat now sitting away in the corner blasting powder up his nose with that  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 an 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 the Warhol Wizard of Odd 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 snag 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 the compound 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 not the kind that required an exorcism. The Tin Man Steely Dan Dildo got  a fresh 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 lion 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 Space Girl 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 Monkey 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!” Now she was back to her old tricks...old murder habits are hard to change….


At this point Poontang 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.” Then I turned to the Captain. “I’ll work on it when I get back from Robotia. Got a case I’m on  right now..I should wrap it up in a couple of days and will get in touch with you then.’


We shook hands and Poontang and I walked back to my room to get my bag and load up the D-25 Camper 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 ascended 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 heads...fuck it...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 this Asian Eskimo in ruby reds...or which ever came first...or both!

Chapter 12 - Robotian Policia

 

I estimated our ETA to Robotia would take one galactic day from Barbarella. Not to mention at least two days to fully recover from the Soma somnambulism and Erotibot revelry we had both engaged in as a threesome while engaging one of the Charlie’s Angels tri-bots. Poontang was everything I had imagined and more. She could short circuit a bot in under ten seconds and she had me cross the finish line multiple times until my fuel tank was depleted and I could hardly walk and beat a torso in a running race. I couldn’t wait to be her Jerry Lee Lewis and bang on her Southern gospel dixieland rock n’ roll 88’s again. Hell, I wouldn’t care if  she was still  menstruating as she was last night. ...I’m  always ready  for some good old fashioned ragtime!

While visions of tampons did a fandango in my head, I realized there would be a  few hours security quarantine time we’d have to endure at the Robotian gateway asteroid, Toho 4, the so called Ellis island of Robotia, where every visitor would be required to clear customs at the mechanical hands of Toho’s crack robotic security team. Papers checked and rechecked, weapons checked and rechecked, the verified or denied.

 

If you weren’t there for drugs and eroti-bot sex ...why go? Robotia wasn’t an unpleasant experience by any stretch of the penile implant. It was a pleasure palace planet of it’s own. In fact it is more of a small mechanical enclosed dead planet long forgotten and brought back to life through the artistry of Toho engineering. Better living through chemistry. They were also responsible for the development of Atmospheric Balance for dome enclosed cities on varied planets as well as for the mechanical planets they constructed.  All alien visitors could now breathe “oxygen” that included elements of the from all the major planet atmospheric elements in a chemical compost pile called Oxy-Morons making the need and use of helmet atmospheric converters as outdated as 64 track tapes of Wayne Nuke-um.

 

The best part though wasn’t the breathing...it was the heavy breathing sex with Cyborgs, half humanoid, half mechanical females with real cycles, or sex with completely mechanized Erotibots with a circus of circuits that are the main abstract attraction extracting exacting ecstatic space bucks for a few spaced out  far out space fucks.

Robotia was broken down into designated neighborhoods...since most, not all Retropolins, are bi-sexual, Poontang  and I headed for a taste of the same sexual female dessert platter to camp it up with a good three-some romp under the covers once again. Just once I craved Poontangs poontang all to myself now that I had that first taste last night.

Robotian Toho scientists did develop some deadly Triple D Cup giant Cyborg women with mounds of  protruding flesh breasts. A 50 foot woman has to have a hungry voracious vagina with a large  opening surrounded by a  jungle of pubic hair so thick and large  you could build a raft  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.





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 Robotia 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.




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 let’s face it...less can be more!

We video’d ahead and made reservations at the Toho Motel 666 and made dinner reservations at the adjoining Ali Inn where we would begin our search for Poontangs sister, Mary Asteroid and the fabled Strip Tease Falcon. He who controls the Falcon controls all of Dystopia.

After we checked in with Toho Security and the handed over all our papers and answered anal probing questions. We were allowed to proceed to Robotia to check in at the Motel 66 and begin our quest in earnest, but first we had to make a quick stop. Poontang was down to her last Tampon….it was refill time

Chapter 13 - Sappho Strangelove

 

SNB Chapter Thirteen

The  morning after the dark night that preceded it is always a day of psychological shakes, rattles and rolls while purging the bloodshot red-eye 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 an expendable human in a run down cheap hotel room  with a faded former chorus girl, now a ten dollar bar girl, sweating up a torn mattress  with too many stains on it. 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. Now mine joined them to greet the next customer.

 

This morning, however, I awoke alive and alert to brilliant daylight, clean sheets, and the soft flesh of Poontang Pemalang  in my arms and the scent of our sex as aromatic as a room full of perfumed pole dancers. Our sexual gymnastics last night set into motion a gyroscopic inertial navigation system that would propel us deeper into an affair that would turn our libidos upside down.  

I was still  a little foggy from the tranqs and weed we ended the night with, but, Poontang 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 hoped it was because of me alone, but, I could only guess this time it also had something to do with our close encounter on the path with her mysterious past with Art Deco that  brought her under the casa blankets with me while an old flame fanned her passions as far and wide as her legs.

 

We knew we were given clearance to leave Toho 4  last night, clear to make the two minute jaunt and dock on Robotia, but, sex and drugs came first to fortify us for whatever lay ahead.

 

We packed our bags quickly, and just as we were checking out  I was handed a strange message by the hotel clerk dressed in black. “I can’t read it Poontang. It appears to be some sort of coded message in a language I’m not familiar with.”

 

Poontang was more than a beautiful Asian undercover agent,  in addition to having  the talent to fuck in 10 languages,  could also read and speak five planetary languages and four Retropolin  dialects. When she was spying for the Com-Reds of the Red East she was a trained linguist and code breaker, as well as a sharpshooter with her Annie Oakley vagina.

She snatched the piece of paper from my hands with the fervor of a rabid Canadian beaver (which in a sense, she was!) and I could see her eyes, beautiful as they were normally, now enlarged.  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.

 

“It’s from Sappho Strangelove! I used to work with her during the war with the Antarian  Lesbians. She was the best. She could turn a lesbian into jello in five minutes. We milked the Antarians, no pun intended, for information of disruption plans, bomb making basement factories, and learned about the development of the Jane Russell Exploding Shrapnel Bra  Pinata Drones which were being manufactured in a rapid pace as the rebellious minions were beginning to undergo underground  undergarment training bra training.”

 

Sappho  was good from what Poontang said, rather slavishly I felt. I could picture Poontang and Sappho now. Two pro’s having a go go go. Back to the revolution I told myself. “So what happened to her,” I found myself panting.

“The Bureau doubted her loyalties to the Com-Red party. After the revolt was squashed like a baby raccoon hit by a bulldozer,  she disappeared and  never left word with me. Not a good bye, gee you were great in the sack...nothing.  I was never sure if she escaped or was killed by Com-Red Intel. Now I know…..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 have to proceed with caution though.  it’s owned by Narco Marx and  he wants the Strip Tease Falcon and will kill anyone who stands in his way. I’ve dealt with him before! He’s fat and dangerous!”

I took it all in as she spoke. Her words and warnings were as 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 Sappho Strangelove as well and was looking forward to meeting her. Poontang  Pemalang and Sappho Strangelove. A double header with  the doublemint Olsen 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.

Everything was beginning  to scare the hell out me. Every obstacle imaginable lay ahead and death was 50/50 proposition. There was the ample sized Wall  of China, Narco Marx who would kill his own child to get his fat hands on the Falcon … then there were the Com-Red agents who had been (we discovered later)tailing us all the way from Retropolis,  not to mention  the enforcers of Toho itself who would vaporize me in a speed of light minute if they knew part of  the nature of my mission to Robotia was to find the Strip Tease Falcon and remove it from their domain thereby reducing their power and influence in the remote Ford Galaxy after they had weakened the Dystopian Empire in our own solar system.

As for Poontang and Sappho? They would be Cyborg’d and transformed into a Transsexual Transformer Ambsextrous  Robotic Sex Workers if we were discovered and captured by Tohoians.  The key to our quest to find the Falcon and Poontangs sister Mary Asteroid was now in the hands of the three of us...no help...no runs...no hits.. . Something told me..it was all one big ballgame  and I was next up at the plate to bat.

Chapter 14 - Old Chum Cabaret

 

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 Sappho Strangelove  at 10 P.M. at the Old Chum Cabaret, but I managed to talk Poontang into arriving early to have a few Soma’s and Robotian beer, and although not the best brew for a Bukowski buzz in Dystopia, it would do the job.

We arrived at 8 P.M. ahead of our meet and greet and  the place was already in full swing! It was officially 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 the phrase has  broken free of my cranial orbit I  could  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 a  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 the annual anal fancy dress gold and silver lame’ Fomulhaut fetish ball.

Yes, boys will be girl, and girls will be boys, and tonight the Robotian cabaret scene was locked and loaded on kink and twink. The place was alive with temptingtransvestites 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 heavy metal Josepine Baker  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 a ring-a-ding-ding Rat Pack sexual abandon 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 Impersonators were making it on stage 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 exoticed. There was plenty of Soma and cannabis along with a comfortably numb clientele adding to the highly charged sexual nature of the floor show. It was home turf for the enigmatic Sappho Strangelove as she had been performing, under an assumed name and persona  on the galactic cabaret circuit since  the last Lesbian wars, managing now to extract classified information from seduced Toho military officers for sale to the highest bidder 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, originally an old warehouse underwent  an urbane urban renewal transformation as the old ghetto mentality of sit and drink was replaced by flamboyance and panache of the notorious red light district. It came complete with a bright  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. The rules did not apply to them. Rules were cast aside into invisibility and were  non-existent while flesh, machine  and fantasy merged into a Picasso dreamscape.


Everything on the stage was ripe with sexual innuendo 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 from every quadrant of the galactic compost pile. Strange bedfellows indeed, but, interesting wouldn't you say?


There was a plethora of porcelain boys with too much moulin rouge and highlighting eye-popping eyeliner who would parade around the tables as wanton waiters. Lesbianism was now flaunting itself openly and deliciously. Fuck the puritanical 20th Century Age of Aquarius...this was the dawn of an era some historians have referred to as that of the Pink Millenium,  as the streets were awash with the date raping pink punks on dope strolling 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.


Long ago, it was the age of the 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 anatomical on comical canvas. He was  a real 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 Gertrude Stein enjoyed 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 P.M. Sappho entered. She was stunningly beautiful.  It was the fabled second coming and I was ready to get my Retropolin moon rocks off!


Sappho Strangelove. 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 her life and times. Now as this legendary sex spy entered my peripheral vision, she had me turned on and my booster rocket was ready for lift off…I only hope Poontang wouldn’t notice my pre-afterglow glow...but, as  usual...I underestimated her powers of observation, especially where my male action zone was activated south of my gun belt equator.

Chapter 15 - The Rainbow Villian

Poontang and Sappho, the twin towers of sexual power were in a highly animated state one would confuse with an amphetamine overdose. They  had worked together in deadly dangerous situations displaying  heaping platefuls of daring cosmic kosher  chutzpah guaranteed to excite the senses, not to mention creating within me Soma fueled  hallucinations of the hydraulic heaven of their rear ends rotating on my own pivotal  below the belt buckle axis. They managed to preserve their combined galactic sexuality with an invisible force field protective thong.  These two were a deadly secret spy weapon..a weapon of ass destruction. I’d spill the beans and every state secret I knew if they were interrogating me believe me.

Just sitting between them they also have a scented  weapon in the form of a  secretion they  unleash from the vaginal quadrant vaginal. It happens at certain times of the month when Poontangs scent was as tangy as a Turkish back alley bordello after a busy Saturday night  when the Russian fleet gets shore leave after a bounce through the Bosporus! You go girls!


In time, 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!"

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 from Uranus 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 Old San Franciso and I didn't want to shine! Beware the Rise of the seat up seat down Toilet Machines..it's here now John Conner!


As the tempting teases left to keep their powder dry, I became  acutely aware  of a sweet, yet pungent aroma enveloping me. The slightly feminine aroma grew in aromatic strength, a slow motion malevolent sinister slow creepshow shadow cast its ominous image on our table from behind eclipsing the Eroti-bot stage show lighting, which by now was in full microchip madness.
All shadows from behind are ominous, but  in the steamy dangerous fog night of mysterious Robotia they are enough to kick your protective reactionary reflexes into warp speed plus one. My fingers reached slowly and carefully inside my  frayed overcoat, my fingertips dancing gently doing a flamenco dance in a full five fingered Spaniard head thrust back foot stomping strut on the butt of my fully automatic Link Wray Laser Luger. I was coiled and ready to strike. I was wound  tighter than a heroin addict going cold turkey, minus the shakes and vomiting of course.

As I turned half around in my chair  in  what must have seemed a slow jerky stop action King Kong  movement 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 he was drowning in a sea of orchid perfume and something else. My olfactory senses decided it was a combination of scents from a garden found only  behind the chinese noodle factories on Bengkulu and that of a  feminine hygiene product.


I figured he was more of a cartoonish Peter Lorre Warner Brothers wannabe and relaxed the grip on my trusty Link Wray as he tipped his fez and introduced himself with a bizarre lisping accent I couldn’t place. I was usually pretty good with accents, but this palooka had me  stuck in neutral for an answer. “Good evening Mr. Yucatan. I was sent by a mutual business contact who you will soon meet..a Mr. Narco Marx,” he said with his snarling falsetto voice  as he spoke the name. “My name is Joel Faberge and I am a Fabulon from the planet Fabulous in the Formaldehyde Formation. Mr. Narco 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 Pez candy  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, the two James Bond Babes had returned from their most excellent hygiene adventure, and something told me by the look on Sappho’s  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? Did Narco put his pet dog on our trail? Oh yes, Doc, this little Fabulon is a real prize. Weak and sniveling. Does Narco’s dirty work when not having his 16 nail manicure. Did you frisk little frisky? Always carries concealed and will vape you for a free feather boa!”

Joel began to shriek maniacally at Sappho, (Sorry but there is no other way to describe it’s 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 cannolis!”

I thought the two of them would go at it right there in the middle of the cabaret show, and I didn’t want to miss the T and A grand robot finale, but what the hell a good down and dirty cat fight between a sexy covert black ops vixen and a flamboyant multi-sexual could be arousing. Poontang and I didn’t say a word during the initial fireworks. I broke in only when I found a breach in the screeching. “Look you two. We all know what this is about, I mean why Joel is here and being fabulous” I said breaking a smile, so let’s put our petty diff’s aside and get down to biz, before the falcon gets any fabulous ideas and flies away again!” I looked over at the hurt Peter Lorre expression on Joel’s face. He had been humiliated in public, so i leaned over to him, gave Poontang a wink and said to him in a gravelly whisper, “Is your Chicken Piccata really that good?” His face lit up and he began laughing. ‘It’s better than her cannolis!” he replied. A this point both of them had blown off steam and had calmed down and began to laugh. We paid the check, actually I had Poontang pay it as I was broke and part of our verbal contract called for her to pay all expenses on this trip. We all left together with the Fabulon, hailed a  cab and were cruising the dark streets of Robotia 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..I never made it with a Fabulon before, so I was game for anything.

Chapter 16 - Narco Marx

 

 

Narco Marx was the Ghengis Khan of glitz and glitter,  holding forth and holding court with his mincing  minions of  Mongol malcontents, hell bent on galactic conquest. He was the gangsters gangsta. He would trade in Cyborg slaves,illegal Uranian drugs, and murder for hire, blackmail and extortion.  He would play both sides and there was a price for everything….a steep price.

 

His Khanate KIngdom was ornate with a decadent  overkill feeling of faux Sultan of Swing. His penthouse overlooked the elevated metropolis cityscape of art decadence Fritz Lang inspired Robotia. The decor was  a cross between an old  19th Century Turkish harem and a cheap shag carpeted motel room that charges by the hour, a real Motel Six for sex. Everything was done with an over abundance of gaudy purple haze  all around curtains, reminiscent of those thick rich Victorian Era parlors. Strobe lights pulsed suggestively from hidden recessed spaces in the room while a dozen or so strategically place blacklight strobes  undulated doing a Andelian planet pole dance on the black light enhanced walls. Narco referred to his abominable abode as a cerebral antebellum….I looked at as a William Burroughs pharmacological funny farm with a homosexual surreal reality.

The retro hovercraft IKEA furniture was overstuffed,  as was our host, 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 planet of Suzi Quatro Stroma  in the Areola Galaxy.

When we arrived we got frisked by a sleepy, yawning,  yet overly frisky bodyguard. We turned over our weapons to prove we were not John Wilkes Booth trying to enter the theater in search of a Yankee headshot.

 

We entered to behold...behold? We weren’t quite sure what we were to behold. Also, I just like the word, no one says that anymore. It’s a crying shame. Poontang spoke first with a sarcastic edge to her raspy Kathleen Turner voice as Narco entered the room with flair and fanfare, not to mention a syrupy selection of Broadway show tunes he sang to music piped in karaoke style over loudspeakers hidden, decibel snipers waiting for a target for his butchering of the greasepaint greats.    Sappho and myself were both startled by her tone of familiarity mixed with sarcasm, but, obviously It was showtime as  Narco appeared from behind a curtain I hadn’t noticed before, dressed regally in a full tent Marlon Brando-Fat Elvis kaftan complete with a full face of Oprah makeover make-up singing popular solar system show tunes.

“Dahlings,” Poontang said in her best upscale Boston affectation playing the role of Mistress of Ceremonies, “Here he is ladies and gents. Narco Marx the  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 Queerubian 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.  He was bizarre, no question about that, and his voice I have to admit..stellar and  faster than a speeding falsetto...he could bend a Ethel Merman high note in his bare hands  disguised as Maria Callas in Nureyev's body complete with ballet bulge.

He had an Klaus Nomi operatic rock and roll voice and was sporting a turquoise  outer limits outer space Brian Setzer mile high piled high pompadour hair-do that looked 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 at ten decibels.

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 substrata of masturbation and creativity, and creative masturbation. You need to have your card punched to gain entree to this world. It was Schindler’s A-List without the Nazi's but was a real space gas chamber 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 Rodney Dangerous Maximus who first wowed the crowd while touring Mesapotamia with Moses and Abraham, the first of the comedy trios, (pre-dating Larry, Moe and Curly) who played to packed houses of Philistines  in their prime)



There are no others like Narco and when he implodes and dies,  his star will shine as bright as ever in the skies at night..pick one out yourself...it's him in the heavens..probably he 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 Poontang and  Sappho to enjoy a private fetish fantasy moment in private of being the meat in their sandwich, as Narco ended his entrancing dancing entrance 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 applauding madly.
,
Narco sat his bulk in a floatation hover chair. “Ah, I am  pleased to see you again Poontang, even though our last encounter was one of an adversarial nature. We have so much unfinished business to complete, regarding the, uh,  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. Thought you might have some information or insight,” I said as kiss ass diplomatically as I could.

 

Narco released a laugh from the inner earth of his massive girth. “Ah yes, lovely Mary Asteroid. You do get to the point, Mr Yucatan and you don’t waste time beating  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 Sunset Boulevard dead monkey.

More formality as thick as formaldehyde as Narco called for liberating libations. “Now, we must toast our unique alliance and discuss matters of the Strip Tease Falcon and of course, dear, dear, Mary Asteroid. Faberge, please! the Cassini wine. I’ve been saving it for just such an occasion and this appears to be that occassion.


Glasses filled, we toasted our host “To the Falcon” Glasses clinked but I kept a wary eye on Narco and Faberge. I didn’t trust either of them, and time 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 in search of the Falcon. We could be outgunned, outfoxed and could, if we were not on our guard,  drop dead like flies on a flophouse floor!

Chapter 17 - Crosshairs of the Kill Zone

 

Narco Marx was, is and always will be one of those  perennial preposterously pompous planetary psychos of a  star with the magnitude of Sirius and the density of Antares, not to mention more girth and  gravitational chuztpah than the planet Jupiter. His cunning for escaping justice is not only legendary, but, as infinite as the universe...and more dangerous than an Amish sex fiend on Viagra during Rumspringa Break.

Narco’s  Nebulon liquor continued its unimpeded hospitable flow in torrential typhoon torrents.  I had to keep reminding myself that Narco never gave anything for free without expecting something more in return on the scales of balance in unbalanced return. He probably paid his own mother to breastfeed him, or held her at gunpoint as he belly’d up to the breast bar. Another round barkeep!

He wanted the Striptease Falcon more than a hooker wants to get paid and move on to the next mattress. I was happy just to watch a stiptease in a smoky bar that smells like stale beer and a dancers thong while she’s doing a limbo lap dance on my libido.

 

Narco’s conviviality hardly masked his subterranean intentions. Poontang, Sappo and myself, none of us strangers to the old “out of nowhere here it comes double cross” knew we were living on the edge of cliff and the mountain was about fall on us...Mt. Narco Marx that is. The most dangerous drag queen 35 degrees west of the circumpolar constellation of bi-polar, north-south consternation,  Andromeda, the mythical daughter of the king and queen of the solar system’s version of Ethiopia

My circuitry had a frayed synapse and my instincts 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 so we can get down to business,” Narco declared and with a finger poppin’ daddy-o of a  snap of 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 Joel Faberge to fetch like a trained Pavlovian dog in heat. 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 of anything at that point.

Robotian ganja is a potent and powerful smoke highly coveted throughout the galaxy, and the combination of Nebulon booze and the strain of Robotian Dead Head Panama Red grown in great quantities could send you into orbit around Robotias twin moons, name appropriately “Cheech” and “Chong” where the killer weed was sown and grown before it is inhaled and goes up in smoke.

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. I was  a comfortably numb space mime most times according to my publisher, Arthur.

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 Strip Tease Falcon. I have my own reasons which I’m sure you suspect. Poontang, yes, I have your sister, and can assure you, for the moment she is quite safe and unharmed. Sappho, 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 his breathing stopped.

He also had some intell we didn’t have. “The Com-Reds have been following all of you since you left Retropolis and Toho Police know 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. 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 Sappho which will also ensure your safety from being vaporized by your former Com-Red comrades and, ah yes, M. Yucatan you, Poontang and her sister, 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.

Narco was good. I had to 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, Poontangs love for her sister and Sappho’s lust for power.

He was the maestro playing us like a finely tuned symphony orchestra, using  our individual weaknesses to set us up for the mission and quite possibly...the kill zone!

Chapter 18 - The Lesbian Revolution (The Kotex Vortex)

The first step in any journey on the path to locate stolen merchandise or scant evidence at any crime scene is the one that leads you to door Number One….the one right in front of you. What better place to begin the beguine than at the headwaters. You can paddle your way up the Forensic River from there following along the riverbank trail of clues that lie along the way. In time you’ll become as proficient a space age trailblazer as James Fennimore Cooper’s last 26th Century radioactive nuclear Mohican.


The Strip Tease Falcon was stolen from the Tohos by persons unknown, although it was a widely accepted theory that the nefarious and gregarious Narco Marx had his fat paws in the robot cookie jar in some manner. Proof? Naw. Not a clue was left behind implicating Narco in the kidnapping of an inanimate object. The real crowning achievement of the criminal process would require the skill of a Barnum and Bailey juggling mime to get it off the planet, hold it hostage, then sell it to the highest bidder.  

Most trained criminologists such as myself would agree on one prominent factor. The  Strip Tease Falcon was not just the most powerful source of power in the known universe that in the improper hands could play God. It was a Rock Star! In the realm of galactic supremacy it is to the world of conquest what Jimmy Page in the 20th and 21st Century was to the guitar. We were however, not on a musical stairway to heaven. We were instead going headfirst, headlong into the kill zone.


It was too well known to have been smuggled off the planet avoiding detection by a vigilant and well trained Intel organization. Especially one as advanced and thorough  as the Robotian Toho network. Even the slithering servile Joel Faberge couldn’t shed his skin in molting season to escape detection, and he was an expert at deception and pulling off a feminine haute couture look without batting an elongated elegant eyelash to go with his Joan Crawford eyebrows and shoulder pads.

The hiding in plain sight theory was backed by Narco  and our adventure was about to begin as Poontang, Sappho and I  were off to find the Falcon, the wonderful Falcon of  mechanical  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, Poontang and Sappho could only think of one local group with enough chutzpah to score the bird. The fearless all female  Labia Hill Gang.  My Com-Red fox on the run, Poontang and the exciting Miss Strangelove,   knew more about this espionage stuff than I did and both of them had quite a set of invisible balls themselves.

Labeled gangsters by the Toho reactionary Supreme Council... the Labias were not mobsters. They were more dangerous than Luca Brazzi in the “Godfather”. They were revolutionaries! The Cyborg  “underground” comprised of uncompromising deadly Cyborg Amazon women who broke free of their captors and  rose up against the Toho’s who were about to transform them into sex machines through forced  “Erotiobotization.”  The initial revolt, small as it was, was put down with massive ruthlessness by the machine machismo of the full robot mecha-army at the Tohos disposal. The half robotic cyborgs were no match and the rebellion, far from over, merely went underground to continue the fight, but not before other Cyborg females  were freed in a victorious vaginal assault by the newly formed Labian army.

Lucky me, instead of a carnal pleasure carnival cruise with two sexually exciting and talented human Retropolin Bond Babers I was instead  going on a journey to the center of Robotia’s revolution which was still smoldering  in the streets in small pockets of resistance. The resistance movement was minimal at best and the Labia’s were outgunned at every turn.

The three of us  left Narcos penthouse. 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. Poontang and Sappho Strangelove were both highly trained in the school of one-shot one -kill arts whereas I sometimes had to empty a full nine yards of Link Wray power just to wound a perverted pornographer from Pluto.


We traveled to a neighborhood that my Com-Red poster girls knew about on far east side of the city, where the Labia Hill Gang held their ground. It was dubiously referred to on Intel charts at Robotia’s Toho 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?

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.

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 enclave were completely surrounded by watchtowers (not to be confused with a wall of Jehovah Witnesses banging on doors)  armored personnel carriers and armored personnel as well. Sporadic gunfire could be hear  from inside the confines of the G-Spot Ghetto as it was also known, along with the battle stench of the human Toho dead who didn’t move fast enough to dodge a bullet.

It was now or never. We had to act fast. It was a golden opportunity  to penetrate the Labia’s outer and inner wall that acted as protection and a stronghold..perhaps “penetrate the labia” is a poor choice of words but it seemed to fit our precarious situation. We had to go into invisible Ninja mode. I’ve been a Ninja before in my life and wasn’t about to start with all the Bruce Lee stealth movements this late in the game.

We found a location in the wall near the wide expanse of the 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 our other competitors for the Falcon seemed our only other option, and we opted to follow an imaginary rabbit into the  Rabbit Hole and begin our adventures in Revolution Wonderland with a full rebel army of notorious victorious clitoris at our disposal.

Chapter 19 - The Ninth Gate of Hell

As we entered the devastated carcass of a once vibrant section of the city known as the Kotex Vortex, I was stunned by the ruin that surrounded us, an unholy urban halo of destruction, the odor of the rotting flesh of the dead on both sides of a hundred hit and run battles, good versus evil, and the dance of flames emerging, doing a fandango amidst the collapsed rubble consuming what was inside as fast as books could burn at Farenheit 451.

Once lively 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 muffled “thump brump” rumble of ongoing laser artillery created a fantastic faux lunar landscape of rubble in an attempt to crush the revolt bringing it to it’s knees, genuflecting to the government, 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 the Toho Death Squads with hit or miss results as we crouched low in the darkened city section wending our way to the relative safety of the rebel headquarters.  As we nervously kept out of harm’s 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 some crazy 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 Poontang and Sappho. Poontang tossed me a literary life preserver as I was a man overboard and over my head in such strange and surreal waters in the kotex vortex of a female led revolution on a planet  that had nothing to do with me.

“The Rabbit, Doc, is a person...not a thing,” she began. Damn I loved when she called me Doc I could feel the sexual gap closing causing  our sexual 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 now….bang….here was another one.

“Why “The Rabbit”? I queried in a haggard, tired voice, to which Strangelove enlightened the buddha in me as one of her hidden multiple personalities made itself known. Her voice deepened accompanied by a staccato rat-ta-tat-tat Galactic Gatling Gun speech pattern vaguely familiar.  She escaped capture and disappeared along with what was left of her fighting force to a place and space that was not just another brick hole in the wall. In fact, it’s hard to find. It’s called the Kotex Vortex and is a vortex of a different color of space and time. Enter it and you are in a completely different dimension. One  not only of sight and sound but one of space and time. This dimension beyond that which is known to man. It is a dimension as vast as space and as 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 which we call the Kotex Vortex!”
My Gawd it was Rod Serling with a vagina!!! Poontang inserted as if to punctuate matters, “They named it “The Rabbit Hole and she was named, The Rabbit. Understand?”


“Why not Lady Godiva,” I replied with a smile.  “I like that one in fact. Yeah, Lady Godiva, that’s it.” The faltered joke did not play well with my two feminist companions. Let’s face it, I had taken too many punches in the head and besides, I was bushed and beat and still hungover noticing my last comment went over as well as Elvis death jokes in Memphis.

I keep telling myself, someday I’ll got to haul 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. I didn’t want to chance Retropolin police state hospitalization. Next thing you know I’d be fighting other patients in the shower and  one night wake up startled facing a giant Indian standing over me with a pillow while Native American  flute music came out of nowhere.


At this conversation juncture sexy Strangelove chimed in. “She started the revolt inadvertently, through her public speaking against Erotobtization of females, arrested by the authorities, then released, but felt she had a mission, an obligation to follow as  Erotibotization increased and more females were rounded up unwillingly 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 that served as a night light for street hookers in old broken Hoboken.  

Sappho described her with what I felt was a stimulated  appreciative tone that hadn’t gone unnoticed by Poontang either. She was, according to Sappho’s 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. Unlike the Venus statue..she also had two arms. An anatomical bonus!

Christ, I was 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. She also had  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 with 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 in between, and there were plenty of those around from the ORSON Orwellian Outpost in the Sansa Belt Action Zone.

She was a female Madame Ovary, bored with mundane day to day living with a cause that lit the fires of indignation in her causing the release of  a fierce Virginia Woolfe energy burst that would destroy everything in her path.  She was a Napoleonic military strategist who gained cult rebel status of iconic proportions and she appeals to both genders.  I couldn’t wait to meet this rebel with a sexual cause sporting a three speed Atomic Hip and Thigh Thruster, yet,  I couldn’t help imagining her as an Erotibot either, 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 Poontang and Ms. Strangelove  wanted to find this Rabbit, but for different reasons that now became clear.

What was clear was that the  Rabbit had gone underground...deep underground and we all had something to lose if we failed...our lives perhaps. We finally  arrived amidst the shelling 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 Poontang and Strangelove know about the emergency entrance and exit to the Kotex Vortex? It was a secret right? How could Strangelove describe her in such detail from rumor and hearsay, with Poontang assenting to its 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…

Chapter 20 - Red Zeppelin

 

I had to blast the old rusted lock off the imposing studded steel door of the former lesbian headquarters with my trusty Link Wray Ray Gun the most powerful handgun of the solar day and lunar night complete with a deadly DOA vapor disintegration setting. The weapon was designed and developed for limited use over 30 years ago by an arms scientist named Wesson Smith-Smythe, a former British commando until he went rogue and became arms dealer to the armless. Only the police and para-military had these weapons. Guns were confiscated from the general population after Dirty Harry films were banned for causing crazed 1st graders to go all Clint Eastwood in lunch room after lunch room over leftover Jello and chocolate cookies.  

The company’s motto summed up the guns purpose succinctly...DISINTEGRATION THEN, DISINTEGRATION NOW, DISINTEGRATION FOREVER.  

That piece of titanium made fire power saved my sorry drunken ass many times. One day...five Retropolin years ago, I was on a case involving a gang of Hydran mineral thieves I was hired to track and bring into Promethean Headquarters. They were stealing power crystals in the old Nevada nuclear Trinity test site, now an amusement park. The crystals are  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 of the capricious culprits red handed, or blue handed in this case. Hydrans are one colorful race of blue beings from the Planet Hydra spinning in orbit in an area known as the “Crossroads”  where the Robert Johnson Solar System  is home to a region of planets known for their muddy waters. Hydrans are ugly. Beyond ugly. A leper with half a face is sexier.  Hydrans have 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.

They saw me approach and immediately began firing. I fired back with my accurate Link Wray and wounded one of the blue tri-heads as the others made good their escape with the goods.   As the wounded perp lay prone on the ground bleeding its lavender blood slower than a stopped up catsup bottle I stood over it..game over. I 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 hospital knew me well. The price you sometimes have to cough up to stay in this game. Two years ago 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 Poontang, Strangelove and myself  forced headquarters door open we were immediately spotted by a Toho 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  small arms shell  casings 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 Che Godiva and  the secret location of the fantastic Falcon while trying to free Mary Asteroid and save our own asses in the bargain. It was all a crap shoot now  until Poontang fessed up. “Strangelove and I know where she is Doc, c’mon but keep the Link Wray’s on max and turn the safety off,” she hollered with the authority of a voodoo dominatrix as we raced sweating drenched back  into 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 a Labian Recon Team hoping we wouldn’t become a target of both sides.  

We ran through the streets as scared and blind as Helen Keller in a machete factory.
“Goddamn it,” I screamed.  “If you knew where she was why didn’t you bark it out sooner. Might have saved us from almost getting fried and vaped.” Then it hit me with the impact of a crash dummy hitting the wall.“Excuse me,”  I said. 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 Strangelove  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.”

Poontang 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 Pying Pyong Korea between the current  paddle pong champs who use live grenade pong balls.

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  from the rubble surrounding us. The Hypos had spotted us just 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 while a flotilla of drones in a flying wedge formation headed 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 were in search of the Falcon and the Toho’s knew it and were following us. In effect 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 given a 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 my bad luck was on the path of of a losing streak!

Chapter 21 - General Elvis & The Space Junkies

A Red Zeppelin tank  flanked by a flotilla of  armored vehicles dead stopped in front of us kicking up a faceful of dust and debris. These were not the sleek svelt killing machines of today by a long shot.  Incredible hulks of metal taken as the confiscated bulky beasts of war looted by the Toho’s in their recent “intervention” in the internal affairs of the Planet Patton.

Gawd they looked out of date, time and place..not win place and show. Real “whatever happened to Baby Jane” has beens, once were, never agains.
They were heavy metal military looking dread tread contraptions from an earlier era... time warped junk yard dogs with rusting weapons protruding from armored slits. Mobile fortresses with unforgiving fire power and enough bite and bark to accompany the gauntlet of the Generalissimo machismo that soon emerged from the command vehicle with the torn faded insignia haphazardly sewn onto his army surplus chic non-com uniform that suddenly made him a faux general.

He was an Elvis impersonator sporting a pair of Midas Memphis “thank you very much” gold lame pants and oversized orange sunglasses. Great, I’d seen this kind of character before...in cartoons mainly,  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 celebrity just in time for the next dinner show! Viva Robotia!

Known as the Hound Dog,  he and his merry hypo hipster hop head henchmen approached us armed with older version Faye Ray model ray guns, not as deadly as our Link Wray guns, but we were outnumbered ten to one. The Faye Raye’s were 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 landmines called “billy barty’s” to blow the small 15 inch legs off of a midget and other terrorists posing as little people.

Even at it's highest setting, sedate stun, it’s no match for our state of the art rock, cocked and locked trusty Link Wray Defender model with it’s “kill them all” max setting as advertised in Field and Stream of Consciousness magazine and other guns and ammo periodicals periodically produced by the Ted Nugent XXIII Publishing Company.

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  Poontang making a subtle move for her weapons safety catch.  Strangelove 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.   Poontang 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 Robotia’s 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 smashed pinata and spilled out, falling and bouncing down the streets to hinder our quest for the Falcon.

All of the Red Zeppelin gang members had the same vacant look. Crazed and deranged thanks to the popular street drug known simply as Kardashian Buttocks. It was scene out of my favorite hologram movie “Clockwork Kubrick Goes to the Circus” where Lenny Bruce has junkie juice flowing hot and steamy, and he is 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 imagination allowed me a libido laden 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. Except for the needle tracks on their arms and cold turkey sweats I’d fuck one.

Hound Dog himself was no prize either. He was notorious in this pus filled little proletarian 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.

“Poontang and Strangelove. 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 Poontang. 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 it ladyboy...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 Poontang?”

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. Poontang 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  Poontang 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 this one Yucatan! Oh gawd, you’re gonna love it I promise!” He  exploded in a gale force wind of laughter as we followed the Hound Dog  to safe harbor amid the smoke and grime and the rubble. I couldn’t help but notice the pale worried looks on both Poontang and Strangeloves 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.

Chapter 22 - Ethel Merman Fishnet Cyborgs

 

 

We followed the Hipster rebels to Red Zeppelin headquarters, or a reasonable facsimile of a military compound if your army consisted of The Three Stooges in a Tim Burton film. Sweaty pipes overhead leaked hot water giving 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.  


“Nice place ya got here,” Poontang said with a smirk in her voice. “You always were a snarky bitch,” the General replied. “Sit. Coffee?” We all shook our heads. “No coffee, but if you have Toklas Brownies around here,” I blurted out. “I could use a  buzz about now.” The General  snapped his greasy fingers and his whacked out toady brought out a tray of some of the best buzz brownies a mechanical planet could offer.  

As we got buzz bombed, the General got down to biz buzzed. “My men can get you safely to 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 Poontang can get you in and out without any problem.” Who the hell were these Rabbit Hole Amazons anyway, and more importantly how do they know Poontang?

Soon the Toklas infusion hit me full force and  I was  as comfortably numb as a coma patient in Bellevue awaiting transfer to a cuckoo’s nest. The General leaned his khaki camo bulk forward, obviously to be emphatic. “I do however, have one condition. Unless you agree  to it, then we do not have a  deal!” We had no choice so we bit the bullet. “You will get the Falcon off the planet and away from the Tohos. If they regain it they will be a formidable foe and squash the revolt. We can handle them now and we will fight the Rabbit and her gang on even ground in our little civil war, but, should the Tohos regain their former power the revolution as a whole  is at an end.”

“Agreed,” I grumbled.  He didn’t know we already had plans to exchange the Falcon for Poontangs sister anyway and that meant the Narco Marx factor. Who knows what he thought we were going to with it being the simple single minded revolutionary that he is.


“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, but first you have to get past the Ethel Merman Cyborgs  and Bob Fosse Fishnets here in the Vortex!” We control this vector, the Rabbits control the Rabbit Hole, but these two groups are relatively new to us. We’ll eventually wipe them but for now a mere annoyance.  Great, more pretenders to the throne of this shithole Vortex.

Strangelove motioned for us to get moving, so we exchanged our good speed wishes and lucks and made a hasty exit from Red Zep headquarters with his men running interference for us in the streets where the battle was still raging. The stench of the vaped body count added to the musty smell of the standing water and dead space rats mingling in the grey fog of death and 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.


The sky was filled with  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 and in the bargain bring back to Falcon within their collective reach.

A reality check reminded me...they both wanted the Falcon  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 already held the trump card, having dealt himself into  game early for his grab at the pot of gold. In all likelihood be the last man standing.


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 where grey card tones fought  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  that 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.

Poontang stopped fast, alarmed. “Look. We’ve got trouble,” she whispered. As my eyes focused through the gauze of grey I had to agree. 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 PMS murder in their eyes.

I could tell by the look on her face it was just about showtime. “OK Doc now we have a fight on our hands. Those are the Ethel Mermans, and the Bob Fosse Fishnets. What the General forgot to tell you is  one group, the Merman’s, are escaped human female and male pre-op  slaves from Retropolis who were  kidnapped and destined for Robotian bordellos after conversion into Erotibot cyborgs … the others are full fledged Toho Female Erotibot Warriors the Toho’s sent in to recapture the Mermans. They’ve been fighting to stalemate for two years now. Both are  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 deranged Erotibots. 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 pre-op  lesbian cyborg could  find love in the heart of Mechanical Maniacal Maria, a Puerto Rican Erotibot.



These two  gangs wage war wearing  Kevlar fishnets using outdated guns doing lavish programed dance numbers (they were created to do pole dancing and strip in some of the hottest clubs in the galaxy after all!)  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 sensChapter 23 The Ethel Merman Cyborgs and Bob Fosse Fishnet Erotibots
We followed the Hipster rebels to Red Zeppelin headquarters, or a reasonable facsimile of a military compound if your army consisted of The Three Stooges in a Tim Burton film. Sweaty pipes overhead leaked hot water giving 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.  


“Nice place ya got here,” Poontang said with a smirk in her voice. “You always were a snarky bitch,” the General replied. “Sit. Coffee?” We all shook our heads. “No coffee, but if you have Toklas Brownies around here,” I blurted out. “I could use a  buzz about now.” The General  snapped his greasy fingers and his whacked out toady brought out a tray of some of the best buzz brownies a mechanical planet could offer.  

As we got buzz bombed, the General got down to biz buzzed. “My men can get you safely to 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 Poontang can get you in and out without any problem.” Who the hell were these Rabbit Hole Amazons anyway, and more importantly how do they know Poontang?

Soon the Toklas infusion hit me full force and  I was  as comfortably numb as a coma patient in Bellevue awaiting transfer to a cuckoo’s nest. The General leaned his khaki camo bulk forward, obviously to be emphatic. “I do however, have one condition. Unless you agree  to it, then we do not have a  deal!” We had no choice so we bit the bullet. “You will get the Falcon off the planet and away from the Tohos. If they regain it they will be a formidable foe and squash the revolt. We can handle them now and we will fight the Rabbit and her gang on even ground in our little civil war, but, should the Tohos regain their former power the revolution as a whole  is at an end.”

“Agreed,” I grumbled.  He didn’t know we already had plans to exchange the Falcon for Poontangs sister anyway and that meant the Narco Marx factor. Who knows what he thought we were going to with it being the simple single minded revolutionary that he is.


“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, but first you have to get past the Ethel Merman Cyborgs  and Bob Fosse Fishnets here in the Vortex!” We control this vector, the Rabbits control the Rabbit Hole, but these two groups are relatively new to us. We’ll eventually wipe them but for now a mere annoyance.  Great, more pretenders to the throne of this shithole Vortex.

Strangelove motioned for us to get moving, so we exchanged our good speed wishes and lucks and made a hasty exit from Red Zep headquarters with his men running interference for us in the streets where the battle was still raging. The stench of the vaped body count added to the musty smell of the standing water and dead space rats mingling in the grey fog of death and 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.


The sky was filled with  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 and in the bargain bring back to Falcon within their collective reach.

A reality check reminded me...they both wanted the Falcon  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 already held the trump card, having dealt himself into  game early for his grab at the pot of gold. In all likelihood be the last man standing.


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 where grey card tones fought  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  that 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.

Poontang stopped fast, alarmed. “Look. We’ve got trouble,” she whispered. As my eyes focused through the gauze of grey I had to agree. 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 PMS murder in their eyes.

I could tell by the look on her face it was just about showtime. “OK Doc now we have a fight on our hands. Those are the Ethel Mermans, and the Bob Fosse Fishnets. What the General forgot to tell you is  one group, the Merman’s, are escaped human female and male pre-op  slaves from Retropolis who were  kidnapped and destined for Robotian bordellos after conversion into Erotibot cyborgs … the others are full fledged Toho Female Erotibot Warriors the Toho’s sent in to recapture the Mermans. They’ve been fighting to stalemate for two years now. Both are  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 deranged Erotibots. 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 pre-op  lesbian cyborg could  find love in the heart of Mechanical Maniacal Maria, a Puerto Rican Erotibot.



These two  gangs wage war wearing  Kevlar fishnets using outdated guns doing lavish programed dance numbers (they were created to do pole dancing and strip in some of the hottest clubs in the galaxy after all!)  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.


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 Link Wrays set to kill mode. Countdown...one..two..three...kick...one...two...three...kick! Fire!
uous sweat, attached to a fantasy female with spangles and tassels that sparkle and dangle.


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 Link Wrays set to kill mode. Countdown...one..two..three...kick...one...two...three...kick! Fire!

Chapter 23 - The Eves of Destruction

 

 

According to Poontang, these humanoids were called the Eves of Destruction and were 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 Piper’s 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 Eve’s 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..  

Poontang  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.

Strangelove also 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.

Strangelove  offered a little more insight. “I fought side by side with the Eves when on 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 my usual 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 Steinem 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 let’s 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…

Poontang 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 Poontang. 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!” Poontang 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, Poontang and Strangelove  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.

“Strangelove…. Baby...damn it’s you and I see you brought that delicious can of Eskimo tuna with you. Good to see you Poontang. What in hell you doing here? Back to join us?” Strangelove threw her head back laughing. “No. 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 two? They were female in appearance with a slight rustic yet exotic look about them. Poontang,  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,  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...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 transbots 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.  

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.




“Down Doc!” Poontang blurted out admonishingly. “There’s plenty of them here so if you don’t bang Strangelove  you might get lucky with a transbot!” 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.


Long agreed  “It gets worse at night. The Tohos have modified the Erotibots with 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.

Chapter 24 - LSD 25 & The Parallel Universe

 

I have my own Joan Jett Blackheart Model 420 Cherry Bomb jet pack back stashed in storage in a back room at the office on Retropolis. It’s a beautiful sleek shiny silver job  producing a pull away Joan Jett G-Spot G-String G-force made for easy excursions on planets with minus-Earth gravity and can magnificently handle 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 jetpacks require precision alignment during set-up in order to prevent instability and a NASCAR spin out. A computerized 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 passenger and the wing unit will drift gracefully to Terra Firma on separate parachutes, shaken, not stirred, James Bond style.


I always jet-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.

I 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 Poontang and Strangelove  were tripping with Wang Chung, the Ru Paul of the Cirque de Soliel. Christ, if Arthur and Sandoz saw us now they’d swear they were watching an Ed Wood movie.

Wang Chung yelled out, “Not far now, but it is better to jet over than dodging laser fire on the ground all the way.” Well, yes and no. We could still be shot down from the ground or dethroned by a drone, but, in the grey-black smoke and purple laser haze we weren’t an easy target. “There it is!” Strangelove yelled. I couldn’t see a bloody 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? What is it? I can’t see a damn thing!” I cried out. “It’s a rift to the Aldous Huxley 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?” I nodded in the affirmative. “Yeah like a suppository going through the center of Uranus,” I replied.

Long Wang finally cracked a Shinto eating grin. “Ha, yes Mr. Yucatan. Only this is no suppository going into the crack of a rift!” (I had to give him credit for that one!) The Rabbit Hole to the Huxley universe, as I was informed, was well hidden  in plain sight yet was unseen unless you were experienced. Maybe I needed a pair of Rowdy Roddy Piper “They Live!” sunglasses to fully view the rift. Either way we were about to enter the revolution ready to chew bubblegum and kick ass...and yes, you guessed it. We were all out of bubblegum!

The story of its discovery is legendary.  Supposedly, one of the hottie Oriental Eves of Destruction (I’m a Thai man myself) found it accidentally incidentally. Not only does it take you to another geographic location..but, it also takes you to a parallel universe, real Superman/Bizarro stuff of a comic book nature, so finding the Trifecta of the  Rabbit, the other rebels and the Falcon is impossible unless you know where the rift is. It’s Paradise Lost and Found as you enter through he Aldous Huxley Doors of Perception

“Hang on!” bellowed Wang Chung, 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 Huxley Rabbit Hole with our velocity increasing voraciously as it propelled us into it deeper and deeper. I felt like a jet packed penis penetrating Heidi Fleiss.

The noise and lava lamp  light 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 shaken not stirred, no worse for the wear and were now in the Huxley 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. Maybe there was another me here, but, mostly it was the attraction of seeing non-robotic real women in great numbers, like Surf City, where dwell two girls for every boy so I could wax my woody on a sandy beach and hang ten with a Pineapple Princess or fidget with Gidget. With my luck, Gidget would have a robot surfer boyfriend. I can see it now...Gidget Balls Gadget!

As we landed on soft ground my head and my eyes began to clear and I could hear the shrill call of a Mandarin 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. At that point it became Lenny Bruce and only  told dirty jokes

I also noticed something else. Color! We had left an urban environment of smoke, haze, rubble and dark shadows. No as we emerged through the Huxley Portal there were yellow flowers, blue 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. Even the people were colored. I never saw colored people before.

As I was taking it all in Poontang broke my concentration. “Well Doc, here it is.” Then Long Wang chimed in speaking to Poontang and Strangelove.  “Welcome home ladies. The Rabbit has been expecting you. You’re welcome too Yucatan. We need someone like you. Welcome to the Revolution!”

Chapter 25 - Mad Hatters of a Lost Dimension

 

 

Working in the dark underworld of a disastrous Dystopian Detroit in disrepair as a disreputable cheap detective,  everything and every client was a study in non-technicolor mental breakdown black and white, yin and yang.

Making matters worse,  the physical decay of a distressed Detroit was my also my home, my habitat of habitual gloom, doom and death  amidst the crumbling buildings of a proletarian society bearing the burden of constant scrutiny and surveillance by a paranoid government. Life was bleak on Bleeker Street...and even bleaker on Beaubien where I hung my fedora in the office.

Now, I find myself on a journey, or rather 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 had left the void of everyday Detroit life, entered a vortex of revolution, hounded  by a trio of gangster and government agencies hell bent on killing us once we had the “treasure” in hand. I didn’t expect much from life so I knew there was not a guarantee we would come out of this unscathed or alive.

We went willingly into the rift in the parallel universe where we found ourselves  washed  up on a shore of brilliant colors and intoxicating scents matched only by the aroused aroma of Poontangs poontang which was increasing minute by minute driving  me over a sexual cliff.


Gone were the blacks, greys and haze of the battleground of the Kotex Vortex. No crumbling skyscrapers to crash down around us and mingle with the rest of the rubble. A Rubik’s cube of devastation had retreated like the tide and before us lay a lustful  Lucy in the Sky terra firma with an invisible invincible Mad Hatter conducting a sexual symphonic scene from “Fantasia” complete with dancing brooms.  Now I really wanted to get in the sack again with Poontang...the Fantasian Asian and dance in her pool of  moonlight!

We had officially stepped through the psychedelic looking glass and a psychotic Mickey Mouse had become Timothy Leary on purple double domes and I was enthralled by the sensory deluge of a fugue in a 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 to penetrate a Berlin Wall concrete chastity belt topped with strands of pubic barbed wire.


I looked around in awe as I swore I could see and fathom, not imagine, and positive they were not holograms,  but were indeed an army of  “Hi-Ho it’s off to work we go” dwarves, My imagination not being fooled or fueled by chemicals 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  descended 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.

The show must go on…this was a wonderland, where Alice without malice danced while amphetamines and marijuana sang  to accompany the Minstrels of Mescaline during the opening act, as Snow White disolved turning  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 Long Wang cried out to a group approaching us from a hill dotted with small cacti and azul flowers.  “OVER HERE! I’ve got Poontang and Strangelove  with me too. 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 suits...one size does not fit all.

As the strange group approached I noticed they were all females, undoubtedly the Rabbits hymen henchmen 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 first line of defense between us and the Falcon and eventual freedom. 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.

“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.” Poontang said this with more sarcasm than I thought was necessary so rebutted with “Not home plate you sarcastic bitch, I always said I like to get 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 Poontang once more in a battle of wits, knowing full well even on an intellectual playing field she’d kick my ass.


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!”

Strangelove 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 Poontangs net isn’t it?”  Strangelove had scored big time. She opened the floodgates and now  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.

Wang Chung 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 two 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.

Poontang was laughing her sweet Asian ass off and Strangelove was ready to roll over and masturbate in a field of hallucinogenic flowers and peyote! It was madness and Poontang 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 again and again, and now it was public knowledge, or perhaps it had always been public knowledge except to me.

Poontang 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!”  I had only one comeback. “Poontang 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 Poontang replied..”Love you too Doc.”

Chapter 26 - Plan 9 Out of Your Mind

 

 

 

Walking up the small hill was no easy task. I was used to broken tableaus of concrete under my feet and the uneven ground only a teeming steamy inner city could provide. Forget napalm in the morning. I love the  pungent odor of an inner city broken bottle strewn  back alley the day after the night before of a wandering haiku hobo convention of cheap pink lady concoctions that would make a Sterno wino wink and think twice before taking another drink.  Those dark alleys are  a  manly environment where rabid danger lurks with bared fangs and only testosterone could save a mans life or make him foolhardy enough to get his  asphalt hardened cahones in a sling landing  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!

The Robotian hills were alive with more than music by the Von Trapp Family. We had entered the canvas of a Van Gogh landscape surrounding our feet with a thousand  hallucinogenic Soma plants, now in full psychedelic bloom as they enjoyed the osmosis orgasm of the red sun of Robotia. I already felt light headed from the pollen drifting upwards as our tramping boots disturbed their slumber and we inhaled the intoxicant letting the Soma plant take over our imaginations. We were  in the bullseye of a real surreal world, but, very real questions still remained. Big questions too. My inquiring mind needed to know.  “Wang,” I queried, “If all of you know about this time-geo  rift thingy in the universe, don’t the Tohos know it as well, and how in hell do we get in here?”

Wang didn’t waffle. “The rift is fairly new Yucatan. It’s a rip in the universal fabric.” Great, what is life? Now I had my answer. The next time someone asks me that I’ll have the answer. My friend, life is nothing more than a cheap suit hanging on  a Hong Kong rack on the garment district.

Wang was on a roll playing the part of history teacher. “It was stumbled  on two years ago when a stranger trapped inside drifted like a piece of cosmic seaweed thanks to a faulty continuum.  He finally emerged here on Robotia 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 use recon decoys  to lead the Tohos and the Erotibots far from it’s entry point while the rest of us do, or actually did, the jet pack boogie. Today the Tohos don’t set foot in the Vortex anywhere near here. Too dangerous still with our hit and run tactics we use to pick them off. The Erotibots haven’t broken through our ghetto defenses either so far.  For the time being  we and the rift are invisible to them and consequently,  they can’t pull the Rabbit out of our mad hatter hat!”

Wang’s tale was interesting 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, who was the curious 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.OK, three questions. The Soma was beginning to cloud nine me.

“We don’t use the jet packs for travel in here anymore,” Long interceded. 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 Cococabana revolutionaries  on the run from a the planet Castro. Ed was a human dime novel revolutionary from a pathetic planet that created  droids whose artificial intelligence were similar to the Eroti-bots except for the fact they were not part humanoid, but pure mean artificial intelligence machines that kept developing on their own with an unprogrammed primary goal to enslave the humanoids on the planet and raise them as food for the munchie hungry cannabis cannibals  from the Carnal Coitus solar system who scavenged the universe looking to pillage and plunder everything in their path.

Ed had designed a scheme to thwart the A-I’s. He called it Plan 8, as 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 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, so  Ed and Che Stadium, his Soma addicted seconal second in command and 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 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 Glen/Glenda  were some heavy hitters in the mercenary universe including the brassiere wearing  Ro-Man-Wo-Man and his bubble blowing machines of death leading the feared Killer Klowns from Outer Space...the circus  mafia of the galaxy including Jugglers who vainly went for the jugular, and meat eating mimes.

It was a drag queen extravaganza  under the big top of the cosmos leaving a lasting image of  revolutionaries with two or more heads in  space helmets wearing garters and  fabulous angora sweaters...there will be, I suspect monuments in the future to Ed Wood, Space Revolutionary as well as  Che Stadium, both  in full drag..laughing their heads off.

Unfortunately the rebel army was  overwhelmed and defeated, but, miraculously, as will happen in space novels, Che discovered  this rift quite by accident where they  could hide and he led the remaining fighters, including Ed  into a place and space in time completely 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 with the rift  he became a real cocaine cowboy Casey Jones driving this train when he entered Robotia and landed smack dab down in  the middle of the Rabbits  revolution.

Ed Wood and Che Stadium decided to hide out here, join forces with the revolutionaries and fight the Tohos and those errant Eroti-bots.  When he met the Rabbit, she asked him why he would align himself with her forces. His reply, “Look, I’m a Tom Joad 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 swore it was the Pledge of Allegiance of the Planet Steinbeck every school kid learns by heart.

I couldn’t wait to meet this group. Damn, a pair of fishnets.  I’m not that fussy. I don’t care who’s wearing them.  As we reached the summit of Soma Hill we saw before us laid out in a pleasant valley this fine Sunday morning, strawberry fields forever. We also saw a  military encampment  below us. Crude huts dotted the panorama with a large lodge not unlike a small fortress commanding the enclave. We paused before making our descent into the plateau.

“This is the Rudy Valley and that’s Ed Wood’s army, or what’s left of it. See, in the large building on the far left? You’ll find Col. Kurtz in there. He’s now in command.  Ed was captured, then executed while shopping at Victoria’s Venusian Secrets for red thongs in the city without his bodyguard present!” Wang declared.. “Now we are the first line of defense to protect the Rabbit. Nobody would be able to break through here, or at least they would be slowed down.”

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. “He’s OK,” Poontang assured her old friends, as only a woman revolutionary in battle fatigues can do.  At that point we made our guarded way to the “big lodge” guided by  a ragtag band of juveniles. “These are rebels? They can’t be more than teenagers.” I whispered to Strangelove.

“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!  This cadre of kids never grew up, nor had reason to. They had made it to Never Land wearing tights that showed off a lost boys lost bulge in a region we  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 a 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!)

As we approached the lodge of Col. Kurtz, 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 Poontang was at my side I felt safe...besides I love the smell of feminine hygiene products in the morning!

Chapter 27 - Col. Kurtz: Who's the Leader of the Band?

The maelstrom of music was attacking our senses well from deep within the lodge hut of Col. Kurtz. Loud and proud, louder as we closed the gap eliminating  the wide space across the barricaded compound as a spill  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 of a quest, 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 coins into a slot to begin its stylus probing journey at 45 RPM’s as the needle dropped into a groove. The music was a strange brew, a real he man he brew of sound  which was music minus all the beards and dancing to Zero Mostel Hebrew numbers. It was a musical litany creating within a visceral image of  sensational  sensual sexual saxual saxaphonic saxophone 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 saxophone call. Can you tell the bartender to keep the blues away from the piano please and do something about that trumpet!”

“Doc? Doc?” Poontang had penetrated my thought trance. “Yeah, yeah. Here, present and accounted for.” It was then someone pulled the plug on the jukebox of my mind and suddenly from the lodge emerged 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 to 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. Have you done Wang Chung tonight?” he roared a laugh. Please, sit and relax. I knew you were coming. I could tell by all the activity in the Vortex.”

“These are friends of mine Colonel. Poontang Pemalang and Sappho Strangelove. Former 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 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 have blood on your hands Yucatan. You must, I am never wrong about these things.”

Col. Kurtz, had frayed internal wiring and his mental connections no longer were traveling the same circuits. He went rogue while fomenting revolution along with his compadres  Ed Wood and  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 felt as though I had heard this all before. I felt I was reincarnated as Charlie Sheen sitting an opium den waiting for a hooker, except this time I was the hooker. Then one of Strangeloves hidden manly personalities surfaced.


“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.

Poontang and Strangelove  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!”

Chapter 28 - Che Stadium & The Rudy Valley

 

 

 

Poontang was feeling the sexual side of the Soma when we retired to our guest quarters to rest and regroup before the festivities Col. Kurtz  had planned for our send off  celebration.  Poontangs equatorial region became a rainforest saturated looking for satiation as she dropped her pants once inside the hut. On a scale of sex...she was a Ring of Fire earthquake in bed.  Even her  minor aftershocks  were tremendous tremors bringing on orgasms with the force of a rogue wave .  No time for afterglow and the obligatory cigarette...we were dripping in shared sweat  and my  “gun” was empty. I fired the full nine yards into her...bullseye! Now I had to reload, but at this point my   cartridge belt was devoid of  ordnance of any kind. We soon drifted off to sleep to the sounds of Sappho Strangelove masturbating on her cot on the other side of the blanket that divided the room. “You stopped too soon,” she teased with a wicked lilt in her voice. . “I was going to join you for the “chorus” but I guess I’ll finish off by  flying solo the rest of the way.”  I whispered back, “You’re a damned schizo with multiple personalities. Why not just have one of them finish you off?”  A manly voice emerged from behind the curtain and from inside Strangelove. ”We are!” We? Damn, schizos have all the fun...you can gang bang yourself and no charges will be filed!

The sun was beginning to set when  got up to ready ourselves for the feast. We all got dressed and Strangelove fired up a joint to share and  were high already when the elusive Che Stadium himself  made his grand entrance 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 exactly? Time, space, geo.  No one has actually   told us ?” 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 and sent those Celts in kilts running headlong for the Lawrence Welsh Hills of  old  Druid Britain.

“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. he 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.” That explained a lot. It was a second dimension  fast food Mexican restaurant and I didn’t have a peso pot to piss in or  a pinata to pawn to get enough moola for an hour with an easy senorita with rose tattoos on her warm brown breasts.

Even Che’s voice had the Latin swagger of a Desi Arnaz and Benicio Del Toro as did his steady bearing and his “walk the walk ...talk the talk”  gait in his impossibly rumpled military fatigues and mud encrusted combat boots.  I had gone from a screening of “Apocalypse Now”  on HBO to”Full Metal Jacket”  in Spanish on the Telemundo Network.
Poontang and I couldn’t help but notice  Strangelove  looking long and hard at his perfect khaki ass. All I wanted was I threesome with  Poontang and a young Latin revolutionary with  a fully automatic vagina and breasts as big as pinatas.

“Here. Have a copy of my book,” Book? What book?  Che then 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 black ops 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 then addeed, “Take my book...please!” Where are the burlesque rim shots when you expect them? Loose the dirty comic and bring on the strippers with so many vericose veins showing  her legs appear to be wrapped in Rand McNally road maps. “Oh look, on the left inner thigh...it’s Pittsburgh!”

How best to describe the festival hours leading up to our Striptease Falcon foray? 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  Poontang.  I do not celebrate celibacy. Sex 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 Old 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?”)



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.



Poontang and Strangelove? 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.

Chapter 29 - Rush Hour at the Revolution

 

 

 

 The feast and drugs had placed my head in vice, but marshalled what energy hadn’t been expended by getting underway early before  the heat of the red sun of Robotia  would  pierce the sunrise making breathing and traveling unbearable. Che Stadium, a commanding presence  in battle worn fatigues  led the way with his band of merry men who would run interference should we happen to run into a freight train of hell fire from Toho’s “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 quickly, 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 also offered their services as to the Tohos . We were now deep in the shit house 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 pantie hose stretch of any imagination.

It didn’t take long for the group machismo to flare up arguing over directions. It was an argument worthy of two native New Yorkers claiming knowledge of the best route to a Harlem whorehouse on the other side of town.

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 he added, “Of course 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 lounge lizard in training Latino leader who craved a breakfast burrito  you could only obtain  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’m kidding, but I man came by last night with a package for you. Actually some kind of object wrapped in old Earth newspapers. He said you would be glad to have it but I should hide it until you got back, so I gave it to Madeline 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!

Poontang 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. Che Stadium 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.  This place was real Alice In Wonderland shit.




I remember the story. Alice 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!

Chapter 30 - Is That a Mad Hatter in Your Pants

 

 

 

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,  but when I was fully aware of where we were a thin man with a thin tie holding a thin cigarette began speaking in  a voice with an razors 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 whispered in case he was a mental patient with a penchant whose radio frequency wasn’t quite tuned to the right space station. 

 "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 Long Wang 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 shrinking  in size in under 60 seconds flat. (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.
We walked not too far and soon, according to Che, we came up on the hidden entrance to the Rabbits encampment. I couldn’t see it, but Che knew what he was doing, 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, in the distance, sitting on a riverbank was one of the Rabbits captains passing a hash pipe back and forth as she 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...and common.

She noticed 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.

When we finally crash landed we found keys,  lots of keys. I  found one that unlocked a door with a pathway 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. Long Wang sees a bottle that says “Drink Me”.... probably a bottle of skid row booze from a Bukowsk bums 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, our qualms calmed as only a handful of Quaaludes can do to a dude. Now a new  problem presented itself...we are too small to reach the key to the garden on the table high above now that we were 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 displaying passion in bed. Yes, I do prefer the bedtime version.

We eventually gain entry to the garden and now it got real Cheech and Chongy as we ran into a blue caterpillar  with a purple hookah. The damn thing also talked and like any good pusher in a school yard offers us free samples of a mushroom guaranteed to return us to normal size. All this growing and shrinking has played havoc with us….imagine how a female  feels when  her tampon won’t  shrink but her body does.....she probably looks and feels like a bomb pop popsicle on a stick or a wet dream lollipop.

 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 cocaine with a talking cat. 

We emerged finally in the rebel encampment as Long Wang did a little victory dance while Poontang smiled as if she were Yoda hiding a secret and Strangelove  was breathing heavily in anticipation of something. Wang and Long hugged each other and Che Stadium looked about warily…. 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 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 then I recognized her..Windsora! ”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, Windsora! 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?" 

Chapter 31 - "What's Up, Doc?"

 

 

I was beyond disbelief! I felt I was thrown bound in duct tape and gagged with a pair of strippers panties off a Detroit riverfront dock and had washed up ashore battered, bruised and bloody somewhere downriver in my  past amid a pile of nostalgic debris and dead Luca Brazzi “Godfather” fishes. 

“What the hell are you doing here?” I asked Windsora in a voice as bewildered  as a finger painting mental patient attempting to comprehend the theory of relativity. She put her hands on her hips striking a pose reminiscent of the  sleek, insatiable sexual panther she actually is with those enticing, delicious Asian hips (Remember I am a leg and Thai man!)  that made me delirious in the past embarking on a libido laden Lewis and Clark exploration, which I might add,  I had held, kissed and savored in her private pubic galaxy, long, long ago. It was her! Windsora Canada, a real ray gun blast from a sultry sex soaked monsoon past.

“I’m  the Rabbit, Doc,” she smiled with a hint and a glint in her eye that once again made my knees weaken. “ What did you expect when you left me without even a fuck you goodbye wham bam thank you ma’am Hallmark greeting card in New York. Think I’d wait for you forever? Life goes on, and indeed it went on asshole... even without the arrogance of the high and mighty Doc Yucatan.” 
Poontang looked at both us with an incredulous expression  from one to the other,  with a fierce rapidity I thought would make her  head start spinning and spewing in homage to the possessed Linda Blair. “Wait a minute. Don’t tell me you two actually know each other?” Poontang  practically screamed. I noticed out of the corner of my eye  Strangelove  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 trash of dead bodies of New York’s homeless, unwanted and not missed.

I had met Windsora (now the “Rabbit”) over 2O years ago. She was a newly arrived Asian  woman who was recently divorced from a Canadian Inuit husband who had a propensity for violence. When that violence eventually left it’s mark on her face it also produced a lasting wound on her soul. Most Eskimos rub noses...this one broke hers a few times. 

She finally left him,  fled the border, and crossed the river to Detroit. She was a beauty. Skin of pure alabaster and eyes as big and dark as the old Brown Derby in Hollywood. She walked into my office one day looking for work  and as she could type faster than Pee Wee Herman could cum in a darkened adult theater she immediately gave my imagination a sexual working over with a rubber hose of sensuality. Naturally I hired her on the spot as my first secretary. I had just opened my own private practice along with my partner Sandoz who was nothing  more than a disbarred attorney, but a real artist at doctored bookkeeping...for tax purposes you understand. 

Soon Windsora 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 Soma and booze, barely keeping the agency alive and afloat and I was certainly not sober, nor ready for a commitment, and I told her as much. 
In an attempt to rekindle the fire of passion I had just pissed on when I told her that,  we took a red-eye to New York from Detroit one night. I, for an East Coast romp no strings attached under the covers carpet bombing of her libidinous rice paddy...she with an emotional rodeo rope ready to ride me into marriage. Saddled, bridled and broken into a corral of domesticity. 

We made love over and over ending up as sweat drenched as only a hot, humid  August high noon in Hanoi can make you.

The next morning I walked out on her...no, out of OUR life and into the New York streets forever as she slept peacefully  from the afterglow of sex and the head numbing effects of Soma. I thought I was free...but I never was, and quite  possibly never will be. I was falling hard for this dish and it frightened me. To this day she was always there and would remain in my heart. Now this gentle porcelain doll  stood before me in full tom-boy battle fatigues leading a revolution! Goddamn! She looked sexier than ever. Sweat and her intoxicating estros extravaganza tuna enhanced sex smell was drawing me in again. She was a real Sushi Kwan and I was ready for her raw meat. 

Poontang was confused. I was confused. “You’re my sister!” Asrini said. “You never told me you knew Doc.” Now it was my turn to be confused. I shot a puzzled angry look at Poontang “I thought you said your sister’s name was Mary Asteroid? She was kidnapped and being held by Narco Marx...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!

Windsor stepped closer, I could feel her warm breath on my face defrosting my emotional ice 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. There on full auto!I changed my name to Mary Asteroid and  I did have an affair with  a taxi driver, one of the few on the planet that wasn’t from Pakistan saturated with the cab smell of a room deodorizer.  I met him on my way to the Robot 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,” I said  feigning faux sympathy. “But...what about all this “sister” line of crap Poontang has been forcing down my throat? You never told me about a sister!” I was red with rage by now.

“Coho Salmon Rushdie, that was my lovers name, eventually ended our relationship when he ran off with a female wrench wench down at the garage at the taxi stand. We did have a child..Poontang….she is my daughter.” 

She turned lovingly to Poontang and touched her cheek gently, much as she had touched mine in the past. You could feel the protons, electrons and neurons of  love in her touch. “I didn’t want you to know you were a bastard  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?” Poontang  was stunned, but I could 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?” Windsora/Mary Asteroid  paused and began pacing the floor. “I wanted my daughter back and safe with me. She had left Robotia and had embarked on her own career with Com-Red on Retropolis as you know, but along the way she met and fell in love with Art Deco whose underground movement she had infiltrated and as love is all  powerful, she changed sides. She was now wanted for sedition by the Com-Reds and that means certain death by vaporization after a few weeks of torture.” 

The pregnant pause that followed was about to burst at the seams it seems.  It was a pinata loaded with emotional placenta. “I had also  met Strangelove here on Robotia. We were lovers for a time and are still very close friends. Strangelove  recruited me when the Revolution broke out on Robotia.  In time I discovered I had a real knack for strategy and planning attacks, successful ones I might add. So that’s the long and short of it.”

Windsora mainly wanted to save her daughter Poontang and get her here safely I surmised and I was correct. “I planned this whole ruse with Strangelove. Between you and her, I knew you would get her here safely away from the Com-Reds 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 Strangelove  planned it all out. We got in touch with Poontang through our network. She still believed I was her sister and we made up the cover story that I was kidnapped by Narco Marx so she would not hesitate to come here. I knew Narco wanted the Falcon more than a three legged dog wants a three legged bitch, so we leaked false information about  a reward for my capture. There is no reward...only shoot to kill, but we wanted to draw Narco into the web in hopes of killing him and being rid of him and I knew if he realized you and my “sister” were coming to rescue me he would fabricate a plan and come out of his closet to grab the whole prize. The Rabbit, the Falcon, and he had a massive hard on for Strangelove.”

I was astounded. “He also said he’d kill me, why? What the hell did I do?”
“Nothing Doc. Once he had the Falcon in hand, and had me and Poontang  killed, and Strangelove  in his bed, you were the only person left who knew the truth. You, and now Art Deco. You could give  that information to the Tohos who would have Narco arrested and in the bargain they would regain possession of the Falcon and squash the revolution.” 
I knew that fat ass fez wearing son of bitch Narco was lying!

Windsora  continued, “The Com-Reds were close to capturing Poontang for sedition and being a double agent. We sent a message to her with instructions to look you up and gave her the money for your fee. Now you can return with the Falcon and her if she wants to, but I know she is in love with Art Deco. They really are  a perfect couple dedicated to the cause. He’s on Retropolis now hiding in the neutral zone in Casablanca.”

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 a bell with a book and a candle returning to the surface after a journey to the bottom of a deep ocean.

Poontang was in tears...I started tearing up also, as were Strangelove and Windsora. We were all a mess. I started laughing and crying at the same time. My love making with Poontang was as sweet as it was with Windsora. I felt I had been to bed with both of them  sweating up the sheets. It was the carnal incarnation of  Paul Simon’s song “Mother and Child Reunion” Mother and daughter were a sexual powerhouse and  I was in a vaginal whirlpool! 

“In the morning you will return to Retropolis with the Falcon which I will give you tonight, but tonight we celebrate as a family. A lot of catching up to do! Strangelove  will go with you to help on the journey. You OK Doc? Poontang?” We both looked at each other and smiled. “Never better Windsora,”  I managed, “Never better”  I was lying not only to her but to myself. My head was in dervish mode….out of control. A few tranqs would level my mental playing field and went to my room to change and tranq up and let the day’s events sink in. Sink in? I was in emotional quicksand up to my neck and sinking fast...

Chapter 32 - Last Tango in Space

 

 

Windsora was young when I met her. Hell, we both were and we both had chips on our shoulder the size of Los Angeles daring each other and the rest of the galaxy to knock it off...but, we were in love and had our whole lives ahead of us, or so we thought. We were emotionally immature and like punch drunk winos on the street we both loved a good fight with each other. It enhanced the sex that followed in the wake of the arguments.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 down the aisle of bean dip and salsa.She’s the kind who who could heat up a pair of Swedish meatballs faster than a microwave oven set on nuke. Her sexual heat-seeking libido was subtle, as simmering as hot lava pouring from Krakatoa. Along with sex, she had 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 Poontang was the lioness devouring my senses and thoughts. She swallowed my psyche whole in one gulp . 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.Poontang, however was my latest sexual focus.

 

At one time it was Windsora, and recently my attention was also focusing on Sappho Strangelove. All three of them 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 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 and they all had their own key.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 Poontang that night before making our way back to Retropolis, but...there was always the Art Deco factor.

 

Deco had penetrated Poontangs emotional vector long before I came along and I knew he had to be on the perimeter of Poontangs mind at all times. All the love making we had enjoyed on this journey 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 and dapper as Cary Grant instead of Mickey Rourke after splashing around a Bukowski booze soaked dream scape.Poontang and I stepped into the shower together naked.

 

Naked, she is a canvas of art. Shewas absolutely stunning.. a garden of breathtaking Asian 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 is as a beautiful garden of flowers scented with the perfume of 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.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 Windsora 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 Art Deco?

 

I’d worry about him later. Right now I held Poontangs small hand and it was time to join the others.The Neptunian wine flowed that evening faster than the spring snowmelt in the Rocky Mountains. Our senses waxed and waned with each glass. Homegrown black market galactic ganja lifted our spirits higher than a street preacher loaded on Jesus and Sterno. Poontang and I took our place around the blazing bonfire, the smell of roasting Ghokkis 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 your seven veils with you. These Venusian vixens, former kidnap victims transformed into sex prisoners of Robotia were liberated . They were now rebels recruited by Windsora and they carry Link Wray guns as a fashion accessory for a walk down the revolutionary runway. Tonight, they put that all aside, in our honor with such sensual half human mecha-precision performances I could only imagine taking place a a holiday high stepping show at Rocket-feller 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 whirlie gig Erotibot 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.Rated on the Doc Yucatan erection scale ...no assembly was required. Windsora and Strangelove were enjoying the show holding hands while their senses were spinning in a lesbian gyroscopic tandem frenzy to the genital gyrations of these lap dancing Erotibot doing the erectus dance of the muse.They may be a cyborgs, but, still humanoid so their weapon of mass and ass destruction is in the form of a secret secretion they can unleash to increase the vaginal intoxicant. It happens at certain times of the month, even to cyborgs, where she will 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.In the erotic arena of "female" combat it is up there on the pubic pedestal with roller derby and mud wrestling. 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 a female roller derby, and you can forget the Striptease Falcon. Hell, this is the stuff that mud dreams are truly made off.

Chapter 33 - Paradise Lost & Found

 

 

When Poontang, Strangelove and myself emerged shaken, dusty and bruised from our recent foray into the revolution we were as beat and tired as old winos blinded by Sterno. Getting back to our time and universe through the Geo-Time Rift we found ourselves on Beaubien Street just outside the third floor walk-up building where my agency was in Oldtown Detroit.

I could sense, feel, smell something was drastically, deadly wrong. Even the constant night time thick as a fat person’s thighs rubbing together stage prop fog seemed out of synch with the stray alley cat blues hungry mood of the deteriorating Detroit neighborhood accompanied by that damned wailing ever present Mickey Spillane wee small hours of the lonely morning saxophone music spinning around in my head at a 45 rpm redlining jukebox speed 24 hours a day. What was to be a triumphant when Johnny comes marching home the war is over victory is ours return did an immediate about face. It was not the happy lets fuck the prom queen after the dance homecoming.

We tread quietly as we made our way up the three flights of stairs, dim dust covered cigarette yellowed light bulbs were casting eerie bizarre finger puppet shadows on the fading green paint peeling from the walls in layers as thick as the rotting flesh of a leper on a hot day. As we entered my third floor office, the older consistently inconsistent incandescent light bulbs 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 ransacked office, furniture turned over, file cabinets emptied of their contents, all strewn about...this was 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.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 Poontang's former lover, Art Deco, with a fully laden cargo of ego smuggled ashore from somewhere in Marseilles with all the purified heroin a heroine could handle. I salaciously referred to him 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 of a smile to form when first seeing the mighty Deco being held helpless at gunpoint by the fat man with a fez fetish, Narco Marx. The smirk soon 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 further when I noticed sitting in the shadows of the room was the deranged Joel Faberge, Link Wray laser gun in hand smiling with that stupid Fabulon grin of his. His itchy trigger happy finger on his Link Wray with it’s red hot laser beam aimed straight bulls-eye on the mark at at my ticker. I could sense by his frenetic mental stage and 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. “Keep on riding me and they're gonna be picking iron out of your liver,” he said with a lisping Sylvester the Cat voice laced with feminine Fabulon bravado. The cheaper the crook, the gaudier the patter. Where do they get the lingo?

Narco was holding all the cards now 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 partners, Mr. Deco, Ms. Pemalang and yes, you too Sappho. We would have made a great team my dear. 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 have the evening spoiled with any needless killing.”
I wasn’t about to make any fast moves. I didn’t know by leaving one universe portal and entering another you could experience jet lag, but the last week had taken a toll on all of us. I was exhausted, mind clouded, reflexes frayed. “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 could be produced by a 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 soon 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 Poontang 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 mumbling and 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, It 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..sirens outside in the dark. It was Inspector Bill Burroughs and Lt. Louie Louie Quebec. They heard I had returned through Com-Red police agents who had been staking out my office awaiting my return. Why? I had no idea, but it would soon be made clear. They raced over as I was now in the building at 1300 Beaubien Street, third 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 home gift.

“Mr. Yucatan, I bid you adieu. It’s time for us to take our leave, Narco laughed. “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 Tunisian 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 and Louie Louie were true Com-Red cops...100%, but strangely Louie Louie 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 Poontang 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, not from the Tohos, but it was given to us by the Rabbit. Besides...it’s not the real Falcon it’s a fake!”
Bill 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 somewhere in this office, so please give me credit and don’t lie to me. I’ll take it now and also, regretfully, I will have to turn Poontang over to Comred intelligence. They’ve been looking for her for a long time. She switched sides long ago, and has been working with Deco fomenting revolution throughout the galaxy. There is a price on both of their heads. Did you honestly think I didn’t know all of this?”

It was now becoming clear to me. Com-Red Intell knew from my reputation I would bring back the Falcon and that Poontang would be with me and the fact that Art Deco would show up for the Falcon and for Poontang.

It was a brilliant coup and I had to admire the plan. I also knew Poontang was still in love with Deco, how deep, I couldn’t fathom, but I could see it in both of their eyes when we ran into him at his saloon. Our love making from Retropolis to the Rabbit Hole had not diminished the flame she kept for Deco, 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...yet, 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 Poontang and Stranglove 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 you were given 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. Poontang 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 was about to enter the building to turn over the real Falcon to your partner when two of Narco’s gunmen tried to bushwhack him. It all happened so fast. Our recon guards reacted and shot both of Narcos men 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 courier then brought the real falcon upstairs to Yucatan’s office and told Sandoz to contact your secretary, the delightful Madeline Kubla Khan, 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 trench coat 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.

Poontang, Strangelove and Deco, 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 the guys in black cowboy hats, but a lose lose for the Lone Cloned Ranger and Tantric Tanto.

I turned to Poontang. “Why did you get me involved in this?” Lt. Louie Louie jumped in, as usual and explained. “Simple. The Rabbit as you now know is her mother, Windsora, formerly Mary Asteroid, and IS the revolution. Also, Poontang I think was falling in love with you, torn in half. If I were a woman I might fall in love with you too Yucatan. 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,” Poontang cried. So we were both unwilling pawns on every ones chess board.

 

At that moment, Madeline Kubla Khan arrived with the real Falcon wrapped in an old newspaper. Right on cue, as she opened the door package in hand, it caused just enough of a fraction of a distraction for Deco and myself to get the jump on Burroughs and Louie whose men were downing doughnuts down the hall out of earshot of the confusion and commotion. 

I had managed to knock Burroughs out cold...or so I thought, as Deco & I relieved Burroughs and Louie of their guns while Poontang and Strangelove gathered our own weapons from the floor. Sandoz, barely conscious, continued to wallow in confusion. Not a bad place to be at the moment! All hell was breaking loose and we were moving fast. No time to think...only act and hope we’d make our escape in one piece. We tied up Louie and gagged him with my tie. He was a friend after all.

We were now in control, but what action to take next was not forthcoming. There were no set of directions in English, French, Spanish and Chinese to decipher. We were running on bare wire instinct in synch with each other.“Look Poontang. We had a brief fling on Saturn, but I know your heart belongs to Deco so take my extra space pod, nifty sports model by the way, lots of speed, and get the hell out of here. We both know you belong with Deco. You're part of his work, the thing that keeps him going, keeps you going. If my pod departs 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!” 

The ghost of Bogart 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.

We all hurried out the back of the building to my space pod parked in the alley, keys in hand. We all followed to make sure, watching their backs to make sure they would escape, but danger was ahead of the game. We hadn’t noticed in the heat of the moment that Burroughs was not out cold and managed to run out of the office in the wake of all the confusion taking the rusted fire escape that lead directly to the alley where we were headed. 

While we headed down the back stairs to avoid the cops waiting down the hall, Burroughs was already waiting for us in the alley having overheard our plans. He decided to be a hero and bring us in alone without backup…solo….a fool’s game at best of ego. He did manage to grab his own gun we had foolishly left on my desk in our haste to escape.

Now he was holding a Link Wray Derringer on us and was about to march all of us angels with dirty faces to headquarters when a I heard a rare old fashioned gunshot ring out and we watched Burroughs go down like stack of dominoes. I looked around to see who fired the fatal and final blast. It was Louie! 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 boss. We all looked at him in disbelief….and relief!
“Your knot was not very tight old friend. You’d make a lousy Boy Scout,” he sighed. “Look I’m tired of working for the Com-Reds, Yucatan. Let these people escape in peace” and we did. We watched until they were safely in the air. Art and Poontang said their goodbyes and left Louie and myself alone in the fog as the disappeared into the coal black sky on their way back to Robotia after they fired up my backup pod parked in the alley behind a Chinese noodle factory. They had a date with a revolution, while we had egg rolls and leftover fortune cookies.

Louie Louie had also, being a fastidious detective. Thought to grab the real Falcon before he left the office. Burroughs was shot dead, and Louie Louie was still holding the real Falcon in one hand and a smoking revolver in the other, He 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 Art Deco has a cabaret for sale Louie. You ever been to Barbarella?” He smiled and started up the cruiser.“He told me he had put it up for sale through a third party to handle the transaction on Barbarella as he had to keep one step ahead of the bloodhounds now.” Yes, he was marked for elimination at all costs...and with him...so was Poontang. Chances are Louie and I are too...

Louie and I did buy the cabaret and saloon….Windsora, or rather The Rabbit and her minions were victorious eventually over the Tohos. Without the Falcon, Toho power was diminished and they were defeated. Strangelove 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 Col 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 Doc Yucatan novels and a comic book series featuring Poontang as a sexpot super heroine that he 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 snow globe 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! l 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, “Louie, 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.” As long as he wasn’t waxing his woody I felt better. “I’d feel better if you started waning!”

So, whatever happened to Poontang? Art Deco and her hop scotched around the galaxy, winning battles and whole revolutions. One day in the quiet calm of one of Deco’s victories, Poontang held him tight, looked him in the eye and said she was returning to me.

Poontang came to our cabaret, now renamed The Space Noir Bar in honor of my old saloon in Detroit. I was in my office….door closed ….staring at the paperweights 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 Poontang. 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 Louie Louie 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 Louie...dreams and nightmares.” Poontang 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 a sex and Soma suite ...that would be our first order of business ...and this time...champagne and Poontang...not cheap wine and one of those damned Erotibots!!!

Impressum

Texte: Mike Marino
Bildmaterialien: Mike Marino
Lektorat: Mike Marino
Übersetzung: Mike Marino
Tag der Veröffentlichung: 08.06.2016

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Where Bogart and Bergman meet Space Balls