Sergei was in the mood for love. It had been minutes since he downed his last paper cupful of strawberry Arbor Mist, and gazed longingly at the pixelated image of Tootie from The Facts of Life on the screen of his Apple Quadra. If only it didn't have that watermarked copyright notice across her face! Nevertheless, it was enough to put Sergei on the prowl.
"Yes," he thought. "Tonight the prey becomes the prey, and I shall be the Feral Invasive Species of Love."
While Sergei's primary construction project was still the completion of a giant velvet portrait of Stevie Nicks, visible from space, he had ordered additional work to be done on the palace. Primary among these secondary works was what Sergei tastefully referred to as the "Vroom Vroom Room," a dual NASCAR and dinosaur themed love nest featuring racecar beds and thick artificial foliage covering the ceiling. Animatronic pterodactyls would gasp in pre-programmed awe at the spectacle of his lovemaking, and when the lights were turned off, phosphorescent velociraptors glowed against the walls in erotic poses. Just the thought of flipping off the light switch and watching a tyrannosaurus get it on with a triceratops made him giggle like an overweight, furry-backed schoolgirl with male genitals. His dandruff stood out on the black furry sheets under the blacklights.
Although there were still some finishing touches to be completed- the real racecars used as beds posed a serious carbon monoxide threat- Sergei deemed it satisfactorily done, enough to christen it in an unholy and drippy manner. "Tonight," he assured himself, "tonight the pills will work, the itching will subside, and Eleni will learn a new lesson in how to lay silently, hum, and think of baseball!"
By and by he went about preparing himself in the usual manner. He donned his authentic Fred Flintstone animal-pattern muu-muu, and regreased his mustache with crude petroleum. He placed kernals of corn over his few unstained teeth, to give them all a uniform glean of yellow from a distance. He sang "Aqualung" while flexing his muscles in the mirror, satisfied that the hair on his arms ebbed and flowed in unison, as a single manly wave of hirsute blackness rippling from shoulder to fingertip. He wept tenderly.
Finally, it was time to summon Eleni for her sexing-up. Sliding down the fireman's pole through the floor, he arrived in the midst of her yoga class.
"Sergei!" she yelped. "Is it that time of the month again?"
"Aye, it is," he assured her, forgetting that he was dressed as a caveman, and deciding instead to be a pirate for the evening. "You'll be the booty I plunder on me poop deck tonight," he continued, not even sure what that meant, although he desperately wanted it to involve butt sex.
"Shiver me timbers!" he exclaimed, hurling Eleni over his shoulder with a popping of his joints, and lurching across the parquet floor towards the ballroom exit. "Avast! Me kidneys," he moaned under her weight and that of his mustache. Twenty agonizing paces and ten minutes later, he finally reached the door. Around this point he decided it was best that she carry him instead. They took the elevator up, she propping him up and wiping the sweat from his brow and chins.
Inside the be-leafed walls of the Vroom Vroom Room, Sergei splayed Eleni out as much as one could be splayed upon a twin-size racecar bed with an awkwardly-located stick-shift. A toy airplane circled above her on a string. Nearby on the nightstand, the head of Mr. T bobbled enthusiastically to the vibrations of Sergei's vain efforts to struggle his way out of his muu-muu. He cursed whoever designed it, and their children, pets, pet rocks, and garden gnomes. "May they never suffocate by inhaling their own virile, tangled mustache hair," he cried, for this was the most noble and honorable death he could envision for a warrior stud such as himself, that which every man, woman and child should aspire to experience.
It would not come off. His arms were stuck inside, and all he could see was darkness. It was like staring at his own matted chest hair.
Unable to free his arms himself, he began to panic. As he ran in circles around the bed, hitting his shins against the tires and becoming tied up in vines, Eleni could not assist, for she had fallen asleep. Sergei needed to remember in the future that it was unnecessary to drug her since she had already been willing to entertain his predilections.
Exhausted, he sat down in the center of the floor, surrounded by the very Lincoln Logs which he had used to design his pleasure chamber. He weighed his options, from sobbing bitterly, to ringing the help, to spending the rest of his days within the confines of his leopard muu-muu and building a new civilization inside with only his tongue.
"Arrgh," he said aloud, beginning a torturous monologue in pirate speech. "I hoisted me mainsail and aimed for the shores o' her briny depths, but ran aground on the reef of frustration." He thought a moment, and considered whether her "briny depths" could or should have a shoreline. "Aw, nuts, can I start over?" he asked no one.
No, he decided. He could not. He would just have to wait until he was freed, and then pay someone to write the speech for him. Then he would restage the entire night exactly, only this time, he'd know what to say in response to his troubles.
And damn, it would be profound.
Saturday, September 8, 2007
Chapter 27: You Are The Weakest Evolutionary Link (Goodbye!)
I was accepted to participate on Senseless Reality Show #214 quite handily. Having paid the requisite $1.99 fee to text message my application to the "Fun Line," and then signing away all ancillary rights to my likeness, future children, kidneys, so on and so forth to Sony BMG Music, I was ready to compete. Soon I would earn the million-dollar prize, and Sergei would feel the heat of a million soldiers each paid a single dollar to take my nation back from his sweaty, soiled clutches.
I could envision Sergei at that very moment, re-greasing his mustache in my personal bathroom, clogging up the drains with his thick, masculine clumps of tangled oily nose hairs. And then there were the citizens! Well, I was quite sure he was doing something to them. But still, my drains!
We were divided into tribes, Team Loser and Team Winner. Team Winner had the benefits of a good shelter, the millionaire's favor, food, and vaccinations. My tribe, Team Loser, was told that a serial killer had secretly been placed among us, and that much humor would come from attempts to ferret him out before we were all strangled with our own hosiery. Luckily, I quickly discerned his identity, thanks to his habit of screaming, "I'll fucking kill you!" and jumping up and down on the beach with bloody pantyhose. Having fingered him, I then identified him and claimed my reward: A new, bloodthirstier serial killer embedded among us. Needless to say, the tribe could barely sleep with their excitement that night. If only we had been able to guess it was the new guy, who joined us moments after the host said, "A new bloodthirstier serial killer will join your tribe."
As the days went on, we engaged in a variety of contests to win the millionaire's favor, while eliminating our rivals. There were matches of wits, and of jello wrestling. We were required to stage a production of Cats, while dressed as dogs. There was a swimsuit competition, and we had to issue a top-40 hit record ("Scurvy is a Word I Don' Wanna Hear No More" later earned two nominations in the Reggae Grammy Awards). Still, I felt as thought I was losing sight of my main mission in life: protecting my drains from the ever-increasing amount of body hair Sergei was surely sending down them, provided he showered regularly.
On day 472, we were sent to Final Council. At Final Council, we would vote for representatives who would narrow down a field of electors, who promised to vote for the candidate we chose in a popular vote, but were not technically bound to do so. Should three-fifths of the electors choose the same contestant to expel from the game, and there not be a veto from the host's manager, then that contestant's corpse would be mailed home via FedEx in a wine cask. (And all ancillary rights to likeness, children, kidneys, ancestral homes, alimony, etc. retained by Sony BMG.)
Alas, I was chosen by popular vote, simply because none of my fellow tribe members could bear my persona. My many attempts to hump their faces and ferment alcohol from rotten mangoes had resulted only in repeated attempts to send me to Exile Peninsula, also known as Florida. I could take a hint. My main hint being their refusal to let me hump their faces. As each of them approached the camera in the Chamber of Reckoning and inscribed my name in Sharpie on the Tablet of Foreboding, they explained their reasons for choosing me to leave the game. Number one on their lists: "She won't stop trying to hump my damn face." Number seven: "She has cooties."
Thus another plan to reconquer my homeland had gang aft agley. Informed by their legal team that FedEx would not accept wine casks stuffed with corpses, I was instead dumped unceremoniously on the side of Interstate 40 somewhere between the Carolinas and California. I also received a copy of Senseless Reality Show #214: The Home Game, in which I was forced to vote myself out in an exact recreation of the game I had just played. Hearing all the comments from myself about myself, and being forced to refuse to hump my own face, really stung.
Then, I saw the light. The light being the lone headlight still functional on the speeding tour bus that was about to run me over. After a sudden screeching of tires, a cloud of dust, and a three-car pileup, the bus opened its door in front of me. "Come toward the light, Katrina," a voice said. I then realized it was my own voice. I stepped aboard, slightly embarrassed.
"Where you headed?" the driver asked.
"To get my country back," I answered.
"Us too," he said. "Hop in."
And with that, I joined the Christian Evangelical Order of Brethren on their cross-country trip to forcibly overthrow Congress with pitchforks and the wrath of God.
I could envision Sergei at that very moment, re-greasing his mustache in my personal bathroom, clogging up the drains with his thick, masculine clumps of tangled oily nose hairs. And then there were the citizens! Well, I was quite sure he was doing something to them. But still, my drains!
We were divided into tribes, Team Loser and Team Winner. Team Winner had the benefits of a good shelter, the millionaire's favor, food, and vaccinations. My tribe, Team Loser, was told that a serial killer had secretly been placed among us, and that much humor would come from attempts to ferret him out before we were all strangled with our own hosiery. Luckily, I quickly discerned his identity, thanks to his habit of screaming, "I'll fucking kill you!" and jumping up and down on the beach with bloody pantyhose. Having fingered him, I then identified him and claimed my reward: A new, bloodthirstier serial killer embedded among us. Needless to say, the tribe could barely sleep with their excitement that night. If only we had been able to guess it was the new guy, who joined us moments after the host said, "A new bloodthirstier serial killer will join your tribe."
As the days went on, we engaged in a variety of contests to win the millionaire's favor, while eliminating our rivals. There were matches of wits, and of jello wrestling. We were required to stage a production of Cats, while dressed as dogs. There was a swimsuit competition, and we had to issue a top-40 hit record ("Scurvy is a Word I Don' Wanna Hear No More" later earned two nominations in the Reggae Grammy Awards). Still, I felt as thought I was losing sight of my main mission in life: protecting my drains from the ever-increasing amount of body hair Sergei was surely sending down them, provided he showered regularly.
On day 472, we were sent to Final Council. At Final Council, we would vote for representatives who would narrow down a field of electors, who promised to vote for the candidate we chose in a popular vote, but were not technically bound to do so. Should three-fifths of the electors choose the same contestant to expel from the game, and there not be a veto from the host's manager, then that contestant's corpse would be mailed home via FedEx in a wine cask. (And all ancillary rights to likeness, children, kidneys, ancestral homes, alimony, etc. retained by Sony BMG.)
Alas, I was chosen by popular vote, simply because none of my fellow tribe members could bear my persona. My many attempts to hump their faces and ferment alcohol from rotten mangoes had resulted only in repeated attempts to send me to Exile Peninsula, also known as Florida. I could take a hint. My main hint being their refusal to let me hump their faces. As each of them approached the camera in the Chamber of Reckoning and inscribed my name in Sharpie on the Tablet of Foreboding, they explained their reasons for choosing me to leave the game. Number one on their lists: "She won't stop trying to hump my damn face." Number seven: "She has cooties."
Thus another plan to reconquer my homeland had gang aft agley. Informed by their legal team that FedEx would not accept wine casks stuffed with corpses, I was instead dumped unceremoniously on the side of Interstate 40 somewhere between the Carolinas and California. I also received a copy of Senseless Reality Show #214: The Home Game, in which I was forced to vote myself out in an exact recreation of the game I had just played. Hearing all the comments from myself about myself, and being forced to refuse to hump my own face, really stung.
Then, I saw the light. The light being the lone headlight still functional on the speeding tour bus that was about to run me over. After a sudden screeching of tires, a cloud of dust, and a three-car pileup, the bus opened its door in front of me. "Come toward the light, Katrina," a voice said. I then realized it was my own voice. I stepped aboard, slightly embarrassed.
"Where you headed?" the driver asked.
"To get my country back," I answered.
"Us too," he said. "Hop in."
And with that, I joined the Christian Evangelical Order of Brethren on their cross-country trip to forcibly overthrow Congress with pitchforks and the wrath of God.
Chapter 26: A Good Day for Rat Meat.
It came to pass that I was required to flee Miss Spankpenny's school, primarily due to my murdering a rival student with a croquet mallet in a bitter dispute involving buttered toast and vengeance. Again I found myself alone in the world, sober, and forced to fend for myself. And fend I did, for I was becoming quite capable in my exile. A chance encounter with the King of the Hobos led to my accumulation of thousands of years of free Hobo Wisdom, from how to urinate in a Yoohoo bottle, to where to curl up and die without leaving an annoying stench.
"You'll want a box. A cardboard box. Those'll hold up real nice, until it rains. Then get a new box," he explained. "Ain't nothin' beats a new box, unless it's a tin-foil hat to keep the CIA from reading your brain waves."
"The CIA, they read your mind?" I asked, incredulous.
"What else they gonna read, Newsweek?" he answered. Then he showed me how to construct my own hat, and together we made love, knowing the CIA saw nothing but static and maybe a breast here and there.
I missed the Hobo King. He still haunted my dreams, and it was most unfortunate that he had to return to his homeland of Hobovania to fight the usurper Toothless Joe, who had challenged him in the Arena of Agony. As he packed his rat pelts to leave, the Hobo King told me he lamented ever having built an Arena of Agony, but that it had seemed a good idea at the time. It did not matter now, when challenged to a death match, one does not shirk away. That's the way the corn cracks, and I for one do not care.
"What's with the Arena of Agony? Does every nut I come across have to have some sort of stage built for ritual slaughter? It's just getting quite predictable, when something like that should really be special, like a figging or being on America's Most Wanted," I complained.
"Goodbye, Katrina," he said, as he mounted his imaginary steed. "I'll be back, I promise, and then we can film those snuff movies for the internet we talked about. Good times, they'll be. Good times." And then he trotted off, making horsey noises through the city streets, oblivious to oncoming traffic.
I read the news the next day, oh boy. About an unlucky hobo who made the grave. The King was killed ten seconds into his death challenge, when his own bindle was snatched from his grasp, then stabbed through one ear and out the other. But I will always remember him when I try unsuccessfully to wash his odor out of my clothing and hair. I will remember him as he was, face-down in a pool of his own blood, a stick jutting from each ear. He was a great man, a great, unwashed man, and he was granted a state funeral- tossed into a recycling bins behind the state capital and given a 21-bum salute. Even the flies paid homage, silencing their buzzing around him for a few moments before laying their eggs in his corpse.
While rummaging through another dumpster behind what turned out to be a broadcast network's headquarters, I met a man named Dave, who stood out because he was skinning a rat in a completely improper and wasteful manner. I showed him the correct way to perform the task, which leaves the remainder as a whole lump of meat which can be fried up as a nugget or slid onto a bun (or not, if you're on Atkins). I asked if he was a "Newbo," new to the hobo lifestyle, and he told me that he was, and had only recently been let go from a reality show being filmed within that very building.
A real self-made millionaire (not one of those pretend-millionaires you try to marry on Fox) had charged a group of eager go-getters with performing ridiculously demeaning tasks for his amusement, in no way related to potential business success. He was then to arbitrarily pick his favorite candidate to repeat this duty forever. Dave was not his favorite, in fact he was his least, and thus had been dismissed with the millionaire's signature catchphrase, "Get yo' skank-ass worthless visage outta me face! Arrggghhhhh!" before being tossed from the 17th floor window into a pile of refuse and contestants from the previous season. (The "arrggghhhhh" coincided with the throwing.)
Dave explained that he did it for the prize money, although he had lost more by quitting his job to compete than it had been worth. Despite begging and kidnapping the company's president, he was unable to return to his old position. Probably due to the restraining order, I guessed.
A plot began to hatch in my mind, much like the larvae that hatched from the Hobo King's egg-infested head 48 hours after his death. I would make acquaintance with this millionaire, apply a generous (but not heaping) helping of woo, and use his influence to raise and fund an army to recapture my throne. It was either that or using my own funds, and I've got shoes to buy, dammit.
"You'll want a box. A cardboard box. Those'll hold up real nice, until it rains. Then get a new box," he explained. "Ain't nothin' beats a new box, unless it's a tin-foil hat to keep the CIA from reading your brain waves."
"The CIA, they read your mind?" I asked, incredulous.
"What else they gonna read, Newsweek?" he answered. Then he showed me how to construct my own hat, and together we made love, knowing the CIA saw nothing but static and maybe a breast here and there.
I missed the Hobo King. He still haunted my dreams, and it was most unfortunate that he had to return to his homeland of Hobovania to fight the usurper Toothless Joe, who had challenged him in the Arena of Agony. As he packed his rat pelts to leave, the Hobo King told me he lamented ever having built an Arena of Agony, but that it had seemed a good idea at the time. It did not matter now, when challenged to a death match, one does not shirk away. That's the way the corn cracks, and I for one do not care.
"What's with the Arena of Agony? Does every nut I come across have to have some sort of stage built for ritual slaughter? It's just getting quite predictable, when something like that should really be special, like a figging or being on America's Most Wanted," I complained.
"Goodbye, Katrina," he said, as he mounted his imaginary steed. "I'll be back, I promise, and then we can film those snuff movies for the internet we talked about. Good times, they'll be. Good times." And then he trotted off, making horsey noises through the city streets, oblivious to oncoming traffic.
I read the news the next day, oh boy. About an unlucky hobo who made the grave. The King was killed ten seconds into his death challenge, when his own bindle was snatched from his grasp, then stabbed through one ear and out the other. But I will always remember him when I try unsuccessfully to wash his odor out of my clothing and hair. I will remember him as he was, face-down in a pool of his own blood, a stick jutting from each ear. He was a great man, a great, unwashed man, and he was granted a state funeral- tossed into a recycling bins behind the state capital and given a 21-bum salute. Even the flies paid homage, silencing their buzzing around him for a few moments before laying their eggs in his corpse.
While rummaging through another dumpster behind what turned out to be a broadcast network's headquarters, I met a man named Dave, who stood out because he was skinning a rat in a completely improper and wasteful manner. I showed him the correct way to perform the task, which leaves the remainder as a whole lump of meat which can be fried up as a nugget or slid onto a bun (or not, if you're on Atkins). I asked if he was a "Newbo," new to the hobo lifestyle, and he told me that he was, and had only recently been let go from a reality show being filmed within that very building.
A real self-made millionaire (not one of those pretend-millionaires you try to marry on Fox) had charged a group of eager go-getters with performing ridiculously demeaning tasks for his amusement, in no way related to potential business success. He was then to arbitrarily pick his favorite candidate to repeat this duty forever. Dave was not his favorite, in fact he was his least, and thus had been dismissed with the millionaire's signature catchphrase, "Get yo' skank-ass worthless visage outta me face! Arrggghhhhh!" before being tossed from the 17th floor window into a pile of refuse and contestants from the previous season. (The "arrggghhhhh" coincided with the throwing.)
Dave explained that he did it for the prize money, although he had lost more by quitting his job to compete than it had been worth. Despite begging and kidnapping the company's president, he was unable to return to his old position. Probably due to the restraining order, I guessed.
A plot began to hatch in my mind, much like the larvae that hatched from the Hobo King's egg-infested head 48 hours after his death. I would make acquaintance with this millionaire, apply a generous (but not heaping) helping of woo, and use his influence to raise and fund an army to recapture my throne. It was either that or using my own funds, and I've got shoes to buy, dammit.
Chapter 25: We All Want Some Figgy Pudding.
Upon my arrival back on earth, I found my space capsule entangled in the canopy of an exquisite specimen of Victorian architecture, on a tree-lined street in what I took to be either London or the sound stage of a Disney musical. By and by I freed myself from the awnings and climbed down to examine my surroundings and shag someone senseless.
The sign outside the premises declared the building to be the admissions office of Miss Spankpenny's School for Wayward Ladies, dedicated to the twin propositions that 1890 never ended and that all problems could be resolved satisfactorily with a sound caning. Intrigued and slightly drunk, I wandered inside to sign up, for I would need lodging anyway, and a sound caning might help sobriety arrive more quickly.
Miss Spankpenny was delighted to have a new student, especially one carrying rolls of large denomination West Belgian currency in her underthings. She asserted that I was to be her master project, proof that if I could be made a proper lady, anyone could. Opposing her in this idea was the esteemed Dr. Mycroft von Doohickey, who ran the prep school down the road and wagered a balloon trip around the world that she would fail miserably and that I would die of tuberculosis in a gutter by the end of the fortnight, or be disemboweled by the serial killer who preyed upon the student body as a mischievous prank. I myself placed several thousand West Belgian EuroPesos on the good doctor being correct.
And so my training in becoming a proper lady began. I was instructed in the finer art of balancing books upon my head while descending staircases and holding a ginger root in my anal cavity, a sport known as "figging". Proper ladies, after all, frequently hold objects in their anus for sport and leisure. After high tea with the queen, who was also figged up, we played croquet with flamingo mallets (plastic, for we are not barbarians, after all) and planned an invasion of the Falkland Islands. In all, my first day was quite productive and I felt myself becoming more of a lady with each passing moment. I celebrated by shaving my pits.
Beginning with day two, my ambitions seemed to be thwarted on every level. It all started when the class was assigned to come up with our own Spice Girl names. I wanted ever so much to be "Posh" but the other girls insisted upon labeling me as "Bitter Ho-Bag Spice". For this, I ripped out wads of their hair and smashed a Grecian urn upside their heads. As punishment for my naughty deeds, I was to be drawn and quartered, but a last-minute reprieve came from an international human rights agency and the sentence was reduced to a figging and and appearing as a contestent on "The Weakest Link." I was the winner, earning two pounds, the largest payout ever.
But it seemed I would never become a true lady. I had too many ribs, my fainting needed work, and when faced with an employment application I persisted in checking off "male" on the paperwork, probably due to my gross illiteracy. Miss Spankpenny took me aside and tried to console me, in the manner that only she could.
"Now now, Katrina. Tish tosh. Steak and kidney pie. Tut tut tut. What's all this about now, then," she asked. I had no idea what she was saying, for my English was not as good as hers. "Stiff upper lip, remember that, Katrina," she continued, slightly clearer. "I'm sure someday you'll get your wish to become a real lady, but for now, just keep up at it then. What say we have ourselves a caning, followed by a paddling and some branding after that, no?" And I smiled. She proceeded to chase me back and forth across the campus, wielding a branding iron and balancing books upon her head. Sometimes she let me chase her, or we both let a gorilla and some police officers chase us. It was all very fun, if quite confusing.
That night, in the infirmary for severe burn wounds, I was visited by the Good Fairy, who turned me into a real lady. Later, I was told I had also been hospitalized for an acute wormwood overdose from downing seven quaffs of absinthe in ten minutes, and the latter part of my recollection may have been a hallucination or near-death experience.
Dr. von Doohickey, having lost his wager, took the the air in a hot-air balloon, determined to travel the world as he promised on condition of his loss. He ran out of luminiferous ether at the 10,000 foot mark and plummeted back to earth, spattering his earthly remnants across the county, where the larger portions were collected and turned into some kind of disgusting English pie. Those people made me quite sick with their backwards customs, but it was damn good pie. I found a timepiece in my slice.
The sign outside the premises declared the building to be the admissions office of Miss Spankpenny's School for Wayward Ladies, dedicated to the twin propositions that 1890 never ended and that all problems could be resolved satisfactorily with a sound caning. Intrigued and slightly drunk, I wandered inside to sign up, for I would need lodging anyway, and a sound caning might help sobriety arrive more quickly.
Miss Spankpenny was delighted to have a new student, especially one carrying rolls of large denomination West Belgian currency in her underthings. She asserted that I was to be her master project, proof that if I could be made a proper lady, anyone could. Opposing her in this idea was the esteemed Dr. Mycroft von Doohickey, who ran the prep school down the road and wagered a balloon trip around the world that she would fail miserably and that I would die of tuberculosis in a gutter by the end of the fortnight, or be disemboweled by the serial killer who preyed upon the student body as a mischievous prank. I myself placed several thousand West Belgian EuroPesos on the good doctor being correct.
And so my training in becoming a proper lady began. I was instructed in the finer art of balancing books upon my head while descending staircases and holding a ginger root in my anal cavity, a sport known as "figging". Proper ladies, after all, frequently hold objects in their anus for sport and leisure. After high tea with the queen, who was also figged up, we played croquet with flamingo mallets (plastic, for we are not barbarians, after all) and planned an invasion of the Falkland Islands. In all, my first day was quite productive and I felt myself becoming more of a lady with each passing moment. I celebrated by shaving my pits.
Beginning with day two, my ambitions seemed to be thwarted on every level. It all started when the class was assigned to come up with our own Spice Girl names. I wanted ever so much to be "Posh" but the other girls insisted upon labeling me as "Bitter Ho-Bag Spice". For this, I ripped out wads of their hair and smashed a Grecian urn upside their heads. As punishment for my naughty deeds, I was to be drawn and quartered, but a last-minute reprieve came from an international human rights agency and the sentence was reduced to a figging and and appearing as a contestent on "The Weakest Link." I was the winner, earning two pounds, the largest payout ever.
But it seemed I would never become a true lady. I had too many ribs, my fainting needed work, and when faced with an employment application I persisted in checking off "male" on the paperwork, probably due to my gross illiteracy. Miss Spankpenny took me aside and tried to console me, in the manner that only she could.
"Now now, Katrina. Tish tosh. Steak and kidney pie. Tut tut tut. What's all this about now, then," she asked. I had no idea what she was saying, for my English was not as good as hers. "Stiff upper lip, remember that, Katrina," she continued, slightly clearer. "I'm sure someday you'll get your wish to become a real lady, but for now, just keep up at it then. What say we have ourselves a caning, followed by a paddling and some branding after that, no?" And I smiled. She proceeded to chase me back and forth across the campus, wielding a branding iron and balancing books upon her head. Sometimes she let me chase her, or we both let a gorilla and some police officers chase us. It was all very fun, if quite confusing.
That night, in the infirmary for severe burn wounds, I was visited by the Good Fairy, who turned me into a real lady. Later, I was told I had also been hospitalized for an acute wormwood overdose from downing seven quaffs of absinthe in ten minutes, and the latter part of my recollection may have been a hallucination or near-death experience.
Dr. von Doohickey, having lost his wager, took the the air in a hot-air balloon, determined to travel the world as he promised on condition of his loss. He ran out of luminiferous ether at the 10,000 foot mark and plummeted back to earth, spattering his earthly remnants across the county, where the larger portions were collected and turned into some kind of disgusting English pie. Those people made me quite sick with their backwards customs, but it was damn good pie. I found a timepiece in my slice.
Chapter 24: On a Clear Day You Can See Through the Plot Holes.
Howard Leeds surveyed his enormous orbital death station, remembering his struggle to save up for the down payment, and his anxiety when he first heard from the building inspector that there was a slight defect in the foundation that he may have to hire someone to patch. Those days were long behind him now. A few trips to Home Depot, some potted plants, and an army of android prepubescent servant wenches dressed like maids and programmed to compete in gladiatorial combat had changed everything.
Beneath his observation box, in the greased stainless steel, concave Pit of Reckoning, his robots rollerskated in circles around the perimeter, flashing their weaponry and occasionally their boobs. Yes, this was the life. He'd have something to watch, at least until the next celebrity trial. Damn, he got a kick out of those, too.
In the locker room adjacent to the arena, I was informed that I would be armed only with a toothpick, chewing gum, and a piece of zinc. The battle would be a MacGyver Challenge, where I had to destroy twelve killer droids wearing plastic Vicki the Robot faces and wielding jagged blades that would be the wet dream of any Highlander fan. Asked if I had any final requests before meeting my fate, I said yes, and requested not to fight and instead to be freed immediately. The guards looked at each other in confusion. Apparently no one had asked this before.
"Well, it is her last request, so I guess we do have to honor it," one said.
"But if we honor it, then she lives and it isn't her last request, so we don't have to honor it," the other argued.
"But maybe she'll live anyway and defeat the robots. Then it wouldn't have been her final request, either!"
"Then it's safe to ignore! The only way we'd be in trouble for not granting it would be if she died in the arena."
"But that's the most likely outcome!"
It was decided that we would arrange for arbitration, but we couldn't agree on the number of arbitrators, their nicknames, their sexual orientation, the type of sandwiches they could eat while discussing the case, and whether or not to televise the proceedings as part of a pay-per-view package. The deliberations lasted for several weeks, during which time I was sequestered aboard the station, living down the hall from Howard and sharing a communal bathroom with him. Showering with the man who ordered my ritual execution for his own spectacle was awkward at best, although who can resist shower sex? Not I.
"Oh Katrina," moaned Howard, about halfway through the act, "you've really got me in a lather!"
"That was horrible," I told him. "Really, you've totally killed the mood and my Stockholm Syndrome." I pushed him aside and began to rinse.
"Sorry," he said. "It's just that I don't get many living women up here and I don't get a chance to practice my dirty talk. Not that I need to! I can swear like a sailor after I've had a couple boxes of Cracker Jacks... What are you looking at? I'm not impotent!"
Three appeals later, I left Outpost Omicron a free woman. On the way out, I bought a little stuffed Vicki from the gift shop. One-Eyed Jack, happy with his new position as color commentator for the jousts, opted to stay aboard and have wacky hijinks. I suspect he secretly hoped for his own spin-off series of novels, but this was not to be the case.
"Goodbye, Jack," I said. "I wish I could stay here and take Howard hostage, using him as bait to draw out his wicked master Sergio and finally stage the showdown that will win me back my kingdom from his evil clutches, but then what would I do afterwards? Knit?"
"Girl, you got an ass that won't quit," Jack said, oblivious to the conversation.
"Live for an acceptable amount of time, and be financially sound," I told him, and entered the escape pod, sealing the door tightly with caulk and letting it cure for ten to fifteen minutes. Then I turned the ignition key. The engine stalled. Jack pushed on the pod for a while before offering me a jump.
As Outpost Omicron, the Big O, grew smaller in the pod window and spiraled out of sight, I looked back upon my adventures there. "Damn, that was anticlimactic," I thought to myself. But nevermind. New, bolder, saucier exploits awaited me as soon as I arrived on my home planet. I wondered if I had paid my cable bill for this month, and remembered I had dry cleaning to pick up down at the Laundromat. Yes, bold, saucy adventures indeed!
Beneath his observation box, in the greased stainless steel, concave Pit of Reckoning, his robots rollerskated in circles around the perimeter, flashing their weaponry and occasionally their boobs. Yes, this was the life. He'd have something to watch, at least until the next celebrity trial. Damn, he got a kick out of those, too.
In the locker room adjacent to the arena, I was informed that I would be armed only with a toothpick, chewing gum, and a piece of zinc. The battle would be a MacGyver Challenge, where I had to destroy twelve killer droids wearing plastic Vicki the Robot faces and wielding jagged blades that would be the wet dream of any Highlander fan. Asked if I had any final requests before meeting my fate, I said yes, and requested not to fight and instead to be freed immediately. The guards looked at each other in confusion. Apparently no one had asked this before.
"Well, it is her last request, so I guess we do have to honor it," one said.
"But if we honor it, then she lives and it isn't her last request, so we don't have to honor it," the other argued.
"But maybe she'll live anyway and defeat the robots. Then it wouldn't have been her final request, either!"
"Then it's safe to ignore! The only way we'd be in trouble for not granting it would be if she died in the arena."
"But that's the most likely outcome!"
It was decided that we would arrange for arbitration, but we couldn't agree on the number of arbitrators, their nicknames, their sexual orientation, the type of sandwiches they could eat while discussing the case, and whether or not to televise the proceedings as part of a pay-per-view package. The deliberations lasted for several weeks, during which time I was sequestered aboard the station, living down the hall from Howard and sharing a communal bathroom with him. Showering with the man who ordered my ritual execution for his own spectacle was awkward at best, although who can resist shower sex? Not I.
"Oh Katrina," moaned Howard, about halfway through the act, "you've really got me in a lather!"
"That was horrible," I told him. "Really, you've totally killed the mood and my Stockholm Syndrome." I pushed him aside and began to rinse.
"Sorry," he said. "It's just that I don't get many living women up here and I don't get a chance to practice my dirty talk. Not that I need to! I can swear like a sailor after I've had a couple boxes of Cracker Jacks... What are you looking at? I'm not impotent!"
Three appeals later, I left Outpost Omicron a free woman. On the way out, I bought a little stuffed Vicki from the gift shop. One-Eyed Jack, happy with his new position as color commentator for the jousts, opted to stay aboard and have wacky hijinks. I suspect he secretly hoped for his own spin-off series of novels, but this was not to be the case.
"Goodbye, Jack," I said. "I wish I could stay here and take Howard hostage, using him as bait to draw out his wicked master Sergio and finally stage the showdown that will win me back my kingdom from his evil clutches, but then what would I do afterwards? Knit?"
"Girl, you got an ass that won't quit," Jack said, oblivious to the conversation.
"Live for an acceptable amount of time, and be financially sound," I told him, and entered the escape pod, sealing the door tightly with caulk and letting it cure for ten to fifteen minutes. Then I turned the ignition key. The engine stalled. Jack pushed on the pod for a while before offering me a jump.
As Outpost Omicron, the Big O, grew smaller in the pod window and spiraled out of sight, I looked back upon my adventures there. "Damn, that was anticlimactic," I thought to myself. But nevermind. New, bolder, saucier exploits awaited me as soon as I arrived on my home planet. I wondered if I had paid my cable bill for this month, and remembered I had dry cleaning to pick up down at the Laundromat. Yes, bold, saucy adventures indeed!
Chapter 23: Fear and Loathing in Outer Space.
One-Eyed Jack and I emerged from the airlock, cautiously optimistic about the chances of having intergalactic sweaty green alien sex with any number of the station's inhabitants. A red-shirted squad of security personnel quickly surrounded us, and took us to the outpost's commander. We were rudely tossed to the ground before him, and offered only some stale airline peanuts and recycled urine to sate our hunger and thirst. The urine left something to be desired.
"Sit," the commander said, his rugged torso straining against the confines of his spandex jumpsuit, which was at least two sizes too small. He sat upon a metallic chair covered in glowing buttons. Sadly, these were merely decorative, and did not perform any useful functions like vibrating or vibrating harder. The man's white hair and muttonchops glistened like white hair and muttonshops in the mood lighting. He reminded me of Santa Claus, only looking and sounding like Marlon Brando and without the beard.
"I am Howard Leeds, commanding officer of Outpost Omicron, or as we like to call it, 'The Big O'. Out here, beyond the controls of any government, I've constructed a menacing superstation to rival even TBS, dedicated to the proposition of every man for himself, a woman for every man, and an oiled woman to wrestle every other woman." He smacked his lips in the dry artificial air. "See, here at the Big O, it's all about the O. My O!" He proceeded to feel himself through the spandex and drool profusely.
I was naturally aroused, and wondering where I could get my own tight jumpsuit, but he continued.
"They thought I was mad. Mad! Back on your surface world, I was once a powerful Hollywood producer." He handed us each a copy of his autobiography, "Howard Leeds: Big Shot Hollywood Producer," and continued.
"In 1985, I came up with an idea that revolutionized the entertainment industry. Once in a lifetime, lightening strikes. For me, that bolt of genius took the form of a sitcom about a sassy android servant girl, who lived in her teen brother's closet, possessed superhuman strength, and wore a short dress. I called it Small Wonder, and it was the absolute greatest thing any mortal had dared to conceive!" He stroked his chin, almost wishing he had whiskers. "But you fools refused to watch it. They canceled the show and my dream of using it for global domination! For years I struggled to regain my footing in Hollywood. But no one would answer my calls, not even the girl who played VICI!" He had a portrait of her on the wall, alongside a framed restraining order from her, asking him to cease and desist the sale of her purported undergarments online.
"I proposed bringing it back and spicing it up a little with some oiled naked android maid wrestling, but not even Fox television would dare air it. It was then I knew that I had to take revenge on the species that refused my gift and denied me the endless thanks due to me. Humankind has squandered its only path to salvation- my talent! It was after that final rejection that I began construction of the ultimate weapon in the galaxy to destroy them!"
Jack excused himself at this point, asking where the men's room was and if he should beware of any alien species with unusually-located genitals or propensity to probe humanoids for sport. My own mind wandered and I started to pay more attention to the dozens of small video panels throughout the room, each carrying a different episode of Small Wonder. I was disappointed in the quality of the special effects. Howard continued, unphased. I caught him mid-phrase.
"-and that's when my good friend and investor Sergei Sergenstein stepped in to help me build this orbital death observatory. Only from here could he see his massive velvet portrait of Stevie Nicks as it was truly meant to be seen, and only here could I build my army of indestructible death droids and train them to obliterate mankind!"
"Sergei? You know Sergei?" I asked. After all this time, I was finally reminded of the man who stole my crown, cast me out of West Belgium, and began my many adventures. Now he was back in the picture, like an arch villain trotted out during mythology episodes of popular programs during sweeps week.
"Yes, Sergei and I go way back, Katrina. He said to pass his condolences on to you for the loss of your country and crown. And to kill you. Of course, here at the Big O we expect to get the maximum amount of perverted sexual pleasure from your demise." He picked up a small green frog from a bowl of goo next to him and gulped it down in a single slurp. Then he vomited, not liking the taste of space frogs. The guards returned and manhandled me, a small break in an otherwise bad day. They held me upright in front of Leeds, who continued to spit frog bits on the floor.
"What was that about a picture of Stevie Nicks?" I asked, having not caught that the first time around.
"Oh, yes. West Belgium has been covered over with an enormous velvet painting of Stevie Nicks riding a unicorn. So large it can only be seen from space." He wiped the remaining vomit from his chin. "Not really my thing, but for Sergei it was reason enough to take control of your puny surface nation. Too bad it'll be blown up with the rest of the planet once I finish having my way with you."
I shuddered at the thought of such a tacky display blocking the view of my own hot-pink home, Castle Barbie. I had those ponies dyed bright orange for a reason, and now no one could see them.
"What way is that?" I asked.
"You will be stripped, oiled, put in roller skates, and forced to compete to the death in the Circle of Death, where death is most assuredly assured. There, you will learn a new definition of death, as you fight against my army of girlish death droids, programmed to slash your oiled form or force you into a vat of deadly Galactic Acid in the center of the arena. Your only defenses will be a crude metal blade, your wits, and Deus ex Machina. Of course, I'll be taping the whole thing to pitch to Fox one last time for kicks, and feeling myself through my jumpsuit. I just wish I had put a zipper in this thing!"
"What about Jack?" I asked, wondering why he was taking so long in the bathroom. He didn't even bring any porn with him.
"Jack? Oh, I'll show you what has become of him. Enter, Jack!" he yelled. "Show her what cruel fate you have suffered!"
Jack ran in, apparently fine.
"See? Here's Jack!" He waited for a moment, trying to measure the impact of his statement. "Yes, this is Jack. Indeed. Yep." We stood silent for several minutes before I realized it was my turn to speak.
"But what will happen to him?"
"Well, I guess he can watch your grisly demise." He turned to Jack. "Can you do color commentary? Do you have any broadcast sports experience? If not I have manuals and some tapes you can watch to get a feel for it."
Jack responded, "Well, I did some play-by-play in college for the softball team."
"Excellent," Leeds replied. "Then let the games begin. Those who are about to be greased and disemboweled, I salute you!" He then had Jack fitted for a sport coat and toupee, and the guards dragged me away.
"Sit," the commander said, his rugged torso straining against the confines of his spandex jumpsuit, which was at least two sizes too small. He sat upon a metallic chair covered in glowing buttons. Sadly, these were merely decorative, and did not perform any useful functions like vibrating or vibrating harder. The man's white hair and muttonchops glistened like white hair and muttonshops in the mood lighting. He reminded me of Santa Claus, only looking and sounding like Marlon Brando and without the beard.
"I am Howard Leeds, commanding officer of Outpost Omicron, or as we like to call it, 'The Big O'. Out here, beyond the controls of any government, I've constructed a menacing superstation to rival even TBS, dedicated to the proposition of every man for himself, a woman for every man, and an oiled woman to wrestle every other woman." He smacked his lips in the dry artificial air. "See, here at the Big O, it's all about the O. My O!" He proceeded to feel himself through the spandex and drool profusely.
I was naturally aroused, and wondering where I could get my own tight jumpsuit, but he continued.
"They thought I was mad. Mad! Back on your surface world, I was once a powerful Hollywood producer." He handed us each a copy of his autobiography, "Howard Leeds: Big Shot Hollywood Producer," and continued.
"In 1985, I came up with an idea that revolutionized the entertainment industry. Once in a lifetime, lightening strikes. For me, that bolt of genius took the form of a sitcom about a sassy android servant girl, who lived in her teen brother's closet, possessed superhuman strength, and wore a short dress. I called it Small Wonder, and it was the absolute greatest thing any mortal had dared to conceive!" He stroked his chin, almost wishing he had whiskers. "But you fools refused to watch it. They canceled the show and my dream of using it for global domination! For years I struggled to regain my footing in Hollywood. But no one would answer my calls, not even the girl who played VICI!" He had a portrait of her on the wall, alongside a framed restraining order from her, asking him to cease and desist the sale of her purported undergarments online.
"I proposed bringing it back and spicing it up a little with some oiled naked android maid wrestling, but not even Fox television would dare air it. It was then I knew that I had to take revenge on the species that refused my gift and denied me the endless thanks due to me. Humankind has squandered its only path to salvation- my talent! It was after that final rejection that I began construction of the ultimate weapon in the galaxy to destroy them!"
Jack excused himself at this point, asking where the men's room was and if he should beware of any alien species with unusually-located genitals or propensity to probe humanoids for sport. My own mind wandered and I started to pay more attention to the dozens of small video panels throughout the room, each carrying a different episode of Small Wonder. I was disappointed in the quality of the special effects. Howard continued, unphased. I caught him mid-phrase.
"-and that's when my good friend and investor Sergei Sergenstein stepped in to help me build this orbital death observatory. Only from here could he see his massive velvet portrait of Stevie Nicks as it was truly meant to be seen, and only here could I build my army of indestructible death droids and train them to obliterate mankind!"
"Sergei? You know Sergei?" I asked. After all this time, I was finally reminded of the man who stole my crown, cast me out of West Belgium, and began my many adventures. Now he was back in the picture, like an arch villain trotted out during mythology episodes of popular programs during sweeps week.
"Yes, Sergei and I go way back, Katrina. He said to pass his condolences on to you for the loss of your country and crown. And to kill you. Of course, here at the Big O we expect to get the maximum amount of perverted sexual pleasure from your demise." He picked up a small green frog from a bowl of goo next to him and gulped it down in a single slurp. Then he vomited, not liking the taste of space frogs. The guards returned and manhandled me, a small break in an otherwise bad day. They held me upright in front of Leeds, who continued to spit frog bits on the floor.
"What was that about a picture of Stevie Nicks?" I asked, having not caught that the first time around.
"Oh, yes. West Belgium has been covered over with an enormous velvet painting of Stevie Nicks riding a unicorn. So large it can only be seen from space." He wiped the remaining vomit from his chin. "Not really my thing, but for Sergei it was reason enough to take control of your puny surface nation. Too bad it'll be blown up with the rest of the planet once I finish having my way with you."
I shuddered at the thought of such a tacky display blocking the view of my own hot-pink home, Castle Barbie. I had those ponies dyed bright orange for a reason, and now no one could see them.
"What way is that?" I asked.
"You will be stripped, oiled, put in roller skates, and forced to compete to the death in the Circle of Death, where death is most assuredly assured. There, you will learn a new definition of death, as you fight against my army of girlish death droids, programmed to slash your oiled form or force you into a vat of deadly Galactic Acid in the center of the arena. Your only defenses will be a crude metal blade, your wits, and Deus ex Machina. Of course, I'll be taping the whole thing to pitch to Fox one last time for kicks, and feeling myself through my jumpsuit. I just wish I had put a zipper in this thing!"
"What about Jack?" I asked, wondering why he was taking so long in the bathroom. He didn't even bring any porn with him.
"Jack? Oh, I'll show you what has become of him. Enter, Jack!" he yelled. "Show her what cruel fate you have suffered!"
Jack ran in, apparently fine.
"See? Here's Jack!" He waited for a moment, trying to measure the impact of his statement. "Yes, this is Jack. Indeed. Yep." We stood silent for several minutes before I realized it was my turn to speak.
"But what will happen to him?"
"Well, I guess he can watch your grisly demise." He turned to Jack. "Can you do color commentary? Do you have any broadcast sports experience? If not I have manuals and some tapes you can watch to get a feel for it."
Jack responded, "Well, I did some play-by-play in college for the softball team."
"Excellent," Leeds replied. "Then let the games begin. Those who are about to be greased and disemboweled, I salute you!" He then had Jack fitted for a sport coat and toupee, and the guards dragged me away.
Chapter 22: New Adventures in Farming.
I had little time to consider Jack's offer of forced prostitution, for at that moment federal agents swarmed on the Quanders homestead, demanding payment of the mortgage and the handover of a young Cuban refugee I had previously not been aware of, who had been put to work mining diamonds in the basement. "Oh hell," Jack yelled, cursing his unfortunate luck at being interrupted yet again. "I curse my unfortunate luck at being interrupted once again!"
Sleevus and the colonel took rifles in hand and threatened to shoot down any United Nations helicopters that may invade the farm's airspace. It seemed they did not recognize the authority of either the international organization (which was not even involved in the dispute) or the state of Kentucky, which they deemed traitorous based on an ongoing feud over an obscure whiskey aging process. Confused as I was, I admit to being somewhat intrigued by the fabled "quadruple-malt" scotch that Roberta recalled being suckled with as an infant.
"Come out with your hands up!" yelled a federal marshal. Sleevus objected and asked them to come in with their hands up. "Not without a written invitation and permission to court your sister," the marshal insisted. It was a chess game of Cat and Mouse playing Chutes and Ladders. The only question was whose battleship would sink first. "I'm not makin' y'all tea," Sleevus countered, and he pointed out that the agents hadn't even had the courtesy to call ahead so the Quanders could tidy up.
While the family hunkered down for a drawn-out siege and began calling journalists for interviews, Jack and I snuck out the back of the house and waded into the overgrown pastures beyond. He said he knew a place, a secret place where he came to cry. It would be a good hiding spot until things blew over and we could repopulate the farm. And I trusted him, because he was older, wiser, and more experienced. Surely got that eye patch from some lesson learned. Or an admirable desire to model his life on the teachings of Bazooka Joe. At any rate, the feds had spotted us and were approaching as the farmhouse now burned with fiery intensity. I guessed that Quanders family was finally going to meet Granny in the great existential void that exists in the absence of biological processes. Or they'd survive and file a lawsuit, like they did with that spilled coffee. Whatever. I'm not a fortuneteller.
We came upon a fortified complex, where Jack pointed out a steel hatch half-buried in loose dirt built into a hillside. He dug out the doorway, all the while complaining about the time he'd spend later picking the dirt out from his nails. Finally, he dusted off an emblem etched in the door- United States Department of Defense. "Well, we've got somethin' to defend against," he said, fancying himself an action hero as he turned the hatch wheel and opened the chamber. The hatch opened with a loud creak and a girlish scream, as Jack dislocated his shoulder. He wouldn't be providing 7th-inning relief in the town's annual softball tournament now.
"Oh Jack, every moment with you feels like the last I'll live," I told him. "Oh Katrina," he spoke back, "I really want to butt sex you before they kill us."
Inside, we could hear the agents still in pursuit. He sealed the door, and asked if I might want to make faces at them through a window before he dragged me over a metal bridge across a gaping black chasm, to another large entryway platform. There was a keypad on it, and he claimed he knew the combination because he had tried for several years to guess it, and this was the last combination he hadn't used yet. It worked. We sealed ourselves within a room full of blinking lights and humming machinery, where the sounds of the soldiers were drowned out by ambient noise effects that let whoever operated this equipment know that it was not just any equipment, but the Equipment of the Future.
For a long time, nothing happened. I mean, Jack finally got uninterrupted butt sex and we spent a while trying to find a bathroom to clean up, but nothing of significant plot importance. He told me about the time he waited in line to see Lord of the Rings but had to leave because a deadly assassin tried to kill him with a belt-sander. I told him about my plans to publish my story someday when editorial standards laxed. Then there was a loud explosion and the missile it turns out we had holed ourselves inside of was rocketed into space. Yes, I do believe that was an important turning point, and so I will make mention of it. But aside from that, it was relaxing.
Through the porthole, I saw our small planet grow smaller, although Jack said it was merely a trick of perspective. I told him that with a single functioning eyeball, he wasn't one to talk about perspective, and that it was possible that we were now giants and the earth had shrunk. He countered that his observation of perspective was quite fine, it was his depth-perception that suffered, and that I was an ignorant bitch. We discussed it for some time, until the rocket eventually docked with a vast orbital death outpost beyond the control of international or moral law. I sincerely hoped they had a wet bar.
When the airlock opened, we stepped into a new techno-futile world, where people wore spandex and excessive foam padding. Where weak artifical gravity made me one-third of my earth weight. And where oiled naked gladiator women fought to the death with steel-bladed flesh-tearing weapons while rollerskating around a concave pit of fusion-powered hellfire for the amusement of intergalactic barons. This was Outpost Omicron- "The Big O", and this was my new home. For the next couple chapters, at least.
Sleevus and the colonel took rifles in hand and threatened to shoot down any United Nations helicopters that may invade the farm's airspace. It seemed they did not recognize the authority of either the international organization (which was not even involved in the dispute) or the state of Kentucky, which they deemed traitorous based on an ongoing feud over an obscure whiskey aging process. Confused as I was, I admit to being somewhat intrigued by the fabled "quadruple-malt" scotch that Roberta recalled being suckled with as an infant.
"Come out with your hands up!" yelled a federal marshal. Sleevus objected and asked them to come in with their hands up. "Not without a written invitation and permission to court your sister," the marshal insisted. It was a chess game of Cat and Mouse playing Chutes and Ladders. The only question was whose battleship would sink first. "I'm not makin' y'all tea," Sleevus countered, and he pointed out that the agents hadn't even had the courtesy to call ahead so the Quanders could tidy up.
While the family hunkered down for a drawn-out siege and began calling journalists for interviews, Jack and I snuck out the back of the house and waded into the overgrown pastures beyond. He said he knew a place, a secret place where he came to cry. It would be a good hiding spot until things blew over and we could repopulate the farm. And I trusted him, because he was older, wiser, and more experienced. Surely got that eye patch from some lesson learned. Or an admirable desire to model his life on the teachings of Bazooka Joe. At any rate, the feds had spotted us and were approaching as the farmhouse now burned with fiery intensity. I guessed that Quanders family was finally going to meet Granny in the great existential void that exists in the absence of biological processes. Or they'd survive and file a lawsuit, like they did with that spilled coffee. Whatever. I'm not a fortuneteller.
We came upon a fortified complex, where Jack pointed out a steel hatch half-buried in loose dirt built into a hillside. He dug out the doorway, all the while complaining about the time he'd spend later picking the dirt out from his nails. Finally, he dusted off an emblem etched in the door- United States Department of Defense. "Well, we've got somethin' to defend against," he said, fancying himself an action hero as he turned the hatch wheel and opened the chamber. The hatch opened with a loud creak and a girlish scream, as Jack dislocated his shoulder. He wouldn't be providing 7th-inning relief in the town's annual softball tournament now.
"Oh Jack, every moment with you feels like the last I'll live," I told him. "Oh Katrina," he spoke back, "I really want to butt sex you before they kill us."
Inside, we could hear the agents still in pursuit. He sealed the door, and asked if I might want to make faces at them through a window before he dragged me over a metal bridge across a gaping black chasm, to another large entryway platform. There was a keypad on it, and he claimed he knew the combination because he had tried for several years to guess it, and this was the last combination he hadn't used yet. It worked. We sealed ourselves within a room full of blinking lights and humming machinery, where the sounds of the soldiers were drowned out by ambient noise effects that let whoever operated this equipment know that it was not just any equipment, but the Equipment of the Future.
For a long time, nothing happened. I mean, Jack finally got uninterrupted butt sex and we spent a while trying to find a bathroom to clean up, but nothing of significant plot importance. He told me about the time he waited in line to see Lord of the Rings but had to leave because a deadly assassin tried to kill him with a belt-sander. I told him about my plans to publish my story someday when editorial standards laxed. Then there was a loud explosion and the missile it turns out we had holed ourselves inside of was rocketed into space. Yes, I do believe that was an important turning point, and so I will make mention of it. But aside from that, it was relaxing.
Through the porthole, I saw our small planet grow smaller, although Jack said it was merely a trick of perspective. I told him that with a single functioning eyeball, he wasn't one to talk about perspective, and that it was possible that we were now giants and the earth had shrunk. He countered that his observation of perspective was quite fine, it was his depth-perception that suffered, and that I was an ignorant bitch. We discussed it for some time, until the rocket eventually docked with a vast orbital death outpost beyond the control of international or moral law. I sincerely hoped they had a wet bar.
When the airlock opened, we stepped into a new techno-futile world, where people wore spandex and excessive foam padding. Where weak artifical gravity made me one-third of my earth weight. And where oiled naked gladiator women fought to the death with steel-bladed flesh-tearing weapons while rollerskating around a concave pit of fusion-powered hellfire for the amusement of intergalactic barons. This was Outpost Omicron- "The Big O", and this was my new home. For the next couple chapters, at least.
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