edward the third pushed through the swinging saloon doors and into a drowsy locale: a sweet smoke clung to the upper edifices and drifted down to their source with a supple grace, the tokers toking with relaxed, beautific faces, now looking up at you wondering if you were of the sort they would want to fuck.
edward the third was armed like any cowboy of the day. like many others, he was going west to earn his fame and sunshine; he had a gal back home named lucy loo and her father had put him on the expedition payroll. he missed lucy loo’s goo, as the sweet smoke hit him. he paused and licked his lips. he had never inhaled that before. his limbs suddenly felt more limber. the gun on his hip felt heavy but radiating safety. just as his senses commingled on a longing note he spied the counter in the back.
passing under red lanterns he ambled over; there a lovely girl in an ancient olympiad-style toga with one delectable breast bared gave him the skinny: espresso and hookah available here, seat yourself to your corner of pillows. the feminine or masculine talent would be around in an hour or two with offers of retiring to a more comfortable quarter.
he felt ashamed that he first came in upon spying the saloon doors expecting an imbibing of another order but he suddenly felt at ease; he didn’t know but would soon find out what this was about, to be sure.
he langoured over to an empty circle of pillows, walled off from the next circle by thick hanging oriental tapestries and seated himself against the wall. the hookah sat beneath his legs like he was having a baby. he cocked his gun out and to the right and made a few motions to get there with his hand just in case.
then he reached out and rubbed the sides of the device.
Johnny Raygun was snapped from his reverie by a jolting sound and red, rotating lights. Stella told him sorry to wake but a most urgent call was coming thru.
he suddenly remembered what had happened after the last time he had talked to --- . . . the screen went down after the call and he saw a big ship there.
“Stella,” he had said.
“Yes, Johnny,” Stella responded.
“Why didn’t you tell me that this big ship was approaching and was now docked just inches away?”
“You were in a call, Johnny. Plus something jammed my ability to that--a recent program hack I only just discovered. Fucker. Firewall re-secured.”
Johnny watched as the ship turned around slowly and suddenly gaped: there was neon. Neon girls.
Simulating the booty smile. It was a traveling call girl show. Johnny licked his lips.
“Stella?”
“Yes, Johnny.”
“Any info on this ship here?”
“It’s telling me it’s a mobile erogenous-zone-fulfillment device, containing twenty human girls, ten human men and a gogasora, all vigorously schooled in the kama sutras one through three thousand.”
“Vid?”
“Samples only.”
“Samples, please.”
Larger than life erotica appeared then on his window.
“Stop.” Johnny commanded. “OK, extend pistil to their pod.”
“Their pod is opening now, sir. Extending pistil.”
Johnny walked across to their ship. The entryway was framed in flashing blue neon. Johnny felt in his pocket for his traveling vaporizer. Ah, stocked. Let the pleasurin’ begin.
The door opened and he stopped, cursed.
Space Pirates. Fuck.
Johnny Raygun, Intergalactic Drug Dealer, was just now tending to his terranium of rare beings.
This one here? With the big blue dot? This one required a shot of lightning every other day. This one here? You had to read it 20 sonnets a day or it died. Pain in the ass. But it gave him some comfort to try and tend to life when he could. And he could always get his Butler to do it when he wasn’t feeling especially ecological.
Drug-wise, he was currently experimenting with Space Brick Number Nine, a new hybrid of some age-old shebang. It was a pleasant high, he gave it that. It could use a little more energy, tho. And more mental stimulation would always be nice. He liked the type of drugs that made you lay down and experience and invent your very own opera or whathaveyou in your head for the next couple hours. Waking dream. Body floating down the Chill-Ez Canal.
He was currently drifting his ship around the Gatsibon Nebula, because the visuals were stunning there. What’s more, on his huge window that he viewed them thru on, he could add effects, natch. Twirl that star. Collapse that galaxy and put in a screen of my favorite vid. Etc.
Then he would stand in front of the screen and do his exercises. Unnatural highs were always best when woven atop the healthy high, to be sure.
It was on this Tuesday, after tending to the terranium, that he stepped in front of his screen ready to do some serious body-shaman-high activity when his Butler said, “Call in for you.”
“From?” asked Johnny Raygun.
“Caliente Six.”
Johnny had it put thru and was now staring at the Head Papa of Caliente Six, a retro-utopian civilization currently making their way on a decent planet not 2 hours from here.
“Head Papa.” Johnny said.
“Johnny! Greetings!” Papa said.
Johnny could see the tired around Papa’s eyes. “You guys out already?”
“Afraid so,” Papa said, grateful to get to it.
“But I left you growing material as well . . . “ Always a tricky thing for a dealer, but Johnny saw himself as more than just a dealer, natch . . .
Papa’s face drained of all pretense then. “Mister Raygun, you gotta help. We need a shipment, and we need it bad.”
“I see that.” Johnny noted. “You’re jonesing like Barnabas, eh? OK, I’m on my way.”
When the face of Papa went down he could look freely thru his window again. And was caught by surprise to see a big ship there.
Sol Solenstein watched the approaching flames with something approaching nervous glee; in fact, he was trembling.
He stood in full outergear watching as she came down. After eight years of living alone on this godforsaken patch of land on this godforsaken planet, he was finally getting a companion.
What’s more: a wife.
The wind swept sand across his glassy faceplate as he fought to contain the huge grin on his face. The transport ship lowered just enough, emitted the dropping signal, and then whoof--a package is ejected.
And lands safely below in it’s bubblewrap. Sol hustles out after it.
The delivery ship long gone, Sol stands around the approximately ten-by-ten cardboard box covered in a couple feet of bubbly plastic. He gets out his blade and gets to work--careful, now. What’s inside is more precious than moon muffins, man!
Finally, he tosses aside the wrapping and cardboard and hauls out the inner cargo which features it’s own encasing--only to be taken off indoors, of course. She was an indoor model. Sol instructs his follow-bots to clean up the mess and he clicks on the final cargo’s wheels and gently pulls her up the sandy slope to his humble abode, where the final unwrapping and ceremonial consecration will begin.
. . . to be continued . . .
Tomorrow: Misumi's Tongue, The End
Friday: The Simpsons Riot Episode, Act One: Lisa vs. Moe