Brriing, briing.
Les put down what he was doing and fingered the button, “Is the house on fire?”
“No, sir,” Rosetta said. “A man named Neary want to talk to you.”
“You interrupted me in my Porn Room for that?”
“Oh, sorry, I did not know what that room was.”
“You didn’t?”
“No, you keep it locked, and forbid me to clean in there, right, sir?”
“Oh, yea . . . “
“You had called it your gym, as I recall.”
“Ah yes, the gym! Well, it’s still a gym of course, sometimes we just call it the Porn Room as a joke.”
“I see.”
“Ah, is Neary on the phone now?”
“No, sir. He’s standing right in front of me.”
“Ooh. Too bad for you. Be right there.”
He let go of the intercom button and got up off the Love Sac. He clicked pause on the dvd remote and set it aside, walked over barefoot to the shower.

Twenty minutes later he was relocking the Porn Room after leaving it, now freshly washed and clothed. He made his way upstairs and into the living room.
“Ah, Neary, you made it!” Les said.
“Made what?” Neary had been sitting on the couch perusing an old R.U. Sirius tome. He had an odd angular body that jutted out from everything. The giant mole on his neck was rumored to talk to you if you looked at it too long.
Neary stood up, lengthening out the wrinkles in his classic grey suit. “Made what?” he asked again. “We didn’t have an appointment, did we?”
“So why are you here, then?” Les asked, smiling.
“You do know who I am, right?” Neary asked.
Les considered him. “I’m thinking something having to do with computers?”
Neary sighed. “I run your website. Including your blog . . . ‘the gimmick-thing’ which you have not updated in months? Your agent told me to come down here and inspire you, or whatever. Traffic is way down, man. Adam Curry is probably getting more readers than you.”
Les looked perplex.
“Hm, but what would Paddy have done?”
“Paddy Chayevsky would definitely be blogging today. He’d be one of the political ones.” Neary said.
“I did agree to this, right?” Les asked.
“Uh, yeah, six months ago. Then you went full bore into it for 3 days. Since then, nothing. We even had a party to launch the thing before those 3 days. Bought advertising, etc.”
“I was a blogger for three days?”
Les turned his head up, trying to remember.
“Hey, uh, you got anything to drink in here?” Neary asked.
“Hm, no.” Les said, now looking around. Looking for Rosetta. He crossed to the hallway leading to the kitchen. “I mean, we have nothing alcoholic, sorry. But there’s you know, juice and water and stuff . . . “
“Could I have a glass of water, please?” Neary asked, clearing his throat.
“Sure, have a seat. I’ll be right back.”
Les scooted down the hallway, passed the kitchen, went up a flight of spiral stairs and found a phone.
“Missy,” he said. “Why did you send this guy over to harass me about some damned . . . website or something?”
“You need to do it, Les. Blogs are all the rage these days. It’ll help your script sales.”
“Wait a minute--you’re supposed to be helping with my script sales. That’s why you get a . . . what do you call it . . . percentage?”
“Very funny, Les. Perhaps if you had shown this, whaddya call it, funny side, then maybe Letterman woulda hired you after all.”
“You’re my agent! You’re supposed to prop me up, not keep poking my scars!”
“Listen to you--a random eavesdropper might think you weren’t successful, but you are, baby, you are. One current NYT bestseller, one hit HBO show, a running gig with the John Stewart show and a film due out directed by Current Hot Director Flavor number #990 . . . oh yea, and two Emmies and a Tony. But you gotta stay on top--and you gotta stay edgy--so right now at this agency we’re making all our top talents either start or go back to their blog. Sorry, Les, but you wanna stay the man, you gotta throw some gold onto the internet pan.”
“Ok, I’ll start tonite. Call him off me.”
“Nope, sorry. He’s there for a week, sweetheart.”
“What! A week! No way! I’m not having no goddamn babysitter! Who do you think I am, Courtney Love!?”
“Les, dear. You do this for mommy and mommy will secure the deal you always wanted--”
“No--”
“Yes--”
“That one?”
“The deal you told me was your dream deal to end all dream deals.”
“You don’t say.”
“I’m saying it.”
“Hot diggety-do.”
“I love you, too. So do me this favor, OK?”
“Yea,” Les said, slumping against the wall. Off to his right he could hear the vacuum cleaner suddenly down the hall. “This . . . Neary guy . . . he knows, er, remembers what the concept of this thing was?”
“’The Gimmick Thing’? Yea. In fact, he created it. Now get going, OK? I’m getting an email the next time you post, so I’ll be expecting the first one by midnight, ya?”
Les grunted and hung up. He still had to go downstairs and get Neary his water, but he also wanted to see what Rosetta was wearing today. He craned his neck around the corner and caught a glimpse of her from behind. Black shorts. Ooh. Short black shorts. Up, what’s this? Something sticking to the bottom of the vacuum? She bent over to investigate . . .
“Hey, Les! You up there?”
It was the kid at the bottom of the steps. Les cursed and went back. “Yea, be right down.” Then he slipped into the hallway and went to his bedroom. He picked up his stash, put on a jacket, grabbed his keys, and took the back entrance out, so that neither Rosetta or Neary heard him go.
He was in the black Volvo lighting a J, traveling down his side street now with the music on, when he remembered his promise to Zelny.

It is early morning; it looks dark outside from the anteroom area to the right with a glimmer of light and maybe a couple birds in the background.

There is a loud pounding on the door.

From inside, nothing stirs.

The pounding continues and is louder.

Nada.

Now, the pounding comes with a voice: “This is the Federal Government! We come with official papers!”

A light from upstairs spills down the stairway to the left, along with some jazz music (old jazz ala Miles). A figure descends, pulling together a red satin robe, short on the skirt.

It is VELMA, 46, a sexy older lady with curves and the moves to best accentuate those curves. She vamps to the front door, turns on the outside light and peers outside.

“Federales, Miss, open up!”

“You got a warrant?”

“No.”

“Well, whatcha got?”

“We got papers.”

“Papers that don’t include a warrant?”

“That’s right. Just papers. For you, or your husband.”

“So what you waking us up for?!”

“Are you going to take the papers or aren’t you?”

“Well, I don’t know . . . tell me about these papers. Is it a prize? A check? A stack of coupons?”

“We’re buying your property!”

“Not if we’re not selling!”

There is another form on the landing, a man.

“What do they want, Velma?”

“They want to buy our land, Harry!”

“We’re not selling,” Velma says through the door. “That’s a quote from my husband in addition to my own which I gave you now get the funk off our--”

“May we come in?!” the Federale asks.

The man says yes, motions for her to let them in, and she does.

Two men in blue business suits enter, seize up the situation, and one of them hands Harry the sheaf of papers.

“We hereby declare this land bought by the City of Glennhead.”

“You can’t buy if I’m not selling!” Harry roars.

“Well, we can, actually. By dint of eminent domain.”

“You building a public building here?”

“No, we’re actually going to give it over to developers who are going to build high-priced condos on it. Now sign here, here and here.”

The 2 men suddenly disappear in a mild blue haze.

Harry turns to see a figure on the stairway coming up from downstairs. This is Elbert (el-bear), Harry’s father who lives in the basement.

Harry: “Now what did you go and do that for?”

Elbert: “I just sent them down the road! They were getting on my nerves!”

“I told you not to use the Body Beam on anyone outside the family! We can’t release it yet!”

“They had papers!” Elbert protests.

“Yes, and they were bad papers, too.” Velma puts in.

“OK, they were bad papers.” Harry agrees, looking down at the table now at them. “What should we do with them?”

Elbert brings up and electronic console above his waist and wades into the room. “Send them to Tulsa,” Elbert says, and the papers disappear in a mild blue haze.

“Now what do we do when the men come back?” Harry asks.

Elbert laughs. “They’ll be so bothered about suddenly ending up somewhere different they might not come back--at least not right away. But when they do, we pretend we never seen ‘em! Meanwhile, I’m going to go call our lawyer--eminent domain, my ass!”

Elbert departs.

Velma: “I’ll make coffee.”

The light comes on thru the doorway.

End of scene one.

They are standing on the conveyer belt going in:

HOMER
Are we going to war?

MARGE
No, this is your birthday present, remember? You wanted to go to the opening ceremony of the Post-Football leage the SMX . . . remember?

BART
Yea, Dad, you've been talking about this for months--you even had it tattooed on your back, remember?

Homer turns to look at back, sees pic of him with mad grin and thumbs up within a circle and over top of circle reads: I'M GOING TO THE SMX! and underneath: YEA!

HOMER
Ooh, but I wanted to put that pirate tattoo there . . .

The conveyer belt ends and they go to their seats. The stands are covered in camouflaged netting.

"Sniper Equipment! Get your sniper equipment, here!"--goes one peripatetic vendor. Another: "War Biscuits!" . . . "Food Rations!" . . . "McBuckets!" . . .

Homer: "How are we supposed to see anything with this stupid netting? Stupid netting . . . Ooh, bombs!"

We see the announcer on the field, which looks like a battlefield, reflected in the super-huge pixel screens all around. Closeup to announcer on pixel-screen: "Hi! I'm [Troy McClure?] . . . "

Two teams move onto the set. Betting begins, crowd rushes the box, "10 bucks on Oil!", "10 bucks on Ammo!", "10 buck on Peanut Butter!" . . .

War begins: Aggghhh! . . . Arrrgghhh! . . . Oof!

Bart: "Wow! This is so cool! You can even see their eyes bulge right before they pop!"

Homer: "Yea, isn't killing fun?"

Lisa: "Errrrr! Enough! I only promised to come along on this stupid trip because it was your birthday, Dad, but I just can't take it anymore! This is so dumb! And even worse than dumb, this type of wholly irresponsible and despicable war-mongering exercise in Sports-Charlatans On Parade is--"

2 men in suits flanked by 2 armed guards appear: "Missus Simpson, please come with us. And bring your family, too."

Homer: "Doh!"

Lisa: "Why? What did I do?"

Homer, behind hand: "Lisa, whenever a man in a suit who's with another guy in a suit, who's with 2 men with guns tell you to do something, you do it."

Marge: "No, I agree with Lisa, they just can't come over here and whisk us away to who knows where with all these people looking."

All the people in the vicinity obsequiously look the other way.

Man in Suit 1 takes out device. "Fine, do it the hard way." Pushes button and their seats disappear and they all fall downwards . . . into slides. Wheee wheee whee each cry in their own respective slide-tunnel before being dumped onto five separate rubber mats. Homer: "That wasn't the hard way, that was the slide way, and I like it!"

Lisa jumps up. The walls are cavern-like. There is one door, and it is locked. "Where are we?"

Mad Scientist enters, the flip "evil" side to the present mad scientist character--perhaps identical but with green hair. "You are in the SMX REMORALIZATION CENTER! Seize them!" plus trademark sound, evil-ized . . .

What follows is a lightning-quick "remoralization" montage with the usual pilfer & twistering from the "Clockwork Orange" remoralization scene, etc. . . . American flags marching down small American towns with bulging biceps, hippies being lowered by their feet into burning oil, etc. . . . They end up placed in their living rooms by men and women in lab coats and arranged in a lifelike manner atop the couch. Beat passes before Lisa seems to snap to life and say, "What are we doing here?"

Homer snaps to, grabs for remote. "Watching tv. What else, silly girl?" He snaps tv on::

Lisa: "Hm . . . something's wrong . . . "

CUT TO: Moe's Bedroom. Nite.

Moe is sleepless, tossing to and fro . . . mumbling in his sleep, "Oh, Barbie, you're so beautiful Barbie, I've always loved you . . . what?! Who's to say what is and isn't natural!?--you, Ma!? You? Don't make me laugh . . . " Wakes up, eyes wide, bolts uprights: "What the--!!"

It's the Ghost of Jebediah Springfield, floating at the foot of his bed, staring down at him with scorn and pointing: "Moe Sizlak!"

"Jebediah Springfield!"

"That my name, don't wear it out. Anyway, the spirit of your little town's father has a job for you, Moe! Nay, a mission!"

"Well, I have a job, but I'd be happy to go on a mission! Anything for you, Jeb--"

"Save your behind-courtin' for your Barbie dreams! Moe Sizlak, a terrible plague is soon to descend upon Springfield, and you, Moe, will be this town's savior!"

MOE
Me? How?

JEBEDIAH
Let's just say, you will defend our American way the only way you know how . . . Be embiggened, Moe. Be very embiggened . . .

Ghost disappears and Moe looks mind-boggled--spike lonely saxophone wail ala B. Gums and Moe drags himself from his bed in his white nitegown and cap to the window of what looks to be a bedroom in a roughhewn shack. Goes to a stool at the window and looks out over the glitter of the city.

MOE
But how can I help you, my patriotic Lord? If only you could send me a sign . . .

At that instant across the nitetime Springfield horizon an explosion erupts into the sky.

Cut to: Nuclear Power Plant: emergency lights everywhere. Burns and Smithers are walking down a hallway shin-high in green gunk.

BURNS
How did this happen?

SMITHERS
Homer Simpson, sir. Homer Simpson.

BURNS
Hm, name sounds familiar . . . so what will we do with all this green gunk? Can we sell it?

Man runs by with hair on fire, screaming.

SMITHERS
(chuckles:) No, sir, I'm afraid the bottom fell out of the radioactive waste market back in the seventies. There is only one place in all of Springfield that could handle so much waste--the old septic tank underneath the Springfield Town Square.

BURNS
Underneath the statue of Jebediah?!

SMITHERS
That's the one, sir.

BURNS
I like it. But how we will get it there?

SMITHERS
That's the only catch, sir. We'd have to create a diversion.

Man walks by with 3 legs.

3 Legged Man
Evening, sir!

BURNS
Hmm, diversion, eh? I think I know of a way . . .

Cut to: Burns on phone in office.

BURNS
Hello? World Corporate Empire? Monty Burns here. I've heard you were looking for a place to host your next world summit . . . I think I know of the perfect locale . . .

Cut to: Simpsons in front of the tv.

KENT BROCKMAN
This just in! Springfield has been announced as the next location for the official, huuugely important meeting of the one and only World Corporate Empire! Now, how about them gilded apples!?

A medley of past American activism flashes across Lisa's eyes to the tune of mebbe something by Bob Dylan . . .

Cut to: Moe Sizlak setting up shop at the Springfield town square, behind a wooden booth he starts his cry.

MOE
Hippie Hammers! Get your Hippie Hammers here! Get 'em while they're hot! The World Corporate Empire is coming to Springfield and you don't want to be without your Hippie Hammer! . . .

Chief Wiggums strides up.

WIGGUM
How much? . . .

END OF ACT ONE

She imagined the sun sending microscopic missiles into her pores exploding in 20 years into some awful noma. She often had dreams where she was chased down an alley by an extremely agitated posse of grey, billowing nomas. Today, she soaked.

An unusual amount of sand blew onto her arm and she opened her eye to see a steel-tipped boot. Shit.

“Where’s the fucking cheese, Jackie?”

She turned over quickly and stood up, nimbly clutching her towel to some of her nakedness as she did so.

“The fuck you doing here, Lenny?”

Lenny grinned his greaseball smile and re-manuevered the toothpick around in his mouth. “I came to play with the beach balls. I like playing with beach balls. What are beaches for, if not for playing with da balls?”

She attempted her evil eye, unfortunately weak in lieu of her clothinglessness.

“I don’t know nothing about no cheese, Lenny.”

Lenny smacked one fist into palm. “It was his best sonata, Jackie! You shouldn’t a just took it like that. He’s a wreck, now. A complete catastrophe. He needs that sonata back!”

“You damn fool!” she screamed. “He would have been a global laughingstock had he released that piece! It was called Cheese, for christ’s sake! It only consisted of one note!”

He put his hands on his hips.

“You bitch!” he sputtered. “Plus, you look like a lobster!”

He ran off into the high grass. She put the back of her hand to her forehead; she did feel unusually hot. Plus, she freckled; she was the type to burn easily.

She applied some oil and laid back down. She liked how the sun warmed all her parts.

“Ah!”

He put the cigar-sized j into his mouth and took a big puff.

“Ah!” (on exhalation.)

“Mister Groove?” came the melodious voice from behind.

He turned and there was Velma.

“Your one o’clock is here.”

Ah, first meeting of the day. He gave her a big smile (so genuine, so flecked with fresh memory-gland imprints of their most recent uber-gland display) and motioned for her to send him in.

He stood waiting behind his desk.

He quietly noted the progress of the occupants of his aquarium as he continued to puff. Ah, so fluid.

Ah, ah.

Motion behind him. He turned, natch.

“Ah,” he said. “Down By Law 6.”

Down By Law 6 nodded and slinked into the room. He was tall and thin and dressed entirely in black. When he moved, it was like a willow leaning.

Down By Law 6 extended his hand and they shook.

“Nice to meet you,” Down By Law 6 said.

“The honor is truly all mine.”

They dissembled.

“In fact,” Mr. Groove said, getting behind his chair and pulling it out. “You sit here.”

Down By Law 6 wasn’t the type to argue over obvious formalities; he sat.

Mr. Groove sat across from him in front of his own desk. Both chairs were wicker. The floor was tiled in red ceramic. The air was tinged with sea and pot and honeysuckle. Down By Law 6 put his sunglasses on.

Mr. Groove stood up for a minute and leaned over to open up a wide low wooden box on his desk. He laid the top aside and swept his hands over the air he had just exposed and what lied beneath.

“Whatever ya like.”

“To help the conversation,” Down By Law 6 replied, leaning over and taking a few things out. “Hmmm . . . “ he said, perusing.

They eventually performed the Italian Tea Ceremony with a little Texada Timewarp and a tincture of silk.

“So anyway,” Mr. Groove sez, now relaxed, leaning back.

“I’m building this new thing down here and wanted to see if you could help.”

Down By Law 6 nodded noncommitally. But Mr. Groove could tell his eyes were inarested [spelling intentional, partial homage to Uncle Bill].

Still, Down By Law 6 had to ask. “So, what’s the vision?”

Of course, thus prodded, Mr. Groove got up and did an amazing act across the room which most Oscar winners could only preen at. Plus, he wrote his own stuff.

Images went off in Down By Law 6’s head like candy-coated fireworks, backlit by stars.

“I’m interested.” Down By Law 6 said.

Soon, they both stood on the beach looking out over the water.

“You got some good shit down here.” Down By Law 6 professed.

In his head, he was already wondering what kind of computers he would need for this. What kind of code. What kind of magic to pull this crazy shit off. They would really do it this time. They would save the motherfucking world.

“So.”

It was two of them awkward sos. They were making each other nervous and each felt like the geek.

She licked her lips and looked up at him again, her oversized eyes pooling with warmth.

He fought to keep from hyperventilating. “Am I sweating profusely?” he rapidly wondered.

She smiled--her last resort when feeling socially helpless. And also her first. In between she snorted and odd parts of her body got sticky.

He, on the other hand, when pressed, exerted a unique aroma which smelled like the result of an unholy congress between old Cheetos, young snails and yam. Also, he chortled.

“You, uh, got an extra box of staples?” he asked. He wiped his hands against his khakis. They left sweat marks you could take fingerprints from.

Her coming nite passed before her eyes: bus, Jane Eyre, boorishly-talkative roommates and ice cream and masturbation alone in her room. She looked him over hotly.

“Um, yea. Right here.” She fished them out of her top drawer, and while leaning over she faced his sloppily-laced sneakers. She wanted desperately to relace them for him.

She handed him the box and tried to brush fingers. Instead she jammed the box straight into his index finger's hangnail and he let out a howl; she convulsed and the box went flying.

“Ow!” Jeannie in the back said. Apparently it had struck her in the throat. Jeannie would then go home sick. She had that thing going around anyway.

“Oops!” the girl cried, aghast.

He was glancing over at Jeannie, red moons emerging on his cheeks.

He looked back down at her.

“Oh well, I’ll see if the mailroom has any. Thanks anyway . . . “

“Sorry about that,” she said, smiling. Her mind flashed to ice cream.

“See you around,” he said, offended digit already placed into hot wet mouth.

“You too.” she said.

She watched him go and then turned back to her monitor. In a minute, Jeannie would trundle over and ask her in that accusing voice if she knew where the first aid kit was. But for now, just for the moment, she could look at that beautiful beach wallpaper and dream.

how you bop
is anybody’s game.

life is a fucking tragedy
because everyone dies
in the end.

just keep the ball of culture
bopped to the youth
as you go down.

bop, bop.

it’s what everyone wants

the runner
the smoker
the drinker
the bible-thumper

we’re the only animals
on this planet
who can forsee
our own death

our whole system is set up
to help us live
and we all know
no matter how hard
we work
how hard
we try
how far
we go
we’re gonna lose
in the end

transcend that.

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.

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.

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

First of all, I would like to thank the kind people who have linked me already: [insert list here, after technorati comes thru on the goods].

Now, I would like to take a minute to thank you, the reader. I'm not just being diplomatic, y'understand, or saying this purely out of a feeling that I should or have to. Writers love it when someone comes along and checks out their lines.

Now, I would like to take a minute to respond to a couple comments that were left a long time ago. Why these particular comments? I dunno . . . maybe because I think I can give interesting answers . . .

[here I dig up the comments and wax responsive-like]

See, isn't this fun? You bet it is! [this is really a filler--parts of it anyway--which will filled in later, and not just left as is for ironic purposes, altho that's not a bad idear either . . . hmm . . . ]

She took then down again--she had done this the previous nite already more than once--and went through the various sensory interfaces again: sniff, listen, examine surface to eyeball, etc. But still, there seemed to be no changes. She assumed they had to be organic, and therefore exhibit stages of life--otherwise . . . ?

She closed the medicine cabinet door and examined her tongue--all three of the lines were completely healed over. She closed her eyes and reassured herself of her waking, sane state. Then, resolve firmed, she brushed her teeth and washed her face and went into the kitchen to make coffee.

While she waited for the coffee to brew, she examined her local weekly newspaper. On a mad impulse, she went to the personals section and began to peruse. Goddamn, was she lonely. Soon--like, in a matter of weeks or days--she knew she would be going so far as to start circling the personal ads which actually seemed worth looking into. Then would come the consideration of joining the personal system so she could respond to the ads. She put the paper back on the other side of the table and laced her fingers together. She supressed the feeling that she was going to panic suddenly and pop out of her skin. She decided that after coffee this morning she would get ready and head down to the Farmer's Market for some produce, an exercise which always seemed to calm her.

And that's exactly what she did.

When she returned she found that her apartment had been changed in many ways.

"Why don't you just go back to eating meat?" Yumiko asked. Yumiko worked in the same travel office Misumi did before she decided to go down to South America and work with the kroslisks. Yumiko didn't have a wild hair on her body, and perhaps this is why Misumi liked her.

"I get all the nutrients I need." Misumi said. What was that? Under the line closest to the tip of her tongue? Something . . . shiny.

"You don't get enough protein." Yumiko declared. "You are weak, right?"

"Don't be absurd," Misumi said. "That is a myth." It was shiny . . . and golden. She put her fingers in her mouth in order to pull her tongue wider. If she could just pull the hole a little, she could see better what was down there.

"You don't miss the taste of steak?" Yumiko asked.

For some reason this made Misumi think of her husband. "I miss Noboru."

Yumiko was silent. Misumi could hear Yumiko's birds chattering gaily in the background.

Misumi pulled on her tongue and her eyes widened: there was something down there, all right--something hard and round and glittery and gold. Misumi pulled so much that it rose up out of it's hole and popped right out. It hit the bathroom mirror and ricocheted down to the sink where Misumi frantically flailed her hands to stop it from going down the drain, dropping the phone as she did so. She caught it just in time.

It looked like a tiny gold pearl. She set it carefully on a ledge in her medicine cabinet before picking the phone back up.

"Misumi?" Yumiko asked.

"Sorry, dropped the phone." Misumi said.

"So hey, you want to go get a drink or something? Maybe meeting some nice new guy would cheer you up."

"Hmm," Misumi said. Looking into the other two lines on her tongue, she could see two more golden glittery things. She popped them out in turn and set them, too, on the ledge.