Tycoonery pt. 2

15

Without stopping Wilson stomped across the field, through the terminal, shaking his his head amazement three times as he did so at the flotsam and jetsam of commuters that had been beckoned here u to the anti-vastness of the Boise airfield. He stepped out through the large glass exit doors to the auto-moblo stands. A tall woman known in most parts of the Solar System as a filthy drink of water stepped in front of him.
“Got your fuck ride, right here shorty”, she burped, an authentic hand rolled combustible smoking between her lips. Behind her was parked a gold van with the side passenger door open revealing what looked like wall to wall to wall to ceiling bearskin rug.
He stared at her. Up. And down. Twice.
“Sweet marmalade,” he said, “Where am I? I mean, ga-loom lady, my what ride?” She
“You heard me. What’re you some kinda necrophiliac creeptomaniac? Get in the van, Stan, I’ll ride you into town all the way raw.”
Wilson looked at me. Looked at the woman. Looked at the sky.
“FIRE!!!” He screamed, “Fire! Fire. Help! Help! The travelport’s on fire!” Everyone around us froze. The woman jumped back. The few security personnel lounging nearby leapt to alert attention. Before the woman could say a word, Wilson grabbed my hand and pulled me off.
He ushered me into a waiting stretch limoblo. And jumped in after me.
He sighed and smiled and relaxed himself back into he neo-leatherette seat. I looked at him.
“I brought my own car,” I said.
“This’ll do,” he said.
“I have it in short term parking. I don’t think they have a daily max so—”
He made a fart sound and pulled out an electric pipe from his coat. He switched it on and took a violent draught from it and then spoke through the massive cloud of nicotine, “I have no patience with the modern neurotic girl who jazzes from morning to night, smokes like a chimney, and uses language which would make a concussed Drill Sargent blush! That said I’m a gams man through and through and with stilts like hers I can find myself foregoing much and forgetting even more. Call me shallow and cast the first stone while you’re at it. Now about this transwhatchulator—“
“Transmeticulator.”
“What?” He let out another cumulonimbus of nicotine.
“The Tranmeticulator. The device. That’s what it’s called,” I said waving the next great cloud of candy scented vapour out of my orbit.
“Uh huh. Fine. And it’s function, what you said on the communicator, that’s accurate?” He looked at me with what can only be described as diamond-bitted deep drilling intensity. I felt desperately urged to check my fly again.
But instead I answered, “Entirely. And more so. You’ll see the full capabilities of the device at the demonstration but the basic facts are absolutely true—”
I took a deep breath. Both for dramatic effect and to shade my nervous excitement, “It orders things.”
“Orders?” The drill bits didn’t cease. They bored on.
“Yes. But not as in requests like at a luncheonette or what have you but as in organizes.”
“Spreadsheets and butlers have been doing that for generations,” he said.
“Yes, but—well, not like this, I mean, to put it bluntly, it will do so—I mean does so, on a universal level.”
“Listen, I’m just a guy. With metric tonnes of money and all the related la-la-la-la-la’s, sure, but still just a guy who puts his pants on every morning one leg at a time so—”
“The transmeticulator is a device that takes any and all chaotic systems and orders them. Into manageable entities.”
“Uh huh. At what scale?” He asked.
“As I said before and over the communicator—universal.”
“As in—” he arched his eyebrows.
I nodded. And stared back into those eyes that had bored so deep inside me. What I spoke was true, it wasn’t malarkey or hogwash or snake oil or all-weather undercoat. It was true. And the truth was all I had.
That.
And the device.
Wilson looked away, out the window as the  ramshackle metropolis of Boise gurgled on by like some kind of polluted creek.
“Chaos,” he whispered, “chaos—” he looked at me, “chaos controlled is power infinitudinal.”
He reached into his coat and pulled out an electric cigar. He offered it to me.
“If your dingus really works,” he said. And stared back out the window. He didn’t have to complete his thought.
Because I knew what I was.
I thought the same thing everyday since turning on the device.
I put the cigar in mouth and turned it on.

Ultra-race 73000: Mega emotion edition 2500

“Hot damn, Johnny, we got ourselves a race here!” He hawked out the squawk box.
VRRROOOOOMM!!!! The car thundered around the corner like a lady-beast in heat and an engorged man-beast raging behind her looking for love on the savage plains. The vehicle was just begging the aluminium frame to give up and let go like a divorce lawyer showing compromising photos to a client’s wealthy husband. Yet it said no like a stern mama to a whiny child.

“Goddamnit, Rick, I’m right in the middle of it. STOP HAWKIN’ THE OBVIOUS AT ME AND TELL ME SOEMTHIN’ I DONT KNOW!” It came out wet and sticky as spit and sweat mixed in his helmet and poured down his chin like some kind of salty waterfall.

“That bastard Manoosh is on yer six, lookin like he’s ready to mount that hot tail o’ yers.”

CRRRRAAAMMMMM—VRRRAAMAMAMAM!!!! He throttled down, sent his revs into the stratosphere and hung his ass out swinging round the tight curve like a burlesque dancer headlining Naughtyfest. Dust blew up off the road like someone had put too much gas on the bbq and lit it up.

“Kee-rhist, Rip! That tanned greaser knows my tailpipe is exit only!”

“Well then get ‘im offa there!”

Johnny put the hammer down harder than mighty, mighty Thor, the car shot forward like a coked up thoroughbred that’d been bit by a tick.

“Jeez, Rip, ain’t you the sharpest lightbulb in the fish tank. What the hell you think I’m doin’? Piddlin’ Dixie?”

“Wouldn’t be the first time I caught y’all out back o’ the shed.”

ZRRRROOOOOOOMMMMMMMM!!! The racer slammed down to the road, piling gravity on it like a squad of leatherheads at some cow college making a goal line stand.

“Sweet mama Jean, Rip, my hearts strokin faster than a teen boy in the bathroom with Uncle Jim’s Hustler.”

“Y’all gotta calm down, Johnny, or yer libel to bust loose like a sack of nails on Uncl Jim’s waterbed!”

RRAAAMAMAMMAMMAMAMMAMARAMAMAMAM!!! The engine screamed blood murder like it had just found Colonel Mustard in the Conservatory with the candlestick. It forced Johnny to grip the wheel like it was a wang at a eunuch convention.

“I know I gotta calm down, damnit, sing me that song then—”

VRRROOOOOOOMM! GRRRRRRROOOOOWWWLLLL!

Race l’il racer, do you racer best, race l’il racer, race the racing rest. Chase your l’il drrrreeeeeaaaamms! Don’t you worry, l’il racer, don’t you even fret, cause you’re a l’il racer, racing better than the rest. You’re racing to the moooooooonnnn! Race l’il racer, don’t you worry. Don’t worry your racing heart. Don’t worry l’il racer, race you racing heart out. Your tears are gasoline, your heart is the engine, your spirit is the turboooooooooo! And don’t stop raaaacccccccinnng! L’il racer, l’il racer, l’il racer.

Johnny felt a tear tickle his cheek like the wings of a butterfly on a baby’s bottom. He bore down like a diamond bit in an oil well in the land of the wildcatters. Before him, the checkered flag waved like a million wives and mothers watching the ship with their soldier boys slip slowly back into port after years of war.

“I love you, Rip,” he whispered as he crossed the finish line like an English teacher crosses a tee. Sweetly.

Race l’il racer. Race. Race. Race.

Danger Gang! Go for it!

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“Where the heck is the grappling hook?” Billy asked.

“In the duffel bag,” Judy answered.

“I’m looking in the duffel bag right now,” he said.

She looked up from polishing her magnifying glass, and said, “that’s not the duffel bag, that’s the rucksack. Gee whiz, Billy.”

“Aww shoot, Judy,” said Billy, “I sure can be dumb.”

“Don’t say that, Billy,” said Eddy, walking in through the garage door and leaning his bike against the wall, “you aren’t dumb. There’s a fine line between a duffel bag and a rucksack.”

“Gosh, Eddie, you’re right. I shouldn’t be so hard on myself. But then where’s the duffel bag with the grappling hook?”

“It’s right here,” said Mary as she walked into the garage. She put the duffel bag onto the work bench, “I took it home to polish it.”

Billy unzipped the bag and pulled the grapple from it. It shone like a chrome daisy in a gilded meadow.

“Holy moly, Mary, that sure is a sweet shine you gave it,” he exclaimed, “it’s going to look pretty swell if we have to climb anything on our adventure.”

“It sure is,” said Jimmy, rolling up on his skateboard into the garage, “great job polishing it up, Mary.”

“Thanks, Jimmy,” Mary said, “did you remember to put batteries in the flashlight?”

“I sure did,” Jimmy said, “I bought them at the hardware store.”

“Good work,” said Molly, walking her scooter into the garage, “the hardware store is a great place to get batteries.”

“It sure is,” said Timmy, cruising in on his roller blades, “I agree with Molly, great work on getting the batteries for the flashlight at the hardware store. We certainly may need it on our adventure. I brought the canteen. I filled it with water from the garden hose.”

“Gosh, Timmy, that’s a perfect way to fill up the canteen,” said Tommy, pulling up in his go-kart, “that way you don’t make a mess in the kitchen.”

“That’s right, and my parents didn’t have to scold me for making a mess because I didn’t,” said  Timmy, “did you remember the hot dogs, Tommy?”

“I sure did,” Tommy said, “my mom and I got them at the grocery store.”

“Alright, Tommy, those hot dogs will certainly come in handy on our adventure,” said Shelly as she skipped into the garage, “especially if we get hungry.”

“If we get hungry, I’m certainly going to enjoy eating a hot dog,” Julie said, climbing out of her soapbox racer, “adventures give me an appetite. I also brought the microscope.”

“Good job, Julie, ” Donny said, as he clomped into the garage in his cowboy boots, “that microscope is sure going to come in handy on our adventure. Especially if we have to look at something very small. I brought the slingshot.”

“That’s great, Donny, we may need to use the slingshot on our adventure,” said Danny, jogging in and joining them, “So I’m glad you brought the slingshot. Great work. I brought the tent. My father and I set it up last night. It works great.”

“That’s good thinking making sure the tent works great, Donny,” said Milly and she tied her pony, Featherdancer, to the fence just outside the garage, “I got the machete sharpened at the sharpener.”

“Swell stuff, Milly,” Tilly said powering down her e-bike and putting her satchel on the workbench, “The sharpener must have done a great job sharpening the machete so it’s sharp enough for our adventure. I tested the compass. The needle points North.”

“Excellent,” said Mickey, “the needle of a compass should always point North otherwise we could get lost on our adventure. Good thing you tested it to make sure.”

“Thanks, Mickey, “Tilly said, “did you bring the crossbow?”

“I sure did,” Mickey said, “I also brought arrows to go with it.”

“Gee, Mickey, that’s super smart thinking,” said Nicky leaning his dirtbike on its kickstand and opening the saddlebags, “a crossbow needs arrows to do what it was made to do, shooting arrows.”

“It sure does, “said Mickey, “did you bring the scuba gear?”

“I did,” said Nicky, “I got the oxygen tanks filled at the oxygen store.”

“Smart thinking, Nicky,” Kelly said, moonwalking into the garage, “you can’t breathe underwater, so we’ll need oxygen to breathe if we have to go underwater on our adventure.”

“We sure will,” Kerry said, landing her mini-blimp, tethering it, and entering the garage, “did you bring the fanny pack, Kelly?”

“I sure did,” Kelly said, “did you bring the comb, Kerry?”

“Yes,” answered Kerry, pulling the comb from her pocket, “we can put it in the fanny pack.”

“We sure can,” said Wally, strutting into the garage, “and we can put the cigarettes in it, too.”

“Hey, that’s great, Wally, that you got the cigarettes,” said Kerry, “the fanny pack is a perfect place to put the cigarettes for our adventure.”

“It sure is, they’ll fit perfectly in the fanny pack,” said Sherry as she goose-stepped into the garage, “and those cigarettes are the brand we all smoke, so that’s great that you got that brand for our adventure.”

“I know,” Wally said, “that’s why I got that brand, because we all smoke it. Did you bring the ranch dressing, Sherry?”

“I sure did,” Sherry said, “I went to the grocery store and got some.”

“That was super smart of you to go to the grocery store to get the ranch dressing,” Wally said, “because that’s the kind of store that has ranch dressing. Great work.”

“And if we have to have a salad on our adventure that ranch dressing will come in super handy,” Lizzy said, hopping off her pogo stick, “because you put ranch dressing on salad.”

“You sure do, Lizzy,” said Petey, hanging his toboggan up from the hook on the wall inside the garage, “I hope you brought the pregnancy test for our adventure.”

“I definitely brought the pregnancy test, that way we can test to see if anyone gets pregnant on our adventure,” Lizzy said, “especially if we orgy gang bang it nasty style on our adventure.”

“You said it, Lizzy, “said Petey, “banging orgy nasty gang style on adventures is something we should definitely be prepared for. That’s why I brought the snakeskin rug.”

“What a great idea, Petey,” Billy said, “if the gang nasty bangs orgy style on our adventure then we will totally need that snakeskin rug. This is going to be one heck of an adventure.”

They all gathered in the centre of garage, joining hands in a circle of team power. They raised their heads and hearts to the heavens above, and sang, “PREPARATION!”

 

 

Edith P. Buckle and the Beings of Infinite Knowledge

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“–And she found them down in the basement there. On the couch–yes, yes, the brand new one they just got–And they were making the fellatio! On each other! Can you believe–that’s what I wanted to know–oh, I know, I told her not to let them move in–and I tell you what I would have done–Me too. Exactly and you know another thing?–You heard that too? I told her that would happen–Uh huh. I said the same thing and–”

There was a buzzing like a million coked-up bees. A light three times greener than the grass on the other side. She looked around. The universe burped–

And snow he sat on a white sphere in a white sphere, her cellphone still to her ear. She blinked and said, “Gladys? Gladys? Are you there? I think I’ve been transported somewhere.”

There was only silence over the phone. She hung up. The sphere she sat on was more comfortable than you would of thought to look at it. The room, lacking any and all corners and any visible source of the soft, white light that filled gave it an apparent impossibility of form, but she could feel how round it was. It seemed logical anyways. She had always imagined that if and when she was transported off somewhere it would be either a sphere or a pyramid. She had told Gladys the same thing and they had both agreed that a sphere was much more preferable to a pyramid. And God forbid some kind of cave.

Edith Buckle,” the voice, disembodied and contralto, said.

“Present,” she said.

“You have been brought to our planetoid, “ in intoned, “at the farthest reach of the KNOWN UNIVERSE.”

“I figured that much,” she said, “so is this for sex experiments or what? Because I will tell you people or whatever you are one thing. This lady’s vagina is exit only, buster!”

“We are not interested in expanding your copulative abilities. Unless that’s something you would be into. No. We are here to share our infinite knowledge of the cosmos.”

“You are, are you. Well, let me tell you–”

“You have no way to comprehend the truth of the nature of space and time, but we shall reveal all to you–“

“Don’t tell me what I do and do not know, mister, I mean, everyone thought that Mirna Davis was the all that and the Sunday service, but I tell you that that is not coffee in that mug she grips in those manicured paws all day long, no siree, she was missus glug glug glug burp burp burp, that’s for sure.”

“Fascinating–“

“And Rita Sutcliffe. She was barfing up her tuna sandwich faster than she could get it in her if you know what I mean, because you now that Richard has loose eyes when it comes to skinny thighs–”

“I do.”

“And Jim and Mary Kelly are not sleeping in the same room let alone the same bed and if you think it’s not because his you-know-what stopped working after she got hooked on the ice cream after her little incident with her boss down at the plant, let me tell you something–”

“Yes. Tell me more. Dish the dirt.”

“Well, you know how Gloria and Ted’s newborn son came out with red hair, while she’s chestnut and he’s tawny. Well, what colour hair do you suppose the new mailman has?”

“You don’t mean–“

“Do I? I’m just saying. And he certainly takes his sweet time sorting their bills and flyers.”

“My goodness. What does Ted think?”

“I can’t say for sure but I know that he’s been spending a lot more time down at the bowling alley.”

“Well, why wouldn’t he?”

“Exactly, I said the same thing. The poor guy, he works his butt off at the landfill to put food on the table and here she is licking stamps with some light in the loafer letter jockey. And how about Petunia Green? She’s on so many pills since Stephen left her that she’s affecting air traffic over the neighbourhood. She’s that high.”

“The poor woman–“

“I know, I know. And guess what? The little Lancaster girl–”

“Mary Anne?”

“Uh huh, well, she’s been moved onto the short bus and it has not been easy on them–”

“I can’t imagine–“

“You and me both, let me tell you–and Lorna Newcombe’s brother is back on their couch after his little run-in with the law.”

“Are you serious? Again?”

“You didn’t hear it here, but he got caught with his hands down his sweatpants outside the elementary school, so–”

“Goodness.”

“I know, right? She’s going greyer than Gandalf.”

“Of course, who wouldn’t?”

“And Dudley Oswald found a lump–”

“Oh no–“

“And Cathy Andrews has been passing bad cheques–

“I don’t–“

“And Ophelia Stephanos is no longer welcome at the Shady Lane Restaurant–”

“You don’t say–“

“And Harriet Jansen–”

“Are you–“

“I am, and–hey, speaking of everything, what was all this infinite knowledge of the universe you were yammering on about?”

“Well, let me tell you–“

 

 

The Heebeejeebeepreniac

This guy is nuttier than grandpa, and that old pecan still thinks he is blowing lead jug for Billy-Bob Banjo and the Bongo Bong Band. Seriously, this guy has a smile that makes stupid look like Dr. Knowledge Ph.D. and his pants are not only dirty, they are upside down. You tell me how you do that and I will give you a ripe banana. But this guy managed to figure it out, most probably by using his uncanny suboptimal power of diminutive thinking. Speaking of pants, his hair is greasier than a Mississippi lug-nut at church on a Wednesday in July. No joking, I mean, you have to intentionally work hard all day every day to lube your do like that. Well, this guy must of and does. He even makes the word dilapidated uncomfortable with itself. Like this guy grabbed the definition then set it on fire and jumped in the fire and rolled around like a headless chicken all the while playing a broken kazoo. If you do not believe me check the dictionary and tell me what you see. Exactly. And now you cannot un-see it. I make no apologies. If the government put out a pamphlet warning about the dangers of bodily infestation by parasites and creatures of gross-repute this guy would be the guy on the front and the back and every panel in between. And I can guarantee not one solid citizen to a person would fail to heed their warnings based on his image alone. Beats me how even the creepers and crawlers can stand living on this guy. He stinks worse than guano dipped in diarrhea rolled in manure and left to die slowly on a pile of filth in the raging sun. He is the only guy you will ever meet that can wake up on a Tuesday, think it is Thursday, act like it is Saturday, and still tell the bus driver, “TGIF, chum, TGIF.” His teeth are browner than the insides of his toes which are browner than the colour brown. Want to know why? Because he brushes his teeth with shoe polish and spit shines his feet. He likes to say it gives him a Brogue’s smile. I like to say it makes it look like his mouth took a dump on his foot. One time this guy bought a bunch of balloons with money he got from a kind old lady who mistook him for a dead horse and slipped a couple dollars in his collar out of pity for his grieving jockey. Anyway, he bought these balloons. As an investment, right. And he tried to sell them to the airport. Because he truly believed that if you loaded an airplane with balloons the plane would be lighter and float easier and then fly faster and that it would be of incredible economic benefit to the airlines. What with the cost of gasoline and all it made perfect sense right? He called his business AirBalloon. Needless to say his enterprise did not take off. In fact, he is never allowed within ten miles of the airport under penalty of death. Then, the next time you would see him he would tell you about a hot and spicy sexual conquest he had with a bowl of turkey noodle at a delicatessen he was no longer allowed to set a brown foot in for the rest of his life. Then he would ask you to lend him a dollar so he could buy himself a bowl of chowder. You would wonder how a guy like this guy would stay out of the Cuckoo Cabana and believe me when I tell you that they would toss him in with all the other flakes, kooks, and oddballs and within minutes the whole lot of them would be throwing themselves on the mercy of the chief headshrinker to get that loon out of their midst. He was driving them crazy. This guy is the Pearl of Macadamianesia, the Jewel of Almondinia, the Flower of Cashew Pichu. If bonkers was a planet this guy would be its wacky moon revolving around and around in the most frustrating orbit the solar system ever did see. What a nut.

Night comes to Hobo Junction

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The Sun eased itself down like a thick-tanned arthritic retiree into a too-hot Jacuzzi, throwing sheets of titian and merlot into the sky, that caught the evening wind and drifted off, leaving the velvet drapes of night in their wake. As eventide sauntered off and the blackness ambled in, Nuts Calhoun and the Two-Eyed Chippewa stood close to the barrel fire, warming their well-traveled bones. They’ded had a hard one fer certain sure, hoppin’ on an’ off on up and own from Beggars Creek ‘cross Bum Alley ’round Dirtbag’s Cul-de-Sac through Nasty Town back on over Stink Row under all them losers under Loser’s Bridge then through all them losers at Loser’s Landing hittin’ Degenerate Way and pausin’ fer a good sniff o’ high-test at Gasbag’s then back on and prompurposely roosted off by a dumb and fat bull in the middle of Trashville so forced t’ walk ALL THE WAY down Greasy Lane so then o’course needin’ a toot of rotgut at Snotz’s to fuel the slough through the Malingerer Mile back on and the finally off again at the sweet, welcoming friendly hug of the stink of Hobo Junction.
“Get in em cans o beans, Chip,” Nuts croaked.
Chip grunted. Probably yup. Ya just can’t tell though with him. On account o’ his lazy eye, cleft pallet, and distended jowl. Nuts took it as a a-okay, and eased his bean stick o’er the fire, holding the can in the sweet spot. Ne’er get dem beans too hot, but shucks in yer gullet if y’all don’ get ’em anymore than cold and clammy either. Barrel-fire beans was a art form o’ the finest low-life culinary persuasion and only a bona fide bindle baron hisself couldawouldadamnwelldid cook ’em right. Nuts was as well known fer the quality o’ his beans as he was for the malodourousness o’ his feet. And the Two-Eyed Chippewa was just as well known for the quality o’ his barrel fire as he was for his stewy demeanour. He used just enough crud and rubbish mixed in with the wood to give it that classic Two-Eyed Eau de Dump. Or ‘absolutely magni-fucking-fique’ as the famous French hobo and asshole, Merde-Bouche Henri, was apt to say. Of course he said that ’bout just ’bout any goddamn thing, even a swampy ol’ jerked-to-shit issue o’ Cheri magazine tha’ Skunk Lambert found in Flatitious Woods. And it was common consensus round these parts that that magazine was far from magni-fucking-anything. Still, it was passed ’round somethin’ serious ‘tween the regular bunch o’ goofs at the Junction. Chippewa and Nuts et fucking al. bustin’ nuts like they was pimple poppin’ schoolboys.
“Y’all ‘member that Cheri mag Merde-Bouche found in the woods, Chip?” Nuts asked, suddenly thinking ’bout how long it’d been since he was horny. Or since he’d huffed gas.
Chip grunted. Again it could a been a anything. Yes, no, maybe so, or let’s huff gas.
Nuts chose the latterest of ’em.
“Got any gas left in the bag, chip?” He asked, “nice night fer a whiff, dont’cha feel?”
Chip grunted, reached into his bindle, and pulled out the wrinkled paper bag. They both stepped back from the burning barrel. Ever since Cutie-Pie Maxwell turned hisself to Burnie Max due to irresponsible gas huffin’, lotta folks had taken to new safety protocols when they was getting sick stupid on gasoline. Number one rule was DO NOT HUFF GAS OVER A OPEN FLAME. ‘Nuff said. No one could remember rule number two. Something ’bout huff, huff, pass. That was more etiquette related than a saftey protocol but still it was always good business to keep it in mind. Otherwise you have what? Anarchy. Chaos. Ultramania! And those weren’t’n’t any of the things that Hobo junction was at all ’bout. Nuh huh. What they had here was a civilidation. All supa-chill and propa-plus as them urban bums was apt to say.
Chip passed the bag to Nuts. Nuts checked his beans. Stewing sweetly. Checked the sky. Stars a twinklin’. Checked behind him. No sign of Stabby Pete or The Whistlin’ Psycho. Put the bag to his face and took a sweet ol’ deep whiff of that high, high octane. He always ‘magined it was what the goddess herselfs pussy smelt like. Wonder where that Cheri was at? The gas took him in its embrace, sending his greasy, dirty disintegratin’ sponge o’ a brain into a technicolor field trip where he didn’t need no permission slip and the teacher didn’t give no fuck ’bout what he did so long as he got back on the bus at the end o’ the day. So he rode that petroleum wolfsnake hard and gay through the lazer beam trees of the mystic woods o’ candy heaven.
He passed the bag to Chip. Plopped hisself down on the milk crate he called his throne and while his mind detonated in a gasohol fueled mushroom cloud o’ bliss, he took a spoonful o’ hot beans. They was perfect.

As perfect as was the night. It’s black velvet embrace bringing peace and serenity to the waifs and buggerers that called this little piece of the world home.

Life was sweet–

In Hobo Junction.

Destination: Infinity plus ONE

homlchc80ydwcgjdvvewShe stood on the bridge, gazing out the forward viewport. Stars streamed by, and she thought just how so miraculous and awe-inspiring it was that each one was a twinkling wonder where the worlds existed, and all endless possibilities, and so much promise–

“Captain Toboggan!” The nasal cry shaking her out of her reverie.

“What is it, Ramjack?” She said, turning to face the source of the voice, a round-headed, beady-eyed pale wonder of a man(?).

“We’re getting some strange readings on the scan-o-scope!” Ramjack wheezed.

“It’s probably just that patchouli you’ve painted yourself with,” she said, waving her hand in front of her nose, “I thought I ordered you to take a bath.”

“I did, Captain,” he snotted, “and this isn’t patchouli. It’s Tellaxian Mondo-musk.”

“That doesn’t make it stink any less. If anything that makes it even more repulsive.” Toboggan said, hating to be reminded of her ex-husband, a spineless, hairless slug of a Tellaxian used flivver salesman, “regardless, give me some specifics on those scan-o-scope readings.”

“It looks as though we have entered an easy-going field of lazy waves.”

A gasp came from across the bridge, and a shrill voice said, “Oh man! We’re so jacked!”

Captain Toboggan threw a fierce look back at it, “I don’t need that kind of attitude from you, Lieutenant, and what the hell is wrong with your face?”

Two embarrassed eyes beaded out from an inflated, neon pink splotched head that if you didn’t know better you’d guess was some kind of candied carnival sideshow snack, “It’s a space rash.”

“Great Christ, where have you been rubbing your freaking cheeks?” The Captain exclaimed, knuckling her temples.

“I fell asleep on the beach on Glaffos-12,” he said, scratching his forehead with a fork.

“Didn’t you see Doctor Rick about a lotion or a balm or a freaking lazer salve? C’mon, man.”

“I didn’t have time yet.”

“Well, step lively then. AND STOP SCRATCHING!”

The lieutenant jumped to and hustled out into the conveyance tube. The Captain plopped down in her chair, let out a big sigh, “Computer.”

“Oi, Cappum. Woz kin I du fur yuuuuuu?” The digital voice said sounding like an effeminate version of the official spokesman for the Uncanny Valley Peat Moss and Cabbage Roll Industry Association.

The Captain rubbed her face like it was a long-vacant magic lamp, “I am still waiting for an answer on WHO REPROGRAMMED YOUR GODDAMN VOICE PROTOCOLS! Also, anything on these lazy waves.”

“Whan nere’s no new infuuumashun on ew gon-a dun dat,” the computer gleeped, “an dem wazy raves ees whoa hog mustereerious oindeed.”

“What?”

“Dem’s be moist moistereenius,” it bleeped.

The Captain stood up, breathing long and hard through her nose, walked slowly up to the viewport. She stared at at the cosmos. Inside, her soul started to chill. As in out. She knew it was the lazy waves, those enigmatic relaxed rays of smooth cool that just floated out in the void, smoothing and soothing. Why didn’t she follow her dreams and open that ice cream shoppe in Spokane instead of galavanting all over space and beyond. If only she could turn back time–

Woobeedoobeedoobeewooooooob.

She spun around, seeking the source of the noise. A glowing cloud of mauve solidified into some kinda somethin’ what looked like the result of an Ikea Tjusig and a pot roast having made nasty, unprotected sex. It stepped towards Capt. Toboggan and gazed (or was it goggling?) at her and intoned (or was it wheezing?), “I am an alien species!”

“Uh huh,” she said, “so are we, if you think about it.”

It did, and majestically (or was it spasmodically) nodded its head(?), and crooned (or barfed?) on, “you have sailed your space plane into our star place. What are your intentions?”

Toboggan felt a muscle pinch in a place in her neck she usually kept reserved for her ex-mother-in-law, that Tellaxian bitch. Apparently this alien lifeform nullified the effects of the lazy waves. She straightened her spine and raised her chin and cleared her throat and in her best Space Captain voice said, ” Greetings! We are the crew of the Space Vessel Moonkicker. Come all the way across time and space. Freedom is not dumb. Justice is just as sweet. Peace and knowledge are the fuel for our fire. And it is that fire that has propelled here today! Harya!”
She stuck out her hand. The chunky cum sticky thing raised an arm(?) towards her. She took it and shook it. She tasted mauve.

“We are Wanoons,” it said, “I am Wanoo.”

“We are humans,” she said, “I am Toboggan.”

They stared at each other. For awhile. It went on. It got old.

“What happens now?” Wanoo asked.

Toboggan really felt that muscle pinch now, and that purple taste was starting to burn her tongue. Sometimes she just wanted to put a fusion blaster in her mouth and pull the trigger.

For this she went to college.

Some universe.