Thursday, February 27, 2014

Fat Guy from Planet Zeta

Part One: Arrival

In Rainslick Tendril City, the sex slaves were always restless. That was no reason to visit anymore.

Fat guy pulls a credit stick from his security belt. Scarfs a grundlewhump burger while he waits for Digit Spool.

Cursing to himself. These Rauthian crabs he got on this last go-round. Wouldn't be so bad, except the little bastards are telepathic. And lately they'd taken to nesting in his anus. "Rauthian Anus Crabs." Had a kind of morbid ring to it. He might laugh if it was something he overheard snooping someone's feed. "RAC." The reason he was even out this hour in this part of town.

Digit Spool was bringing a local plant. Highly psychotropic. Highly illegal, too. Would cure these Rauthian crabs, and also maybe reduce him to a gibbering cannibal wracked with all manner of violent hallucination and psychotic outbursts for upwards of 72 hours. Peachy.

He'd rented a private level 3 anti-psychotic isolation cabin for the weekend. Each room outfitted with inertial padding, doping gas vents set to auto fire at high aggression levels, mirror free, and butler bots with their stunray charges nullified.

This detox plan could work.

Digit Spool arrived. On time. As befit his exorbitant fee.

He had the bleary-eyed look of a spore head. The perfect guise for a place like Rainslick Tendril City. No creepers, zoners, or machmen would give him as much as a second glance. And enforcers thought they had bigger fish to fry, letting him pass unharassed.

Fat guy remained hung in the doorway of the Whampum Burger Hut and injected himself with a low-grade stim. The left sound of his mouth began a dry clacking. The inside of his head felt v-lofted in a purple party spool, twelve feet off the ground. Synthetic anti-drool ketchup dribbled out of the right-side of his mouth, crusting on his jacket collar.

Their proximity feeds merged and Digit skated over to Fat Guy on his hydropods.

"Grunberry upload in two. Creds?"

Fat Guy waved an untapped credit stick.

Forty cycles later, Fat Guy was back in his skimshooter. Doing Two-Eighty along the outskirts of Rainslick Tendril City, the Torgosian wilderness a scant two minutes away. Autopilot set to skim just above the treetops, which soon slid across the HUD in a lazy verdant smear.

Sequence dialed in and authorizations inputted, Fat Guy opened the antiquated brown paper bag (a typical Digital Spool flourish) with the grunberry inside. Encased in thick blue skin and flecked with mositure, the fruit was ripe, bulging, and hummed along at a low throb.

He'd boil or parve gun the grunberry for at least an hour. Make sure it was truly dead before ingestion. They'd been known to hibernate deeply. "Profoundly" his friend Satch had once said.

Ingesting a sleeping was a death sentence. It would reach full consciousness before the stomach acids dissolved it, then tear its way through one's intestines.

Did he even own a parv gun? Did the cabin have one, or even a period-era stove and cooking pot? This close to the detox event, Fat Guy cursed himself for not remembering.The Rauthian Crabs could be beaming thought mods straight from his anus to his brain. He'd need to upload the weekend detox plan into the cabin CPU as soon as he was in secure off-grid transmission range.

Full molecular agitator, he remembered. The cabin had one. Why he'd chosen it, in part. One less thing to worry about.

As the skimshooter crested the last ridge, it's HUD projector picked up a campfire, over the far ridge from the cabin. Fuck. He switched audio to manual. Laughter, and the sizzle of Torgosian groundhog sausage werfers. The pop and zit of mind erasers. Looked like a group of college kids from Torgo Tech having a mind-tilt gathering off the beaten track. Their choice of location could not have sucked harder.

As Fat Guy grew increasingly agitated, the grunberry in his lap thrummed with excitement.

Doing this detox off grid was now out of the question. But what other option did he have? He was almost out of his head. It had to happen now. The cabin's security grid was first class. It was gonna be alright.


The tube slider greased. He felt pulse then was gently lifted from the cockpit and into the cabin's entry hatch.

Butler bots hovered at attention. He handed the closest one, a shiny new servoless A-13 model, the grunberry. A moment later machine arms gently stripped him down to his underarmor and sprayed a thin coating of relaxation gel over his porcine form.

He glanced at the vidmon to watch one butler bot skinning the grunberry. Pain causing the plant to release the correct levels of psychotoxins. Robot arms lifted the precisely cubed, still quivering fleshy flora into the molecular agitator.

Dicing it had been a good change of plan. It'd draw out the detox by maybe a day, but would eliminate the risk of internal disemboweling.

Fat Guy tried to ignore the screaming of Rauthian Crabs in his head. Tinnitus gone wild. As the A-13 model ushered him towards the steaming sitz bath, he felt them squirming in heightened agitation inside his anus. This Rauthian genocide couldn't happen soon enough. The bath wouldn't do it, but it'd induce a waist-high torpor in him that ought to quieten them down a good deal. Hopefully until the grunberry was nicely cooked.

Deep in his anus, the Rauthian Crabs spat a yellow chorus of obscenities. Each more vitriolic and offensive than the last. Riding an express elevator from his asshole to his brain.

He pictured himself an hour from now, siting in the supposedly perfect faux-20th century middle-America dining room, actually sitting at a table and using a knife and fork, eating the cooked grunberry. Slowly and deliberately. Maybe not even dialing in a flavor template, but instead reveling in the bitterness, the better to underscore the howl of rage and powerlessness those Rauthian fuckers would be keening once the toxins began to flow.

Part Two: Detox

Outside, Fabo Botulist III had a mind eraser in one hand, with his arm around Lim Fluchek, his favorite mating partner.

"Hey, looks like someone's in there" said Lim, motioning to the cabin, stimdust still heavy on her breath.

Fabo cast a glance toward the cabin.

"Nice. After this dose let's check it."

"Guy inside might be a suit. We could have some fun with him" she whispered.

Laughing, their foreheads pressed together, inhaling deeply from the eraser Fabo proffered between them. Stillness, then they sighed a sigh as they lay back on the grass, fingers intertwined. The stars and satellites above them disappeared behind a sheet of azure blue as the effects of the drug kicked in. Time fucked off and they slid lazily away.


Fat guy lay in the sitz bath, in earnest debate with the Rauthian Crabs over the legality of off-world data farming.

"Sir, your grunberry is ready" the A-13 unit informed him.

"Bring it into the bathroom. I'll eat it here." No need for tables, utensils, or flavor templates. He's just swallow it, bitter cube by  bitter cube. And then maybe he'd ride out the hallucinations here, all cocooned and embryonic. 


Swallowing the last cube, he wondered what it'd feel like when the grunberry began soaring through his system. He pictured octupine arms extending up through his stomach and into his cortex, having their wicked way with  his brain. Alone, in this cabin, with the butler bots on standby, thankfully there was little harm he could do to anyone or anything.


Fabo sat up slowly. "Sleepyhead, let's eat and check that cabin." Lim stirred, giggled softly to herself. A thousand summers could have passed, or a single minute. She wasn't sure. It only mattered that she felt so good, her limbs like silk bending gently in the wind.


Twenty yards from the cabin, Fabo held up his hand. "Gonna runna quick scan for security fields." A steady beep confirmed what he already knew. Pocketing the small device, Fabo pulled a larger one from a jacket pocket. His new Grok Box. Specifically, a black market Grokian X-3A Infiltration Device ("For all your second-story infiltration needs" chirped the Asian girl with the ocean blue hair Fabo had seen in the banner ad.). Illegal in all established zones and cities. Illegal anywhere anyone rich enough had anything worth taking not already in their pocket or beamed directly into their retinal overlay.

Aiming the Grok Box at the cabin, Fabo felt the device thrum for a moment. Button held down, the Grok Box warming in his hand...10...20...30. A quiet beep, then powering down.   "Intrusion successful" the screen blinked.


In the cabin, sudden blackness, then a pop as dull red background lights kicked in. Fat guy bolted upright in the sitz bath. The lights had gone out.  He held still for a moment. The cabin grid was shitsville. No low consistent hum of movement from the butler bots. With them went the system. With the system went them. Shit. Breathe. Take a moment. Ignore the spiteful chorus of Rauthian fuckers, gleefully chortling away. Ghosts in the machine.

Clasping his hands on either side of the tub, he slowly rose out of the water. He'd have to dry himself by hand. Towels. There had to be towels. In case of emergency.


"Now what?" asked Lim.

"Let's give it another couple minutes. He'll prolly call it in. I'll intercept the call, then we can be the support crew, heh heh." With that, Fabo smirked.



Finally dressed, Fat guy dialed in the call. "We have a crew inbound to you, sir. ETA 4 minutes."

Thank god. This wasn't gonna so bad after all. He sat, legs still dull and heavy from the sitz bath. This was just a slight hiccup in the detox plan. The tech team would likely be in and out in a few minutes, before the grunberry kicked in. No worries.

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

Praise to your cytoplasm fellow humanoid!