SPACE NOIR BAR by Mike Marino (good novels to read TXT) 📕

candelabra a hard-on! Weird?  Sing along everybody...grab your fishnets and tank tops and let loose boys..girls...boy girls, girl boys.


Long ago, it was the age of the Lost Generation of old Paris, the Left Banke lefties of literature and artists that included the man's man, Ernest Hemingway, tolling Spanish bells in the thick of the battle, while Pablo Picasso misplaced anatomical on comical canvas. He was  a real cubist butcher of body parts that somehow made sense in a mad way as they hung framed in the salons and galleries. Diego Rivera's industrial murals mouthing socialist messages to the working class, while Gertrude Stein enjoyed the lesbian fruits of her lover, Alice B. Toklas who could whip up a batch of brownies to die for, and to fuck for.
It was now the Age of the Machine and Sex and the Great Gonzo Gatsby was gasping for more...and so was I! More Soma barkeep..and keep it coming.

I kept looking at my watch and watching the seconds morph into minutes, minutes into hours when a little after ten P.M. Sappho entered. She was stunningly beautiful.  It was the fabled second coming and I was ready to get my Retropolin moon rocks off!


Sappho Strangelove. The name alone evokes images of an erotic and exotic temptress awash in a raging sea of spies, sex and foreign intrigue. Secret meetings in dark clandestine alley’s against a film noir backdrop of double-crossing double agents who pass along mysterious coded messages in invisible ink. Betrayal is around every corner.... This is the fully loaded conspiracy laden and emotion packed canvas that is the background for a portrait of her life and times. Now as this legendary sex spy entered my peripheral vision, she had me turned on and my booster rocket was ready for lift off…I only hope Poontang wouldn’t notice my pre-afterglow glow...but, as  usual...I underestimated her powers of observation, especially where my male action zone was activated south of my gun belt equator.

Chapter 15 - The Rainbow Villian

Poontang and Sappho, the twin towers of sexual power were in a highly animated state one would confuse with an amphetamine overdose. They  had worked together in deadly dangerous situations displaying  heaping platefuls of daring cosmic kosher  chutzpah guaranteed to excite the senses, not to mention creating within me Soma fueled  hallucinations of the hydraulic heaven of their rear ends rotating on my own pivotal  below the belt buckle axis. They managed to preserve their combined galactic sexuality with an invisible force field protective thong.  These two were a deadly secret spy weapon..a weapon of ass destruction. I’d spill the beans and every state secret I knew if they were interrogating me believe me.

Just sitting between them they also have a scented  weapon in the form of a  secretion they  unleash from the vaginal quadrant vaginal. It happens at certain times of the month when Poontangs scent was as tangy as a Turkish back alley bordello after a busy Saturday night  when the Russian fleet gets shore leave after a bounce through the Bosporus! You go girls!


In time, as all females of the species will do in most public settings, excused themselves to “powder their nose” together. Never once did I ever leave a table with Sandoz or Arthur and say “We’re going to take a leak” What is that all about? "Excuse me sir. Where are you taking that leak? I saw you try to steal it now where are you going with it" as though we're shoplifters at Leaks R Us. "Uh, nowhere, I meant to pay for it, not steal it. I'll put the leak back so that way I can leave a leak and not take one!" I would never take a leak ...honest...never.  Maybe someone will invent an auto seat..you know like the light switch thing..clap your hands once and the seat goes up...clap twice it comes down..perfect for Father’s Day along with a card that says..."I do give a shit about you darling!"

Why is it called a  public “restroom?”  (Who the hell rests in there?) I just want to get in and get out before the guy from Uranus next me decides to open a conversation with me. I don't go in there to powder my nose or any other part of body. Well, maybe once but that was in Old San Franciso and I didn't want to shine! Beware the Rise of the seat up seat down Toilet Machines..it's here now John Conner!


As the tempting teases left to keep their powder dry, I became  acutely aware  of a sweet, yet pungent aroma enveloping me. The slightly feminine aroma grew in aromatic strength, a slow motion malevolent sinister slow creepshow shadow cast its ominous image on our table from behind eclipsing the Eroti-bot stage show lighting, which by now was in full microchip madness.
All shadows from behind are ominous, but  in the steamy dangerous fog night of mysterious Robotia they are enough to kick your protective reactionary reflexes into warp speed plus one. My fingers reached slowly and carefully inside my  frayed overcoat, my fingertips dancing gently doing a flamenco dance in a full five fingered Spaniard head thrust back foot stomping strut on the butt of my fully automatic Link Wray Laser Luger. I was coiled and ready to strike. I was wound  tighter than a heroin addict going cold turkey, minus the shakes and vomiting of course.

As I turned half around in my chair  in  what must have seemed a slow jerky stop action King Kong  movement I encountered a rather dapper little alien man decked out in a striped electronic  kaftan with blinking neon trim and a cone shaped red fez on his head. He looked like a Galactic Pez Dispenser and he was drowning in a sea of orchid perfume and something else. My olfactory senses decided it was a combination of scents from a garden found only  behind the chinese noodle factories on Bengkulu and that of a  feminine hygiene product.


I figured he was more of a cartoonish Peter Lorre Warner Brothers wannabe and relaxed the grip on my trusty Link Wray as he tipped his fez and introduced himself with a bizarre lisping accent I couldn’t place. I was usually pretty good with accents, but this palooka had me  stuck in neutral for an answer. “Good evening Mr. Yucatan. I was sent by a mutual business contact who you will soon meet..a Mr. Narco Marx,” he said with his snarling falsetto voice  as he spoke the name. “My name is Joel Faberge and I am a Fabulon from the planet Fabulous in the Formaldehyde Formation. Mr. Narco Marx would like the pleasure of your company Sir, along with your two lady companions to discuss, um, matters of a certain bird that is of a mutual and beneficial nature to both parties, n’est-ce pas?”

I was right, he was pez dispenser dispensing dialects and phrasing as easily as a tart Pez candy  himself. Strange little fellow..downright creepy in fact...reminded me of someone I knew in the past. A bookish fellow, yes, a Fabulon immigrant who owned a bookstore on Green Street in Old Sydney, Australia. Arrested for selling the Alice B. Toklas Anarchist and Chocolate Chip Manifesto Cookbook.

As I offered him an invite to join us, the two James Bond Babes had returned from their most excellent hygiene adventure, and something told me by the look on Sappho’s  face Mr. Faberge was the cause of her consternation.

“ Hello Joel. Vaporized anyone lately?” Her tone and demeanor told the whole story. “You little mincing fuckhead, what are you doing here following us as if I didn’t have an idea? Did Narco put his pet dog on our trail? Oh yes, Doc, this little Fabulon is a real prize. Weak and sniveling. Does Narco’s dirty work when not having his 16 nail manicure. Did you frisk little frisky? Always carries concealed and will vape you for a free feather boa!”

Joel began to shriek maniacally at Sappho, (Sorry but there is no other way to describe it’s bitch pitch.)  “You don’t have any sense of fashion and you can’t shop worth a damn..and..and...remember that soldier on leave from the Sagitta skirmish we met and double teamed? Ha he said my cock sucking was superior to yours, and he loved my chicken piccata better than your cannolis!”

I thought the two of them would go at it right there in the middle of the cabaret show, and I didn’t want to miss the T and A grand robot finale, but what the hell a good down and dirty cat fight between a sexy covert black ops vixen and a flamboyant multi-sexual could be arousing. Poontang and I didn’t say a word during the initial fireworks. I broke in only when I found a breach in the screeching. “Look you two. We all know what this is about, I mean why Joel is here and being fabulous” I said breaking a smile, so let’s put our petty diff’s aside and get down to biz, before the falcon gets any fabulous ideas and flies away again!” I looked over at the hurt Peter Lorre expression on Joel’s face. He had been humiliated in public, so i leaned over to him, gave Poontang a wink and said to him in a gravelly whisper, “Is your Chicken Piccata really that good?” His face lit up and he began laughing. ‘It’s better than her cannolis!” he replied. A this point both of them had blown off steam and had calmed down and began to laugh. We paid the check, actually I had Poontang pay it as I was broke and part of our verbal contract called for her to pay all expenses on this trip. We all left together with the Fabulon, hailed a  cab and were cruising the dark streets of Robotia to see the Fat Man, Narco Marx.

“OK, everyone,” I said.  “Time to be fabulous and find this fucking falcon. We can all fuck later!” I noticed Joel’s face brightening. What the hell..I never made it with a Fabulon before, so I was game for anything.

Chapter 16 - Narco Marx

 

 

Narco Marx was the Ghengis Khan of glitz and glitter,  holding forth and holding court with his mincing  minions of  Mongol malcontents, hell bent on galactic conquest. He was the gangsters gangsta. He would trade in Cyborg slaves,illegal Uranian drugs, and murder for hire, blackmail and extortion.  He would play both sides