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

His Khanate KIngdom was ornate with a decadent  overkill feeling of faux Sultan of Swing. His penthouse overlooked the elevated metropolis cityscape of art decadence Fritz Lang inspired Robotia. The decor was  a cross between an old  19th Century Turkish harem and a cheap shag carpeted motel room that charges by the hour, a real Motel Six for sex. Everything was done with an over abundance of gaudy purple haze  all around curtains, reminiscent of those thick rich Victorian Era parlors. Strobe lights pulsed suggestively from hidden recessed spaces in the room while a dozen or so strategically place blacklight strobes  undulated doing a Andelian planet pole dance on the black light enhanced walls. Narco referred to his abominable abode as a cerebral antebellum….I looked at as a William Burroughs pharmacological funny farm with a homosexual surreal reality.

The retro hovercraft IKEA furniture was overstuffed,  as was our host, so when you sat down you were immediately reminded of a suicide bean bag ride at the amusement park on the moon known as Bolinas that  orbited around the planet of Suzi Quatro Stroma  in the Areola Galaxy.

When we arrived we got frisked by a sleepy, yawning,  yet overly frisky bodyguard. We turned over our weapons to prove we were not John Wilkes Booth trying to enter the theater in search of a Yankee headshot.

We entered to behold...behold? We weren’t quite sure what we were to behold. Also, I just like the word, no one says that anymore. It’s a crying shame. Poontang spoke first with a sarcastic edge to her raspy Kathleen Turner voice as Narco entered the room with flair and fanfare, not to mention a syrupy selection of Broadway show tunes he sang to music piped in karaoke style over loudspeakers hidden, decibel snipers waiting for a target for his butchering of the greasepaint greats.    Sappho and myself were both startled by her tone of familiarity mixed with sarcasm, but, obviously It was showtime as  Narco appeared from behind a curtain I hadn’t noticed before, dressed regally in a full tent Marlon Brando-Fat Elvis kaftan complete with a full face of Oprah makeover make-up singing popular solar system show tunes.

“Dahlings,” Poontang said in her best upscale Boston affectation playing the role of Mistress of Ceremonies, “Here he is ladies and gents. Narco Marx the  mincing maniacal drag queen, but, he does have one hell of voice. No wonder he hangs out with Faberge and the other Fabulons!” Expecting to see an arch criminal with Queerubian pinky rings, instead we came face to face with a rotund planet of man in spiked heels, a see through teddy with garters, and mesh stockings. I hadn’t been this up front and personal since I was on a case at a transgendered summer camp of gender bending alien frivolity at Frankie's Fantasyland Bar and Grill, proving that alien girls, as well as alien boys who want to be girls... just want to have fun! You go girl!

He could have been a gay diva from Mars.  He was bizarre, no question about that, and his voice I have to admit..stellar and  faster than a speeding falsetto...he could bend a Ethel Merman high note in his bare hands  disguised as Maria Callas in Nureyev's body complete with ballet bulge.

He had an Klaus Nomi operatic rock and roll voice and was sporting a turquoise  outer limits outer space Brian Setzer mile high piled high pompadour hair-do that looked like he just stepped out of flamboyant flying saucer cabaret with a cadre of gay aliens and bi-sexual bi-pods. It was the Mikado meets Hermann Goering in eyeliner in a Berlin Bunker. It's "The Day the Earth Stood Still" with Major Tom screaming at ground control as lightning strikes Lesley Gore. It's Queer Eye for the Space Guy!



His flouncing around the penthouse in costume created a private show that was a collision of strobelights, smoke bombs and electro-synth-sound effects at ten decibels.

His kingdom was a fairyland...literally, no macho factory assembly lines in  this place ruled by a gay Retropolin who did ask and did tell before it was retro fashionable, catering to  an assortment of Glen or transgendered Glenda’s, dykes who arrived by bike, intellectual drag queens, street people, the wealthy from the world of art , writers, drunks, junkies, who wandered in and out of lucidity among the collective mass of the Solar Systems social substrata of masturbation and creativity, and creative masturbation. You need to have your card punched to gain entree to this world. It was Schindler’s A-List without the Nazi's but was a real space gas chamber nonetheless.

He tossed in a few jokes with his routine. Why not? Jesus did stand up before Seinfeld, gigging at gatherings doing a magic act with parlor tricks and sanctimonious schtick, like that  whole loaves of bread and fishes thing which led to a string of bookings and spoken word performances throughout the Roman Empire. (I heard he stole the Bread and Fishes routine from Rodney Dangerous Maximus who first wowed the crowd while touring Mesapotamia with Moses and Abraham, the first of the comedy trios, (pre-dating Larry, Moe and Curly) who played to packed houses of Philistines  in their prime)



There are no others like Narco and when he implodes and dies,  his star will shine as bright as ever in the skies at night..pick one out yourself...it's him in the heavens..probably he will be smiling down on us as he enjoys one hell of an eternal blowjob! Now that's heaven...Narco Style!

He waved us to sit down with a gesture of his hands that was more of a flourish than an invite. I made sure I sat between Poontang and  Sappho to enjoy a private fetish fantasy moment in private of being the meat in their sandwich, as Narco ended his entrancing dancing entrance with a big kick finish. Show Time at the Arturas Apollo was over. He bowed low and we applauded this looney tune as we played along. I looked over at Faberge and he had tears streaming fast and furious from his Fabulon tear ducts applauding madly.
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Narco sat his bulk in a floatation hover chair. “Ah, I am  pleased to see you again Poontang, even though our last encounter was one of an adversarial nature. We have so much unfinished business to complete, regarding the, uh,  object in question which I assume Mr. Yucatan you have been brought up to speed on, yes?” I nodded in the affirmative “Roger that Narco, but I am here about Mary Asteroid and what has happened to her. Thought you might have some information or insight,” I said as kiss ass diplomatically as I could.

Narco released a laugh from the inner earth of his massive girth. “Ah yes, lovely Mary Asteroid. You do get to the point, Mr Yucatan and you don’t waste time beating  around the bush. I like that, yes, I admire that. I like  a man who likes to talk to a man who likes to talk.” He was talking gibberish now as though reading from an invisible script written by hack writer Joe Gillis for Norma Desmond’s Sunset Boulevard dead monkey.

More formality as thick as formaldehyde as Narco called for liberating libations. “Now, we must toast our unique alliance and discuss matters of the Strip Tease Falcon and of course, dear, dear, Mary Asteroid. Faberge, please! the Cassini wine. I’ve been saving it for just such an occasion and this appears to be that occassion.


Glasses filled, we toasted our host “To the Falcon” Glasses clinked but I kept a wary eye on Narco and Faberge. I didn’t trust either of them, and time would prove I was right on the money with my assessment. Narco was no fool..he was fat, yes, but not a fool. He would also prove to be deadly as we would soon find out as competitors in search of the Falcon. We could be outgunned, outfoxed and could, if we were not on our guard,  drop dead like flies on a flophouse floor!

Narco Marx was, is and always will be one of those  perennial preposterously pompous planetary psychos of a  star with the magnitude of Sirius and the density of Antares, not to mention more girth and  gravitational chuztpah than the planet Jupiter. His cunning for escaping justice is not only legendary, but, as infinite as the universe...and more dangerous than an Amish sex fiend on Viagra during Rumspringa Break.

Narco’s  Nebulon liquor continued its unimpeded hospitable flow in torrential typhoon torrents.  I had to keep reminding myself that Narco never gave anything for free without expecting something more in return on the scales of balance in unbalanced return. He probably paid his own mother to breastfeed him, or held her at gunpoint as he belly’d up to the breast bar. Another round barkeep!

He wanted the Striptease Falcon more than a hooker wants to get paid and move on to the next mattress. I was happy just to watch a stiptease in a smoky bar that smells like stale beer and a dancers thong while she’s doing a limbo lap dance on my libido.

Narco’s conviviality hardly masked his subterranean intentions. Poontang, Sappo and myself, none of us strangers to the old “out of nowhere here it comes double cross” knew we were living on the edge of cliff and the mountain was about fall on us...Mt. Narco Marx that is. The most dangerous drag queen 35 degrees west of the circumpolar constellation of bi-polar, north-south consternation,  Andromeda, the mythical daughter of the king and queen of the solar system’s version of Ethiopia

My circuitry had a frayed synapse and my instincts as it didn’t take much booze anymore to slow my reaction time when responding to an action that required  calling on my trigger finger for assistance when backed into a corner before ending up as a bullet riddled cadaver on a stainless steel slab at the coroners.

“You will forgive my abruptness if we dispense with any more small talk so we can get down to business,” Narco declared and with a finger poppin’ daddy-o of a  snap of his fingers he pointed with a practiced flourish to a small wooden box on a table in the shadows in the corner for the fabulous Joel Faberge to fetch like a trained Pavlovian dog in heat. The box, was held carefully, almost reverently with much ceremony and when opened and it’s contents of Robotian ganja offered to us, his guests, I guessed we were guests. but, just easily we could already have been his prisoners. I wasn’t quite sure of anything at that point.

Robotian ganja is a potent and powerful smoke highly coveted throughout the galaxy, and the combination of Nebulon booze and the strain of Robotian Dead Head Panama Red grown in great quantities could send you into orbit around Robotias twin moons, name appropriately “Cheech” and “Chong” where the killer weed was sown and grown before it is inhaled and goes up in smoke.

I was no stranger to galactic drug use. For years I was hopped up on amphetamines from Alpha Draconis, Robotian weed,