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

– everything I did, everything you saw – because there's nothing that I detest more than the stench of lies. And if you understand me, Yucatan, you will do this for me.The horror! The horror!”

I felt like a grocery clerk at a checkout stand waiting for the customer to indicate paper or plastic. I sat quietly enjoying the opiated rush that soon consumed me as his monologue droned on...and on...and on.   “I know have blood on your hands Yucatan. You must, I am never wrong about these things.”

Col. Kurtz, had frayed internal wiring and his mental connections no longer were traveling the same circuits. He went rogue while fomenting revolution along with his compadres  Ed Wood and  Che Stadium on the planet Castroid with a band of hired juvenile mercs, escaped runaway Regulators. His focus got lost but he, Che and their army of delinquents found the rift in a strange vortex that had many escape hatches. One led to present day Robotia where he developed an army of annihilation aligned with the rebellious Rabbit.

“I remember when I was on Castroid during the revolt Seems a thousand centuries ago. We went into a camp to inoculate the children. We left the camp after we had inoculated the children for polio, and this old man came running after us and he was crying. He couldn't see. We went back there and they had come and hacked off every inoculated arm. There they were in a pile: a pile of little arms. And I remember I...I...I cried. I wept like some grandmother. I wanted to tear my teeth out. I didn't know what I wanted to do. And I want to remember it. I never want to forget it. I never want to forget. And then I realized, like I was shot — like I was shot with a diamond...a diamond bullet right through my forehead. And I thought: My God, the genius of that. The genius! The will to do that: perfect, genuine, complete, crystalline, pure. And then I realized they were stronger than me, because they could stand it. These were not monsters. These were men, trained cadres — these men who fought with their hearts, who had families, who have children, who are filled with love — but they had the strength — the strength! — to do that. If I had ten divisions of those men our troubles here would be over very quickly. You have to have men who are moral and at the same time who are able to utilize their primordial instincts to kill without feeling, without passion, without judgement. Without judgement! Because it's judgement that defeats us.”

I felt as though I had heard this all before. I felt I was reincarnated as Charlie Sheen sitting an opium den waiting for a hooker, except this time I was the hooker. Then one of Strangeloves hidden manly personalities surfaced.


“He’s a genius Yucatan. I served with him in battle. He sees no grey, only black and white. His see only dialectic logic because there's only love and hate, you either love somebody or you hate them. He likes you because you're still alive.I mean, what are they gonna say about him, when he's gone, huh? What are they gonna say? Are they gonna say "he was a kind man"? "He was a wise man"? "He had plans"; "He had wisdom"? Bullshit, man! What are they gonna do when he's gone? One through nine, no maybes, no supposes, no fractions. You can't travel in space, you can't go out into space, you know, without, like, you know, uh, with fractions – what are you going to land on – one-quarter, three-eighths? What are you going to do when you go from here to Venus or something? That's dialectic physics.”

I was trapped in a room loaded on opium with a space cadet Dennis Hopper explaining physics sitting cross legged across from me as a deranged Stephen Hawking tossing physics and philosophy on a creepy Marlon Brando compost pile hoping for cohesion.

Poontang and Strangelove  listened in rapt attention. My fuse on the other hand was getting short. “Love to talk more but we have a mission and a deadline. Can you get us to the Rabbit or not?” The terse tension in my voice could not help but be noticed.

Kurtz paused and I felt at any moment I would be hacked to pieces as a sacrificial water buffalo. “Tomorrow you will go. Tonight you feast at a fest here. The Falcon and the Rabbit are safe I assure you. 12 hours will not matter. Now we fest. So leave your guns here and bring along the Canolis. It’s party time!”
Chapter 28 - Che Stadium & The Rudy Valley

 

 

 

Poontang was feeling the sexual side of the Soma when we retired to our guest quarters to rest and regroup before the festivities Col. Kurtz  had planned for our send off  celebration.  Poontangs equatorial region became a rainforest saturated looking for satiation as she dropped her pants once inside the hut. On a scale of sex...she was a Ring of Fire earthquake in bed.  Even her  minor aftershocks  were tremendous tremors bringing on orgasms with the force of a rogue wave .  No time for afterglow and the obligatory cigarette...we were dripping in shared sweat  and my  “gun” was empty. I fired the full nine yards into her...bullseye! Now I had to reload, but at this point my   cartridge belt was devoid of  ordnance of any kind. We soon drifted off to sleep to the sounds of Sappho Strangelove masturbating on her cot on the other side of the blanket that divided the room. “You stopped too soon,” she teased with a wicked lilt in her voice. . “I was going to join you for the “chorus” but I guess I’ll finish off by  flying solo the rest of the way.”  I whispered back, “You’re a damned schizo with multiple personalities. Why not just have one of them finish you off?”  A manly voice emerged from behind the curtain and from inside Strangelove. ”We are!” We? Damn, schizos have all the fun...you can gang bang yourself and no charges will be filed!

The sun was beginning to set when  got up to ready ourselves for the feast. We all got dressed and Strangelove fired up a joint to share and  were high already when the elusive Che Stadium himself  made his grand entrance into the hut resplendent with full beard and cigar in mouth and a smile as wide as the gulf between Retropolis and Luna. I swore he looked like a pop culture t-shirt I had hanging in my closet back on Retropolis in my apartment at the Buckminster Fuller Memorial Dymaxion Hotel next to the YMCA on Lower Mama Cass Ave. in Old Detroit.

His smile was as infectious as an airborne virus. “If you all will accompany me as our guests it is our honor to have you join us.” Good gawd he was as smooth as a chamber of commerce salesman at a snake oil medicine show or Kiwanis convention in Kalamazoo.

“Che, good to meet you,” I said guardedly.   “But I do have one question, OK many questions, but first where the hell are we exactly? Time, space, geo.  No one has actually   told us ?” He laughed one of those “don’t cry for me Argentina” laughs as he answered with the obvious pride reserved only for mighty Mongol conquerors who’ve dealt a deadly blow to those Germanic tribes of ancient yore along the Danube and sent those Celts in kilts running headlong for the Lawrence Welsh Hills of  old  Druid Britain.

“You’re in the Village Compound of Suk Muk Dic in the lower Rudy Valley located in a rift in a vortex of riff raff and many many degenerate revolutionaries. I hope that answers your question. As for exact coordinates, unfortunately that I can’t tell you. Oh, not that it’s classified or anything. It’s a simple fact that longitude and latitude don’t exist here. It’s a fluid universe wrapped in a cocoon with a spun web of time and space fluctuations. he more realistic response would be is that we are in a burrito with loose meat falling out of one end except the burrito keeps repairing itself.” That explained a lot. It was a second dimension  fast food Mexican restaurant and I didn’t have a peso pot to piss in or  a pinata to pawn to get enough moola for an hour with an easy senorita with rose tattoos on her warm brown breasts.

Even Che’s voice had the Latin swagger of a Desi Arnaz and Benicio Del Toro as did his steady bearing and his “walk the walk ...talk the talk”  gait in his impossibly rumpled military fatigues and mud encrusted combat boots.  I had gone from a screening of “Apocalypse Now”  on HBO to”Full Metal Jacket”  in Spanish on the Telemundo Network.
Poontang and I couldn’t help but notice  Strangelove  looking long and hard at his perfect khaki ass. All I wanted was I threesome with  Poontang and a young Latin revolutionary with  a fully automatic vagina and breasts as big as pinatas.

“Here. Have a copy of my book,” Book? What book?  Che then proceeded to pass out tiny breast pocket sized books with plaid covers to all of us with a curious title. “How to Talk Dirty and Create Revolution and Influence People” by Che Stadium. “I call it my Little Plaid Book. Tactics and strategy and black ops in the first half, and a collection of Rodney Dangerfield jokes in the back. Love his routines….got a whole holographic collection of his. Great philosopher of the 20th Century,” Che said proudly then addeed, “Take my book...please!” Where are the burlesque rim shots when you expect them? Loose the dirty comic and bring on the strippers with so many vericose veins showing  her legs appear to be wrapped in Rand McNally road maps. “Oh look, on the left inner thigh...it’s Pittsburgh!”

How best to describe the festival hours leading up to our Striptease Falcon foray? Let me take a shot at it. Pure unadulterated  ramped up rampant debauchery enjoying an overdose of sexual amphetamines laid out on a banquet table with a tasty, yet bizarre selection of sexual offerings of near voodoo practices among the village people of Suk Muk Dic that our party was not only privy to, but would also be engaged in as willing and active participants leaving us panting for more.

These sexual practices were brought to this planet by Kurtz and Che, implemented as ritual and are referred to in the village as “the bedroom arts” complete with repetitive chants … “Does your poontang have a yen for yin or a thang for yang?” and  “Do you ching? I Ching”

The Kurtz brand of  sexual activity has been around since the last Ice Age on Castroid.  It certainly heats things up enough to melt a Polar Ice Cap on Mars. I call it Sex on the Rocks, and bartender, I’ll have whatever she’s having as long as it’s  Poontang.  I do not celebrate celibacy. Sex for everyone barkeep ...set 'em up! As for the missionaries...burn them at the stake and Let's Party with