SPACE NOIR BAR, Mike Marino [good e books to read .txt] 📗

Index to the Galaxy

Chapter 1 - What Happens In Space - 4

Chapter 2 - Sex, Drugs & Fear  - 10

Chapter 3 - Poontang Pemalang: Sci Fi Eskimo - 17

Chapter 4 - Lesbian Revolt and Robot Hell - 24

Chapter 5 - Origin of the Striptease Falcon - 32

Chapter 6 - The Space Noir Bar -40

Chapter 7 - Attack of the Barbie Bots 48

Chapter 8- Intercourse for the Barbarella Station - 56

Chapter 9 - Dystopian Debauchery - 62

Chapter 10 - Art Deco On the Run - 70

Chapter 11 - Murder & Space Monkeys 76

Chapter 12 - Robotian Policia - 86

Chapter 13 - Sappho Strangelove -91

Chapter 14 - The Old Chum Cabaret - 97

Chapter 15 - The Rainbow Villian - 103

Chapter 16 - Narco Marx

Chapter 17 - Crosshairs of the Kill Zone

Chapter 18 - The Lesbian Revolution

Chapter 19 - Wonderlands Ninth Gate of Hell

Chapter 20 - Red Zeppelins

Chapter 21 - General Elvis & Space Junkies

Chapter 22 - Ethel Merman Fshnet Cyborgs

Chapter 23 - The Eves of Destruction

Chapter 24 - LSD 25 and The Parallel Universe

Chapter 25 - Mad Hatters of a Lost Dimension

Chapter 26 - Plan Nine Out of Your Mind

Chapter 27 - Col. Kurtz: Whose the Leader of the band?

Chapter 28 - Che Stadium & The Rudy Valley

Chapter 29 - Rush Hour at the Revolution

Chapter 30 - Is That a Mad Hatter in Your Pants?

Chapter 31 - "What's Up Doc?"

Chapter 32 - Last Tango in Space

Chapter 33 - Paradise Lost & Found

What Happens In Space..Stays in Space!

Calling Earth! Calling Earth! Come in Earth! Do you read me? Atomic Commando Cody lasers ready to fire and launch from the outer fringes of the outer limits of outer space. It was an age of sci fi action..giant saucers, 50 foot women, Amazons from Mars, mutants and nuclear bad asses...all on a rampage to ravage the Earth.

 

In the 20th Cent, every kid wanted to be an astronaut thanks to “television” as it was known back then. A “box” filled with Saturday morning cartoon shows with Space Commanders with decoder rings regaling them with a saturnalia of commercial blatherings competing headlong with puppets and cartoons for the attention and cash of the Jetson’s gen who were hopped up like junkies on smack cooked up by the corporate toy manufacturers.

 

Something called the hula hoop was as large as a flying saucer making a carnal orbit around the erotic female waist while yo yo's ran up and down on a string like imitating the bobbing of a dead body floating in the water. It was the age of mechanical toys and space age plastic dolls that did everything but fuck. (Today in the 30th Century, dolls and robots do fuck and quite satisfactorily I might add. I had an affair with a female Turkish robot once that lived next door in a mechanical marriage to a former Greek farmer who had given up underaged sheep for her.)

 

Holy Hologram! Holographic toys of my century are the norm. Boys in the 20th Cent were game for Robots from outer space with armies of rock 'em sock 'em robots invading toy train Earth and fighting off the legions of Amazon Barbie women with Commander Cody Decoder Rings. Led into battle by General Mattel..."they're swell!" great bastions were made from Erector sets in a toy retro galaxy far, far away...a time before Atari...a time before the internet...when imaginations ran wild and Betsy was wetsy and Cathy was chatty and Barbie and Ken were an item before Ken got gay...and Barbie jumped under the covers with Skipper....action figures with rubber legs and arms that could be twisted sister by your mean little brother....train sets and turntables....mechanical robots and talking dolls...all tossed into the toybox cabaret at night to see the stripping Barbie in a Peep Show Betty Boop Booth playing with her own erector set....

 

I had spent hours watching these old films on archived holographic discs re-mastered from archaic outdated records from something quaintly called the “television”. It was required viewing during my orientation once I had passed the exams to get my security clearance to have access to cases as a investigator for the Prometheum Division of Intelligence...the top secret investigative wing of Retropolis and the colonized planets in our Solar System.

 

I had made a decisive decision early in my life to earn a living as a professional gumshoe. Gumshoe! I crossed paths with that term while reading and maxi-pad absorbing one of the “outlawed” books by Raymond Chandler, an obscure noir mystery writer of the 20th Century. Black and white words and paper bought and sold to make black and white dark mood ring films of bodies found beaten in alley’s and Bogart with an empty gun and a bloody nose administered in a bar by Ward Bond with a background of broken gin bottles and Elisha Cook, Jr. playing a sexaphone saxaphone sitting alone in a corner by the broken door of the stench stale smell of the men’s room with bullet casings filling the urinals.

 

I was not only fascinated by the stories he would deftly weave, but damn, I had a fashion hard-on for those jaunty fedora hats! Today’s space wear leaves much to be desired. There is no fashion sense whatsoever in my Century, the 30th, unless you find tinfoil pants titillating and metal alloy thongs a thrill. All that’s missing is beanie copter head gear to go with the oxidizer fueled Joan Jett jet pack and your Link Wray ray gun.

 

I also read the other banned books . You know, the 20th Century “Future” books... “1984” by George Orwell and “Animal Farm” laughing now at how the future was envisioned as Utopia gone bad back then. They got it all wrong..it is much worse..but it’s the deck of marked cards we have to play with or pass when we sit down at the casino’s big table and then do the best we can with the hand we are dealt in a rigged game.

 

I followed in the wingtip footsteps of the fictional brotherhood of Sam Spade who set the literary precedents for back alley noir. I joined the ranks as a writer of mystery novels. My two professions, writer and detective, have proven to be the perfect fornication partners. You can blame my addiction on Raymond Chandler and Mickey Spillane. Neither is around to be tried and convicted...case dismissed gentlemen..you are free to go.

 

This is the 30th Century, and for me the galaxy is my turf. I‘m Doc Yucatan. I am a criminal by every definition as a writer. New books are forbidden unless approved. So I write under an assumed name and print my own books off on an old mimeograph machine my publisher had acquired during an excavation project of Old Trotsky Moscow. I also was in possession of an illegally obtained item called a “typewriter” Marvelous machine for producing ideas and dangerous concepts.

 

My real job however is pounding a beat as a detective for clients who hire me to track down a missing male or female sold into sex slavery as sex and domestic slavery was now in fashion once again as were human zoos where Subs from Retropolis were placed on display along with prisoners from alien planets for the enjoyment of the population. Toss the Christians to the lion of Judah it’s time to make human pasta for the Rajah and the Rasta.

 

In addition to my private practice, I freelance as a private investigator for the government’s Prometheus division of Retropolis, as Earth is now called ...space detective... planetary private eye...gumshoe...private dick….and the story I am about to tell is true...even though now in retrospect it seems like a dream…. a dream that soon turned into a nightmare that haunts me to this day of the search on behalf of a client for a missing sister who had been abducted by a race of eroti-bots who turn males and females into half-human/half machine sex machines...real Inna Gadda Da Vida stuff as she and I began our search for the missing sister on a planet of sex and drugs...along the way we encounter revolution and the mystery of the Strip Tease Falcon!

Chapter Two - Sex, Drugs & Fear

 

 

 

 

 

The Centauri Equinox always brings a drop in business for those in my line of work, not that my agency was doing very well anyway. More time is spent in and out of the office drugging (it was all legal now) and drinking cheap Venusian booze. Drunk, drugged or sober, it was all the same to me. My partner, Sandoz Diego Cerveza and I were barely hanging on economically by the torn seams of a pair of fishnet stockings on a cyborg hooker from the asteroid Labia Coitus.

 

While most PI agencies get the juice assignments from the government office thanks to kickbacks and payoffs of which we couldn’t afford,  we were lucky to get the leftovers..the crap and scaps….the back alley shit cases no one else wanted. We were the night time dumpsters where junkies toss their used  Hep C hypo needles;  where the gangs dumped their incriminating weapons and the winos threw up on the Chinese restaurant scraps that no one was ever sure of their origin...an organic farm or the local dog pound or worse...body parts from the local flop. Losers that no one would miss who would disappear into a won ton soup disguised until you noticed one of the won’s or one of the ton’s, never sure which was what would end up staring straight at you from the bowl...may even wink at you when you realized it was a human eye looking for a fortune cookie.

In my line of work, sleep does not make peace with reality after defeating it. Dark shadows fall tall on the floor and the wall. The night becomes a hypodermic needle filled with sleaze, and greed. Money, sex, adultery! Choose one from column A or jump into bed with all three...what the hell a romp with a foursome for foreplay, but don't forget to take a gun and blast away at the demons The Sex is Free...the bullets cost a nickel each but well worth it for the big payoff.

I had closed the office early for the day but had made a last minute appointment with a woman with a throaty sexual power packed voice who called me