The Space Noir Bar, Michael Marino [people reading books txt] 📗

laps of the both assembled sexes. Rated on the Doc Yucatan erection scale ...no assembly was required. Windsora and Maddie were enjoying the show holding hands while their senses were spinning in bi-sexual gyroscopic tandem to the genital gyrations of these lap dancing female doing the erectus dance of the muse.

 

She may be a cyborg, but still humanoid so her weapon of mass and ass destruction is in the form of a secret secretion she unleashes to increase her vaginal intoxicant. It happens at certain times of the month, even to cyborgs, where she will gives emit a heavenly scent of estrogen marking her territory holding us as a sexual captive in a garden of estros.

 

I love the smell f Estrogen and a patch of wet vaginal hair in the morning!!! These cyborg girls certainly knew how to get my mojo working by working her own mojo just inches from my face, emitting her scent up close and personal! I admit it is a somewhat juvenile pursuit of mine when it comes to unearthing the mysteries of the vaginal universe in my exploratory quest for the meaning of life in a stale pitcher of Bukowski beer.

 

Before I pull a Pee Wee Herman here, there was also display of prowess in the cyborg mud pits. Female, humanoid or robot mud wrestling is about as erotic and hymen happy event as it gets. It is libidinous to extreme and can evoke an erection in the male of the species and cause a lesbian typhoon below the waist that can be biblical in nature.

 

In the erotic arena of "female" combat it is up there on the pubic pedestal with roller derby and girl on girl peepshows. In this case, no skates, just hard and fast girly action where the participating female has her hormones set to stun as she body slams her likewise naked opponent into muddy waters, no blues pun intended. It is part sport, part burlesque and all spectacular respectable spectacle. Lets face it, we are all just voyeuristic astronauts enjoying the ride into the outer limits of Planet Female when it comes to the finer art of mud wresling.

Drenched in sweat or covered in mud…it’s time to get down and dirty…with a great pair of sweaty and muddy knockers! Gentlemen start your engines…ladies put the pedal to the metal of your girl crush dreams…it’s time to get down with knockers up and get lost in a wet dream leg lock!

 

Mud wrestling by itself is a heavy artillery libido explosion, add to that mud wrestling by teams members of female roller derbies, and you can forget the Striptease Falcon. Hell, this is the stuff that mud dreams are truly made off.

 

Chapter 35 - Bizarre Noir

 

When Asrini, Art Deco, Maddie  and myself arrived back on the street just outside my agency  in  Detroit. I could sense something was wrong. Even the stage prop fog seemed out of synch with the alley cat mood of the neighborhod.

 

It was not a happy homecoming. As we entered my second floor office. The lights were dim and flickering as usual, bad wiring having a feast on power fluctuations.  When I opened the door, the scene was a troubling one of a ransacked office, furniture turned over, file cabinets emptied of their contents, all strewn about, a real pro job of tossing the joint.

 

Once the initial shock, one insignificant nano second in time pulled a Jimmy Hoffa and disappeared,  I was astounded to find my agency partner Sandoz pretty well beaten up bloody and slumped over limp on his desk cut and bruised. Not exactly a welcome home Hallmark greeting card.

 

As  my state of emotional flux went up and down with the buoyancy of a fresh body tossed off a dock and into the dark half Canadian waters of the Detroit River before it floats downriver somewhere near Toledo. I was fluxed, yes, but now realized, we were all fluxed and fucked too.

 

In the room was Asrini’s covert comrade and ego laden lover, Vector Laslo, whom I salaciously referred to on more than one sarcasm filled verbal moment as a pompous, arrogant bon vivant  who would rather drink the King’s wine and screw a royal concubine than overthrow the throne if truth be told.

 

I had to admit I allowed a small smirk to form in my mind when first seeing the mighty Vector being held helpless at gunpoint by the fat man with a fez fetish, Narco Marx. The smirk faded faster than an early ejaculation while having sex in a barn with an underage second cousin in a dirty river town in Arkansas.

 

My tsunami of consternation was fueled as I noticed Joel Faberge, Link Wray laser gun  in hand sitting smiling with that stupid Fabulon grin of his. His itchy trigger happy finger on his weapon with it’s red hot laser beam aimed straight bullseye on the mark at at my ticker.  I could sense in his mental stage and see by the look of animal determination in his eyes he was hoping I would somehow do something stupid frothing with false bravado to draw fire so he could even the score. Joel had an itchy trigger finger, “Keep on riding me and they're gonna be picking iron out of your liver,” he said with lisping bravado.I remember hearing that line before which only goes to show you the cheaper the crook, the gaudier the patter. Seems I picked that up somewhere too. Where do they get the lingo?

Narco, as we could see held all the cards and I wasn’t about to call his hand. “I see you made it back safely Mr. Yucatan and with our prized Falcon. Hand it over at once or we will without hesitation kill your partner, Mr. Deco, Ms. Pemalang and yes, you too Maddie...we would have made a great team. Oh well, we must move along... oh, and please, all of you drop all of your weapons. I don’t want any fancy  heroics to try my patience and end up in needless killing.”

 

I wasn’t about to make any fast moves. I didn’t know leaving one universe portal and entering another you could experience jet lag, but the last week had taken a toll on all of us. “Alright Narco, here’s the damned Falcon. It’s yours.” I handed it over and was beginning to get my survival senses kicked in gear...my next move better be awesome...or I was dead meat on a platter.

 

I never saw such a look of anticipation on a man’s face..or the amount of drool that it could produce in 300 pound behemoth bad guy. He ripped it from my hands and held it in  the manner a young man holds that first pubescent breast in his hand copping a feel under the bleachers during a high school varsity football game. SCORE!

 

The look sooned turned ominous. “This is not the Falcon, Mr. Yucatan. It’s a fake. The real Falcon is made of a strange alloy, heavier than iron or steel...this is a cheap knockoff...probably made in the Gucci Galaxy by Rolexian counterfeiters...a mere souvenir! A toy! Where is it Yucatan..tell me or Asrini will be the recipient of a not so pleasant demise!”

 

“Hell, Narco. I don’t know space alloy from Shinola. This is what I was given by Windsora. Sorry if it’s a knock off. Look, I dodged lasers, revolutionaries, a deranged general with a bald head mumble quoting Homer, and your own amateur hour men too. I’m in no mood for this..What is...IS. Shoot her if you want...shoot me...maybe then I can enjoy the big sleep. I don’t care anymore!”  

 

Just then...distraught as a spinster librarian who learns she is pregnant simply by reading the Kama Sutra Joel Faberge breaks down in tears and launches a litany of invectives directed at Narco. “You... you bungled it. You really fucked up his time. You and your stupid plan. No wonder they had such an easy time getting it here! You... you imbecile. You bloated idiot. You stupid fez head!!!.”

 

I offered Joel a used Kleenex from my jacket pocket which he rightly refused, it was old, it was used, i had the remnants of blood from many past broken noses. He sobbed until I thought his spigot would run dry. His emotional plumbing had sprung a leak. Then a break..sirens outside in the dark. It was Inspector Bill Burroughs. He heard through his agents who had been staking out my office awaiting my return. Why? I had no idea, but it would soon be made clear.  He raced over as I was now in the building at 1300 Beaubien Street, second floor, Room 202...my office. I knew there had to be a problem...you don’t usually fire up a squad of police goons with sirens wailing to bring a welcome gift.

 

“Mr. Yucatan, I bid you adieu. It’s time for us to leave...I believe you didn’t know the Falcon was fake. You’re not that perceptive in this matter having no experience with it. I prefer not to speak to the police for, uh, reasons you well know. Come Joel..we will return to Robotia. I assure you, we will find the Falcon. By gad this has been an adventure Yucatan!” He bowed, tipped his fez and led a crying Joel Faberge out of the office, into the hallway and down the back fire escape.

When Inspector Bill Burroughs and the cavalry finally did arrived on the scene, Narco and Joel had already left the auditorium heading for a space freighter they had prearranged for their escape. Now they would be heading for the pleasure palaces of the Pleiades Quadrant in their addiction filled quest to quench their thirst to finally find the Falcon...Fat chance Fat Man!

 

Bill Burroughs was a cop...100% but strangely he was also a friend in a tenuous fashion, that would soon bridge that gap. Without his customary sarcasm and rapier wit Inspector Burroughs cut to the chase and announced point blank that Asrini and I were both under arrest for sedition, theft of Toho government property and the murder of the man in the alley. I knew we had been betrayed. I wasn’t sure by who, but I had a sinking feeling I had been set up all along from the very beginning. I’m usually right about these matters and when those feelings surface, they’re usually followed by someone biting the dust.

 

“You’ve got it all wrong Bill. I had nothing to do with the murder. OK, I did take the Falcon but not from the Tohos, but from the Rabbit. Besides...it’s not the real Falcon it’s a fake!”

 

He paused smiling broadly as cops do when they know they’ve caught you with your pants down, hands  in the cookie jar. “You’ve been suckered Yucatan, sucker punched and you don’t  even realize it. You have the real Falcon, please give me credit and don’t lie to me.  I’ll take it now and also, regretfully, I will have to turn Asrini over to Comred intelligence. They’ve been looking for her for a long time. She switched sides long ago, and has been working with  Vector Laslo fomenting  revolution throughout the galaxy. There is a price on both of their heads. Did you honestly think I didn’t know that?”

 

It was now