slick n’ dirty : story blog from dr. menlo

Curlicue wasn’t looking at me. He was staring at the mirror behind me. “Haven’t seen one of those circus mirrors in a while.” he said. He tilted his head left and right, not taking his eyes off his reflection. “Weird,” he said. “It makes one illusion and then keeps it?”

“Uh . . . ” Oh what the hell. “Gotta be honest here, buddy. That’s not a trick mirror. Your cranium suffered some kind of . . . malady.”

His eyes widened. He ran off to the bathroom.

I shook my head and considered my frozen captives. Sheila was the current name of my infosys. “Sheila?”

“Yes,” she purred, in vintage 50s earthling sex bomb voice.

“Put me through to Boyd’s please.” Boyd’s Farm was run by Goddess Mila, who ran a huge hydroponic greenhouse on the other side of the orbital. She also had a small amount of livestock, more for their excrement and eggs than for eating. One of these creatures, the Voladant, so-named from some intrepid traveller who had come back with that thing in a cage and who had then promptly fallen over, suddenly dead.

It was a purplish, starfish-looking creature with 7 sticky legs and no eyes. It sprang around its cage and occasionally blew out yellowish loogie-esque balls of offal. This offal turned out to have many uses, one for superglue. But the smell was particularly offensive.

Mila came on the vidscreen. She was kneeling in one part of her garden, her right hand whisking away dead leaves from her plants while her left hand held already a bushel of them. She was wearing orange tech socks and nothing else, being a modern day nudist. It was humid in the green house. Probably felt nice.

“Hello, Berynek,” she said, not pausing in her work as she glanced over her shoulder at him. “What can I do for you today?”

“Uh, hoping you can send over a vial of that Voladant offal?”

“No problem. Is that all?”

I had spaced slightly, watching her pendulous breasts move back and forth with her movement. I caught myself and brought my gaze back up quickly. “Uh, no good on all other fronts, thanks.”

“How’s your home garden doing?” she asked. “Did you automate it yet?”

“Ahm, not yet. Still trying. Thanks, Mila.” I smiled at her and broke connection. It would be so easy to automate my garden. Just saying it out loud would get the system up and going. But it irked me I had a purple thumb. I was good at everything but that. I was determined to keep trying, no matter how dead plants it took.

Soon a small flying globe entered the premises, landed on my bar and delicately extracted from itself a small vial of the Voladant offal. Once unloaded, it used its mini hand to tip its imaginary cap at me before whirring up and out again.

I retrieved a small wood stick from a drawer, put on my air mask and plastic gloves, picked up the offal and got to work. About ten minutes later just when I was dropping the vial into the biohazard slot, Lt. Johns walked in. He looked sideways at the frozen men and chuckled. “Oh, they’re gonna love that.”

“Red room?” I said.

He nodded. I went out from behind the bar and followed him down the hallway, past the bathrooms and to a door on the left, painted conspicuously red. It was the place I took guests to when we wanted a private convo, free of any subatomic listening devices. The whole perimeter of the Red Room was a working e-wall, pushing out all pulsations, constantly updating its OS with new nanotech updates, coming in from earth and all parts between and beyond at many gigabytes a second. (Technology moves exponential, after all.)

The actual physical space of the Red Room was rococo, somewhat resembling the parlor room of an 19th century western US cathouse. Me and the Lt. took opposite chairs.

The Lt. was about six foot tall, pretty good build. Ordinary middle-aged white military face: jagged, squinty, hard. No warmth escaped it without going through numerous checkpoints. He slipped a hand into his uniform jacket and brought out a printed photo, slapped it down on the dark oriental coffee table between us. It was the goddess I had ogled in my bar earlier, who told me her name was Naomi.

I pretended to study the pic. “Hustler, 2054?”

Johns smiled, licked his lips. “That freezing tech–” he started.

I stopped him. “Come on now, Lt. I’m a civilian now.”

“You can’t share?” He said, trying to look boyish.

“My hands are tied, you know.” I said. Hand up, palms facing him, as if to show.

He motioned to the pic. “You never saw her.”

“I see a lot of people. That pic doesn’t ring a bell. Maybe from another angle.”

He picked the pic, punched the back with his fingers, then set it back down again. Now, a hologram sprang up from it. It was her, getting off a spaceship. Right here, at Orbital 109, it looked like. It followed her sultry hips straight to Berynek’s.

“Huh,” I said. “So I guess I have seen her.”

“That was this morning,” Johns said. “You must be getting old. Got mem-rot.” He grinned.

“So what, is she some kind of . . . killer?” I asked.

“No criminal record.” he said. “Just a traveling housewife from Canada, New Earth.”

Married, shit. Just my luck. “So what do you want with her?”

“Not me, my man.” Johns said. He picked up the pic again and played with the back of it. “Watch what happened when she left.”

When I got back up from ducking under the counter, I saw the military guys pick up their rifles and run out - typical, while me and everyone left put our eye on the light in the upper corner of the wall closest to my bar. Usually that light shone blue - only when the hull was breached and there was serious danger of depressurization did it go red.

We watched.

We held our breaths.

It held blue.

I hit the button for the jazz mix and the sounds of trumpet filled the air. Breathing returned to the room and my patrons returned to their drinks.

The front door swung open and a man who had some serious interdimensional damage to his headframe stood there, looking in.

He was human from chin down, but the top of his skull had not been exploded or even blackened by any burns, but elongated and twisted up and over like a bagel roll once pointy and now dejected. His own head curled over him. He seemed dazed.

The lady who works at the hotel was feeling the most gives-a-shit among us and hurried up to put her motherly arm around him and lead him in. He was speechless, mouth ajar, staring ahead expressionlessly. She just led him over gently to a table in the corner and sat him down.

She come over to me, eyes worried. I pulled a glass of water and handed it to her.
Her eyebrows raised.

I went to my variety snuffbox and pinched a here and there, mixed it into the drink and stirred.

She brought it to him gingerly, as if cupping magic tea (which in fact, some of it was). She put it under his nose and his head shot back and his eyes got wide. He looked around as if for the first time. He then looked down at himself, possibly searching for blood or other sign of wound. He patted his torso with his hand as if just to make sure.

Patti set the drink down in front of him. He noticed she was looking at him strangely. “Uh . . . “ he said. He didn’t remember how he had got here, or how he had ordered this drink.

She didn’t feel like explaining. “On the house.” she said, smiled, and went back to her seat where she had half a drink left.

The couple businessmen paid their tab and left and soon the motel lady’s lunch hour was over as well, so it was just me and curlicue in the corner. He had taken a couple sips of his drinks and gone back to staring off into the distance - probably the best thing for him at this point.

Then they walked in.

Four suits, all bulging. They moved swiftly and stiffly, heads pivoting as if on feather triggers, inspecting all angles of Berynek’s. Backs to each other, yet forward, they sidled up to the bar.

The one on the right addressed me first.

“Bartender,” he called. I noticed in his right hand he now held a USB connection. “Plug me into your establishment’s infosys, stat.”

He waited there after barking to me what must have seemed like an interminable amount of time, as I squinted my eyes and considered him.

“Hey you,” he said, banging the bar with his free palm. “Get cracking with the connection or we crack you, get it?”

Lucky me, suddenly in backtalk heaven. I started off old school: “You talking to me?”

If only I had a toothpick to remove from my lip before I said it.

“What are you, some kind of star hippie?” he asked. “Do we look like we’re fucking around today?” He jerked his head to his men, who were still all backed up to each other, craning their heads around regularly for flankers.

I stood up from my leaning position, facing him. “This is my bar.” I said. “I am Berynek. Normally at this point I would say, ‘Welcome to Berynek’s’ - but I cannot say this to you and your men today, I am afraid. Because you are most unwelcome. Please leave now before you force me to grimace.”

My peripheral vision told me that curlicue was still motionless, looking off into the distance. I hoped at least his eyelid reflexes were working, otherwise his eyes were gonna get awful dusty.

The guy on the right made a swift motion with his open hand and shot out a badge into my face: UP. Universal Police.

I said: “You have just arrived to Orbital 109 and, I am assuming, have not yet had a powpow with the local military commander, Lt. Johns, I take it?”

He tilted his head at me and curled his lip, “Not that I have to tell you shit, but yes we did just get here, and I don’t need to reconnoiter with no local fuckin’ gruntard to push around the locals when doing our righteous investigatin’.”

“Orbital 109 is under your purview.” I acknowledged to him, nodding my head in assent. “Excepting my building.”

He screwed up his face. “No way.”

The man on his right and on my left who was also facing the bar and had said nothing up until this point, suddenly joined the discussion. “It’s true.” he told his companion. He evidently had some inner uplink. He was looking down to the bar as if reading. “Berynek’s is not under our jurisdiction.”

The man on the right made a hawking sound, then faced his left and spit it out. “Well, usually we have the law on our side.” he said. “But pending that, we act as a gang. Now give us access to your infosys before we beat it out of you.”

I retrieved a towel from under my bar and gave it to him: “Go pick up your loogie you dirty bastard.” I said.

His face went apoplectic and he swung at me. I flicked my thumb on the dial it had been holding and all four men froze.

“Lt. Johns please,” I called out to my infosys. The call was made. Pretty soon Johns head appeared on my vid screen.

“Berynek. What can I do for you?” he asked.

“I’d like you to come retrieve four space pigs, please.”

He chortled and glanced over my shoulder. “Hey, that fist got a little closer than the last one.” he noted.

“I think he would be appreciative of a new mustache when he wakes up, what do you think?” I asked.

Johns guffawed. “We’ll be there shortly.” He signed off.

When I turned around I almost gave a bit of a start because curliecue was standing there at the bar, staring straight at me.

Of all the bars in the universe, mine was closest to the edge of unmapped space. Berynek’s - in cold blue neon hung over the door. It was an expansive space, being a former starship hangar, but you couldn’t see how big it was when you first walked in. First there was the velvet anteroom. Then there was the dive.

Hi, I’m Berynek. Welcome to my saloon.

Of course, when I started it was just a one-man outfit and I only operated the dive part. Who visited the last bar at the edge of the known universe? A combination of the most courageous humans and those most in need of social or mental lubrication. Being so far off the center of things lent a certain ‘wild west’ atmosphere. I did not shy away from this image. My place beat out a bar in Dutch Harbor, Alaska for being the toughest drinking hole in existence according to Space Pod, inching out the Aleutian island spot’s twenty year record. Dutch Harbor wasn’t the wild west anymore. It was bedside service and satin slippers.

It was on one of these slow days in the early days when I was wiping down the counter and she walked in. Fackin’ black-haired beauties. With long legs and no-fat curves.

She came right up to the bar and ordered a Venusian smoothie. I would have to chisel the small talk out of her, it seemed. Boy, was I lonely. A goddess is not what I needed. A fat chick always does in a pinch. But a goddess is what sat in front of me then. Hamada hamada.

I put her drink in front of her and it was only then she seemed to notice me. She arched a magnificent eyebrow. “Are you Berynek?”

It possibly helped that I was good-looking. I smiled. “Yes. And you are?”

She reached out her hand to me. “Naomi.”

I took her hand and mock-kissed it, never breaking eye contact. “Charmed, Naomi.”

She took her hand back, regarded me coolly. “What are you, French?”

“Partly.” I admitted.

She took a sip of her drink. I could see it’s immediate effect on her temple, making it throb ever so slightly. Her eyelids fluttered and I knew she was dealing with issues of self control.

“You make a strong smoothie.” she said.

“You have the same effect on my eyes.” I said.

She smiled. She had to have been feeling good. I mixed her drink just right: the proper nutrients and added supplements that led to quite an intense and prolonged body and mind euphoria. It was a popular drink for people coming back from the other edge and for those about to go out into it. The ‘Venusian’ part of the name wasn’t just a cheap marketing gimmick; part of it really had to be shipped in from Venus.

Her lips got redder, or seemed to.

“Are you going out or coming in?” I asked. This orbital was a relatively small place. Usually I saw them at least once before they left. Some I never saw again but most simply never came back. So I guessed she was on her way out, but sometimes those that were squares before they left and never mixed up their inner chemicals came back and desperately and very quickly changed this position.

“Going out,” she said.

“Ah,” I nodded. I wished she had been coming back; she could have been easier to woo that way. She would be happy to be alive, sick of everyone she had been cooped up with on her ship for that long, and probably very horny. It helps that I am good-looking.

“I need more crew.” she said.

I looked around the bar. Just a few military, a couple men from the shoal factory, and a lady who worked at the hotel. Locals. Not a lot of human detritus on Orbital 109, to be sure. Once in a while an outfit came through so desperate to add someone they offered someone from the factory an obscene amount of money to defect, but usually most outfits came fully manned, knowing this place was a relatively barren locale.

I made a sympathetic face. “No unemployed on this orbital that I know of.”

“What about you?” she asked.

“Well,” I said. “Unless it’s as your personal consort, I have to point out I do have a bar to run and I have no employees to take my place. This is a one man operation, ma’am. Unless, like I said, it would be as your consort . . . ” Now it was my turn to raise an eyebrow at her.

She smiled. “You are funny.” She reached her hand out and placed a small black object on my side of the bar which was lower than her part so that nobody else, if they had been looking, could see. “I need you to hold this for me.”

“It’s not a bomb, is it?” I asked, looking it over.

“No, but all the same, you should keep it in a freezer.”

I laughed. “Come on lady, you can’t expect me to keep something for you if I don’t know what it is.”

“Just an info stick.” she said.

“So why should I keep it in the freezer?”

“Who would look for an info stick in the freezer?”

“No big, mean and ugly men are going to come looking for this info stick when you leave? Armed with hairy knuckles and laser guns?”

“Most people who stop by here on their way out are probably more prepared, aren’t they?” she asked.  “They have full crews and don’t need storage.”

“Yes, and you’re different because . . . ?”

She narrowed her eyes at me.

“Is Berynek your first or last name?”

“Does it matter?” I asked.

“Do you really want to fuck me, Berynek?”

“Yyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy . . . . es?”

“Then keep my info stick in the freezer for when I get back. Maybe you will have some help to take over the bar by then so we can steal away to the bedroom for your reward.” She started to get up, dropped a couple creds on the bar.

“Oh, I would close the place then. That would be OK.” I said.

She smiled at me and long-legged out.

I was on the internets putting up an ad for help wanted - been meaning to anyway - when outside there was a loud explosion.