Star Hookers Space Pirates

by David A Sizemore

  He was soon back at the ship and had decided he should tell the girls about his recent transaction, thinking they might want to know. As soon as he entered the cargo bay, Floyd rushed up to him.

  “Greetings Captain. Was your endeavor satisfactory?” Floyd asked.

  “Not really, but I did get some cash.”

  “I see.”

  “Excuse me, but I need to see the ladies immediately,” Peter said as he brushed past Floyd and headed for his cabin.

  “Sir, maybe now’s not a good time.”

  “Nonsense! What could they be doing, napping―?”

  Peter burst through his cabin door to see Monica and Oscar copulating vigorously and enthusiastically in his bed.

  “Oh, shit! I'm sorry! Uh, I'll come back later,” Peter stammered, blushed and backed out. Monica called out from underneath Oscar, “Suit yourself—or join us, watch—it’s all the same to us. We ARE sex workers, you know! Come on! Have some fun! We are! Oh! Oh! God, uunnnt, yeah, yeah, yeah, right there.”

  “Yeah! Mmp—parti-- mmpp --on.” Heshe mumbled from somewhere under the sheets.

  “Maybe later, err, we'll talk,” Peter said as he closed the door.

  He leaned against the closed door as he looked into thin air. “Shirley, you could have warned me.”

  “You never left instructions that I was to do so, Dickhead,” she replied as she appeared floating in midair with her arms crossed petulantly in front of her.

  “Yeah, well, from now on, since we have guests now, if I am about to enter a room where copulation is taking place, or someone’s taking a dump or doing something private, warn me, will ya? Sheesh!”

  Peter beckoned to Floyd with one finger to go to the front of the ship, pointing toward the control room. In a few moments, they reached the control room, Peter sat in the pilot’s seat with a pissed off look on his face. “Phew, that was awkward! Sex workers-- sheesh. So, any luck on the tractors?” Leaning forward hopefully with his hands on his knees.

  “I have an offer, sir, thirty thousand each.”

  “Tarcacks! Now who's the criminal? Those tractors are worth a hundred-grand each, at least! Who was it, Meloovians?” Peter waved his hands around in the air angrily.

  “Sir, we have no bills of sale, or dealer’s licenses, so I had to sell to someone willing to ignore legal niceties. I have titles, but no proof of ownership,” he said slumping back. Somehow, even with no facial expression, his body language said sad and dejected.

  “God damned documentation is killing me! We need a to find a forger somewhere to cook up some paperwork for us on this stuff and other merch later. This will certainly help our cash flow, anyhow. Alright! We are in a hurry. Do it Floyd. Flox shit! Find a contractor to build some more cabins—five of them and a common room—we are going to need a crew. We should change the name of the ship and registry. Any ideas on names?”

  “Why, sir?”

  Peter got up and paced the small space with his hands behind his back, and his face turned down looking thoughtful. “We can't have a ship named the Lunch Bucket! It needs a name that sounds more menacing like the Space Witch, or the Black Asteroid!”

  “Uh, Queen Ann’s Revenge?” Floyd offered.

  “Too historical,” Peter laughed. “Wasn't that the name of Blackbeard's ship? Anyway, I'm no Blackbeard.”

  “Terminal Cancer?” Floyd suggested.

  “WTF!”

  “I am trying to think of things that sound scary to every race, sir.”

  “How about The Bloody Hand?”

  “Sir, not all creatures have hands or bleed.”

  “The Red Viper?”

  “Not all creatures know what a viper is, or fear them, only people from earth.”

  Peter slammed his hand on the side of his head. “Think, think. What are all or most creatures afraid of universally?”

  “Sir, as I told you before, I've made a study of every creature’s elimination habits out of curiosity. Almost all have a bathroom taboo that makes elimination in the proper place a social norm. Any deviation from this is mortally embarrassing or fearful to all creatures.”

  “What are you thinking, Floyd?”

  “May I suggest The Embarrassing Incontinence?”

  “Are you out of your ever-loving mind?” Peter’s mouth gaped.

  “Sir, think! Most creatures dread soiling themselves in an improper place, especially in their attire. Doesn’t one of your human expressions ‘I almost shit myself’ indicate surprise or fear in scatological terms? How about ‘I'm going to beat the shit out of you?

  ”

  Peter’s mouth gaped wider and he shook his head. “Sheesh, I think you are right... okay, shorten it to the Incontinence, not the “I’m going to beat the shit out of you.” Most people won't get it anyway. Make it happen, bloody, smart-ass robot”

  “May I suggest adding HMS to the Incontinence name?” Shirley interjected from thin air.

  “HMS as in, Her Majesty’s Service?” Peter asked.

  “No as in Her Majestic Shirley’s Incontinence,” Shirley said with a snicker.

  “Hmm...you know? I think I like it! Thanks! Thanks for not calling me names for once too.”

  “You’re welcome, Captain Douche-bag.”

  “Gaaah!” Peter uttered.

  Monica, and Oscar entered the cockpit adjusting their clothes, looking a little flushed and fluffing their hair, grinning widely, still smelling faintly of sex and subtle female scents.

  “So, any luck on the jewels?” asked Monica.

  “Yeah, not as much as I would have liked, but it’s a start. We are going clothes shopping when you are ready, and if you need any more money, just ask. Here's a receipt for what I got. You want out at any time, I'll give you back your investment plus a percentage, okay?

  “Oh, and in the future if you are engaged in... um, intimate activities, would you lock the door, hang a sign, or something?”

  Monica and Oscar both looked at each other, rolled their eyes, and burst into laughter.

  “Sure, Captain. Why not. Sorry we didn't think you would be back so soon, nor that you would care. We hoped you might even join us, you’re cute. We are friendly and certainly grateful to you for everything, and we do-- love sex. Our rooms at the brothels were always monitored for safety. In school, we always had instructors in the room with us advising and offering suggestions and monitoring So, we are not shy in the least, we can't be. We don’t make much of a difference between public or private sex. It’s a natural activity of most beings in the universe. In fact, did you know that on planet Farook-1, the swinger’s planet, they encourage public sex, no one wears clothes...and sex with strangers is encouraged. It’s one of the most popular tourist destinations, next to the Disney planet.”

  “Good to know, if we ever high-jack a cargo of suntan cream, lubricant, and condoms. I'm sorry, but I was raised differently on Earth. Locks, please?” Peter said primly.

  They went shopping, and found themselves in front of a clothing shop, The New Yew. Floyd leaned against the entrance, looking as bored as a robot with no face can, as of course he was completely uninterested in clothes. Of course, Monica, Oscar and Peter were looking around excitedly—especially the ladies—Peter hadn’t gone clothes shopping in ages. Most fresher units could extrude a coverall.

  The sales clerk came over with a big smile, but still managed to look disdainfully at Peter's retro uniform, and Monica’s and Oscar’s hooker clothes. Monica tended toward filmy, peekaboo dresses, while Oscar favored plaid skirts, two-tone oxfords and white schoolgirl blouses with Peter Pan collars. The clerk opened her arms wide in welcome anyway.

  “Welcome to the New Yew Clothing Emporium! How may I help you?”

  “We need new clothes and a new image,” said Peter.

  “Yes, we need to look more, more…bad-ass and piratey,” Monica said with a grin.

  “Yeah, more…kick-ass, err, scary and pirate, whatever that means!” Oscar agreed.

  “Drones! Places!” The
salesclerk, a human whose name-tag read Clair, clapped her hands.

  Soon, half a dozen flying drones were zipping back and forth scanning them with lasers and taking measurements. In just a few more minutes, other drones were dropping bundles of clothes in their arms to try on.

  A short while later Peter and the ladies stepped out of the dressing rooms to look at themselves, and at each other. They all burst out laughing as they recognized their look came from a classic movie from Earth of the 2000s, Pirates of the Caribbean. Only Monica had seen the movie all the way through as part of a film history class, but all had seen clips of it. It was as iconic as other Earth films like Wizard of Oz and Gone with the Wind. Peter looked just like Jack Sparrow: braids, headband, sword, and all (minus the beard and mustache). The gals were sexy pirate girls.

  “Ugh. No way—hell no—we’d all be laughed at.” they all variously exclaimed.

  “Okay, I've got another idea. Let’s try a para-military look,” Clair chirped cheerily.

  They emerged a few minutes later sporting combat boots, camo T-shirts, black cargo pants, bandoleers, Sam Brown belts, and berets.

  “I don't think so,” Peter said with some exasperation.

  “Sir, I'm afraid I don't know what you want from me. I only know how to dress people in the latest fashions, and costuming for parties,” The clerk said in the same exasperated tone.

  “Say, I've got an idea!” Oscar volunteered, “I think the military look is kind of cool but lacks flair. It’s too overstated. How about―"

  Peter and Monica cut Oscar off with a resounding, “No!” knowing how Oscar dressed.

  “Look here Clair, we are not going to a costume party. We need something more workaday, and practical.” Peter quipped. “Uh, we are auditioning for a new pirate movie...”

  Clair looked a bit puzzled and thoughtfully tapped her teeth with a long, manicured nail. “I follow all the Hollyworld movie trade magazines and I haven’t…”

  “Err, it’s a student, independent film, you see...” Peter interrupted lying, not sure if announcing they were planning on being actual pirates was wise.

  She spoke into her name-tag which was also a com-set.” From the unintelligible whispering as she lisped into the mike, they could make out, “Uh-huh... really? No way! OK, drones!” and she waved her hands again.

  Within seconds, they had bundles of clothes in their arms again. They tried them on and walked out of the dressing rooms. Once more looking in the mirrors, they were more appalled this time than amused. Now they looked like ancient Somali pirates in ripped jeans, T-shirts, baseball caps, cutoffs, natty dreads, and carbines.

  “Are you kidding us?” they all chorused.

  Again, they went through the same routine—drones handing them clothes. Except a makeup drone accompanied each one, this time. They emerged dressed as Goths: black fingernails, spiked collars, black lipstick, black clothes, black spiky hair wigs. The style seemed to come back into fashion every hundred years or so, for some reason. Scary looking and ominous but they all dissolved into chuckles and giggles and shook their heads, no.

  “How about we take some of the stuff and mix and match?” Monica suggested.

  “Hmm, maybe, okay. Bring back the first pirate stuff and let us sort through what we like. Oh, and bring us some fake scars from your costuming,” Peter suggested to Clair.

  After some discussion among themselves, they all ended up keeping the military parachute pants and black boots. Peter also chose a white ruffled shirt, flak vest, and decorative eye-patch. They all opted for the colorful waist sashes, and swords. The two women chose the spiked collars and colorful blouses. They all opted for the fake scars.

  “Ooo! We look fabulous! I would run, if I saw us in a dark alley!” Oscar chuckled.

  “Yeah, run away laughing. There is only one good thing about all this junk; we won't be very recognizable in a line-up. Any ship we rob is sure to have surveillance cameras. Tarcacks!”

  Everything is recorded nine ways from Sunday these days, we are going to have to think of some way to disguise our faces! The fake scars make you look kind of sexy—but scary,” Peter snorted, trying not to laugh.

  “I have some real sexy scars on my ass,” Oscar said with a grin.

  “Oh, from combat?” Peter wanted to know.

  “No. I caught my ass on some barbed wire in basic training. That sucked let me tell you, not being able to sleep on my back for a month as well as other stuff—like no sex...”

  “Are these real swords Clair?” Monica asked.

  “Yes, they are authentic seventeenth century reproductions. Of course, we don't sharpen them to avoid injury, right?” she said tittering cutely.

  “Yeah. Of course, wouldn't want that. Ha, ha, ha,” Peter said with a straight face, “here's my credit disk.”

  Floyd joined them from where he had been watching the entrance. “Sir, just briefly, I looked on the inter-space net and most literary pirates had a mascot; a small mammal or avian creature that rode on their shoulders. It would distract anyone from looking at our faces…perhaps.”

  “Ooh, yes, a monkey or a parrot would be soooooo cute! Can we Peter?” purred Monica.

  “I'm not going to have a filthy animal with parasites pooing on my shoulder! No way!” Peter said with disgust.

  “Sir, it doesn’t have to be a live creature—maybe a small robot or animatronic creature?” Floyd put in.

  “Say… that's an Idea,” Peter perked up.

  They walked quickly over to Uncle Sal's new and used robot shop. “Talking Sex Toys, now 50% off,” was displayed on a small sign in the corner of the window. The interior of the robot shop was filled to the ceiling with robots and mechanical creatures of every shape and size. There were even some historical movie robots; a C-3PO, reproduction R2-D2s, a Robbie the Robot, a T-1000 Terminator, as well as reproductions of more recent robots from movies, and modern ones such as cleaning bots, sex bots, and botyguards. Robots were so common anymore, there hadn't been a popular movie about robots for hundreds and hundreds of years, people no longer feared them or found them all that interesting.

  A nicely dressed, but shifty-looking salesman slunk over to them rubbing his hands together.

  “Hi, welcome to Sal's. What can I help you with today?

  “We are looking for a small robotic animal for a pet?” Peter said a bit unsure.

  “Fantastic! You came to the right place! Follow me, we have a fine selection of entertaining and useful robots. Come! Come!” He beckoned over his shoulder for them to follow him, waving his hands here and there, showing them more robots on display down the aisles. He stopped in front of a tall rack of shelves displaying monkeys, birds of all kinds, pit-bulls, elf-like creatures, imp-like demons, dolls, and babies. They all turned to look at the group with their dead, shiny eyes.

  “This is what we have in stock; birds, monkeys, Teddy bears—err, the real ones, elves, dolls, small demon-like creatures for people with an arcane hobby, you name it.”

  Peter eyed the selection, warily looking over the shelves. “How much?”

  “Well, you know the saying, if you have to ask, you can’t…” Sal sputtered to a stop under their angry glares; all of them menacingly putting their hands on their swords and weapons. He gulped and backpedaled verbally, “uh, erm... It varies. From our smallest item, an android Parakeet that holds about ten songs, that can learn a few phases, and is only a few hundred credits, to our large Macaw model that has a gigantic memory at five thousand credits, plus tax, of course. Dolls are about the same. Ten thousand for our robo- pit-bull attack dogs, for personal protection. We have elves and monkeys that can talk, entertain, crack jokes, bring you a beer and such. What’s your pleasure, beings?”

  “I assume they are all new? Basically, I'm only looking for a prop. Have any used parrots?

  The salesman rolled his eyes at Peter’s last question. Lifting his eyebrows, he shrugged and scowled, “yeah, yeah, let me look in the back,” and he exited through a curtain with
a swish.

  He returned a few minutes later with a rather sad-looking cockatoo; feathers askew, one eye hung loose, trailing wires out of its socket. He squiggled the eye back in place and presented it with a flourish.

  “Ta- da! Sam the talking cockatoo, and a steal at only three hundred credits! It can learn over a hundred phrases and interact.” He pushed a spot on the cockatoo’s chest, and the bird sprang to life.

  “Arrraaaccckkk! Cat! Cat! Help! Cat! Shoo! Shoo! ARRRRGGGGG!” It rolled its eyes and flapped its wings in agitation. The bird’s eye fell out again, and the salesman pushed it back in, looked up sheepishly and poked its chest again to turn it off.

  “Ah, sorry. It’s a little tramatized. Previous owner’s cat got her and ripped her head off, but it's been repaired, and is almost as good as new!”