Tropic of Skorpeo

by Morrissey, Michael

  “All the evidence points to you being an it,” one of the voices said. “You were found in a net. You are hairy.”

  “And your skin’s the wrong colour,” said the second voice.

  “And just what colour should it be?” Rhameo enquired, checking to see if any of his weapons were on his person, and grimacing when he found that they weren’t.

  “Not green, that’s for sure,” the first voice asserted.

  “That’s the colour of the jungle,” shuddered the second.

  “My skin is my business,” Rhameo retorted coldly. “Anyway, what colour is yours?”

  “Golden,” they said in unison. As light broke through the canopy of trees and they entered a clearing, Rhameo saw that the two bearers of his cage were bikini-clad, brown-skinned sylphettes.

  “Where are you taking me?” asked Rhameo.

  The two broke into giggles. Rhameo thought they looked fetching when they laughed, though it was a pity that their skin was such a dull colour instead of green, or perhaps purple – and only two breasts apiece… oh well, beggars couldn’t be…

  By the Beard of Zoah, what was he thinking? He needed to get back for his wedding otherwise all hell – meaning the Wrath of Zoah, not to mention his mother’s fury – would break loose.

  He wondered if the women were open to bribery… but regardless, what did he have to offer them? Not all savage tribes could be wowed with shiny trinkets, and in any case the sole shiny ‘trinket’ that he still had on his person was the translation device, and he would be utterly lost if he parted with that.

  “Hey girls,” called Rhameo in what he hoped was a cajoling voice, “maybe we could strike a deal.”

  “It wants to strike a deal,” mocked the first voice.

  “We don’t bargain with animals,” the second said.

  “If I am an animal,” asked Rhameo, amused and appalled, “why can I talk?”

  “Even the lowliest animals have the power of speech,” retorted the first.

  “I can speak any language in the universe,” boasted Rhameo, and to make good his claim rattled off several phrases in a dozen tongues. Most were the typical banalities that a travelling playboy prince picked up – “Can I buy you a drink?”, “Have you ever slept with a prince?”, “Officer, I can assure you that diplomatic immunity protects me from prosecution,” and such – in a range of languages incomprehensible to his escorts.

  The first girl, whom he had nicknamed Golden Thighs, looked unimpressed. “We have arrived at the place of shaving,” she announced.

  “You will be de-animalised and prepared for the ceremony,” Golden Breasts declared.

  “What ceremony is that?” enquired Rhameo a little nervously.

  “Don’t worry,” laughed Golden Breasts. “You’ll enjoy it!”

  “Eventually!” chuckled Golden Thighs.

  They gave him a bowl of steaming soup, which the hungry prince quickly devoured. Within a few minutes, he felt groggy and, cursing his foolishness, lost consciousness. When Rhameo awoke, he found that all of his body hair had been shaved off and he was covered in brown paint. He licked his lips experimentally – was it actually sauce?

  As he became fully conscious, he tuned into a rather odd conversation.

  “Araminta – you’ve got a penis!”

  “Yes,” a woman giggled. “Lucky me.”

  “You didn’t have one earlier today,” said another voice, one that sounded strangely familiar.

  “That was then, and this is now,” observed the queen. “And now, I have a penis.”

  “How did you get one?” asked the familiar voice.

  “I grew it, of course. Please don’t be envious – envy is only to be found in the lower life forms and besides, I couldn’t bear it.”

  “Surely a woman with a penis is unnatural.”

  “We simple jungle folk have tamed nature. You see, I simply imbibed a rooting hormone, and you can plainly see the results!”

  “And why did you decide that you needed… it?”

  “It will be used during the ceremony.”

  “Oh,” said the familiar voice. “What is this ceremony I keep hearing about?”

  “Well, it’s fairly simple, really. I intend to rectify your virginity.”

  “I see… The fact is that I’m engaged to be married, so I should perhaps be going –”

  “The fact is, my dear, that the ceremony is about to begin.”

  “What about – the beef?”

  Rhameo realised four things. First, that the innocent questioner was none other than the lovely girl he had taken flying. Second, that the beef she had referred to was none other than himself (and how dare this chit of a mauve-skinned, four-breasted girl refer to him as beef!). Third, whatever drug had been administered to him in the bowl of soup was keeping his throat muscles in a state of paralysis – he was unable to utter a sound. Fourth, he was not to receive a meal, but be one.

  “Oh yes, the beef will be eaten,” Araminta said.

  “How lovely – and it does look delicious. But tell me,” enquired Juraletta, “how often do you grow… ah… one of those?” She pointed toward Araminta’s impressive organ.

  “As often as necessary. Now please lean back and spread your legs,” ordered Araminta. “Devirginisation is about to commence.”

  “I don’t wish to offend you, but I must decline this great honour,” declared Juraletta with dignity, “for I am betrothed to the Fissionable Duke and one of the conditions of marriage is that I must be a virgin.”

  “But in order to be accepted amongst us Amazons, you need to be devirginised by our queen,” Golden Breasts said.

  “We have all been deliciously rummaged by Araminta’s organ,” said Golden Thighs.

  “You see,” said Araminta triumphantly, “everyone agrees.”

  “I’m afraid I must be firm about this,” said Juraletta. “I am honoured, but it really wouldn’t do –”

  “Enough of your dissent,” said Araminta. “Seize the virgin!”

  Two of the strongest Amazons held Juraletta fast, while two more grasped her legs and pulled them apart. Araminta smirked knowingly at Juraletta, her queenly phallus engorged and ready for its ceremonial task. Simultaneously, the other Amazons moved toward Rhameo’s paralysed form, their white teeth bared as the sauce dripped slowly from his flesh.

  Lord Maledor was bored again. His boredom had eased for a few days as he enjoyed the diversion of placing Astroburger within the living asteroid and obliging him to mate with the woman he feared and hated most – moody Queen Beia, a creation run riot. Equally, it was superbly rewarding to have humiliated the queen by making her the receptor of Astroburger’s seed, and this delectable conduitery all on behalf of the living asteroid! What a rich jape! What a tasty lark! It hardly even spoiled it that they both seemed extraordinarily happy with what he had done…

  I really am an evil genius par excellence, thought Lord Maledor. Are there no worlds left for me to conquer? Is there no scheming Replicoidal manipulation that I am not capable of? But there must be more… there must always be more. This galaxy of mirrors, stars, and fools is not enough. There must be something more perfectly evil that I can conceive –

  And what was evil? Here was a philosophic question worth pondering. Evil at its finest, at its purest, must logically be concerned with perverting the highest form of good. And what was the highest form of good? Ambition? Greed? No, for some reason they were considered to be evil. Think again, Lord Maledor. Why, the highest form of good had to be love. Stinking, cloying, banal love. He must find the purest form of love, and then pervert it. A splendid victory for evil – and himself!

  But where could he find such a love? There was no use looking within his domain, so he must go to other worlds, new dimensions. He had recently heard someone mention a place called Skorpeo, so he punched the coordinates into his chronologer and, an instant later, the world came into view. He zoomed in and saw a large, bearded man in a state of agitation, his enormous arms attack
ing the air like chainsaws.

  “Where is that confounded son of mine?” bellowed Zoah from his massive, jewel-encrusted throne. “He’ll be late for the wedding!”

  “He is nowhere to be found,” said Teleporteus. “He has deserted his post, Father.”

  “Nonsense,” gruffed Zoah, “I’m sure he has simply run into difficulties while on one of his princely adventures.”

  “Those difficulties will be nothing compared to the tongue-lashing I will give him, if he’s not here soon,” said the empress.

  Teleporteus shook his head. “A tongue-lashing will not be punishment enough.”

  “Silence, whelp,” said Zoah. “I will decide who is to be punished, and I am sure that my finest son will return momentarily. To fill the time, let’s have a little levity from the Fool.”

  “Certainly, Your Majestic Majesty,” the Fool said, stepping out of the shadows. “What topic would you like me to offer discourse on?”

  “That’s your job, Fool!” shouted Zoah. “I have enough affairs of state to worry about without having to come up with jokes. Now be funny or I’ll get the guards to slice off one of your limbs. In fact, I might make it your head – I have never really liked your head. It resembles a leprous pumpkin.”

  “I’m afraid my odd-shaped head is due to phrenological fault lines which I inherited from my grandmother, a very strong woman with three eyes, four legs, and five bosoms, attributes that never left her in want of a partner – she was one of the favourites at the Gardens of Fleschimor – and her acrobatic ability to accommodate a number of lovers at once made her a legend in the Fornax System.”

  “This isn’t very amusing, Fool. In fact, your lacklustre banalities are giving me a headache,” said the emperor. “Guards! Make ready your swords!”

  “Rhameo, Rhameo, Rhameo,” the Fool said in a panicky voice. “So our prince is missing, the prince who has the gift of incandescent quietude yet wields a broadsword to the manner born. But does he not need on occasion to lighten up? Like all men he needs to ungirth his gravamen a mite, jolly up the tonsils with a good giggle. We should all be merry as meteors and concupiscently conscious that a stitch in grime saves thyme, time, and mime. Since young women have nothing to say apart from petticoat patter, camisole conversing, and ginseng gossiping, you could say they have put the fart before the horse. Solution? Teach the little darlings the art of conversation, which consists of smiling prettily at every ponderous banality mumbled by fusty old patriarchs and puke-bearded buffoons who think they squander the wisdom of centuries under their fat bellies when all they have is a limp flesh stocking, a low sperm count, and a collection of tired pop tunes pressed onto bakelite –”

  The emperor broke out into a low chuckle. “That will do, Fool – you have made me laugh at myself, and that takes courage. I’ll tell the guards to put up their swords. For now.”

  “Fool has insulted you, Father,” snarled Teleporteus, “and he should die – I’m going to take his head off right now. I’ll affix it to the city gates as a warning to failed jokesters.”

  “Stay thy hand, Teleporteus,” ordered Zoah. “Take a deep breath, Fool. See if you can’t amuse us some more without giving offence. A good guffaw clears out the putrescence that has befouled the lungs.”

  “In my limited experience, sire, the best jokes always give offence – to someone.”

  “Well then, offend away,” said Zoah amiably. “Just make us laugh. Make us howl with glee. Split our royal sides. I promise by the stars of the galaxy your head will stay in place.”

  “Very well. Five hundred of Skorpeo’s finest had been involved in military exercises in the jungle near the Mountain of Yellow Sorrows,” said the Fool, his words spitting like bullets.

  “Not so fast,” cautioned the Emperor. “Jokes shouldn’t be rushed.”

  “Yes, sire,” said the Fool, giving a mock tug of his forelock. “So the Skorpean soldiers had been doing military exercises in the jungles of –”

  “Yes, yes, yes, we know that – get on with the joke before we slump into narcolepsy.”

  “When the officer in charge said, ‘Men, you have trained hard and long and we are conscious of the fact that base camp is many leagues from the Gardens of Fleschimor, so we have seen fit to reward you with some horizontal refreshment. Over beyond the Mountain of Yellow Sorrows there are five hundred of the freshest nannybats waiting for you. Once they may have seemed ugly, but having spent six months in the jungle they will seem beautiful. They’re young, clean, and eager to please. At my signal, I want you to proceed in an orderly fashion, choose your nannybat, and enjoy her as you would your just desserts. As there are five hundred of you, the finest soldiers in all of Skorpeo, and five hundred nannybats, there is no need to rush.’ And with that, the officer blew a whistle. The Skorpean soldiers broke into a mad rush.

  “ ‘Just a minute,’ said a soldier by the name of Teleporteus to a soldier by the name of Slogtar. ‘If there’s five hundred of us soldiers and five hundred nannybats, why are we in such a rush?’ Slogtar looked at Teleporteus as though he were mad. ‘Because,’ said Slogtar, ‘you don’t want to get an ugly one!’ ”

  Teleporteus keened up daggers at the Fool, and muttered, “Fool, you’ve just signed your death sentence!”

  Zoah slapped his thigh so hard that several effigies of his divine self fell off their plinths, and he opened his bearded jaw and let loose a roar of mirth like the thunder of a spaceship blasting off from the poxy surface of Ganymede. He shook, he trembled, and two more thunderclaps split open windows like shrapnelised sugar-glass as he smote his thighs with his mighty hands. His rheumy eyes watered and he seemed in danger of choking on his own tongue.

  “Stop… stop. Fool, you have exceeded yourself – Zoah will remember this day. You have made us laugh more than anyone has in the last hundred years. I hereby promote you to Chief Fool on double pay, and as a bonus you can connubialise with as many nannybats as you desire!”

  And with that the emperor went into further paroxysms of laughter that threatened to weaken the pillars of his magnificent palace.

  Rhameo had still failed to appear an hour later, so Teleporteus reluctantly accepted the challenge to find his older brother. Malice reigned in his heart for he had no wish for Zoah’s favourite son to return on time for his imminent marriage – far better if his brother embarrassed the planet and was left to wallow in disgrace. Then he, the great but under-appreciated Teleporteus, might be offered the chance to wed Gloggwetafug and thus enjoin the Volgogthian empire to that of Skorpeo, thereby ushering in an era of new power. But still, he had no wish to fail at this task and face his father’s wrath… With any luck he would find Rhameo, but he would be dead.

  “Where do you think Rhameo will be?” he muttered to himself as he strapped weapons to his belt. “Hunting, no doubt, for he is devoted to his silly orange arrows… But where? Perhaps the fleshpots of Throsto? Perhaps not – I’d wager he was looking for something more exotic. The idiot doesn’t know how lucky he is. I would marry a dozen Gloggwetafugs to stand in my brother’s favoured place.” He stopped, and clicked his fingers. “I have an idea where he might be.”

  Of course you have, you silly fellow, mused Lord Maledor. I just inserted the thought into that low-grade pound of meat you call a brain.

  He watched with interest as Teleporteus flashed out of existence, then reappeared on the world of Erath with its tigon-infested emeraldry.

  As he made his way through the steaming jungle, Teleporteus was glad he was clad in little more than a utility belt and a scanty pair of adventure briefs for within half an hour he was sweaty, muddy, and slick with the sap of plants. Soon he found himself on the edge of a clearing that contained a crude structure made from sticks and palm fronds. He sneaked forward and peered through a window, and beheld a strange sight – a naked, amply breasted woman with what looked like a phallus between her legs was about to connubialise with a prostrate purple woman. The amethyst-skinned woman was fighting with impressive vigour,
and even as he watched she broke the nose of one of those who tried to hold her down. Dozens more golden-skinned women sat at tables, watching and cheering, while a number of their friends stood at a central table, ready to tear open the flesh of a brown-skinned man.

  Realising in a flash that the potential devouree was his brother, Teleporteus fired off a laser flare, blinding everyone directly under its retina-stunning cone. Ten seconds later, he reached the altar on which Rhameo was sprawled, and after another five he had freed him. Juraletta, who fortunately had her eyes closed at the instant of the laser’s flash, quickly realised that the man was engaged on a rescue mission, and was shocked to see that the brown-sauced man was Rhameo – her flying, green-skinned prince!

  “Brother, I owe you,” Rhameo managed to croak as he stretched his unfettered limbs.

  “Save your breath, sibling,” said Teleporteus, “or you’ll be late for the wedding, and then you would know the Wrath of Zoah!”

  “You never told me you were getting married!” said Juraletta. It seemed natural for her to say this, even though – she realised as soon as the words escaped her lips – she had no business implying any right of possession.

  “You didn’t ask, Princess,” Rhameo replied. “I have to confess I’m not looking forward to it.”

  “Neither am I,” said Juraletta. She was thinking of her nuptials to the Fissionable Duke, but realised that the green prince had interpreted her words to mean that she was not looking forward to his marriage.

  “No time for idle words now, Brother,” said Teleporteus. “See! The nude ones recover from their blindness!”

  Several of the Amazons threw themselves at Rhameo. With little apparent effort, he picked them up two at a time, swung them about his head at high speed, and sent them whirling. Soon the air was filled with airborne, golden Amazons, their breasts wobbling in flight like cherry-tipped apricot jellies.

  “Come,” yelled Teleporteus. “Let’s flee this terrible place!”