“Free?” prompted the giant.
“– are the product of open discussion.”
“So this is to be a democracy of witches,” said the dwarf, eyebrows dancing overtime.
“I am no witch,” Juraletta responded. “I am a princess of the royal blood, heir to the Empire of Qwerty. Please remember that, and kindly keep your eyebrows in check!”
“Very well,” said the dwarf languidly. “Let us quit this appetising locale and head for more ascetic pastures.”
“Do we need to walk?” asked the giant. “You’re magical aren’t you, unicorn? Why don’t you spell us all the way to the Galactic Sperm Bank?”
“Spells only work approximately,” the unicorn replied. “They’re not a precision instrument. I can spell us up a Galactic Sperm Bank, but it may not be the one you have in mind. A spell sometimes works on a metaphoric or loosely associative level. In fact spells, like thoughts, can wind you up anywhere in the universe.”
“The universe is a large place,” said the dwarf.
“Indeed,” said the unicorn. “We might wind up in the Fornax System.”
“That’s a chance we have to take,“ said Juraletta. “The future of Qwerty is at stake.”
The unicorn neighed quietly.
“Spells are a lot quicker than quests,” said Gorgon as they began to fade.
“But a hell of a lot less fun,” said the giant as they vanished.
“My Queen,” said Astroburger, “I will volunteer to satisfy this… ah… oily thing known as the Octopus.”
Queen Beia, now back to her superior self, looked at him suspiciously. “How noble of you, Astroburger,” she murmured silkily. “What’s your game? What do you hope to gain from such self-sacrifice?”
“Promotion,” said Astroburger.
“What sort of promotion?” asked the queen. “You are already the high priest of cosmic catastrophe.”
“I wish to become your consort. Your king.”
Queen Beia laughed. “I have no need for your sacrifice, and neither do I have any need for a king. And if I did crave a monarch I wouldn’t pick a miserable specimen like you. You don’t attract me in the least.”
“You sang a different tune in the asteroid’s womb.”
“I was in an aberrated state and you took advantage of me. One bat of these royal eyelashes and you will be stung to death, slowly and exquisitely, your pleas for a merciful release achieving no purchase within my sternly shuttered eardrums.”
“You’re not quite the cruel tyrant you appear to be. A warm heart beats beneath that façade of steel.”
“Have you ever seen a body swollen with bee venom and their face so contorted by a hideous rictus it is no longer recognisable as human?”
“Not recently,” said Astroburger with a tight smile.
“I could have you stung to death, just remember that, cosmic doomster. I tolerate your soothsaying, but tolerance has its limits. What was I saying… ? I, for one, do not fear the slimy one. Let it try to satisfy Queen Beia, if it dares!”
This sentiment was of no consolation to Rhameo who looked on, cringing. Unlike the intrepid Astroburger or the defiant Queen Beia, he had no inclination to grapple with the Octopus. He reflected bitterly how his life had been turned on its head. Only a few days ago his country had been at peace, he had been free, and he had chanced upon a beautiful maiden who was probably, even now, enjoying her marriage to a man so dashing that they had seen fit to call him the Fashionable Duke. Rhameo repressed unmanly tears and waited for the Octopus to summon him to his mucilaginous doom.
At last!
Lord Maledor allowed himself a silent slice of satisfaction. Naked and trembling with eagerness, he stood beside the vat of the Octopus. Large clouds of mist shrouded the sensuous molluscan form, leaving only an impression of massive oily tentacles and a huge undulant body, a-smoke with a powerfully musky smell. As the mists cleared, he glimpsed a towering wall of jelly-like muscle, without a face – how perfect! The Octopus had no eyes, so he / she experienced its sensations through feeling alone. What purity of lust!
Lord Maledor saw other beings in the vat. A green-skinned young man around whose shoulders a tentacle was slithering; a small, bright blue life form with illuminated pointy extremities that was already being orificially rummaged (and apparently enjoying itself), and one – no, two – naked Jezebels writhing in nude ecstasy as their limbs were caressed by the shining Octopoidal coils. So he, Lord Maledor, the most evil and powerful mind in the galaxy, was to share the Octopoidal embrace? Unspeakable! Just who or what did the Octopus think it was?
Now who was that emerging through the mist? Could it be… ? It was Queen Beia, Queen of Reflections, and her silly soothsayer of cosmic doom, Astroburger. Doubly unspeakable! He, Lord Maledor, could not possibly be expected to share the Octopoidal ecstasy with his very own Replicoids.
It might be time to call a halt to this humiliation and return to work.
No matter, thought Lord Maledor, I’m out of this bubble bath.
But even as he made for the slit-shaped door, a long and greasy tentacle wrapped itself around his midriff.
Rhameo was revolted by the smell and the debauched couplings at his elbow, but the veteran hunter kept his cool. Even though the situation looked bad – worse perhaps than when the eight-hundred-pound tiger had charged him in the emerald wilderness of Erath – Rhameo tried to plan his next move. Concealed under the arch of his foot was an auxiliary vomit pistol. Tiny and innocuous looking, it carried a charge as strong as its bulkier cousin, though its fission battery pack was, of course, only able to deliver a small number of shots. Though the normal slot for a vomit pistol’s emetic effect was the mouth, it should, in theory, have some efficacy when fired into any orifice. If the Octopus tried to intromit him into its loathsome, pulsating body, Rhameo might be able to incapacitate the mollusc long enough to escape.
As the super-Sargassean tentacle drew him closer to its slavering organ of pleasure, Rhameo held the weapon in readiness. Just as the orifice opened, he squeezed the trigger.
Nothing happened.
The tentacle slipped him head first into the opening, and he was instantly overcome with the stench of the amorously lubricated cavity. Rhameo stifled the urge to scream when suddenly, shockingly, he was drenched in a wave of reeking fluid and forcibly squirted into the air by the geyser of foul liquid. As he shot backwards, he saw that all of the Octopus’s many orifi had disgorged simultaneously, fountaining forth a technicoloured yawn of pullulating life forms. The blue entity somersaulted, glowing brilliantly as it spun, while the naked Jezebels and a tall, lean fellow dressed in black left greasy trails through the air. The man in black actually appeared to be smiling as he flew.
Lord Maledor orgasmed. Oh wise Octopus – he / she had saved the best wine until last! The foulness of the concoction had pushed the almost intolerable delight of Lord Maledor’s sensations to the point of climactic no return. He could die happy now… fulfilled by the Octopus!
In the darkness, he heard a voice…
“You are a failure!”
Naked, covered in Octopoidal vomit, Rhameo was still instantly recognisable to Juraletta.
“Darling!” she cried.
The exclamation set a seal between them. All thoughts of a Galactic Sperm Bank now forgotten, she embraced him. Like escaping butterflies, their lips brushed… all around them was chaos.
“What are you doing here?” Rhameo asked.
“An accident – the unicorn’s magic must have gone horribly wrong. Where are we?”
“In the lair of the Octopus, in the far reaches of the Sargasso,” Rhameo said. He looked around the room, taking in the giant, the dwarf, the gorgon, and the unicorn, who all stood in shock as they watched the Octopus writhe in its pit. “Those are your companions? Then we must flee while we can.”
As the Octopus’s arms thrashed in violent spasm, an elite corps of Punkoids rushed in to see what the disturbance was; a quartet of Jezebels surrounded
the startled Lord Maledor, apparently under the impression that he had caused their master / mistress to disgorge.
“You’ve got the wrong entity,” screamed Lord Maledor, “I was enjoying myself! There’s your culprit – that green-skinned lout! Go punish him with your heaving breasts!”
As the confused Jezebels turned to Rhameo, Queen Beia peered at Lord Maledor in disbelief. “Don’t I know you from somewhere?”
“Simulacra, you dopey bint.”
“So what are you doing here, in far-flung Sargasso?”
Astroburger tugged at Queen Beia’s elbow. “My queen, let us be gone from this cauldron of alien couplings.”
Hundreds of Punkoids now flooded into the Octopus’s den. Leading this demented mob was Teleporteus, who snarled as he took in the scene.
“Seize them all,” he commanded.
Fifty Punkoids headed for the giant, who began hurling them one by one into the vat until the sheer weight of numbers bore him down. Gorgon succeeded in freezing some of the weaker specimens into the ugliest statues in the galaxy, but one of the bolder Punkoids leapt at her from behind and clapped his filthy hands over her eyes while others held her fast.
“Blindfold that ossifying bitch!” ordered Teleporteus.
Gorgon was quickly bound and blindfolded, while the unicorn (who looked decidedly spent after casting the spell to bring the party there) kicked out, yet even at his fiercest he had only four hooves. The dwarf attempted to cast some of his best spells, though none worked. Being a dwarf, he swore lustily by a cold sprinkle of uninhabitable minor moons.
Though Astroburger accepted his capture with sullen resignation, Queen Beia held her back with strident and oddly flirtatious pride – a posture which accentuated the curvaceousness of her breasts and her long legs, carefully angled at the hip.
To her chagrin, Teleporteus ignored her – his evil focus directed at Rhameo and his evident princess, the mauve-skinned virgin.
“So, Brother – you have proved difficult. Unappreciative, in fact. And I thought you and the Octopus were a fine match.”
“Don’t be obscene,” Rhameo spat, standing proudly and refusing to struggle against the Punkoids that held him.
“Obscene? Believe me, the most obscene thing I have seen is you, a lily-white saint, standing as Zoah’s heir when the throne of Skorpeo is rightfully mine – and will be mine, within hours. I notice you have your new friend with you… Strip the enpurpled bitch! Ah, four breasts, I see. Well, to each his taste. Take them away! And that brazen one – take her to my chamber. She might prove amusing.”
As Queen Beia was escorted away, Astroburger wondered what had become of Lord Maledor – for he was nowhere to be seen.
I AM GODSTAR.
NONE IN THE HEAVENS SHINES AS BRIGHT AS ME.
I AM GODSTAR.
THOU SHALT NOT HAVE FALSE HEAVENLY BODIES BEFORE ME.
“Oh, for God’s sake, shut up,” muttered Lostifar, Supreme Lord of Evil. Pompous old fool – thinks he made the universe. Delusions of cosmic grandeur!
“The universe made itself, and in all probability you and I have equal status. So give me no commandments, for if you do, I shall not obey them!”
Lostifar paused for Godstar’s reply, but that all-powerful entity was silent. It really was most infuriating – how could you have a good fight when your opponent was silent? It was frustrating, and seriously boring. He turned to the black-clad figure floating before him.
“So,” Lostifar said, addressing Lord Maledor from his Stygian sphere, “you are proving to be a failure as an evil schemer, aren’t you?”
“Who are you, and what do you want?” demanded Lord Maledor.
“Lostifar is my appellation,” said the dark one. “And I am your overling.”
“The… ah… opposite of an underling?”
“Of course. You may have noticed that you can’t see me – that is because I am the Prince of Darkness. You gave your soul to me long ago, and while we had no formal agreement, nothing written in blood, I can say with confidence that you have always been in my camp. You showed promise as an evil manipulator, a scheming conniver, and plotter of galactic mayhem. Failed promise. You’ve let yourself and me down – badly. Here you are enjoying yourself with a bloated cephalopod when you should be out doing my work. I extracted you from that situation so that I could give you a good talking to!
“I have no time for slackers. You’re either with me or against me. I do not tolerate neutrals, misguided messiahs, corrupt Christians who serve two masters, moral greyness, nor the ambitiously evil – who fail, as you have failed. In fact, Maledor, I would say the only career left for you is in petty goodness. You might, for instance, consider running an op shop and organising charities for terrestrial old ladies and the disabled. That, frankly, would be about your level, based on your recent pathetic attempts to be evil.
“Look at what’s transpired here – we now have Rhameo and Juraletta together, naked and in love. Did you see the way she did not flinch from his vomit-kissed lips? That was love, all right. Disgusting, isn’t it? Admittedly, they are being held prisoner by a young man of maleficent promise, so perhaps some evil will come of your continuing bumbling. Have you by any chance heard the phrase, ‘Love conquers all’? No, I didn’t think so. That’s the trouble with you scientists – no knowledge of the inhumanities. Yes, ‘Love conquers all’… It lights a small flicker in the pure blackness of evil. Even to repeat the vile phrase is disturbing. And that is what’s going to happen here – love will conquer all. Ugh! All the result of your pathetic attempts to perpetrate evil.
“A little bite of a time tortoise might teach you a lesson. Yes, we have some genuine ones here, not like that fake you palmed off onto the Queen of Reflections. In fact, I may make her my emissary in that sector. Queen Beia is making a better fist of doing evil than you, given the limited scope of her resources.”
“She is my creation, great Lostifar. Whatever evil she perpetrates is my doing.”
“And whose do you think you are? I don’t know whether you realise the scale of my operation. I have a whole universe to deprave and corrupt – not just this galaxy. You’re no better than a second-rate rascal, a rapscallion of small account. You may as well skulk around the Victorian stage to be hissed at, twirling your fake moustache as you plot to tie the heroine to a train line when the midnight express comes thundering through! Pathetic! I want evil, real evil – first class, unbridled, lacking in any iota of goodness.”
“I’m sorry! I have these attacks of –”
“Goodness?” Lostifar spat the word as though it were a nugget of vomit that had become lodged in his teeth. “Yes, yes, yes, yes – I know about those. I even sent a few of those ‘attacks’ your way to test your character. Needless to say, you failed miserably.”
“Give me another chance,” pleaded Lord Maledor. He hated the cringe he could hear in his own voice. How could he be so craven – he, the mighty maker of Replicoids?
“Hah!” sneered Lostifar. “Not so easily done, I’m afraid. There is another candidate for arch-manipulation in your sector, you know. I think – yes, that’s it – a little duel between you and the Dark Magician might be the best way to settle things. Winner to have evil dominion over the galaxy. And the loser? Well, I haven’t quite decided. Possibly he will be doomed to a life of miserable goodness.”
“Who is my rival, this Dark Magician?” asked Lord Maledor.
“That you will have to discover,” Lostifar declared with a demonic chuckle. “I wish you the very best of bad luck.”
Lord Maledor found himself on the plains of an unknown world. One of his realities? Apparently not. The fact that half the sky was green, a quarter was purple, and the remainder a stipple of pink dots, signalled that he was on Random.
Random! – planet of insanity!
No laws of logic connected cause and effect. On the horizon, itself an irregular scurry of wavy lines, a black whirling shape appeared. Like a swiftly spinning tornado, it moved clos
er, closer. Lord Maledor decided to stand his ground until his adversary showed himself.
Abruptly, he was surrounded by two dozen figures all dressed in a riot of different styles and cultures. A tall, dandified man weighed down with jewels and ruffles who might have been from the seventeenth century of Erath, or equally from the ringed worlds of Saturnalia; beings made of crystal humming soft musical notes; beings as ugly and half-formed as the Punkoids of Sargasso; various hermaphrodites, twin sexual organs visible through transparent panes of clothing; two- or even three-headed beings, their additional heads growing from armpits, or out of knee joints…
Lord Maledor was amused, though not fooled. These apparitions were all manifestations of his adversary who might be any of the figures dancing in the desert sands.
“Am I supposed to be impressed?” Lord Maledor said, annoyed with himself for breaching the silence which befitted duels of the mind.
With one flick of his finger, he recreated an acre from the famed Gardens of Fleschimor replete with copulating tigers, lascivious shrill plants, osculating statues fingering each other’s stone genitals, and a panopoly of writhing, roaring beasts with two backs that would have gladdened the decadent heart of the Marquis de Sade.
The figures that had spun around him and those he had just created leapt at each other, and variously fought or copulated until blood and reproductive fluids flowed, as well as death fluids that caused ligaments to crack and skin to shrivel. With such beings, sex brought instantaneous death, so that when a Saturnalian crystalline life form made crazed love to an amorous tiger, the climax brought a rictus of lewd pain and concupiscent bliss as both shattered into an explosive scatter of light, caterwauling in delight as they enjoyed their last deathly orgasm, enjoining Eros and Thanatos.
Lord Maledor watched as the eerie orgy proceeded under the lurid seething patchwork skies of Random. Even as the figures writhed into painfully happy oblivion he noticed that a thunderhead of obscenely shaped clouds was gathering on the jagged, gravity-defying horizon. As the heavens aped the orgy on the ground below, a silent celestial opera was in progress – what was its libretto? Wagnerian masses of pitchy grey clouds loomed overhead, then a Berliozian roll of thunder, and lightning bolts struck the ground all around Lord Maledor. He willed the bolts into a luminous swordsman astride a winged steed, vigorously severing the murky arabesques.
Tropic of Skorpeo Page 14