by Andy Remic
There was an excited buzz around Tennyson Hall. Males and females from every primary species wore their finest outfits, their most glittering of jewels, their greatest displays of wealth and culture and sophistication. Tall flutes of janga juice were sipped from jewelled kalka rat skulls, and most sophisticates gathered, nibbling on dog-da balls, whilst chatting politely (the consequence of a prescribed seating plan). The hall was alive with wonder, and as the lights suddenly dimmed, so the ruckus receded to a white noise of hushed expectation.
By the edge of the stage, visible to anybody willing to look, fluttered a small black PopBot. This was Zoot. Zoot was Svool’s PR bot, agent, manager, bodyguard and, dare he say it with a digital blush, friend. Zoot made sure good things happened to Svool. All. The. Time.
And Zoot made sure jealous lesser poets didn’t hack off his master’s head with a blunt axe.
Zoot’s deep, resonant voice spoke:
“And lo! To humanity was born the greatest writer of not just This Age, but of Every Age. From the delicate position of just one year old he wielded a pen like a sword, wrote his first novel at the age of four, won his first global prize aged six, and the Manna Galactic Trophy for Contributions to Galactic Literature aged only thirteen. No human, no gahunga, no falfa, no bozra has contributed more to the realms of literature than Svoolzard Koolimax XXIV.” Zoot’s voice had to pause as a roar went up, and every person in the room stood, some knocking over their glugging stools, and clapped with a thunderous round of applause - enough to raise the ceiling, in fact. “I now bring you, the Man Himself!”
Onto the stage strode Svoolzard Koolimax XXIV.
Everybody cheered and waved!
The skilfully manipulated lights picked out Svool’s best features. His proud, strong, utterly handsome face. His long, golden, curled hair which bobbed all the way to his shoulders. His hands were manicured, nails painted in delicate rainbows of colour. His lips were glossy, his eyes lined with black. He looked at the same time powerful, and brooding, and sexy; he oozed charisma more than a ten-week-septic wound oozes pus. He wore an incredible glass and diamond suit that left nothing and everything to the imagination. It tinkled softly as he walked, like shell windchimes in a cool Japachinese garden by the ocean. Yes, the glass in the suit showed off his muscular ass, but this was counter-acted by the diamond shards, which diffracted light and made the sensuous bunching of muscles alluring rather than crass. Yes, the glass in the suit showed off his hairy masculine chest, whereas the diamond shards somehow softened the effect and showed that Svool had a delicate, feminine side open to conversation, and empathy, and understanding, and discussion rather than sheer testosterone-fuelled animal fucking. And yes, the glass laid on display for all to see Svool’s hefty, well-used, but always-up-for-the-job cock, subtly diffracted by the shards to give it a more subtle and charming appearance. Or that’s what the suit’s manufacturers said on the tin.
Svool strode forward, waving his hands in mock humility whilst at the same time nodding in knowing approval at the recognition of the greatness of his genius. His dark brooding eyes surveyed the best of the best arraigned before him, paying worship and accolade to, hell, him, the best of the best, the elite of the elite. The God of Literature, no less.
“Behold,” came the deep voice once again, “Svoolzard Koolimax XXIV, Third Earl of Apobos, poet, swashbuckler” - Svool placed a hand on the hilt of his dazzling jewelled sword, grinning at this introduction - “and bon viveur, here for your delectation and appreciation as Guest of Honour on this wonderful Masters Cruise to end all cruises. In the future, ladies and gentlemen, people will look back at this moment in history and weep that they were not here present. Svoolzard is, as I am sure you are aware, a legend in the hallowed halls of poetic creation, in the art of verse and alliteration, in the dazzling creation of metaphor and pun; in terms of creating ‘the novel,’ he has been cited as main hero and inspiration for their own works by all thousand New York Times-bestselling authors across the entirety of the Manna Galaxy Bubble! If that isn’t enough, Steven Speilberger, himself a galaxy-wide phenomenon and director of the unparalleled movie franchise Space Hero With A Gun has expressed an interest in making a movie of Svoolzard’s life story so far - and is in the process of commissioning scripts from the finest script writers from across Manna (including Svool himself, of course, a-ha-haha). I give you: sexual athlete, comedy chef, genius extraordinaire, Svoolzard Koolimax XXIV!”
Tennyson Hall erupted in cheers and clapping, and Svool, one hand still draped casually over his jewelled sword, flapped his other hand as if holding a lace kerchief, and smiled, and winked, and bowed, and the noise rose and rose, bouncing and echoing around the massive hall as the gathered literati showed their massive appreciation.
Svool allowed the noise to continue, then gradually subside; after all, he had an ego to massage. Then he gave a little cough, and took a few steps forward in his black high-heeled glitter boots, which clacked on the ruby-marble stage.
“Hello, darlings,” he crooned, and there came whistles from many voluptuous ladies at the back, and several voluptuous gentlemen at the front. “As you are aware, I have written the paper On Literature, which is to be the, shall we say, main event for the evening - as long as you don’t factor in the awards ceremony, a-ha-ha.” The audience laughed along with him, mesmerised by his genius and charm.
“But first, I would like to begin with a piece of poetry I composed this very morn’.”
Svool coughed. He made a great show of waving his hands and settling himself into comfortable posture, ready for dramatic recital. He coughed again, a double cough with an over-the-top theatrical clearing of mucus. Then he fluttered eyelashes, which sparkled with diamond dust under cleverly placed spotlights; and in lilting voice dripping gilt, began to croon:
“Barefoot, she strolls through petals green,
And though I look, no doubt it seems
My eyes do stray to her
Bosom,
And petall’d bottom cheeks.
“However, I confess. Though clit
Did poke and peep
Betwixt lacy thong and
Sweating thigh,
She caught my eye,
And I did sigh,
And ‘magined what a
Night would pass if only my
Face
Was buried in her
Ass.”
The roar echoed around Tennyson Hall, a violent standing ovation filled with cheers and grunts and the clapping of trotters - as Svoolzard beamed around like a village idiot, and the noise masked the first of the sounds of shell impact.
Boom.
Boom boom.
Then came an unmistakable, and terrifying, deafening, rending tearing of twisted wrenching steel. More screams followed - this time, suddenly, of people - and there was a whoosh of superheated air pumped into Tennyson Hall with such violence that Svoolzard and half the audience were picked up and tossed like socks of wet mud across the stage, where they hit the wall in quick succession with a rat-a-tat-tat of breaking bones, like machine-gun fire. Svoolzard connected with a krump, folded, and on his way down hit a table and stools, breaking them into glass splinters with his body weight.
“What the fu -”
There came a crashing, smashing, thumping sound, and the world tipped suddenly upside down as gravity generators died. The lights went out, and in the darkness, surrounded by unconscious bodies, Svoolzard lay trembling, his burst lips leaking blood into his fear-dry mouth. Then he was thrown again, and in the chaos was struck many times by tumbling bodies. He screamed, screamed like a girl, and then back-up generators kicked in and sirens screamed as emergency injecto-units buzzed and hissed. The room was slammed full of expanding foam as The Literati lurched into emergency mode.
Externally, the great donut was spinning. Flames gushed silently to starboard as The Literati spun, propelled by the missile strike which had taken out its bulbous belly. And as the ship rolled like a harpooned whale, a dark ship
could be seen beyond; long, and narrow, and sleek, the black of a collapsed star, no lights, no signs of life. And even as The Literati did one more belly roll, the dark ship lowered more missiles, which flared suddenly, fire scorching the ship’s flanks as they ejected across the arched vaults of space... hitting The Literati again, and again, and again.
The dying, rolling Titan-Class Culture Cruiser, trailing kilometre-high walls of fire, dropped, and staggered, and dropped again until it was caught by the massive green planet’s gravitational pull. The Literati was tugged closer, and with more engines failing, more power lost, the fight was suddenly lost and in a trail of fire and fumes and unburnt solar fuel, The Literati plummeted towards the unfolding green abyss of Amaranth far far below...
~ * ~
A TINY OLD man sat on a beach of crushed green bottles, cross-legged, chin on his steepled fingers. The ocean lapped at his feet. His eyes were darker than a pit full of serial killing souls, and he wore nothing but rags, rags stitched together from rags, a myriad of filthy merging colours and patterns, as if his entire wardrobe had been stitched from the tattered remnants of a shredded rat nest.
Above, the sky was dark. Stars glittered, reflected in the surging, rolling ocean. A moon hung in the sky, tinged green across part of its circumference.
Then there came a flash, bright fire flaring like some distant orange and blue firework burst. The flare died, but something was gleaming, moving fast, and falling...
The old man watched, eyes stoic, and shifted a little to the sounds of grinding, crunching glass. That his legs were not spaghetti strings of meat was a miracle. He fixed on the falling object, noting tiny bursts of flame as ancillary jets tried to correct its erratic descent. Parts of the ship glowed, and the old man narrowed his eyes as he realised the donut-shaped ship was, in fact, completely missing a huge section.
More flames burst free of the arcing ship, leaving bright patterns in the sky.
A distant, beautiful whining sang across the black oil ocean like the lovesong of a Siren.
And with an almighty CRASH, the old man watched the ship disappear into the midst of a rearing volcanic archipelago. A mushroom of fire and smoke erupted from among the rearing black mountains, and booms sang across the ocean, bouncing between walls of rock, singing back and forwards like the mating calls of a school of crazed whales.
The old man sat, watching, enjoying the breeze coming in off the ocean which, at length, brought with it a stench of fire. Gradually the flames died down and the night returned to some form of serenity.
He watched the thick, rising column of smoke, one edge spookily green from the reflected light of the Toxic World’s distant, drifting sun.
~ * ~
SVOOLZARD GROANED AND did a slow, treacle-filled internal diagnostic check. Everything hurt. Shit. Everything hurt bad. And for Svool, the worst thing about pain was that it usually happened to somebody else.
What happened? What hit me?
The last time he’d felt so rough was when he’d been bottled in a bar for being The Most Sexy Man Who’d Ever Lived. The jealousy of others was a constant in Svool’s life, and he begrudgingly supposed he couldn’t blame them. You know. Them. Commoners. Normal people. Scrotes. Peasants.
After all, Svool was so damned perfect.
Barefoot, she strolls through petals green,
And though I look...
Shit. Was the party that good?
He coughed, and spat out a lump of foam. Then he opened his eyes and everything was black, and he panicked, and questing fingers pushed into his own mouth as he scooped out more blobs of crash foam, and choked, and coughed and spat, and then reached up and scraped wads of sticky shit from his eyes. It trailed like gooey toffee in long umbilicals, and light flooded in.
Starlight, against a pink green horizon.
It was dawn...
Svool was lying on his belly, and his feet were wet.
How odd? Is it Champagne? Vajinga Juice? Or just the sexual effluvia from a hundred thankfully satiated women?
Svool rolled to his side, groaned, and pushed himself upright, groggy, coughing up more foam and phlegm, all mixed in with lumps of vomit and drug-slag.
“Oh, man,” he groaned. He held his head in his hands, and then realised the entire world was filled with a weird hissing silence; a background of white noise that was far from normal. “That was some fucking party!” His own words sounded funny, incredibly distant, muffled, and he realised his ears were also full of foam.
Foam?
He dug a finger into each orifice and did his best to pull out the sticky gunk.
Foam?
The sound of ocean came to him, hissing and surging against a black rock beach. And redoubled pain hit Svool, pain in every limb and joint and bone and organ. He opened his mouth in silent shock as waves of pain rushed over him, pummelling him with fists of battering iron.
“Ow,” he managed, finally, and huddled into a crouch, coughing and choking, eyes streaming, ears throbbing, and fighting for a moment with the awkwardness of his sword in its scabbard.
He could see the sea, a dark ocean, and across its rolling expanse, other islands rearing from the inky glass waves. He frowned, brow creasing under curled golden locks.
What’s this? Some VR simulation room in the back of a sexy lady’s boudoir? Some game instigated by remote electron wires inserted directly into my skull? He reached down, fingers touching brine-slick rock. After all, it feels like I’m here. Smells like the ocean. The breeze is fresh on the flesh of my cheeks... I could write a poem about this experience, write a poem which I can deliver during my...
He blinked.
Crash foam. His brain did a quick rewind. He remembered alarms. And being thrown across the Culture Cruiser’s interior like a sack of useless shit.
“Oh.” He blinked. “Oh, no.”
Svoolzard scrambled to his feet, wincing as broken shards from his glass and diamond suit cut into him. “Ouch. Ouch. Oh, you little bastards!” A fresh ocean breeze wafted past, hot with salt and stinging his eyes, and he stared across the vastness of the ocean platter sitting before him.
Dawn broke, green tendrils pouring across the sky. The horizon cracked open like a rotten egg.
“Where am I?” murmured Svoolzard.
“On Toxicity,” came a voice from behind him, a voice he knew well, filled with familiarity and attachment; it was a voice he loved and adored, and which he knew loved him. A grin cracked his face in two, showing perfect white teeth. Svool turned, and beamed down.
“Lumar! Am I glad to see you!”
“Hmm,” she said, glinting green eyes fixed on him. The sun rose behind her, making her reptilian skin glow in a most incredibly beautiful fashion. The effect was not lost on Svoolzard, who was, it had to be said, a walking erection.
“Oh, yes!” he prattled, almost forgetting his pain and discomfort, and the fact that their starship had just crashed. “I was lying here on the rocks, pin-pricked by this damn cracked glass suit - which was not my choice, I think you’ll both agree and understand - and wondering just how the hell I’d been party-shelled to such an extent that I no longer remembered the drugs and the girls and, of course, your fine vagina, dear Lumar” - he chuckled, and climbed down a few jagged black rocks towards her - “and I was starting to realise that we’d crashed, and of course, the real problem with that sort of thing is not having, y’know, your loyal and faithful staff around to take up the slack, to do the shit, you know, to perform those all-important little things that make life so worthwhile.” He stopped, and started panting a little. The sun was rising fast, and the heat climbing, especially when magnified through a glass and diamond three-piece suit.
Smiling, he held out his hand to Lumar, palm down, fingers quivering.
She looked down at the long, tapered fingers, the nails painted with magnificent scenes. Not so long ago, Lumar had sucked those fingers and made murmuring sounds of pleasure. Now, she stared at them, and then, very slowly, lifted her gre
en lizard eyes to stare unblinking at Svoolzard.
“Yes?” she said, voice made modestly sibilant by her forked tongue.
“You may kiss the hand of your master,” he said regally, lifting his chin a little and, for the first time, noticing the jungle beyond. It twittered and warbled, now the sun was up, and steam was rising from dense foliage. But there was something not quite right with the vision across the green rocky beach.
“Really?” She raised an eyebrow, stepped in close, and delivered a beautifully well-balanced right hook that rattled loose three teeth and dropped Svool to his rump as if poleaxed.
“Gnk,” said Svool, as Lumar loomed over him.
“That is for being a cunt!” she snarled, and Svoolzard recoiled from the pure animal hatred in her eyes, in her face, in her spittle, and then he watched her whirl about and head off across the green pebbles, which crunched in a strangely musical way.
Svool sat, rubbing his jaw, a billion stars of confusion fluttering like escaped butterflies in his mind. What? Why? Where? Who? What? I... I just don’t understand. And truly, he did not.