by Kathy Bosman
destruction of the Asteroid Mall, and an opportunity for the Don to pick up enough sqwarbs to keep his litter pan fresh for a decade. Gill must have been in on it too, the ScumBass.
Spider Murphoid skittered side to side, arms outstretched and fingers twiddling eagerly. If I was going to get out of this alive I would have to act fast. I still wore my quadra-sleeved trench coat and the fedora with the antennae holes, but they’d stripped me of all my weapons, even the concealed switchblaster which I was surprised they’d found. Someone owed me dinner and a movie. Spider Murphoid loomed up on his rear legs and spit out his cigar. Arachnoids are fast, and Spider Murphoid was the fastest of the lot. I had one chance. I turned to run, and as he reached out, I spun, getting tight inside his long-limbed reach, and landed a haymaker right under his bristly chin.
And what a haymaker! If that haymaker really made hay, I would have made enough hay to host the next Dromedarian’s Thanksgorging day feast. By rights his head should have popped off and landed in the rafters. But Spider Murphoid didn’t get to where he was by having a glass jaw. Quick as a quark he pinned me with his six arms and looked down with a confused, why would you do that? kind of expression. He had each of my four arms held with his own and two free hands that he used to casually box me about my crusty face, stopping occasionally to flick my antennae. Once bored with that, he picked me up high over his head, my arms pinned to my sides, and slammed me across his knee. I felt my exoskeleton crack and I started to pass out from the shooting pain.
The suns were coming up as I left my lair and locked the door behind me. That’s when I noticed a smiling fish face staring at me from the reward poster stuck to my door. Gills Gormly, wanted for skipping out on a loan. Talks with a lateral lisp, one-hundred and fifty pounds and at least this big (there was a picture of a guy holding his arms outstretched). Don’t let this sucker get away. Forty-thousand Sqwarbs, not a bad bounty. The guy sure didn’t look dangerous enough to warrant that kind of dough, but it didn’t matter, I wasn’t wasting my time with loan sharks.
I walked to the newsstand to pick up a Galaxy Gazette and the wanted poster was on the front page. Somebeing wanted this guy bad. I paid for the paper and the guy behind the counter gave me a finful of change. “Shanks mishter, enjoy your newshpaper” he blubbered through his fishy lips. But wait a minute, something wasn’t right. That guppy short-changed me! I shot out a claw and grabbed him by the gill. “What’s the idea, main course?” I snarled into his scaly face. “You owe me some change.”
“Shorry shir, but I think you’re mishtaken,” he said, “perhapsh you’d like shome breath freshenersh for your shmelly breath”
That was about all I could take. I smashed the cash register open on the side of his face while he shielded himself with the front page of the Galaxy Gazette, and helped myself to my correct change, plus a little extra for my trouble. I felt like gutting him right there as he peered out from behind the paper, but I hadn’t had my morning coffee yet; my blood was still cold, leaving me feeling a little sluggish. I made a mental note to order extra slugs in my barkhouse blend.
A few blocks later I was at the coffee shop giving my order to the scaly barista.
“Ekshpresho ish on shpecial” he panted through broken teeth and bruised lips.
“Forget it. Barkhouse blend, extra slugs,” I spat back.
“Shertainly, shir” my barista said, one eye swelling shut and a trickle of blood dripping from his missing scales. “Thish one’sh on the houshe!” He held out the coffee and I noticed the same wanted poster on the side of the cup. “Don’t forget to tip your barishta-oopsh!” He tilted the cup and poured the coffee right onto the front of my trench coat. I yanked him across the counter and lined up for a skull-smashing punch. “Pleashe! Dont shtart hitting me,” he begged, “or you’ll notish that I’m the shame guy on the wanted poshtersh!” I punched him with the right upper.
“Ouch!”
I smacked him with the left lower claw.
“Shtop”
I pounded him on top of the head.
“Please—hey, you cured my lisp!”
I back-clawed him with the right upper claw.
“Ouch! Oh, itsh back again.”
“Shut your wormhole and take your pounding like a vertebrate” I snarled. I hated chatty victims.
“Shertainly shir”, he gurgled, “but it jusht hurtsh sho very musshch”.
“Stop carping, you!” I looked around for something to stuff into his mouth.
“Perhapsh thish will shilenshe my inssheshant shpeaking”. His trembling fin held up the wanted poster with Gills’ ugly mug staring at me.
And that’s when it hit me.
A seven pound purse full of eight pounds of grandminnow pictures and several bottles of Fin-Gay scale rub smashed into the side of my head, scrunching my fedora.
I turned to see a shriveled old Halibut with a blue wig clutching said purse. “You leave Gills alone,” she croaked. “He’s a nice boy”.
“Hello, Mishish Dorshalfinn.” Gills smiled at the old bag and turned to me. “Her shon Hershel and I were in shchool together”.
Mrs. Dorsalfinn hit me with the purse again. “Stop that! Gills here is wanted and has a high price on his head, so you play nice with him!”
Just then my bounty hunting instinct kicked in.
Also, my right foot kicked out, and with a clatter of hairpins and fuzzy slippers, Mrs. Dorsalfinn skittered across the floor and landed in a heap of blue hair and ugly grand-spawn photos. I studied the wanted poster while the battered barista looked up at me pleadingly.
“You’re coming with me, ez-cash.” I tied him up with Mrs. Dorsalfinn’s bathrobe belt and tossed him over my shoulder. “You’ve got a date with Don Corporealeone”.
He smiled through swelling lips. “Well at leasht the beating’sh over”.
“Good idea,” I agreed. “A good beating will make it look like you struggled more”.
I worked him over good while I sipped another coffee and made arrangements to go to new Crimea. Two galaxy patrol officers walked in and looked at me, and then at the crumpled mass of elderly surf’n’perfume over in the corner.
I’d just found my ride.
Spider Murphoid had me over his knee and was applying steady pressure on my carapace while two of his free hands knitted a doily. I could hear the cracks in my exoskeleton expanding and my head started ringing. I flailed helplessly, but couldn’t reach his bristly face. I wheezed out my last breath, using it to call him a Termite turd.
“What’s that ya say bug?” He leaned in closer, dousing me with a mosquito killingly potent blast of cigar and sweat sock breath.
I saw my only chance, and with true insectoid speed, snapped a claw up and plucked out one of his thick, bristly nose hairs.
“Yeeeaaahhhrrrggg!” He reared up, dropping me, letting go of his knitting, and clutching his nose as tears streamed from his multiple eyes. I rolled free, grabbed his knitting needles, and jammed them into his bulbous behind as he bent, doubled over, clutching his bright red proboscis.
“Waaahhh-ha-hooooooey!” He arched back clutching his rump and skittering to and fro on the canvas. I could practically see steam coming from his ears as he focused on me, teeth grinding. He stopped suddenly, grabbed at me with all six arms and tried to sweep me up, but I ducked and ran directly between his straddled legs, spun around and got a double clawfull of his stained undershorts. Up, up, I pulled, stretching those filthy, stinking drawers to the heavens above and ignoring the horrors that presented themselves with every inch of exposed undergarment. With a terrible wrenching sound and a high pitched squeal from Spider Murphoid, I managed to hook the greasy drawers over his stubbly head. He turned, ass awkwardly protruding and vision partially obscured, and glared at me through the fly in his polka-dot boxer shorts.
I wound up for the coup de grace, the finishing punch that would put my claw through the back of his head and into ultimate fighting history. I could already see the headline, Bounty-Hunting Bug Bas
hes Burly Boxer!
With every ounce of strength, I swung.
And landed…directly into his outstretched hand.
Fuming now, Spider Murphoid picked me up by my arm, grabbed my feet and started swinging me around the ring, smashing me into the ropes, the lights, and the spectators. He smashed me back and forth into the canvas, roaring, too furious to correct his atomic wedgie.
As he smashed me into the corner post, I wrapped two of my arms around and held on for dear life. He turned for another smash and grunted when he realized I was stuck fast.
Good, that would give me time to think. I clung to the post and chuckled, the big dope must have been tiring out because I didn’t even feel the strain on my arms. That’s when I realized I was swinging away from my dismembered limbs, which were still clinging heroically to the post.
Double frass. Now I’m out-armed six to two.
The room spun around me as my limp form swung out over the spectators. As they whizzed by, I noticed one of the Don’s guards caressing my tuba blaster and smiling to himself. On the next pass I made a desperate grab for the blaster, but only succeeded in tearing off his clip-on bow tie and one of his ears. On the next pass I managed to grab the tuba blaster and fumbled for the trigger. The centrifugal force was tearing the heavy weapon from my hands and I couldn’t turn to face Spider Murphoid. I accidentally squeezed of a shot and vaporized a row or two of