Thursday, December 23, 2010


From '96. How little things have changed…

Cheney n’ Osama: Born for Each Other?
It’s so obvious when you stop to think about it. Dick Cheney and Osama bin Laden have so much in common. They both live in secure, undisclosed locations. They might even be roommates, for all we know. Yeah, I can see Dick giving Osama a nice back-rub before his ritual bath of purification, wondering with secret, thrilling guilt, if things might go a little further.

Oh! Neither of them have balls. This is something they share, as well. Both send young men off to do their dirty work, and enjoy both the awful prospect and the deeds carried out by their towering vision. In Dick’s case, though, ballessness is an actual medical fact. Sadly, the son of Marjorie Cheney and Richard H. Cheney of Casper, Wyoming, never saw his testicles descend into his scrotum after his birth.

The doctor, Lawrence Stanley Denton, M.D. tried everything to ameliorate the situation. Eventually, he resorted to radical therapy; massive injections of bull semen taken from the family’s own prize stud, Fudd. The injections, painful as they were to young Dick, did not budge his gonads from his abdomen. Dick Sr. and Marji resorted to raising the child as a girl, and spent what little they had on frilly dresses, pretty shoes, and fancy underpants. This only made little Dick more difficult to deal with.

One day, Little Dick was playing Doctor with his older sister, Gretchen Mengele Cheney. She had an idea. It involved vise grips. The experience hurt quite a lot and he liked that very well, but his balls could not be located nor retrieved from his abominable cavity, no matter how hard Gretchen pushed, probed, yanked, and pushed and clenched and yanked again and again and yet again. Her intentions were in the right place, but there were no gonads to be found.

Meanwhile, the bull semen injections were having unintended effects. Little Dick’s head grew very large and soft, and his heart began to fail. The good Doctor was summoned again. He installed the battery from the derelict, rusting tractor half sunk down by the bog at the edge of the field into Dick’s chest. Today, that same old battery keeps Dick alive, but it has been consistently oozing noxious gases and gut-rotting acids, making Dick very cranky, and sometimes woozy when he is under stress. As long ago as 1955, his favorite teacher in Junior High, Miss Duffield, sent him home with a note telling his parents, “this kid needs a blow job. I’m not gonna do it, no matter how much he begs.”

Today, Dick is very scared by the world, but somehow comforted, wrapped and rapt in a pink tutu, living in his candlelit magical cave with Osama. He’s fancy free. Bombs are falling everywhere. Life is good.

The the phone rings. Osama is in the tub. Dick picks up. Who knows who might be calling? They might be evil doers, competitors for Osama’s affections. “That lanky fellow from the East has an effect on people. You never know!”

© Solomon

SciFi, Anyone?

Saurian LUX Disvovers Love @ Crime Scene (Undedited)

The cruiser hatch opens, and out tumbles the most perfectly lovely, strangely human-like face that Saurian has ever beheld. Her chestnut tresses, bobbed short in a military fashion, frame a very female essence. Her eyes are greatly wide and unblinking, each containing a set of four dilated pupils set in an iris of Sky-leaf mottled with honey. Her lips are beautiful, and her flesh is emerald in hue and lavishly perfumed.
The cruiser speeds away, followed by the others. The beautiful Synthroid reclines on her butt in mud and blood. But, she seems to Saurian like a pearl in an oyster. She is arrayed in brilliantly reflective threads splattered in the multicolored glare of street lights and bar signs. His mind has been utterly disorganized with panic and powerful, mind bending drugs. He’s forgotten all about Roo and tomorrow’s flight. He has just fallen in love with a girl who can see across the RF spectrum, is perfected for loving, and is a true empath. She instantly knows what is going on.
“Hello, my name is APES 2cB.” She reaches out her hand for a lift up from the mire. “You are?”
Saurian begins to stammer, “My name is Lux, uh, Saurian, my number is, um…” and his words peter out into stunned silence. He is not only in love, but deep in the third phase of E-g intoxication on top of an overample dose of DSIA. Through his chemically modified sensorium, her image is fluttering with change, like the blue heart of a flame. For a moment, from APES 2cB’s living skull emerges the contenance of Saurian’s dead mother, and then it disappears and again he sees the beautiful girl. On her lips, on her breath is the visage of another dim memory, or perhaps a fantasy. It is the image of a magically powerful scientist. The face withers from his vision and is again replaced by that of this young woman.
In the center of her forehead a jewel forms. It glows with pulsing aquamarine light. Her eyebrows arch and she smiles as she takes his hand. The rescued is saving her hero. He is operating at the edge of volition, and she leads him quietly away from the scene into a myriad of alleyways. Then, somewhere in the deep blue hours of the early morning, he finds himself in the homey, methane lit confines of a squatter’s lean-to. He lies in his clothes on a rag filled mattress. That is the only furniture to speak of, besides the wahsbasin, a lamp, and a squak box softly oozing the lazy, stormy polyrythms of Bshubshub tribal music.
Soon he awakes from a brief, dreamless slumber. Gazing outside, silhoueted against a sky filling with the reflected light of the local star against the irradescent orb of Amnokar, the synth dances to greet the fullness of dawn. Her hips are swaying. Her palms are uplifted toward the sky. She offers the heavens the gift of her artificial being. Before Saurian calls to her, she is aware of his presence, and abruptly stops dancing and without a word skips to toward him, giggling, and falls to her knees to look him keenly in the eye. He asks, “Who are you? Who are you really?” He is mystified even as he is beguiled by this creature. She is opaque to him, even as she sees him shimmer in mutliple frequencies and a spectrum of colors that few bipeds can see. She sees into his heart, as well.
Her only response is to lean into him, take his hands, take him down on his knees for a kiss. It is a kiss from the deepest wells of two cosmic souls, and it almost blows Saurian’s shoes right off his feet, as neither she nor he had ever been so kissed before, embraced in such compassion and curiosity. Indeed, Saurian is the first fully Human creature that APES 2cB has seen. She is the first being that so compelled his heart to stir since perhaps he first saw his mother’s face upon his first breath. It is truly a match made in space. They have each, irrefutably, found their only and true mate. In short order, they are making rapturous love.
Making love is a natural response for APES 2cB. She is an individual cloned from a piece of a dead woman of high pedigree’s fingernail, genetically manipulated, given glands grown in beakers, and nerves created on an assembly line. She is a flower cultivated by cold gutted body-traders. She has barely a history that she is aware of, no future that she can conceive of, and seldom has control over her present. She is not even aware of her own devasting beauty, and little understanding of what it is to be human. Well, that was until now. In each other’s arms, she and Saurian find emotional and physical capacities that had been always hidden from their own psyches. Suddenly, the life of flesh comingling with spirit is made real. They cleave close to each, almost merging into one, eyes closed to open again in each other’s gaze. Then they resume the pursuit of love and affection that they have been so starved of.
After hours of play and snoozing and more play interrupted only by the occassional snack on Saurian’s rations, he asked her a question that had been in the back of his mind. “What were you doing with the troopers in the cruiser?”
She softly kisses his neck, and runs her fingers across his chest. Without dissembling or an apparent second thought, she somewhat vacantly replies, “I don’t know. They just came and took me.”
Saurian cradles her head in the crook of his arm, lightly brushing her soft, fragrant hair from her brow. He whispers, “Well, they ain’t gonna come take you no more.”
But, of course they do, almost instantly. As the night falls and the dim light of the gas lamp becomes visible to nearby police scanners, a possee is enjoined and the raid commences. A command vehicle and two cruisers bearing twelve Cudgeon Fromsters, those troopers from Hell, decend on the canvas shack like vermine on carrion. They smash apart the flimsy lean-two, proceeding then to cudgel the lovers and blast them with stun rays until the moaning subsides. They pull away the tarp and have no interest in Saurian. His unconscious body is kicked down the gulley.
The troopers are after the girl. She’s due for recycle, and if not for last night’s unpleasantness, that where she was then bound. They we simply too busy, too lazy, to handle the extra work that could wake for the next shift. Now, a trooper inspects her skull, having shaved her bleeding head. There he find the identifier tattoooed. “Okay, boys, we got her. Pack her up.”
It is a fact of life for all, but more so for Synths, that from whence you came you shall go. Dust to dust and all that. But, as a Synth you are merely regarded as inventory. You can’t be kept on the shelf too long or leased out indefinately. Eventually, they start to get funny ideas and start acting like “real” people. They get emotional and have funny ideas, like being possesive of their own bodies and lives.

© Solomon