Star Hustle Chapter 1

The sequel no one asked for. Definitely not dedicated entirely to Tina Fey.

Star Hustle
Perfection Labs Book 3

By Jason Z. Christie

“The past is stupid. The future, doubly so.” – Douglas Adams *

President Gorlax’s brain was on fire. He let it burn. It was probably all of the gasoline he had injected into his temples.

It was time for the Space Olympics. Although unofficially, the entire event was fueled by drugs. Drugs and ego. The entire event was driven by drugs, ego, greed, and sex. And bad writing.

            It is at this point that intrepid adventurer Longshot Undercat makes his debut. . Unfortunately, due to conceptual similarities to a character in Red Dwarf, he won’t be mentioned again. 

            “Oh, this *is* bullshit,” he thought. Exactly as Pex had described. Fuck these guys, seriously. He’d get his own book. And a bigger dick.

            P.G. rang his player buddy and inexplicable brother, Sherman Oakes.

            Oakes  was spooning Prail Oakes, nee Abraxis, and very nearly didn’t answer. Had he not, we wouldn’t have this scene. And so here we are.

            But he did.

            “Hullo,” he whispered, trying desperately to disengage his arm from beneath his sleeping spousal unit and muse.

            “Sherm!” President Gorlax said. His voice was far too friendly. And it was too early for this shit.

            “Let me guess. You want drugs.”

            “What?”

            Having retrieved his arm, Oakes watched as Prail disappeared the covers, levitated  herself, turned over, settled back in, and brought the blankets back, all without waking up. Unawed, Sherman only wondered why she made him struggle so much. Character building, he decided. She never did anything without purpose, even whilst sleeping.

            “I’m assuming that you disturbed my slumber, quite rudely, forcing me to do the unthinkable, stop touching my wife, because you want some sort of drugs.”

            “Space drugs,” President Gorlax offered.

            Sherman sighed.

“I just call them drugs.”

“First of all, do you expect me to believe that in the future we don’t have touch-free phones?”

“This is the future? Anyway, I’m something of a devout new traditionalist.”

“Second of all, in anticipation of the Space Olympics, I’m taking a tolerance break.”

“What’s that?” Sherman asked.

“It’s when you stop using for a time, in order to decrease the overall lessening effects of decreased impact imparted by long-term usage, leading to lessening impact. Of drugs.

Sherman stared blankly.

“Like moderation?”

“Like ultra-orthodox, extreme moderation.”

“Sorry. Foreign concept. I don’t believe in moderation.”

“Be that as it may. Your lack of faith doesn’t mean a concept doesn’t exist.”

“Is this a prank call?”

“What’s that?”

“Oh, fuck this,” Oakes said. “Hanging up now. I’ve lots of pre and post-coital cuddling to do. Prail is quite demanding. Needy. Insecure.”

“Prail is about as insecure as Triple Squared 3DES,” P.G. countered.

“Perhaps I’m projecting. I don’t see how this is any of your business. My business is dealing drugs,” Sherman told him.

“Actually, you’re confused. High-C deals drugs. You consume drugs.”

“Ah, well. In my defense, it has been a while. Anyway, a lot of heavy users eventually deal. Out of necessity.”

“You’re richer than God!”

“And I intend to stay that way.”

“Fuck drugs!” President Gorlax said. The smoke from his ears was becoming darker.

“Like, aensory-enhancers? Stiffeners? Lubricators? Temporal prolongers? Short-term enslavers? Memory solvents? Taste bud inhibitors? Morality eradicators?”

“I DON’T WANT DRUGS!”

Sherman’s pleasure craft shook violently, and he realized he was crossing a line. Silently, he stepped back toward the relative safety of the other side.

“Very well. I say good day, sir.”

He bit his thumb. Not at President Gorlax, but he did bite his thumb.

“Buddy guy…wait.”

“Ten seconds.”

“I want you to write me opening invocation for the S.O.”

“Significant other? Judas Mason?”

“Space. Olympics.”

“Ah. Has it been a decade already?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“And you want me. Your arch-rival and chief competition, to write your opening statement? To put my theoretical enemy words in your mouth?”

“I didn’t mean it in such an ultra-gay way, but yes.”

“No homo.”

            “No homo.”

            “No homo” was what males traditionally said to each other after particularly shocking gay sex acts.”

            “In that case, I accept your deliciously indecent proposal.”

            Sherman kissed his bride.

            “Splenda,” President Gorlax said. “By the by, *do* you have any drugs?”

            “But of course.”

            “What sorts?”

            “Magnum brown. Shootski-valootski. Supercaliefragilisticexpeealagootsky. You know.”

            “I’ll put that in my ‘Don’t Know What You Said’ book."       

            Shook, took, wook, look, cook.

            9/11 was indeed a joke.