Dead Planet VI

Dead Planet VI

“The door opened from
inside and Boy appeared,
stark naked, with the
authority of his huge sex
organ down between legs”
—Jose Donoso,
The Obscene Bird of Night

Zombie Planet—what a fuckin’ drag. They’re all dead back there now—so what’s the goddamn difference? Earth is history—or rather just another garbage heap. Let Tyrell & TerraCorp clean up the fuckin’ mess—time for Terra to get a new fuckin’ face-lift anyway.

There isn’t anything else—anybody can do. They’ve already terraformed Mars pretty good—for the Asteroid Rush & the Ort Cloud Push. And all the other fuckin’ shit—that’s comin’ down. Way out there—past sullen Pluto and the beautiful slowly revolving Rings of Saturn. Why do I get homesick—for somewhere I’ve never been?

Titan is the hub—for the big Oort Cloud Push. All the exo-development and corporate R & D Dynastics depending on it. Out past Neptune and Pluto—onward & upward to bigger and better things like Promima Centauri—nearest extrasolar star waitin’ in the wings. Do they know? Do the Pro-Centaurians know what happened? Is there anybody there???

In between was the Oort Cloud Belt, of course—swarmin’ with exo-techs and all those fuckin’ young Titan U academic types. They were like a bunch of sequesterd monks or ensconced monkeys—playin’ monkeyshine-games outta everybody’s sight. Monkey see, monkey do—fuckin’ monkey boyz goin’ crazy in a huge alien haunted house. The House on Haunted Hill—out there beyond Pluto.

No cages, no lions, no tigers no bears. Just a bunch of crazy, loony-tune baboons and naked apes out there. Having a field day in some giant mysterious jungle tree house—an abandoned movie set thousands & thousands of years old.

Actually it’s much more sophisticated than that. I’d bump into a bored young exo-linguist now & then. Or some drunk exo-archeologist kid right outta college—enjoying some R & R time back on Mars. Late at night at the Vortex Lounge—usually when nobody else was around. In a corner—sittin’ alone.

I felt sorry for them sometimes—obviously very young, smart and klug about things. But somehow deflated, lonely—thinkin’ about something dark & troublesome. That fuckin’ Oort Cloud Belt thing—usually. It hung over them—like a dark moody hangover on some goddamn Sunday morning.

They didn’t have to say it—I knew. JJ told me so—usually in the ESP dreams. I’d wake up in a cold sweat—JJ would be wide awake lookin’ at me. He knew—I knew. The exo-boyz knew…

They all act spooked—and nervous about something. The don’t talk much about it—not at least when the publicity officer’s hanging around. Sometimes I like some of them—usually one of the younger, less jaded Ph.D. dudes who wanna see some Martian sights and get away from things.

So JJ and I’d take them out for a hover-craft weekend—checking out X or Y or Z. Mostly it was just to get away from their so-called fucked-up colleagues. They all have the nervous heebbe-jeebies about the Oort Cloud Belt Thing—whatever it is.

One of the guyz sayz it’s more like an abandoned movie set out there—kinda like that old sci-fi flick “Last Man on Earth” with campy Vincent Price. The only man left on the planet—the zombie-infested plague world of the future—kinda like what Earth was to become in more ways than one.

Anyway, what they find out there is really pretty weird. Gaunt, deserted, empty, wasted planetscapes, moonscapes, cityscapes—like in the Vincent Price movie. That flick had been filmed back in 1964—outside of Rome and Lazio, Italy in the Palazzo della Civilta Italiana.

There’s an eerie foreigness and otherness to this Hollywood sci-fi flick—filmed outside the ruins of zombie badboy Rome. Vincent Price plays the role of Robert Morgan—the sole survivor of a deadly planetary plague that turns everybody into zombies overnight. The night of the living dead.

“Another day to live through. Better get started,” he says, getting up in the morning. His hobby is to drive stakes thru the zombie’s hearts during day—so they won’t haunt him at night. Price is resigned and stoic—about his Van Helsing “deep drillin’ job” doing the zombie creeps in. Very low-keyed and understated. Believable—in a deadly ho-hum boring way.

“December 1965. Is that all it has been since I inherited the world? Only three years. Seems like 100 million,” sayz Vincent Price to himself in abandoned Rome.

That’s the way the exo-guyz act all the time. Resigned and stoic about something—even the normally bright bushy-tailed fuckin greedy suits—workin’ out there for Goldman-Sucks and Exxon Corp. Even they seem depressed and nervous about something—whatever it was.

After awhile I just shrug—and don’t talk about it. I call it the Oort Cloud Curse ‘cause the whole development project seems somehow doomed and not what it’s supposed to be. It’s all broken down into separate exo-compartments—and nobody really knows the Big Picture. I know I don’t…

I’m more interested in makin’ a few bucks—with the Asteroid Belt Business Zone closer to home. Dealing with contraband emeralds, diamonds and sleezeoid sapphires—it’s a lot easier than dealing with corporate solar secrets and exo-espionage shit.

I keep a low profile on Mars—and work outta Hellas City. There’s a nice black market as usual—you can usually get anything you want.

When they discover the Old Martian sewers—running under Hellas City. That’s when things get interesting. Amazonis Planitia the huge lava plains where Hellas City is built—stretches out for many miles.

Amazonis Planitia is one of the smoothest plains on Mars. It’s young—compared to the rest of the planet. Only 100 million years old—these plains don’t have any sedimentary layers. It resembles the terrain and composition of Earth's Iceland.

It stretches betwen the Tharsis and Elysium volcanic provinces to the west of Olympus Mons in the Valles Marineris region of Memnonia. It’s topography is smooth as a baby’s ass—and originally called Amazonis after Amazons that mythical Earthside race of warrior dykes.

Its classical albedo features are observed by early astronomers—and later it’s selected as the future site for most NASA landings. That’s how Amazonis Planitia gets picked as the site of Hellas City—where yours truly lives most of the time. With JJ my android boytoy—and my other sub-space business contacts. And whatever else—is goin’ on.

Later, researchers discover that the area's geology is young and its extremely smooth lava spill surface actually distinguishes it from its neighbors. It’s even possible that the area possesses its own distinctive ancient characteristics—all the way back from when most of Mars was under water.

But Amazonis Planitia is ancient—a lot more ancient that the Earth researchers think. And Hellas City is sitting right on top of it—a vast subterranean Martian City complex. Complicated and deep—like Krell City in “Forbidden Planet.”

Spin the Locks!!! Don’t let the Doors dial open!!! The Monster of the Id—it be tryin’ to break in big time!!! It wants Morbius’ cute delicious daughter!!! Earth girlz are Easy, right? And Earth boyz are even fuckin’ easier…

It’s hard to keep something like that secret—compared with the Oort Cloud Belt Mystery Zone. Mars is growing fast—and Hellas City is the spaceport jumping-off zone for the rest of the solar system Shazaam Shebang Show.

There ain’t much difference between—androids, zombies and shitty humanoids anyway. Naked apes are the worse tho—they got messy memories. Androids and zombies—they only live in the fuckin’ moment. Like pretty boy—JJ in my arms.

I tried explaining it to JJ—the trouble with being Too Human. He’d laugh at me—when I’d bring it up. I couldn’t help it—it still bugs me a lot even now. Modern class consciousness—it gets kinda complicated these dayz. Amongst all you humanoids, androids, replicants—all you cute zombie guyz and hunky Gold’s Gym bot-boyz.

Get down, Giedi Prime!!! Bring in the fuckin’ Floating Fat Man!!! It’s time, baby—it’s time!!!

Where’s Miss Asimov—when you need her? We needs some new—Rules of Robotics. The old ones are outdated—they need some Future Shock updates. After all, honey—Childhood’s End is just around the fuckin’ corner.

Back on Battleground Earth—the droids won out, of course. The Humanoids got eaten up by the Zombies—then the Zombies started eatin’ up each other. Pretty soon they starved to death—zombies weren’t smart enough to organize or play Bridge. Things just kinda naturally drifted—over to the Other side.

That left Droid drift—a perfectly elegant corporate solution. Tyrell and TerraCorp waitin’ in the wings—getting ready for the next generation of Earthboy monkeyshines and Naked Ape space operas—them plagues and zombies sure do come in real handy for wipin’ the vidscreens clean. Time for a little Apocalypto Disco house-cleaning—a brand new corporate facelift dontchaknow?

Droids are perfect slaves—for Late Capitalism Planetary Development. Terraform lovely Terra—all over again. Begin from the Beginning—in the Beginning was the Corporate Soul. Pick a cute Logo—that’s what logos games are all about. Change your Image—from British Petroleum to Beyond Petroleum.

That’s right—change it to BP “Far & Beyond Petroleum,” baby. Cover the whole goddamn Planet with the nice black goop and Petro-Planet gooey gobs of the goddamn stuff. Gas it, baby. Hit the zeit accelerator, dude—Giedi Prime, here we come.

Baron Harkonnen the new POTUS—the Supremes give the Tyrell and TerraCorp the go-ahead. We now enter Interplanetary Late Capitalism—it’s a steep Learning Curve for the masses. But they’ll catch on quick—if they wanna save their corporate gee-whiz schmoozing Souls.

Tyrell and TerraCorp gots First Amendment Rights now, baby—so Listen Up Fools and get rid of all that goddamn Honky Hirsute Herzegovina Ear Wax pluggin’ your stupid fuckin’ Rube brains. Stop Feeling Sorry for Yourself—and Whacking off with those whacko Weltschmerz Weimar Swan Songs. It’s a little too late—for Marlene Dietrich to sing “Falling In Love Again (Can't Help It)”

Thinkin’ about how fuckin’ crummy Earth used to be—how Zombie Planet may be the goddamn Pits but at least it’s better than what it used to be. Even tho they’re all gone now—thanks to the Redneck Riviera Zombies comin’ up from the South. Driven out of the Gulf States—by the Plague, the Benzene Clouds, the Killer Hurricanes.

The starving Zombies—they were such lovely creepy Capitalist Creepazoids. Sneaky, slinky Monsters—of the Living Dead Night. They moved up thru the Relocation Camps—where all the refugees had taken shelter from the BP Oil Spill Mess. The Zombies gobbled them right up—asleep in their crummy fucked-up white trash Trailer Courts. What’s a little bit of formaldehyde fumes—when you’re starved for some nice Human pork chops and nice luscious Screamin’ Lady loin? Nothin’ quite beats juicy Human Brains—talk about Tasty Slurpy Cherry “Thug Passion” divine.

Ever tried Penis Piña Colada? Dem Lady Zombies—they really get off on that muy macho runny Protein Drink. Especially the old Wrinkly Screamers—they needs that young Male Meat bad!!!

Pretty soon it’s like the Wild West—Hurry Up Dudes! Circle the Wagons. Here they fuckin’ come. Those Starved Dames of Darkness!!! Those Kunt Zombie Daughters of Dracula—they don’t even need a backyard fuckin’ Barbeque Pit!!! They likes it Raw and Bloody!!! Lordy, Lordy!!! There’s Nothin’ Worse—than Desperate Housewife Zombie Bitches on the March!!!

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