Dead Planet VII

Dead Planet VII

“In the reading room of Hell—
in the club for science-fiction fans.
Sometimes green eyes…”
—Roberto Bolano,
The Romantic Dogs

Earth wasn’t the only Zombie Planet—what a fuckin’ mess. It was like the whole goddamned solar system—was one big interplanetary mausoleum. An ancient creaking, decrepit museum outta time—an abandoned old crypt with a forgotten history all its own.

An ancient history—hidden in corridors and scribbled on crypt walls stretching beyond Pluto into the Oort Cloud Belt. An exo-archeological goldmine some would say—waiting to be rediscovered again. This time by a young monkey race—morphed onto its feet a couple of hundred thousand years ago back on Earth. Let’s see what they can do—with this goddamn fuckin’ galactic mess…

It’s all connected somehow—the Martian network of canals and sewers beneath Hellas City. Whatever tragedy that happened to the lost Martian race—it happened everywhere in the whole fuckin’ system. All the way out to the Oort Cloud—who knows how much further. Talk about Post-Apocalypto Blues—betcha you could write a book about it, sweetheart.

Alpha Centauri might hold a clue to whatever Apocalypto Disco changed everything—but it will be awhile before Tyrell & TerraCorp get a development expedition to that nearest el primo star. In the meantime—money talks and bullshit walks, baby.

They’re all dead way out there anyway—they’ve been dead for a long time now. The same with Earth—the home planet now a zombie-planet. So what’s the goddamn difference? When you’re dead—you’re, right? Between Dead Earth—and Dead Oort. What’s the diff?—as JJ would say.

Well, kinda sorta—I suppose. The zombies back on Earth—they were like the Living Dead. It was all a replay of those post-Nam flicks—beginning with Romero’s “Night of the Living Dead.” And that whole sicko-crypto genre of Hollywood slice & dice undead / living dead—sexploitation flicks way back then.

Whatever you want to call it—Hollywood sleaze, zombie skin flicks, Halloween horror pics, teen snake-pit drive-n bong films, vampire & werewolf pulp fiction romance sequels. Hollywood is always busy predicting the future—who cares if it’s real or not. Kinda like FOX-Newz—or Goldman-Sucks Ponzi games. Vaudeville video—New Depression WPA flicks. Beltway burlesque—SPQR DC queens…

There ain’t much difference between—Earth as Zombie Planet and Mars as Planet of Death. Plus all the rest of the goddamn zombie solar system—stretching out past Pluto. Earth is this little living blue marble—in the middle of a huge ancient Cesspool Sea.

Exo-flotsam and alien jetsam—floats everywhere. It litters the Moon like garbage—especially the Dark Side. It’s all kept secret under a tight toilet lid—the rubes would be scared shitless if they knew the joint was one big fuckin’ Morgue. Aliens aren’t the goddamn problem—it’s all the fuckin’ alien ruins and how the fuck did they get there anyway?

Calling Commander Cody—calling Miss Heinlein and the Space Cadets. Have Space Suit—Will Travel. But where the fuck are we supposed to go—gimme a fuckin’ break. We’re here already—Let the Good Times Roll. But somebody done queered Mardi Gras, baby—I wonder who, I wonder why?

The same with androids, zombies—as well as all the other shitty humanoids all over the joint. Naked apes are simply latecomers—they’re just messy meat-machines and dummy Darwinian douchedroids. They’re just plain stupid—baboon-brained gangs of them runnin’ the planet. Modern Blood & Crips creepazoids—what do ya expect? But even the dummies know—something’s up.

Something fuckin’ stinks—it ain’t in Denmark either. It’s in Droid Town, baby. Right here in—Douchedroid City. Home to All American Android Zombie boyz— and Herzegovina Lotte Lenya dyke-zombies. They don’t wanna remember—they only wanna live in the fuckin’ moment. Who can blame the—that’s all I want to. So WTF what else is there to do—here in this fucked up antique interplanetary Shop of Horrors? The deeper we dig & excavate the Moon & Mars—the deeper the goddamn mystery haunts everything we think & do.

The Tyrell and TerraCorp corporate clones—the group mind that runs things. The corporate consciousness—that has both elevated and destroyed Planet Earth. It’s as soulless, cold & fearless—as the cold steel-titanium hulls that wrap around us & protect us. As our retro-Oort spaceships—go time-zippin’ thru space & time.

And yet surely it’s all under control—just like all the other previous dynasties? Barons, lords & masters—
guiding their sleek ships of dynastic power slowly thru history. WYSIWYG seems to be the name of the game—whether steel, railroad, oil, zero-energy, exo-shit.

The Barons know how to gradually morph themselves—like old time vaudeville ‘30s Depression hack Wizards of Oz. It’s an old story—worth an Academy Award or two I suppose. Who knows what their exo-teams will discover out there—we’ll never know until they fuckin’ retro it back into the marketplace:

1 A shield of grin-and-bear-it invisibility—the same old sort of galactic gladiator steathhood. It knows no fear—it Taser beams anything that moves..

2 It gots no regrets—because Late Capitalism believes in a steep learning curve. It leaves behind a wake of crummy kipple—jetsam & flotsam full of stinkin’ inertia.

3 It leap-frogs over future shock bad vibes—because that’s how the Riverrun Effect works. It’s Joyce’s Ulysses trope—morphing the light years away.

4 Finnegan’s Wake slightly updated—past Faulkner’s Pop Eye Nashville Prohibition Gangster Dayz. But not much…

I try explaining it to JJ—the trouble with being Too Literary about the whole Too Human game. He’d yawn, of course—and turn over in bed. The android kid had such a refreshing way—of not giving a shit and not wantin’ to know. The problem being human—was I couldn’t stop thinkin’ that way.

“Gimme a break, will ya?” he’d say.

“Maybe I need a lobotomy, kid. What do ya think?”

He sighs, “Oh, okay.” He gives me some deep-drillin’ deep-throat dick-action real good—to shut me the fuck up. He gets in there real deep—drillin’ my crummy curvaceous cerebellum just right. If one dick doesn’t fuckin’ shut me up—he uses the other one too.

All Too Human—that’s me in a nutty fruitcake nutshell. He laughs at me—I don’t bring it up anymore. Humans don’t turn me on anymore anyway—besides I gots my android loverboy.

Like I’d be givin’ JJ’s swollen android gonad gland—the left one, the bigger one—a nice little squeeze in bed. In the early Martian morning—when there’s a cool breeze comin’ thru the Venetian blinds. Off the 60th floor balcony—flowin’ into our dark condo bedroom.

JJ is the kind of guy—he can deep-sleep deep like a fuckin’ fallen log in a forest. Lying in the moss & mist out there—deep in some Amazonis Planitia rainforest. The wet damp soakin’ Martian rainy rainforest—oblivious to everything in the bedroom.

But his nice smooth muscular bod—it has an intense male intelligence all its own. Just a little squeeze—down there where’s its kinda intimate. And then maybe a little K-Y forefinger foreplay action—getting’ it up his tight little asshole.

It’s funny how a young male android body knows—knows about everything there is to know about. And then some. It’s like somewhere—deep in the kid’s reptilian brain stem. Deep in there where—Tyrell must have spent a lot of time genetically engineering JJ just right.

So that when he pops—he’s still asleep. Even tho his body does what young male android bodies usually do so well. JJ is built for love—no doubt about it. Nexus 9’s are luxury suburban love-machines—perfect for the desperate housewife market opening up on Mars, Titan and Saturn. Down to the very last android spaz wiggle, squirt and long drawn-out ooze.

But then who am I? I’m no expert at such things—I’m merely an amateur at the art of romance robotics.

What can I say—except usually I have my hands fuckin’ full makin’ up for lost time. I’m addicted to android angst & heartache—True Confessions are the name of the clench-fisted, cross-eyed clone game.

When you’re getting’ off a clone-kid—especially a Nexus 6 hustler or even a Nexus 5 slave-bot. They go into an automatic sleep-mode sometimes—and you usually have to pay for sound effects. They’re pretty good at moanin’ and groanin’—the more you pay the more you get.

Desperate droid housewives—moiling, moping and meandering out in the douchedroid interplanetary provinces. Way out there in the Saturnian suburbs—where a girl gets lonely and needy when their husbands are away. Well, Dial-a-Droid is the way to go, baby—Dial-a-Droid is the way to come.

JJ had this little secret button—down along his leg on the inside of his right thigh. You could kinda feel it down there—close to his nice tight mauve robotic rectum. Press it once—and you’d get an automatic charley-horse spaz response goin’ down the side of his long lanky leg.

Press it twice—and you’d get a real nice visceral autonomic nervous system squirt or two comin’ outta his snotty nose. Hold it down nice & steady—for more than 10 seconds. And oh Lordy!!!

That’s when the raunchy Reptoid-response really kicked in—something researchers learned and picked-up from the Alligator People in the Swamp World of Neptune over there on the Dark Side.

You had to be careful tho—a droid could do more than just bust a nut. They could blow some tender clone circuits—and even go into an awful Spastic Spawn Mode. I stayed away from Alligator Boyz button—usually only Zsa Zsa Gabor the Queen of the Universe. And those rough trade queens—from the uncouth Titan-Bronx ghettos got off on that kind of kinky stuff. A good way to swallow your false teeth—and fuckin’ choke to death.

JJ was a pretty nifty smooth & sophisticated Nexus 9—whatever that means. He was pretty good at sleepin’ thru just about anything—even deep-drillin’ rim-jobs & getting’ off while he’s fuckin’ snoring away. His android bod is kinda like a walkin’ talkin’ Braille iPad tablet with two legs—much more advanced than the old Kindle models with a built-in two-prong vibrator and an electric toothbrush to brush your teeth and help tweak out any leftover pesky pubes.

JJ’s favorite expression is—“Who Me Come?” His other fav is—“I don’t know ‘nothin’ & I don’t wanna know ‘nothin’ either.” He’s such a lovey-dovey sweetheart—sometimes he sayz: “I hate everybody and everything—yeah, except you, of course.”

JJ knew how to play it dumb—the dumber the better as far as I was concerned. The thing with droid androgyny sexuality is that—sometimes JJ gets like The Bride of Frankenstein. He’ll look at me afterwards—and get this awful rather repulsive look on his puss.

As if he were Elsa Lanchester in droid drag—getting’ a good gander for the first fuckin’ time. At just how downright butt-ugly and awful-lookin’ the Frankenstein creature really is. That’s the kind of disdainful Bride of Frankenstein sneering stare—he gives me sometimes after I do him in the weeping crimson-red fading Martian dawn.

Droids may not have feelings like us humans—but they sure know how to guilt a guy to death. If looks could kill and smirks could do you in—I don’t know how many times JJ keeps looking at me that way & making me feel so downright blue and remorseful. Sometimes he fills me up with the most god-awful shame and pervert self-loathing all the way to the bone. He really makes me feel guilty & blue that way—for maybe a fuckin’ second or two.

JJ is built like the old-fashioned, proverbial Earthboy “brick shithouse”—like the peon out-houses they still use in the soybean fields out there on the plains of Amazonis Planitia. Tyrell is pretty good at the pheromone game too—the kid’s pits really stink up the condo bedroom real nice—kinda like young Martian male Eau de Cologne.

So it is with Droid Culture—it seems to be a perfectly elegant corporate solution to a lot of problems. Androids are perfect adjuncts—to serious American Late Capitalism InterPlanetary Development. Terraform Inc. can usually give Terra-like planets and moons—a pretty good Facelift. Begin from the Beginning again—in the Beginning is the Corporate Mind & Soul.

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