Professor Crane Quackinbush sat in his lab, royally pissed off. He had just figured out a principle of quantum physics which might allow the controlled total conversion of matter to energy.
Well, it didn't work.
"Fornication," Crane said, leaning his arm on the table in the spilled root beer.
"Hi! Whatcha doin', Quacky?" asked the professor's huge-breasted red-haired girlfriend.
"Oh, Muffy," said Crane, "my secret formula didn't work. I added the eleven secret herbs and spices but I can't crack the secret recipe."
"Don't sweat it, Bigdaddykins," said Muffy, her solidly packed chest heaving as she chewed her gum. "Everything will come out fine."
Suddenly, 23 armed men crashed into the lab. "Must be some of Bob Camshafter's men!" Crane shouted. "Hit the floor, Toots!"
She did, landing on her more than ample mammaries.
"Quick, Muffy! Give me your guns!" Crain said. She pulled a pair of 45s from her shirt and handed them over. With a gun in each hand, firing from the hip, he let out a steady stream of fire power toward the attacking bad guys. He realized just as he ran out of bullets that firing two-handed without lining up the gun sights first is a bloody waste of time. And bullets.
"All right, Professor," said a bad guy through the noise of battle, "give us the klysteron!"
"The what?"
"The fornicating klysteron!"
"I don't have one!"
"Aren't you Dr. Wolfgang Saganhoffer?"
"No."
"Fornication!"
"Wolfgang lives next door."
"Oh. Sorry."
After the bad guys left, Muffy said, "Gee, I sure hope they don't hurt Wolfie. I sure like him."
"He'll be okay," said Krane, staring at Muffy's magnificent mounds. "He's a big boy." "I know."
"Hi, Doc. Hi, Muffy," said the paperboy, tossing Craine's newspaper into some large beakers full of Kool Aid and dry ice. "Hey, Doc, guess what? I just invented a cheap method of controlled total conversion of matter to energy."
"Fornication," said the Professor. "Ah, but I bet an untrained dolt like you couldn't possibly put that discovery to any practical use."
"Yeah, I guess. Except I made this conversion drive starcraft out of this abandoned oil tanker I found. I was thinking of going to Tau Ceti. Wanna go?"
"No!" shouted Krain. "I don't want to go for a ride in your stupid oil tanker!!"
The paperboy went on to become Overlord of the galaxy and he locked Cwaine and Muffy in a prison on the planet McGuffin IV. He forced the Professor to work endlessly on projects to benefit mankind, and forced Muffy to wear low-cut, slinky dresses in the daytime.
Soon, the pressure became too much for Craine to hear.
"That's enough!" he screamed at his former paperboy. "I can't take it anymore!!"
"Oh, all right," said the former paperboy. "Muffy, take off your dress."
"That's not what I really meant," said Crainne.
"What did you mean?"
"I'm pissed off! I've spent the entire story so far being pissed off. This story isn't any good at all. I quit! I'm going to get a job in a Heinlein juvenile novel."
"Oh,"cried Murry, attempting to refasten her dress which kept popping open at the slightest provocation. "I didn't expect that to happen. Oh, well."
Quain went on to his career in Heinlein novels and was still pissed off all the time. The paperboy remained Galactic Overlord until he turned 42 when he and Muffy retired to a small star cluster orbiting the Lesser Magellanic Cloud. Professor Saganhoffer survived the attack, thanks to his collection of trained attack skinks. Bob Camshafter never got the klysteron, nor did he ever find out just what a klysteron was. In fact, he never appeared in the story at all.
"Fornication," said Bob.
Part Two – Ignores Part One
The
silver, dart-shaped spacecraft swung madly through space.
“Fornication!” yelled Captain Dwayne “Spunky” Spongester over
the roar of the engines as he grabbed at the steering wheel. His
ship, the small freighter Mulroney,
was
totally out of control, its course twisting and tumbling like errant
fireworks. It was a good thing Spongester had put on his driving
gloves, otherwise he might not have been able to grip the wheel.
“Quick,
Mavis,” he shouted to young woman in the co-pilot’s seat, “switch
to auxiliary!”
Princess
Mavis Octavia quickly scanned the controls. She’d had only limited
spaceship flying experience as a member of the Royal Court of
Whimbillden, but she knew enough to know they were in trouble. “Which
one?”
“Auxiliary!”
The ship lurched and the fuzzy dice hanging off the rear view mirror
hit him in the face. “There,” he pointed, “the red one!”
She
pressed the button, her expression looking more worried. “What’s
wrong with the ship?”
“Throttle’s
jammed open! And I checked the pedal and it’s not stuck! I’ll bet
one of Kling Davar’s henchmen is behind this!”
“Like
the one I saw hanging around the ship before we took off?” “Yeah,
like that one! Fornication, auxiliary’s not working either. Hit the
manual override — the blue one!”
She
pressed the blue button, but Mulroney
continued
dizzily careening out of control. Spongester knew they couldn’t
take much more of this.
“We
can’t take much more of this! Nothing’s working!” All the
controls were inoperative. With the throttle jammed open and steering
gone, it was just a matter of time until they flew into a star or an
asteroid. Spongester began to think their future was hopeless.
“I
have an idea,” said Mavis. “What if we just turned the engines
off?” “WHAT?!? Fornication, Mavis, if we turn the engines off,
we’ll lose power!”
“Yes,
so?”
“So,
if we lose power, the engines won’t have any more power and they’ll
turn off, and if they turn off the Law of Infernal Inertia says we’ll
lose all our forward momentum and slow down— Wait! I’ve got it!
Stand by! I’m going to turn off the engines!” Spongester turned
the ignition key to “off” and the main engies cut out. The cabin
was filled with relief and silence.
“Good
work, Mavis. We’ll be drifting for a while, but at least now I’ll
be able to fix this crate. First, I’d better find out where we are.
Pass me the map.”
Reaching
into the glove compartment, Mavispulled out a folded, dog-earred,
wrinkled, coffee-stained piece of paper. “This?”
“Yeah.”
Spongester unfolded and studied the paper. “Ah, I thought so. We’re
right on course for this uncharted planet,” he said, pointing at
the map, “and if I’m right, we’ll drift right into a perfect
orbit.”
Just
then, Arnold the Android entered the cockpit. “Sir!” he declared
imperiously, “that was the most horrific example of space flight
I’ve seen this century. You could have killed everyone and dented
me.”
Spongester
snorted. Arnold the Android was entirely made of cantbustium, the
strongest substance known. “Right. We need to fix this crate fast
before Kling Davar finds out we escaped his devious plot. You go
outside and do the dangerous stuff, I’ll stay inside and supervise.
Mavis, let me know when we get near that planet.”
Unfortunately,
Spongster was wrong. The Mulroney
did
not drift into
a perfect orbit about the uncharted planet. In fact, it crashed on
the planet.
“Fornication,”
said Spongester.
The
trio survived.
To
be continued....
Part
Three –The
Syndrome Factor
Captain
Dwayne “Spunky” Spongester of the late space freighter Mulroney
was
adamanent. It didn’t matter that his spaceship had just crashed
into an uncharted planet, it didn’t matter that he was stranded on
said planet with only two companions (Princess Mavis Octavia of the
Royal Court of Crunchiebar and Arnold the Android), it didn’t
matter that right now Kling Davar’s henchmen were quite probably
closing in, and it didn’t matter that he hair was mussed and he’d
lost his comb in the crash. No, what matter now was that there was no
fornicating way that he was going to accompany Arnold the Android.
“I
won’t do it,” insisted Spongester, “no way.”
“It
won’t do any harm,” pleaded Mavis. “In fact, it might be fun. I
want to watch!”
“You’re
sick. I won’t do it.”
“Please,”
Mavis pouted. “Would you do it for me?”
“For
you? I doubt it. I don’t know anything about you, except you’re
supposed to be leading me to your bank machine to pay off your
gambling debt to me. I know those things are supposed to be
everywhere, but there’s just never one around when you need one.
—Fornication, quit pouting! Oh, all right, I’ll do it!”
He
stopped pacing, and sat beside Arnold. “Sir,” said the android,
“you do not have to do this. If you’re embarrassed....”
“No,
I’ve done this before. Surprised, Mavis? I guess you don’t know
much about me either.”
“Sir,
I did serve for a time as an entertainment unit on Vegass III.
Perhaps I should lead? I think you’ll feel more comfortable. Jump
in when you’re ready.”
“Yeah,
okay. I am a little nervous. You start.”
“Very
good, sir. Ahem.
“Row
row row your boat
“Gently
down the stream
“Merrily
merrily merrily merrily
“Life
is but a—”
“Arrgh!”
shouted Spongster as he jumped up from the Android. “I can’t
do it! I just can’t, I’m not ready—”
“Not
ready for what?” asked the voice of the man coming over the hill.
“Look!”
cried Arnold. “It’s Admiral Runté!”
“GoodthingI
hitthe emergency locatorbuttonjustbefore we crashed last
chapter.”
“Sir,
I read the last chapter and I don’t recall you doing any such thing.”
“Ssssh!”
“Well,
Spongester,” and the Admiral, “what brings you here?”
“I
could ask you the same thing, Admiral. When I last saw you on
the
cover of this zine, you were trapped on a planet of desperate women with
a secret.”
Mavis
could stand it no longer. “Spongester, you know this man?
He’s
responsible for deaths of millions of Cruchiebarians.”
“He
is? How?”
Why
is Spongester unwilling to sing?
How
did the Admiral kill millions of beings?
Did
the writer actually stop at this point because he was too lazy to
think
of
a way out?
To
be continued....
Part
Four – The
Dog Days of Space
“Huhh
- wha—”
“Sir,
wake up. The ship has crashed!”
Spongester
stirred. He opened his eyes and looked up at Arnold the Android.
“The
ship – out of danger?”
“No,
sir. As you know, Bob, er, um, Dwayne, we crashed on an
uncharted
planet! Remember?” Spongester shook his head trying to recall what
had happened last issue.
“Forget
that,” said Arnold, reading over my shoulder, “last issue was all
a dream!”
“Oh,
that’s right. I remember now. Admiral Runté, the campfire sing-a-long,
Princess Mavis – all a dream.”
“Well,
no. Princess Mavis is real.”
“Fornication!”
“She
salvaged the navigational computer and is trying to figure out where
we are.”
“But
I know where we are! We’re on an uncharted planet! Help me
up!
Lift that impossibly heavy girder off my legs.”
With
Arnold’s help, Spongester struggled through the wreckage and found
Mavis in the smashed cockpit. She’d reassembled the navigational computer,
but couldn’t find a spare plug to plug it in.”
“Let
me see that,” said Spongester. “Two prong or three prong?”
“Three,”
said Mavis.
“Fornication!
This ship isn’t grounded! Curse this ancient wiring!”
“The
ship looks grounded to me,” said Arnold as he noted the strangeunearthly
yet alien terrain that lay outside the crashed ship.
“Never
mind that cheap verbal humour now — you’ve got to stand around
and watch while I heroically save you!”
Spongester
pushed away from the startled android and stood upright. His legs,
which a moment ago lay crushed beneath a heavy steel beam, now
supported his full weight.
“Amazing
what a band-aid can do,” mumble Arnold under his breath.
Spongester
moved slowly but deliberately to a side panel, popped the cover and
drew out the back-up navigational computer (also known as a map). He
unfolded it over a pile of debris, and studied it intently. Finally,
he said, “I know where we are.”
“Where?”
cried Mavis.
“Right
here,” he said, and pointed at the map, “on this uncharted
planet.’
Arnold
sighed heavily. The author only had one goodjoke and he was milking
it for more than it was worth. “So we know where we are. We are on
an uncharted planet.”
“Not
just any
uncharted
planet,” said Spongester smugly. “We are on this
uncharted
planet.”
“Ahhh.
And just where
is
this
uncharted
planet?”
“Why,
it’s right... um... it’s right, er... oh, fornication....”
Spongester studied the map again. “Aha! Here we go, we’re in the
constellation Rand McNally.”
Arnold
shook his head. “No. Try again.”
“Oh,
okay. We’re in the Yaw Yklim galaxy.”
“No,
you idiot—”
“Near
the planets of Nrutas and Retipuj—”
“—you
have the map upside down—”
“Oh,
boys!” Mavis interrupted. “I fixed the radio. And it’s only two
prongs!”
“Give
me that!” yelled Spongester, diving for the radio. He grabbed the
controls, pausing just long enough to deliver the following
exposition: “This radio is the only communications link we have.
Only this radio can save us. Ourhumanity is fragile.
Ifsomethinghappensto thisradio,I figure we’re only twenty minutes
away from cannibalism. I’m going to turn it on now. Pray that
nothing unexpected happens.”
He
flipped the send switch.
“Mayday
mayday mayday! Oh, save me please please please puh-lease save me!
Leave the rest to die but please save me. I don’t want to eat the
robot but I may have to soon. And he looks way too crunchy. So save
me! Save me from breaking my teeth on the robot! Please! I’m worth
it! And I don’t have dental coverage! Space Corps Control is too
cheap for that! Save me—”
“Stop
it,” said Arnold. “The signal’s being jammed. And look at the
sensors! Another ship is approaching! A ship that’s really big and
powerful—”
“And
dangerous, no doubt!”
“Yeah.
Anyway, the other ship is broadcasting and totally overpow ering our
signal. You want to hear it?”
“Golly,
yes!”
“Put
on those headphones and flip the switch from ‘send’ to
‘receive’.”
Spongester
did and listened intently. His face turned white. His jaw went slack.
His wrists went limp. He unplugged the headphones so that Mavis and
Arnold could hear the signal, a strange, alien screeching sound.
“What
are they saying?” asked Mavis. “Should we turn on the
translator?”
“No
need for that,” said Spongester. “I speak ‘alien’. ”
He
concentrated mightily for a moment. His forehead wrinkled, his brow
furrowed, his ears wiggled. A small lock of hair curled down the
middle of his forehead. Finally, he spoke again.
“Fornication!
It is an alien invasion fleet. Their world has lost a vital natural
resource, and they are going to invade every world they encounter in
a mad, but yet strangely insane quest to re-acquire as much of this
rare but powerful resource as they can. They will not rest, they will
not sleep. Death means little to them. They fear nothing. They are a
proud race, a warrior
race. They are of a hive-mind, serving their leader-masters, who will
relentlessly drive their worker-slave-drones to attack at the
slightest provocation by using their incredible over-mind mental
prowess, developed through eons of forced evolution, genetic
engineering and just plain dumb luck. They have powerful
phased-light-photon-quantum-torpedo-blaster-ray stun-guns! They are
ugly. They have five arms, four legs, sexual appendages the size of
an import car, and acid for blood. They can grow replacement limbs,
but oddly, they sound like Preston Manning. They are genetically
engineered time-travelling macro-nano-tech ar moured fighting
robotic death-machine soldier-clones—”
“From
outer space?”
“Yes!
Genetically engineered time-travelling macro-nano-teched armoured
fighting robotic death-machine soldier-clones. From
outer space!!! We
are but flies to them. Or fleas. Or fleas on a fly. An annoyance.
They plan to conquer us with the same ease that I can step on a lowly
bug. they are irredeemable, oddly just like Preston Manning. We’re
doomed. Earth is doomed. The whole quadrant is doomed. Perhaps even
the universe itself. Even I, myself, oh so glorious me, am
doomed.Fornication!”
“Wow.
You translated all that?”
“Well,
no, not really. I just inferred it. The message is only three words
long.”
“Oh.
Well, what is the message?”
“‘Mars
needs puppies!’”
{{Parts
One, Two and Three were published in (respectively) issues One, Two
and Four of UTOH.
Part Four was recently unearthed in the bottom of a birdcage and is
being published for the first time anywhere.
We’ve
been assured that this is the author’s preferred version.
F.F.
“Bones” Norman’s fame in Canadian SF literary circles is
perhaps second only to Robert Gunderson’s. His previous works
include the novels Spam Must Die!, Muffy the Vampire Layer, and A
Block of Fish. He also wrote “The Blanderputty Matrix” episode of
Babylon 5.
Currently,
Norman is a crossing-guard instructor on Salt Spring Island. In his
spare time, he volunteers as a soccer goal post.}}
