Posted by NL on March 08, 2008 at 13:28:31:
The Great Spaced Race End
The Redstone Arsenal was one of those places I'd always wanted to visit. I was a real rocket nut when I was little. I had a chemistry set with powdered sulfur and powdered zinc among the chemicals and right away I mixed those two together and packed them carefully into a heavy pyrex test tube. I propped that thing up in the street in front of my childhood home, set a match to it, and off it flew, trailing clouds of yellow smoke from condensing and sublimating zinc sulfide. I know not where it landed. To this day I don't know whether it smashed through someone's window, put out somebody's eye, or did even worse damage. And that was only my first effort! Eventually I got in all sorts of trouble! Wheeee! But of course, the Redstone Arsenal had me beat. Their rockets could have really killed people-- most of them were designed to kill people.
My cub reporter's badge and Loosha's dazzling nosecones got us into the Arsenal easily. And we had no problem gaining access to Dr. Rocket. But as uniformed guards led us through the winding underground bunker passages, Loosha embarrassed the hell out of me by pausing at the impressive displays of various model rockets and salivating and grinding her hips. I knew what that slut must have been thinking. Yeah, yeah, sweet rockets blossoming for her, right in her twat! Damned women! They should sublimate more. That's what I thought then and that's what I think now. Although now, I can't see that it matters.
Dr. Rocket's office was actually quite modest. The guards left us, then. And there was the great man himself, with his kindly face, all squared off and teutonic looking, but comical too, like Herman Goering's. He lifted his portly bulk and gave us a stiff armed salute with his right hand, quickly turning the gesture into a friendly wave. "Yah, yah", he said. "You reporters are quick to jump on a big story! I am very impressed! You are just in time for the big news release." I wasn't sure what he meant by that. I thought he'd be burnt out on questions about Oberth, the Mother Ship, vanishing in her ninth orbit, and so on. I took a seat. I assumed that Loosha took a seat too. But a glance to the side revealed her ogling a glass display case of model rockets. I ought to have been concerned but I had other things on my mind, like THE TRUTH.
"Actually, herr doctor, I came here to ask you about Oberth, The Mother Ship, and the great Martian Sponge Rock Brains." I was gonna get to the point. Dr. Rocket surprised me. He just settled back in his big leather chair, a chair whose leather upholstery seemed to have tatoos on it, and lit a pipe, chuckling.
"Ha ha ha. That is OLD news! Yes, the great Martian expedition failed, I guess you could say. But what the heck, eh? You should see the rockets we have blown up here at the Arsenal over the years! BOOM! BOFF! And sometimes the guidance goes wrong after they take off and around and around they go, shooting fire until they go smack in the ground or range safety detonates them. A fine show! But there is always money for more! What a job!"
I heard strange noises behind me and darned if Loosha hadn't opened that display case of model rockets! And now she had several plugged into her twat, for she had undressed, and she was slurping all over a large scale model of an Honest John, one of those early A-bomb carrying tactical rockets the Army loved so much. I blushed deeply and swore but Dr. Rocket laughed all the merrier!
"Oh ha ha ha-- REALLY ha ha ha! Your friend there knows what it is all a-bout! Women, trust me, always see through to the heart of things. And look at those nosecones! Are you maybe planning to stick them with a shiv someday, eh? If not, I would love to strap her to a five hundred pound bomb and drop her from a Dornier, like Herman did, with nordic maidens, back in the good old days!" His eyes got dreamy then. "Ah, the old days! Once upon a time when I was young I strapped a nordic maiden into the cockpit of a specially modified V-1 glide bomber. Off she went, destined to dive into some random target in London and blow it to bits. We all hunched over our consoles and beat our meat rockets, and not a bit of shame!" But then he frowned.
"It is not all fun and games Mr. Cub Reporter. You ask about Martian Sponge Brain Rocks! Yes, there are such things out in space, and there are things, other things, so bad and so scary we cannot let them be known to anyone outside of the elite. The masses would go mad, and sex crimes of all sorts, even though they are fun in moderation, would become so common and numerous that the very survival of THE RACE would be imperiled! A little snuff, a little necro, we can tolerate. A little more snuff and necro, disguised as warfare and the fortunes of war, we can tolerate. And even mass slaughters of women and children we can tolerate, under the convenient lie of nation-building or-- HA HA HA HA-- civilizing and democratizing. Oh, mein gott, you must pardon my hilarity. I am of the elite, you see. I am in a position to savor the hypocrisy, as you are not. No offense. But the horrors of space are the horrors of THE TRUTH. What is THE TRUTH? How about the real and true and factual history of the human race? It is all recorded! Let us just say that certain alien beings, far in advance of us technically, were present, recording and filming, preserving the record of all significant events in human history. Oh yes! It is true! We have known this for a long time!"
I thought at first that there could surely be no cause for alarm. I mean, a complete documented record of every Super Bowl couldn't be a bad thing, now could it?
"Golgotha!" shouted Dr. Rocket! "Gethsemene! Bethlehem!" The names sent shivers up and down my spine, although I couldn't quite place them. They sure sounded ominous!
Dr. Rocket heaved a mighty sigh. "The Martian Sponge Brain Rocks merely toy with us. They merely stir up the morbid soup of our natures and amplify some of our psychic weirdness, like the sex and violence connection. Beings like the Martians merely make us overtly and obviously the fuckups and fools we are. But they do not snatch away our hopes and dreams. Not yet, anyway..."
Loosha was by this time flat on her back, zonked out, with a huge Saturn V model between her legs. She was snoring, sated at last. I turned to Dr. Rocket and said, "All this is interesting, but I guess it's not the kind of thing I can report. You know what I mean. It's too-- complicated. As a story this thing lacks pizzazz."
"Of course not!" Dr. Rocket seemed horrified! "There can be no hint of what we are up against! But here, here, is what what you CAN report!" And he pulled something out of his desk drawer and held it at arm's length, right in front of my face. I stared at it for a while and then found myself blushing to the very soles of my feet. "What the hell is that!" I couldn't help myself. It was too grotesque.
"This", said Dr. Rocket, "represents our best hope. It is a new kind of Spaced Craft, compact in form and highly efficient. Note the stubby wings coming off at right angles to the central shaft, and note the exposed Spaced Man stretched on his back, arms extended, bravely riding the vehicle up, up and away, to confront man's ancient enemies in space!"
"He's naked!", I yelled.
"Oh no, no-- that is the new space suit: transparent and form fitting, to accentuate the nobility of the human figure and connote the heroic aspect of our race. And the control system taps into the peripheral nervous system at the Spaced Man's wrists and feet. Quite startling but very efficient. We think this image will have great power and perhaps convince the hostile forces out there to leave us alone. We truly believe this to be our last best hope. Mankind's only hope, in fact. What do you think?"
I couldn't tell the poor guy exactly what I thought. I just didn't have the heart to tell him his new rocket design looked both vaguely familiar (I do think that sort of thing was done once before) and a lot like a homoerotic sex-slaying.
Loosha and I went back to my little apartment. She was still dreamy from fucking herself with a Saturn V so she stripped and went right to sleep on my bed. Let her sleep, I thought. I didn't have the heart to do any killing and fucking and eating, like I'd planned. I was just too depressed. I really need to file my story with The Boss, the GREAT EDITOR, but I'm pretty sure that big, nasty, scaly, one-eyed lizard is going to laugh so hard his horns will shake. Then he'll bite off my face.