Splattered-Out, Ch. 1, pt. 1
Og Pog. It was a planet that didn't matter. It especially didn't matter to God. It was an ugly, deformed mistake of a planet, a hideous blemish on an otherwise perfectly beautiful solar system. In fact God had once sent an asteroid to destroy the planet a few centuries back, but its audacious citizens deflected the asteroid with their huge arsenal of nuclear rocket launchers. God left Og Pog alone after that, because, even for God, calling up an asteroid to destroy a planet is a pain in the ass.
When Callus Presexed landed one early morning in Og Pog's industrial district, he felt like a fly landing on an old piece of dog shit. There were piles of rubble everywhere; a few were punctuated by dead bums. The streetlamps were bent completely out of form, drooping like stems of flowers that had just been trampled by giants. Some of the buildings that still stood had their entire facades ripped away, revealing the interiors of offices, restaurants, and tawdry merchandise outlets long abandoned. In general the boulevard looked like it had just suffered a stampede of angry rhinos.
Having just taken out another army of space mercenaries who wanted Og Pog eradicated, Callus felt just as exhausted as the grime-slicked street he dragged his feet upon. But this planet was his home, and it pissed him off that nobody was there to greet him. "I've rescued this planet from certain destruction seventeen times," he soliloquized, "and this is the fucking thanks I get?"
Callus advanced with an irritated swagger. His spirit was absent, lost somewhere under the ruins of the shattered world. Only a weary, wounded shell of him remained: his face, ashen, bleeding other people's blood; his striped henley, soiled with wads of cooked muscle tissue debris; his fully automatic riot shotgun, barrels chipped and slightly warped by napalm fire. The man desperately needed some refreshment, but his chances of finding it were slim.
Suddenly, a mob of gangly street urchins burst out from behind a brick wall, yelling "Surprise!" Indeed Callus was surprised; he whipped around and reflexively pulled the trigger on his riot shotgun, firing off six rounds. All but two of the men were killed instantly. The two still standing clutched between them a festive "Welcome home!" banner -- which was now splashed with blood and perforated with flaming holes.
"My God," Callus stammered, "I'm... really sorry about that."
The guy on the left didn't hear the apology because his ears were too busy ringing. He just stood there, stupefied and quivering, like a man who had just been tasered. The guy on the right gracefully dropped dead from blood loss.
"It seems..." the guy on the left began in a rasping tone, "it seems I picked the wrong day to quit meth."
Callus bent toward the man's face. "You look familiar," he said, squinting at him as if reading the fine print in a contract. "Have I tortured you before?"
"What?" the man replied. "Do I look familiar? Is this some kind of test?"
"Test? Look, who the hell are you and what are you doing here?"
"Are you not just screwing with me, sir? I'm one of your cronies. I'm the one you hired to pay you endless compliments, remember?"
"Cronies?!" Callus grated. "Listen, you crazy bum..."
"Oh, sorry sir. I meant to say 'associates.'"
"Buddy, the only associates I have are the girls from the falafel truck. And that's just because they dig the poly thing, okay? I sure as hell don't have an entourage of filthy beggars."
"Filthy beggars?! Excuse me sir, but we're men and we have names."
"Whoever you guys are -- well, most of you are dead -- I'm sorry about all this; but I really need to get going."
"Are you sure you don't remember me, sir?" the bum asked warily. "You have me pay you compliments all the time. You know, like 'You're the greatest, sir,' and 'You've got more guts than a cat food factory, sir.' Yeah, you've had me say that one lots of times."
"Hey, I don't need to hire anyone to give me compliments, I get enough of them as it is. And why do you have to keep calling me 'sir?'"
The man just stared at Callus incredulously.
"Crazy dope fiend," Callus mumbled. He wished that was really all this was, just a typical encounter with another homeless nutcase. Though inside he was feeling differently: an instinctual urgency, not only about the man but everything around him. Og Pog had always been a world on the edge of oblivion, yet something about it now seemed altogether more sinister, more dangerous. It made Callus nervous.
His sense of his surroundings intensified: he could feel the slight shifts of gravel under the soles of his boots; taste every particle of soot and dumpster rot floating through the warm breeze; even hear the distant but unmistakable basslines and melodic riffs from his favorite dance club.
Well, in truth, Og Pog didn't have a dance club. It was just Callus's tinnitis from way too many nights of heavy partying. But when in that moment a small, unmanned jet plane fell out of the sky and crashed into a distant pile of rubble, even Callus's ravaged hearing was good enough to notice.
When Callus Presexed landed one early morning in Og Pog's industrial district, he felt like a fly landing on an old piece of dog shit. There were piles of rubble everywhere; a few were punctuated by dead bums. The streetlamps were bent completely out of form, drooping like stems of flowers that had just been trampled by giants. Some of the buildings that still stood had their entire facades ripped away, revealing the interiors of offices, restaurants, and tawdry merchandise outlets long abandoned. In general the boulevard looked like it had just suffered a stampede of angry rhinos.
Having just taken out another army of space mercenaries who wanted Og Pog eradicated, Callus felt just as exhausted as the grime-slicked street he dragged his feet upon. But this planet was his home, and it pissed him off that nobody was there to greet him. "I've rescued this planet from certain destruction seventeen times," he soliloquized, "and this is the fucking thanks I get?"
Callus advanced with an irritated swagger. His spirit was absent, lost somewhere under the ruins of the shattered world. Only a weary, wounded shell of him remained: his face, ashen, bleeding other people's blood; his striped henley, soiled with wads of cooked muscle tissue debris; his fully automatic riot shotgun, barrels chipped and slightly warped by napalm fire. The man desperately needed some refreshment, but his chances of finding it were slim.
Suddenly, a mob of gangly street urchins burst out from behind a brick wall, yelling "Surprise!" Indeed Callus was surprised; he whipped around and reflexively pulled the trigger on his riot shotgun, firing off six rounds. All but two of the men were killed instantly. The two still standing clutched between them a festive "Welcome home!" banner -- which was now splashed with blood and perforated with flaming holes.
"My God," Callus stammered, "I'm... really sorry about that."
The guy on the left didn't hear the apology because his ears were too busy ringing. He just stood there, stupefied and quivering, like a man who had just been tasered. The guy on the right gracefully dropped dead from blood loss.
"It seems..." the guy on the left began in a rasping tone, "it seems I picked the wrong day to quit meth."
Callus bent toward the man's face. "You look familiar," he said, squinting at him as if reading the fine print in a contract. "Have I tortured you before?"
"What?" the man replied. "Do I look familiar? Is this some kind of test?"
"Test? Look, who the hell are you and what are you doing here?"
"Are you not just screwing with me, sir? I'm one of your cronies. I'm the one you hired to pay you endless compliments, remember?"
"Cronies?!" Callus grated. "Listen, you crazy bum..."
"Oh, sorry sir. I meant to say 'associates.'"
"Buddy, the only associates I have are the girls from the falafel truck. And that's just because they dig the poly thing, okay? I sure as hell don't have an entourage of filthy beggars."
"Filthy beggars?! Excuse me sir, but we're men and we have names."
"Whoever you guys are -- well, most of you are dead -- I'm sorry about all this; but I really need to get going."
"Are you sure you don't remember me, sir?" the bum asked warily. "You have me pay you compliments all the time. You know, like 'You're the greatest, sir,' and 'You've got more guts than a cat food factory, sir.' Yeah, you've had me say that one lots of times."
"Hey, I don't need to hire anyone to give me compliments, I get enough of them as it is. And why do you have to keep calling me 'sir?'"
The man just stared at Callus incredulously.
"Crazy dope fiend," Callus mumbled. He wished that was really all this was, just a typical encounter with another homeless nutcase. Though inside he was feeling differently: an instinctual urgency, not only about the man but everything around him. Og Pog had always been a world on the edge of oblivion, yet something about it now seemed altogether more sinister, more dangerous. It made Callus nervous.
His sense of his surroundings intensified: he could feel the slight shifts of gravel under the soles of his boots; taste every particle of soot and dumpster rot floating through the warm breeze; even hear the distant but unmistakable basslines and melodic riffs from his favorite dance club.
Well, in truth, Og Pog didn't have a dance club. It was just Callus's tinnitis from way too many nights of heavy partying. But when in that moment a small, unmanned jet plane fell out of the sky and crashed into a distant pile of rubble, even Callus's ravaged hearing was good enough to notice.
Labels: splattered
posted by Row of Streetlights at 4:13 PM
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