PeeDee3, Intergalactic, Insectoid Assassin in: Fafafalala and Dosido my Eggplant (Season 1, Episode 4)

PeeDee3, Intergalactic, Insectiod Assassin in:

  Fafafalala and Dosido my Eggplant

  Part One

  season one, episode four

  RiFT

  This is a work of fiction. Any similarities to

  persons living or dead are purely coincidental.

  Copyright 2011

  ISBN- 978-1-4524-3212-0

  Fafafalala and Dosido my Eggplant

  Part One

  RiFT

  I wonder what the skum-bags at Flipp’n Joe Friday’s are doing right now? I wonder if it’s Galacticpusday? Galacticpusdays were my dart nights. I was in a league, I was good too. I loved shooting those tiny-teddy bear people with the long needlily darts. I especially loved the way they yelped when you stuck them. I was good at nailing the little red one’s, they were called bullseyes. Everyone would overreact when I’d eat the targets tough—I kind of miss those touchy jerks.

  Frass. I’m changing. And I promised myself I wouldn’t change.

  Damn it.

  Something about floating around in an empty eternity that makes one inquisitive. I’d never had much use for questions in life, unless they lead to a death, which inadvertently led to me getting paid. And what good were questions gonna do me now? I’m PeeDee3, I’m a ruthless killer for hire, a real skumbag, at least I used to be, and in case you’re dumber than a drum-taunt Botox babe, you’ve probably figured out that I’m dead.

  OK then, no more questions from here on out.

  Wait, what’s that? Something’s out there in the big nothing, something shiny and it’s getting bigger. It looks familiar, something I…oh wait, it’s just another memory unfolding.

  I was in a Fastnet 2150 maelstrom-drive unicyclone, a super fast, single seat transport that rides on a self generated little tornado of plasma. I’d found this one abandoned. Someone, who apparently didn’t have any more use for it, had left it unattended in a locked garage. Once inside all I had to do was cut the canopy lock, override the Scream’n Demon Banshee Blair alarm system, and hot wire the ignition. Obviously the former owner didn’t want it anymore or he would have taken more effort to keep it secure, so I couldn’t understand why I had the Galactic Space Patrol on my ass with sirens wailing over the broadcast waves. Maybe I’d drifted a stop satellite. Whatever I’d done, I didn’t have time to waste on these losers.

  I turned down the broadcast speaker and started peddling faster, whirling up the cyclone generators. I downshifted, popped the clutch, and the monocyclone tore off with that distinctive, wheee! sound they make. I was zigzagging side to side, up and down, round and round and I still couldn’t shake the patrol cruisers. These were the small, box shaped black and white cruisers with flapping fishtail fenders and the blinking red dome light on their canopies. Those relics looked clunky, but they were a lot faster and more nimble then you’d think. I was going to have trouble shaking them.

  That’s when I spotted the diversion I needed, a passing Krispy-Krapy doughnut dock with express warp-though wormhole service. There was no mistaking the oversized sign hovering above its red-shingled roof. Drawing the handlebars back I shot up in a high arch leaving a distinct plasma-vapor trail behind me, and flew straight through the hole of the giant doughnut with white icing and two cursive Ks in rainbow colored sprinkles, momentarily disrupting the holographic projection. I’ll never get what beings see in all this junk food, give me an old fashioned plate of eyes, fingers, and sprockets any day. But PIGS, the Patrolling Inter-Galactic Soldiers, can’t resist it—normally. But all three cruisers blew right past the drifting dock and kept after me. Damn, they were serious this time. Maybe they were still upset because I’d drawn a mustache on a picture of the visiting queen of New Viria. How was I supposed to know the New Virians look like art-gallery quality framed portraits? I wonder if the war’s ended yet?

  I would have checked—I’d profited by my share of war inspired market growth—but I couldn’t get distracted just then. I had a small window of opportunity to complete my next job and I needed the cash. I had to ditch the patrol ships and ditch them fast.

  I stood on the pedals and pushed harder. Most species don’t have the balance needed to ride a unicyclone, but us Kacekans still have our flight instincts intact from before evolution took our wings.

  I was really moving then. Not many vehicles can match a unicyclone in cornering capabilities, but I still couldn’t shake the PIGS. They must have had Ourara Magnatraction Vacuum Grippers installed in their cruisers—apparently they’d been upgrading their equipment. I wished my unicyclone had a Ruppy TC-1 torque converter; without one I wouldn’t outrun them no matter how hard I peddled. So I bailed. I dove, cutting hard right, hoping to loose them in the crowds infesting the passing Boatloadsofcrap asteroid mall. In a rain of shards, I flew straight through the big glass roof and into the sixty-seven story atrium.

  I snapped the canopy open to give my complex eyes an uninterrupted view. Besides, I didn’t need the atmosphere inside the mall. As I dropped to sliding-boardwalk level a crowd of coupon wielding, shopping bag laden suckers dove out of my way, but this blue-haired bitty ridding a hover-walker just stared at me through a tick pair of four-ten power binocular-lensed fore-focals. Her skin was wrinkled like a rinelephant and she had this horrified/confused expression on that I took to be a sign of aggression. She made this terrible, threatening scream as the unicyclone collided into her—she must have thought she was really tough or she would have moved faster—and spit some kind of weapon at me.

  Caught in maelstrom drive’s cyclone, bits of bitty and hover-walker were sent scattering in my wake, but she’d attached some type of devious death device to one of my antennae. The unicyclone was banging off every wall, counter, and sales jerk in sight as I struggled to get an upper claw to the weapon that was sending searing pain down my right antenna. After several grabs and crashing though a plate-glass window, I managed to painfully pull it off.

  “Ahhh!” I shouted in surprise at the gross pair of false human dentures in my claw; a bit of antenna follicle still hung between some of the teeth. I tossed it overboard as I passed Foo-Shoe’s Soup and Salad Bar. Luckily the deadly dentures had dropped harmlessly into a large vat of cream of asparagus soup, so nothing I would eat was ruined.

  But, despite my destructive path through the mall, the cops were still hot on my tail. Then I spotted the break I needed, one of those Feathers, Fluff, Dust, and Dander outlets was having come kind of clearance sale, and I had a mind to help them clear out some merchandise.

  I whirred up the cyclone generators and cut for the store. One of the stupid PIGS was smart enough to see what I had in my upper nerve plexus and fired off a couple shots. I saw the flashes in the corners of a few hundred retinas and, cutting the cyclone generators completely, dropped under the bolts, which, I’m happy to say, exploded harmlessly in the mall’s security office. But I’d failed to anticipate how quickly the unicyclone would lose altitude. “Arrghg!” I shouted as I crashed into the crotch of a huge naked human. Me, my ride, and the top half of the nude statue dropped into the mall’s display fountain with a loud crash and a huge splash.

  The velocity sent my flying with all four arms flapping. I tumbled down, rolled across the tiled asteroid surface, and smashed hard into one of those, we’ll nag you into trying our worthless crap, carts that littered the shopping malls. When my large, exoskeletonized body creamed the cart all the clipboard wielding clerks working there were killed instantly, saving me a bit o
f ammo. I’d once gotten tricked into buying some skin toning cream by a cute crustation working one of those carts, and I don’t even have skin. Fool me once, shame on you…for begging like a larva before I made you dead—or so the saying goes.

  The Galactic Patrol cruisers had pulled up and out of range. Apparently they’d thought my little accident was some kind of strategic move that would end with a great many dead PIGS. I guess they could learn.

  I dashed back to the unicycolne and stood it up. I got one of my big foot-claws on a pedal and pushed off into a wobbly, erratic start. The field beaters were scraping the floor and I had zero directional control. I pushed the peddles harder, working the handlebars back and forth, trying desperately to keep the thing upright until I had a good cyclone