Drunk Space Driving in the 21st Century (or Prelude to the Cosmic Misadventures of Floyd Pinkerton, Space Crock) Read online

“How’d you manage this one?” he said.

  “Just shut up.”

  “I could just fix my ship and take off…”

  “You wouldn’t do that. I’ve got beer and smokes, remember?” That conquered his grimace.

  “Aren’t you gonna ask me why I’m here?”

  I shook my head. I’d heard one too many Bob Tripeman tales already, and absence of them made the heart grow harder. Sure, I could hope, but I was expecting to hear every detail soon anyway.

  “I don’t imagine you have any idea where we are, Bob?”

  “Well.” He cleared his throat. “Before entering this star system, I think I passed a system I’d read about some Earth ships exploring, years back, although…”

  “Just what I thought. Neither one of us has any idea where the hell we are.”

  “These cigars’ll get to me after a while. Got any cigs?” he asked as he brought his hand to his thick head out of habit--thinking he could straighten his long, scraggly hair through the helmet.

  “Spongers can’t be choosers.”

  “As I see it, you don’t have a way off of here, so you’re gonna be bummin’ a ride…”

  “I don’t have any damn cigarettes! And if I did, I’d gleefully cram one up each of your gaping nostrils! I was planning on fixing my craft anyway. I just heard the crash and thought I’d meet an alien.”

  I stood, retrieving the aluminum cans he’d thrown into the snow.

  “You don’t know shit about fixin’ a ship,” the boor bellowed.

  He was right. Of all his past “victims,” how did he remember me so well?

  “Let’s take a look at both ships and see which is more fixable,” I suggested.

  “Yours first. You rudely brought enough beer for just yourself…”

  ******

  Half the reason I pulled this boner was to prove I had the guts to do it. Sarah never believed I would. I imagined what she was telling the authorities…

  “Floyd was always a dreaming fool--since I’ve known him, anyway. He’s had so many wacky schemes… How was I supposed to know he really meant this one?

  “No, I don’t think he’s fallen in with space pirates or anything. He’s really not competent at anything but daydreams. FGD’s management’s been telling me to fire him for a long time now. I couldn’t bring myself to do it, he’s so pitiful and all…”

  I didn’t like thinking about that. She had just run off with some rich, plump white-collar anyway. A friend of the rustic owners. She’d recently taken on their Neanderthal ideals and become exactly what I’d liked her for not being before.

  I had no idea she was seeing him until I asked her out one day and she flashed The Ring.

  I guess it was going on for a while. She most likely alternated between us (and the universal consciousness knows whom else) throughout the affair.

  I didn’t take it very well. She wanted to remain “friends.” Peachy. “Can I go out with you this weekend? Well… I really should show you something… What’s the matter? Such is life… I’d like to stay in touch after I move half-way across the solar system into his palace. We can be such good friends now that we’re not lovers!”

  I’m sure he’d be just as jolly as I with that arrangement.

  I told her to marry quick and get out of my face. I made it no secret that I wasn’t going to take the news with her definition of “maturity” and that I’d rather place plutonium on my genitals than spend five minutes in a room alone with her anymore.

  I got drunk and reckless on the moon rover just about daily after that. I didn’t mean to run over her husband-to-be a week before the wedding. It was an accident. Really.

  But I couldn’t help the fit of laughter as I pictured him on their honeymoon in a body cast.

  ******

  Tripeman was convinced that the Maiden was undeserving of the slightest sliver of hope. At least, if we wanted to leave within an Earth Year.

  He took his time on the banana, which he called “Cruizy Suzy.” He told me he’d acquired it from an alien race he’d run into.

  I didn’t believe him until I’d taken a tour of the craft. The seats were oversized (even for Bob’s gluttonous form) and they had four footrests. Suzy was equipped with voice modules--no keyboard typing required. All of the doors were only four feet or so tall--yet almost six feet wide.

  Bob did his best to give the craft his own lecherous flavor--bright pink trim (“chick friendly”) lined the control panel and a garter belt (certainly skulked from some poor young lady he’d bothered into misery) hung from the pilot’s microphone.

  Most of the core technical build of the ship was just like a Human variety--you can’t expect extraterrestrials to have different laws of physics. However, the materials used to build the craft were alien indeed. The…wood (I guessed) that composed much of Suzy’s interior was tinted blue and felt spongy.

  I wandered the craft in a daze before returning to a greasy Tripeman, surrounded by rusty tool crates, unwrapping another cigar. He was opening a metallic container that looked a lot like a small coffin.

  “You done foolin’ around in there?”

  I nodded, peering into the case. It contained a dwarf-sized cylinder with a thick, flat head, made from some type of metal. Bob dumped it out of the holder.

  It sounded like Bob was clearing his throat in a very bizarre manner, which apparently sent the device walking under the end of Suzy. He continued making noises and the thing inched back and forth until Bob was happy.

  Bob crooned out a high buzzing sound and the machine jacked-up the end of the banana.

  “Those’re some weird commands you’re giving that robot.”

  “That’s because they’re in Zzurkwin.”

  I rolled my eyes.

  “What’s that wood-like stuff this baby has so much of?”

  “Bilsssst,” he hissed as he held out his palm. I dropped my everflame into his hand. The utterance sounded a bit like a belch. I didn’t figure he knew much about Cruizy Suzy.

  Later I learned that “Bilsssst” was the substance’s alleged name.

  “So where’d you skulk this thing--and how the hell did you figure out how to work it?”

  “I didn’t skulk it. I told you, it was a gift from the Zzurkwins. I must’ve spent years with them. What Earth Year is it, anyway?”

  “2091.”

  “Wow.” Tripeman’s always been profound.

  I began shaking a beer I hoped he’d eventually open. It got me later. “Let me guess. It was a going-away present?” More like a bribe, I thought.

  “How’d you know?”

  “I’m Nostradamus’ great (to the ninth power) grandson.”

  “Who?” I saw his brow wrinkle through a puff of smoke.

  “A lucky guess.”

  Bob fidgeted with all those mechanical parts I knew nothing about. I wondered how he learned to fix a Zzurkwin craft, but wasn’t in the mood for tall tales. I began to think it was one of those experimental Martian designs. Maybe the seats and doors were designed for robots.

  Within three hours, I’d watched Bob loosen about a dozen screws and bolts, guzzle seven beers and smoke the same amount of cigars. His pace was slowing in all categories, save cigars.

  The alien sun rose and fell--I lost count of how many times. Tripeman continued at his leisurely pace; he put in a few hours of actual work each day, going overtime on shenanigans. Although Bob had plenty of Zzurkwin food aboard, mostly edible to Humans, if exotic, he naturally preferred my rations.

  Given my lack of mechanical ability, it was tough to gauge how efficiently Bob was working. Yet I had the impression he was dilly-dallying--I do know dilly-dallying. But since he couldn’t know exactly how much (or little) I did know about these things, I made extra effort to hang close, making pensive faces, asking questions and generally moving the process along as best I could.

  He was giggling more and more frequently. Soon he was sprawled out under Cruizy Suzy, his leviathan belly jiggling between gulps of bee
r. I contemplated the suicide option.

  “I remember when I picked you up on Earth--the time you put that old ’73 Iacocca into that wood pile,” more annoying chuckles, “there was a trail of cigars tracing your whole path!”

  With that, he spilled his beer, rose and grabbed another.

  “Help yourself,” I said.

  He ignored my words--his regular habit--as if he were the only participant in the conversation. “Not that you were in any danger of freezing in those record cold temperatures--you had so much antifreeze in you!” He reminded me of his despicable habit of doubling over and holding his gut as he guffawed.

  “You’re not in any danger of sobriety yourself right now.”

  That brought a dirty look. “Listen, I haven’t drank, or at least gotten good and drunk, in…months. You never learn. Drivin’ drunk,” he shook his fat finger at me. “If I had my Sun System patrolman’s badge now, I’d…”

  “You’ve been talking about joining the force as long as I’ve known you. Admit it--you’ll never pass the athletic tests.”

  “Hey--I’m joining a fitness club as soon as I get back to civilization. Wait’ll you see the women runnin’ at me!”

  “I read somewhere that it’s a whole lot easier these days to become a planetary cop on Earth. Some nations might even be desperate enough to accidentally hire someone like you.”

  “Pfft! I ain’t goin’ anywhere on Earth but America,” Bob said, clenching a fist at me. “And, well… What the hell is America called now?”

  “It was that acronym, but… Hard enough to keep up on the latest even when you’re in the loop. Which I haven’t exactly been, in case you haven’t noticed. I’ve been more…”

  “Loopy?” He extended his hand to me, palm up. It was then I noticed that handing him mooched cigars had become a subconscious act, as it had way back when. “Do you miss Earth?”

  “Yes. And no.”

  ******

  I think I spent close to an Earth month on the Place That Should Not Be with Tripeman. Eventually he succeeded in fixing Suzy. It was tough deciding whether to leave with him or stay and starve to death on 61636-788949X.

  I typed a rudimentary will on my device as Tripeman warmed up the ion drives. He blabbed on and on about the six-limbed Zzurkwins and their mysterious intoxicating beverages. He told me of the tobacco they smoked, which tasted fruity. The “going away bribe” theory was seeming more plausible all the time.

  Bob strapped a vibrating device over his thorax and shouted a series of unintelligible buzzes, clicks and hisses into the microphone. Suzy obeyed. He’d never passed an English class in his life, yet somehow he’d learned adequate Zzurkwin.

  The interstellar banana sputtered, smoked and somehow rose into the air. The noise gave me a headache within minutes, though I was relieved that I couldn’t hear Bob’s relentless babbling.

  The din lessened when we entered space, weaving our way through its expanse. I was pondering a nice way to terminate Bob if this space jalopy were to die. I didn’t imagine there were an interstellar service station nearby and I didn’t have credit for him to cadge, anyway.

  “Where do you plan to get fuel for this baby?

  “I don’t. This hummer runs on indigenous propellants.”

  I was amazed he could pronounce such big words. “By the way, how did you end up with Zzurkwins? You might as well tell me--get it off your fat chest.” I realized I must be upon the outer limits of boredom. Why else would I ask Tripeman to spin an exaggerated tale?

  “I’m a little sick of your attitude. I’ve saved your life twice now, so I’d appreciate a little respect.”

  “Sorry--really, truly sorry from the bottom of my balls. I’m not in the greatest mood. Being lost in space like this, never to have sex again and all. Just c’mon and tell me--I’ll tell you my story. And I’ll admit you saved my life. But only this time.”

  “Alright, but I saved your life on Earth, too--you would’ve frozen to death--whether you admit it or not.” He stretched, straightening his flannel shirt and taking a deep breath to prepare for the ejaculation of hot air. “I was a mechanic aboard a government vessel. One day, some jerk ejected me in a lifepod…”

  “Was he a smoker?”

  “Yeah. He was always complaining and… Why’d you ask that?”

  I grinned. “Never mind.” I was once again becoming intoxicated and I directed my smoky exhalations toward his face.

  “Where do you plan on taking us?” I asked. “I’ll take the risk of getting caught, if you’re ready to stop playing Buck Rogers and head to the Sun System again. They couldn’t send me up the river for too long, could they?”

  “I can’t do that. I saw Dubin sign the papers. Officially, I’ve gone AWOL. My word won’t mean Pluto against a major’s.”

  “So we’re lost in space.”

  I had never felt so hopeless. I wished I could somehow buy a ticket into hell over a lifetime with Tripeman as my sole company.

  “Anyway, my pod was picked up by the Zzurkwins. The Zzurkwins are good people…or good creatures, I guess you’d say. They said they could vivisect me and totally change my appearance. If we go back to their base in the asteroid belt--which is not too far from here--maybe they can fix you, too.”

  “Face the truth, for once! You annoyed them with such perfection that they gave up a ship to get rid of you, so they could avoid offending another intelligent race! They may lose patience and destroy us both if we go there--and I must admit, I can’t really blame them.

  “Even if they could possibly tolerate you any further, do you expect aliens to be experts in Human plastic surgery? You’re the only Human example they’ve seen, I presume.” This was the first good reason for genocide I could imagine. “Maybe you’ve got nothing to lose, but I don’t like the idea. I’ll turn myself in. I’ll do public service. I’ll spy on the Martian Mafia. I’ll… Ahhhhhhhhhhhhh!”

  I snapped. I threw up my arms and ran full-kilter across Cruizy Suzy. My vision was double and I occasionally ran into a wall, but I was determined to find an escape pod.

  When I came to my senses--or at least as close to them as I get--I decided that I was lost and exhausted. I took a thinking posture.

  Face down on the floor.

  ******

  Once again, I awoke to view that ugly face smoking my cigars. I was wearing a six-armed straightjacket, with my legs stuck in two of the arms and the other two wrapped about my face and gagging my mouth. I could only watch Tripeman leading us to our doom.

  “Listen here, wacko--I’m in control and I’m goin’ back to my Zzurkwin friends. They patrol this sector…or one close!”

  He reviewed the woodpile incident repeatedly, each time exaggerating it more. The trail of cigars was now a mile long and the ground car was smashed like an accordion.

  I made a hell of a lot of noise, but it only increased his amusement.

  “You’ve flipped, guy. Maybe the Zzurkwins can give you a lobotomy or something. Hey…we should be in radio range.”

  Super Mooch began blabbing into the mike. In a few minutes, Zzurkwin voices came over the speakers. I don’t know what they said, but the intonation didn’t sound chummy. Tripeman’s jaw dropped.

  He screamed into the receiver. The craft became painstakingly noisy again and we were spinning in circles. Bob’s safety belt snapped. He fell to the floor and rolled down the hall as plasma cannon fire rocked Suzy.

  I rolled down an opposite hall. As I spun around, I caught fleeting glimpses of a fire ahead. I received a few serious scorches, but was at least freed of the straightjacket.

  It was an emergency, so I broke the glass and brandished the heaviest ax I’d ever seen.

  I want these Zzurkwins on my side. I’m getting Tripeman…

  My pacifistic self returned when I saw the miserable oaf at the controls. We were accelerating, most likely to jump speed, when we were hit again. The lights went out.

  This time I managed to grab a door handle. Suzy slowed. I heard Bo
b cussing as the engines sputtered uselessly.

  ******

  I heard an airlock open and saw laser lights held by Human-sized preying mantises. Zzurkwins.

  Their carapaces had a greenish-blue tint. How else can I describe them? Giant grasshoppers. I did notice that their eyes were of different colors and their movements were Human-like. Yet the insect-like quality proffered them a repulsive first impression. They clicked as they moved and hearing the amplified marching of six-limbed creatures was certainly disconcerting.

  Tripeman took off. I followed.

  I had no idea where I was running in the darkness. I followed the glowing tip of Bob’s cigar. I was amazed at how fast he could move that gut in an emergency.

  “Give up, you schmo! At least try reasoning with them…maybe they’ll take beer or stogs!” I pleaded.

  “No way! It’s escape pod time! They’re armed!”

  “Just how did you manage to piss them off this much?”