Chapter 10 – My Squad Atricious (page 3 of 10)
Finally getting off my tangent and back to the conversation I asked, “My girlfriend?” I pondered, shrugging, shuffling and guffawing at his embarrassing notion all at once in an uncomfortable convulsion of combined emotion. “I don’t have a girlfriend on Phobodeimos.”
Or did I? Though I know I hadn’t spelunked any of the famous femininities for which the Über-brothels are so well known, I couldn’t exactly account for all of my time on the surface of that nasty bit of forsaken granite, but I have been known to demand hypnosis to block out the most regrettable of my intimate encounters. At this point, though unclear as to his meaning, I was just hoping I’d had the presence of mind to beg forgiveness before I stroked it out of my memory.
“The postcard lady, Tek,” he said smirking like a trained chimp, “I saw you at the spaceport giving her the time of day.”
The postcard androgynom, I’d almost blocked himmer out of my mind already. “First of all,” I snapped unjustifiably, “she wasn’t my girlfriend, jackwad, and second of all, that chick was a man, man.”
I was nearly certain my half-iced attempt at humor-avoidance had thrown him off the scent, but in this case the scent of that nasty heshee was so overwhelming nothing short of death could distract either one of us, and we’d already left her behind.
I was witty in my retort, but had I done any sort of trick at all? Sadly the answer was a resounding “not really so much”.
I’d prepared myself for his shock, but it didn’t come any more than I had in hisser presence on the moonar surface. The cabin was pretty crowded at this point, with Cappy working to navigate our diminugoliath up from the moon, Slackman and Little N trying to look like they weren’t logging this exchange for their own sorry exposés, Melo was wrapped up in his own Moflexinator™ taking another set of crunches before gobbling a pound of animal steroids, and the communications lady I can’t be bothered to read back to remember the name of. Every ear was poised for receipt of the next word, but no receipt would come, because his next sub-minimum-wage comment came under the table.
“Don’t give me that, Tek, I hooked up with her too. I bought some metaphorical postcards if you will, and he ain’t a dude, she’s a femaphrodude. She’s down for double duty with whatever’s your pleasure, and mine was worth the thousandth credit I paid himmer.”
Dahm stood there smirking from above his bacilli embellished attire. I could smell the air of superiority wafting off him like so much New Old Spice Original Recipe, but I wasn’t sure how he’d gotten such justified smugness. Was it because he dipped a tainted well of pleasure I’d passed by, because he looked more dapper than I on this occasion, or because he’d gotten tenfold the ecstasy from her that I had, and for one nine-millionth of what I paid her for a small clutch of refuse.
Even on an open account, you can agree that getting something worthless for nine million times as much as something good is kind of a waste of money.
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