Tevun-Krus #46 - The Same Effing Story

The Same Effing Smith & Jones

The drum solo that kicked off Van Halen's "Hot for Teacher" came over the tinny speakers and Armitage Shanks found his feet involuntarily tapping upon the metallic floor.

He lit a cigarette and broke out the air drums, a musical instrument of which he was an absolute master, and pounded them harder than the hooker he'd picked up at the last fuel stop.

It seemed so long ago, but then again when one was flying solo on a cargo vessel several years into deep space—a monotonous run broken only by the infrequent privately owned space stations and refuelling rigs—everything seemed so long ago and very, very far away.

"Oi!" he shouted out, annoyed that the vessel's computer system had taken it upon itself to stop the track just before it was halfway through. That annoyance dissipated quickly, though, when Armitage realized the reason for the abrupt halt to one of his favourite pieces of classical music was a sounding alarm.

"Ah," he said quietly, pausing only to puff heavily upon the cigarette. "Bugger."

He got up, cracked his back, zipped his zipper, smoked his smoke down to the filter and continued to smoke it, feeling intoxicated by the idea of doing something bad. You weren't meant to smoke the filters. They were simply there to filter the shit in the cigarettes, so hopefully some of the shit didn't reach your lungs, get caught in your alveoli, and slowly kill you. Which meant the filters had all the nasty shit that got you real fucked up. Armitage wasn't much, as a matter of fact he was nothing, but in some kind of world where he was something, he would be pretty bad.

By this point in time, the keyboard was covered in drool and Armitage had descended into one of his fits. The filters, you see. You're not meant to smoke them.

When he'd regained semi-lucidity, he left his bedroom, passing Van Halen and other cock-rock posters, and found himself in the hall. He heard noises. Scary noises. Noises that brought him back to when he was a troubled youth on Hooker Station, like the time he got caught spray-painting swastikas and pentagrams on the walls of the Church of the Almighty Toad King—all for good, honest laughs, of course.

The old lady who'd caught him had grabbed him by the ear and asked him where he lived and what his name was. Dillon Hoobastank, he'd said automatically, ratting out one of his childhood friends. Oh, a Hoobstank, the old lady had said, sneering. I've heard of your ilk, you good-for-nothing boy. Now come, come. Let's get you home. He'd kicked the bitch in the shins and scampered off. No way was he gonna get in trouble. He'd stayed in his room for a month after that, only coming out at night when he figured the old lady would be sleeping.

The voices he heard now sounded nothing like that old lady's voice. As a matter of fact, the content of what the voices were saying was nothing like the spray-painting incident, either. It was really quite an irrelevant story, but it was a fine tale for reminiscing over, and there in the hall—with the alarms blaring and intruders chattering away—was as fine a time as any to get caught up in old memories.

He neared the toilet.

"Why the fuck am I up to my knees in shit? I was gonna score a goal!" A woman's voice.

"Come now, Kris. It really isn't so bad. At least Jonesy won't have his head removed and inserted into his anus because he's no athlete." An Englishman.

So her name was Kris, eh? How very tomboy. Armitage wondered if she was down for some hanging-and-banging like the girls of porn always were.

He spit in his hand and wiped his hair back. Feeling slick, he entered the washroom, saw the guns pointed at him, and walked straight back out into the hall.

Shit. Guns. Lots of guns. This would take some finesse.

"Oh, say, hey, how's it going, guys?" he said.

"Who the fuck are you?" Kris shouted back.

"Name's Armitage, but you can call me Army, pretty lady."

"He thinks I'm pretty. Let's use 'im to our advantage."

"Please do." Armitage nodded in a self-satisfied way. He predicted the babe's thong would be coming off in about three seconds and tossed out the door. That's how it worked with the hookers he picked up.

With their guns trained on him, Kris and the two men came out of the washroom. She looked hotter up close, with purple hair, one eye and three tits. The two men were older, one thin and the other fat and balding.

"Oh, deary me," the fat one said. "Smith, I do think we should clean this place up, old chap."

"Jones," the skinny one—Smith—said, "don't you remember what happened the last time we tidied without permission?"

"Oh, your grandpas are gay. That's cool," Armitage said, trying to appear open-minded.

Kris rolled her eyes. "We're in a loop, fuckface. Every month we get sent to a new genre."

"Pray tell," said Smith, "which genre is this? Generation Ship again?"

"It ain't Christmas yet," she told him. "We only fuckin' redo genres at Christmas and very rare religious holidays."

Armitage raised his hand. "Uh-um. Hi. My life isn't a genre, guys. I know it isn't much, but could you please treat it with a little more respect?" He grinned at Kris, hoping his sensitive side was appropriately shown.

She brought her shoulders forward, squeezing together her three-titted cleavage. "Ya gonna buy or keep browsin'?"

Tugging at his suddenly too-small shirt collar, Armitage said nothing.

She ran a finger up and down his chest. "We ain't got much time 'til the blast of white comes, big boy." She grabbed his burning cigarette and took a drag. "I love smoking filters."

He trembled. Now his pants felt too tight. "I-I'm an illegal-cigarette smuggler. I've got a whole backroom full of these."

"I like to bite my suckers. Hard."

That last bit of knowledge kind of turned him off.

She dropped her drawers and bent over.

Smith covered Jones' eyes. Jones peeked through his friend's fingers.

About to get laid, Armitage lit a fresh cigarette and greased himself up with saliva.

A white light filled the hallway.

Kris, his beautiful Kris, disappeared. Oh, and Smith & Jones faded away, too.

"NOOOOOOOOO!" Armitage went to his knees and recoiled as the cold floor made contact with his erection. "Kris! My beloved darling! I love you!"

But she never came back.

Shrugging, Armitage went and did two things. First, he serviced himself to some vintage tapes. Then he took a walk around outside without a spacesuit.