Sherlocka Holme$ – Club Drown

2. Club Drown

They pulled their sub up next to the other Harley-subs and parked. The club had neon skulls hoisting beers to the right of the door. They swam in.

Looking around the bar, Sherlocka and Throatcrusher only saw two or three unthreatening older Droog types sitting around drinking Aquameg. Most of the drinks were roboticized and served via drones. You could have drugs or vitamins or whatever mixed in too. But they still hired a few bartenders, due to nostalgia.

The owner, Omar Narkoman, was sitting a the end of the bar, drinking. Throatsmasher knew him already, since he had booked his black metal band (Fogkill Deception) there in the past.

“What the fuck happened here Omar?” Thoatsmasher inquired.

“Oh man I have no clue. I showed up here for the active shooter drill yesterday. And I really can’t say any more than that,” replied Omar, reeking of raw albacore. He had chicks hanging off of both shoulders, and a big gold chain.

“Yo, I heard they shot the lead singer of Occult Nepotism, plus everyone in the crowd almost, with a neutron blaster. That was my dog. Was he a truther? Tell me what you know G,” insisted Sherlockda.

“I don’t know shit,” he insisted, putting out his oxygen inhaler-torch, while getting up and trying to leave.

“Not so fast buddy.” Throatcrusher grabbed his collars and threw him against the wall, with an elbow to the face for good measure, followed by an aikido wrist lock control. Some blue gilled-mutant janitors (sub-humans)were trying to mop up the blood streaks. “How come all the bodies appear to have been dragged around, and there are bloodtstain smears everywhere?” pointing to the dark-red smears.

Pointing her own Decap-9000 at Omar’s filthy, sweaty face she said: “Love my bitches but where’s my niggas'”

“What?”

“You heard what I said. Who was in on this Omar? I know you type of scumbags. You were out to collect the insurance money.”

She squeezed the trigger, and millions of protons shot his ear off, with blood spurting out.

“Ok! OK!” the bar-owner screamed. “There was an active shooter drill that day and some teenage psychic kid was somehow involved. That’s all I know. I swear!”

“What was the kids name?”

“Lanza. He is related to the infamous one. He was part of the experiment. They put them in the gifted children program to isolate them and then give them prescriptions and use them as patsies. Look him up.”

“Well, I am gonna need a drink, or ten” insisted Throatsmasher. So they drank mushroom juice cocktails.

After many drinks, a random drunk patron tried to grab on of Sherlocka amazing 34-C breasts. She allowed him to, but then shot him in the kneecap afterwards as a reminder of the MeToo# movement laws, which legally mandated that women make the first move.

“Now if you will excuse me, I must go to the ladies room.” And she placed her weapon back in the holster. This was simply a ruse to go and look for the security room, since there were cameras everywhere, and she wanted to see what had really happened at the crime scene.

Sneaking up behind the operator, who was playing Tetrus 3000 in vintage GoogleGlasses, she placed him in a sleeper hold, and squeezed his consciousness away. Into the datadrive floppy on the Nokia 3400XL she dwelved, and the screen began to show the crime scene. Only, it wasn’t even the band that had been reported playing live by the social media, it was a totally different act performing that night: the awesome legit underground act Dataslaughter didn’t play at all, the social media phenom. Falcons of Rap Metal went on instead and played a bunch of limp-wristed shit. Most people didn’t realize that this band and all of social media, and the deep state were all so closely tied in together.

Singer yells: “Are you all ready to fucking die?” and a bunch of lame shit like that. And hyphey zombie lady was like doing the topless projectile vomit routine to distract everyone. Then all the sudden three mercs dressed in all black walk out and blast everyone with a vacuum photon, cutting them all down like slices of bread.

Suddenly, an alarm went off, and the steel doors slammed shut sideways, sealing.

“This is the deep state. Stay where you are. Do not resist.”

Sherlockda Holme$ and Throatsmasher, blasted their way out through the doors, and fled the bar in their Harley-sub, hooker in tow. Thoatsmasher had found a maiden.

Word about certain weapons getting banned by the deep state was already spreading, causing a big run on them at the rugged barter space. People were so triggered over the issue of the weapons ban controversy, that no one would ever suspect that the deep state was setting everything up like this.

“Where are we going?” asked Throatcrusher.

“To find the real killer, and get that muthafuckin’ bounty dog. You feel me?” replied Sherlockda. “I’m going to Atlantis dog.”

“Are you sure we aren’t playing into the Deep State’s hands Sherlockda?”

“I plan to sleep my way in with the government, and find us some answers G. Then, we’ll make our move dog.”

She allowed Throatcrusher to pick the music this time. He played some Deicide. It went well with he scenery.

 

Rise of the Sexbots (Chapter 4)

Chapter 4

The Pop Princess Selection System

The scene’s beginning is where FUDGE-A and ESKIMOSA are still covered by the SKATER’s guns have lead the SKATERS to give them meg at a Pick n’ Pull junkyard.

They are charged by barking dogs who surprise them in the dark. The dogs are shown to be at the end of their chains out of harm’s way for now though.

GOOGAMOOGA: So where’s the stuff?

FUDGE-A: Come over here.

FUDGE-A leads the group to a counter decorated with used car parts. A salesman

wearing the W.O.P. insignia bounces to life.

SALESMAN: What do you want?

GOOGAMOOGA: We’re looking for meg.

SALESMAN: I don’t know what you’re talking about. You shouldn’t be out here.

TRISH: We want some shit.

SALESMAN: The portapotty’s been busted for a year now. You can let ‘er rip outside

the property.

KANGAZOO: Okay, joker. How about some Tums.

SALESMAN: Oh it’s Tums you want. That’ll be five tetra.

KANGAZOO: We don’t have any tetras. WINGNUT and HECKYL over here said he could hook us up.

SALESMAN: There’s no free rides over here. Why don’t you try hacking into Incel’s server and bootlegging some or something?

KANGAZOO: Now who would go and do a thing like that?

TRISH winks at KANGAZOO.

SALESMAN: No tokens no laundry.

FUDGE-A lifts the hood of a broken car and lifts out a teddy bear stuffed with vials.

He grabs a couple of them for their hosts the SKATERS.

FUDGE-A: Consider this a high interest loan. Five tetras now. An extra tetra each day. If you take more than a week we kill you and snatch all your dental work for payment.

This lie satisfies the salesman who lets them go.

FUDGE-A: Come on let’s get out of here.

The W.O.P. bikers lead the SKATERS out of the JUNKYARD infrastructure.

TRISH asks ESKIMOSA, “Is that enough?” as they walk behind the BIKERS.

ESKIMOSA: That’s enough for a team on a 50 gang.

They get back on their motorcycles pulling the SKATERS. They motor past the entrance of the worker’s camp where the mantra “Work for Work’s sake is stamped as a metal sign over the gate.

The W.O.P. bikers, FUDGE-A and ESKIMOSA, lead KANGAZOO, TRISH, and GOOGAMOOGA through a back entrance of Echelon agency. The SKATERS are wearing biker disguises so as not to be detected by the cameras. They’re dressed as bikers. FUDGE-A lets the group in with his badge.

They are first met with resistance by the W.O.P. bikers inside the W.O.P. break room but eventually FUDGE-A and ESKIMOSA explain that they’ve cut a deal with the SKATERS.

FUDGE-A takes the SKATERS to a large dark room where the sun never shines annexed to the lizard base where they can view the sexbots. They’re recharging while connected in a long series to an unseen power source.

FUDGE-A: This is an important part of the worker’s reward system.

ESKIMOSA: The workers get a tetra for every sixty hours performed in the mining operations. The best bot can get 15 tetras for her services in any one of several tunnels connected beneath this zone.

TRISH: I have a funny feeling about this place. We should go.

Ignoring her anxiety, KANGAZOO and GOOGAMOOGA are fascinated by what they are seeing.

KANGAZOO: Who oversees the sexbot exchanges? Is it the lizard overlords?

FUDGE-A: I can see how you would think that. But while the programming and maintenance of the girls is conducted by lizards, the sexbots are self-regulating.

They’re inner most conduits accept the tetra coins and are signaled by She.

KANGAZOO: Who is the She we keep hearing about?

ESKIMOSA: Don’t tell them.

FUDGE-A: What difference does it make? We’re already dead if the old lizards find out what we’ve been telling them.

ESKIMOSA: Alright. But the truth will cost you a tetra.

KANGAZOO: Add it to my tab.

GOOGAMOOGA: Wait a minute. Do you hear that? What is that sound?

In the darkened robot recharge hall, the sound of a woman’s voice reverberates through the metallic gate.

ESKIMOSA: That sound is She. The Echelon scientists found the exact frequency to make the workers’ as docile as possible. They select a natural born woman with the exact pitch and timbre and using programmed timbre deploy poplaver music at focused intervals. These songs override the worker’s autonomic reflexes completely.

GOOGAMOOGA: I never heard of anything like that before.

FUDGE-A: Get a load of this. The lizard promise that She also rents her body

workers. The price is 1,000,000 tetras.

GOOGAMOOGA: What does it cost to get her to stop singing?

FUDGE-A: Come on. We shouldn’t be here too long.

TRISH: (Insightfully) So this little songbird holds millions of people in slavery with TV commercial jingles and nursery rhymes.

FUDGE-A: Yeah, but not us. We’ve stayed out of the barbed wire for two generations because we’re born and bred outside of the system.

GOOGAMOOGA: What about No God Only Pain though?

FUDGE-A: I didn’t say we have a defense against that degree of sonic assault. Nobody has. –Saint Reggie

sexbots10

The Voodoo Wheelchair of Death

wheelchair-001front

There was this dark spacious intersection in Campbell, CA. It was nothing very remarkable. The asphalt was dull with dull yellow and white painted stripes It was a grimy area, near a creek. The large unsuccessful liquor store by it was faltering, its Ethiopian owner stooping to selling cigs to kids. It was quite a grimy area. The laundry mat was old and run-down. A tasty but crummy looking Chinese joint was there too. And the lights took forever too. Hamilton and San Thomas were not a pretty site.

People zoomed by this place in their fancy cars on their way to work at Ebay or Netflix. Since it was near highway 17 which connected to all the other highways in the area. Basically this area was spread out, so hardly anyone walked. There were a few bicyclists every once in a while. One day a young gay black disabled man named Robert set out in his Quickie power wheel chair to head to his medical appointment. Robert had muscular dystrophy or something like that, and it caused him to drool. That didn’t stop him from taking weight lifting classes at De Anza or from wanting to do martial arts. He was a really cheerful and uplifting guy to know. Anyhow the sun was starting to set, and there was quite a glare in the sky, especially with all the summer pollution up above. Robert pulled up into the crosswalk, wrongly assuming the monster SUV would stop for the right turn on red. Needless to say the SUV plowed through him at full-speed, fully accelerating through the impact – and never looking back. And they were blasting horrible sounding rap music with the bass turned up, while leaving a trail of lifeless bones and blood in the street behind their vehicle.

Robert had a fairly small tightly knit group of friends, all of which attended the funeral. Malcolm’s gay lover was in shock and jumped on the coffin as it lowered at the funeral. His mom passed out drunk in the limo. And the priest had gas and did a lousy sermon. But luckily Robert had one kinda chubby brown haired nerd friend named Chuck from back in the day who had gotten very much into voodoo. He had been interested in voodoo ever since he was very young and read the Harvard professors book called Serpent and the Rainbow. He went to Haiti himself while in college and had learned the black arts himself.

Chuck was irate and disturbed that the SUV driver fled and was not caught after mauling Malcolm. He had immediately gone to the crime scene (intersection) and took what he could find in terms of wheelchair and bone/blood frags. There were some chips of paint from where the car had hit, and he saved those too . He set them up at his black voodoo altar in his man-cave. And lit candles all around the room in a hexagon. He went into his herb jars and grabbed poppies, scorpion tails, beetles, and other strange ingredients and ground them into a potion. He had a new Quickie wheelchair that he ordered from Amazon Prime. So he sprinkled the potion on the wheelchair. Next, he did some Latin chants (basically about seeking revenge for his homie) and made a blood offering. Finally, he poured out a Mickey’s 40oz malt liquor over Malcolm’s old high school yearbook. Suddenly the windows flew open, and there was loud banging on all the walls. His blunt lit itself on fire, while shit started flying everywhere. The Ouija Board he had on the table in the corner started to spell something. It said:

I AM GOING TO KILL THAT MOTHERFUCKER WHO RAN ME OVER!!!

Suddenly Robert’s Quickie 5000 wheelchair miraculously transmutated and reconstituted itself from small fragments into its original condition. But it didn’t stop there. It was shiny and mean looking now, and it had hydrolics and started bouncing. The arm rest and siding now had custom detailing saying “Made In Hell” with flames and skulls and dice emanating from it. Its wheels grew to epic proportions- more than eight feet high each! And the damned thing even had hubs with sharp Swiss-made blades sticking out more than 8 inches each. The cushion of the chair was also enormous, and it glowed angrily like a hot coal in a fire. Under the seat were a set of demon teeth, larger than those of any great white shark. And the battery was now the size of a large jet engine’s. The exhaust pipe have out a thick, putrid neon-green cloud of smoke, like that color from Maximum Overdrive. The wheelchair grew so large and tall that it burst through the roof, and squashed all the furniture. Then it loudly set out into the night to seek revenge.