Wednesday, March 9

doing it in the missionary position... part five

there were no sweet memories of lost childhood from a different time that nursed and caressed and cradled me in my unconsciousness. there was instead only one dream... that a huge metal cock was trying to penetrate my skull. repeated, forceful banging thrusts, over and over and over, right against the side of my head... some insensate fucktron trying to get his gears off, joylessly pounding my fleshy skull until, hopefully, in his eye-stalks anyway, it would turn into something resembling an opening. anhedonic infertile copulation performed by an automaton... the most beautiful thing i've ever seen.

which of course i was actually seeing... i wasn't asleep at all. the worn down nub of the fucktron paused briefly while i looked at it, looked back, turned his eyestalks up, and went back to banging...

fuck me.

i sat there for a while, to try to understand where the fuck it is those old tumorbanks had sent me. i looked about. rocks. rocks up, rocks down, rocks to the left and right and front and back. rocks in my eyes, fucking rocks in my ass. rocks everywhere. i was not on a ship. i was not on a station. i was in some cave on some asteroid somewhere in the middle of fucking nowhere. everything here felt dead. not like home, where everything was so rotten that it became organic. this was death. slow, floating, million year orbital death.

the fucktron continued to bang my head. he didn't seem to be as potent as i thought before. only about four feet tall, his metal genitals just reached the side of my face. there was something comforting about having another presence there, so i let him have his fun. whose gonna know?

these fucktrons (like most of them) started out as industrial and mining diggers. a pretty shitty job for a robot, because once the rock or planet or moon or cloud or belt or gas giant or whatever had been reamed out, the mining companies leave with their ships as loaded as possible. the bots are left on whatever remains from the dig site.

according to the robot unions, they have to be given a self-destruct code, or a timed power-down, but some of the more unscrupulous companies don't give a shit, so they leave to poor fuckers on full power, alone, in the crotch of a rock light-years from nothing.

whose gonna know?

so these robots are programmed to drill. and drill they do... but just like humans get mutations in their dna from radiation, robots get mutations in their programming. for some weird reason, though, it happens consistently with these diggers, all they want to do is drill, so they start drilling each other. they end up fucking each other to death, so they are left even more abandoned, their drill bits maimed, rubbed down and polished and too toothless to drill through rock anymore and just bounce around ancient caves and slag pits, quasi-banging anything around them. very tragic.

this guy seemed pretty happy to see me. i'd just have to move before the drilling fluid come spurting out.

i guess the tumorbanks negotiated a drop with the pirates, because i doubt they'd be out here permanently and not have salvaged ol' pokey. so it's me and a fucktron until something happens. or he gets a bit more aggressive and i have to turn him off...

pokey seemed to get bored with my skull, which gave me the chance to drift off to sleep... however i woke up to him really going at it.

'pokey you bastard... not so hard. you have to buy me a drink first!'

'get up'

'foreplay... it's called foreplay pokey. i need tenderness'

'get up or i'll kill you'

'playing it rough are we?'

the rifle butt came sharply into view just before it hit my eye. this was not pokey.

i looked up with my other eye. i'm guessing what i saw was a space pirate. though he just kinda looked like a starclown. long hair... fancy duds. a bit dirtier... a bit more ragged. but a fucking starclown. a very familiar starclown. in fact, i know this starclown.

fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck....

'hiya spacetrash.'

'hiya dippy. what's new?'

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