one of life's pleasures is to piss away your money gambling in the hopes that you can get some more money, which you can then piss away gambling... this pleasure is only compounded if you are gambling with someone else's money... this is exactly what me, flappy, skip and mal-aka were doing at the robo-derby this weekend, when some unexpected events transpired... we got into a fight.
i narrowly avoided having to sacrifice my good friend skip in the robo-derby a little while ago, so i it took some serious convincing with a wrench handle to convince him to come this time. mal-aka is a degenerate gambler, so that wasn't too hard and flapjack just follows me around like a parasite... so off our happy little gang went... into the very bowels of this shit-hulk, to the arena...
all stations have arenas, often at their core, where the gravity is easiest to control. that way, if you want to have gravity-free clusterfuck orgies of violence, and get that cool effect where the blood blobs around in perfect spheres (and when you have lots of dead aliens, you get a wonderful rainbow effect as all their weird bloodules swirl about and mix... how touching...) you can get it...
bullshit, i say... the fucking eloi upstairs don't want to come down to the lower levels, so this pretty much marks the go back marker for them... they won't come any further down unless absolutely necessary... which is convenient for us, cuz we don't fucking want 'em around anyway...
so, the arena acts as a kind of central gathering point for the entire cross-section of idiots that live here... from the tourists, to the runaways, to the junkies, to the gamblers, richkids, starclowns, gangsters, hustlers, perverts, insurgents, resurgents, every species of alien imaginable, every flavor of immorality, sexuality, political idealogy... you get the picture... they are all here, they all want blood, and they're ready to pay dearly for it.
so today was the robo-derby... we usually go, drop some cash down, lose it, get angry... get skip to vacuum up all the disposed betting chips to see if any of them were discarded by accident, which they never are, then we get angry again, go to zargle's, someone gets too drunk, gets into a fight with another, then we swear we'll never go to the robo-derby again, then we forget all about that little cycle and the next time it rolls into town, we all get excited and put on your robo-derby helmets, dig through the gratings extra hard for swag to fence, guzzle some starshine and get ourselves to the arena.
this time around, things were slightly different.
first, we all get very drunk before we showed up... this was a novelty, but i think it may have made a world of difference. next, as we got drunk, we showed up late, which means we couldn't sneak down to the expensive seats, and instead had to sit with the rest of our kind in the shit-seats... sort of underneath the central battleground... this had two effects... this accelerated the chain of events significantly along, straight to 'get into a fight...'
every richkid with creative pretensions comes to the robo-derby... it's amazing... they see it as some beacon of reality, some normalcy, so far from their rarefied circles, so real... they love things being real... to them reality is poverty, degeneracy, penury, disease, deformity and pain... with a wadful of credits on your hip and a swanky upper-level berth to crash at and bathe in when shit gets unpleasant...
so these creative monkeys swarm the derby...sit with us, and get inspired... the gaggle of notebooks, voice recordings, photos, video, holos taken during the derby would blow your fucking primitive mind... i don't think any of them have actually seen a single bout... they are too busy in my fucking face with their expensive gear and shitty clothes trying to get at the heart of my existence...
the worst, though, are the emographers... with their little devices that can record emotions. i made the mistake of submitting to an emographed interview once... the device aimed at my heart (awwww... how fucking cute) and at the interviewer's, he proceeded to ask me repeatedly how i felt about things... over and over and over and over... the same questions, slightly modified...
'how does it feel to be poor?'
'how do you feel about being a second-class citizen?'
'how do you feel about being uneducated?'
and so on...
i think i must have been drugged because i remember crying violently about how my life had been a failure and waking up a few days later in my berth...
never again... i'll take flapjack's unlubricated member up the sewer pipe ten fucking times before having my feelings stolen again.
so all these bastards are zipping about, interviewing, taking photos, pretending to be artists and i'ev had enough... i spot one of the emographers and lo... tis the very cunt from a few years ago... vengeance is mine!
i leap over the seats and pounce, like a finely trained killing machine...
the richkids swirl about us, trying to cover every aspect of this altercation... they want to know what every pore in our bodies are doing, how every muscle twitches, how every fist strikes... this is their ig break... this is their war, their bullfighting, their revolution, their time to shine... this will inspire the great galactic novel, the great film, the great holo and emo and song... they want to know how this killing machine kills...
which is not very well...some awkward fumble fighting and someone separates us... security...
apparently, there is a new rule at the derby... you fight in the stands, you fight in the arena...
oops...
didn't read the back of the ticket... oh well...
he collects his crew, i collect mine, we leave skip out of it... poor gearslip was overstimulated. the richkids try to bring their gear into the ring, but the refs say no... they leave it outside.
so it's their crew of three versus me, mal-aka and flapjack... jesus what a line-up...
the announcer says something... i can't hear it... the crowd has gone apeshit over this... you've never heard such noise. now... we'll have our vengeance... now we'll have our revenge... we're fighting for every single denizen of the lower levels.. every deformed loser, every drunken mess, every failed hustler... all of us abused, displaced, dismemebered and violated by these richkids and their richkid parents... i'm going to be a fucking hero... i'm going to take the station back for the real people... these cunts wants real... we're going to show them real... i'm going to be a god to mine...
christ we have an alien whose wings are razors and is constantly decapitating people, and a fucking giant. and me... i'm more of a strategist... how can we fucking lose?
these kids look like they haven't eaten in years... so thin and ugly...
apparently looks can be deceiving... richkids are nowbeing taught to defend themselves, possibly to suppress the very insurgency i am trying to start, because we are lying on the fucking ground before we know it... the crowd is booing and booing.. i guess they expect more out of their heroes than a 10 second fight...
i don't think i can walk anymore...
security manages to eject us before the crowd tears us apart... the richkids, meanwhile, are in heaven... all of my people seem to like them more than us... oh well... no loyalty in this world
except for little skip, who did two very clever things...
one, he placed bets on the richkids, who were clearly the underdogs... and he won a boatload of money...
two, he stole every piece of equipment they had.
i deplore his lack of faith in us... but that doesn't mean i won't share in the profits.
the revolution, unfortunately, will not be emographed.
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what the fuck is your problem?