Planet Fever Read Free Page A

her hand in my face.
    Blond hair, blue eyes, no makeup and completely beautiful.
    I blinked, scanning the room of my place. She had put on one of my button-up long-sleeved shirts, which almost covered up half her body.
    “Are you sick?” she asked.
    “Uh … no. I don’t think so.”
    The Blonde grinned. “You look out of it. Do you even remember anything from last night?”
    Anything relative to last night was a complete blackout. I still couldn’t place the girl, how I had met her, what we—or anyone else—had talked about “last night” and moreover, what the hell was going on inside my noggin.
    “I believe I got boozed up. To be honest with you, I can’t remember a damn thing— none the less who you are.”
    “Wow, they did do a number on you. It’s all right, that’s why I’m here. And you’re right. You were really drunk last night. Couldn’t even read your stuff. You almost spilled beer all over your work-in-progress.”
    Ah yes. My “work-in-progress.” It had been a while since I had contributed a single word to my pile of shit attempt at that “post-modern” novel I had been chipping away at for way too many moons. Wasn’t I supposed to work on that thing last night?

…AND I am completely burned-out. The words “fuck you” seem to have replaced “thank you” and “how are you?” in social pleasantries etiquette. It’s a lot easier to flip someone off or blast the car horn than it is to display simple courtesy and respect these days.
    Crude arrogance, low-rent machismo and mean cynicism are chic.
    Declarations of war are more exciting than allowing someone to merge into traffic.
    Bullets outweigh love letters. They travel at a greater velocity and are much more poignant, also. (What else can I say?)
    “Hey barkeep, gimme another then another and at least seventeen more after that … I’m gonna be here for awhile.”
    Then she struts in. Legs. Body. Face. Brain. Eyes. Lips. You know the rest.
    She performs an all-inclusive scan of the place. Her gaze hones in on me, she approaches, and sits down and tells me my life story.
    THE STORY CUTS TO:
    A field on the outskirts of town.
    A podium sits in the field. Lights are amassed. THE REPORTER scribbles frantically into his notebook. THE RINGLEADER (clad in an outfit of a decorated World War II four-star General) approaches the podium and begins his spiel, which is heard in the background.
    “This time he has gone too far….” THE REPORTER scribbles into his notebook.
    NEXT, THE STORY CUTS TO:
    The interior of a dive bar. It is night.
    In a booth at the back of the bar, THE REPORTER is seated, along with THE BRUNETTE and THE BOYFRIEND. They are all loaded.
    THE REPORTER rants: “Filing a declaration of war against the New (and Improved) Interstellar Syndicate at this point in time is like attempting to go into battle armed with only a fork and a mule against a Roman legion. I mean, the N(aI)IS is at least as big as history. Shit.”
    THE BRUNETTE is intrigued. She leans in closer to THE REPORTER. “I’ve never heard of them … the—what did you call it?”
    THE REPORTER is oblivious to the fact that this young woman seems to be flirting with him. He gives them the lowdown: “The New (and Improved) Interstellar Syndicate—or N(aI)IS—is a treasonous, secret group that controls the planet Earth, as well as a small section of the Andromeda Galaxy. These nameless, faceless yet rich and powerful interstellar business barons are attempting to expand their market to entail the entire Milky Way. Planet Earth is to be their founding base of investment in this Galaxy because of its fantastic location. This syndicate has acquired all of the rights to all of the airwaves, brainwaves, thoughts, subliminal space/time, dream-making studios, fantasy rights, impromptu daydream clubs, the blueprints for the “American Dream,” a gated resort community in Los Cabos, and a plush getaway retreat in Barrow, Alaska.
    THE BOYFRIEND (who happens to be