Planet Fever Read Free Page B

clad in a classy black three-piece suit, far too overdressed for the dive bar, if you ask me) says, “Hey, man—are you hitting on my lady?”
    “What?! Piss off!” says THE REPORTER
    THE BOYFRIEND clubs THE REPORTER over the head with his beer mug, knocking him out.
    AND NOW THE NARRATIVE DISSOLVES TO:
    THIS VERY NOVEL! (work with me, dear reader –- fingers crossed that it’ll make sense when all is said and done)
    CHAPTER CALLED (Undercover Repart*: General of Inane to Make Bold Move) *fix spelling
    Back in the camp on the outskirts of town, FROWARD MORONI (aka. THE RINGLEADER) is in his camper, going over his speech. He was one of the few who had gained access into the dealings of the New (and Improved) Interstellar Syndicate, because he had once been an esteemed member of their organization. For some time, he was trying to disguise his own plot to “bring down” the Big Shots. He had all his thoughts cloaked and forged, his subliminal mind counterfeited, and his dreams purchased via the black market.
    One night, however, a telepathic sweep (of which he was unaware) was conducted over the entire globe. Too bad the sweep occurred while he was in the vulnerable state between sleep and consciousness, and some of his “real” thoughts were picked up on mind-radar. Aware now of his treasonous nature, the trackers for the Really Big Brothers—the hired muscle of the N(aI)IS—mandated a subliminal APB on him. Luckily, he escaped via the “slurred tunnel” (a state of mind in which the subject must find a park bench, ally, or “out of the way” space in any large metropolis and proceed to get blind-stinking drunk. While in this state it is impossible for Mind Scanners to get any clear and accurate description, or reading, of the drunkard’s psyche. They are passed over as inconspicuous inebriates aware of nothing in particular or as nebulous blips on the mind screens…).
    While in this condition he maintained a low profile and began conducting sermons to his fellow drunken bums on the underhanded, subversive takeover of their beloved little planet by the Clandestine, interstellar Monopolists. Within the last year he had assembled a small platoon of freshly enlightened, houseless non-materialists, known to most people as “transients” or “bums.”
    Perhaps the booze and his intense rigor had finally clouded his realistic judgment of good tactics and strategy (for his ragtag squad entailed a grand total of eleven members; twelve if Mackie (the Lonesome bulldog) were to count), whilst the N(aI)IS had legions of planets and googolplexes of cash at their disposal.
    Or maybe a certain reality had manifested itself within his entire mind, body and spirit—the reality in which a person senses inevitable defeat, yet musters up the resolve to squeak out a defiant yelp against the universe: “SCREW YOU ALL!”

THE BLONDE finished reading the excerpt and set the notebook on the table.
    Waiting for her reaction to my work-in-progress, and convincing myself I didn’t give a damn what she thought, I examined the empty Mescal bottle, yearning for more.
    “It’s not bad. Forward, at times disjointed, a touch sophomoric … But it is a viable report.” She tapped a pencil on the notebook as she finished speaking.
    I wasn’t in the mood to listen to a critique of my work. It was garbage, so what difference did it make what anyone else thought?
    “It’s not even a viable form of toilet paper, if you ask me,” I said.
    “Eddie, this is a very important document. The data veiled with-in this thing is crucial to our cause.” She tapped her pencil on her knee then took to a subtler demeanor. “What you went through to … acquire … this information … is greatly appreciated.”
    What the hell was this lady talking about?
    I didn’t care for her mind games. Was this broad on the verge of a punch line or was she out of her flipping mind? To that point, my existence had been a dull and listless one at best;