Max Rage: Twelve Punches To Mars! Page 6

  In addition, the greenhouses are down below the administrative offices and utilities. Too expensive to ship food here in the quantities needed. So the planet is divided by nutritional needs. Let’s see… Where are we? Right. Okay, so under us, several hundred meters down, are worm farms for the insect, ichthyological, and ornithological races that need constant fresh protein to survive. I believe after that we come to the kumquat region. Nothing but kumquats for as far as the eye can see.

  That’s the geography. Lost yet, dude? Good.

  How about we get into the cultural hierarchy?

  Everyone is equal. That’s how Scorching Dude is set up. But some are more equal than others, just like in that old Earth book, Inside Bachelor Nation.

  Quick rundown goes like this, starting at the bottom and moving to the upper strata:

  Plebes.

  Scorching Dude volunteer staff.

  Scorching Dude paid staff (they have their own hierarchy within that, but we don’t have ten years to go over it all).

  Merchies (vendors).

  Owners (they own the stalls/shops the merchies run).

  Clubbers (he or she that rules the clubs, rules the plazas).

  Celebrities.

  Royalty.

  The Bezos.

  Let’s talk about the Bezos. Odds are we may run into one or two since we’re dealing with royalty. Bezos and royalty go hand in hand most of the time. They’re very similar except royalty is by blood and Bezos are by inheritance. Technically, very technically, a being could be royalty but be broke as fuck, dude. There’s shame, but royalty can’t be outcast for being broke. Shit happens when you inbreed like they do.

  But Bezos must be so rich that computers cannot calculate their worth. They cannot possibly spend all of their wealth because they have so much that the compound interest is exponential on a level that they cannot mortally keep up with. The Bezos’ fortunes cannot be stopped or depleted. Ever.

  Here’s the trick about Bezos: it’s nearly impossible to tell you’re with one unless they introduce themselves as a Bezos. And none do. Most are known because they all own a piece of every galaxy in existence. But the majority are nameless inheritors that go about life without ever once even thinking about what the concept of money even means.

  That’s how you spot one. If you mention credits and they blink for half a second before responding, you have a Bezos in front of you. Or they could just be a moron, but you’ll tell the difference, dude. Trust me.

  And that’s Scorching Dude.

  Eleven

  Rage gave Rasco a long, determined look then nodded.

  “I’m gonna assume there is a lot more to this place than what you just told me,” Rage said.

  “That was tip of the iceberg shit,” Rasco replied. “You’d have to live here full time to get close to the reality of Scorching Dude. But that should be enough intel to keep you from fucking this job up too bad.”

  “Too bad? You think I’m going to fuck it up no matter what?” Rage asked.

  “Have you ever not fucked up a job, Rage?” Rasco responded. “I’ve heard things. I’ve read things. I know things. People that work with you get killed. All of them. That’s a big fuck up.”

  “Not all get killed,” Rage said. “Only eighty percent.”

  “That’s four out of five, asshole,” Rasco said. “Which means all of us are going to die except for you.”

  “Why you gotta be a dick and throw mortal math at me?” Rage said. “I was just starting to tolerate you after all the intel. Now I hope you get shot in the head.”

  “Right back at ya, prick,” Rasco said.

  “Look alive, people,” Scutter interrupted. “We’re here.”

  Rage looked about, but all he saw was more of the same. Idiots dressed like carnival freaks and tents and stalls selling plastic crap made on Uranus by kindergarteners.

  “Rage!”

  “Christ. I forgot about him,” Rage muttered and turned to see Grup sprinting at the team. “Go away, Grup! I’m on a job!’

  “I know! I need to talk to you about the job!” Grup shouted.

  The crowd was not being kind to the Clickelack. But, in all fairness, no one was kind to Clickelacks. They just rubbed beings the wrong way.

  “Max! We’re in here,” Scutter shouted as she stood at the entrance of a tent. Rasco and Bill were already inside, waiting. Rage assumed Choosper was hovering above as overwatch. “Move that denim ass!”

  “You are supposed to be with Junior!” Rage shouted at Grup who had somehow managed to get tangled up on the shoulders of a Boopernit, which was confusing to Rage since Boopernits weren’t exactly the most social, or intelligent, of creatures. “Go back and watch over the Punches like I told you to!”

  “Yeah, but—!”

  “GO, GRUP!” Rage said then ducked inside the tent. He rolled his eyes. “I know him from the bar I work at. He’s an unfortunate regular.”

  “The more you talk about your life, the sadder I feel for you, dude,” Rasco said.

  “Where to now, boss?” Bill asked Scutter.

  “We each buy a piña colada and go below,” Scutter said and held up four fingers.

  The merchie running the tent was a human from one of the many multi-colored lineages. His skin was a bright pink with faint stripes of magenta and yellow running every which way. The man poured four blazingly white piña coladas into four different twisting, turning, constantly swirling novelty mugs, plopped a straw in each one, and set them on the bar.

  “What ya got to trade?” the merchie asked.

  “These are on the house,” Scutter said. “We’re here for Lord Sahndle.”

  The merchie nodded up and down and smiled wide. Then he shook his head back and forth. But still smiled wide.

  “You must trade,” the merchie said.

  “No,” Scutter insisted. “These are on the house. Call down below and someone will tell you what’s going on.”

  “Oh, of course, of course,” the merchie responded. “But what are you going to trade?”

  “Christ,” Rage said and lifted his rifle.

  “NO, Max!” Scutter snapped, slapping the barrel down. “Entrances are biometrically locked. Kill him and we can’t get down below.”

  “Then trade with the guy,” Rage said.

  “What’s the trade?” Scutter asked.

  “A kiss from the ugly one,” the merchie said.

  “Looks like you need to pucker up,” Rage said to Bill.

  “No. He’s pretty,” the merchie said. “I want a kiss from you. Four kisses for four entries.”

  Rage lifted his rifle again and Scutter yanked it from his grasp. She placed a very large pistol to Rage’s temple.

  “Do not go for your other rifle,” she warned.

  “Me? Never even thought about it,” Rage replied. “Do you mind?”

  “Kiss the guy, dude,” Rasco said.

  “Yeah, Rage, come on,” Bill said. “We don’t have all day.”

  Rage glared at each of them in turn then stared hard at the merchie. The man smiled, revealing his complete lack of teeth. Well, that wasn’t entirely true. He had one way in the back if you looked really hard.

  “Four quick kisses,” Rage said, forcing himself not to gag.

  “With tongue,” the merchie said.

  Rage drew his rifle and fired twice, obliterating the man’s head.

  “Fuck!” Scutter shouted. She pressed the pistol against Rage’s temple even harder then let it fall and walked a few paces away. “FUCK!”

  A new merchie popped up from behind the bar.

  “Bit of a mess there,” the merchie said. He was an exact duplicate of the one Rage had murdered.

  “I knew it,” Rage said and tapped his nose. “He stank like clone. You gonna force us to trade, too?”

  “What? Trade?” the merchie laughed. “No way, Jose. Drinks are on the house. Have fun below!”

  Bill grabbed the drinks in four of his hands as the ground started to slowly l
ower.

  “What about horsey?” Rage asked.

  “She’ll make sure we have a clear exit,” Scutter said, her body shaking with anger. “You got lucky, Max.”

  “I’m luck on two legs, baby,” Rage said and held out his hand. “Can I have my other rifle back?”

  Scutter shook harder.

  “Please?” Rage added.

  Scutter gave him the rifle then turned her back on him as the ground continued to descend into the depths of Mars.

  Everything stopped suddenly and the wall before them split open to reveal a party in full swing. EDM was blaring from a quarter of a million speakers while gyrating dancers of all alien races filled a dance floor the size of Connecticut. Flashing strobe lights, intermittent black lights, smoke machines on steroids.

  It was Rage’s Hell.

  “Want me to shoot them all to clear a path?” Rage asked Scutter.

  Scutter shook her head and pointed at her ears. Rage nodded and activated focus mode on his comms. The noise of the dance party disappeared and only the voices of the teams could be heard on his comms implant.

  “Phew,” Rage said. “What I said was—”

  “I heard you,” Scutter replied. “The answer is no. The answer will always be no. Bill is crowd control, not you, Max.”

  “Whatever,” Rage said.

  “I see Lord Sahndle,” Bill said. “Eleven o’clock. Back booth. He’s tentacles deep in three human females.”

  “So he is,” Scutter said. “Let’s move, people.”

  “Autographs, huh?” Rage said.

  Bill led the way, easily clearing a path across the massive dance floor for the others to follow. There were some pointed shouts and angry words thrown the team’s way, but Rage couldn’t hear any of them so he only smirked and gave everyone a thumbs up as they glared.

  When they reached Lord Sahndle’s booth, the humans were gone and only the Ghej remained.

  The blob of jelly whipped his tentacles about, his mouth moving rapidly as he tried to communicate with the team. Scutter pointed to her ear and Lord Sahndle rolled his eyes then pressed his tentacles to what Rage assumed were the alien’s earholes. He never quite knew what holes were what when it came to Ghejs. He’d always tried to avoid interactions with the alien race since their inborn pretension usually drove him to the brink of homicide.

  “You must be Scutter Slang,” Lord Sahndle said once he’d adjusted his own comms implant to the team’s channel. “A pleasure. You are much more beautiful than I was expecting.”

  “My lord,” Scutter said and gave the Ghej a quick bow. “It is my honor to lead the team that will escort you to your judging duties at the A Cappella Mime Troupe competition. May I introduce my team to you?”

  “Oh, this one here needs no introduction,” Lord Sahndle said as he aimed all of his tentacles at Rage. “The Murderer of Melborne 5 needs no introduction! The honor is truly mine!”

  “Murderer of Melborne 5? I’ve never been to…” Rage began then stopped. “Oh, wait, yeah, it’s coming back to me. That I did, for sure. Whew. Barely got out of that one alive.”

  “Be still my beating heart,” Lord Sahndle said.

  “He’s a fan too!” Choosper’s voice echoed over the comms. “We’ll have so much to talk about!”

  Lord Sahndle looked at the team and frowned. “That sounded like a Kalanip, but I do not see the majestic being amongst your team, Ms. Slang?”

  “Please, call me Scutter,” Scutter said. “And our Kalanip teammate is above on overwatch. She’ll make sure the coast is clear when we leave.”

  “Leave? Through the tent above?” Lord Sahndle drew back. “Oh, no, I could never. Too common. Much too common. Call a party barge and have it land at these coordinates. We can get to that point through the females only restroom. Third stall in has a quantum toilet that will flush out right onto the barge.”

  “My lord, I am afraid I have been instructed to escort you via the boulevard,” Scutter said. “I can assure you that—”

  “No. That simply won’t do,” Lord Sahndle said. He waved several tentacles at Scutter then swiveled his blob body. “Begone, Ms. Scutter Slang. You have insulted me and I refuse to allow you in my presence any longer.”

  “My lord, you must understand that—”

  “How dare you!” Lord Sahndle shouted.

  The music came to a screeching halt. All eyes turned on the team and Lord Sahndle. The Ghej puffed up and faced the dance floor.

  “These…beings have insulted me! They have treated me like a common plebe!”

  The crowd gasped. Rage guessed there weren’t any plebes invited to Lord Sahndle’s dance party.

  “I have asked for a party barge to transport me to the A Cappella Mime Troupe competition, for which I am an honored judge, but they insist I walk amongst the refuse on the…gasp.” He literally said gasp. “To walk amongst the refuse on the boulevard!”

  The crowd responded with feigned indignation, many taunts aimed at the team, a few screams of horror, a couple of mortal threats, and at least one, possibly two, very loud, very wet raspberries.

  “Good day to you, Ms. Scutter Slang,” Lord Sahndle said. “I said good day!”

  “Buddy, you’re supposed to say that last part when you interrupt someone responding to the first part,” Rage said, shoving past Scutter so he could lean across the table and get as close to Lord Sahndle’s face-place as possible. “If you’re gonna be a royal jackhole twat, then at least do it right, okay? Now, you’ve had your privileged temper tantrum. How about you pull your fat jelly blob ass out of that booth and get to stepping on those stick-thin tentacles of yours, huh? We got a timetable to keep and I’d like to get this gig over and done with as soon as possible.”

  “Oh, my,” Lord Sahndle said. He fanned himself with several of his tentacles. “So much raw power barely contained within a black t-shirt and jeans. I guess I should do as I’m told and come along with you, Mr. Rage.”

  “Rage is fine,” Rage said. “I don’t need a mister in front.”

  “Are you sure? I will gladly volunteer to be the mister in front of you,” Lord Sahndle responded.

  “I don’t know what that means,” Rage said.

  “He wants you to bend him over and do him in the—” Rasco started, but Scutter punched him in the shoulder and he shut up.

  “Lord Sahndle, I am sorry if the means of travel are offensive, but Earth Corp cannot guarantee your safety if you take a party barge,” Scutter said. “However, this team is made up of experts in their fields. I know we can get you to your destination safely. Once there, Max here will be by your side at all times to ensure that no one harms you while you’re judging the a cappella mime troupe competition.”

  “Do you have to say the whole thing every fucking time?” Rage asked. “Can’t you just say competition? We all know what you’re talking about.”

  “Maybe I don’t know what she’s talking about,” Lord Sahndle said. “There are so many competitions happening at once at Scorching Dude. Do you think the a cappella mime troupe competition is the only a cappella competition? Or the only mime troupe competition?”

  “If you can’t figure out what we’re talking about, then you’re a fucking idiot,” Rage said. “And I’ll only say this once. Nobody tell me about the other competitions, a cappella or mime troupe. I don’t need more of that shit in my head.”

  Scutter sighed and put a hand over her eyes.

  “Oh, you are cheeky. So cheeky!” Lord Sahndle said then turned back to the crowd. “Carry on without, my loves! Lord Sahndle will return after completing his civic duty! I love you all! Dance until you die!”

  The crowd whooped and cheered and the head-splitting music started back up.

  “This will help,” Scutter said and clamped two metal bracelets on one of Lord Sahndle’s tentacles. “Personal shielding. It’ll stop all projectiles and most explosive devices. Lasers won’t kill you, but they will sting. Plasma is useless against the shields. A plasma blast char
ges the shield batteries.”

  “I know what else will charge my batteries.” Lord Sahndle winked and held out several tentacles to Rage. “I am in your hands, Mr. Rage. Please, be gentle.”

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Rage said and helped Lord Sahndle out of the booth. “Bill? Get us the fuck out of this place, will ya?”

  “Gladly, man,” Bill said, one hand to the side of his head. “Getting a damn migraine from this basic-as-hell EDM.” He cleared his throat and shouted, “How about switching it up to emo trap or something interesting like that?”

  Twelve

  Grup was waiting on the boulevard for Rage and the team.

  “I said to go,” Rage snapped as soon as he saw the Clickelack.

  “Oh, you consort with one of these?” Lord Sahndle asked. “How disappointing…”

  “Been trying to tell you, Rage,” Grup said, all of his arms crossed over his stick chest. “Junior and the Punches are missing.”

  “Did you say the Punches? As in Punching Air?” Lord Sahndle asked. He turned to Rage. “You know Punching Air?”

  “Wish I didn’t,” Rage replied and faced Grup. “What do you mean they are missing?”

  “Missing, man,” Grup said. “We made it to the competition venue in the plaza. Everything was going fine. Your detective friend showed up and said he’d been sent to help keep the bruhs secure. I didn’t believe him but then he did this great impression of you. It was all like—”

  “Don’t need to hear it,” Rage said.

  “I’d love to hear it,” Choosper called over the comms.

  “Yeah, man, let’s see it,” Bill said.

  “We already have the real one here. Who cares about a Rage impression, dude?” Rasco said.

  “What he said,” Rage agreed. “We need to move. Keep up and talk or go away. Bill?”

  “Scutter?” Bill asked.

  “Listen to Rage,” Scutter said. “Clear us a path.”

  Bill moved into the center of the boulevard and quickly made a path for the team to follow. There were a few Scorchers that disagreed with being lifted into the air and tossed out of the way when they refused to move, but they were in the minority. The majority realized that getting in Bill’s way was going to really be a bummer and that moving fast was a much better life choice.