Cucks of Mars
MRE: Footfall Pyreon #2
“Oh, My God! I am so sorry—I let approval get in the way of your design! Forgive me, Lord, please?”
Snoring, mumbling and a grunt sounded behind him, “You did good, Glass did not puke like Charlie Bronze Stone over there—dude looks like leather, you’d figure he’d be up to a snort, or so…”
The voice of Drexler rang like a bell in his head as the old goon dragged Sean to his feet and the chirping of little voices could be heard as he cleared his eyes and saw small Asian pleasure girls gathering up their dresses, skirts and nightgowns and scurrying out through the portals, “I didn’t, did I?”
He looked into the eyes of Drexler, who grinned, “I appreciate the extra doll your high morals provided for me—you and Charlie are still faithful to your marriage delusions. Jimmy and Sexxy Drexxy were glad to help you two out!”
“Jim Browne, honkey,” snorted the all star NFL retro clone.
“Yes Sir, Mister Browne,” bowed the good natured Drexler, who could kick any body’s ass in the room.
They were mostly to their feet now, Clink Walker tenderly kissing a four-foot tall chinadoll good bye as she squeaked and scampered off. The procession way, that game day hatch, opened up and revealed Bobby, dressed as a judge, in black robes, white wig, holding a little wooden hammer, “The gavel, what did I do?” moaned Sean.
“Your Gold, Kid, don’t worry,” slapped Drexler on his back, a slap that made his aching brain slosh like a soup bowl of pure pain.
“I at least have my pants on, no slippers…”
“Oh, we were kickboxing for these non-fighting celebs here, Kid, you won on points, broke my friggin’ nose for the twenty-first time, look,” said Drex as he adjusted his floating nose and clicked it in place.
“Bobby, My Cyberdude, what’s up,” rollicked Drex.
“Bobby’s perfect Germanic face peered across the room at them, as the others, all somewhat lacking in initiative when not in an overt action situation, looked on, mostly quite, Brenner narrowly, and Bradshaw grinning widely, the two blacks shaking their head and mumbling, “Nothin’ good comes of a judgment,” counseled Greene, agreed to by Browne, “If something ain’t rotten on Mars, my name ain’t Jim ‘Run-Your-Ass-Down’ Browne.”
The walls which appeared to be the tapestry-draped porticoes of a Turkish harem, began to take on an opaque hue. The ceiling, changed from marble frescoes of heroes battling dragons and giants, to that of kings upon mountains carved into thrones, casting judgment down upon penitent… heroes; such a scene as even meatheaded Cube-Iron men could understand, especially the clones of NFL greats and action movie heroes, who had only been provided with memories of their occupations. Th NFL players were ever in the game and the locker room, the actors, recalled their movies, starring and supporting roles, as if they were their actual life history. Only Sean was cursed with the full human memories of that hard working family man who had done his fighting as a third rail activity, or, as part of his one time occupation as a law officer.
‘These poor freaks, they read narrative power from a fatalistic perspective—thank God for Chuck Heston, at least he plaid Christian and pious Jеw parts. These other men are conditioned to be tragic moving parts. Then there’s Drex…’
He turned left and looked at the biggest meathead, the actual prizefighter and amped up Space Marine who Meek used to bully astronauts and engineers belonging to other Technarchs.
Drex looked at him, as if hurt, “What I do? I never thought shit would fall on any head by mine.”
Then the walls lit up with the faces of the pricks that referred to themselves as The Pantheon, actual petty gods of Mars, birthing clone companions, ruling among themselves at will.
Ilion Meek, Pyreon/New Earth Minister, had his face twice as large as the rest, intruding on the ceiling, addressing Drexler, “Drex, any woman on Mars, except for Catarina and my wife, was yours, and you could not desist! Do you have anything to say for yourself—you have this one chance to wax articulate before your fate is decreed!”
All of the Cube-Iron Sergeants were looking on. Drex winked at them, spotted aged Caterina Fritz counting their credit scores, waved to her with a granite grin, then addressed, not the Gods of Mars, but his peers, “My Dudes, I’m only human, a man. And, you know, top of the line is top of the line—when Mrs. Meek flashed those stardust eyes at me… I just had to Smash it. Not like I was marryin’ it, not takin’ her from the Boss—but, you know, when the finest lady in the galaxy is stuck with King Pocket Protector, some real dude has got to SMASH IT!”
Meek was in a pink rage as Catarina looked longingly at Sean and many of the others laughed at their peer, as the Cube-Men gathered around Drex and slapped him on the back. Jim Browne whispered something, to which Drex, ever the muscleshirt gentleman, answered, “I don’t smash and tell, bro!”
Bobby brought them all to their knees with a keen of his bagpipe function, having muted the Technarch audio.
The dutiful Cyborg, in his black robes and wig, then addressed them all, “My investigation has been tendered to your masters. Remain upon one knee and regard each his master, or mistress. Their address shall not be interupted.”
Hefe Brazos, Satellite Minister, looked down upon Yule Brenner, “Yule, I married for love—even gave you extra perks for playing The King And I for the children, let you give dace lessons to my wife…”
Jim Browne laughed out loud, “Hungarian Nigga in the woodpile!”
Browne was shocked by Bobby electromagnetic gavel, and continued to laugh as he glowed.
Brill Yates, Nutritional Logistics, addressed, hangdog nerd style, ‘Mean’ Joe Greene, “Joe, Dear Joe, you have been the perfect gentleman. I am bound to the Pantheon vote—sorry Joe.”
“Off the porch with you, Uncle Joe,” quipped Jim Browne as Joe sizzled in a barely contained rage and Jim was shocked again, hissing with laughter that steamed from his mouth.
Pepe Teal, Boy’s Education Minister, glared at James Caan and squeaked, “How could you violate my marriage, seduce my Husband of 50 years?”
Caan seemed to be framing an apology, in his halting way, and Jim Browne, seemingly the Cube-Iron Counsel, barked, “Ain’t but prison gay, Jеw Boy, lettin’ that pretty faɡɡot kneel and pray!”
Browne was shocked again, laughing like a lit up demon on one cackling knee.
Teal screamed in real, geriatric pain, and clicked off, his monitor reading, Marooned, like a banner across the face of Pyreon/Earth.
Goshry Hepstien, Girl’s Education Minister, shook his head at Charles Bronson, “Charles, I wanted you to train my girls, and somehow you are still faithful to an ancient actress that your organic prototype was married to—cuck off you B-list simp.”
Bronson was stoic.
Clark Shekelberg, Lunar Operations, looked at John Saxon, “John, you have behaved honorably, as I trust you will on Pyreon.”
Hyman Maxim, Human Production, Reproduction & Augmentation, scrutinized Jim Browne, “Jimmy, you couldn’t restrain yourself from the elf augments—they’re ruined, you savage—off to the stone age with you.”
“It were worth it, Boss!” Browne laughed as he was shocked to a deep red glower by Bobby—whose gavel then ran out of juice. Browne hissed, “Hope you got more juice then that for your robot wife, you meat tractor faɡɡot!”
Catarina Fritz, CFO, addressed her galoot hunk, Clint Walker, a tear in her eye, “Clint, I will miss you so—I don’t care about the votes. I voted No, with an exception for Drexler—who does not even have a decent sir name! Or any.”
Drexler grinned and made a fist, “The only time I didn’t smash it and didn’t regret it.”
Clint then looked hurt at Drexler and his matron, who of a sudden became angry, switched out her screen to a Marooned vote, but forget to turn off her audio before she said, “Hyman, make me a Chuck Heston, with some higher math skills, please!”
Henry Kissinger, ET Ambassador, mostly under employed and meddlesome, not a member of the Pantheon, but their Counsel, opined, “I respectfully remind the Pantheon that Counsel advised against this sports cult, for such has been a symptom of civilizational decline too often for chance.
Robert Zephyr, Chief Anthropologist, spoke to Charleton Heston with respect, “My friend, I voted for Marooning because our many conversations have made me wonder, what if we are wrong—Pyreon deserves to be peopled by men again, to be reborn before our haughty return. I can thin of no better man for such a trust.”
Chuck, nodded respectfully, “Sir.”
Steven Mueller, Auditor General, looked at Terry Bradshaw, “Terry, thank you for your service. We might have won this season. Personally, my degenerate counterparts have made a terrible decision, are conducting a vile and reprehensible act of passion, which will be woven into the ever more shameful Martian fabric. Good luck, Sergeant.”
Charles Khurch, Minister of the Solar Church of Christ, looked to Sean Glass and said, “My friend, my loyal sergeant, you were the real team captain, me just a spectator. We will be watching. I know you will make me proud… bring the Gospels back home from this ungodly exile.
Lawrence Elysium, Trustee of Mars, who did not have a team, looked to Bobby, “It is agreed then, ostracism.”
The screens then shut off to be replaced by images of Earth, the place some of their rulers called Pyreon, the sacrificial earth left to the will of a flaming comet by the captain of each and every ship of fate, abandoning ship far ahead of its sailors, its passengers doomed to dust in a world lit only by fire.
