To be performed in a dimly lit coffeehouse, accompanied by an upright bass, intermittent bongos, and the faint smell of barbecue sauce. (The poet approaches the microphone. He wears a black turtleneck, a beret, and the expression of a man who has read too much Kerouac and not enough nutritional information.) (He snaps his fingers three times.) Dig. The pig. The gig. Is it pig? No. The McRib. (Bongos.) Gone, baby. Gone like yesterday's revolution. Gone like the American dream.

Mercury Quasar looked ready to murder me. Which, considering our brief acquaintance, wasn't entirely unexpected. “You cost me my payday,” she growled. “No need for violence.” “I always have a need for violence.” She shoved me against the wall of my Dodge A100 Van. “Pay up or get beat up.” I held my hands up. “How much?” “25,000 credits.” “I don’t have that kinda cash on me.” I held up my hands because her fist was drawn back. “But I have something worth more than that.” She b

“They're stealing my payday!” Mercury shouted. “Technically, it's their ship.” I said. She gave me a look that could've stripped paint off a battleship. We raced toward the cargo hatch, Max close behind. The Tempting Fate's engines roared to life. “Give me the Encyclopedia!” Max demanded, leveling his blaster. “Seriously?” I huffed. “We're doing this again?” “Now!” I reached into my jacket and produced the alloy container. “Fine. You win.” Mercury stared at me. “Kilroy!” “Ken

Gallowglass Transfer Station was named for its purpose. Cargo ships could dock there and use a cargo-transfer portal to teleport merchandise across the cosmos. Standing before the Still, my brain nano kicked into gear when I realized The Tempting Fate was docked at a cargo-transfer portal. “The Still needs organic material,” I explained to Mercury. “So, we give it something else to chew on.” “Like what?” she asked. “Dinner.” I pointed at a crate marked EMERGENCY RATIONS. Max

“We're trapped!” Gorpl shrieked over the intercom. “Wonderful,” Mercury said. “Now I can kick everybody's ass without interruptions.” Herpezoids don’t create schematics when building Junkcruisers. They claim schematics inhibit their creative process. So, my nanotech couldn’t pull up a standard blueprint allowing me to find the Still onboard. Guess work would have to do. The Encyclopedia of Potentially Dangerous Things vibrated in my pocket. I took a chance that the resonance

The sound of pouring liquid became a waterfall. “Is somebody making margaritas?” I asked. “Shut it down!” Vrex shrieked. “Shut what down?” Mercury demanded. “The Still,” I said. “Harmonic Still of Threx-9. Converts organic matter into alcohol.” “That's cool,” she said. “Until it runs out of ingredients.” “That’s not cool.” A crate beside us collapsed into dust. From a pipe overhead, amber liquid sprayed across the cargo hold. Max caught a mouthful and spat. “Bourbon,” he said

“Then I suppose you’ll be handing it over.” Max Gentry stood in the cargo hatch, blaster raised. Behind him, Vrex and Gorpl staggered through the last wisps of Fartillery gas. Gorpl had a clothespin clamped over his snout. “Max!” I said. “You look terrible. Have you considered a heavenly scented candle?” “Give me the Encyclopedia.” “Technically, it’s a crystal. The packaging is misleading.” Mercury stepped between us. “Our arrangement was simple. I get the Herpezoids. Kilroy

I picked up the alloy container that was about the size of a cellphone box. Inside was a crystal. Could’ve been hexagon-shaped. Maybe octogen. Again, D in geometry. A rainbow of color streamed through it like a prism. My brain nanotech kicked in unexpectedly. When I first heart the phrase “Encyclopedia of Potentially Dangerous Things,” I had no reaction. But now, holding it, something triggered the nano and a flood of information rushed into my consciousness like a bottle of

The Fartillery Grenade did what it was designed to do: release a noxious odor resembling the most rancid human fart imaginable. I pulled the collar of my Styx t-shirt over my mouth and nose in time to be safe. Max Gentry was the first to react. He choked and gagged, doubled over as if to puke. “What… the… blephth…” was all he managed to gasp. Then, Vrex and Gorpl joined in. “Ugh! Ack!” Vrex covered his Herpezoid snout. “What foulness is that? Gorpl did you order the rashaquac

I own the night. That’s more than a mantra or creed. It’s something I say repeatedly to motivate myself in moments of stress; those times I need to reach into the depths of my constitution and kick some extraterrestrial ass. Owning the night is my essence, my being, my true self. Who am I if I’m not owning the night? It’s what I do! And how can I do it if I don’t say it. In order to own the night, I must declare first that I own the night. It’s a whole thing with me. So, in o

The five of us stood in a circle—five points in a round pentagram. Whatever. I got a ‘D’ in geometry. Max/Tyran/Asshat pointed his weapon at me. Mercury’s sights were set on Vrex and Gorpl. My Multiblaster was aimed at them, too, but my attention was fully on the glorious vision of Mercury Quasar. Everything about her oozed the kind of cool I could only dream of. She was Buffy Summers, Lara Croft, and Harley Quinn rolled into one uber hot package. Chewing bubblegum and kickin

“Well,” I said. “Looks like we have ourselves a good ol’ fashioned mahogany standoff.” “Don’t you mean Mexican standoff?” Max looked at me. “I say what I mean and I mean what I say,” I said. “And I mean that.” “C’mon, you two.” Mercury waved her blasters at the Herpezoids. “I have to bring you in alive or I don’t get paid.” I pulled my Multiblaster. “Or I could just liquefy them right here because they want to eat me. Getting eaten by Herpezoids is a pet peeve of mine.” “Hey,

Vrex lunged at Max. Gorpl lunged at me. This struck me as an equitable distribution of violence, although I would have preferred none. I ducked beneath Gorpl’s talons and introduced his face to a dangling frying pan. It made a satisfying bong. “Unhand my cookware!” he shrieked. Max fired his blaster. The bolt missed Vrex, vaporized a cupboard, and released approximately six hundred packets of cream of celery soup. The soup packets burst underfoot, coating the floor in beige i

“Do you have the keys to this heap?” I asked. I knew how to break into Junkcruisers. Max knew that I knew how to break in. And I knew that Max knew that I knew. I had stolen a device that looked like an enchanted amulet but operates like a universal remote. It could override lock codes on a spaceship. He prodded me into the Herpezoid crapmobile. The inside looked like a shanty built out of plywood and tin siding. By the looks of things, The Tempting Fate was the ideal name fo

Before me stood a man I recognized but not from the Gallowglass Transfer Station or Planet Lloyd but from Earth. He was my boss from my old job back on Earth when I guarded a portal in my hometown. It’s a long story. Someone should write a book about it. But now here he stood, a laser blaster pointed at me and a stupid lollipop sticking out of his stupid mouth which was attached to his stupid bald head. “Max Gentry,” I sneered. “I thought you were dead.” “The reports of my de

The thing to know about Junkcrusiers is Herpezoids build them out of scavenged and stolen parts. Junkcruisers are the Frankenstein’s monster of spacecraft. Notice I said the monster and not Frankenstein because I know Frankenstein was the doctor, not the creation. But, also, yes, I would agree that Dr. Frankenstein is the true monster of Mary Shelley’s seminal tale of hubris run amuck. I know these things because I am surprisingly learned. Junkcruisers, though, are monstrosit

The two Herpezoids known as Vrex and Gorpl sat the end of the counter. They were standard issue Herps. Reptilian. Green scaly skin. Short snouts and sharp teeth. Yellow eyes with black slits. An aura of assholery that oozed off them like the stench of a dumpster filled rancid meat. “You said take the lead,” I reminded Mercury. “So, take the lead.” “Not here, not now.” She rested her lithe hand on her laser blaster. “We need to follow them back to their Junkcruiser. I can take

Gallowglass Transfer Station, Sector 9 was the intergalactic equivalent of a truck stop, a bus terminal, and a pawnshop that occasionally launders money. It's the kind of place where a person can refuel a spacecraft, buy a counterfeit identity, start a galactic rebellion, have a questionable medical procedure, and get a surprisingly decent plate of pancakes. And nobody asked why you were there. I sat at the counter enjoying said pancakes because portal jumping makes me hungry

“So where are headed, anyway, Ms. Dirty Deeds?” I asked Mercury. “You need to clean your ship, dude.” She tossed the empty Plorps wrapper into the floorboard where I had a nice collection of discarded food containers, drink cups and a couple of wrenches. Yeah, I’m messy but science shows a messy desk (or van) is linked to higher creativity and unconventional thinking. I’m nothing if not unconventional. “No can do. I’m an unconventional thinker.” I chomped on a potato skin. “T

Mercury Quasar was possibly the hottest humanoid I’d ever encountered. She was a little shorter than me, with the lean, athletic build of someone who spent more time in the gym last week than I have my entire life. Her leather jacket had seen better days. I imagined so had the people who'd tried to take it from her. Mercury had the kind of smile that made you wonder whether she wanted to kiss you or break your nose. I was prepared to accept either outcome. She sat in the pass