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Introducing
with a melodramatic Sneak Peak of his first rollicking adventure novel!
Seven-hundred years in the future, Mankind has colonized many sectors of the Milky Way Galaxy, but he confronts menacing alien species, most of which are bloodthirsty cutthroat pirates and dangerous buccaneers, particularly from the ominous Orion Sector. Although many renegade humans abandoned the domineering United Worlds of Terran Colonies to become ruthless pirates as well, the alien corsairs were far worst –
many of which literally devoured anyone that got in their way!
But one unlikely hero stands out in their midst, one brave man dares to face and fight the onslaught of insidious pirate hordes . . .
Andromeda Jack!
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* * *
Epsilon Star Station, orbiting planet Thornspike, somewhere in the Taurus Sector,
in the Castaways’ Cantina, in the year 2756 AD.
Dorian Callisto crouched over his sassy Bloody Nebula at the greasy, grimy counter. Bizarre high-percussive syntho-muzak blared from mega-woofers in the low ceiling through the smoke-filled joint. His bloodshot eyes watered, his ears rang. This was a filthy wretched place full of alien and human cutthroats alike that pooled together from one side of the Milky Way to the other. Sometimes they drank and sang space shanties together, sometimes they brawled together and shed blood all over the greasy floor, walls, and ceiling. He used to imagine he was right in his element when he hung out in these disgusting places – but he was beginning to have second thoughts lately. Especially when suddenly some reeking alien freebooter flew practically in his lap, having been flung through the smoky air by another crusty alien ruffian, who was spewing vile profanities in his own tongue. The groggy, slurring drunkard slithered off Dorian’s leg and down to the filthy floor. The idiot upchucked horribly, all over Dorian’s boots, then he went limp, unconscious finally. Yes, Dorian could be that wretched scum right there -- and he had been in the past on several occasions.
Dorian shrugged, then took a hearty gulp of the strong concoction the barkeep had fixed him. He felt the hot liquid fireball ooze down his throat, then drop into his stomach, where it sat like a lump of coal, burning a hole in his belly. He signed pleasurably. Then, he downed the rest of the devil’s brew, and slammed the empty glass hard onto the wooden counter.
“Watch it, Dorian!” the grumpy barkeep growled. “You’ll scratch the veneer!” He was an unshaven Terran Colonist, but just as brutal as any scurvy dog around here.
Dorian’s foggy eyes scanned the already scratched and lacerated counter. Then he slurred, “What’s one more measly frigging scratch?”
The barkeep snapped, “If you pay for it, then that measly frigging scratch is your business!”
“Fine, fill ‘er up, and it’s paid for.” He held out his glass as the unkempt fellow reluctantly filled her up.
“Double the price then!” the barkeep said.
“Then gimmie the next one free.”
“Fat chance, swamp-grime!”
“Hey, don't get your soiled drawers in a bind. I got enough galactos for at least ten more drinks.”
The barkeep couldn't argue about that, so he just grumbled bitter nothings under his sour breath.
Unexpectedly, the foul breath of a different kind of stench oozed threateningly over his shoulder from behind. Dorian turned his head ever so slightly, waving his hand to ward off the reeking smell -- which included nauseating B.O. He spied a tall, hulking, muddy-skinned alien, with two up-jutting tusks protruding from his massive lower jaw, and blood-red goat’s eyes looming behind him. Dorian slowly craned his neck to get a better look at the horribly grinning, creepy Vulgorian corsair staring down at him, wearing dragon-scale armor, and his razor-sharp clawed seven fingers, that hovered malignantly near Dorian's scrawny neck, looked as if they could slice a man's head clean off with one easy swipe. Or worse, they could slice and dice him into several bite-sized pieces. For it was a known fact the Vulgorian snacked on humans. Often whole.
“I know you, wretched Colonial Terran slime-mold!” the smelly creature snarled in universal Galactico as his slimy nostrils flared, sniffing and smelling the wimpy human.
The wretched Colonial Terran slime-mold replied weakly, “Me? That’s funny, ‘cuz I don’t know you, bub.”
“They say all Terran humans look alike. And smell alike! We’ll they’re wrong!”
“Well, coulda fooled me,” Dorian smiled weakly.
“I detect your unique odor, the foul odor of a wretched mudder-flocking, scum-sucking cheater!” So the foul-breathed alien reached around and grabbed the front of Dorian’s shirt with his seven clawed grimy fingers, and hoisted him up to his smelly level, face to putrid face.
The Vulgorian breathed obnoxiously into Dorian’s face, and with spittle-enhanced words, snarled viciously, “I remember now! You cheated me at Denebian poker – and stole my hard earned winnings at the last game! Remember?”
“Hmmm. Oh yeah,” the squirming Colonial Terran choked. “A few years ago as I recall. But you see, I won fair and square.”
“Not by my standards, scum-reeking human slimy wart-muck!”
“Uh, I prefer wretched Colonial Terran slime-mold better--”
“Shut up, human saliva-oozing dung heap!”
“Uh, I can live with that one.”
“Now give me back my forty-thousand galactos! Immediately!”
That terribly awful stench spewing out of the Vulgorian’s foul mouth was driving Dorian to faint on the spot, but he toughed it out a little longer as he whimpered, “I-I-I-I don’t have that much on me right now. In fact, I have squat! I’m just a piss-poor bum now.”
“Then I’ll slice you up and feed you to the Swazuvian puke-hogs back on Vulgor! After I’ve had my hefty share first!” Then he stuck a long Vulgorian scimitar at Dorian’s vibrating Adam’s apple. Evidently it was sharper then his claws.
Two snickering, slimy looking Murronian pirates sat at the other end of the counter, nodding and coaxing the Vulgorian to put the wretch out of his miserable misery. Murronians were grayish-green lanky, salamanderish aliens with long slits for eyes and mouths, and no noses or ears that anyone could detect. Their long skinny fingers gripped their tall slim drinks of fungus-enhanced, that being fermented Murronian Sleezvokkers. So, to their snickering encouragement, the Vulgorian eased the jagged blade tighter against the throat of the trembling bowl of gelatin that was Dorian Callisto.
Just then, a newcomer clomped down the metal stairs and into the infamous Castaways’ Cantina. There stood a tall, tan-skinned Colonial Terran with jet black hair, wearing a dazzling swashbuckler’s attire, which consisted of high leather black boots, billowing light blue silk shirt and rusty-brown leather vest. He fancied a little pointed goatee and laser thin mustache, the usual buccaneer look. His indifferent expression quickly switched to a sharp what-the-hell’s-going-on-around-here?!-look when he surveyed the tense incident in question: some disgusting, oafish alien preparing to slice and dice a fellow Colonial Terran for dinner. Quickly, the space buccaneer lashed out his laser pistol, and zapped the long blade from the seven-fingered hand of the yuck-brown ghoulish varmint. The Vulgorian shook his singed hand as he swiftly turned toward the newcomer standing at the bottom of the steel stairs. The filthy customer curled back his ugly lips and displayed his brown scummy warthog teeth along with those two protruding tusks, and growled fiercely, spitting slimy spittle for dramatic effect.
The tall swashbuckler mockingly growled back, displaying clean, white, perfect teeth. Then he pointed dramatically while commanding, as if with some kind of authority he pulled out of his bunghole, “Leave that man alone or I’ll barbeque your filthy wretched hide, you reeking bung-reaming mudder-flocking Vulgorian lower intestinal track ooze-mucker!”
That was the very worst piece of profanity you could wallop at a Vulgorian in Galactico, especially once you have translated it back into his vulgar language. It often makes them good and mad, or in this case, bad and mad.
That’s when matters really heated up at the Castaways’ Cantina.
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Copyright 2003-2009 by R. R. Stark
Published by Bamblebrush Press
*
The Corsairs of Orion
will be coming soon to Bamblebrush
as an E-Book for purchase!