Jemima Suckworthy Has the Filament of Tommorrow
(i) broaching the membranous skin of reality
The general consensus taken amongst J’s brain cells indicated that he should have not taken the Special K. And yet they yielded to the glassy inverted heart as it fell from the dropper and onto the tongue. The cells shifted in form and colour. They altered in vibrative rhythm. They back of the neck, which – due to the Special K – put the animal promptly to sleep. He also noticed the presence of some well placed tiki torches topped with smoking dung.
“Hail the gods of the sky, the sea and the earth!” said Ensign Hot Karl as some sort of greeting.
Ensign Karl stood respectively in tight leather and bulging pants, looking like a sculpture by Tom of Finland and spray painted with a fake tan.
“May they appease us,” said J unexpectedly and added, “robjob naber or something.”
“Fuck. I’m really out of my depth now,” he thought.
His number two, Assistant P.A. Crystal, entered through whooshing doors and was holding a clipboard. J recognised her immediately as Jemima Suckworthy, the immortal and defaced sex queen he had wristed-off to on many an occasion. Jemima looked like a hot fuck; wild and crazy. Air hostess with a cock in her mouth and gun to her head. Yow! She must have wanted to go mainstream with her acting career at some point and this was the pitiful result. Nevertheless, she looked fetching in her black leather jacket zipped to the neck and microskirt. He could see the tops of her suspenders.
J looked at the large screen of the bridge. It appeared to show their travel through space, the stars represented by tiny ping-pong balls flecked with black ink. They passed slowly by.