Willie Smith

Two Stories


                Hunch on an asteroid, shooting up a steroid. Shooting up, in my mind, the bar. Whenever a needle pricks the vein, I hallucinate gunplay. To take the mind off squirting shit into the blood. Shit needed to beef up for the job.
                Today I wield a 9mm. Blast the bottles. Lay off the humans. I’m in a good mood. Because I have a hunch the job’s down in the mine.
                I like mine work. Sometimes you find a little gold. The company lets you keep that. They’re after the water. To make rocket fuel. To expand operations. To make more fuel. To further infect with human the galaxy.
                Gold you can hammer into a foil suitable for wrapping up your lunch. Keeps food fresh. Looks neat, peachy, super keen.
                There… now to inject the diacetyl morphine.
                Ram in a fresh clip. Shatter the Courvoisier inside the case. Barkeep rushes over panic-struck. Steps between the muzzle and the VSOP. Takes a slug in the occiput.
                Shame. But not my fault. Anyway, now in the arms of Morpheus, murder just another word in a lullaby. Syringe drifts away – mosquito hawk in suspended animation. A last morphine droplet scatters mercury-like.
                Censors mounted on opiate receptors activate. In come, after the usual static, the orders: Planetesimal Determined Earthbound. Destruct Same. Backup Deployment Infeasible. Failure No Option.
                My heart flipflops. Pulse skyrockets. Sweat coats the inside of my space mitts.
                Holy Dark Matter! What are the odds against drawing THIS assignment? They taught us not even to practice the maneuver, so remote the possibility. So much for the permutations of luck and the combinations of Yahweh. Gotta save Earth… I guess.
                Give out a sigh, careful not to clog the oxygen intake.
                Switch headlamp on. Drift down the shaft. Pick out holes. Plant charges. Activate detonators. Set timer.
                Spot then through helmet visor lying all around the bottom nuggets big as my head! Moonwalk the extra tenth of a klick. Gather up as many gold cannonballs as I can hold.
                Execute U-turn. Drift back up the shaft. Focus on the one star visible through the mouth: Atlas, Father of the Sisters. That same Atlas who shoulders Earth.
                Yep, you guessed it. I may as well be trying to cover the 400 lightyears to Atlas itself. Like Cortez’s soldiers in Mexico, like Napoleon’s in Russia, loaded down with booty, I come – just trying to supplement my income – to a bad end.
                But come to realize, as the whole shebang overdoses on dynamite shit, all along I am you. Likewise all the bar characters. Including and especially the keep.


                I’m saving the planet. Someday I’ll cash the planet in. Go on a spree. Spend the globe to oblivion. But right now I’m saving the planet for a rainy day.
                Hike down to Sherwin Williams. Shoplift a can of emerald enamel. Spill it all over out in the parking lot. Making things a little greener.
                I knew a little Greener once. We took her degree in photography down to the park. Skinny-dipped in the reservoir. Had anal sex in your drinking water. To tie up some of the chlorine. Thereby help purify the air we breathe.
                I haven’t had a drink, or any other kind of medication, in over a week. I’m getting so clean my brain is growing mold. A species of psychedelic must never before seen.
                Once I get in, dry, powder and distribute the harvest, people worldwide will start walking through ten-storey windows. Thereby helping to pop the population bubble.
                I’m also developing a disease. A new strain of dysentery that leaves men incapable of anything but butt sex. Reducing them to a pack of stuttering, slavering, sex maniacs. So no one will notice the difference; the alarm never get sounded. Thus over the generations also alleviating Earth’s current infestation.
                The rectum makes a crappy womb. But, due to nature’s nature, a few – thanks to rerouted eggs and colons jury-rigged into placentas – will undoubtedly take. Give the world a couple REAL assholes. Or at least made-to-order creative writing teachers. Stimulate the economy – create more work for plumbers, called out to unclog impromptu toilet deliveries.
                But what’s this dewing my skin – a little mist… fog rolling in? Rain threatening? Time maybe dial up Colorado? Indulge my genius for theft? Fling a few five-finger discount nukes?
                I’ve been saving the planet now well over a week. Probably even a little interest there. Gather ye neutrons while ye may!
                Pours down like applause from fourteen billion paws. I put saving the planet on pause. Get up to fraud myself a plane ticket.
                Be right back. After this word from my sponsor. Who’s the first I plan to grease.
                Don’t y’all go away, now!
                I’m saving the planet… for a rainy day.

Willie Smith's story collection NOTHING DOING is available on Amazon.
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