Churchgoing Man

The Sum of my experience is Terran-bound. Thus far.

I've got no love for this jacketed cock- this doublethrust VanadiumChrome poorman's transport. Its fear what brings my form inside her. Not a sense of adventure.

Some fuck is jabbering beside me (a true judge of character, it seems), and occasionally he pokes me to enhance a point. Soon I'll grasp his stringy thumb and twist it till it bubblewraps:

Pop!Pop!Pop!

But I just close my eyes and forget who I am, and let the tourist poke me, and wonder if they'll trace my accounts, my bonds to Quintus VI; wonder if my subterfuge will stay subterranean even as Terra dwindles back from windowsight. 

'You some kinda preacher?' spits my lucky loveseat-mate. The com is listing doubts and reassurances- the lurid details of our cathe-tubes and vomit-vacuums. I miss the aeroplanes of youth, and finger at my new white collar.

'Newman rector,' I tell my jabbing friend.

He nods. 'A preacher.'

'Sure, friend. Sure.'

'Uh-huh. Where you headed?'

'To a galaxy,' I sigh, 'far, far away.'

'I know that one! A classic! Classic!'

'Indeed.'

He leans and tunes a vertebreak, lumbar by the reach he takes down his spine, and rolls his neck- appreciative- when what-ever hits his bloodstream. I sneer a little bit, but he don't notice. 'Adrenabarbitol,' he coos, 'Endorphin too.'

'Expensive,' I reply through teeth.

'Yeah, well Momma left account in trust. I get an allowance- at my age! Haha! At my age!' The asstip jabs me with his thumb once... twice.

Thrice. 'Look,' I snap-- 

'What's your cocktail, preacher?'

I try to smile. 'I am bereft,' I say through teeth.

He gasps. 'Oh no... Oh... no? No... An accident?' He leans in, whispers: 'Naps?'

'Listen, I'm tired.' I shut my eyes.

'Did they abduct you? You could still implant a thoracic, even at your age. Cost a bit.'

'I'm fine.' They are shut.

'But... But,' and he gasps deep- for air- his eyes showing white all around. Sanpaku. 'A... borted,' strains it out, 'you were aborted?' And I laugh. Despite my fear, my precarious future- despite the suits on my ass and the Naps that died in flames as I slithered down and out through sewage, I am laughing. Doc loves the talk about town, and his eyes are open. 'Aborted,' I manage. 'Yes, the tragedy! That!'

I wonder how many excisions my blunt fingertips have made, the vertebreaks' little plastene hooks twisting from the bone with lightbulb pops and viscera- the flagellates of spinal fluid. So many come willingly. So many... enough, though? We have quotas- the Naps have theirs- the Docs have quotas too. What a word for freedom: Aborted. 'How could they?' my friend cries, too loud, in fright. 'How could they deny you this?' He claws lower at his back, and then relaxes, breathing, breathing. 'Oxyfenadrine,' he sighs apologetically. 'And Xanadex...'

After a moment he croons: 'Xanaduuuuuu... Xanadooooooooon't...'

Soon I'll grasp his cheekbones and jelly out his swimming, pupilled eyes. Soon I'll snap and guards will come and take me from this loveseat and they'll scan my fingertips and see their jackpot hit. 

So, no. I finger my new collar and I force a Terran smile. I forget who I am as the thrusters hum up beneath us.

'Xanaduuuuuuuu...'

This backalley abortionist is a churchgoing man.

                         This was written as an exercise for the Writer's Group. I spat it out and didn't see it for two weeks. If anyone else wants to post theirs- the prompt was (of course) 'The backalley abortionist was a churchgoing man,' and I drew SciFi as my genre. I thumb my nose still at Oz and Darcy, who insisted that Pugilist Crime Fiction isnt a genre.

Where the hell did you two grow up, anyways?