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From: "Shadowloup" <shadowloup@hotmail.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} Dr. Screw  Return of the Screw - Chapter 2 (sci fi, mf, aliens, humor)
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Date: Mon, 28 Mar 2005 00:10:04 -0500
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Greetings.  You must be physically and metaphysically old enough to
read this.  I'm sure your children are fine, I just have no wish to
raise them.  Anyone other than ASSTR who wishes to use this story for
whatever purpose should contact me, since I can actually prove I wrote
it.  Everyone else, please enjoy.  Constructive feedback is always
welcome.  If you like it, please visit my website at
www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/Shadowloup/www.


Chapter 2


Byzantium III floated lazily near the intersection of three folds of
hyperspace at the ass end of the universe.  Looking like a cylinder
with a slight weight problem, it rotated slowly in the everlasting
night.

This Rotation provided the station's denizens with enough artificial
gravity to live, work and perform their mating rituals.  And if the
gravity failed to facilitate those rituals, then the thousands of
orgasmic engineers who prowled the station were available to lend
helping hands, flippers or tentacles, for a nominal fee.  Because of
this, and Byzantium III's lonely, distant locale, space prospectors
referred to it as their "last, best chance for piece of ass."

But now ByzantIum III was flirting with respectability

The few diplomAtic missions operating on the station had recently been
contacted by a strange new alien race, the Whorelons.  These beings
were a complete mystery, refusing to meet face-to-face or even exchange
holographic images.  What the Whorelons did want was to meet with the
nearest superpowered civilization, the Confederation.

So the ByzaNtium III diplomats were pleased to liaise between the two
races.  Their efforts now bore fruit.  The Whorelons agreed to attend a
diplomatic conference, and the Confederation had gotten off its ass and
actually sent a diplomatic mission to the station.  To celebrate,
Byzantium III planned to do what it did best; throw a mind-bending
party.

DelegationS for most of the major races were already onboard the
station.  In fact, they currently congregated in Byzantium III's
largest, most ornate hall.  It was 100 cubic yards of empty space in a
place where empty, habitable space was rare.  On the walls were
three-dimensional holographic representations of the outside space,
which gave the confined area an illusion of being even larger.  In
reality, the guests stood on the outer hull of the ship, with nothing
separating them from inky vacuum but a few feet of steel.

Ignorance of tHe precariousness of their party was very blissful to the
ambassadors, who mingled, partook of a vast variety of alien foods, and
chattered excitedly.  Even by Byzantium III standards, this was going
to be quite a party.

FrigAdier Jonathan "Leftwing" Stewart, the head of Byzantium III's
Security Force, was ecstatic. And his middle name, awarded to him
because he was so conservative as to be in danger of wrapping around to
become a liberal, was an indicator that he was not usually ecstatic.
For days he had walked around with an uncharacteristic smile beneath
his laser-thin black moustache.  He had even complimented several
underlings, thus adding to the palpable tension.

His unDerling, Sergeant Dennis Bainter was equally pleased.  After a
month of leading an investigation into the recently thwarted Dildek
invasion, he was eager for something completely different.  Plus,
whenever the Frigadier was happy, so was the convivial, clean cut
Bainter.

BOth men nodded their heads in approval as they watched the gaily
colored bunting hanging across the reception hall change colors.  It
read "Greetings" in several languages, then "Welcome to Byzantium III".
 Though they could not see it, the same characters fluoresced in both
the ultra-violet and infra-red portions of the spectrum.

There had been a debate over Whether this bunting should be removed
after someone remembered the very tragic fate of Byzantium I during a
different diplomatic soiree.  At that one, the Kelnoiree race had
attended.  Alas, no one had realized that, in their culture, buntings
represented proclamations of war.  Byzantium I's demise had been swift.
 But not as swift as that which befell Byzantium II, which had run
afoul of some sort of love struck interstellar creature which had
copulated with the station until its destruction.

Standing near Bainter was his new girLfriend, the tall, elegant blond
Bambi.  Formerly an orgasmic engineer, she had recently become
Byzantium III's official orgasmic engineer licenser, thanks to her
connections with Bainter.  She had also started the catering company
which had been hired for this diplomatic party, also thanks to Bainter.

She gave Bainter a smile, then examined the main serving table, testing
the fOod, checking the cooking and dish placements, reviewing the place
cards, and flittering about like a terrestrial butterfly.

Bambi had abUsed her connections a bit further to get her friend and
roommate Alexis invited to the soiree as a representative of Byzantium
III's business community.

The shorter, darker, but no less shaPely Alexis was not convinced that
her appearance at this meeting would increase the patronage of her porn
shop.  Alexis's club, previously known as the legendary Porno Palace,
had been severely damaged during the Dildek invasion,.  She had rebuilt
it, and re-christened it as the Kitty-cat Club.

Alexis wore a new pink blouse, which may have been one size too small,
over her proud bust.  She also wore her trademark black spandex bike
pants, which now seemed two sizes too small.  She held a drink her left
hand while trying to pull those pants out of the crack of her rump with
her right, while shielding her maneuver from the cameras.  She did not
care for the numerous news cameras which floated about like droning
insects.

Seeing Alexis ill at ease and out of sorts, standing towards the back
of the room, interacting with few others, Bambi flitted over.

"Are you OK?" she asked her friend.

"I have no idea what I'm doing here," Alexis said.  "This is your area
of expertise."

"Nonsense.  Just look at all those cameras.  There's the Byzantium News
Network, Al-Jizzeata, Foxylady News.  They're just looking for
interesting things to shoot.  And one of the most interesting is you, a
self-made business woman and busty entrepreneur to boot."

"These aren't my people," Alexis said.

Bambi eyed a large, ponderous ambassadorial creature of the Maloderon
race, a species which resembled fat, dwarflike, tail-less whales with
pendulous noses and flat feet, who communicated primarily through
smell.

"These are not exactly my people either," Bambi said.

Their conversation was interrupted by the arrival of the officers from
the Confederation Ship Roberty Lee.  The men entered the hall to
deafening applause.

Captain James T. Turk looked resplendent in his gray stripped
Confederation uniform, a boyish shock of unruly hair played on his
forehead.  Behind him stood Snotty, McElroy and Splock, all equally
well-dressed.  Snotty toted a black plastic case.  Farther back stood
two other men, one dressed in an Hawaiian shirt, the other a short,
portly, bespectacled man with crinkly hair.

The Frigadier and Bambi approached Turk.  Bambi carried a lei made from
condoms donated by Alexis, which she laid around Turk's neck, saying
"Welcome to Byzantium III.

Turk eyed Bambi's ass with intent, the lei giving him many a nasty
idea.  Before he could think of a suitable comeback, the Frigadier was
pumping his hand in the ancient earthen welcome.

"Welcome to Byzantium III," the Frigadier said, leading Turk away from
Bambi and towards a podium decked so many microphones it resembled a
mini-missile launcher.  The floating cameras followed like a hoard of
flies.  One buzzed a bit too close to the Frigadier, nearly knocking
off his dress cap.

While Turk searched forlornly for one last vision of Bambi's lost ass,
the Frigadier stood behind the microphone and began the banal
incantation to start the party.

"Ladies and gentle beings, we are here today to celebrate a ..."

Fearing the Frigadier might actually be attempting some sort of
mind-control experiment via boredom, Alexis turned her mind off and
tuned out the incessant chattering.  It was just in time for her to see
a familiar Hawaiian-shirt clad man slink towards the exit.

Alexis ran after him, grabbing a piece of shrimp from a platter as she
passed.

"Hey, you!" she shouted.  She threw the entree at him, striking him in
the back of his head.

"You bastard!  You never said goodbye.  You never write.  You never..."

Alexis stared with growing horror as the stranger turned to face her.
It was not the mysterious Time Fnord Doc.  It looked a bit like him,
but wasn't.

He, like Doc, had a powerful yet goofy grin, which he leveled at
Alexis.

"Hiya, babe," the man said.  "If you really wanted to get to know me, a
simple hello would have been great."

His voice had a laid back, self-confident air, with just a hint of
smarminess.  His eyes were equally self confident to the point of
possible insanity.

"I'm sorry.  I thought you were someone else."

"Well, I'm glad I'm not that guy.  I'm just little old George Metesky
of the CIA."  The man pointed his finger as though it were a gun, his
thumb the hammer.  "Gotta run, babe.  My government is collapsing."

With that and a smile, he turned and left.

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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