Phil Kaveny

The Works of Philip Kaveny

177 Kilograms Revised



Blogmaster’s Note: No Images Are Mine

One‑Hundred‑Seventy‑Seven Kilograms

By Philip E. Kaveny

The Judge spoke,


“Ignorantia juris non excusat or ignorantia legis nemmine excusat”[1]


A what the (Starts with F and Rhymes with duck) look raced across Cals face so the Judge clarified his phrase expressing it in language even Cal Understood


“Boy! We is going to slow your ass down.”


Cal stood before the judge.  He was six feet one and weighed 177 pounds. His muscles stood out under his flying suit, and even a week of debauchery, which he fondly recalled, could not dim the gleam in his sapphire blue eyes.

Cal was not worrying because his mouth piece who stood next to him had winked towards him indicating that the fix was in, the bribe had been paid and he would not even have to spend another night in jail.  Within a few more hours he would be at the console of his starship and New Georgia would only be a dimming glimmer in his view screen.


Cal liked new Georgia and always came there on leave. He could have chosen the sophistication of Nova Paris again, or the glamour of Nueva New York, perhaps the somber grandeur of новый Moscow, but for him it was always New Georgia.  It reminded him of a place his ancestors had left five generations before. When he was very young, his great grandfather had told him stories that his great grandfather had told him.



These were stories about bootleggers who had become stock car drivers, and finally test pilots and illegal distillers who had by accident discovered a fuel that had allowed humankind to escape the solar system. Somehow New Georgia touched that corner of his mind that was on that desolate and now destroyed planet that had been

all their homes. The Judge’s voice snapped Cal’s mind back to attention.


“Boy, do you realize the seriousness of the bill of charges that has been brought against you?”


Cal looked lazily at the judge. His boredom was showing through.


The Judge proceeded with the Bill of particulars



“First, you are charged with conduct regardless of life and property at the Peachtree center. You flew your hover craft at an altitude of four feet above the ground disrupting Brother Billy’s Prayer session. Further you caused members of the altar guild to publicly display themselves in a highly undignified manner as the ducked and covered under the coffee tables.


Second, you flew to Sister Amy’s Bingo Parlor and disrupted a thousand faithful who were playing devotional Bingo, after you removed the muffler from your hover craft


Third, you went to Miss Lillian’s Ice Cream Parlor and said that you wanted to spend the night with the three best looking Heifers in the stable, and you did with malice of forethought offer to give free mustache rides to all comers even though it was clear to everyone that you were clean shaven.


Fourth, when the deputies were called to restrain you, you did with malice of forethought maim, injure and abuse five members of the New Georgia Militia. Who are now on work related disability and they will not return to work without the approval their representative from the New Georgia’s Militia protective employees association.


Boy you have been summarily found Guilty on all counts.”


There was a silence then the Judge said


“What do you have to say before sentence is pronounced? “


The silence deepened as the Judge screamed.


“Boy, I mean boy I’m Talking to you.”




Cal looked towards his mouth piece but only found an empty space where Colonel Phylum Pham Phlapjack had stood. He suddenly realized that the fix was in all right.


The judge spoke again.


“Let me take this opportunity to educate you and to explain to you that reason that you are not simply hanging by your balls outside of my court house.

Since that last time, you graced New Georgia with the presence of your worthless carcass there has been a revolution.     New Georgia has been granted its independence as a sovereign state. What this means is that you and all the hot shots like you no longer have EXTRA TERRITORIAL RIGHTS. We can try you, we can sentence you and we can hang you because, sir, everyone in New Georgia is sick of you and your fellow fly boys bullshit.”


Cal thought about it: did this Rube mean business?  What did he mean about Extra Territorial Rights? He had never bothered to think why all the past fines and sentences had never been carried out. He had always taken his special status as a star freighter pilot as a matter of course. But now it had been taken away from him by a set of political circumstances which were beyond his comprehension. He was stripped of his invisible shield of “white privilege, which protected him from the consequences of his actions.



The judge continued



“Boy you are as fine a specimen of a human being as has ever come before this court. Look at you.  Muscle like steel cables, the strength of three of my best deputies, and most annoying, a mind that races past any of ours like a Lincoln Premier Convertible past an Edsel on the Eisenhower Freeway.”


Cal misread what the judge was going to say next. He expected the equivalent of having to say four “Our Fathers” and two “Hail Mary’s” and being told to ‘go and sin no more.’ The problem was the judge was a Baptist and an act of contrition meant nothing to him.


“Boy we are going to make an example of you. Tell me, boy, how much do you weigh at l G?”


Cal stood perplexed and then converted the 80.5 kilos he weighed at 1 G to 177 pounds and answered, with a condescending snarl which he would have a long time to regret.


“177 pounds, what is to you, windbag?”


The judge smiled the sardonic cruelly of s great white shark, about to eat a baby seal with one bite as he said,


“You will not see artificial sunlight on New Georgia again until you weigh 377 pounds”


Cal made a break for it but it was to no avail. Seven deputies were all over. He made a few of them pay for it, but finally they subdued him, and dragged him to his private cell at the detention center. His room was not spartan, it was 12 by 32 feet, not much smaller than the cabin on his ship, and there was a very large bookcase very full book case in it, containing complete all 120 volumes of the Great Books series, with a note on it said. “in case you get bored 😊 What his did know was Cal could power read nearly as quickly as they could turn their pages, another attribute which separate the quick from the dead pilots, whether data was display displayed on parchment or a heads-up helmet monitor.



Nothing happened for what seemed like forever. Cal inspected the room and found that it contained a stool, a shower, a flat mirror (stainless steel), and a smooth wall that suddenly became a one l meter monitor on which appeared nothing but snow, which his sensation‑starved mind sought to make images.  About then a picture of a woman snapped across it.


“Welcome to the New Georgia Center for Attitude Adjustment and Political Re‑education.  It is all very simple; your sentence is as the Judge has passed on you. You will not see daylight again until the dial on the far wall above the steel plate says 377 lbs. You will notice two drawers. The one on your right has pills that will make you hungry. The other has a pill that will end your life. It makes no difference to us whether you go out waddling or feet first.

You will find that the food locker has been generously supplied with tasty and high calorie food: nuts, chocolate, cheese, ice cream, fried chicken etc. The rest is up to you.”


Then, abruptly, the screen went blank. Cal went to the drawer with the single poison pill and looked at it. He thought of images of darkness and unity and death.  He thought of life as intrusion into the order and solemnity of the universe and then cursed whatever dark gods amused themselves with his fate. He held the pill to his lips, smelled the faint smell of almonds and then dashed the pill down the toilet along with the ones that were to give him appetite and started to chow down. At first, he could only eat a pound of cheese and a cup of nuts at a time with a pint of ice cream for dessert, seems nobody on New Georgia gave rap about good or bad cholesterol, just like it had been in old Georgia six generations past


When he did not eat he exercised just as he would of in the Zero G of a ships cab. Weeks passed and he wondered if anything was happening.  Then, while he was doing some movement, the supposedly indestructible fabric of the ass of his flight suit burst all the way around to the front of crotch. He now had nothing to wear as he sat nakedly on the floor and continued to eat his way to freedom. He continued his exercise but in a much more half‑ hearted manner.

More time passed as he seemed to lose all track of it. He kept his sanity by making pictures in his mind of the worlds he had visited. He thought of the water planet and soft skinned women, he dreamt of the ice planet and great ice schooners that could cut across a continent in a day.  And, finally, he dreamed of the last burst of light from a star whose gravity was pulling it back in.

Then the Video screen clicked on and the same woman’s face appeared.


“Cover your nakedness.  You look shameful”.

Lines appeared. An opening appeared in the wall, the door dilated and Cal saw the inside of a closet. It contained a size 60 double breasted suit, three pairs of underwear and socks, and a pair of size 13 EEE wing tips, which fit him perfectly, along with three white shirts and two bow ties. He tried it all on and it fit.

Cal walked to the steel plate stepped on it and the dial read 389 pounds.  The door opened and Cal lumbered out into the sunlight which burned his eyes.  He reached into his coat pocket and found a pair of black sun glasses.


Cal rumbled heavily down the main street of New Georgia heading towards the space port where his ship had been impounded along with his customized, single‑passenger hover car. A half day later, with burning, bleeding feet, he lumbered past the gate of the space port. Cal still had the dignity of a pilot and his credentials, but as he reached his ship and tried to enter he felt the door of the airlock cut into the side of his 56-inch waist. It was a cruel fact that there was no way that he would ever fit inside that ship again.


Next, he untethered and jumped into his hover car which did not hover, but crashed lifeless into the gravel. Cal pulled himself to his burning feet wishing he had the poison pill that he had so cavalierly thrown away.


Then his mind moved from self‑pity to revenge. He knew the layout of New Georgia, every pilot did. It barely covered 1000 square kilometers, protected as it was from the primordial smog of the rest of the planet by a geodesic dome which contained the envelope of nitrogen‑oxygen which supported 40,000 human souls.  It would be easy to find a weak point and place a charge which would burst the envelope and allow him to watch as the population choked to death, along with himself.


In his mind, he thought of what he would need: a barrel of fuel oil and some fertilizer. He could buy what he needed with the hundred dollars in gold that he had in his pocket. Just then he heard a horn honk and turned to see a pickup with a rifle rack on the back of it.


The voice twanged from the cab.


“You need a ride, fat boy? Which way you all goin?”


Cal saw the face of a male field worker stare out but not quite the face of a field worker because the face had the eyes of bird hunter’s hawk


He thought to himself:

“Why not. I can kill him, take the truck steal what I need and put an end to myself and this fucking place.”


The young   man was about 21 and smiled with a toothless grin.

Then he said

“Better hop in the back. I don’t think we can both fit in the cab.”


So, Cal pulled open the chain that held open the tail gate and rolled onto the truck bed. As he sat down the truck pulled away. In his mind, he had made the bomb which would kill the colony.  He was at least halfway there already, all he needed was fuel oil and fertilizer. New Georgia was the only human colony which kept a hydro‑carbon base transportation and energy system. Now he thought that stupid sentimentality would allow him to wipe them out. He allowed himself the entertainment of thinking that he could be one of the last to die so he could watch the others choke and freeze in the primordial soup. He was sure he could   make some makeshift breathing apparatus which could keep him alive that necessary few minutes to make the others die.


Then abruptly he was planning how he could garrote the rube driving the truck it slammed to a halt in a gravel parking lot of a tavern with half burned out Neon sign crackling in the day light that said The Missouri INN.


Then the Rube Twanged


“End of the line, fat boy, but you can buy me a beer if you got a dollar.”


Cal looked around as he pulled himself to his burning feet.  He could barely walk as he got out of the half‑ton Ford pickup.  They were in the parking lot of the small tavern that went with the Neon sign. Cal followed him in, vowing he would kill him later.


This was a part of New Georgia he had never been in. It was old and dirty even after less than a hundred years. The buildings were of wood and tar paper, and besides a trough to piss in, some beer signs that were on the wall, and a one-meter television screen on the wall, and the room was barren of furnishings.

The rube interrupted Cal’s train of thought right after he had dropped a silver dollar on the bar and had signaled for two beers.


“How’d you’ll get to be so fat anyway?”


Call thought of a slow way to kill him after they left the bar and then answered him honestly.

“I used to be a starship pilot until I pissed off a judge.  He sentenced me to gain 200 pounds.”


The rube looked at him incredulously and said,


“My ass you were. You were a pilot just like I have a celestial mechanics tool kit in the box of my pickup. If you ever sat in the pilot’s seat of a starship I will kiss your big red ass at high noon on Easter Sunday at the Peachtree Center.”


Just then the video screen came on.  Wrestling was as popular in New Georgia as it had been in its name sake. Cal tried to speak but the rube interrupted and ordered two more beers.

Then the Rube said,


“Now shut the fuck up, the Duke and the Mongol are teaming up against The Gripper and Elvis for the tag team championship of New Georgia.”

Cal couldn’t believe what he saw. Four men as large as him standing in a 24-foot ring. He thought he had never seen men so big and ugly besides himself. The tag team match started and Cal was astounded by what he saw the huge men hit each other with:  chairs, tennis rackets, spray each other with fire extinguishers and then finally jump on each other until two of them could not move and the other two were declared the winner.


The rube pounded the bar and slapped his knees and chortled.


“Hey, fly boy, you think you could do that for a living YUK, YUK, YUK?

Cal thought, “


Now I really want to kill him but for now I just want to beat the shit out of him.”  Cal still had sizeable strength which he had retained with his work‑outs in prison.

It all happened in an instant as Cal screamed


“Take that, you Cracker Shithead, and that, and that!”


Cal bumped him from one end of the bar to the other,

Literally mopping him across the floor until the rest of the patrons restrained him.

No real damage had been done to the rube and as they brushed him off, he said,


“YUK, YUK, YUK, YUK, nobody ever done the Mr. Weasel before!  I never lost a fight before. Course you caught me off balance.   Well, what you say you and I go down to the Omni and pick up a thousand on amateur night. They’ll pay a thousand bucks to anyone who can stay three minutes in the ring with the Mongol and the Gripper.  What do you say the Weasel and the Fly Boy give it a try? I already had the shit beat out of me once, I might as well get paid for it. Right Fly Boy?”


Cal could not believe what he was hearing. A man that he was shortly going to kill was asking him to make a fool of himself before thousands of other fools. This was not the fate of a starship pilot.


Then Mr. Weasel said,


“You look hungry big boy.  Let me buy you dinner.  Give my boy here four fried chickens and put it on my tab.”

Cal added,

“Make that four fried chickens, slaw, and fries, and some biscuits. And make it quick, asshole, before I mop the floor with you too.”

So, they bought Cal dinner.


Professional wrestling had been quite the rage in the colony of New Georgia, and after the revolution it had become a mania.  It took place at what was known as the Omni, which was in fact a giant big‑top tent that was used for wrestling on Saturday night   and revivals on Sunday morning. Both drew several thousand spectators, but those in the know said that wrestling drew better. In addition, the matches were cablecast to every household in the recently proclaimed Republic of New Georgia. The Rube known by most as Mr. Weasel, let Cal sleep in his garage on his truck bed.


The next day Cal and Mr. Weasel went to the Omni for amateur night. Cal was still wearing his size 60 suit and bow tie since they were all the clothes he had.  Mr. Weasel was wearing a string tie and a Cowboy hat and was all dressed in black, including cowboy boots that made him seem two inches taller.

They came just in time to see the Mongol and the Gripper finish off the last of two unlucky contestants who were trying to last the time limit. One of the unlucky fellows was lying unconscious on the lip of the ring with a broken chair next to his head. The Gripper was blowing carbon dioxide from the fire extinguisher into the face of the last of the unfortunate     amateurs that tried to claim the thousand. There was a kind of nattering silence as they hauled off the two challengers.

Then the announcer stepped to the center of the ring and waited as a long slender microphone slid down from the top of the tent into his waiting hands, and it was   none other than     Cal’s departed defense consul Colonel Phylum Phlymphlam Phlapjack.


The colonel pulled down the mike and spoke with a booming drawl:


“Unless, Ladieeees and Gentllllemen, we have any more fools in the audience, that will be the end of our show for the evening.”


Just then Mr. Weasel shouted from the back of the tent.


“Me and Flyboy here will take on your two piles of gator’s squat, and kick their ignorant, cracker asses into next Tuesday.”


The Gripper reacted like a great ape that had just   had his favorite tire swing stolen. The Mongol, on the other hand, being a class act, simply turned around and bared his rosy red ischia calamities to the Flyboy and Mr. Weasel. As a matter of fact, both The Gripper and The Mongol resembled lowland apes in both body size and proportion although they lacked the heroic features of their terrestrial relatives.


The audience broke with laughter and applause as Mr. Weasel walked and Cal waddled down the aisle. Some of them held their sides as they passed. He made   quite a spectacle in his now dirty and wrinkled black suit and cockeyed blue tie.


Cal concentrated as he walked angrily down the center aisle on burning feet. His rage burned with a cold blue light which had concentrated second by second for 18 months in the New Georgia attitude adjustment center.

Cal could not remember who he was or where he came from.    His anger sprung from the depths of his tortured spirit, trapped as it was inside of a great sack of fat. Just as his mind flashed back to who he was and what he had lost, he tripped on the edge of the lip of the ring. As he dragged himself to his feet, he turned just in time to see Mr.  Weasel lifted the tent flap and slip out into the parking lot.

The Mongol came charging at him with tennis racket in hand, but before he could raise it to strike him, Cal caught the Mongol’s right hand and pulled it back through his crotch and proceeded to pull him across the ring on his nose.

Somehow the Mongol managed to tag the hand of his teammate who jumped over the top rope of the ring, wicker chair in hand.  As Cal released the Mongol, who collapsed into a wrenching heap   on the floor, the Gripper broke the wicker chair over Cal’s head.  The chair caught on his shoulders, but exploded has he flexed his shoulders


Cal picked up the whiffle ball bat and ripped it across the shins of the Gripper who doubled up grasping his throbbing shins just long enough for Cal to bring the force of his doubled fist down on top of the Gripper’s bald sweating head.


The Mongol was back on his feet just long enough to take one last look at Cal, before he crawled out between the ropes of the ring.  The Gripper was breathing but not moving.


The colonel climbed into the ring, signaled for the mike, and placed a clammy hand on Cal’s heaving chest.


“Ladieeees and Gentlemeeen, the new Tag Team Champeeeen of New Georgia, The Fly Booooooy.”


Cal took his thousand‑dollar bill and tried to form the image in his mind of a gossamer winged ice cruiser being propelled by 200‑mile‑an‑hour winds at supersonic speeds across the frozen surface of a continent of an ice planet. Cal wondered if he would ever see it again.



Then he   stood at the edge of the ring. Everything that had made him what he was today was mapped upon his face, his burning bleeding feet, his space suit with its ass exploding and ripping out. He struggled to remember the stranger that he once was and that once was him now trapped inside the sack of fat he that he appeared to be to the world.


He thought the cold equations that he worked and then reworked that always came out the same, which made him too fat to get inside the ship he loved. All of it said the same thing, and that same thing meant for him he was trapped in redneck heaven.


Cal’s soul was mapped upon his face, and it silently screamed this warning to ears that could not hear him. The next News Man that shouts a question in my ear as he sticks a camera in my face, will find himself quite uncomfortably seated after his camera is inserted where the sun doesn’t shine. To make himself clear Cal threw the person who just tried to stick a one thousand dollar in gold a week contract under his chin into the ring sides seats, only to here Colonel Flapjack say to a New Georgia Militia chief,


“Make certain somebody pays to have those chairs replaced, and add the usual 20% commission to my account.”



Just then Mr. Weasel came up to Cal dressed tan shoes with pink shoelaces A polka dot vest wearing a thousand-dollar White Palm Beach suit and a Stetson straw hat carrying a very crude circa 1957 transistor radio that was playing on level 11 out of 10

In a tone of voice like Gary Cooper in High Noon soft deadly all Mr. Weasel   said


“Fly boy you owe me five hundred dollars we ‘are team. Now fork it over”

The folks around the ring gave them a wide berth, there was as an unmistakable whiff of death was in the air. Cal realized Mr. Weasel was something very different than who Cal thought he was. This was something everybody else in New Georgia already knew.


Cal could not believe what that cracker shit head had said to him, even though he could barely recognize him is his new duds, which he almost instantly changed into, with his sparkling new and beautifully crafted false teeth   in place. Cal was about rip Mr. Weasel’s a new one when he noticed that Mr. Weasel had his suit jacket open and as was the flap on his shoulder holster, which smelled of freshly saddled soaped leather.   He was packing some heavy-duty hardware a double barrel 50 caliber black powder sub sonic spent semi-spherical Uranium Ball Derringer. For backup, he carried a double edge cut throat straight edge razor, with its own custom doe skin sheath in his hand made Gila Monster Boots.  What Cal did not know was that   handmade boots Mr. Weasel was wearing were the result of a   once made a bet that he could catch enough Gila Monster bare handed to make a pair of boots from their leather in a single day in the desert theme park area of New Georgia, and of course it was said his double edge razor was so sharp that you did not know your throat was cut until your head fell off. Incidentally it was noted by the New Georgia Ecology Commission, that maybe having a live Gila monster attraction, was not their best idea. To put it another way now the entire park was up to its ass’s in Gila Monsters.


On the other hand, the first post-colonial act of the New Georgia legislature after they declared their independence by removing the Iron Heeled steel toed boots of their colonial oppressors from their throats was to write into the constitution of New Georgia a concealed carry, hold your ground clause.

This clause made Cal and Mr. Weasel, as equals, before the post-colonial law of New Georgia. They were within their right to exercise their self-evident, and indelibly endowed by their creator with the inalienable right to defend their lives persons property and sacred honor. It was known as the great equalizer clause, it applied equally to males, and females, all ethnicities, and consenting adults, of all sexual preferences


New Georgia’s national Motto was drawn from the great late Planet Earth mid-20th century philosopher and public educator Robert Heinlein “A well-armed society is a civil society “Which Earth, now a smoking cinder had sadly forgotten that in the early the third decade of the 21st century.



Mr. Weasel was careful to keep seven meters between himself and Cal as he said

“Look fly boy you want to bet which comes first, you are breaking my neck or me putting a whole in your gut so big I can drive your hovercraft through it as I watch your intestines and what’s left of those four chickens spill out on your shoes. Then you can watch yourself die of peritonitis’s over the next week, with me paralyzed from the neck down in the hospital bed next to you”


Cal would never know why he didn’t rush Weasel maybe it was.  last thing Weasel said as they faced down in a Mexican Standoff as Weasel said.


“Let me tell you this Flyboy the only way off new Georgia, for you, besides out the airlock feet first are for you to dump the fucking bad Karma and hate so you can get through the door of your space ship”.


Cal almost involuntarily set the thousand-dollar bill between him and Mr. Weasel and stepped back never taking his eyes of him. Mr. Weasel took the thousand and left a five hundred in its place, and then extended his hand to Cal as he pointed to a woman that was far too beautiful to talk to either of them and said.


“The princess here would like to have a word with you”


Cal took Weasel’s hand and squeezed it. But it was as hard as a flint chisel and they were partners, till the great wolf broke its bonds and ate the sun, or after they ate a pod of salt together.1



Then Cal walked towards Zelda. He had never seen a woman like her before in his life. Cal had scored with a score of women in his life, but he had never had one he didn’t pay for. Zelda smelled of and Channel #5 and money, but not the kind you fold, she was solid 24 carat gold inter galactic gold standard, but she was a living breathing woman. Cal smelled like rancid sweat. As Cal moved towards her she held her ground and held his eyes in hers. For a very brief instant Cal thought of offering her his half of the winnings for a fifteen-minute quickie.

But somehow as he approached Zelda even Cal knew that offer would be received like a fart in a space suit. Now they were inside each other’s danger zone, and way to close for comfort. The silence coldness of space seemed infinite between them as neither spoke. Then Cal spoke almost sang the words to # Numero Ono pop song in New Georgia to , the song that had become Cal’s resident ear worm, that he listened on the little A.M radio they allowed him in his cell after his first six months of good behavior. Cal had it turned along with his 20/10 pilots vision a natural ear which allowed him to recognize just about any song country western, blues, or rock and roll, even classical by name even after only a couple of bars, and he had an identic memory along with nearly total recall, because that’s what separate the great pilots from the dead ones.

Please click link for song

Zelda smiled just a little and her face softened. She was a living breathing woman. Though her form as it was partially draped, reminded him of the statues he saw the exact replica of Louvre that he spent on a furlough gone bad tour that he to his eighty-seven-year-old grandmother Cleo, and her sister Marie of the cultural treasures of Nova Paris. The only thing he hated more than driving a tourist ship full old ladies the cultural treasures, and they called that sort of fly driving was having anybody else do it. He thought they both died when he was in prison, but he was wrong Zelda Had something that she gave him. It was an envelope addressed in his grandmother’s unmistakable cursive script to: MY Grandson Cal at the New Georgia Attitude adjustment center. Inside there was a card with pictures two adorable Kittens with big sad eyes and note that said:

Me and your great aunt Cleo really miss you come see us as soon as you get your ass out of slammer. We old ladies need you to drive another tour. Forty of us want to see the Fjords of Nova Norway. Love Marie and Cleo.

Cal looked at Zelda and waited for what she would say next. Mr.  Weasel quietly practiced break dance, moves and recited rap lyrics, which were a complete anachronism as everybody new, but as they said the blues soul and rock roll are all paths on the same road to save our souls.

Zelda said as she turned full circle and said,

“You like what you see don’t you”

That same what the starts with F and Rhymes with duck) look raced across Cals face. Then he said,

“Of course, I like what I see, but I know it’s not for sale not even for my weight in 24 carat intergalactically 100% pure gold,

Then Cal said, why are you even talking to and the buffoon I have become.  Zelda softened a little bit and look at Cal a bit like a bit a sick puppy and took his battered hands, which were all that seemed to be left of what he once was, held them and kissed and shook her shoulder length golden red the color of the finest Dane Gold.

Then she said with some pity in her voice,

“Cal, you were always a buffoon, I stood in the back of court room, and was the one who persuaded the Judge not to sentence you to the gallows, and let me tell you fly boy it took some very special persuading, even if my family does own half the planet.”

Mr. Weasel ran through a medley of break moves walked towards the Limo, gestured Cal to follow him and get in Cal turned to say something to Zelda and there was only emptiness, and the coldness of where she stood only an instant before. The limo rolled toward the Peachtree Hilton the dying sun sparkled on New Georgia’s geodesic dome Weasel a quadruple Southern Comfort on the, sometimes called a dead Janis Joplin, for him and handed one to Cal. It had been a long day.

Then Weasel said, “Fly Boy yeah know why I bailed on you in the tent”

Cal said, “Why did you bale on me,

Call opened a not very large satchel that contained a hundred-half inch hundred bill stacks of hundred-dollar bills and said,

“Do you think that’s enough bread to buy you a more powerful hover craft, put a bigger door in your space ship, and maybe buy you some orthopedic shoes so we can’ her the  bones in  your  feet grind together when you walk

Cal asked,” who are you and Zelda?

Weasel replied, to Cal’s with one of his own.

“What does the delightful book say about strangers, but I will tell you this if Zelda is an angel, she lost her wings, and she walks just like a woman, in every way including one, a, which is why she did what she did for you, and why she won’t do what wish she would.”

Cal slammed down his Joplin and sounded like he was having a Turrets Syndrome as he shouted, “God Dam riddle talking checker shit head” Twenty times fast.

Weasel poured him another and said,

“You fat self-pitting wimp. It took ten of these and four hundred-dollar lines of coke to Kill Joplin so maybe her’s is not a record for us mortals to mess with.””

The they both settled into the plush calfskin seats and Cal   tried not remembering that twenty-four hours before he was sleeping on gunny sacks in a garage on the bed of a ford F 150 half ton pick truck, and forty-eight hours before he was a customer New Georgia Attitude Adjustment center just finishing his eighteen-month sojourn.

Cal listened to the song and it seemed to express what he felt even though the woman who sang it had been dead for over two centuries twenty four hours of Cals life were spent in an adjoining suites with Mr. Weasel with two Kardashian guards at each outside door and one each at the windows, next to these six foot seven inch four ninety pound humanoid giants. Next to these dudes Cal was a pipsqueak. in could and did in fact interbreed with humans, and as a matter of fact they reputations as being very gentle and considerate lover’s.  The word on the street of the space port was they put merely human males on their best behavior, and they did not take kindly to those who were perpetrators of abuse and as a matter of fact the maintained abuse hotline, usually it only took one Kardashian counselling session, shape up Terran Males, to learn that nobody had the right to be an abuser. The Kardashian gave call a grudging respect when the found that he like them was banned from the New Georgia professional ring for life. This was of course a ruling by the New Georgia athletic commission chaired of by. Colonel Phylum Pham Phlapjack.
































1 Pood (Russian: ???, tr. pud; IPA: [put]), is a unit of mass equal to 40 funt (????, Russian pound). Plural: pudi or pudy. It is approximately 16.38 kilograms (36.11 pounds).




[1] Note the reader I am not translating this phrase but I note that if you don’t know what it means you might find your ass in the slammer just like my protagonist Cal. Or even worse you might say yes to a fellow student in the real world of global who asks you to carry a cardboard suitcase across some newly opened middle eastern border, and find  yourself the featured event  in Chop Chop Square


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This entry was posted on August 28, 2017 by in Fiction, Science-Fiction.
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