Space Noir Bar by Mike Marino (FREE E-BOOK Giveaway) Sci-Fi Humor/Pop Culture Dumpster Diving Adventure, Romance and Crazed Robots Lost and Spaced! Where Bogart and Bacall meet Space Balls! I will be giving away Free Copies (Link to E-Book) Until June 28, 2016 For your Freebie email me at theroadhead@gmail.com
Space Noir Bar - Chapter One What Happens in Space, Stays in Space! by Mike Marino
Calling Earth! Calling Earth! Come in Earth! Do you read me? Atomic Commando Cody Buck Rogers Flash Gordon Link Wray lasers ready to fire and launch from the outer fringes of the outer limits of outer space. The 20th Century Earth...It was an atomic age of science fiction fusion and fission action..giant disc shaped flying saucers, 50 foot women, Amazons from Mars, mutants and nuclear bad asses...all on a ridiculous drive in movie theater passion pit backseat rampage to ravage the big blue Orb earthlings called home.
In the 20th Cent, every box of Cheerios cereal eating kid raised on a diet of TV space serials wanted to be a space cadet, or at the very least a Cape Kennedy Houston We Have a Problem Nasa-astronaut thanks to “television” as it was known back then. The TV...a “box” filled with Saturday morning cartoon and action adventure shows in exciting black and white replete with pie tin Frisbee saucers on wires, Space Commanders in bulging tight flight trousers that were merely space cadet capri pants with an action zone bulge (no wonder they always got the girl!) brandishing decoder rings and atomic laser pistols to fight off Ming and his merciless minions from the planet Mongo who were hell bent on destroying Earth reducing it to a charcoal briquette to toss on the inter -galactic BBQ grill in Evils Backyard. Space Heroes emerged from the vast wasteland of mass media regaling the kids with a Saturnalia of commercial babblings competing headlong with puppets and cartoons for the attention and cash of the George Jetson gen who were hopped up like junkies on smack cooked up in the spoon of the corporate toy manufacturers.
Something called the “hula hoop” was as large as a flying saucer making a carnal orbit around the erotic female gyroscopic waist while yo yo's ran up and down on a string imitating the bobbing of a dead bloated body floating in the Detroit River. It was the age of mechanical toys and space age plastic dolls that did everything but fuck. (Today in the 26th Century, dolls and robots do make love and quite satisfactorily I might add.
Holy Hologram! Holographic toys of my century are the norm. Boys in the 20th Cent were game for Robots from outer space with armies of rock 'em sock 'em robots invading toy train Earth and fighting off the legions of Amazon Barbie women with Commander Cody Decoder Rings. Led into battle by General Mattel..."they're swell!" great bastions were made from Erector sets in a toy retro galaxy far, far away...a time before Atari...a time before the internet...when imaginations ran wild and Betsy was wetsy and Cathy was chatty and Barbie and Ken were an item before Ken got gay...and Barbie jumped under the covers with Skipper....action figures with rubber legs and arms that could be twisted sister by your mean little brother....train sets and turntables....mechanical robots and talking dolls...all tossed into the toybox cabaret at night to see the stripping Barbie in a Peep Show Betty Boop Booth playing with her own erector set....i
I had spent hours watching old films depicting 20th Century culture on archived holographic discs re-mastered from archaic outdated records from something quaintly called the “television”. It was required viewing during my orientation once I had passed the exams to get my security clearance as a private investigator licensed by the Prometheus Division of Retropolin Intelligence...the investigative wing of Retropolis keeping an eye on all of the conquered colonized planets in our Solar System...and its own citizens.
I had made a decisive decision early in my life to earn a living as a professional gumshoe. Gumshoe! Gawd I love that word. I crossed paths with the term while reading and maxi-pad absorbing one of the “outlawed” books by Raymond Chandler, an obscure noir mystery writer of the 20th Century. Black and white words and paper bought and sold to make black and white dark mood ring films of bodies found beaten in alley’s and Bogart with an empty gun and a bloody nose administered in a bar by Ward Bond with a background of broken gin bottles and Elisha Cook, Jr. playing a sexy film saxophone sitting alone in a corner by the broken door of the stench stale smell of the men’s room with urinals full of spent .38 caliber bullet casings.
I was not only fascinated by the stories he would deftly weave, but damn, I had a fashion hard-on for rumpled whiskey stained trench coats & jaunty fedora hats! Today’s space wear leaves much to be desired. There is no fashion sense whatsoever in my Century, unless you find the gold lame Elvis Vegas look and faux tinfoil pants titillating and heavy metal alloy thongs a thrill. All that’s missing is beanie copter headgear to go with the oxidizer fueled Joan Jett jet pack and your Link Wray ray gun.
I also read the other banned books . You know, the 20th Century “Future” books... “1984” by George Orwell and “Animal Farm” laughing now at how the future was envisioned as Utopia gone bad back then. They got it all wrong..it is much worse..but it’s the deck of marked cards we have to play with or pass when we sit down at the casino’s big table and then do the best we can with the hand we are dealt in a rigged game.
I followed in the wingtip footsteps of the fictional brotherhood of Sam Spade who set the literary precedents for back alley lit & film noir. I joined the ranks as a writer of mystery novels. My two professions, writer and detective, have proven to be the perfect fornication partners. You can blame my addiction on Raymond Chandler and Mickey Spillane. Neither is around to be tried and convicted...case dismissed gentlemen..you are free to go.
This is the 26th Century, and for me the galaxy is my turf. I‘m Mickey “Doc” Yucatan. I am a criminal by every definition as a writer. New books are forbidden unless approved by the censors, so I write under an assumed name (Monty Debauchery) and my publisher , Arthur Burns, and I print them off on an old mimeograph machine Arthur, had acquired during an excavation project of Old Trotsky Moscow. I also was in possession of an illegally obtained item called a “typewriter” Marvelous machine for producing ideas and dangerous concepts.
My real job however is pounding a beat as a detective for clients who hire me to track down a missing male or female sold into sex slavery as sex and domestic slavery was now in fashion once again as were human zoos where Subs from Retropolis were placed on display along with prisoners from alien planets for the enjoyment of the population. Toss the Christians to the lion of Judah it’s time to make human pasta for the Rajah and the Rasta.
The story I am about to tell is true...even though now in retrospect it seems like a dream…. a dream that soon turned into a nightmare on NASA Street that haunts me to this day of the search on behalf of a client for a missing sister whom she feared had been abducted by a race of Eroti-bots who subjugate prime beef males and females into half-human/half machine sex machines...real Inna Gadda Da Vida stuff. We began our search for her missing sister on a planet of sex and drugs (Now, that’s entertainment!) Along the way we encountered more than we bargained for including a small revolution, robot junkies and a fat man called Narco Marx who would and more importantly, we discovered the mystery of the Strip Tease Falcon!...the stuff nightmares are made of!
Sci-Fi Humor/Pop Culture Dumpster Diving
Adventure, Romance and Crazed Robots Lost and Spaced!
Where Bogart and Bacall meet Space Balls!
I will be giving away Free Copies (Link to E-Book) Until June 28, 2016
For your Freebie email me at theroadhead@gmail.com
Space Noir Bar - Chapter One
What Happens in Space, Stays in Space! by Mike Marino
Calling Earth! Calling Earth! Come in Earth! Do you read me? Atomic Commando Cody Buck Rogers Flash Gordon Link Wray lasers ready to fire and launch from the outer fringes of the outer limits of outer space. The 20th Century Earth...It was an atomic age of science fiction fusion and fission action..giant disc shaped flying saucers, 50 foot women, Amazons from Mars, mutants and nuclear bad asses...all on a ridiculous drive in movie theater passion pit backseat rampage to ravage the big blue Orb earthlings called home.
In the 20th Cent, every box of Cheerios cereal eating kid raised on a diet of TV space serials wanted to be a space cadet, or at the very least a Cape Kennedy Houston We Have a Problem Nasa-astronaut thanks to “television” as it was known back then. The TV...a “box” filled with Saturday morning cartoon and action adventure shows in exciting black and white replete with pie tin Frisbee saucers on wires, Space Commanders in bulging tight flight trousers that were merely space cadet capri pants with an action zone bulge
(no wonder they always got the girl!) brandishing decoder rings and atomic laser pistols to fight off Ming and his merciless minions from the planet Mongo who were hell bent on destroying Earth reducing it to a charcoal briquette to toss on the inter -galactic BBQ grill in Evils Backyard. Space Heroes emerged from the vast wasteland of mass media regaling the kids with a Saturnalia of commercial babblings competing headlong with puppets and cartoons for the attention and cash of the George Jetson gen who were hopped up like junkies on smack cooked up in the spoon of the corporate toy manufacturers.
Something called the “hula hoop” was as large as a flying saucer making a carnal orbit around the erotic female gyroscopic waist while yo yo's ran up and down on a string imitating the bobbing of a dead bloated body floating in the Detroit River. It was the age of mechanical toys and space age plastic dolls that did everything but fuck. (Today in the 26th Century, dolls and robots do make love and quite satisfactorily I might add.
Holy Hologram! Holographic toys of my century are the norm. Boys in the 20th Cent were game for Robots from outer space with armies of rock 'em sock 'em robots invading toy train Earth and fighting off the legions of Amazon Barbie women with Commander Cody Decoder Rings. Led into battle by General Mattel..."they're swell!" great bastions were made from Erector sets in a toy retro galaxy far, far away...a time before Atari...a time before the internet...when imaginations ran wild and Betsy was wetsy and Cathy was chatty and Barbie and Ken were an item before Ken got gay...and Barbie jumped under the covers with Skipper....action figures with rubber legs and arms that could be twisted sister by your mean little brother....train sets and turntables....mechanical robots and talking dolls...all tossed into the toybox cabaret at night to see the stripping Barbie in a Peep Show Betty Boop Booth playing with her own erector set....i
I had spent hours watching old films depicting 20th Century culture on archived holographic discs re-mastered from archaic outdated records from something quaintly called the “television”. It was required viewing during my orientation once I had passed the exams to get my security clearance as a private investigator licensed by the Prometheus Division of Retropolin Intelligence...the investigative wing of Retropolis keeping an eye on all of the conquered colonized planets in our Solar System...and its own citizens.
I had made a decisive decision early in my life to earn a living as a professional gumshoe. Gumshoe! Gawd I love that word. I crossed paths with the term while reading and maxi-pad absorbing one of the “outlawed” books by Raymond Chandler, an obscure noir mystery writer of the 20th Century. Black and white words and paper bought and sold to make black and white dark mood ring films of bodies found beaten in alley’s and Bogart with an empty gun and a bloody nose administered in a bar by Ward Bond with a background of broken gin bottles and Elisha Cook, Jr. playing a sexy film saxophone sitting alone in a corner by the broken door of the stench stale smell of the men’s room with urinals full of spent .38 caliber bullet casings.
I was not only fascinated by the stories he would deftly weave, but damn, I had a fashion hard-on for rumpled whiskey stained trench coats & jaunty fedora hats! Today’s space wear leaves much to be desired. There is no fashion sense whatsoever in my Century, unless you find the gold lame Elvis Vegas look and faux tinfoil pants titillating and heavy metal alloy thongs a thrill. All that’s missing is beanie copter headgear to go with the oxidizer fueled Joan Jett jet pack and your Link Wray ray gun.
I also read the other banned books . You know, the 20th Century “Future” books... “1984” by George Orwell and “Animal Farm” laughing now at how the future was envisioned as Utopia gone bad back then. They got it all wrong..it is much worse..but it’s the deck of marked cards we have to play with or pass when we sit down at the casino’s big table and then do the best we can with the hand we are dealt in a rigged game.
I followed in the wingtip footsteps of the fictional brotherhood of Sam Spade who set the literary precedents for back alley lit & film noir. I joined the ranks as a writer of mystery novels. My two professions, writer and detective, have proven to be the perfect fornication partners. You can blame my addiction on Raymond Chandler and Mickey Spillane. Neither is around to be tried and convicted...case dismissed gentlemen..you are free to go.
This is the 26th Century, and for me the galaxy is my turf. I‘m Mickey “Doc” Yucatan. I am a criminal by every definition as a writer. New books are forbidden unless approved by the censors, so I write under an assumed name (Monty Debauchery) and my publisher , Arthur Burns, and I print them off on an old mimeograph machine Arthur, had acquired during an excavation project of Old Trotsky Moscow. I also was in possession of an illegally obtained item called a “typewriter” Marvelous machine for producing ideas and dangerous concepts.
My real job however is pounding a beat as a detective for clients who hire me to track down a missing male or female sold into sex slavery as sex and domestic slavery was now in fashion once again as were human zoos where Subs from Retropolis were placed on display along with prisoners from alien planets for the enjoyment of the population. Toss the Christians to the lion of Judah it’s time to make human pasta for the Rajah and the Rasta.
The story I am about to tell is true...even though now in retrospect it seems like a dream…. a dream that soon turned into a nightmare on NASA Street that haunts me to this day of the search on behalf of a client for a missing sister whom she feared had been abducted by a race of Eroti-bots who subjugate prime beef males and females into half-human/half machine sex machines...real Inna Gadda Da Vida stuff. We began our search for her missing sister on a planet of sex and drugs (Now, that’s entertainment!) Along the way we encountered more than we bargained for including a small revolution, robot junkies and a fat man called Narco Marx who would
and more importantly, we discovered the mystery of the Strip Tease Falcon!...the stuff nightmares are made of!