Vaginax. Hunt Schneider looked at the plasmoid display projected onto the wall of The Starship Penetrator. Vaginax was shown in all her glory. A planet the size of long gone Jupiter, with thirteen moons all of which were habitable by humans with a minimum of terraforming with the heavy equipment on board the Penetrator, for delivery to Starbase Clyto the human colony surviving under a geodome midway between the north pole and equator of Vaginax as it orbited the triple suns of the system.
Okay, I confess, it's all lies.
I'm lying (haha) under a quilt made by my Aunt Lily from the Adirondacks who thought a bedcover with patchworked embroidered homilies on it was a good gift for a guy going off to college in the big city. I'm from the Adirondacks too, I guess. Grew up there mostly. Got bigger then. Older, you know. Aunt Lily looked like a cartoon; dowager's hump, granny glasses and a shawl. In 1983? My aunt caught me under a different quilt when I was about 14. She gave a sigh and walked out. She always knocked after that. Never said anything. I was too embarrassed myself to wonder if she was embarassed too.
And now it's 1998 and I'm a sophomore English Major at NYU. Yeah. How about that?
Hunt Schneider was a porn-star in the late 70's, He died about 1982. He was 32. I don't remember him. But I've seen some of the movies. On VHS.Hey, it's old stuff. I keep browsing through second-hand DVDs but it's not the kind of thing you find in a yard sale. Not even in The Village.
I've got his diary, from 1979; the year he made his last skinflick, before he got sick. Gee, an incidental rhyme. Gotta love that.
I'm a III. You know, like, Pompous Asshole III. Hunt Schneider was the II. Pompous Asshole might be the name of a porno, but not of the star.
So that's me PA III, little orphan Andy (slow reveal, don't give too much away to readers) all alone in Gotham. I'm taking Creative Writing as an elective again this year. I won't take it next. Maybe I'll do something in Computer Science. Something with fewer girls. The apple doesn't fall far from the tree, they say.
Besides, they. are. all. space. cadets. In the Creative Writing programme, that is. Especially the girls. That stuff they fall for. We see the tenured professor about once in a blue moon. So some failed poet asshole with a summer-of-love beard screws all the good looking girls and gets no blame for the one, there's always one, who dies in a bloody bathtub with two empty bottles lying on the linoleum.
At least that's what happened last year.
Yup. Computer Science. But I'll write a book one day. Or maybe I'll go into movies.