Grand Theft Planetary & other stories

  ***

  “What about here?” Shegama pulled Bram to his knees and kissed him. In the snow, her three red eyes burned with desire as she started to undress him. He fumbled with her jumpsuit, barely-able to contain his raging hormones, until they both found themselves naked. “Do you have… y’know?”

  “Of course.” Bram reached into his discarded jumpsuit for a protective sheath and allowed her to put in on him.

  “OK, go easy with me,” she breathed as she laid ready to receive him, just as their communicator buzzed.

  “Bram, Shegama – we’re about to take-off.”

  “Flak!” He grudgingly acknowledged the request, then got dressed and started back to the ship, Shegama equally frustrated. Just before they ascended the ramp, Bram realised that he was still sheathed and, quickly, pulled it off and threw it into the snow. It landed on its side; pink, glowing, and Y-shaped.

  Murve's Dog

  I had left for work this morning with no pet to my name, but I was now the confused owner of a malnourished and depressed dog. I vaguely remembered the events, but not the reasons for doing them - like a bad decision made while drunk. As I was walking home from work, with my jealous mind imagining Elizabeth with another man – she had said that she loved me, but wasn’t in love with me - I suddenly found myself in the middle of a group arguing over a rug in the road. The rug in question was in fact a scruffy black and white collie, its body so thin that it looked like a hairy xylophone. Its wild eyes stared upwards at the people towering over it, but as it focused on me, I realised that those eyes were utterly familiar; they were mine. I stepped back a pace, disorientated as if I had just jumped off a merry-go-round, and accidentally backed into the dog’s owner, a greasy pudgy woman wearing a stained t-shirt.

  In a daze, I apologised and half-listened as the woman brought me into the argument; her neighbour had passed away the previous week and she had inherited his dog, which had taken to escaping her house in order to lie in front of traffic, causing a daily confrontation with angry motorists. Without a thought, I offered to take the troublesome dog, and carried it home to place on my kitchen floor, where it had remained since. I gathered a couple of old jumpers and made a bed in the spare room, amongst the hastily-stacked archive boxes, then went shopping for some dog food. I could have done without the extra expense; Lizzie’s bombshell had forced me out of her – our – house and into a shabby ground-floor flat, with all the financial responsibilities to go with it. She had said that it wasn’t my fault - it was hers. I was not going to be able to make it to the next pay day without financial help, and was avoiding that conversation with my parents until the last minute.

  Later, I stood on the back door frame, smoking a precious cigarette and starwatching. The dog hadn’t moved an inch despite my attempts to feed it, and I was guiltily choosing a place in the threadbare garden to bury it. I sipped at some cheap whiskey, and fought the urge to text Lizzy again. Despite her generic reasons for the break-up, I knew that I had been replaced – her online status had jumped from relationship to single to relationship again within a fortnight. That hurt more than anything that she could have said to me.

  With a whine, the dog lowered its head and, amazingly, dropped a mobile handset from its mouth. Gingerly, it pawed at the phone repeatedly until it started to play a video clip. Slamming its head onto the phone, the dog barked in desperate joy as it listened to the sounds. Several seconds passed, and there was silence once again.

  I felt numb with bewilderment; what on earth had just happened? I had no idea there was a mobile phone in its mouth. I flicked the cigarette into the night and crouched in front of the dog. It didn’t move in response to my approach, so I slowly reached out, pinched the end of the phone and pulled it away carefully. The dog watched my every move but didn’t resist. It was a cheap abused handset; on the back was a grubby white label with a phone number written on it. I pressed a button and the phone sprang to life, listing a number of media files. Was she cheating on me before we finished? I pressed the OK button on the first file.

  It was a small but tidy front room, details obscured by the low-resolution screen. A door opened; a woman entered, dressed for a wedding. People off-screen made appreciative noises, then the owner of the phone started to sing in a rasping tone:

  “Here comes the bride, all dressed in white, here comes another one, all dressed in bubble gum!”

  The bride scowled at the camera. “Oh dad, please.”

  The phone swung round to show a healthy-looking version of my dejected dog. “Come here Laddie! Come look at my beautiful grand-daughter before she gets married!” The real dog in front of me yipped in response to his name, but I paid no attention and continued watching the events on the phone.

  As Laddie approached the bride, an older woman shouted. “Murve! Get that bloody dog away from Angie’s dress!”

  “He’s only wanting a look, for God’s sake woman!” Murve’s hand tussled the scolded Laddie reassuringly, then the clip stopped. The now-named Laddie had scooted up to my legs and was looking in fascination at the handset. I scrolled down to the last clip.

  Laddie was now sleeping on Murve’s lap, an old beige blanket thrown over him. I could hear something in the background, then suddenly realised that it was the sound of someone moaning and crying. “I love you Laddie,” Murve whispered. “I love you so much. You are my everything.” The clip continued for a few seconds, nothing but the sleeping dog and the groaning man. Suddenly, Murve shouted “I don’t feel well again Laddie. Oh God, Laddie!”

  At my feet, Laddie let out an ear-piercing howl and I dropped the handset, the battery skittering underneath the cooker. Laddie grabbed the remains of the phone and scurried into the spare room, whining as he disappeared into the darkness. Had I just seen the moment that Murve died? I shuddered. She didn’t even want to try and work things out.

  The next morning, I stood on the back door frame, having my ritual morning cigarette when Laddie limped past me. The animal had whined and barked all night, and I half-expected my new neighbours to be having words with me at some point today. I hadn’t slept either, partly because of the noise and partly because of my love-sick mind running wild. She had once said that we would be together forever. Laddie appeared from behind a sad-looking bush and trembled his way back to bed. He never looked up once.

  That night, my best friend Matt called. “The cure for a broken heart,” he said, with the wisdom of all men everywhere, “is a loose girl and lots of beer!”

  “I really don’t feel like it,” I countered, frantically conjuring up an excuse. “I think I have flu.”

  “Rubbish! Stop wallowing in self-pity.” The problem with best friends is that they cannot be put-off by half-assed excuses. The truth was that I wanted to wallow in self-pity. I didn’t want pity from others, help, or even loose women. We were going to call our firstborn Obe.

  “Sorry – maybe tomorrow night.” I hung up and looked at the pile of love letters on the kitchen table and picked up the first one, a pink A5 sheet covered in her delicate writing. It smelled faintly of her bedroom, and I savoured the flashback, of lazy Sundays waking up in her arms. How could she turn her back on me so easily? I wanted to hate her so much. Fighting back tears, I went to check up on Laddie.

  He was shaking softly, still staring at the incomplete handset. I considered holding him for support but was afraid of catching something. I vowed to take Laddie to the vets for a check-up once my bank balance showed more than double-digits - if it survived that long, which was a big ask of both of us. She always brushed her hair after we made love. The dog looked up at me and whined.

  “Don’t give me that,” I muttered, “I have my own problems.”

  Two days later and I was contemplating making that call to my parents; I was out of money, out of cigarettes, my electricity meter was almost empty, and I had a fortnight to go before payday. I was on my knees thanks t
o that woman. My phone rang and I muted it; I didn’t want any supportive male bonding. She said I was the best. A few moments later, it rang again and in a flash of impatience, I pressed the green button. “What?”

  “Coming out?” Matt’s cheerfulness grated against my melancholy soul.

  “No. Sorry.”

  “Come on mate, stop wallowing!”

  “Why?”

  “It’s not healthy, that’s why!”

  Why wasn’t it healthy to wallow? The only way I could be happy was to clutch hold of the remnants of my happier past, just like Laddie. Why deny myself that pleasure? In fact, why deny Laddie that pleasure too? Without another word, I hung up and knew what I must do. For both of us.

  I fished the phone battery from underneath the cooker, and then took the remains of the handset from underneath Laddie’s sleeping body. I transferred all the videos across to my laptop; there were simply loads, my collection of love letters looked paltry in comparison. Was that a measure of love? I converted the videos and burned them to my only blank DVD, omitting the clip of Murve’s final moments – that was too distressing, even for me. Watched by a now-awake and shivering Laddie, I setup my old portable TV and DVD player next to his bed, inserted the disk and pressed the Repeat All button.

  Laddie raised his head slowly as the first clip started, then with strength he clearly didn’t possess, struggled to the screen. I returned to the kitchen to start my own cleansing; I poured some cheap whiskey into a dirty glass, put on a swing CD that Elizabeth had bought me, and scattered some tea lights around the kitchen. Surrounded by moving shadows, I spent the night immersed in the letters from Elizabeth, warm and safe in her flitting words of love, then burnt each one of them until I was left with a table of ashes. She couldn’t wait to get me out of her life. Eventually, with the whiskey bottle depleted, my hands covered in ash, and the candles extinguished by the dead of night, I swallowed my pride and called my parents.

  The next morning, I sat drinking a tea – with fresh milk - smoking a cigarette pulled from a full pack and contemplating the small pile of money my parents had brought over. Never be afraid to ask for help, they had said; I hadn’t been so grateful in all my life. A weak Laddie appeared from his sanctuary, nibbled slowly at the bowl of food I’d put down, then returned to his bed. I heard Murve singing.

  Laddie appeared more frequently over the next few days, eating whenever I put food down and going outside whenever I opened the back door. The DVD continued its Murve marathon 24/7, but I fancied Laddie looked stronger every passing day. Then, one unusually bright morning, I was eating breakfast when I felt something nuzzle against my leg; it was Laddie. He looked at me sternly as I stared in surprise. Then I understood; he was ready to move on. I rubbed his head tentatively, then called a vet.

  From that point on, Laddie accepted me as his master, but we both knew that his heart was on loan; Laddie would always be Murve’s dog. Over the years we tussled, walked, ran, played and slumbered together, but every couple of months, Laddie would look at me with a small whine to let me know that he needed a night alone with his memories, and his DVD. I would spend those nights meeting friends and family - the people that I loved.

  Laddie died 2 years later, on one of Murve’s nights. He passed away curled up in his bed of old jumpers, in front of my old TV, with his master’s voice echoing around him. As I carried his frail body in his blankets, I wouldn’t have wanted it any other way.

  Bud and Rufus Play Dare

  "Tonight," said Bud, slamming the door of their small 3rd floor apartment, "we are going to play dare."

  Rufus stretched lazily on their stained Ikea sofa, his matted dreadlocks flopping over the arm rest. “We’re going to play dare? Like small schoolchildren? We’re mature adults, Bud!” He rolled to his side and broke wind loudly. They both laughed.

  "True, but remember what we were talking about last night?” Bud got two beers out of their fridge and threw one to his friend. “Three weeks until payday and, thanks to last weekend’s ill-considered purchase –“

  Rufus glanced worryingly at the large plastic butter tub on the mantelpiece, heavily mummified in several different kinds of masking tape. “Careful - we agreed not to speak about the purchase!”

  “Very well,” sighed Bud. “Thanks to a recent event involving, uh, something that must never be mentioned, we are both completely broke. However, the house is full of drink and we want to get blinding drunk." He took a big swig of beer and pulled the tie from his neck. "Like I said - we should play dare tonight."

  "No can do," replied Rufus, "I'm going round Sarah's tonight. I may be broke, but I can still get laid. The best things in life are free, after all." He opened the beer with his teeth and spat the cap into their open-plan kitchen. It missed the overflowing bin, bounced off the dented plasterboard wall and settled amongst the other bottle caps on the linoleum floor. "Sex is free."

  "Sex isn’t free,” said Bud. “Condoms cost money.”

  "Ah," said Rufus with a smile, "But I don't use... normal contraception."

  "Explain."

  "You know my lucky red pen? The one I take with me when I know I'm going to get laid? The reason I take it with me is to... simulate... protection."

  Bud looked confused. "I don't get it."

  Rufus pointed to his crotch. "I draw a thin red line around the base to look like I’m wearing one. Anyway, what is the point of playing dare?" He downed his beer in one, burped loudly, then chucked the bottle out of their balcony window.

  "This isn't ordinary dare, my friend. This is drinking dare, and it ruins lives!" There was a smash from outside, then a gurgling scream. “Much like that bottle just did.”

  Rufus's interest perked up. "Ruin lives? You mean our lives, or other people?"

  "Both. Remember Mad Mack? The old man who came out for my birthday night out?” Bud looked expectantly at Rufus, who shrugged his shoulders. “He ate his own coat because he didn’t want to carry it around for the rest of the night?"

  "Ah yes, I remember,” smiled Rufus. “I’ve never seen someone barf up a handful of buttons before."

  "That’s the man. He told me the rules of this forbidden game that he used to play in his younger days. Legend has it that Zeus told it to Moses as a weapon against alien shape shifters.” Bud’s face was deadpan. “Mad Mack doesn’t play drinking dare anymore because he… ran out of friends to play against.” There was an ominous rumble of thunder from outside.

  "Forbidden game, huh?" Rufus stroked an imaginary beard for a few seconds, then took out his mobile phone and dialled a number. "Hi Sarah. Sorry, I can’t see you tonight. Bud's been…” he struggled for a few painful seconds, “…killed by a car? Or something. I’ll see you tomorrow.” He hung up and looked pleased with himself. “I am the master of excuses. So come on Bud! Let’s ruin our lives!”

  By eight o’ clock, the bottle caps had been swept away, the bin emptied, and the disgusting sofa pushed out of sight. A large round table had been brought out of the utility cupboard and a green baize cloth thrown over it to hide the coffee-ringed surface. A pad of paper, two pens and a pack of dog-eared cards sat between the pair of housemates. They were each flanked by a huge selection of alcohol, enough to make an off-licence ashamed of itself.

  "Splendid," said Rufus. "So what do we do now?”

  Bud poured himself a measure of whiskey and adjusted his drinking hat, a large inflatable Stetson that was originally part of a fancy dress costume. Rufus's own headpiece, a huge stuffed moose's head nicknamed Sergeant Scary, threatened to knock the table over with every movement thanks to its obscenely huge antlers. "Here's how to play Drinking Dare,” began Bud. “We each write down a dare,” he made quotation marks in the air, “and chuck them into the middle of the table. We play poker, and the loser has to do one of the dares."

  Rufus raised an eyebrow. "That's it? That's the scary game? What a load of bollocks!" He took off th
e moose's head. "This is childish. Me and Sergeant Scary are going home."

  "You are home, idiot. Sit down, put the Sergeant back on and write a dare on the paper."

  Reluctantly, Rufus obeyed and picked up one of the pens. "What kind of dare do I write? Kiss a man? Do a fart? Wear a bra?"

  “The aim is to try and ruin the other person. Be creative." They spent a moment thinking juvenile thoughts, then wrote down their dares and tossed them into the middle of the table. Bud dealt out the cards; Rufus swapped three and Bud took one.

  "What have you got?" asked Bud.

  "Two sevens."

  "I have four kings,” smiled Bud. “I win."

  "Balls." Rufus threw his cards in resignation. "So what happens now? I have to do your dare?"

  Bud examined the contents of the slips. "Well, I could make you do your own dare – to lick the inside of our oven," Bud flapped Rufus' slip in the air, then chucked it over his shoulder. "Or, I could make you do my dare. Text your girl friend that you pretend to wear condoms."

  Rufus's face turned to horror. "I can't do that!”

  “You can, and will. Why should she care even anyway?” Bud said. "It's not like you have any sperm left, thanks to your years of drinking and smoking. Or maybe you have a secret to hide? A secret of the itchy variety, down there?”

  Rufus threw a bottle cap at the grinning Bud. “I am not going to tell my girlfriend of three months that I’ve been inking-up instead of bagging-up. She’ll dump me, no doubt. I won’t do the dare.”

  “I thought you might resist,” replied Bud. “That’s why I took the liberty of hacking your online social accounts before we started.”

  “What?!” Rufus stood up so suddenly that Sergeant Scary hit the ceiling, bringing down several chunks of white plaster and a piece of tinsel from the previous Christmas. “My online accounts are everything to me!”

  “I know,” Rufus replied, raising his little finger to the side of his mouth. “Play by the rules and I shall give you the passwords. But if you don’t co-operate, I will kill you! Electronically.”

  Rufus stared at Bud with hatred, and then reluctantly fished his phone out of his pocket. “Just remember that the door swings both ways,” he grumbled as he typed. “I’ll show no mercy tonight. No mercy whatsoever.” The phone bleeped as the message was sent.

  “Fine,” replied Bud, lighting up a fat cigar. “I’m like the Roadrunner my friend. You can’t take me down.”

  Rufus grabbed another piece of paper. “We’ll see about that.”

  With a new set of dares in the middle and an atmosphere of aggression in the room, Rufus dealt out the cards and they played another hand of poker. Hands trembling slightly, Rufus whispered, “What have you got?”

  Bud breathed a plume of smoke lazily into the air. “Four aces.”

  Rufus showed his hand; three Queens. The Sergeant swung around and caught a beercan with its antlers, showering the entire room in frothy suds. “I guess you win?”

  “I guess I do.” Bud grabbed the dares and read them silently. “Interesting! The dare I wrote was to scream out of the window for 5 minutes. However, I prefer your dare – to run naked into the Red Dragon.” They both looked out at the brightly-lit pub below their flat. “It doesn’t look too busy tonight,” smiled Bud. “You’ll be fine. Remember to take your red pen, just in case you get lucky!"

  Rufus’s phone chimed; new message. “Great,” he said after a glance, “I am now officially single. Cheers Bud.”

  “Hey – don’t hate the players, hate the game.”

  “I hate you, Drinking Dare.” They both raised their glasses. “And,” Rufus continued, “I am not going down the pub completely naked. Forget it.”

  15 minutes later, they both burst through the front door and hurried into the living room. Rufus was covering his privates with two large beer-mats, but was otherwise completely naked. “I am absolutely freezing,” shivered Rufus, “And very embarrassed.”

  “How was I supposed to know they were having a wake in the pub tonight?” replied Bud. They heard sirens, and watched a pair of blue lights settle in front of the pub. “Did you see that woman faint when you jumped on the bar and started to do the can-can?”

  “I was trying not to fall over.” Rufus hurried his clothes back on and re-seated the Sergeant on his head. “Dancing is very challenging for me, especially when I have something so big and heavy swinging between my legs.”

  Bud rolled his eyes. “Whatever. Next game?” They both scribbled another dare onto paper, and dished out the cards. “Tell me,” said Bud, refilling his glass within a haze of smoke, “When was the last time you played poker?”

  “Um, I think the last time was... never.”

  “You’ve never played poker before?” Bud said in disbelief.

  “No.”

  “In that case, do you actually know the rules?” Bud asked, smiling slightly.

  “Not really,” Rufus lit a cigarette, “I just follow your lead.”

  “Fantastic!” Bud turned his cards over. “In that case, check it out – a five-card... Crippler. Beat that!”

  Rufus examined the cards suspiciously, and then gasped. “Oh yeah – a five card crippler! Damn!” His shoulders slumped. “Go on then, what’s my dare?”

  Bud didn’t even open the dares. “Text your girlfriend – well, ex-girlfriend – that you have an STD, and that she needs to get tested because you were pretending to wear condoms.”

  “Now that’s the last straw.” Rufus took off Sergeant Scary and staggered to his feet. “I’m not doing that.”

  “Oh, OK.” Bud pulled out his laptop and booted it up.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I’m deleting your online accounts. Shame, really. All those photos and videos on your social profiles, irreplaceable no doubt.” Bud’s hands hovered over the keyboard. “Or would you rather do the dare?”

  There was a silence as Rufus mulled this over, then finally sat back down. “Fine, fine. Me and Sarah are finished anyway, thanks to this bloody game.”

  Bud lit up a huge cigar, and puffed contentedly. “Epic! Another game?”

  “Yes!” Rufus dealt the cards with some effort. “God I feel wrecked.”

  They didn’t bother writing any dares down; they exchanged cards, then showed their hands. To Bud’s total amazement, his friend had 4 Jacks. “Is that good?” Rufus asked.

  “Umm…” Bud fought with his conscience for a moment, his evil side winning quickly and easily. “No – they’re worthless.” Bud put down a pair of twos. “I win, sucka!”

  “For God’s sake!”

  Bud smiled, then said “Go streak in the pub again.”

  “No, please no.” Rufus stood and looked out at the pub. “The police are still there!”

  “They are?” Bud said with mock surprise, “I never realised that. Sorry!”

  “No way. Nope, no chance. I don’t value my online accounts that much.”

  “Sure?” Bud dragged his laptop out again. “That blond you’re talking to on onlinedatingwitheasychicks.com looks super hot!”

  “Ah – potential sex with random blonds.” Rufus starting undressing. “My one weakness.”