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Bastard Son
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ISBN-10: 1-77115-377-6
ISBN-13: 
Genre: Science Fiction/Fiction/Adventure
eBook Length: 220 Pages
Published: July 2017

From inside the flap

Something is very wrong in the United Prefectures of America - Mr. DeLuxe’s Travelling Pleasure Show, that rolling monument to perversion and violence, is back on the road. Actually, that’s just one line on the long list of heinous things happening within the giant colonial science experiment. The population’s dying out faster than ever, segregation is still strictly enforced and all the poor souls who call the place home are trapped in place by a giant impregnable wall. Mr. Deluxe’s lewd sex-on-wheels display might have proved a pleasant distraction from the realities of Prefectural life, if it didn’t leave behind a bloody trail of death and destruction as it rolled from town to town.

Picking up where White American left off, Bastard Son is the story of Billy Lopez and his misguided quest to set everything right. He’s going to pull the curtain on Mr. Deluxe’s show. He’s going to find a way to pick the lock on the cage surrounding the country. And, he’s going to kill the man responsible for the sorry state of the world - a guy named Satan, a guy who just so happens to be Billy’s Dad. At least, that’s the plan. Knowing Billy and Billy’s knack for making bad decisions, chances are really good that he’s going to die trying.

Clever, action-packed and utterly strange, Bastard Son is dystopian science fiction at its best; other novels pull their punches, Bastard Son packs one hell of a wallop.

Bastard Son (Excerpt)


Chapter 1 - Hot Tip

Tierra Podrida, M Prefecture, The Union

THURSDAY, JULY 1, 2010

Lucius DeLuxe didn't need directions. The fire at Saint Basil's Cathedral and Nightclub burnt itself out two days earlier, but the shell of the building still smoldered, sending a black smoky beacon into the sky. The stink of stale char carried on the warm breeze; the Knight in Satan's Service had more than enough information to guide him towards his destination.

Lucius was clad in his heavy black ceremonial robes, he would never dare sacrifice fealty to his master in the name of personal comfort. His exposed skin, originally measured to belong within the I Chantone range, was baked an illegal leathery tan. His hide's darkened hue reflected some of the sun, but not nearly enough to keep from breaking out in a sweat. It was a slow, hot ride. His refurbished gray tractor lagged through the streets of Tierra Podrida, laboring to pull the wheeled tar boiler behind. The farm vehicle and its encumbrance were ancient, likely dating to a time before the Eternally Free Taiwanese took control of the colony, but Lucius was happy to have a ride of any kind. If he was going to reclaim any of his lost glory, he needed a set of wheels. If the information he was working with was correct, he'd be getting glorious in no time.

He hadn't ventured into M Prefecture since the days leading up to the war; it wasn't quite as he remembered. His memory wasn't what it used to be, but Tierra Podrida wasn't always barricaded with piles of rubble - he knew that much for certain. A haphazardly stacked mini-mountain of broken buildings blocked the road into town. Up and over was the only way in. It made for a rough climb, one that wouldn't have been possible if not for the tune-up Gretl performed on the slow chugging engine.

Things were different inside the fortifications as well. The sad factory town that once showed some signs of life was inert, seemingly deserted. The tractor grumbled and wheezed between the small cinderblock and tin houses, kicking up dust along the dirt roads. No one paid him any mind. Anyone unfortunate enough to still call this place home were either toiling away in the Phase 2 Manufacturing Center or shacked up in their hovels, hiding their illicit activities from the local authorities. Those counting on a plywood door to keep the eyes of the Beat Cops off of their secret vices had nothing to fear. Lucius knew something most of the townsfolk didn't. Tierra Podrida, and all of M Prefecture along with it, was recently rendered lawless, ripe for the plundering. Mr. DeLuxe was going shopping.

He wasn't sure what to make of the heaps of appliances that marked the path to Saint Basil's. There were plenty of them, differing in height, composition and teeteryness; a stumpy, metal and plastic forest. Strange, but inconsequential to the task at hand. Lucius wasn't in the market for anything that wasn't wholly organic. He made a wide turn as he rumbled closer to his goal, too wide. The tar boiler collided with a pile of blenders, knocking the stack over with a clatter. If there was anyone inside the burnt out warehouse-turned-house-of-worship-turned-dancehall, they didn't seem to mind the commotion. No one stirred from within. He killed the engine anyhow; something that lay en route to the Cathedral caught his eye.

The dead man on the ground wasn't much of a specimen, at least not the parts that were visible. His body was bulbous, a nearly spherical blob. Very unattractive. His limbs were long and spindly, weak. Weakness wasn't going to work, not for what Lucius had planned. His skin was heavily pockmarked. That wouldn't do. And his head? Hard to tell, a smashed television sat where the man's head should have been. That made Mr. DeLuxe's decision easy.

Lucius was 57 years old. He was also of the opinion that a man pushing 60 had no business prying a bulky TV off of a squashed head. He'd leave this guy; the real score was waiting inside Saint Basil's. Or so he thought.

Jonathan Wright died in Saint Basil's two days before the gray tractor rolled into town. His dreams had died in Saint Basil's years earlier, but his body was slow to catch up. He had once been tasked with awakening the Messiah-to-be in the name of the Ashanti Orthodox. It would have been a tremendous holy honor, had his mission been a success. Instead, he allowed the savior to slip away, just as Innocent X had decades earlier. Wright didn't respond well to the legacy of failure he shared with the last of the Roman Catholic Popes. With his psyche twisted, he bartered his identity and his face for an artificially extended rule over M Prefecture. It was a cruel reign, one marked by fiendish edicts that spiraled beyond Wright's control and eventually cost him his life. At least he managed to get his revenge. Clint Masters, the almost-Messiah, the man who refused to righteously guide humanity, died in Saint Basil's as well.

The corpses of both men still rested on the light-up dance floor of the Cathedral slash Nightclub. Clint lay in a vibrant blue puddle, bruised and broken, but not cut or scratched. The damage was exclusively internal and it was heavy. The Black Pope, as Jonathan Wright rechristened himself, lay shredded from pelvis to crown. Clint had viciously obliterated his opponent's torso, but his own body gave out on him before he had the chance to tear apart the Black Pope's arms and legs. The giant limbs sprawled across the colorful floor tiles. They were still wrapped in the Black Pope's trademark white suit, now blood-stained a pink-tinged brown. Two dead men; forever linked in their shared futility. Their deeds were no longer important. Their powers, both political and supernatural, were extinguished. All that mattered now were their body parts. The parts belonging to Clint Masters in particular.

Lucius DeLuxe didn't like what he saw as he forced open Saint Basil's heavy double doors. An old dead white guy, most of an old dead black guy and an extra set of white guy arms? This couldn't be everything, could it? Where were the sexy-weird cop ladies he'd been promised? After a quick search of the scorched building, the only answer Lucius could come up with was 'not here'. He wasn't going to leave empty handed, but he wasn't going to leave happy either. These guys would do, barely.

First, he took the arms that didn't seem to belong to a body. They were in the best shape, young, blemish and bruise free. Plus they were light. The bruised white guy was another story. Grumbling, Lucius dragged him out of the building by his heels and hoisted him up into the tar boiler. Between the pair of arms and this guy, at least he'd have good patching supplies. On top of that, a quick check inside the bruised guy's trousers revealed a decent sized member; good enough until a bigger one came along.

Lucius left the black guy on the dance floor. He wanted to take the exotic north, a lewd display that would show those brutespooks the kind of monsters their civil war created. Up north, black guys were far from exotic. Besides, the remains of his body were a bloody mess. Lucius' robe, caked in a generous layer of desert dust, was already grubby enough. No need to further ruin his only change of clothes by picking up scrap parts he wouldn't use.

The trip out to M was looking like a bust, a big waste of gasoline and a bigger waste of time. His deadline was looming and this setback went and pissed all over the timetable he was working with. Mr. DeLuxe was left without option; he'd have to have a word with the source of his faulty intel. It was going to be an unkind word, followed by some unkind deeds.

The Pervert's pornography withdrawal wasn't going well. After years and years of non-stop hardcore sex blaring at him from his wall of TVs, the lack of thrusting, moaning, licking and squirting was too much to handle. Within a day of trading his televisions for his favorite performer's prized part, he couldn't take it any longer. He needed to watch again and he needed it bad.

He turned to the outmoded erotica of his youth to try and get his fix. 'Throbbing Throatfuls' was a mimeographed porn rag; incredibly popular amongst M Prefecture's smut fanciers until the overwhelming success of Clint Masters' underground video operation put it out of print. The Pervert had a copy of every issue.

Rooting through the closet to retrieve his stacks of blotchy, purple-blue lewdness was a slow, laborious affair. The Pervert's right eye had swollen completely shut, thanks to the beating he'd endured at the hands of Billy Lopez. What he could see out of the left eye was fuzzy, and that was only if he really focused. Focusing made his head hurt, or maybe it was the severe concussion. Brain trauma or no, The Pervert pressed on. The nausea wore off once he found the magazines buried beneath the pile of never-laundered jockey shorts. His sweating subsided, the tremors died down. 'Throbbing Throatfuls' was crude, both in content and in manufacture. Page after poorly laid-out page of illustrated sex acts that verged on the physically impossible. Typewritten text that was exceptionally vulgar in content and unintentionally offensive to spelling purists. Just what The Pervert needed.

The magazines scratched the itch, and then scratched it twice more over the course of the afternoon, but the relief didn't stick. The Pervert's deviancy ran deep and his whims were fickle. Hell, the gratification he derived from replacing his lips with labia scarcely lasted 24 hours. The novelty of the crinkled, old porno mags never stood a chance to satisfy in the long-term.

The tapes The Pervert once dubbed for Clint were effectively 'keep your hands to yourself' private sex exhibitions. They brought the viewer's eyes and ears to the brink of actually engaging in sex acts; acts the men of M Prefecture had been denied by a genetic poison developed overseas. Most static images just couldn't compare to the majestic fantasy conjured by motion pictures and accompanying audio. But there was one image, tucked away on a back page of the December '76 issue, silent and immobile, that kicked The Pervert's imagination into high gear.

It was an advertisement, small and text only. Mr. DeLuxe's Traveling Pleasure Show, it read. Live Sex Shows! Delivered to your home or place of busine-

The Pervert didn't bother to read anything else aside from the phone number listed at the bottom. The ad was decades old and the line was likely dead, but The Pervert wasn't about to let logic stomp on his excitement. Stubby fingers flew around his phone's rotary dial. When he heard a ring on the other end, those fingers clenched into a fist and flailed against the air in triumph.

The woman who answered seemed taken aback as The Pervert croaked "Traveling Pleasure Show!" through the speaker surgically embedded in his neck. She claimed no one had asked for that particular service in years. After another robotic "Traveling Pleasure Show!" demand, she offered to see if she could get in touch with Mr. DeLuxe and placed The Pervert on hold. Unfamiliar with the concept of hold music, The Pervert continued to bleat "Traveling Pleasure Show!" over the smoothest of jazzes until a man's deep voice cut him off.

"Yeah, I do those. Shut up and listen."

Mr. DeLuxe made his demands clear. A visit from his Traveling Pleasure Show wouldn't come cheap; one woman was the asking price. Drugged. Hypnotized. Bound and gagged. Terminally ill. Freshly dead. In some sort of suspended animation. Even if she was the unlikely combination of willing and able; the state she was in didn't matter so long as she was post-pubescent, pre-menopausal, and as pale as possible.

The Pervert couldn't pay Mr. DeLuxe's fee, not directly. He made an offer nonetheless. With his mind still addled from the painkillers that accompanied his surgery, he thought he was offering an incredible tip in exchange for a private show, he really did. While he couldn't personally provide a woman, he could give directions to a spot where Mr. DeLuxe could find three of them. He had nothing concrete to back his claim and his powers of deduction were a little loopy, but even so, it all made so much sense.

He knew Mona was dead, proof of that sat under his nose. He knew enough about Tierra Podrida's sexual underground to know that if Mona was dead the Beat Cops likely had something to do with it. He knew Mr. Lopez came by to smash up his face just for being on the receiving end of the Mona parts auction, so he had a pretty good idea that whoever left Mona in a state where she could be sold piece by piece was plenty dead.

Beat Cops Angry, Mona Dead. Mona Dead, Mr. Lopez Angry. Mr. Lopez Angry, Beat Cops Dead. Simple.

Add in the weird fire that came out of Mr. Lopez' body once The Pervert's blood started to gush and all the pieces fell into place. The Beat Cops were goners and their super sexy bodies were left lying somewhere off in the distance, wherever that big fire was burning. Sure, The Pervert's information was dead wrong, but it all made for a convincing enough tale to lure Mr. DeLuxe out to M. What a pity.

As he made his way out to Tierra Podrida, Lucius took stock of the task ahead. Performing for The Pervert wasn't going to be easy. His new ride wasn't anywhere near show-ready, live performers were out of the question, and when he secured the bodies of the Beat Cops, he wouldn't have any piston men to mount them on.

None of that was a concern any longer. The slimy little prick got Lucius' hopes up, way up. Now that the harsh light of truth had shined on Lucius' eyes, well, he was far from pleased.

215 Progress Avenue's door, already broken and flimsily taped back into place, crumpled inwards. The small house was filthy, but stripped nearly bare. The minimalist decor drew instant attention to The Pervert, a beady-eyed little weasel clad in jockey shorts and a mint-green robe, writhing in anticipation in his swivel chair. Mr. DeLuxe wasn't surprised to see The Pervert's tiny atrophied limbs; he'd heard rumors that mutation was the norm among those who still lived in M Prefecture. But, the prettiest pussy Lucius had ever seen sitting where The Pervert's mouth should have been? Now that was a surprise, one that nearly made his trip out to this Godforsaken place worthwhile. Murder was still on the menu, but now there was going to be surgery for dessert. Lucius DeLuxe took his payment for the mostly wasted journey in the form of vicious, violent retribution. Armed with indignation, bloodlust and a ceremonial dagger, he painted the shack's white walls red. Mr. DeLuxe left #215 with a pristine sex organ in hand and a smile on his face. Glorious.