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Anthony Miller

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The U.S.S. Ronald Macaque
By Anthony Miller
Thursday, March 29, 2012

Rated "R" by the Author.

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This is a piece of flash fiction written for an in-house competition for Author's Ink.

 Baking my brother-in-law and his pet bird into a pie was a mistake.  I can admit that now, and I do take full responsibility.  Still, I don’t like to dwell on the past.  I have more important things to do to waste time worrying about who got baked into what.  

I collapsed back into my throne.  The soft leather made expensive farty sounds.  I inhaled a deep, satisfying breath as I spun my chair to and fro, running my eyes over the various controls.  The bridge smelled like a new car.  I snorted it in, all the way up to my brain, and looked around some more.  A couple of the stations were still wrapped in plastic.  Awesome.  Totally awesome.  

Eventually I had to stop reveling in the moment, and get to work.  “View screen, on!” I bellowed.

Ensign Francisco’s Twinkie landed on the floor with a splat.  He lurched over to his control panel and stabbed a fat finger at one of the buttons.  The back of my wife’s giant head appeared on the main wall.  

She spun to face the camera, looking exasperated.  “Yes?  Wait ... are you calling me from the basement again?”

“I’m in space, bitch!”

She closed her eyes, shaking her head very slowly before looking back into the camera.  “What do you want?” she asked.  Her voice boomed, rattling the built-in speakers along the bottom of the view screen.  I asked Francisco to turn down the bass a little, and then turned back to my wife, my face contorted into what I hoped was a very grim expression.  

I could make out the individual, dyed hairs on her gargantuan, high-def melon.  Her roots were at least a foot long -- at least on the screen they were.

She interrupted my pilatory contemplations.  "What the hell do you want?"

“I have something I want you to see,” I said.

The mango-slurping whore just breathed at me, impassive.  “What if I don’t want to watch?” she asked.

"You will watch it," I said.

"Um, how's about ... no?"

“You have no choice,” I said.

“Nuh uh,” she said.

“Oh, yah huh,” I said.

“Nuh uh,” she said.

“Oh, yah huh,” I said.

“Nuh uh,” she said.

“Enough!”  I slammed my fist down on the arm of my chair.  Something beeped in protest.

Francisco turned to face me, his eyes wide.  “¡Puta!” he said in a loud whisper.

My wife’s eyes narrowed.  She looked pissed, but I knew better.  I didn’t buy her bravado for even an instant.  Or even a tiny part of an instant.  Or even the time it takes for quarks or leptons or whatever to decay in that giant tubey thing they have in Europe.  Not even one lepton-decay unit of time.  No, I chose to let her stew in her fear and consternation, and swiveled my chair around to face Francisco.  “Si, senor,” I said.  “Si.”

Francisco chuckled and nodded, a knowing smirk on his face.

The giant head on the screen coughed a huge – but fairly polite – cough.  My wife’s eyebrows indicated a growing level of impatience.

“Turn on your television,” I said.

She paused, apparently trying to raise one eyebrow while lowering the other.  She was never good at that – didn’t have the genes, apparently.  Eventually she gave up, sighed, and reached for the remote.  “Okay,” she said.  “It’s on.”

“Channel 143,” I said.

She fiddled with the remote some more.  “Okay,” she said, turning to face me again.  But then she did a double take.  “Are those … my mangoes?  My mangoes?!?”  

I laughed a villainous laugh.

"Oh my god!" she said.  She turned back from her TV and got up real close to the camera, so that all I could see were her angry eyes and the little freckles on the bridge of her nose.  “What the hell is this?” she asked.

I smiled a rueful smile.  We were so close now – everything was finally in place.  So many years, so many lonely, sleepless nights…  I could smell it.  Let her stew, I thought.  Let her stew.  

We sat there for a full minute, staring at one another.  Finally she let out a breath.  “Okay,” she said, “Fine!  I— I have to go.  I can’t stand ar—”

“Unleash the badgers!” I screamed.  

Francisco giggled and stabbed another button – presumably the one labeled “Badgers, Unleash.”  I don’t know though.  He’s the one that knows all the technical stuff around here.

My wife gasped and disappeared from the view screen.  I could hear remote, savage noises – presumably those of the badger attack.  And screaming.  Oh, the screaming.

Years later, I can still hear the screams of those mangoes.  And the sound of my wife crying, “No!” as she clutched her beloved television.  I, of course, have moved on to bigger and better things, seeking out new life, and new civilizations.  Haven’t found any, but still. 



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Reviewed by Peazy Monellon 3/29/2012
OMG! Can. Not. Stop. Laughing!!!!

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