Twilight Surprise (Part VI of SkiFi)

Remus Piddleberry is not one to be trifled with. And he told me so.

“Remus Piddleberry; is not one to be trifled with.”

One does not trifle with Remus Piddleberry.

“One; does not; Trifle; with Remus PIDDLEBERRY!”

I could tell he was getting angrier by the tone of his voice and the dramatic pauses.

“AND ONE; DEFINITELY; DOES NOT; WIPE; HIS; DIRTY; STINKING; PARIAH’N; FACE; ON; REMUS; PIDDLEBERRY’S; SKIRT!!”

This proclamation was choreographed in sync to the sound of Remus Piddleberry slapping me senseless.

* * * *

I felt an ocean lap at my feet. I was draped by nothing but the dim light of two red giants near the horizon. There was that cool early evening breeze in the air, the kind that signalled it was time to stop drinking beer, and move on to something with a little more kick (vodka) and a little more energy (tonic). I could tell I was mostly alone, except for maybe a hundred scantily-clad living goddesses from all over the galaxy. Some of them I recognised: The Foxy Four-Five from Vulpa, Bella Tinkup of Neversea, most of the Heavenly All-Star Beauties Choir (I wonder why Penny Cuckoo was missing, she’s my favourite); additionally, there were Ashens, Genelians, a couple of Ranis, one particularly curvy Baloneer, and some other sweet treats from the far side of Andromeda.

What struck me as interesting through all of this was that they were all being quite nice to me. Making eye contact, even smiling at me. Some walked by me, and brushed their hands gently across my shoulders and cranial scales. Based on this stimulus, I deduced I was probably sitting on something, a chair of some kind. It was all very exciting, and I wondered if the setting and all these beautiful women were a prelude to a surprise birthday party, or a private viewing of “The Universe’s Hundred Hottest Stars”, in the flesh.

I decided I must try to talk to them; so I did, but couldn’t hear the sound of my own voice. That’s about the same moment that I realised I couldn’t hear anything. I looked about in horror to try and get a sense of what was happening. And then I saw her again. An unreal angel, in a silver skirt with a scrappy face mark. I suddenly became aware of the dull throbbing in my head; the suns, the ocean, the beautiful women all melted away as if in a dream.

* * * *

I felt a cold splash over my naked body, which was now draped in the dim light of what I assumed must be the cargo-hold of Remus’s ship. The angel had thrown something at me again; I licked my lips, hoping it was a vodka-tonic. It wasn’t. It stung my eyes too; I thought it best to keep them shut for a while, trying not to let the Foxy Four-Five fade from my retinas.

I felt another cold splash, stinging a little harder this time. Apparently my closed eyes gave them the feeling the first one didn’t do the job well enough. Unbeknownst to my slight, albeit impostering, attacker, the freezing liquid was cleaning me up after my grimy, sweaty job; I thought to myself, “Hey, Free Bath from a pretty broad!”, and kept my eyes shut.

“Is he conscious yet?”, said Remus Piddleberry’s charcoaly rasp.

“I’m not sure, but he should be”, replied an auditorily scintillating female alto.

This sent me for a loop. If the angel isn’t Piddleberry in some sick disguise using a Personal Space Manipulator, does that mean she’s real? My heart spun out of control.

“His vitals are fluctuating.”

She sounded like the cocaine-coating on a stick of dynamite. Another bucket of cold-as-dead-space whatever-it-was struck me.

“How do you know he’s up?”

“When I was monitoring his dream activity, he asked me for a vodka-tonic.”

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