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Chapter 10: Planet Macho
By DC Green | 25 January 2010 |
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Page 1 of 3
 Crusty Carl strutted stiff-legged around our motel capsule (three paces long, and half a pace wide), pausing only to blow smoke rings out his sphincter. Despite the crampiness, I could tell Carl was loving his latest brain-chip. ‘Welcome to Macho, the centre of the bloody universe!’ he boomed. ‘Population, 57 trillion. Which is… a farken few more than Dense! Whole bloody planet’s covered in 450 levels of skyscrapers and enviro-stacks.’ I yawned. Carl ignored my hint and sucked hard on his anal reefer. ‘Everythin’ that matters is here: planet embassies, galactic parliament, over 200 billion bloody McClone restaurants, plus all the big surf companies – in their own territories. They reckon only the highest rankin’ Macho citizens get surf passes and even God Herself can only afford a small apartment.’ ‘Waves must be epic, huh?’ I snatched my bag from between Carl’s legs. ‘Ah… no. Macho’s only got one ocean. More of a lake, really. And the prevailin’ wind-swell is tiny, feeble and cold.’ ‘I hate tiny. And feeble. Cold’s okay.’ ‘Adjust fast. Your first heat’s tomorrow. In two hours, you’re booked for a practise session at Bank 17, Ripaquikbong Beach.’ Carl lobbed me a brain-chip. ‘Directions. Not for eatin’.’ Carl squinted through the perve-hole, wrenched open our door and blasted the corridor with fire retardant. ‘Fark off you sluts!’ he screamed, blasting dozens of groupies. He slammed the door shut and fixed me with a scowl. ‘Your cock popularity has quadrupled since your win at Toxic Teahupoo. But remember: no farken farkin’! You didn’t fark at the last contest and we’re stickin’ with the winnin’ formula here! Besides, you’re doin’ 15 interviews this arvo.’ I groaned, ‘Do I have to do that crap?’ ‘Fark, yeah. You’re big bloody news!’ Carl spat. ‘Just don’t lose your winnin’ streak, or your focus!’ ‘But losing my sanity is okay?’ Carl scowled. My first heat was in ankle high dribble at Deathstar Beach. I could barely trim, let alone turn. Luckily, Turbo Hippo struggled even more. The forecast: dropping swell. Dreck. Macho was the worst named hoax in the universe, all Yen and no salt. At least on stinky Earth, learning to surf big lefts was a buzz. Here, using every second of practise time was a job. Weighing 698 kilograms, surfing junk was never going to come easily. Yet I did learn how to build momentum, to find micro power-pockets and use my weight to throw extra point-scoring spray. But it was still a job. Five storeys above the contest site, the competitors’ area was Party Central. ‘Zack!’ Catbird waved me over. I pushed through the crowd. She looked ultra-mega-hyper hot. And…nervous? ‘You okay?’ Her eyes shone. ‘I’m not. Every hour I miss that big shiny Dolphin Bloke galoot. He was such a help last year when I was a rookie. Now I’m the ancient team veteran who’s been on tour longest! And if I keep winning heats, which I am, easily – I’ll draw DB’s killer in the quarters!’ |