Tevun-Krus #21 - Comic SF

Last Salt - a Short by @MadMikeMarsbergen

LAST SALT

1

KIRK Klark Kornelius Krinklekut-Karr lives in San Heyzeus, Canmerica, a part of the Fellatio Astro-Mons Veneris star cluster. He sleeps with a jug of his still-living father's ashes stashed below his ash-coloured pillow. Mixed with everlasting skim milk and distilled using a complex molecular structure of super-crescently modified hydrocarbon atoms and Jell-O. Daddy's crispy corpse of an arm will never go bad. Thus Kirk Klark Kornelius Krinklekut-Karr is rarely if ever sad, and perhaps you can see why. With a golden-butter sky never clouded in hard acid-greys, and a loving daddy who will never ever truly die.

Kirk—Kalvin to friends, though he doesn't have many—Krinklekut-Karr standing working for the Corporation as an envelope-licker. Licking glue and catching a buzz. The pay is swell and his boss can go to hell. Licking and licking until his tongue grows bumpy bloody sores. Infection ensures never a dull moment is had. And yet Mr. Arseholian, the never-wanted son of sentient Armeanian warthogs, is still yelling at him to pick up the pace.

How dare he tell me what to do. He's only my boss. Not my Rabbi. He doesn't advise me in matters of faith and fortune. So why must he grip me in the vise of life. Tearing me to pieces. From the inside in. Deeper and deeper. Until I can't take another second. In this hellish hole called life itself. The weather's great down here. Warm and cozy. Maybe a little too snug with the furnace set on Roasted Rump. But all in all, I shan't complain.

Kirk hearing the snort and snicker from behind. The whine and wiggle as Arseholian waddles up to his backside. Fecal smell travelling among greasy brown smears across the floor. I turn around and stare into those beady black piggy little eyes.

"What Mr. Arseholian."

"Pick up the pace Karr. You lick too slow. Ain't your mommy ever taught you the art of licking. I hear she's a pro." He snorts in laughter at his own joke.

"Sir. My mother is dead."

"Even better." Snort, snort.

"Sir. My mother is a saint."

"The best whores always are." Snort, snort, snort.

Kirk Karr whistling through his teeth. Angry, exasperated. What is this guy on. Where does he get off. I could kill him five ways to Friday with my tongue. A lethal weapon. Trained in fancy Corporation procedures. Fifteen years of hard thankless work. Or slice his neck with these envelopes I lick. Lethal paper-cut. Watch him bleed all over the floor. Tell him to pick up the pace. Die faster you bum. And wipe your arsehole. Sir. It reeks like your mum did. Last night. When I was teaching her how to lick. Her envelope. Right down its sticky slit.

The whistle blows, shaking Kirk from his heavenly thoughts. Out from the clouds, he sets the unlicked envelope down for later. Grabbing his lunchbox, signing out of the system with a blink of his eyes and heading off to town. Amidst the throngs of fellow Corporation clowns, working for the Man so the Man can stay home. Earning stock points on the souls of man. Little m for little old me. I'm not a fat cat, so I can't earn more money than I could spend in seventeen hundred lifetimes. Can't buy that mechanical jaguar I want. Said I would buy one for little Susie Cumberbitch, too. Told her Cyborg Santa was dead, mauled to death by his own team of robotic reindeer, Rudolph taking his balls as a souvenir. Then later she kicked me in the knee when I told her she'd have to settle for a mechanical dead worm. Saying I was a great big thieving oaf who was better off dead in a ditch than stealing her precious oxygen. Little does she know.

Mrs. Hora Cumberbitch

Her mummy

Sure can

Blow.