Tevun-Krus #75 - International 4: SolarPunk

Smith & Jones - The Final Season - 1. Yer 'Merican Now

Smith & Jones

The Final Season

Episode 1

Yer 'Merican Now 

Part 1

The Sunblacker

The portal—because this is sci-fi, bitches; that's what "holes" are called here—opened up right in the middle of the astronomically busy Sol City Spaceport's interstellar-boarding area.

"C'lossal fuck-up," Kris said, stepping out into the spaceport wearing nothing but her smoking-hot booty shorts, tube top and platform shoes. Men stared. Women felt things. Children continued to amuse themselves with keys, detergent pods, and extremely small coloured pebbles.

"We were meant t' land 'n the big man's office," she continued. "So how'n fuck's firecrotch did this happen? Goodstone ain't gonna be happy 'bout this..."

"Tell me about it," Smith & Jones said, their British tones playing off each other like a classic Beatles toe-tapper. When they walked out of the portal, they didn't come out as two people; no, they came out as one person with two necks and, naturally, two heads.

The Jones head frowned, looking down at the grey pinstripe vest and grey pinstripe pantaloons. "These are my garments, but I'm afraid this body isn't. Oh, I've never felt so gassy."

"Watch your tongue, mate," said the Smith head, except he suddenly wasn't British anymore. He pronounced his Rs hard, and "mate" with his Yankee-doodle accent sounded about as natural as a wormhole made from actual worm. "What happened to my voice? My beautiful downtown-Abbey voice? That's a British locale, right?" Tears streaming down his stubbled cheeks, the Smith head looked to Kris. "Why can't I remember anything British, Kris! Who am I?"

She responded with a backhand, which had the intended effect of causing the whole Smith-Jones organism to topple sideways, comically plonking Jones' head into Smith's as the body crumpled to the floor.

"Ow!" they both said, as travellers stepped on them.

Kris stood over Smith & Jones, brandishing some kind of glowing, see-through pistol, striking fear into the hearts of everyone in the spaceport. "Smith, yer 'Merican now. Those're the rules. Git used to it, assclown. Jonesy, yer still a Brit, though, so keep on Brittin'."

"Jolly good," Jones said, sinking his bad teeth into a bit of spotted dick whilst licking kidney-pie particles from the dainty, translucent fingers of his other pudgy hand.

"If only guns could solve this goddamn fucking problem!" Smith pulled his trigger fingers at nothing but air, swearing under his breath and praising Jesus.

Helping Smith & Jones up, Kris put her gun away and glanced around the spaceport. Something was amiss, off—glitchy. It wasn't just Smith & Jones—the entire structure displayed abnormalities, from the way the walls seemed to bulge in random places, to the bathrooms being divided by gender—hell, even the writing style and pacing of the story itself.

"This shit ain't right," she said.

"Yeah," Smith replied. "Jonesy and I are sharing a pair of nuts. Mine. Why is that, Kris?"