The Eighth Plague: A Narrative of Sex, Drugs, and Rock 'n' Roll

Chaper 11: A Cathode Orange

They had been kicked out of the Claires' house. Thankfully, Marc had been decent enough to give them the jumpsuits (which were these waterproof day-glo orange one-piece things), but they were still out on their own on the lunar streets with no cash and no car. So, they sought shelter in one of the many poorhouses of the moon and began working there.

It had been some years since this, now. Major Collins had died after being hit on the head by a steel beam, and nobody knew where Martie was. The plague on Earth had stopped, but the Arab was finally succumbing to the disease that Spade had carried.

Spade and The Confederate both sat down in chairs next to the Arab's deathbed. They were watching the black and white TV in their small, grey room in the poorhouse. Sesame Street was on, and the singing orange was krooning Bizet to a stirring electronic-symphonic accompaniment, hitting a sour note at the third "L'amour" in Habanera.

Suddenly, the show was interrupted by a news flash. "We apologize for this interruption. A minor-scale nuclear conflict erupted and ended just scant minutes ago. One of the explosions blew the top layer off an underground chamber containing some kind of vortex or portal."

Spade's eyes lit up with hope. But only briefly.

"--Unfortunately, this portal was destroyed by another explosion. And now back to your regularly scheduled programming. We apologize for this interruption."

Sesame street resumed. The Crack Master had crumbled away, his skeleton of rafter-beams now showing.

"Ah, just as well. I'm pretty sure Martie already fixed it anyway." said the Confederate.

Spade raised an eyebrow. "Fixed it? Fixed what?"

"Oh. We didn't tell you?" The Confederate said. "We were heading up there to plug a leak you Americans caused. Jerry Valdemar, who, if you recall, was your Surgeon General back then, stole the station under the pseudonym Gideon Munoz. He was using it to make the plague. We wanted to stop him. Anyway, it's been ages now. Who cares at this point?"

Spade stared hard at the cold stone floor. "Fair enough. What do you suppose the side-effects are of exploding a portal?"

The Confederate sat up straight. "Actually, I majored in portal sciences. Depending on how much raw chaos-energy that thing was pumping, now that it's in the air, it could cause anything from mild head-pains to a warp in reality."

"Hum. And what's the most likely outcome?"

"Vivid hallucinations in the elderly."

Suddenly, dozens of clowns burst into the room, grabbed Spade and whisked him away to the magic happyland of Tír na nÓg, where waters gushed and fruit trees grew and ev'rything was strange and new. Here, he went on a great many adventures with a stalwart band of colorful heroes, and fought many strange and exotic villains, and bedded many strange and exotic women. And some plain ones. Mostly plain ones.

Ah, but these are stories for other times, children. For now, rest your weary heads and sleep. You have tomorrow and all the rest of your days ahead of you.

THE END