The Adventures of Jill and Gigi Read online

  lobsters on strike—many on life support—crabs escaped decades ago to crawl over phallic tower buildings—fish wear do rags—heavily tattooed, with piercings, while foreign girls in tiny leather miniskirts lure unsuspecting undergrads with gratuitous, or under-gratuitous—or ungrateful sex, or sox, or socks—so they can take boy back to China to have only one highly scrutinized child who will be yelled at repeatedly, then sent to Harvard, or possibly worse yet, Princeton.

  being alone too much torture—

  Finn decided to embark on courageous mission—to ask Glorista to marry him—he planned to bribe her with expensive diamond. In his mind Finn said, among his many other conversations, “I sure hope this plan is successful—she has beautiful dark hair—is thin—probably won't cost much to feed on a daily basis—please, please God—make this work.”

  Episode 12

  Being a Grandparent is good—very few are arrested

  Finn's final journal entries

  It is 2082 and yes, I am still alive. I was 130 this year. My wife, Glorista, is 129 and still as lovely as ever. My daughter, Duodenia, was 102 this spring, on June 11th. She has twenty-two great, great grandchildren who are great, great, great grandchildren to me, of course. My son, Gregory, is no longer with the politburo; he retired last year at age 104.

  It has been fifty years now that I have not had a glandular secretion, which was hailed in 2030 as the “gland solution.” This was the turning point in my life as it has been for all us “old people.”

  Old people, those over sixty, now outnumber everyone else ten-to-one. I have been living on social security for sixty-five years and have collected $275,438,000 in benefits, only having paid $48,000 into the system. My great, great, great grandson, Louis Perfait, told me the other day that his social security taxes were 92% of his pay. He acted surprised when I told him before the uprising in 2050, social security taxes were 99.98% of everyone’s pay.

  I told him he should consider himself lucky. Not so lucky as myself, of course, he is only thirty-two, but compared to the young people in the 30s and 40s, he’s better off. Didn’t we get that law passed obligating all young people to come to their grandparents’ house for dinner on Sunday so they’d get a good meal? You’d think they’d be thankful.

  So, I say to Louis, and others similarly situated, remind that stranger standing on the corner that you are middle aged. Tell him how astonished you are that your body is thirty-five years old and still, to a certain extent, functions. It is an artifact. Historical.

  It will be with you, forever, or so it seems.

  Earlier this year they loaded my DNA into a spaceship, and sent me off to Alpha Centauri, to sample their beaches, virtually.

  Bon Voyage!

  Feel free to pick up the tab, kiddies!

  Book II

  Something Icy

  intro

  It has been long theorized that modern man crossed the Bering Land Bridge from Asia to the Americas at the end of the last Ice Age, in about 14,000 BC.

  Genetic data, however, suggests that small, isolated groups of hunter-gatherers arrived in America up to 10,000 years earlier, settling in both continents.

  Their arrival was rapidly followed by the extinction of indigenous Pleistocene megafauna (e.g. mammoths, mastodons), due either to over-exploitation by humans, an extraterrestrial impact, or both.

  Chapter 1

  “Things could go wrong,” Icy said.

  Belenks, skinny geek/nerd that he was, pocket protector in, continued to work the navigational console. Punched a button here—another there. He ignored Icy, as was his custom.

  “Our instruments are too primitive,” Icy complained in a worrisome tone.

  Belenks was exasperated. “What can go wrong?”

  “Well, we'll—we'll—we'll lose our girlfriends' phone numbers.”

  “We'll get new girlfriends.”

  “Easy for you to say. You have the big cave. Most of us just have these little tiny caves—and hardly any weapons.”

  “Well, if you hadn't got kicked out of school—”

  “But that was your fault.”

  “Yeah, but I didn't get caught.”

  “Damn you, Belenks.”

  “Shut up, you idiot. I'm getting a reading.”

  Belenks watched the lights on the console blink on and off—the dials spun—the fusion conductor hummed—the blue and red paintings of deer and antelopes on the walls of the cave lit up.

  “When are you going to finish with that? I have to get on the wavelength machine. I heard from a responder yesterday.”

  “Who?”

  “A nice girl. She looked smart—was an athlete—an Olympic hockey player, she said. Gigi. Do you know her? She went to Crocodile U.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. Said she'd meet me at Tinny's.”

  “Never heard of her. I'll check her out later.”

  “No. I'll check her out. I'm tired of you checking out my girls.”

  “Suit yourself. Well, here goes.”

  He slammed his fist on the big gray wooden lever. From inside the giant mountain of semi-solid volcanic gases and molten lava, a tremendous explosion of rocketry, prehistoric Cambrian style, flew from the center of the cone of the volcano, and sped towards outer space.

  “Finally, we're going to take down those damn mastodons.”

  “And the mammoths?”

  “Oh, yeah. We'll get them too. We'll all have plenty to eat. We'll be filling up the drive in windows of the world with mastodon burgers every day. We'll be hundredaires.”

  “Hundredaires?”

  “Yeah. We should be able to make ten—twenty--thirty bucks a month. Then we can afford lots of girls—all day and night—buy them drinks—expensive drinks—take them on trips to Florida.”

  “Florida? Where's that?”

  “Just east of St. Louis, but crazier. With beaches—and tiny fur bikinis. It's, like, a law. The girls have to wear these tiny fur bikinis.”

  “Oh, now you're talking. Yes, shoot down those—those—-hey, what are you shooting at?”

  “Them damn asteroids. And maybe a few comets. You've seen 'em, haven't you?”

  “Yeah. Sure. Very entertaining.”

  “You haven't seen entertainment, buddy. Those meteor showers—tiny specks—flashing down—every now and then. They'll be nothing. We're going to blow the heavens to kingdom come.”

  “Oh, blimey, Belenks. Now you're talking.”

  “Yup, I've got an asteroid in my sights right now. “

  “Beautiful. How long will this take?”

  “No way to know. For the time being, we wait—but, listen—grab a war club—we're going out for drinks to celebrate. After all, it's Christmas eve.”

  “Christmas eve? What's that?”

  “I don't know. It just came into my head. Let's go.”

  Belenks and Icy checked their war clubs. Icy picked out a nice 34 inch Louisville slugger. Belenks got a maple, a Mazuza, a 33 inch, with a nice fat barrel and thin handle. It was autographed by Arod McChump, one of the greatest hitters of the 786th century—right after—right after—oh, heck—those records are crap now.

  Chapter 2

  It was about 3 PM, Saturday, at the Under 2000 2000 Fitness Center. Vickie Juniper had her usual weekend afternoon class there for the HotChickClub.

  “Listen up, bitches,” Juniper said, cracking her whip with a loud snap. It sounded like a rifle shot.

  The five women stood at attention along a red line on the wood floor.

  “You're here for one reason, right?”

  No one answered.

  “You're weak. You give it all, and get nothing in return. It's time now, to straighten things out. Let's focus. Okay, girls, now, get up to the line. Now, to the right.”

  She placed her hands on her hips and bent to the right. The other ladies did likewise. Then to the left. “Left, right, left, right—good—that's good. Keep it up.”

  Now, Vickie walked slowly around them. />
  She grabbed a sign-up sheet from the table and looked it over.

  ”Bertha,” she said. “Step forward, hips first.”

  A woman in a gray sweat suit took a step away from the line, in an awkward way, still getting used to the “hips first” posture Vickie taught, that definitely had a way of causing you to pull in your gut.

  “What brings you here, girl?”

  “My boyfriend—well, I found out he got my best friend pregnant.”

  “Really? Do you have children?”

  “Yeah, my ex has them.”

  “Oh, right. Well, you came to the right place. Have you other girls been following the menus?”

  No one said a thing.

  “Well?”

  One woman raised her hand.

  “Yes?”

  “What menus?”

  “What f—ing menus? I've seen you before. Where have you been?”

  “Vickie,” another girl said, raising her hand. “Rebecca—Rebecca has—has—has—issues.”

  “Issues? We've all got issues. I wish my only issue was remembering to follow a menu.” She looked at her list again. “Gigi. Do you have issues?”

  Gigi looked at the floor. “Sure,” she said. “I've got issues.”

  “Okay, let's hear 'em.”

  Gigi looked back and forth for a second.

  “Well,” she said. “First, he didn't call--”

  ”Girls, girls, girls—we've covered this, right? But anyway, go ahead.”

  “That's it.”

  “That's it?”

  “Yeah,” Gigi said, a tear forming in her eye.

  A woman next to Gigi gave her a hug.

  “Enough!” Vickie exclaimed, cracking her whip. “Enough, you bitches!”

  Chapter 3

  Jill said, “Did you hear Vickie moved in with a guy so she could afford her online dating site?”

  “Yes, I heard that,” Gigi said, taking a sip from her cappuccino. “I wasn't surprised. She met him at that cheap gym.”

  “What cheap gym?”

  “Under 2000 2000.”

  ”You're kidding? Let me look it up.” She tapped her earphone tab and a holographic screen appeared before her. “Yeah, here it is.”

  “You know, Jill. Vickie is probably doing more than just living with the guy.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Hey, there's Bobby Frisco.”

  “Bobby Frisco? Wow. He looks well dressed now.”

  “I know. He must have a job now. We'll have to add him to our list.”

  “But anyway, like I was saying, he probably makes her do stuff.”

  “What? What stuff?”

  “You know. The sex stuff.”

  Jill shook her head. “Brutal. I mean, you got to live with a guy for that?”

  “No, Jill, no.”

  'You know, Gigi, we probably should buy a book.”

  They were in the B & N storefront cafe.

  “How about a magazine?”

  “Yes, that would be good. Hey, there's Tag.”

  They now watched as Tag, the hot new barista guy, put on his apron. It was why they were there in the first place.

  Chapter 4

  Gigi was about 5' 8,” thin, angular, bony, with a flat chest. She had red hair, and didn't think she was that pretty. She was wrong. I guess I must be in love with her.

  Jill was about four inches shorter and definitely couldn't be considered flat-chested. She was 36-22—34. If you saw her in a bikini, which she liked to wear, and you were a guy, you would be transfixed. She was definitely pretty—with dark auburn hair. A pretty, dark auburn haired cop. Because of her buxom nature, she had a big problem getting properly fitted for her bullet proof vest, and she hated wearing it. As a matter of fact, she was cited twice by her commanding officer, and almost suspended once because of the delay she caused when she had to tear off her shirt and put on her vest when she and her partner pulled up in front of a shootout in the hood.

  She really liked her partner, Jesse Ferguson, a 6' 2” native of Puerto Rico, but he was married with two kids, so, she had to keep her hands off him. Other guys, when available, she liked to put her hands on. As a matter of fact, she loved putting her hands on guys, and having guys put their hands on her. She was a hands on girl.

  Jesse had a master’s degree in psychology. Somehow, you never quite get to put that to good use on the streets. Mostly, you had to use your baton.

  Gigi was an astronomer, studying polar drift, the magnetic pole kind. She was a cream puff, extremely shy, and, according to Dirtyboy, who adored her, like meself, a doll.

  Chapter 5

  Pushing the wooden door open a crack, Belenks checked for reptiles. Looked okay. Too cold for those bastards now. Just a light snow falling, making the walking treacherous, but the Ferrari had 4 wheel drive, so that didn't matter.

  They tooled downtown to Tinny's, one of their favorite watering holes, where a lot of hot chicks were often seen.

  By mistake, Belenks skidded on some black snow—all bloody, perhaps, and knocked down two parking meters.

  “Crap,” Belenks exclaimed. “Not again. Get the slingshots—we'll shoot out the video cams.”

  So, that's what they did. Put masks on, fired up the sling shots, and shot out the spy cams. Then, at the streetlight, they ripped out the wires.

  “Got any money?” Belenks said.

  “Yeah. I just cashed in my empty cans.”

  “Oh, excellent. What have you got?”

  “Like two--two or three dollars.”

  “Fantastic. You're buying.”

  As they sidled up to the bar at Tinny's, two girls saw them buying drinks.

  One, a red haired, tiny black leather miniskirted extremely hot semi-genius Neanderthal, turned to the other, a sultry petite auburn haired knockout intellectual with high white boots and a short blue knit dress. “Listen, Jill. These guys—have you seen them before?”

  “Gigi, I told you. That's Icy, the lawyer from Craptown.”

  “Oh, yeah. Here—drop my lipstick or something.”

  “You do it.”

  “Damn it.”

  “You're so shy. I'm parched here. Just do something.”

  “Okay. Damn it.”

  Gigi held out one of Jill's lucky strikes, and poked Icy on the shoulder. “Hey mister. Got a light?”

  Icy was, like, dumbstruck. “Sh—sh—sh--sh--sure,” he said. Taking his 34, he poured some Bacardi over it, went to the back of the bar, put it in the fireplace and lit it up. Bringing it back, he offered her a light.

  “Hey,” she said. “Maybe just a twig.”

  Belenks intervened, grabbed a swizzle stick from the bar, and lit it from Icy's club. He took the cigarette from Gigi, put it in his mouth, lit it, and handed it back to her.

  Suddenly, Belenks was struck in the head by Icy's 34.

  “Oh, sorry,” Icy said, as Belenks lost consciousness. “Whoops. Now you're on the concussion list.”

  Chapter 6

  “Hey,” Gigi said. “Aren't you the guys who knocked down those parking meters?”

  “Yes, I confess. We destroyed them,” Icy said.

  “Nice job,” Jill said.

  Suddenly, flaming rocks—like little meteors—started smashing through the ceiling, and crashing in the street outside.

  “Damn it,” Icy exclaimed.

  “You guys got deflectors?” Gigi said.

  “Wh—wh--wh--” Belenks mumbled from the floor.

  “Damn it,” Icy said. He grabbed a beer stein from the bar and splashed it over Belenks' head. “Yeah, damn Belenks has deflectors on the car.”

  He grabbed Gigi's hand as Belenks, groggy, tried to stand up. The guy whose beer Icy used to splash Belenks said, “Hey, buddy, that's my beer.”

  “Oh, sorry. Excusez moi,” Icy said.

  The guy threw a punch.

  Luckily, at that very instant, a flaming hot meteor smashed through the ceiling and hit the guy right on the left side of his temple,
and he fell off his stool, avoiding a nasty skirmish.

  “Come on,” Icy said, as he took Jill's arm. “Let's go.”

  Gigi and Jill grabbed their shopping bags—big, gigantic Macy's and Target shopping bags. “Wait,” Jill said. “I need a drink for the road.”

  “Sure,” Icy said. “Barkeep--two more for the ladies.”

  As the meteors crashed down, they waited impatiently for their drinks. Gigi had a cosmo, Jill a manhattan.

  “Could you put these in plastic cups?” Jill said to the bartender.

  “No time for that,” Icy said. “Let's go.”

  As the girls grabbed their drinks, he took them each by the arm. Burning igneous rocks sizzled on the floor, but, being 235 pounds and 6 foot four, Icy had little trouble escorting the ladies out of the establishment. Belenks staggered out behind them.

  Out in the street, cop cars were assembled. A few uniformed police militia looked over the Ferrari, which had a parking meter stuck in the wheel well.

  “Let's roll,” Icy said.

  Belenks fumbled in his pocket for the keys. “I don't know what the hell happened—where are we?”

  He popped the door locks.

  “This your vehicle?” one of the cops said.

  “Yeah,” Icy said. “But this is like an emergency. We just shot down an asteroid, and have these two girls here to take home—and--”

  “You got ID?”

  “ID?”

  At the same moment, a few pretty good sized chunks of flaming asteroid crashed down, just missing the Ferrari.

  “I'm writing you up,” a cop said.

  Two mammoths, standing nearby, were each struck by a cloud of meteors and fell down.

  “Here,” Icy said, whipping a checkbook out of his inside jacket pocket. “Let me write a check. How much?”

  Another cop grabbed the sleeve of the cop who wanted to write Icy up. “Come on. We'll grab the charcoal and the paddy wagon—the briquettes—you know—get these mastodons out of here—grill 'em up good.”

  “I think they're mammoths,” the other cop said.

  “How much?” Icy said, as Belenks wobbled nearby. The girls shivered.