Max Rage: Twelve Punches To Mars!

by Jake Bible

“Can’t. Gotta run the bar. Can’t leave Grup in charge ever again.”

  “But why me? Why? What’d I do to deserve this?”

  “You gained my trust. And as much of a pain in the ass Junior is, he’s my only child, Rage. I need him safe.”

  “But you’re talking about a fraternity a cappella mime troupe! What danger can he possibly be in?”

  “There have been two thousand, six hundred, and fifty-three murders over a cappella mime troupe competitions in the last decade alone.”

  “Uh… That’s a lot,” Rage said, stunned. “I mean, a lot lot.”

  “The competitive a cappella mime troupe scene is not for the weak of heart or body,” Mascholine said. “I was glad when Junior was finally out. That’s why I need you to go with him.”

  “Fuck me…”

  “And the families of the other members of the troupe are paying three hundred thousand apiece.”

  That perked Rage up.

  “I thought that might get your attention,” Mascholine said.

  “That’s years’ worth of side gigs,” Rage said.

  “Exactly.”

  “I do this and we don’t have to do any more jobs for a while,” Rage said and glanced at the bed. “We could stay right here for a year, at least.”

  “At least.”

  “You’d still have the bar to run and I’d be at the door bouncing…”

  “After we take a long, relaxing vacation. With the bar closed the whole time. No worries about Grup fucking things up…”

  Rage caught the tone in here voice.

  “What?” Rage asked. “There’s a shoe about to drop. Drop it.”

  “The douchebruhs really like Grup,” Mascholine said.

  “They can fucking have him,” Rage replied.

  “They think he’d make a great mascot.”

  “I don’t know about great, but mascot is all that Clickelack is qualified for.”

  Rage paused.

  “Wait… Mascot for what?”

  “For their a cappella mime troupe…”

  “No.”

  “Yes.”

  “No!”

  “Yes, Rage. Yes.”

  “Son of a fucking bitch…”

  Five

  “Hey, Rage, guess what I just found out?” Grup asked. He plopped into the seat next to Rage as the shuttle prepared for take-off to Mars. “Can you guess?”

  “Find another seat,” Rage snarled. He rubbed his temples. The constant throbbing beat of the EDM playing from the shuttle’s speakers was killing him. “I mean it, Grup. Move.”

  “There are no other seats. Not even up front with the guys. Hey, why aren’t we flying first class with them?”

  “Because we can’t afford it.”

  “But the guys are all up in first class.”

  “They can afford it.”

  “Junior is up there.”

  “The douchebruhs bought his ticket ahead of time.”

  “But I know a guy that—”

  “Because it was booked and Mascholine would have had to mortgage Crater Rays’ to afford scalped shuttle tix,” Rage snapped.

  “Oh, no, that’d be bad,” Grup said. He struggled to get his safety harness buckled. “I hate these things. They are the WORST!”

  Rage reached across and snapped the buckles closed then cinched the harness to internal organ crushing tightness before Grup could finish his sentence.

  “Thanks…” Grup gasped.

  “Oh, sir, that is way too tight,” a flight attendant said, approaching Grup with a smile on their face. “Here, let me help you with that.”

  The flight attendant, a generic beigey-purpley, androgynous, humanoid being that was impossible to describe (except for the beigey-purpley part), reached down and loosened the harness.

  “Thank you,” Grup gasped.

  “Sir? Could you put your harness on, please?” the attendant asked Rage.

  Rage slowly swiveled his head and glared at the attendant. The being gulped and gave Rage a broad, terrified smile.

  “Never mind. Enjoy your flight.”

  The attendant hurried off, pretending someone was calling for them.

  “Don’t you have to get special permission to leave Earth?” Grup asked.

  The two Snorpas—one of the hairiest alien races to take up on Earth; seven feet tall with razor-sharp cat claws—sat across the aisle from Rage and Grup. They swiveled their heads to stare at Rage.

  “What?” Rage snapped. “You got a question on those hairy-ass lips.”

  “Asses don’t have lips, man,” Grup said and chuckled. “Ass lips.”

  The Snorpas growled then returned their attention to the hologram movie playing on the backs of the seats in front of them.

  “But don’t you have—” Grup began.

  “No,” Rage said. “How could I do the side gigs with Mascholine if I needed permission to leave Earth?”

  “Oh, right,” Grup said. “That must be why Greenville PD is on the shuttle too. They let you leave, but keep tabs on you.”

  “What?” Rage asked and glared at Grup. “What are you babbling about?”

  “Huh?”

  “You said Greenville PD is on this shuttle.”

  “Yeah.”

  “And…?”

  “And what?”

  “Who is it? Where are they?”

  “Right here, Rage,” a voice said from the aisle as Detective Labous approached Rage and Grup’s seats. “What a coincidence.”

  The detective was tall, fat, and had a head like a sideways watermelon with ears stuck on it. His suit was bright pink with blue piping. The man made a point of sweeping his suit jacket back so everyone could see his badge and his gun.

  “Jesus Christ,” Rage said with an agonized sigh. “What the fuck are you doing here, Labous?”

  “Can’t a man take a vacation to Mars without being questioned?” Detective Labous responded.

  “No,” Rage said. “You’re not the Scorching Dude type. And I highly doubt you like a cappella mime troupes.”

  “Because no one likes a cappella mime troupes, right, Rage?” Grup asked. “Right?”

  “Right…” Rage rubbed his temples again. “Can someone turn that goddamn electronic bullshit for music off!”

  There were several hisses, a few verbal jabs, and a shit-ton of boos directed Rage’s way.

  “Making friends like always, I see,” Detective Labous said.

  “What do you want?” Rage snarled. “And don’t feed me no vacation bullshit.”

  “Earth Corp is not thrilled with you going to Mars,” Detective Labous said. “They don’t want you anywhere near Scorching Dude. The event is too lucrative to risk having Max Rage screw it up.”

  “I don’t want to go, either,” Rage said. “You want to take my place and watch the douchebruhs for me?”

  “Then there’s that,” Detective Labous said. “Some of those young men have very influential families. While the idea of the Sol System Slasher protecting their precious heirs sounds good in a novelty way, but the reality is you get people killed, Rage.”

  “Sol System Slasher? What the fuck name is that?” Rage asked. “Do people think I’m a fucking serial killer now?”

  “Oh, cereal sounds great!” Grup said and raised three of his five hands. “Excuse me? Attendant? Can I get some cereal?”

  Rage punched Grup across the jaw and the alien’s face nearly imploded then popped back into place.

  “Nebber mine,” Grup said, waving off the approaching attendant. “Gubbe be har tuh chuh fo uh bid.”

  “Earth Corp sent your favorite detectives to watch you and I figured I’d tag along to keep an eye on all three of you since I don’t trust them not screwing this up and getting themselves killed in some orgy tent on Mars,” Detective Labous said.

  “My favorite detectives…? Goddamnit,” Rage said and pushed up in his seat so he could look at the rows behind his.

  About six rows back were possibly the most generic human b
eings nature could provide. Bland tan skin with bland brown eyes and bland brown hair. They stared at Rage with bland expressions. They were so bland they made the androgynous attendant look like a neon sign filled with angry bees and fireworks.

  “Fuck me,” Rage said. “I used to destroy planets and crush empires. With my fists. Now I have to deal with this shit? Someone shoot me. And fuck this music!”

  Rage punched the speaker above his seat and sparks rained down upon him. A hundred micro-bots appeared out of nowhere and repaired the speaker before he was back sitting in his seat. Rage closed his eyes and took several deep breaths.

  “Sir! Please don’t punch things!” the attendant called out from down the aisle.

  Rage lifted a hand and raised his middle finger.

  “You wish, muscle boy!” someone shouted. The shuttle passengers all laughed.

  “Seriously, though, Rage,” Detective Labous said. “We should chat when we land.”

  “You’re still here?” Rage asked without opening his eyes.

  “I’m not kidding, Rage,” Detective Labous said and leaned across Grup to get in close to Rage. “These competitions can be deadly. Nearly a third of the troupes are murdered before they can even perform in the first round.”

  That got Rage to open his eyes. He furrowed his brow and squinted at Detective Labous.

  “Are you fucking with me?” Rage asked. “Why do you know that people get murdered over an a cappella competition?”

  “A cappella mime troupe competition,” Detective Labous said. “And I, uh, did some research. Maybe you should have too.”

  Detective Labous patted Rage on the shoulder, turned, and left.

  “Should have what? Research? What are you talking about?” Labous was gone. “I didn’t agree to take this job,” Rage called after him. “I was told to take… Oh, fucking never mind.”

  “You never guessed what I found out, Rage?” Grup said, his jaw back in line with the rest of his face.

  “No, Grup,” Rage replied. He brought up the hologram interface on the back of the seat in front of him.

  “Thank you for your interest in Earth Corp Interactive,” a mechanical voice chimed. “Please note that there will be a small service charge of five hundred intergalactic credits per minute of use. You are welcome.”

  Rage closed the interface without punching it, which he thought of as quite the achievement in self-restraint.

  “Don’t you want to know what—?”

  “No, Grup, I don’t,” Rage interrupted.

  “But—”

  “No.”

  “But I know the name—”

  “No!”

  “Punching Air,” Grup said quickly.

  Rage turned and glared. “What?”

  “Punching Air. That’s the guys’ a cappella mime troupe name. Punching Air.”

  “Dear God…”

  “You know, the guys have free interface access up in first class,” Grup said. “Maybe you should go up there and do some research after the shuttle takes off.”

  “Maybe I should do that right now,” Rage said and stood up.

  “Sir? Sir! Please remain seated!” the attendant shouted. “We are about to lift off! Anyone not secured by their harness could receive serious bodily injury!”

  “I orbit jumped into the Xermilion Ocean with only a pair of swimming trunks and a knife carved from a Donkerpils’ thigh bone! I think I’ll be fine,” Rage said.

  “Sir, I will not ask you again,” the attendant said, a smile spreading across his beigey-purpley face.

  “Why are you grinning like that?” Rage asked. “Stop grinning like—SON OF A BITCH!”

  Two hundred micro-bots leapt onto Rage and shocked him until he collapsed into his seat. The attendant arrived a second later and buckled Rage into his safety harness.

  “Safety first, asshole,” the attendant said then walked away.

  Rage twitched. Grup grimaced.

  “Uh, Rage I think you peed yourself,” Grup said.

  “Fuck… Off…”

  Six

  After the shuttle had lifted off, and Rage had regained motor control again, he stood up on shaky legs and made his way up to first class.

  “May I help you, sir?” a Milgo asked as it stood in front of the bulkhead separating first class from the plebes.

  Milgos were humanoid aliens with rocky skin and lava eyes. Large and intimidating, most folks wouldn’t even approach them, let alone try to step past them. Rage attempted both, but the Milgo placed a craggy hand on Rage’s chest, stopping him in his tracks.

  “I asked if I could help you, sir,” the Milgo said.

  “No,” Rage said and grabbed the Milgo’s wrist, bending the hand back until the being was down on his rocky knees. “Just going to see a friend.”

  “Sir! Do not make me sic the bots on you again!” the attendant shouted as they handed out a single peanut and drinks the size of thimbles to each passenger. “Sir!”

  Rage let go of the Milgo and the alien was up and in Rage’s face in the blink of an eye.

  “I can have you ejected from this shuttle for that,” the Milgo said.

  “I need to talk to someone in first class,” Rage said. “His name is Junior. He’s with the a cappella mime troupe.” Rage shuddered after uttering the words.

  “You are going to have to narrow it down, sir,” the Milgo said. “There are several a cappella mime troupes in first class. Do you know the name of the troupe?”

  Rage took a deep breath. “Punching Air.”

  “Oh, of course,” the Milgo said. “A fine troupe.”

  Rage and the alien stood there facing off for several awkward, silent seconds.

  “Yeah, so I need to go talk to Junior,” Rage said.

  “Do you have an invitation?” the Milgo asked.

  “An invitation? No, I don’t have a fucking invitation,” Rage snarled.

  “Hey! Watch the language!” a passenger snapped. “There’s a child present!”

  Rage turned and looked down at the passenger and the child seated next to him. Rage had no idea what alien race they were. But they had a lot of teeth. Too many teeth. Teeth sprouting from places where teeth shouldn’t sprout.

  “If you think me saying fuck is gonna be what harms that kid’s future, then it’s nothing but downhill from here on out, pal,” Rage said and returned his attention to the Milgo.

  “Invitation,” the Milgo said.

  Rage rolled his eyes and pressed a finger to his ear.

  “Thank you for engaging the Earth Corp Intercomms system,” a voice chirped in his ear. “Please note there will be a charge of three hundred intergalactic credits per minute of use. Enjoy your flight!”

  Rage growled the entire time it took the system to connect him to Junior.

  “Rage! What’s up, bruh?” Junior shouted, obviously intoxicated. “You having fun back there with the boring people?”

  “I need to use your hologram interface,” Rage said. “Invite me into first class.”

  “No can do, Rage,” Junior replied then laughed hysterically. “Oh, damn! It came out of both nostrils!”

  “Junior!” Rage roared. The Milgo cocked his head. Rage took a slow breath. “Junior. Invite me in.”

  “Like I said, Rage, no can do,” Junior replied. “We’re having a great time up here and getting psyched for the competition. You’d only bring the vibe down. Sorry not sorry.”

  The comms went dead, then, “Thank you for using Earth Corps Intercomms system. You have been charged three thousand intergalactic credits for that call.”

  “What? That was barely a minute!” Rage snapped.

  “Please note that all charges must be settled before you are allowed to disembark from the shuttle,” the voice continued. “Credit will not be extended and debtors will be expected to work off all charges not settled. Would you care for a list of approved tasks that may be performed to pay off your Earth Corp Intercomms debt in the event you cannot pay promptly?”


  “No,” Rage said.

  “Excellent. The list includes, but is not limited to, the cleaning and sanitizing of first-class pimple removal receptacles; lavatory tongue baths; pus identification; emptying of flatulence traps; and so many more! Please return to your seat and engage the Earth Corp Interface to choose your task or to pay your debt in full. Thank you!”

  “Not getting that invitation, are you, sir?” the Milgo asked, grinning.

  “Doesn’t look like it,” Rage said.

  “Then perhaps it would be wise to return to your seat, sir,” the Milgo suggested. “I would hate for you to incur any loitering charges.”

  “Loitering charges? How the hell can I be loitering on a goddamn fucking shuttle?” Rage shouted.

  “Sir!” the attendant cried. “I will not warn you again!”

  “About what?” Rage yelled as he spun about and aimed a muscular finger at the attendant. “Huh? What are you not going to warn me about again?”

  Four hundred micro-bots fell from the shuttle’s ceiling and covered Rage from head to toe.

  When Rage came to, he was strapped, chained, bolted, and shackled to his seat. Grup was smiling at him.

  “We’re about to land,” Grup said. “You probably want to take care of that.”

  Grup pointed at the spinning, flashing, bright red hologram coming from the back of the seat in front of Rage. The words “seventeen thousand, two hundred, and four intergalactic credits owed,” plus buttons asking if he was going to pay now or work off his debt, hung in front of Rage’s face.

  “Seventeen thousand?” Rage exclaimed.

  “And two hundred and four,” Grup added in a helpful voice.

  “How the fuck did it get so high?” rage asked.

  “Oh, I think there were some fines added for disturbing the other passengers,” Grup said. “And you peed yourself again, so some of that is steam cleaning the carpet.”

  “The floor is plastic,” Rage said. “There’s no fucking carpet.”

  Grup shrugged his many shoulders. “Just telling you what I heard.”

  The tally on the debt grew by a hundred credits.

  “What the fuck?” Rage exclaimed. The tally grew by another hundred. “Motherfucker! Stop that!”

  Another hundred was added.

  “Potty mouth fines,” the attendant said as they walked by without even glancing at Rage.