Max Rage: Intergalactic Badass!

by Jake Bible

  “Lead on, Tin Man,” Rage said. “Lead on.”

  Twenty-Six

  The bouncer outside Roger Morlaw’s snuff/strip club looked exactly like Rage. Exactly like Rage. Right down to the signature black T-shirt and jeans. The only difference was the bouncer had very large breasts. Not pectoral muscles, but actual mammary glands. Boobies. Tits. Honkers. Breasts. Very large ones.

  “Huh,” Rage said as he walked up to the bouncer. “Who are you supposed to be?”

  “The Slaughterer of Sojax,” the bouncer said in a very feminine voice. “It’s costume night. Dress up in a costume and cover is half price. Well drinks too.”

  “I thought it was chit wing night,” Mosh said.

  “That too,” the bouncer replied, looking Rage up and down. “Nice costume.”

  “And I thought I was gonna be original,” Rage said and grinned. He pointed at Watchdog then at the bouncer. “Pay the lovely lady, Bolt Butt. You folks take credit transfer or is it cash in hand only?”

  “Does this look like the kind of place that takes credit transfers?” the bouncer asked, batting her eyelashes at Rage. “Just kidding. Mr. Morlaw takes all forms of valid currency. He’s a very smart businessman.”

  “That’s what we hear,” Rage said. “Say, this physique of yours? That real or a simulation?”

  “Oh, no, it’s real,” the bouncer said and flexed her biceps, nearly tearing the sleeves of the T-shirt. “I work out eight times a day and drink nothing but Narghal sperm for breakfast and lunch. Highest concentration of protein in the galaxy.”

  “I heard Narghal sperm was outlawed,” Fig said.

  “Not on Horloc Station and certainly not in Sector 42,” the bouncer said. “Mr. Morlaw wants me to be at my fighting fittest.”

  “You gonna hurry it up there or what?” someone shouted from the line that had started to form behind Rage and company. “Some of us are trying to get inside before the main show starts.”

  “Hey, shut the fuck up!” Rage snapped at the guy. “Trying to have a polite chat with this beautiful woman here!”

  “YEAH! SHUT THE FUCK UP!” the bouncer roared. She left her post, grabbed the heckler, and ripped all seven of his arms off then threw his remains halfway down the corridor before she wiped her hands on her jeans and returned to her post. “So, you ever tried Narghal sperm? You look like you lift. You should try it.”

  “May we pay to get in now?” Watchdog asked, his tone even and polite.

  “Oh, right, don’t want to miss the main show,” the bouncer said as she scanned Watchdog. Her payment stick bleeped and she grinned. “All good. Have fun.”

  Rage started to walk past and she grabbed his arm, pulling his ear to her mouth. “I have a break in like fifteen minutes if you want to see who is the better Max Rage. This look is created, but what’s between my legs is what I was born with. You got your equipment still?”

  “Um, yeah…” Rage replied.

  “Solid rod or slinky slash?” the bouncer asked.

  “Solid rod,” Rage said.

  “Perfect,” the bouncer said and let him go. “Just perfect. Looks like we’re sexually compatible. I’ll come find you later.”

  “Can’t wait,” Rage said and moved on into the club, the team right behind him.

  They found an empty booth and Rage collapsed into it.

  “Was she soliciting you for sex?” Fig asked.

  “Shut up, Pinky. Give me some time to unpack all of that,” Rage said as he got a waitress’s attention. “And let me drink. A lot.”

  “We need you to be focused and sober, Rage,” Watchdog said.

  “Calm your metal ass, Bolt Butt,” Rage said. “I’ll be sober. Just need to take the edge off after the visuals that just went through my head.”

  “I bet that vid would sell a ton,” Mosh said. “Rage fucking Rage. Bestseller right there.”

  “Does have a ring to it,” Fig agreed. “Although it might be a very niche audience.”

  “What’ll you guys have?” the waitress asked as she walked up to the booth. Not a stitch of clothing on her, but she had some sort of shield tech blurring out the good parts. “Yeah, keep staring. Once you pay for your second round then the top blur goes away. Third round and you get the bottom half. Pay for six rounds and one of our fine dancers will give you a lap dance. Only one dance per table, so figure it out now. No fighting about it later.”

  “Good to know,” Rage said. “Whiskeys all around. Bring three bottles.”

  “None for me,” Watchdog said.

  “Two drink minimum to sit in a booth,” the waitress said, bored at her own spiel.

  “Then bring me two drinks. I do not care what they are since I will not be drinking them,” Watchdog said.

  “Make his whiskeys too,” Rage said. “I’ll drink them.”

  “Rage…” Watchdog warned.

  “Calm down, Bolt Butt,” Rage said.

  “Bolt Butt,” the waitress said as she entered their drink order into an interface on the inside of her forearm. “That’s funny.”

  “Glad you like it,” Rage said. “You have a food menu? I’m starving. Haven’t eaten since that sandwich earlier.”

  “I’ll shoot you a menu,” the waitress said. “Drinks’ll be out in a couple minutes. You staying for the main show?”

  “You know it,” Rage said.

  “Should be a great show,” the waitress said as a holographic menu appeared in the middle of the table and spread out so all could see the food offerings. “Try the wings. Chit each tonight. Best wings in twenty quadrants. You won’t be disappointed.”

  “Will do, uh…?” Rage replied.

  “Sorry. Not allowed to give out our names,” the waitress said as she shrugged and walked off. “Mr. Morlaw’s policy.”

  “Must be so unruly customers don’t try to find the waitresses after hours,” Fig said.

  “It’s for plausible deniability so no one knows the names of the men and women being killed up on stage when the snuff shows happen,” Rage said. “Anyone comes looking for a missing sister, brother, or cousin by name and everyone can shrug and play dumb.”

  “We need to contact Neela,” Watchdog said.

  “Relax, Bolt Butt, Neela is a professional and she’ll contact us when the time is right,” Rage said. “For now, we relax and look like we belong.” Rage studied Watchdog and frowned. “Or like we belong with people that actually belong.”

  “Your prejudice is heartwarming, Rage,” Watchdog snapped.

  “What?” Rage asked, pointing up at the stage in the center of the room where a four-armed nymph was gyrating in front of a row of heavily armed Milgos, humanoid aliens with thick rocky skin and lava eyes. The Milgos were tossing chits at the dancing nymph like they were throwing darts. “Are you saying that is sexy to you? Is that getting your bot nob all hard, Bolt Butt?”

  “I do not find this atmosphere to be enticing at all,” Watchdog said. “But that does not mean I do not have romantic protocols.”

  “Oh, shit, he’s got romantic protocols!” Rage exclaimed. “Hear that, Pinky! Bolt Butt has romantic protocols!”

  “I’d prefer to stay out of this conversation,” Fig responded. The guy was struggling to keep his eyes averted from the dancing nymph, who was human in all ways except for the four arms, emerald green skin, and grass-like hair. But the nymph clocked Fig from across the room and was staring at him as she thrust her hips and spun around and against the metal pole. Fig gulped. “Perhaps we should focus on our job?”

  “I am, Pinky,” Rage said. “Our job right now is to blend in and wait for Neela to pass us the name of the goddess. And to blend in, we have to seem like douchebags out for a night of titty watching and coochie dreaming.”

  “You certainly have the douchebag part down pat,” Watchdog said.

  “Damn skippy, Bolt Butt,” Rage said. “Been working on it my entire life.”

  “Who’s a special little bear?” Mosh cooed from Rage’s left.

  The table t
urned to regard the huge metal man. Mosh looked up from his petting of Book.

  “What?” he asked.

  “Maybe we should tuck your little friend away for now,” Rage suggested. “I think he’s putting off some of the customers.”

  Mosh looked about the club. No one was looking in their direction at all. Except for a couple of the naked and blurred waitresses standing by the bar as they waited for their drink orders. They gave Mosh a little wave and giggled.

  “Book is fine where he is,” Mosh said and made the teddy bear wave back at the waitresses. They burst into laughter as they got their drinks and moved off to serve them to their customers. They both winked at Mosh before they were lost in the crowd. “Yeah. Book has game.”

  Their waitress arrived with three bottles of whiskey, glasses, and that bored look plastered all across her face again.

  “Okay, so the bartender says that this order counts as three,” the waitress said as she set the bottles and glasses down on the table. “Lucky you guys.”

  The blurring over her body vanished and she stood there, one hand on a hip, completely revealed.

  “This only counts as three rounds?” Rage asked, smiling at the waitress. “We gotta buy another round like this for the lap dance?”

  “I don’t make the rules,” the waitress said as she turned around to show her ass. She sighed and turned back. “We good?”

  Fig was about to pass out. Rage gripped his shoulder and gave him a quick shake.

  “Pinky? We good?” Rage asked. “Or should we get another round so you can have your lap dance?”

  “My what?” Fig exclaimed, his voice a high squeak. “I…I…I…”

  “I broke my pal here,” Rage said with a laugh. “Now, about those wings.”

  “We are not here to eat,” Watchdog said quietly.

  “It’s chit wing night and I could go for wings,” Mosh said. “How about you, Book?” Mosh made the teddy bear nod. “Book wants wings. You got Shej garlic dip?”

  “We got all the dips, baby,” the waitress said, warming to Mosh as the big guy continued to play with the teddy bear. “Order three flavor dips and you get a fourth flavor dip free.”

  “I like that,” Mosh said and made the teddy bear rub its tummy.

  The waitress laughed and leaned on the table, getting as close to Mosh as she could.

  “Want to know what flavor I am?” she asked.

  “I do,” Mosh said. “But I gotta hang with my pals here for now.”

  “If you change your mind, let me know,” the waitress said. She straightened up and typed at her wrist. “I’ll surprise you with the flavors.”

  “That sounds like fun,” Mosh said. “I like surprises. So does Book.”

  The waitress laughed and walked off, an extra wiggle in her step and an extra sway in her hips.

  “Damn, Tin Man,” Rage said. “Look at you.”

  Mosh smiled at Rage, but the smile didn’t reach his eyes.

  “The waitstaff is now disarmed toward me,” Mosh said as he turned Book’s head to face Rage. “And half the station thinks I’m a crazy Qitnit with a teddy bear fixation. That’s how you make sure no one is paying attention to the largest fighter in the team.”

  Rage’s eyes went huge then his smile joined his eyes and he nodded.

  “There. That right there,” Rage said and punched Mosh in the chest. “That’s good work.”

  “Thank you,” Mosh said and grabbed a bottle of whiskey.

  He pulled the cork out with his teeth and spat it across the club. It hit the back of a man’s head. The man spun around and Mosh had Book wave at the guy. Fury and confusion fought for control on the man’s face. Confusion quickly won and the man turned back to watch the nymph dance.

  “This is Sector 42 and that guy didn’t draw down on me,” Mosh said. “You all should have gotten yourselves a little friend too.”

  “Nah, Tin Man, that’s your schtick,” Rage said. “We all got our own.”

  Rage stood up and shooed Fig out of the way so he could leave the booth.

  “Right now, my schtick is I gotta piss like a race worm,” Rage said. He set his rifle and gear on the seat in the booth. “Be right back.”

  Twenty-Seven

  Rage did have to piss, but he made sure walking to the bathroom was put to good use. He scoped out the club as he casually threaded his way around tables and past the various stages the club held.

  Like a typical strip club on Earth, or pretty much any planet or station, the club was built around a central stage that had several metal poles bolted from floor to ceiling. That was where the emerald green nymph was dancing and where males and females of all races and species were mostly gathered, all sitting in chairs set close to the stage so they could throw galactic standard currency at the gyrating young woman.

  But that wasn’t the only stage. Stationed around the club were smaller stages, basically glorified pedestals, where men and women held onto more metal poles and strutted their naked stuff for the patrons that were at the tables and booths close by. Instead of currency being tossed at those dancers, a holo display ringed the pedestals and showed the transferring of credits from the patrons to the dancers. A loud “cha-ching” sounded with every transferred tip.

  The club’s bar ran the length of one wall, a wall that Rage was heading toward since the sign for the restrooms was that way. Rage nodded at the eight bartenders that were busy mixing and pouring various drinks and cocktails for the many races the club was entertaining. Rage tried not to look too disgusted when some of the drinks’ ingredients appeared to still be wriggling.

  Rage reached the hallway that housed the restrooms and groaned as he looked at the line of aliens, humans, and humanoids that were all waiting their turn. Four restroom doors lined the hallway wall, but they were all unisex, so everyone, not matter gender or race, was forced to queue up and chill until their turn.

  “Who you here to see?” a surprisingly short Snorpa directly in front of Rage asked.

  The Snorpa was only six feet tall and Rage wondered if the guy was of age to be in the strip club. Then he remembered he wasn’t a bouncer and no one in Sector 42 or Horloc Station gave three shits if some underage Snorpa was getting drunk and looking at alien boobs or alien dongs or aliens with both.

  Rage debated ignoring the young Snorpa, but decided not to make a scene in the hallway. Snorpas could get so touchy.

  “Just here with some bros,” Rage said, affecting a classic solar surfer dude speech pattern. “Waiting for the main event, if you know what I mean, bra.”

  The Snorpa nodded like he did know what Rage meant, but the clueless look in the hairy alien’s eyes told Rage the kid had no idea what he was talking about.

  “I hear they got some sick shit that goes down here, bra,” Rage continued. “Some killer stuff, if you catch what I’m throwing.”

  “Oh, yeah, yeah, sick stuff, yeah,” the Snorpa responded, nodding. The nodding stopped. “Like what? I mean, I know what you’re talking about, but just want to make sure we’re into the same sick stuff. You catch me?”

  “Caught ya and tossed it back, bra,” Rage said and laughed. The laugh was so bad that some of the patrons turned to look at him like he was having a stroke. “I hear they snuff some of the dancers. That true? First time on Horloc.”

  The Snorpa tensed and his eyes went wide. “They snuff dancers? Shit, man, I’m here to watch a goddess shake her celestial titties. Maybe show us the secrets of the universe between her legs, if you hear me.”

  “Hear ya loud and clear, bra,” Rage said. “I’m here for the goddess too. Just messing with the snuff stuff. That’s just a joke, right?”

  “Nah, they kill dancers,” a dull orange woman said a few spaces up in line. “Midnight Murder Mash is what they call it. The dancers with the least tips for the day get thrown up on the main stage and gutted for all to see.”

  Several heads in line nodded while others turned to stare at the wall, obviously unaware of the gruesome sp
ectacle that happened at midnight.

  “Oh, man,” the Snorpa said and his nose, which was the only place not covered in hair, turned bright red. “They do that? Man, I don’t know if I want to see that…”

  “You kind of have to,” the orange woman said. “Goddess doesn’t come on until after the snuff show.” She leaned around the aliens behind her to get closer to the Snorpa. “And she’s not really a goddess. They did some genetics work to some chick they found in a trailer park on that shithole planet. You know the one I mean. Earth.”

  “I’m from Earth,” Rage said defensively. He wasn’t sure why. Earth pretty much was a shithole planet. The place’s only industry was dive bars, after all. “It ain’t that bad.”

  “Really?” the orange woman replied and shrugged. “If you say so.” She eyed Rage. “Hey, don’t I know you? You look familiar.”

  Rage shook his head. “First time in this club.”

  “No, I mean in general,” the orange woman said. “Hmmm. It’ll come to me.”

  Rage rolled his eyes and turned to stare back out into the club as bathroom doors opened and the line moved forward at a glacial pace.

  A sleek and sexy, glowing blue woman, mostly human except for the fin ridge up her spine and webbed feet and hands, was shimmying her way around tables, giving patrons hip bumps and quick kisses on their foreheads or forehead-like protuberances. She slapped a couple tentacles away that tried to travel a little too far up her legs and the patrons at the table where the owner of the tentacles sat burst out laughing.

  The woman’s vertically slitted yellow eyes found Rage and she smiled. Hands traced across her backside as she made a straight line to Rage, but the woman ignored the fondling and kept moving.

  “I know a private loo you can use,” the woman said as she reached Rage. “But it’s for big tippers only. You a big tipper, stud?” She leaned in and pressed herself to Rage. Her hand cupped his crotch. “Oh, you certainly are big at something.”

  “I can wait like the rest of the plebes,” Rage said.

  The hand that cupped his crotch squeezed harder. Then harder. Then hard enough that Rage grunted.