by Yoss
In fact—in order to save face, I suppose—they actually gave me a medal.
We’ll consider ourselves even, then.
Though if I look at the whole balance sheet, I came out ahead. Pretty far ahead.
My parents aren’t ashamed of me anymore; they proudly tell everyone they’re the parents of the famous “Veterinarian to the Giants.” My client list, though now deprived of six-breasted Cetians seeking my services, is almost twice as long as before. The Brobdingnag incident was great publicity for me. It sure didn’t hurt when that rascal Narbuk updated my holonet site with images of my daring rescue of the victims trapped inside the second largest laketon in the universe.
Don’t ask me how he got the pictures… I actually think most of them are fakes.
Life goes on.
I recently heard that the Governor Tarkon was unexpectedly deposed on Nerea. A scandal involving the illegal trafficking of (why am I not surprised?) tsunami fecal pearls. With the Amphorians.
His whereabouts are currently unknown. And will remain so for quite a while, I expect. He faces corruption charges that could keep him behind bars for the rest of his life.
They say his worthy spouse has disowned him and is now in a torrid relationship with one of her former bodyguards. That’s the latest scandal on the Nerean holonews. Seems it’s the same guard who harpooned the tsunami so skillfully with the radio tag that allowed me to identify the bracelet eater.
To think there are still people who say women are ungrateful.
I don’t bear the lady any ill will. After all, you only live once. But I hope, for her own good, she isn’t dumb enough to give her damned Aldebaran topaz-inlaid platinum wedding bracelet to her muscular new love interest—assuming Tarkon let her keep it, of course.
By the way, I’ve changed my advertising slogan. Now the sign on my office door simply says:
SUPER EXTRA GRANDE
IF IT’S ONLY MEDIUM-SIZED, DON’T EVEN BOTHER
I can barely keep up with all the clients demanding my services. That’s why I’m not worried about the Laggoru’s threats to start his own business. The waiting list for my service calls is months long, in spite of all the juggling my three secretary-assistants do to streamline things.
That’s right, three. For now, I’ve still got Narbuk-Alr-Quamal-Tahlir-Norgai on my payroll. After his distinguished service on Abyssalia, it’s the least he deserves. Though he constantly reminds me that he wants to fly solo. One of these days.
But he still hasn’t done it. For the record.
Oh—and I found out he’s not exactly a member of the male sex. A week ago, without really bothering to explain it to me at all, he gave me notice he’d be having cubs in a few months.
After he’s had them and they’ve grown big enough, I guess he’ll leave me. We’ll figure things out at that point.
As for my two other assistants…
Could I really have slammed the door in the faces of Enti and An, when neither of them had anywhere else to go?
I’m not stonyhearted. Not in the least. So, considering how prosperous I’ve become, I called them back to my side.
I’ve made so much money lately, in fact, that I even allowed myself the luxury of acquiring a hissing dragon of Siddhartha. It’s still a little thing, barely twenty-five meters long, which is why I’m sure I’ll be able to domesticate it before it reaches full size. It already recognizes me and everything. Every time it sees me come in, it excretes especially thick clouds of sulfurous vapor. Lovely.
Concholants are still missing from my résumé, but maybe one of these days I’ll have the tremendous pleasure of flying off into space to visit one, even if I don’t get paid for it. At least I now have the ideal vehicle for making the trip: I just bought a surplus ship off the Juhungans. It’s a twin of the one Enti and An were flying when the laketon captured them.
Don’t even ask how much it cost me. Those hydrogen breathers are a bunch of incorrigible skinflints.
Of course, it isn’t the same ship, and it isn’t Beagle, but it serves my needs perfectly, in addition to motivating me and reminding me of the strange case that changed my life.
Until I have an adequate hangar built, it also serves as a den for my two dozen cuddly marbusses from Mizar. I’ve got it parked in the backyard of the house I share with Enti Kmusa and An-Mhaly…
Yes, I’m living in a peculiar relationship… with both ladies.
Hence the marbusses. They really do love them. All women do.
And since I love making them happy…
Long live threesomes, if they bring happiness. And the hell with all my prudish old intolerant ideas about exotic women, together with my equally misogynistic prejudices towards non-Homo sapiens females, humanoids or gynecoids, with yellow pupil-less eyes, cephalic crests, violet skin, six breasts, three-forked tongues, cartilaginous chewing plates—and oral sex as the main dish on their limited but sincere erotic menu.
Maybe it’s my professional success, but now we’re the main topic of gossip on all the holonews programs out of Gea. There’s also the fact that none of us is exactly tiny, so we three are hard to miss when we’re out walking around town, hand in hand.
But I don’t care. Let them talk, if that’s what they want.
We don’t care.
Now I can say I’ve tried everything.
And to my own surprise, I’ve discovered that sometimes different is synonymous with interesting.
That getting along and living in harmony takes more than tolerating difference. You have to go a little bit farther, you have to enjoy the diversity.
Polymorphous perverts? Lustful, lewd bisexuals? Sinners destined for the eternal fires of hell?
Bah. Could be. Except for the hell part, that is.
And so what?
It’s delightful.
Besides, are we hurting anybody, somehow?
Aren’t we adults, all three?
Why do people always try to force pleasure into such strictly human pigeonholes? Sin, propriety, perversity… Humph.
After all, strictly speaking, my “black panther” and I are the only actual couple in this ménage à trois. An, our common platonic partner (though sometimes a bit more than platonic, to tell the truth), is at most a “friend with touching privileges” for both of us, right?
Of course, the touching is oral… And, yes, they were right; it really is exquisite. For the record.
September 15, 2009
About the Author
Born José Miguel Sánchez Gómez, yoss assumed his pen name in 1988, when he won the Premio David in the science-fiction category for Timshel. Together with his peculiar pseudonym, the author’s aesthetic of an impenitent rocker has allowed him to stand out among his fellow Cuban writers. Earning a degree in Biology in 1991, he went on to graduate from the first ever course on Narrative Techniques at the Onelio Jorge Cardoso Center of Literary Training, in 1999. Today, Yoss writes both realistic and science-fiction works. Alongside these novels, the author produces essays, reviews, and compilations, and actively promotes the Cuban science-fiction literary workshops Espiral and Espacio Abierto.
About the Translator
When he isn’t translating, david frye teaches Latin American culture and society at the University of Michigan. Translations include The First New Chronicle and Good Government by Felipe Guaman Poma de Ayala (Peru, 1615); The Mangy Parrot by José Joaquín Fernández de Lizardi (Mexico, 1816), for which he received a National Endowment for the Arts Fellowship; Writing across Cultures: Narrative Transculturation in Latin America by Ángel Rama (Uruguay, 1982); and several Cuban and Spanish novels and poems.
RESTLESS BOOKS is an independent publisher for readers and writers in search of new destinations, experiences, and perspectives. From Asia to the Americas, from Tehran to Tel Aviv, we deliver stories of discovery, adventure, dislocation, and transformation.
Our readers are passionate about other cultures and other languages
. Restless is committed to bringing out the best of international literature—fiction, journalism, memoirs, poetry, travel writing, illustrated books, and more—that reflects the restlessness of our multiform lives.
Visit us at www.restlessbooks.com.
Copyright © 2012, 2016 José Miguel Sánchez Gómez
Translation copyright © 2016 David Frye
First published in Spanish as Super extra grande
by Editorial Gente Nueva, Havana, 2012
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted
without the prior written permission of the publisher.
First Restless Books paperback edition June 2016
Digital edition published by Restless Books, 2016
Electronic ISBN 978-1-63206-026-6
Paperback ISBN 978-1-63206-056-3
Library of Congress Control Number: 2016938767
Cover design by Edel Rodriguez
Typesetting and eBook by Tetragon, London
Ellison, Stavans, and Hochstein LP
232 3rd Street, Suite A111
Brooklyn, NY 11215
www.restlessbooks.com
[email protected]
