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Interplanetary Commerce

This week, we bring you the first part of the sequel to “Where Fudge Is Made,” a short story by guest writer Stephen Faulkner. We hope you enjoy it as much as we did.


 

“Hey, Sleachak!” the guard called from outside the locked door of the lavatory stall. “What’s taking you so long to fill up a cup? And remember, if you shake it more than three times it means you’re playing with it!” He barked a harsh laugh at his own vulgar witticism.

“Gimme a damned break, you pain in the ass!” came the call from the toilet stall. “This ain’t no Dixie cup I’m filling up in here. This bucket holds prob’ly something like a whole quart, so hold your horses. I got me a bladder like damned camel and it takes a long time emptying it.”

“Yeah, yeah, tell it to the judge, dickhead. Just get it done.”

The last fine, piddling sounds of Sleachak filling the large container with his urine issued from the stall. A few moments later he opened the door and handed the capped vessel to the guard who carried it as carefully as if he were handling a precious gem while he simultaneously marched Prisoner 83521, known as Gordon Sleachak, back to his cell.

“What it is about some half-baked jailbird’s piss that’s so flipping valuable will always seem like some kind of kinky story out of a dirty magazine,” said the guard later as he delivered the container to the Warden. He then saluted, having discharged his assignment, and turned a snappy about face before marching smartly down the hall, out of the building and into the prisoners’ exercise yard. The warden cradled the tightly capped jar of piss or, as he had been instructed to think of it, “the product,” as he watched the guard recede down the hall and into the light of the sunny afternoon. “My good man,” he said, muttering his thoughts out loud. “You don’t even know the half of it.”

He went back into his office and shut the door. He immediately called for his aide so that the shipment of the “product” could be made ready for its trip to the spaceport.

pee in space

The packaging could use a bit of help.

***

The group of scientists who had been instrumental in the discovery of how preciously valuable Gordon Sleachak’s urine was sat around a broad square table at their personal watering hole and reminisced about their successes. It wasn’t only Sleachak’s urine that held such a high distinction; there were a large number of male citizens of a specific area of the Czech Republic and descendants of immigrants to other parts of the world with lineages traced back to that particular province. Gordon Sleachak was a member of the latter group.

“But it was Alduxly,” insisted Phildic as he tried to adjust the set of his new toupee so that it looked natural where it lay above his ears. No matter whether he shifted it left, right, forward or back, it still looked like there was an unidentifiable furry animal sleeping on his head. “He’s the one who figured out the DNA configuration of those sluglike creatures up on – what was the name of that planet again?”

“Flomcarp,” Alduxly answered for a third time that evening. “It’s in the Grantius II star system somewhere on the edge of the galaxy. That crappy little planet has the best chocolate this side of anywhere. And it wasn’t me who came up with the formula that broke the DNA code of those Flomcarpian so-called flowers. It was Zacimov.”

“I thought it was Phildic who did it,” said Raybury.

“If it was me,” said Phildic, the one who had singled out Alduxly for accolades. “I would be the first to admit it and blow my own horn. But it wasn’t me; it was Alduxly.”

““Zacimov,” said Alduxly.

“Raybury,” said Zacimov, piping up with his two cents’ worth.

“Hey!” yelled the booze slinger from behind the galvanized tin table that served as a bar. “Don’t you jokers even know who made the breakthrough that got you the Nobel Prize in Chemistry? That little discovery helped make you so much money that you all could set up this here private club of yours and waste the rest of your days chugging prime liquor and slurping down gourmet meals anytime you want. I mean you might want to get your facts straight, guys.”

“Man, if this was just some half-assed short story,” said Zacimov. “Whachoo just said would be a great way to introduce the background of this group to the
readers so they’d know what this was all about from the get-go.”

“Well,” said Raybury with a spastic shrug, having ignored Zacimov’ input. “I guess it could have been Georgewell who recognized the pattern in our research so we could go forward with distilling the necessary components out of the—the, uhhh….”

“Don’t mince words, Raybury. Just say what it is,” said Alduxly, testily. “It’s just pee-pee, sure and simple. Just boil it down and distill out the water so you have all the constituent components of a big ol’ puddle of piss from some Baltic Caucasian male, put it under the double slide microscope so you can compare it to the DNA sample of a beverage made from some Flomcarpian flower to see what’s like and what’s not between the two liquids. And I think you’re right, Raybury, my man. Now that you mention it, it was Georgewell’s voice that belched out ‘Eureka’ that morning when we made our monumental discovery.”

urine process

This diagram will help you understand the process.

“Yes,” said Podless in a low voice. “You’re right. Georgewell was the one to recognize the initial patterns for us. Though how he ever figured out that urine should be tested is beyond me.”

“Elementary, my dear Doctor. Taste was the deciding factor for him in this case. You know how Georgewell enjoys a big, frothing glass of piss straight from the urology lab on the floor below where we have our own facility.” The bartender made a face at this reminder of the several bottles of urine from around the world that he had to keep on hand to satisfy Doctor Georgewell’s peculiar thirst. “The man has a very sophisticated palate when it comes to bladder swill, I’ll grant him that,” admitted Zacimov as he held up his glass for another quaff of the fermented juice of the blinberry plant. It was found only on the planet Crampok 8 and the resulting liqueur was of his own devising though it did not yet have a marketable brand name. Zacimov called it puckerberry juice, to warn the would-be drinker of the primary physical reaction it caused. Raybury called it yumslurp while Phildic, who did not see its allure, called it simply vile. Alduxly had never tried the stuff, so he had no opinion. Georgewell never drank it straight but occasionally used it as a mixer with some of his more exotically acquired urine stash.

Alduxly looked around the room and asked if anyone knew where Doctor Gerogewell might be. No one seemed to know. The bartender kept his own counsel but he was pretty sure the piss quaffing doctor was probably in his apartment, dunking Flomcarpian chocolate in a cup of newly brewed whizz based coffee while soaking in a nice hot champagne bubble bath.

“Hey,” the brilliant doctor would be thinking to himself with a self-satisfied belch and some bubble producing flatulence. “You’ve got spend your money on something. Piss, as delicious as it is, isn’t everything.”

 

By Stephen Faulkner who is just a regular guy who likes to take apart the world and put it back together in amusing ways. He is looking for people who share his singular style and sense of humor. Steve lives in Decatur, Georgia with his wife and five cats.

©2015, all rights reserved
published with the permission of the author

If you want to read the first story by Steven Faulkner, which precedes this one, go here.

Update, the second part is up! Find it here.

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