The Milfian Conspiracy

By Kim Gauge

Finally, Hunter S. Thompson meets Douglas Adams for this intergalactic romantic comedy of phallic proportions.

Join our intrepid adventurers, Dr. Alexander Stone and his attorney Gus, as they take a savage journey into the depraved and perverse world of the Martians, who have been busy learning about human behavior by consulting our historical records: the Internet - and they like what they see!

This story is:

More ludicrous than a local town planning meeting.
More damaging than another Church cover up.
More insane than the Annual Convention of Dental Practitioners in 2000.
More sordid than a Silvio Berlusconi Bunga Bunga party.
Bigger than Kate Middleton's baby bump.
And definitely hairier than Saddam Hussein's beard.

This is The Milfian Conspiracy.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kim Gauge
• Release date: Jan 24, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301680467

Kim Gauge

Busy observing the real and the imagined.

Book preview

THE MILFIAN CONSPIRACY

Kim Gauge

Copyright Kim Gauge 2012.

Cover Art Copyright Kim Gauge 2012.

Published by Kim Gauge at Smashwords.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, copied, displayed, modified, stored in any form of retrieval system, or distributed by any other means without the prior consent of the author.

This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

*****

My attorney informs me that due to the heinous nature of the material contained in this book, that dedicating this book to anyone living would represent an act of aggressive stupidity – I must say, the prick makes a fine point.

However, at the mortal risk of being found profoundly stupid, I must commend this work to someone truly special. So, to that unruly, excessively greedy and grasping rat – you little champion! You have inspired and confounded me in equal measure – how the hell did you survive that dirty, great big sausage I left you? It was chock full of rat poison!

I’ll say this much though, you sure made a believer out of me; and I swear, from this day on, there will be no further attempts on your life.

*****

Table of Contents

Chapter 1. Murder and Mayhem on the Highway, UFO Sightings and Big Wedge-tailed Eagles

Chapter 2. Incandescent Lights ... Heinous Drugs ... and the Source of Our Impending Doom

Chapter 3. Carnage ... Death of an Attorney ... Entering Donut Heaven

Chapter 4. First Contact ... Midgets Wearing Shades ... Surgery ... Welcome to your New Life

Chapter 5. Boldcock ... Probing the Universe - One Arsehole at a Time ... The Art of Photography ... Unleashing the iFist … Flying the Galaxy with Pan Am

Chapter 6. Milfs in Space ... And then God Created Pamela … The Fabled Green Button ... The Banker and his Tax Return ... Fishing for Smoked Salmon in Space

Chapter 7. Alien Physiology ... Pamela and the Terrible Spectre of Milfs bearing Cocks

Chapter 8. Philosophical Entrails ... The Haka, and Our Encounter with the Monster

Chapter 9. Strange Broadcasts from Earth … Milfs in Vegas

Chapter 10. The Big Race ... The Indian 8 Valve Boardtrack Racer, A Nasty Accident and the Prickly Prize

Chapter 11. The Queen of Milf ... Battery Terminals, and French Lingerie

Chapter 12. Milfian Recreation ... Cetology, and the Mystery of the Flying Donut Finally Explained

Chapter 13. Reception at the Palace ... Wang Wang and Funi ... Ballistic Love and the Ghastly Death of an Operator

Chapter 14. Jazz for Purists ... Glam Rock for Milfs and 10,000 Volts Of Love

Chapter 15. The Destruction of Earth ... Charlie Chaplin ... Death by Worm ... Shakespeare ... Body Surfing the Galaxy, and other Random Shit

Chapter 16. The Afterlife ... Good Guys go to Heaven, Bad Guys go to Zone X ... The Vatican ... The Exorcism ... God Makes a Phone Call

Chapter 17. Milfian Strippers ... Aliens from Planet X71 ... How the Earth was Saved by the High Heel Shoe ... The Wankers Guide to the Universe

Chapter 18. The Way of the Milfs ... The Ugly Scene at the Atm and Talcum Powder

Chapter 19. Milfology – The Galaxy of Milf ... Ping-Pong ... The Ballet ... The Sistine Chapel ... The Famed Bullet Catch ... Hitting the Fabled G Minor Note ... Taking One for the Team

Chapter 20. The Green Menu ... The Return of the Attorney ... Of the Terrible Encounter with a Grizzly Bear and the Fabled K1000 Fountain Pen

Chapter 21. Inuit Fisting for Two ... The Web of Lies ... The C1000 – Only for the Hard-Core!

Chapter 22. Of my Attorney’s Close Encounter with Ms Mega Blonde ... Licking the New Donut

Chapter 23. The Trip Home ... Dinner is Served ... The Good Gods and the Bad Gods

Chapter 24. My Guilty Secret Exposed ... The Tuna and the Goldfish ... Saying Goodbye to Icky and Pamela

Chapter 25. The Interview in Norseman ... Taking Your Facts with a Little More Fiction ... Poor Reception in a Toilet

*****

‘In order to know virtue, we must first acquaint ourselves with vice.’

– Marquis de Sade

Chapter 1. Murder and Mayhem on the Highway, UFO Sightings and Big Wedge-tailed Eagles

We were driving across the Nullarbor Plain, or as the locals like to call it, the ‘Nullar-boring’ Plain, halfway between Cocklebiddy Airport and somewhere I don’t remember, on our way to a little place called Norseman, in Western Australia. It might as well have been the moon – there were no trees, no hills; just flat featureless countryside for hundreds and hundreds of miles; most of them straight ahead. The only thing the Nullarbor is famous for is the Eyre highway we were travelling on: over 1600 kilometres of sun-baked black tar and gravel, part of which, is in the Guinness Book of Records for having the longest stretch of straight highway anywhere in the world. It was just as well then that my attorney and I decided before leaving for this trip, to arm ourselves with all manner of drugs, drug taking paraphernalia, liquor, beer, and a camera to get us through 1600 kilometres of tedium – because this highway was the motherfucker!

You would think that nodding off to sleep on a stretch of road this long and boring would be an easy thing to do – not so. Falling asleep is the last thing on your mind when you’re hurtling down a strange road, in a strange landscape, with a tanked-up Colombian lawyer, high on acid and meth, at suicidal speeds guaranteed to cause you grievous bodily harm should you happen to hit something solid ... hell, at 120 kilometres per hour, it doesn’t even have to be solid. The evidence for my paranoia was not hard to spot either, because the road was literally covered with the blood and guts of all the road-kill. They might as well have named this road, Hells Highway, for all the death and carnage it wreaked. It seemed that everywhere you looked, there was either something dead or in the process of dying; and feasting on the entrails of the dead were Wedge-tailed eagles: huge birds that stand a metre high, with six feet plus wingspans, and nasty looking claws. They would circle high overhead, often in pairs, just cruising the highway for more road-kill, of which there was plenty – Kangaroos, Emus, Wombats, and the occasional unsuspecting tourist who thought it would be a pleasant drive – they all made it to the menu out here. Underestimating the conditions out here can be hazardous to your health – just getting lost can get you killed! Then there’s the risk of running out of fuel, which isn’t much fun either, especially when you consider that the truck stops are 200 kilometres apart; and god help you if you should run out of water on a hot day – temperatures in the summer months can reach 70 degrees Celsius in the desert. Then there is the very real prospect of hitting a large Kangaroo; the big reds can stand 1.8 metres high, and can weigh up to 90 kilos of dense muscle and bone. Hitting one of those at a 120 kilometres per hour would be almost certain death; and if by some fluke you should survive the impact, you have the cheery prospect of being eaten alive by representatives of the local Wedge-tailed Eagle Roadside Assistance Group, who I’m told, are always sympathetic and happy to assist ignorant well-heeled journalists who just happen to be lost, out of fuel, dying of thirst and sunstroke, and ridiculously high on drugs. Of course, it didn’t help matters that I had dropped a couple of tabs of bad acid and had one to many coffees for the road; we were only twenty klicks out from the airport, and I was already a nervous blabbering mess; my paranoid delusions were getting the better of me, and getting a case of the fear out here could be deadly.

It was about this time I started to wonder why the fuck I was out here in the first place. Driving down this notorious road in the middle of the Devil’s frying pan – Oh yeah, now I remember – it was my goddamn talent for bullshit! The paper I was working for wanted me to track down and interview a couple who supposedly saw a UFO near the town of Norseman. That smart-arse, my editor, no doubt fully cognisant of my capacity for loose reportage, scant factual analysis, excursive prose and just plain bullshit, thought I had the right stuff for such an assignment. In fact, my capacity for all things fantastic is the reason why I usually draw these bullshit assignments. It was a good thing then that I had my attorney with me this time: not only is he a born-again sceptic, but he is also an excellent source of all manner of illicit drugs, contraband and other highly illegal substances; and we needed all the pharmaceutical help modern science could offer us, because this trip was about to take a turn for the bizarre. Had I known the terrible truth of it before embarking, I wouldn’t have ventured out of my front door that day; but then again, given my masochistic tendencies, maybe I would have...

Anyway, I had to keep a lid on these crazy thoughts; after all I had a job to do, and I could not afford to freak out my attorney any more than he was already freaked out. Plus he can’t drive for shit. He had the motor skills of a two-year-old with ADHD, and right now, he needed all the reassurance an educated man in my position could offer him.

‘Slow down you crazy fuck,’ I shouted, ‘you’re going kill us both! You’re driving all over this road like a two-year-old on acid; and by the way, whose fucking idea was it to hire this convertible piece-of-shit anyway; this sun is killing me out here – fuck!’

‘I have one signed rental agreement with one Dr Alex Stone’s signature on it, stating that he would like nothing other than the finest automobile available to humanity,’ he retorted, ‘and he specifically requested that it be a convertible; against all better judgement pointing to the fact that the Nullarbor Plain is in fact a desert of immense proportions, and that the likelihood of the temperatures in said desert reaching extreme highs, was highly likely!’

Of course he was right, I had simply forgotten the whole thing; but since there was nothing else for me to do out here, I thought some useless banter could divert me from the fact that I was baking hot, and quickly turning into a dehydrated red lobster.

‘Yes, that maybe; but my attorney should have realised that his client, Dr Stone, had his head buried deep in a bucket-bong only an hour before he was due to pick up said vehicle, and was in no condition to sign any documentation for any vehicle. Oh, and that acid you got us is absolute shit ... I’m never touching the stuff again.’

‘Bad visuals huh?’ he said.

‘Sickening! For a while there, I thought I was trapped inside a Liberal Party convention with no exits … forced to listen to one narcissistic arsehole after another, for hours and hours ... anyway, how are we travelling for fuel?’

After checking the fuel gauge, he replied, ‘Er … about three quarters of tank.’

‘Perfect, that should be enough to get us there; and if it isn’t, we’ll just have to do our patriotic duty and piss in the tank ... shit, another couple of beers, and I’ll be pissing pure ethanol – that’s gotta be at least 91 octane – right?’

‘Yeah it’s up there, but she’ll run like a dog.’

‘Beats walkin don’t it ... ’

‘Shit yeah! I wouldn’t wanna be caught out here with no wheels man ... waiting to get picked off by one of those huge fucking eagles ... feasting on my brains ... eating my fucking eyeballs out ... chewing on my cock-,’

‘Hey, that’s enough of that trash talking ... I don’t need any more visuals. My nerves are shot to shit as they are.’

‘Relax, and roll us another joint would ya.’

I opened the glove box, and grabbed the big bag of grass we scored the day before, off this local hippy dude with dreadlocks. The paper and scissors were already inside, all I had to do was mull-up.

‘Where the hell are we, anyway?’

‘How the fuck would I know.’

I should have known better than to ask a stupid question like that, because not only was my attorney a terrible driver, he also possessed the worst sense of direction of anyone I had ever met. For example, if he had to drive down a straight road, and then for some reason needed to turn around and come back using the exact same road – he would get lost – un-fucking-believable! How this guy managed to get a law degree I’ll never know; but the amazing thing is, when it comes to the law, you can trust the man – go figure. Anyway, it was getting dark, and the sun was starting to set, which would require a change in our driving habits to cope with the change in conditions. The locals had warned us not to drive faster than 80 because the car’s headlights would daze and confuse the animals, leaving some of them frozen dangerously in the middle of the road: exactly where you do not want them to be.

‘I seem to remember, one of the locals telling us at the last stop, that we shouldn’t drive any faster than 80 after dark, just in case we spook one of these fuckers and hit one,’ I said.

‘Correct, I’m slowing down now,’ he said, as he eased off the accelerator, and our speed dropped to a more manageable 100.

Chapter 2. Incandescent Lights ... Heinous Drugs ... and the Source of Our Impending Doom

With our new speed, and the sun setting up ahead, my nerves started to settle a little. When the sun finally dipped below the horizon, it left a beautiful orange and red glow behind it, which lasted a little while, but then was quickly replaced by total darkness. It was just me, my attorney, our car and this god-forsaken road. The headlights were doing a reasonable job of lighting the way up ahead, but they did something else that I wasn’t accustomed to – they lit up the eyes of all the animals around us. It was both comforting and disturbing to know that we were not alone in this vast landscape. Not knowing what to expect can be more than a little disconcerting, but the good thing was my mind had moved on from my previous paranoid delusions. The comforting hum of the motor and the sound of the wind brushing quickly against my ears had a combined visual and aural effect that was very soothing.

The effects of the bucket-bong were almost completely gone from my system, and I was happy about that: my blood pressure had returned to normal, and I could feel my heart beating again – I swear that’s the last time I ever try something as stupid as that. The bucket-bong is the extremist’s way of smoking weed, and since I stopped smoking cigarettes years ago, the effects of head-spin from the mulled up weed and tobacco, makes the whole effect even worse. We might as well get one thing straight: my drug taking is purely of the sporadic mind expansion variety, and apart from alcohol, it is never habitual. My attorney’s habits, on the other hand, are a different proposition entirely. Perhaps, it has something to do with the stress of his job or the criminal types he regularly deals with, or maybe it’s just him; but I’ve seen him drop or snort his way through uppers, downers, acid, speed, crystal meth, ecstasy, rohys, cocaine and other shit I won’t touch. I don’t touch pills and powders because I don’t trust the people that make it not to kill me or fuck me up in some way – why take unnecessary risks is the way I see it. The only pills I take on a regular basis are painkillers, for a recurring neck issue I have, so I always keep a couple of boxes handy for that and anything else that might crop up. My particular preference is to smoke the occasional joint, followed by some scotch or rum, and then a couple of nice beer chasers; anything else will only increase my ever-present anxiety or aggravate my system in some other way. Anyway, we were coasting along pretty well when we started to see some bright lights up ahead; they didn’t look like truck lights either because the spacing was all wrong – and weirdly seemed to change. My attorney detected the same anomaly.

‘You seeing this?’ said my attorney.

‘Yeah, it doesn’t look like a truck, or even a road-train?’ I replied.

‘Na, if it was a road-train, they’d be a straight line of lights, or some curvature,’ he said.

‘You’re right.’

By this time, the lights were getting brighter and brighter, and expanding upwards until there was an eerie incandescent glow all about the place. I could also make out the eyes of lots of animals, up ahead. Something weird was going on, so I felt, but I had never driven in this part of the country before, so how do you tell what is normal, and what is not?

‘That’s no fucking truck,’ said my attorney, with growing alarm in his voice.

‘Military?’ I queried.

‘Out here ... maybe, but it’s definitely not civilian I know that.’

‘There are a lot of eyes up ahead ... ’

Looking nervous, he replied, ‘I can see that.’

As we drove on, the lights grew steadily larger and more intense, as the eyes of hundreds of animals increased in density, when there was a sudden flash of light in front of us, followed by a loud bang, and the next thing I knew, something large had smashed through our windscreen and slammed into the two of us with tremendous force – then everything went black.

Chapter 3. Carnage ... Death of an Attorney ... Entering Donut Heaven

Exactly what happened to us at that point, I can’t be entirely sure. All I knew was that I woke up to find myself sitting in the backseat of the car. Looking at the front of the car, the windscreen had disappeared entirely, as had the hood, because I could see part of the engine sitting up in an odd position – it was completely trashed. I did a quick survey of the carnage to see what if anything was missing, and it wasn’t a pretty sight: my left arm was broken, as were most of the fingers on my left hand; strangely I could not locate my left thumb, nor could I feel the left side of my face, or my left foot, which was twisted 90 degrees in an odd direction – not good! One look at my attorney told a similar story; he wasn’t moving at all – the force of the impact had almost thrown him completely out of the car, and he was lying prostrate over the boot of the convertible, with what was left of the front seat.

Whatever it was that hit us, was long gone, with the