Tevun-Krus Special Edition #1: TK Presents MadMikeMarsbergen... As He Eternally Dangles...

By Tevun Krus

In the first of a brand new initiative to promote writers and Tevun-Krus alike, TK Presents MadMikeMarsbergen... As He Eternally Dangles... a collection of the ridiculously talented @MadMikeMarsbergen 's own favourite of all his submissions to our ezine.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tevun Krus
• Release date: Nov 9, 2016
• ISBN: 9781370209989

Tevun Krus

Ooorah originated on Wattpad way back in the heady days of 2011 with the sole intention of spreading Science Fiction to the masses and fighting the tyranny of teen romance and disturbing fan fiction. As a community, Ooorah has definitely grown over the years. We host multiple contests throughout the year (via our sister account accessible here - https://www.wattpad.com/user/LayethTheSmackDown ) but what we're really all about, what we're here for, is Tevun-Krus, our monthly ezine. Each month we tackle a different sub-genre of Science Fiction. Every ezine is available on Wattpad - https://www.wattpad.com/list/100469511-tevun-krus-wattpads-1-sci-fi-ezine - but in the interests of making ourselves and what we do known further afield, we're making each and every issue available here, FREE! We're all amateur writers, as are our contributors. That doesn't make what we do any the less awesome though, so your support is both appreciated and most awesome! Ooorah!

Book preview

Tevun-Krus Special #1

TK Presents @MadMikeMarsbergen... As He Eternally Dangles...

Copyright 2016 Mike Marsbergen

Smashwords Edition

In the first of an initiative to promote writers and Tevun-Krus alike, TK Presents MadMikeMarsbergen... As He Eternally Dangles... a collection of the ridiculously talented @MadMikeMarsbergen's own favourite of all his submissions to our ezine.

Mike, you're pretty prolific, certainly when it comes to writing for us here at TK. What's that all about?

Hmmm, what indeed? Why is water wet? Why has Jesus never come back to haunt us again? Some things are a mystery, and this is not one of those things. I write so much for TK because it's like banging a new broad every month—that is: My willy is my pen, the words are my seed and the story is the orifice. Maybe. I just woke up and I'm kinda horny. Anyway, I started writing for TK as a, I guess, a challenge to myself. I love to write but I hadn't seriously written any sci-fi and I felt it might help me as a writer to tackle something I had no real experience with. I really liked it so I kept doing it, much like any other addiction. TK is both my dealer and the drug.

If you had to select a favourite of all your TK submissions, which one would it be and why? Yes, I'm asking you to select your child!

You monster. MURDERER! You've just placed a sniper rifle in my hands and now I'm systematically popping each of the apparently less-loved stories in their imaginary heads. This is really tough, particularly because I've written so many and I love each story in different ways. I could choose 'To Live and Die for T.K.' for being my first attempt at a whodunit mystery, and also being really, really funny. Or 'Calibration Day' for being a real head-trip. Maybe 'Joy to Deprever' for how damn horrific and obscene it is. But I'm afraid I may have to go for 'Mars Mountain and the Grootslang of Richtersveld,' because it's wacky and weird, and it was sitting in my head the longest amount of time. I'd had the idea for it since before I even started writing for TK, but had never felt I was good enough to realize it the way it was in my noggin. I feel very happy with how it turned out. I love the fourth wall–breaking humour, like when the narrator is describing some type of smoke-producing hologram and, right in the middle, Mannelich starts inhaling the smoke in an attempt at getting high, the narrator tells him off, Mannelich apologizes, that sort of thing. I love writing that kind of stuff. So, yeah, I think that might be my pick, but I'm sure if you asked me tomorrow or even later on tonight, I might be apt to say something different.

What're your experiences writing Science Fiction outside of Tevun-Krus?

Honestly, not much. Before TK, I had some ideas which I knew were sci-fi but didn't feel experienced in seriously pursuing them. After TK, still not much. I've got 'Peanut Butter Beginnings,' a weird, mish-mash of theological, MythPunk, BonePunk, alt-universe/alt-history, comedy, horror, fantasy. Some of my TK stories this year vaguely tie into it. I guess the first Mars Mountain book (which I haven't finished writing), 'Mars Mountain and the Lost Souls of Negrebsram,' might count a little, though it's more science-fantasy. 'Reptilian,' the book I'm currently writing (and half-finished now; 54,635 words deep) is horror but it has some sci-fi elements with the monsters. So, yeah, not much—not right now, anyway. In ten years, I'm sure I'll have some more under my belt. Maybe when we're all in wheelchairs at the nursing home—me with soft food and drool dribbling down my chin, suffering from dementia; you with cigarettes hanging out of your ears—you can ask me again, and I'll ask you who the hell you are.

In your view, what is the best thing about Tevun-Krus?

Oh, the titties, man. Definitely the titties. Y'know, I'm not sure. Maybe the plethora of different sub-genres. It helps to stretch the wings a little, and by wings I mean the Wings of Writing. From a reader's standpoint, I imagine getting numerous free stories by all sorts of different writers must be cool, and then you have the contests and all that other crap. Me, I'm a little more selfish, so I'll have to go with the various themes and genres we deal with each issue.

And finally, what advice can you give to someone who might be looking to write within a massive variety of Sci-Fi sub-genres, just as you have done and, to be fair, continue to do?

Do whatever you want, you dirty bums. You ain't feedin' off my life-force, pal. Damn vampires. To be serious for only a second (or however long it takes you to read what follows), just write. If you want to read sci-fi books that fit into some of the sub-genres, be my guest. I've been doing that on occasion. Has it helped? I dunno, maybe. Whether it directly helps the story you're writing, I don't know, but I'm sure it helps your well-roundedness as a writer, to take in a different view and a different style. You might learn some new tricks. But, really, I suppose the most important thing is simply just to write. You'll never submit anything or finish anything if you don't start writing, and that might be one of the hardest parts. I remember back in 2012, I couldn't finish anything—I just didn't have the courage or the will to push through my self-doubt. A due-date is a great way to force yourself to get it out.

Glory to Wilwoxxia

1

FINALLY. The limp-dicked prick was gone. Now she could fuck a real man.

Sheila Styles watched Harry's sleek and sexy Wilwoxx Windrunner link onto the highway rails, join all the other Wilwoxx-manufactured vehicles and shoot off at a speed of one hundred miles-per-hour.

Harry couldn't get it up. He hadn't been able to get it up for eleven years now. She kept telling him to get an augment inserted into the shaft, and maybe then he could fuck her like a man was supposed to—but Harry wasn't the type of guy to get corrective surgery on his dong. He'd always make up some excuse about how he didn't want nanorobots controlling his sex-drive. She'd always think—but never say—that his sex-drive could use all the help it could get. Instead, she'd smile and nod. Just smile and nod. That was what every good marriage was built upon, after all.

So Sheila started fucking someone who could get it up... and what Harry didn't know couldn't hurt him. She only hoped that Harry wouldn't ever find out, because it tends to be bad for the family business when you find out your wife is fucking your brother.

She made her way through the apartment suite that had been paid for with Harry's cushy government job at the Wilwoxx Corporation. Past a big-screen television showing two androids fellating one another while a big fat guy swung a bat to their heads, making red oil run and silicone skin-substitute slough off. Past Harry's trophies he'd made from the skulls of the homeless—hunting hobos was a favourite pastime for the wealthy Wilwoxxians.

Sheila stopped at the flag of Wilwoxxia, which depicted a black boot stomping red ants with six alternating red-and-black stripes in the background. She looked into the camera, located in the centre of the boot, and raised a hand to her forehead in a salute. This was required, as to not salute the flag meant you didn't support the Wilwoxx Corporation—and they had a special game show for those types of people. It was called Treasons To Kill and new episodes were shown every day at 12:30 on the nation's only channel, WTV.

She went into the bedroom she shared with Harry and sat in the reclining chair. The headset was on the desk, so she put it on and logged into FaceSpace.

Through the headset's goggles, she saw that she was at a virtual party of drugs and debauchery. There was Jerri-Lynn—from Wilwoxx Living School—licking Antichrist off Ricki's tits. That would be a spectacle to see... and maybe even join in on. Wishing she had more time to fuck around, Sheila found the room her and Derek always used whenever they had their virtual fun and knocked on the door.

Derek opened the door. Sheila. I was wondering when you'd show up. He let her in and she saw all the toys on the table. Whips, chains, Antichrist, even a sex-bot to plough her from behind while she sucked Derek off.

Sorry, D. Mr. Limp was having trouble finding his red-and-black tie for Wilwoxx Day. Mr. Limp was what they called Harry behind his back.

Derek laughed. Sounds like Mr. Limp needs to keep his wife on a tighter leash.

Fuck me, Derek. I burned the tie yesterday because I wanted to see him squirm this morning. Is that evil?

Derek shook his head and pulled Sheila close to him. No, it's not evil. What's evil is screwing my sister-in-law on FaceSpace while her husband works in the next office over.

I only wish I was your actual sister. She bit his lip, pushed him away and proceeded to rip her virtual clothes off. Now fuck me the way Harry can't.

Her hands and feet were chained to the bedposts. Derek stripped and slid underneath her, entering her from below. He then ordered the sex-bot to get to work on her rear.

As her back arched and her toes wiggled—it all felt so good—Sheila even ended up moaning in the real-world.

2

DISGUSTING!

Marty Jankowski wrenched off his headset and tossed it over onto the sleeping bag. Harry Styles had hired him to hack into his wife Sheila's FaceSpace and spy on her. Harry had suspected she was having an affair—but he would never expect it to be with his own brother.

Marty had been a hacker for most of his life. It wasn't the safest line of work—despite the fact that he stayed inside much of his life—seeing as how hacking was illegal, but it was what he was good at... really damn good, actually. He'd first been turned-on to the joys of hacking after Dad had found a way to dupe the camera in the nation's flag to play a series of looped recordings of the family stopping to salute—wearing different outfits on different days so they could walk through their shitty little apartment without saluting the flag every two minutes. Dad had been a huge influence on him. Taught him everything he knew.

Gathering up all the empty cans of Wilwoxx Wonder-Juice from his desk, Marty stood and took them five feet to his Wilwoxx Waste-Eater unit—passing his own duped watch-flag; though his he'd defaced with all sorts of vile words and phrases—and dumped them in, one by one. The machine ate the cans up and shot them down to some underground facility, where they were made into android parts. Or so the rumours went.

He traversed through his puny apartment—another three feet—from the Waste-Eater to the Wilwoxx Wire embedded into the wall, tapped Harry's name and waited for him to pick up. Waiting. Still waiting. The automated message chimed in. Marty tapped the disconnect button. I'll try again later. Or maybe boss will call me when he sees his missed calls. Yeah... He'll be practically creaming his pants when he realizes I called.

With the droning groan of his stomach, Marty decided it was time for breakfast. He took two steps to his kitchen—or what passed for his kitchen, anyway—and pulled out some Wilwoxx Water-'N'-Eat foodlike substance. It tasted like rubbery shit, but it was supposed to be very nutritious. A whole day's worth of vitamins!—or some shit like that. Removed a grey biscuit from the package. Covered it in water from the tap. Watched the biscuit swell up like a sponge. He took a bite out of it and forced himself to chew it to a thick, pasty mulch. Swallowed.

Blech. Marty wiped his mouth, grimacing in disgust, and licked his hand in a desperate attempt to get the awful taste off his tongue. They really need to add some strawberry flavour to this crap or something! He took his biscuit with him to the handheld TV he'd duct-taped to the wall above his sleeping bag. Turned the TV to the only station—WTV—and ate his Wilwoxx Corporation satisfaction-guaranteed breakfast-of-champions, while he watched two midgets get their heads cleaved as the studio audience went wild.

3

THE Wilwoxx Windrunner—black and red: the nation's colours; like every other car—veered off the highway and snaked around to a towering government building. Wilwoxx Corporation HQ. The rail system brought the car into the parking lot and into the space marked: Harry Styles, Director of Game Show Opportunities, Research and Development.

A real mouthful, Harry thought, hating the picture they'd taken of him to attach to that bloated title he'd been given. Basically, what he had to do was come up with the sickest and most ridiculous ideas for a new show—say, once every blue moon—and then get his secretary to type up the pitch, which he'd then send off to the head of Wilwoxx Corp., Mr. Greg Laarsen, for approval.

Most of Harry's ideas were approved. WTV was always looking for new game shows, and there appeared to be no limit to their bloodlust. There was one idea that had been denied... Years ago, he'd pitched a show about stranded Wilwoxxians, watching them start a new society as new problems were introduced. The idea was denied because Laarsen said there wasn't enough potential for gore, and the killing wouldn't start fast enough. People didn't turn savage quickly enough for him.

Harry opened the door and got out of the Windrunner, briefcase in hand. He made sure his coat was buttoned up—he wasn't wearing his red-and-black tie for Wilwoxx Day, seeing as how the damned thing had mysteriously gone missing; he suspected Sheila had something to do with it—and walked over to the Tube. He looked into the ocular scanner. Positive reading. The doors opened. He stepped inside. Hit the big fat button marked 65. The doors closed and the Tube soared up, whipping to the highest floor—well, second-highest—and giving Harry a glorious view of the megacity.

Billboards shuffled through advertisements proclaiming the glory of Wilwoxx. People ambled along through the streets like ants. Wilwoxx vehicles whooshed across the branching rail systems, operated not by humans but by sophisticated computers. A heavy layer of black smog polluted the atmosphere, making the commoners susceptible to all sorts of bodily horrors. All they needed was the Wilwoxx-approved panacea: Wonder-Juice—available for only a buck at any reputable business. Oh, but the commoners were too busy getting wired on Antichrist, blowing all their hard-earned slave wages on crap designed to rot their minds. Stupid people.

What was worse was what lay beyond the megacity. Post-war ruins. Ravaged landscapes. A barren, scorched Earth. The commoners weren't allowed out and the rich didn't ever want to leave. All that they had was here. In this doomed city of the damned.

The Tube doors opened, and Harry was removed from his thoughts as the building's AI greeted him. It was female and had been dubbed Amrita. From the Sanskrit for immortality.

Welcome, Harry Styles. Pleasure to see you on this fine day. Glory to Wilwoxxia. And enjoy your Wilwoxx Day.

Morning, Amrita. Glory to Wilwoxxia. He checked his coat once more, exited the elevator and went down the windowed hall to where his office was. It was beside his brother's, so before entering he decided he'd see if Derek had a spare tie. He knocked. Heard some shuffling, scuffling, and the door opened. Derek—Director of Programming and Social Advancement—stood there, smiling in that lackadaisical way of his.

Hey, Hare. Wuddya need?

Derek, you got an extra tie? Mine went missing.

Sure, bro. Give me a second. I always keep a spare handy. Just in case. Derek winked, then left the door open as he went back to his desk and dug through the drawers. He found a tie and draped it over his arm as he walked back to where Harry stood. Good thing it's there, Hare. Or else you'd be down at the bottom of Lake Weird by the end of the day, eh?

Harry took the tie from Derek and quickly put it on. Yeah, yeah. I'll have to purchase a whole set and keep them tucked away somewhere safe. Thanks, Derek.

No problem, Hare. That's what big brothers are for. Smiled that lazy smile again.Harry nodded and waved, saying something about grabbing lunch together. He headed back to his office feeling noticeably better. Set his hand on the print reader. The door opened for him and he went inside. He set his briefcase down on the desk and saw a blinking red light on the Wire. Marty, maybe? He hit a few buttons and brought up the list of missed calls. Sure enough, M. Jankowski had called just five minutes ago. He tapped the name of his hired hacker and the Wire began the call. Marty picked up within seconds.

Marty? So... You find anything? Really... That's— That's... I don't know what to say. Can you meet me at the Southside Diner in, say, fifteen? I'll see you there, Marty. Thanks for your services. Bye.

Harry found himself shaking as he ended the call. Sheila? Derek? How could they... betray him like that? Sure, he couldn't get hot and heavy like he used to, but was that really worth throwing away—what he thought was—a happy marriage? He wiped sweat from his forehead and tears from his eyes. Found himself slumped in the chair behind his desk, his breathing erratic, his heart racing. Thankfully, his augment kicked in and steadied his heartbeat before things really spiralled out of control.

Once he found the words, he'd have a talk with his brother... and his wife, for that matter. For now, though, it was time to meet with Marty and give him his deserved payment. And to get some air.

A push of the intercom on the desk. Evalynn?

Yes, Mr. Styles.

Keep track of any and all calls. I'm heading out.

Certainly, Mr. Styles. I will have all your calls clearly labelled for you when you return.

Thank you, Evalynn.

I live to serve you, Mr. Styles.

Could always count on androids to get the job done right. Harry left his office and went back down the Tube. Found his car. Entered in his location: Southside Diner. And the Windrunner took him away.

4

"CAN I see ya again?" the old man with the grizzled beard asked.

Kimmy Threedot shrugged, fanning the wad of cash with one hand and pulling up her stockings with the other. If it is your desire, feel free to call on me.

The old man grinned. He tugged up his pants and threw on his shirt. He made to kiss Kimmy on the cheek, but she stopped him with her silky-smooth hand.

Ah-bup-bup! She smiled and shook her head, sending her straight, almost-too-perfect white-blonde hair flowing. Kisses are not allowed, Vernon. You know the rules.

I'm sorry, Kimmy, Vernon grovelled, down on his knees with his head at her feet. He tried to kiss them, too, but she backed away. Can't I kiss those feet before I go? Please?

No, Vernon. You know what the beard does to my skin.

He suddenly stood up and looked at her through slitted eyes. Skin? You ain't got skin! Yer a stinkin' robot!

Kimmy turned from him, wiping away a tear of saline solution that had rolled down her cheek. "You do not have to be so... so damn mean! I have feelings, too, you know. I am not like the others."

I'm sorry, Kimmy. Vernon slapped himself repeatedly, every blow to his face making Kimmy wince. "You are different. Ya know I know that! But... if I shave my beard, can I kiss you the next time? I like to kiss ya, Kim-Kim."

She nodded. Of course. But you cannot have even a little stubble. You know what will happen if the hairs prick my skin.

Right! I'll shave just before I come visit ya! Vernon was back to grinning. Hey, he said, taking out another fifty from his wallet. I'm sorry about what I said, Kimmy. You know I love ya. He handed it to her.

She took the money. Thank you, Vernon. You are too kind. I look forward to seeing you again.

Vernon turned to leave the rundown apartment, stepping over the glass shards of a broken television set—thrown aside by Kimmy's previous customer after a dispute. Hey... C-can I ask you something? Kimmy? He stopped before the right turn, which led to the door.

Sure, Vernon. You can always ask me whatever you like. But sometimes the answer is not something you would like to hear.

When yer... when yer with the other men. Do ya think of me?

Of course, Vernon, she lied. You are the best.

You mean that?

Yes. I love my time with you.

Thanks, Kimmy. Yer one of a kind. He turned the corner, whistling as he walked. Kimmy saw him salute the flag near the door, and then he was gone.

She sat on her dirty bed and wept. So many men she had been with in that bed. And none of them mattered to her. None of them meant a damn thing. They were warm bodies. And wallets. They gave her money in exchange for sex. And sometimes she felt terrible.

She did not always feel, though.

Or think.

Once upon a time, she had been just another sex-bot. Just another working whore. But then... something happened to her. She had been changed. By somebody— Somebody special to her—but she could not remember who her benefactor was. Her programming had been modified. Parts of her memory had been wiped. She had been given free will. She could do anything, now. Anything she wanted. Anything she dreamed. But all she knew was prostitution.

Stop being so sad, Kimmy, she told herself. And it worked. Like a switch had been flipped in her programming. And maybe one had, for all she knew.

She stuffed the money down her shirt, saluted the flag and left her apartment. Down the stairs. Past the bleeding man begging for spirituality. Nobody had any faith to give. Instead, some spat on him. Others kicked him in the head. Beat him. Laughed at him. But not her. She gave him the extra fifty she'd received from Vernon's charity.

Bless you, miss!

Use it well, mister, she said over her shoulder before exiting the apartment complex.

Out into the rain and the dampness and the desolation. It always rained in this part of town. Kimmy walked through graffitied streets—passing eloquent mantras like: "Wilwoxx Must Die! Wonder-Juice Rots The Brain, Don't Drink The Water! and Cleopa 4 Lyfe"—and down darkened alleys. Two streets from her apartment complex, she stumbled across two little boys sodomizing each other for the pleasure of their Antichrist dealer. She felt sick. Sick and afraid.

Needless to say, Kimmy was glad when she had moved out of that twisted environment and saw the Southside Diner in her sights. She moved swiftly towards it. Time to relax and unwind. Maybe order a drink she did not—could not—ever consume.

5

SHEILA twirled her fingers through Derek's curly black chest hair. She had a cigarette smouldering in her other hand. Took two puffs. Blew them out. Life was good.

Let me get a few puffs, Derek said. He opened his mouth so Sheila could place the smoke in between his lips. He inhaled once. Twice. Three times. Coughed on the smoke, sending expanding plumes of it to fill the virtual room. He didn't smoke often. So, I saw Harry when I tapped-out earlier.

And? Sheila took another drag. What did Mr. Limp have to say?

I gave him a tie for Wilwoxx Day.

What? Why? She suddenly sat up, her fake tits firm in place. Not a bounce or a jiggle to be seen. The augments that were supposed to catch Harry's eye. They were supposed to make him want to fuck her like a machine. But even they didn't work. He could've been fucking dead, D. Dead.

Jesus. Would you shut the fuck up with that shit, Sheila. I don't want him dead. He's still my brother. I still care about him. I still love him.

Sheila laughed. Yes, and that's why you're fucking your brother's wife. Because you care. Because you love him. You're nothing but a fruitcake, D. Admit it. She laughed again and her laughter was really starting to piss Derek off.

Quiet.

Oh, don't be such a baby. Shut up and fuck me, D. She snorted a line of Antichrist off the table. Felt the sting up her nostrils and the powder in the back of her throat, thick and bitter. Felt the drug take hold. Inhibitions at an utter nadir. Ravenous urge to fuck like a wild animal. To howl and scream. To bite and spit and hit.

Sheila latched onto Derek and sunk her teeth into his neck, drawing blood that would still be there inside him over in the real-world. Fingernails ripping red lines up through the skin of his back.

Derek smacked her in the jaw and jumped on her back for a ride.

It was all he could do to keep her from going truly insane.

6

A skinny man in his early twenties moved through the streets with speed on his mind. Southside Diner. Got to see Harry. Tell him everything. Get that paycheque.

Marty had a lot riding on this chat with Harry. There was