The Pride And The Glory Of Peter T. Sheeple

By Victor Storiguard

The story of an amiable idiot…in the twenty-second century.

Peter T. Sheeple didn't have a lot going for him in the way of brains. But, he was fabulously wealthy and, besides, women couldn't keep their hands off him.

But, then he met Multi, a self-created superintelligent AI with a thing about star-nosed moles…

Which led naturally to Cyanide Cindy the amorous Senator, Julia the Giantess with her rubber dinghy-thingees, Governor "Sledge" Hammah's secret fetish, Uncle Sid's rocket launcher, Cave Man Carl the Man Mountain… plus lots of topiary.

And then the weird part started.

Welcome to the wild and wooly world of Victor Storiguard's comic science fiction. Funny, bawdy, crazy, sexy, and sometimes just fabulously nuts, Storiguard's future isn't so much cyberpunk as cyber-silly.

So fasten your seatbelts and get ready for blastoff. The gonzo world of Peter T. and his faithful friend Multi the supercomputer awaits!

"Imagine Cyberpunk science fiction as written by P.G. Wodehouse and you've got this book." ~ the editors

• Language: English
• Publisher: Belfort & Bastion
• Release date: Dec 22, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386223030

Victor Storiguard

Victor Storiguard is a writer and editor whose career stretches back for over a quarter of a century. Originally a journalist writing about computers, he has now moved on to science fiction. Much of his work deals with "transhumanism" and "posthumanism." Critics have said that his tales combine hard technology with the appeal of fairy tales and myth.

Book preview

Chapter I

Meeting the Mole

Now, I say, this is going to be just a wee bit complicated, what with me almost marrying Senator Cyanide Cindy and Julie the Giantess at the same time, plus there was that riot at the guesthouse in the Peace Garden, and Uncle Sidney with the rocket launcher, and Cave Man Carl with his pants off, and there was me in the French Maid outfit ...and, of course, my meeting Multi the supercomputer mole who got me out of it all even if it meant skipping planet for a couple of months until the heat was off. But the Lunar Alps are lovely this time of year. So, as they say in Paris, pas de problemos.

But, like I say, complificated, and you may want to take notes and work it all out later.

Anyhoo, it started one morning back in April of 2111. It was a cheery day, bright and full of promise, and I wasn't more than usually hung over from the previous night. Pat, Paris, and Pauline had invited me round for drinks, and then there'd been more drinks, and some more after that, and I remember something about leather sheets, gum-rubber hip boots, and a fifty gallon drum of cream cheese. But otherwise, details are a tad hazy. But, no worries. There'll probably be film at eleven. There usually is.

I woke at the crack of noon and after a longish time trying to recall why I seemed to be wearing a catcher's mask and swim fins in bed, I made my way into the front room of my wee little penthouse for a spot of the dog that masticated me and perhaps a nourishing rasher or seven from the autochef. But, just then, the doorbell commenced to ring most insistently.

I rather hoped that whoever it was would go away or give up or die or something, but, alas, not to be. The ringing just kept right on coming so finally I staggered to the door and opened it up.

Only, there was no one there. The hall toward the elevator was as empty as empty can get. Drat, I said to myself, figured it was a malfunction in the mechanism, shut the door, turned around...

And found myself confronting a short furry thing with big claws and purple tentacles around its nose. 'Morning, it said.

Blaga, I said.

Sorry about ringing the bell, but I wanted to get you walking around a bit. Sober you up. And besides, it makes for verisimilitude.

Erfulga, I said.

Shall we go into the kitchen? it said, and glided off like whats-his-name's ghost in that play by ole Billy-Bob Shakespeare where Lady Mac ventilates people with sharp objects a lot.

I paused. Clearly, this was not going to be one of my better days. When the hallucinations start getting that elaborate, well, red sky at morning and batten the hatches and all hands on deck. We're in for a touch of the nasty.

Still, at least this one was polite. Not like that snotty pink elephant that keeps making those crushing remarks about my stamp collection.

I stumbled back into the kitchen. The autochef had prepared juice and coffee and the aforesaid raster but was being quite recalcitrant about producing the hair o' dog. Even after I kicked it once or twice and suggested all sorts of interesting things I could do to it with a blowtorch and sledgehammer.

It won't work, I heard someone say. I looked up and it was the little blue tentacle nose fellow who'd spoken. He was standing next to the 'fridge and giving me a bit of the old fish eye. Most unsettling. I've taken over the device, it went on. Nothing stronger than orange juice and espresso until you've detoxed a bit.

I considered this for a long reflective moment. Of course, it wasn't the first time I've had hallucinations make those kinds of remarks. That pink elephant, for instance. It even brought in a band from the Salvation Army last