Star Sparts

The Erratic Course of the galactic cruiser as it blasted through the constellation Tsooris was hardly intentional. Its captain had been hard by the Jack Daniel's for three days running. Coincidentally, this course was avoiding the long streaks of energy striking out from the Imperial cruiser. One of the beams touched the staggering, lurching ship and blew away its curb feelers and fender skirts. Then another distant explosion shook the ship and peeled away a layer of red-flocked wallpaper in the corridor--but it certainly didn't feel distant to Little Bo Peepio, the gay android, and his side-kick Panchóo DeeToo. To look at those two, you would have thought Little Bo Peepio, the tall, wispy machine wearing nothing but a necklace that said Bitch and a Porsche chronometer, was master of Panchoo DeeToo, the stubby, swarthy pistolero robot in the Two Fingers Tequila T-shirt; but while Bo Peepio might have thrown an absolute snit at the suggestion, they were actually equals in everything except that Bo Peepio gave better head and Panchoo DeeToo was the only Panchoo unit in the constellation of Tsooris that was running off a turquoise-and-beatensilver laser system.

Other explosions rocked the galactic cruiser. The low humming note that had been giving Bo Peepio a splitting headache suddenly stopped. Finally, Bo Peepio spoke:

"Who do you have to fuck to get a Valium around here?" he asked.

Panchoo did not comment immediately. His barrel torso tilted backward, his three powerful hand-tooled leather cowboy boots gripping the deck. The meter-high Mexicano 'droid was suffering from severe postnasal drip sustained while sniffing some Peruvian graphite dust earlier in the flight. A series of short, chirping Spanish invectives issued from his speaker. To even a sensitive ear they would have sounded like just so much Third World gibberish, but to Bo Peepio they formed words as clear as a tequila sunrise.

"This butch captain of ours is definitely on a macho trip," Bo Peepio said in a testy voice, thrusting out his metallic hips petulantly and patting clown his chromium skullplate. "We're fucked for sure now."

Suddenly, a band of Imperial Storm Troopers appeared and began firing their weapons. One blast of energy threw Bo Peepio into a jumble of shredded cables, where dozens of currents turned him into a jerking, mincing, limp-wristed display of acrobatics.

"Help!" he screamed. "My servopelvic Accu-Jac!"

As Panchoo extended his switchblade mechanism to try to help cut away the cables, Bo Peepio's tone turned ultra-bitchy:

"This is all your fault! I should have known better than to trust the logic of an albino graphite-snorting, hand-held half-breed vibrator!"

Panchoo cut loose with a series of searing Spanish curses usually reserved for those who gang-rape your mother. One of them made an allusion to Bo Peepio's ancestral link to the Water Pik.

Then a violent explosion shook the corridor.

•

Two meters tall. Bipedal. Flowing black robes and a simple string of cultured pearls. Hair by Sassoon. Face forever masked by a black Tiffany breathing creation stunningly punctuated by pear diamonds and rough-cut emeralds. A Dark Lord of Sith was a dazzling shap as it snapped its tight little buns back and forth, heading down the corridors, glancing self-consciously at its reflection in the mirrored walls. Solidly into S/M, it normally sported heavy leather-and-chrome manacles and a set of expensive Spanish handcuffs. Once-resolute rebel crew members ceased resisting at the sight and threw themselves at its feet, crying:

"Where did (continued on page 150)Star Spats(continued from page 145) you get your hair done?"

As it turned down another passageway, they could hear Mr. Darth's heavy breathing through the Tiffany mask. But who could resist?

Elsewhere, Bo Peepio and Panchoo were entering the lifeboat hatch. The explosive bolts fired after a loud warning and the pod ejected from the crippled fighter, sending the two 'droids to the surface of the planet below. Like much of the Promised Land, it was pretty grim compared with Fire Island.

•

Soon after Luke Starfucker had come into possession of Bo Peepio and Panchoo--and for no explainable reason--they were all fast friends, as if they'd known one another for eons. While Luke was valiantly trying to repair Panchoo, however, the little Latin pervert became horny and began showing dirty movies with his silver-turquoise laser.

Luke, who was only 20 years old, had lived a sheltered life and, consequently, was watching with rapt attention as Panchoo, who was a bit weirded out on some unnamed 'droid crystals, unabashedly flashed holographic movies of a beautiful young girl and her trusty exercise 'droid. She kept mumbling something about somebody's Kenobish.

"Boy," Luke said in awe, "look at the Kenobish on that dude."

Panchoo mumbled something in Spanish and kept showing the dirty loops.

"Oh, help me," the girl pleaded. "Slip me some Kenobish, Ben!"

"Who is that?" Luke asked Bo Peepio.

"I really don't know. She was a passenger on our last voyage. Had her own dressing room. A movie star of some importance, I think. Bitchin' wardrobe."

"Some movies," Luke allowed. Then suddenly, Panchoo ended the performance. "What kind of shit is that?" Luke asked angrily, jumping up.

Panchoo screeched and bleeped in incomprehensible but clearly obscene Latin aphorisms. Bo Peepio winced and translated some of them.

"He says before she got into heavy S/M movies like this, she used to co-star with the stud of the entire constellation of Tsooris, one of the last surviving Jewish Knights, Bennie Wadd Kenobish. He also says you can pay him fifty Imperial monetary units for an instant replay or else blow it out your Imperial ass."

"Bennie Wadd Kenobish?" Luke said with a puzzled expression. "He's an old man now. He couldn't possibly get it up. And what in blazes is a Jewish Knight?"

"Don't ask me, deary," Bo Peepio said, rolling his eyes seductively, "but if you know this Wadd character, I think I'd like to tag along."

•

Inside the bowels of the Imperial battle station, Princess Orgasma--intergalactically famous porn star--was being treated to the thrill of her life with a set of chromium molybdenum shackles by Mr. Darth.

"Tighter, Darth! Tighter!" she moaned, as one of Darth's minions moved forward to increase' the pressure of the shackles on her pale wrists.

"You are my prisoner," Mr. Darth said, swirling his cape and fingering his strand of pearls. "I think what you need is a Farrah Fawcett cut."

"No, not that! Anything but that!" Princess Orgasma cried.

"How about a Linda Ronstadt?"

•

Luke's aunt Bea was rushing around the house like crazy.

"Lezee: lox, bagels, gefilte fish, onions--Luke! Oh, Luke! Oy! Having a brunch and forgot the onions. Luke, can you run down to the deli and get some onions?"

Luke stood there, looking at her strangely.

"Aunt Bea, are you sure you're not Jewish?"

"Whaddayou? Meshuga? Don't be silly. Enough tsooris I've got without questions like that. Now, go!"

"Aunt Bea," Luke whined, "what did my father do?"

"Your dad was a haberdasher. Enough, already? He sold suits, OK? So stop all the time talking Jewish or I'll tell your uncle Saul."

"Yes, Aunt Bea," Luke said dejectedly. Still, something about her made him wonder....

•

Luke, Bo Peepio and Panchoo were blasting along in the desert on their way to the deli when they happened to run into old Bennie Wadd Kenobish. They were immediately attacked by four or five species of unusual creatures, but Kenobish took Luke and his 'droids into his house for protection. Suddenly, Panchoo got very excited and started showing his porno loops again.

"Ah," said Kenobish, "those were the days. Schtupping Princess Orgasma till the cows came home. What chutzpah she had!"

"Schtupping? Chutzpah?" Luke asked. "What kind of words are those?"

"Yiddish," Kenobish said incredulously. "You don't speak Yiddish?"

"Well, I--" Luke was embarrassed. He knew the languages of several systems but had never heard of Yiddish.

"Oh, I know, I know," Kenobish said knowingly. "Your aunt and uncle. They probably fed you all that goyisher crap. It's all chozzerai. Your father was a Jewish Knight."

And with that, Kenobish got up and opened an old trunk.

"And I've saved this little tsatske for you all these years. It was his. He wanted you to have it."

"What is it?" Luke asked, taking the sleek tube in his hands.

"It's a sawed-off shotgun," Kenobish said, waving his hands about as if the boy were a total putz. "You want maybe a howitzer?"

•

Without even asking for any trouble from these Jewish Knights and gay robots, Luke suddenly found himself in the middle of a real mess. He was out riding toward Moishe Eisley Spaceport, a pretty nasty place, according to Kenobish. It was imperative that they not be suspected by the Imperial Storm Troopers while searching the spaceport for a pilot who could take them to rescue Princess Orgasma. But. as Kenobish had explained, the Force would be with them if they got into trouble. As they passed into the spaceport, they were stopped at a roadblock where Storm Troopers were asking for identification, hoping to find the 'droids who had escaped from the galactic cruiser where the princess had been.

"Sholom aleichem," Kenobish said as they approached the troopers. "Repeat after me." He then spoke in a very thick Yiddish accent. "Dis pisher is not of any interest to you." He looked at his watch. "We gotta buy some onions, OK? We're already late."

"Say," a trooper said through his white metallic mask, "you're not Jewish, are you?"

"You wanna be a comedian?" Keno-bish asked rhetorically. "Go on The Tonight Show." And, with that, they pulled away from the roadblock.

As they parked by a cantina, Luke was still mystified.

"I can't understand how we got by those troopers," he said.

"The Force is all in the delivery, Luke. It can sometimes be used to influence others. But it can also be dangerous. Example: I put a down payment on a land-speeder like this one. How do I get credit? The Force. Now I'm stuck with (continued on page 317)Star Spats(continued from page 150) the payments. But can it get me six points on a Vikings game? Not a prayer. Oy! Leave it to the Force!"

Nodding without really understanding, Luke asked, "Do you really think we can find a pilot?"

"Only nice Jewish boys hang around this place. You'll see. Doctors, lawyers, intergalactic pilots. But watch out. It can be rough."

•

Meanwhile, back at the Imperial battle station, Princess Orgasma writhed and squirmed as Mr. Darth tried to get out of her the location of the secret rebel messages that had been carried off by her 'droids. After several attempts, he finally ushered in a small black 'droid who, in its extended claw, held a humming, twitching black vibrator, poised and ready.

"Well," Mr. Darth hissed menacingly, "if you won't talk, perhaps this little injection will help. I'm afraid it's intramuscular. Bend over!"

•

"Double Shirley Temple," Luke said across the bar.

They had entered the underground cantina and while Kenobish was scouting around for a pilot, Luke busied himself surveying the clientele. It was a sight like none he had ever seen. Lined against the bar three deep were men in hideous Palm Beach and Brooks Brothers suits, some of them with lethal-looking Bell System beepers attached to their alligator belts, in case the hospital called for an emergency Caesarean section. Others carried American Tourister attaché cases. And all of them were knocking back deadly martinis without blinking an eye.

The bartender looked at him strangely when he placed his order but served it up anyway. Suddenly, Luke noticed that he was the subject of some unwanted attention. It must be these beige robes, he thought, and tried to ignore the stares. Something shoved him roughly, nearly knocking him over. He turned angrily and then stopped in astonishment. It was a little, stooped-over Polish janitor, myopically pushing a broom, trying to clean up some of the cigarette butts and peanut shells left behind by the rowdy business-lunch crowd. Luke motioned to Kenobish and the wily old Jewish Knight deftly whipped out his sacred shotgun and blew the pushy little fucker into a thousand pieces, splattering brain and bone across the cantina floor.

Acting as if nothing had happened. Kenobish ushered Luke over to a table where an enormous monkey was sitting with a young man who was somewhat older than Luke.

"Who's the shvartzer?" Kenobish asked (concluded on page 321) the man, indicating the monkey, as they approached the table.

"That's my monkey," the man said. "Leave him alone or I'll have him pull your head off. I'm Solo."

"And I'm Hetero," Luke snapped.

"Listen, you little starfucker," Solo said, reaching across the table, "if you want to get to diddle the princess, you'd better watch your star mouth or you're going to be in for some star difficulties."

•

However, in spite of that thorny first encounter, the entire entourage--Kenobish, Luke, Bo Peepio, Panchoo, Solo and one big fullback type badly in need of a haircut--took off for a rendezvous with the Death Disco, a planet-size night spot that even now housed the Imperial cruiser commanded by Mr. Darth and a large number of rotating punk-rock groups.

Once cruising in Solo's speedy starship, the Millennium Chicken, in the calm of hyperspace and free of pursuing Imperial cruisers, Kenobish had a chance to give Luke some lessons with his newly found sacred. weapon. "Pull!" Luke called and a clay bird flew out of the trap and smashed against the interior walls of the intergalactic cruiser before he could shoulder the shotgun.

"No, no, no," Kenobish was saying in disgust. "Here, put this on," he said, taking a large trash can from nearby and placing it over Luke's head.

"Mrgf! Gnft bzsths hbthblwsh!" Luke's screams were unintelligible from inside the container.

"See," Kenobish said, "you're already learning a new language. Ah, the Force."

Luke called for another bird and began firing wildly, scattering hot leaden revolutionary death all over the interior of the ship and sending everyone diving under tables and chairs.

•

Having counted on the eternally inferior intelligence of people who wear Tiffany breathing devices and their armies and strategists in much the same way Pentagon generals counted on what they referred to in private as "gook stupidity," the star entourage entered the Death Disco and rescued Princess Orgasma by tantalizing her with her favorite sexual foreplay: a group grope in a warm garbage bath. Then, having hidden the architectural plans for the Death Disco--somewhere on her person--they headed back to the Millennium Chicken, using the "ancient Eskimo" plan of escape. This calls for taking an elderly member of the tribe and setting him on an ice floe until the polar bears are distracted and eat him, thus saving everyone else. In this case, alas, it was the noble Jewish Knight, Bennie Wadd Kenobish, who was attacked by Mr. Darth and chafed to death by Spanish handcuffs.

•

From the plans of the Death Disco that Princess Orgasma pulled out of, um, somewhere, it was clear that a small group of tactical starfighters piloted by dedicated Beverly Hillbillies rejects could--with luck and a little Methedrine--get themselves shot to shit by Imperial gunners, perhaps distracting the enemy long enough to allow Luke one clear chance at the Death Disco's Achilles' heel.

While preparations were being made for this historic assault on the Death Disco, Solo and the boffo baboon were loading booty into a land-speeder in preparation for the standard Millennium Chicken defense, which Solo referred to as "Jets, do yo' stuff!"

"You got your reward," Luke said as he approached Solo and the antic anthropoid.

"That's right, kid, I've got some old American Express bills to pay off and even if I didn't, well, let's just say that everybody's got something to hide, including me and my monkey. In this case, it's my Millennium ass."

Luke stomped off in a piss-poor mood. It was really too bad, he thought. Such a good pilot. And so good-looking, too. However, sorrowful thoughts of Solo vanished when lie saw Princess Orgasma standing by his new combat fighter.

"Are you sure this is what you want?" Orgasma asked.

"That and a couple of lines of Bolivian Brain Trust and I'll make those lackeys of the Imperial running-dog command eat laser death, honey buns."

Orgasma raised her eyebrows a little. "I guess this is a revolution, isn't it?"

•

Indeed, it was. Luke hung back at a safe distance while fighter after fighter was chewed into molecular bits by Imperial energy weapons. As a matter of honor, he let his best friends go first. And even though they were getting dusted by the score, they were doing serious damage to the Death Disco, and finally Mr. Darth, seeing that Luke was coming in for the kill, boarded his own combat fighter to chase him down and, as he put it, "slap that bitch's wrists but good!"

But once Luke's friends were all dead, he knew one thing for sure and no limpwristed hairdresser was going to stop him. Visions of that first pornographic hologram of Princess Orgasma swam in his head as he homed in on the planetoid. Back at command center, Orgasma was hunched over the radar screen, watching Luke's progress. He was so confident of the Force that he wasn't even using his computer aiming device. He just placed a trash can over his head, as Kenobish had taught him.

"Don't worry," Orgasma's voice came over the radio, "Solo has returned and he's, urn, right behind me," she panted, hunching more eagerly over the radar console.

"That's right, kid," Luke heard Solo say, "I had a change of heart. And I'll keep things warm back here while you shoot your load."

And then, in unison, Luke could hear their voices cheering, "Go, go, go, deeper, deeper, put it in, yes," until--trash can totally obscuring his vision--Luke made a slight miscalculation in his steering and rammed a gun tower, disintegrating into microscopic silvery fragments.

"Tough shit, kid," Solo said.

will luke rescue princess orgasma? can a gay android find happiness in a bit part? will the universe be saved? does anybody have a valium? funny you should ask

"The pod ejected from the crippled fighter, sending the' droids to the surface of the planet below."