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SCENE 1: SIR BERTRAND MACGUFFINGHAM is sitting across from TREXEL GEISTMAN in a cavernous, lavishly-furnished planetary consultation room. David 7 is standing a little way back, badly concealing a look of intrigued revulsion. Bertie is dressed in his customary golden falcon armour, which looks a little… tarnished.
“Ah, Mr. Geistman,” booms Bertie. “Now, what I require for my planet is opulence. Opulence, and nice young men to, ah, polish my sword.” He stares meaningfully at Trexel at this, searching for that spark of understanding. “Oh, and I require oceans of honey, and several dogs with adorable outfits as my noble companions and, indeed, steeds.”
Trexel, his open shirt revealing three rather intriguing blue nipples nestled in a meadow of chest hair, doesn’t look like he’s got the hint yet, but Bertie hasn’t given up. Trexel doesn’t look the type to be as oblivious as Ed. As the consultation progresses, Bertie throws in the odd double entendre (pah! French!)-
“-Solid gold falcons to guard my… palace gates-“
“-Only a select few will be permitted ingress to my inner sanctum-“
-but he’s finding that although Trexel seems oblivious to his veiled hints, he’s not entirely uninterested in Bertie. Trexel is enthusiastically adding his own ideas to Bertie’s brief as he swigs from an unlabelled bottle of thick… cream? Bertie can’t deny that Trexel’s ideas do seem to fall in line with what Bertie himself would enjoy. Force fields to keep the riffraff out, alcoholic beverages in unreasonably vast quantities, interplanetary artillery for taking pot-shots from the palace gardens (at said riffraff), moisturiser on tap (presumably for luxurious massages)… He’s finding something in Trexel that he hasn’t had in many, many years: validation. As Trexel’s clone looks increasingly fascinated at the collaborative repartee, Trexel himself is leaning in, eyes bright with enthusiasm, Bertie’s expression reflected on Trexel’s face. Validation.
The clone can see which way the wind is blowing and is backing slimily out of the room, closing the door behind them. Bertie has got to his feet, staring hungrily at Trexel as Trexel talks petulantly about bloodlines, about the respect and riches he deserves… Bertie couldn’t agree more. Trexel steps towards Bertie; that same hungry look in his eye (directed particularly at Bertie's feet, he notices), and, still talking, starts to undo the straps on Bertie’s rather stellar armour.
We cut artfully away as Bertie and Trexel conclude their mutually beneficial consultation.
SCENE 2: The Asteroid Booth, a small micro-bar. BERTIE and TREXEL are seated on a plush leather couch that is just a little too small for the both of them. They are both sipping pints of crème de menthe (or at least, creamed alcoholic slurry de menthe). Bertie’s has a slice of citrus-flavoured moulded slurry in it.
“-So I egressed via the portal, and found myself no longer surrounded by flaming excrement, but instead in a rather nice city. Asked around a bit, and it turned out one or two of my bank accounts had made it into this dimension, and accrued a rather large amount of interest in my, ah, regrettable absence. So I stole a ship and came right to your esteemed establishment. Crashed it of course, so until my planet’s built I’ll be taking your finest suite here.” Bertie shifts his weight to loom alluringly at Trexel, falcons glinting under the soft bar lighting and his large gold-clad feet propped prominently in Trexel's eyeline. He’s not sure why he's doing it: their… consultation has shown him that Trexel is hardly a prime male specimen, but he feels the need to seem desirable nonetheless.
[BEEP] Client suites are only available during the initial consultation period. Move it, falcon boy!
Bertie’s head snaps around as he tries to find the source of the condescending voice. “Now, listen here, young… woman. I am Sir Bertrand MacGuffingham, of the noble Oldbottom Estate, and I will not be spoken to like that by the likes of… you.” He looks around again, still failing to find the person attached to the voice, and draws his sword. “I require rooms, and only the finest will do!” He eyes the table with his sword, and notices Trexel is no longer there.
[BEEP] Consultant slurry abuse detected. Security alerted.
Bertie turns towards the bar, and is greeted with the sight of Trexel draped across the bar, head tilted back. Crème de menthe is pouring out of a tap into his mouth, and he is gulping it down, wailing at the barkeep. Most of his words are slurry-garbled, crème de menthe pouring down the sides of his face, but Bertie can make out the word ‘father’, and possibly ‘Percy’. Despite his revulsion, Bertie can’t deny he is impressed with Trexel’s speed, brazenness, and hedonism. It reminds him of that wonderful at-table massage he had in some French (Pah! French!) hotel or other back in his adventuring days. The minty slurry drips slickly around Trexel’s lips as his body writhes on the countertop, shirt popping open and the slurry coagulating in his matted chest hair. As Trexel is bodily dragged away from the bar and tied up while his access is revoked, Bertie feels a familiar stirring from his codpiece. He signs for Trexel and unties him (for now), then follows him into a handy vent.
We cut artfully away as Bertie serves Trexel something he can’t get at a bar.
Scene 3: The Vents. It’s been a week.
CLANG CLANG CLANG CLANG… Bertie’s armour clanks and scrapes against the metal of the vents as he crawls along, several bottles of grape-flavoured alcoholic slurry sequestered in his papoose. This isn’t the way he had imagined his life would be after escaping the eternal poo-fire dimension, and he never thought he would have to share someone with a dead fish or (he growls to himself)…furniture. He wants to take his massive sword and slice that smug little broom into splinters; it’s no better than it deserves.
He can tell he’s not far from Trexel now: the fishy smell is growing stronger, and the vent is echoing with nonsensical song. CLANG CLANG CLANG… Bertie is certainly indignant about his role as alcohol-smuggler, but since Trexel is banned from all bars in this part of the space station, it really is easier this way. Plus, his planet will be finished soon, and then they can get off this station and live in disgusting decadence as they deserve.
CLANG CLANG CLANG CLANG… He rounds the corner and Trexel’s nest comes into view. In the centre of a pile of stolen, filthy laundry and discarded clothes is Trexel, naked and reclining, his third hand waving coquettishly and his gills languidly flapping in the alcoholic mist. He has retained only his favourite sunglasses. Bertie wants to be disgusted, knows this man is beneath him, but instead speeds up his crawling, desperate to get to him sooner. Trexel’s body is bathed in the red glow of Bertie’s helmet falcon, adding delightfully attractive shadowing to his moisturizer-rounded form.
He is surrounded by empty bottles that once contained stolen clone slime (for lubricant), various types of alcohol (both industrial and potable), and of course moisturizer (for drinking, of course); in pride of place sit the fish and (Bertie’s eyes narrow) the broom, next to a framed photo of Trexel’s clone (are those lip marks?). Bertie drops the ‘wine’ bottles on the nest floor and uncorks one with his sword. He takes a swig, the thin red slurry dripping down his chin, and pours some directly into Trexel’s mouth. Some of it runs down his face and onto his body, and Bertie leans down to lick it clean…
We cut artfully away as the bottles of grape-flavoured alcoholic slurry are gradually drained and the nearby citizen-employees hope fervently that those noises are just ‘vent maintenance’.
Afterwards, lying hungover and naked in linen even stickier than before, his armour strewn around like discarded moisturizer bottles, Bertie notices a ripped poster stuffed in a corner. It depicts the most astonishingly attractive being: Long, beautiful azure hair, skin of a deep sea green one could drown in; the daintiest nipples in a luscious coat of glossy chest hair. The poster has scribbles on it as if drawn in a fit of hatred, but he can’t help noticing a couple of unobtrusive hearts scrawled in one corner as well. That beautiful man isn’t here now though, and Trexel is. Horrible, horrible, disastrous Trexel, whom he just can’t keep away from despite his better judgement. Maybe, he muses, maybe once their -no, his- planet is ready, they can kidnap the beautiful man and keep him for their- hrrrmm... enjoyment...