Who is Alice? 4,900 A humorous adult space opera. (standard:science fiction, 4918 words)
Author: Oscar A Rat	Added: Jun 19 2020	Views/Reads: 1448/1026	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Blarney Gloogle is a wanna-be space bum owning his own ship but no money to pay his docking bill. Two beautiful women rent the ship, him riding along as a relief pilot. Since he’s never been in space before, his error almost kills them.

Hungover, depressed, and almost broke, Blarney Gloogle took time off
from working on his spacecraft's depramigator to enter the nearby space 
terminal in search of something to eat. Hell, he wasn't going anywhere. 
 The port had a hold on his ship until he paid at least part of the 
docking-fees he owed. The reason he was at the spaceport was that he 
lived aboard his craft, it being cheaper than renting a room somewhere 
else. 

Dressed in dirty coveralls spotted with purple fluids, he looked out of
place among tourists and business people crowding the passenger area. 

As Blarney passed a trip-reservation counter, he couldn't help noticing
a very pretty girl talking to a clerk.  In his rating of ten to a 
perfect one, she was an easy two, or one and a half?  Idly, he swerved 
to get closer in order to revise that mental valuation. Coming up 
behind her to check for hair dye and body odor -- maybe even a tactful 
grope -- he couldn't help hearing the clerk talking to her. 

“Sorry.  Don't service that area.” Another customer waiting, the clerk
left for more lucrative use of her time. 

In a surprise move, the lovely lady turned abruptly and ran straight
into poor Blarney, both of them falling to the floor, limbs entangled. 

“Oh, I'm sorry.” 

“Pardon me, sir.” 

“No, my fault.” 

“Didn't mean to do it, mister.” 

“Sorry.” 

“May I help you up?” 

They struggled, Blarney happy to be on the bottom.  Eventually both got
to their feet, trying to dust each other off; him patting appropriately 
curving places on her for any sign of dust, her getting even dirtier 
from his coveralls and probing hands. 

By the time they separated, he was much cleaner, with her the reverse;
depramigators being known for their purple deenterobacteriaceae grease. 


“Oh," the woman complained, "and my sister's bringing my luggage. I have
nothing else to wear for the next three hours,”  She looked down at a 
finger-shaped purple stain on her blouse. “There wouldn't be a cheap 
clothing store at this spaceport, would there?” she asked, in an 
obvious state of agitation. 

“You can use my ship to clean up, ma'am.” Blarney was happy to oblige.
“I have something to take that stain right off. Put it in the laundry 
machine for a few minutes and it'll be good as new.” 

She looked over at him, seeing what looked like a moderately-handsome
bum, if that were a woman's preference. 

“Your ship? You mean you work on one? What would the owner say?” 

“I'm the owner and I wouldn't mind,” Blarney told her with a confident
grin, thinking of how proud he had been to buy the old wreck. Dead 
Uncle John had given him a large inheritance, but under certain 
conditions. Uncle John had been wealthy and loved piloting his own 
small space-racer. The will insisted that Blarney use some of the money 
to buy a spaceship, and that he, meaning his ashes, be a part of the 
vessel.  It was a strange bequest but, what the hell?  Blarney had 
complied. 

After buying the cheapest working model he could find and stocking it,
Blarney quickly spent the last of the inheritance on streetwalking 
women, running horses, and benumbing drinks. 

Uncle John's ashes currently resided in a sealed container next to a
strange, non-working switch labeled "Alice" on a corner of the control 


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