—— Ximbic-8: Ximbic Central City: The Bulge

Spencer dashed through the streets of Blilhamr, a furious Hilth tight on his tail. He didn’t dare poach a backscance glance nor ruminate downriddle upon the translucent boulevard of compressed luciferase-laced gas that intersected in motley multiplicity betwixt the selenium-stained starscrapers alight with tumescent argon-infused glass advertisements that ascended axiom to apogee. Each naked footfall on those algid octagonal street tiles pierced like daggers into his heels. The contact raced up his shins and terminally tingled at the base of his spine. Still, he welcomed the pain—it blended sublimely with the moment’s exultant adrenaline rush and the prior day-split’s psychostimulants. Moreover, it was better than being mauled by the Hilth’s mechanical rotary injection nettles!

<< STOP, CITIZEN. >> pantomimed the Hilth behind him.

<< YOUR BLOOD IS UNCLEAN. >> its irritating mechanical rasp resounded.

<< COMPLEMENTARY FREE FILTRATION SERVICE IS COMPULSORY. >>

Mere moments later, Spencer sprinted onto a multi-tiered intersection where he careened heels-over-head and plunged face-first through the street’s chilly substance and tumbled to a lower level, although he remained hundreds of meters above rock-bottom. Once he disemboggled, he crowed at the pursuant monstrosity, “So was that continental breakfast! The wait staff force-fed me more than what could be construed by my species as a safe volume of tiphle fruit and xab cakes!”

He examined the beast through the immediately superior transportation beam’s pale and dust-choked filaments, then twitched. Up there lurked something familiar. At first it was merely an adumbrate yeuk in his anterior spline, that courageous combinatorial commodity of spleen and spine common to Careo Fas’ brave denizens. Then it clarified to a contemptuous cacoëthes, for high above Ximbic-8’s visceral and opalescent commercial sheen drifted a notorious pale blue dot.

Almost, Spencer faltered; however, with the finesse of a lifetime impresario and born busker, he clung to his balance and dismissed the contribution of the rectally-mounted prehensile prosthetic tail that, in some prior misadventure, invaded his person yet now propitiously extended as a adequate cantilever, offset his imbalance, then gently vibrated in a gesture of dutiful service.

Maybe that explicates the itch, Spencer purred even as he sensed it emanated from the sting of his conscience rather than the pulse in his posterior. Still, he half-thought: What do I have to feel guilty about? Last I remember was …Tamarin?

Caught in thought, he practically penetrated a slowly slothering Ixbic on the turquoise thoroughfare as a calamitous consequence of his ruminating run; jarred, he lurched, tripped, somersaulted, and side-scantered through an obsequian bead-veiled archway. Surely in such shadows, he cogitated, the Hilth would cease its hunt. Then, auspiciously, from deeper within the adumbrate vault emerged the babel of alien poesy:

Strip glamor, clench nether
Apostate-indentured grub
Seeps like fiery gravel
A wicked epicurean admonition
From the gape of my bunghole.

Until we eat again!

Spencer narrowed his eyes and crept forward. Boldy, he stammered, “What?”

“I see from your ass tatt that you are a man of exquisite refinement and tastes,” rejoined Belacrazu, his mottled giraffean neck downbent and face thrust through the obfuscant smog that seeped perpetually from his Tepathian stamen-infused bong. An obscenely large mouth yawned loominously beneath four sets of neon orange curled horns and the eyes shifted to better-focus on the incandescent gold outline that emanated from Spencer’s right buttcheek that depicted a human female’s cocaine-dusted upturned haunches impossibly assaulted by the double-sevens of a pair of six-sided diamond dice.