Bill 04 Bill on the Planet of Tasteless Pleasure by Harry Harrison

Author:Harry Harrison
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Published: 2011-01-16T00:00:00+00:00

"Myths? Fairy tales? What are those? This is serious gaming, man!" announced the militant fantasy gamer

female. "This is important stuff!"

"Yeah!" said the others in unison. "This place stinks!"

With that, they started shaking their hands, and their dice rattled and clicked. Motion lines jerked and

swayed about them, courtesy of some unseen cartoonist perhaps, and with one final spectacular swirl of

animated mist, they started to spin and spin and spin....

Into nothingness.

"Wow!" said Bill. "They disappeared. Just like that. Say, Rick. Think we can do that? I don't really like

this place much either."

"No, Bill." Rick sighed. "I'm afraid we've been real patsies. We've been had by that Doctor and that

Chinger. We're in this for the duration. The only way we're going to get out of this is to find that Fountain

of Hormones for them."

"That bowbing Eager Chinger Bgr," gurgled Bill, his urgent need for Irma lessening somewhat, replaced

by a sudden need for pure and simple revenge. "I'll get even with him for doing this to me."

"And don't forget Delazny!" grumbled Rick.

"No. I won't forget Doctor Delazny. I've got something very special planned for him!" Bill's eyes

glimmered with hatred and calculation. "Keelhauling Doctor Latex Delazny in deep space is too good for

him!"

Rick agreed, and they continued on their journey southwards, away from the land of Absurd Fantasy and

toward the doubtlessly much more worthwhile and interesting Land of Feelthy Magazines.

Unfortunately, they had no compass.

Which meant that with very little effort on their part they managed to get themselves terribly lost. Bill,

who had been looking forward with tumescent expectation to squadrons of frolicking nudes, badly written

yet graphic lascivious prose, as well as not funny cartoons with incredibly endowed lovelies in

compromising situations, was disappointed to find himself in a new and depressing territory filled with

almost unrelieved gloom.

"Arrrr!" observed Rick, looking about him at the wilted vegetation, the monochrome colors. There was an

entire lack of any kind of smell to the air, be it foul or fair. The limbs of what few trees there were about

drooped listlessly. The grass and the weeds lay pasted down upon the ground damply, as though they'd

just been pelted by a fierce, not to say slimy, storm. Indeed, the entire glandscape had the appearance of

nothing less than limpness as though all hint of life or vitality had been bled from every object.

"Zoroaster!" growled Bill. "Looks like this place has a terminal vitamin deficiency!"

"Grim, eh? Arrrr! I think we've traveled a bit off course, matey, and even now find ourselves upon the

Fabled Isthmus of Impotence."

Bill cringed, filled with instant fear. The very term was anathema to an alcohol-blooded Trooper of the

Empire, striking terror deep within the much-cherished macho self-image that was the eternal legacy of

male-dominated society. Or something like that. And he wasn't worried about "Fabled" or "Isthmus." It

was that terrible "I" word that got him.

"But this is supposed to be the all-powerful Over-Gland, fueled by the powerful chemical reactions of the

collective overactive Ids of billions of human beings!" Bill suggested.

Rick shrugged. "Maybe it had a tough day at the office."

"No. It must be something more than that.

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