Eli-X wasn't an under-bridge-slumming tramp bum battling for trash scraps against Yee-Olde-Crusty (tm) old jobsworth refuse collection drones anymore.  His Ultra-Ultra (tm) credit salary was a far cry from hustling dirty old spacemen at the galactic spaceway’s fag-whore bars.  He had about 10 plug in Fuck-Mee (tm) jacks in his skull already.  And that is just not on.

In New Hollywood the eunuch directors had begun to label him "difficult" on the prime time galaxy after school specials.  His eyes rolled back in his head with Feel-Good-Drack (tm) tracing "I love you" knots of Kill-The-Pain (tm) all through his kitten soft circuitry.  He was beginning to outwear his usefulness. Why his manager, Sidney Pink, was threatening to replace him with a proxy syntho-clone, that they kept in a warehouse for just this sort of new Hollywood problem where Major-Major (tm) skin credit, the big money was in the balance with the galactic network vault of Bakerloo Affiliates.

* * * * *

But that was all to come. Today is Eli-X’s big first day on the Bakerloo cyber set. They have a Mousetrap concoction of anatomical fuck machines all lined up like a Roman banquet to Bacchus. Violator tubes that suck out your intestines through your mouth them shit them backup your nose for the Vom and Wash pay-per-plug elite. Then you got your dirty bucket of horse shit they drown you in, a cut rate shag in the mid for the well to do but thin of pocket. Then you got.... well, you get the picture. There were lots of way to fuck a guy in the asshole on his first day on set.

He had an Olde-Olde (tm) syntho-pape ‘script’ but, for some reason, all the action scenes had been doctored like a released FBI file in the twentieth Earth century. Mostly black squares that Eli-X thought you could feed through one of those optical pianolas and get a half decent tune. But no time for that. The director. Big fat eunuch. Harked our hero over in a shrill camp curtsie of "Yay! Yay! Here’s the Bigman! The biggest fuckin’ superstar in the Galaxy to be!!!"

The director bitched the lighting guy, "Hey fuckhole, make a space for our gleaming FUCK STAR – and don’t anyone crowd him yet!" he hollered at the Zombie droids waiting to bite out his pleasure circuits until the entire Galaxy cumm at once in hyperspherical orgasmality of ejac, buckets and buckets of cooling, white Bukkake!

* * * * *

The flannel-arse-wiping director was much more decadent since he had his balls cut off at the robo-spa. His face was pulled behind his ears like a Chinese Mandarin and he wore way too much Fuck-Mee (tm) lipgloss on his fat injected lips. "I’ve got a surprise for you Eli-Exmore, my panther-haunted treasure !"

Eli-X managed to pull himself into semi-sobriety with the Anti-Anti’s (tm) he popped at the refresh-o-hole, toasting with supsi fuck cola. The Anti-Anti’s (tm) were a little treat from the mini-eunuchs that lavished themselves all around Rancy Holliday, and barely ever was a moment when they were suckerfished to Rancy Hollliday’s torso.

Eli-X heard Rancy Holliday the fat sod fuck in his glitterscrew skirt, but this was just another shoot to him. The tracer feelos clicked on, creating an illuso-skitter to the set that said "wow!" to the crew, all union eunuchs themselves, each jacked in to central buzzo on Rancy Holliday’s clickbelt of his oh-so-fashionable skirt just squirt out of the Milan outlets and pressed by hand by gnarled alien-seamstresses on loan from the beltway central.

Eli-X had no idea what the fat sod meant as the fat sod’s squished up fat-lipped mouth dribbled out all lispy, "She should be here in a god-damned egg-minute, my little fucks!" Then Rancy spittled, "Oh, not you Eli-Exmore, my treasure."

The Belonging Kind floated into the flite-space from the rear mezzanine, as her golden smooth countenance all cats-eye doe-ed pretty flit flit and Fuck-Mee (tm) blinks at the crew, whose partitioned eunuch minds each half jacked in to Rancy’s clickbelt buzzo central pak winked a pleasure Feelme-Feelme (tm) at the Belonging Kind’s shower of Lovey-Love (tm).

Eli-X rolled his eyes back into really real, the Anti-Anti (tm) suppositories flushing him out perfectlike, and even though the crew began messing with his fuck-jacks through his laser mod hair coiff, he felt her really good. Ahh, a Belonging Kind, he mushed into the movie set’s neural-gossamer webbing strands.

* * * * *

On the director’s glaring mind-melting shriek of ACTION! Eli-X was dropped into the fuck zone. The fall took about 34 seconds in total (1/3 of Earth g, for reference) and only the thick branches of giant redwood trees below broke his fall and prevented him from smashing his chassis into mangled bits – what a first screen test, he thought whimsically.

There was abject silence, not a bird sang in a single tree. Above, the lurid green moon sulked down a sickly illumination that pierced through the clogged foliage. Eli-X felt an electric jolt shoot through his cock vein tubing and a green gloop began to leak out unstoppable. The sound of she-wolves howling in the bitter clearings put such a thrill of fear in our hero that he soon fell wanking to the floor. All across the galaxy, the spectators gasped in eroto-mania as they felt the Monolith (tm) gush of Eli-X’s first onscreen pleasure and simultaneously plugged into the scent vectors of the she-wolves as they homed in on their Onanist in extremis

In every sector pumped faster-than-light, at every mining colony, freak-bar, mutant bar lounge, on every Funny-Funny-Splashovision (tm) wall, crowds of people in utter synchronicity yelled in unison "Spill the seed! Spill the seed, Eli-X!", even the ones who couldn’t afford jacking-in PrimeTime-Enhanc-So (tm).

As the most popular cable feed sphinctered through the known universe sectors, Eli-X fed on his fans. He knew he would have to die tonight for a big finish-why once he did it last Terra-week, he knew they would want him to die every time. It was a great finish, his occipital lobe told him as he continued to come all over the Belonging Kind as she showered in his purple semen, singing the aria from "Madame Butterfly" in rok-slant gyro all skattershot. They were a team, in seamless pleasure tandem; it was as if they had worked together for terra-aeons, from one vaudeville sex show to the next in every sleazy freaklounge in all the sectors.

The Belonging Kind’s feline purr-fect diaphanous nude humanoidal figure sprouted breast buds that would grow and then disconnect, followed by other Creamy-Creamy (tm) soft titties forever and ever permutating and floating through the gossamer web as cum-thought jollies to mega-zillions of hayseeds and retardo-mutant aliens of all races, creeds, specie, and sex-prefer.

Eli-X thrust his jacko-phallus into hyperspace and it shot more cum-thoughts, as the whole known universe cried "Spill the seed! Spill the seed on the ground! And all around! Eli-X! Eli-X! You’re the Best cum-thinker!

* * * * *

And as the greatest fuck practitioner of purple cumm buckets let loose another industrial skipload of Cyborg-Milk (tm), the forest fire the heat of the pussy hunters had sparked off caught up with the lusters, locked in unholy union ala Jean d’Arc after her interrogation at Poitier Castle, all tongues of lick and throatfuls of choke and fingerings of cake, pulling out clitoral plums. And flesh boiling and bubbling in the flashfire, falling from cyborg chassis of kevlar embedded nickel-cadmium.

The director squealed CUT! and the medic bots began foaming down the rutting dogs still locked in fuck as the flesh continued to spill and rip.

In every seedy fuck Freakbar, in every hotel dome throughout known space came a sigh of relief reaction from the thrillkill ending. One glowing and oozing toothless old sod said it correctly: "That was even cum-killer than the last episode!" And a quick robot-drone interview with a retardo-mutant had him muttered through froggit plugsquibs into his fizzofuk martini in broken space-jive: "Sag fun dehk gash fug fuggee!" (Galaxy Press Press: translated by universal babel machine: I’d like him to fuck my gitwife-gash!")