All along the refuse pile of the twirling clusters, in all the pleasure domes and FeelGood Hotels (patent pending), the tourists, the foolish, the bums, the alien squatters were bored.  They worked hard against the harsh vacuum, on oilrigs on Ocean planets, in mining colonies one terran year on, one terran year off, on pipelines and nuclear piles on some barbaric planet where the species didn't even have enough sense to take a crap half the time.  Yeah, they worked hard. So when they wanted a little fun time, a little break here and there, after an honest days work, they wanted legal drink and pills, and a good plug-in show on the hotel room wall-melt or in some hayseed sports bar filled with every kind of humanoid, male, female, unisex, on all fours, on two, on eight or ten haunches, all looking to get their genitals stroked and the swallow bed made with a please and thank you from the illegal alien HalfCaste (tm) maid or servodroid, and a little skin-credits left over to gamble with or eat a decent meal.

All the pay-per-view broadcast all through the vastness of the galactic sprawl, came out of New Hollywood.  They were turning and churning the entertainment out by the millisecond.  Random-think creative machines cranked out the scripts on templates that got tweaked by feeler-switcher boxes, and droids were blocked and directed by decadent directors who were mostly half out of their mind on DrackSpice (tm) straight in the vein, if they could find a genial vein left.

Sid Pink, old-timer now almost extinct by the fancy manky creative droids all networking their unoriginal think-chips, sat in his office at Decay Studios, and put out his virtual cigar with a click in the head. Bring in the doll fucker I ordered, I gotta get me my rockywocks off.

They dragged him in, the syntho-guards, draped in human flesh like a $500 chiffon hooker back in Millinium 2 used to barely hide her modesty. These muscle bots were total erection, concrete carbolyte statuesque beings of physical restrains. They dragged in Eli-X, one on the left arm, one on the right, one behind with a rectal probe lodged into Eli-X's dichromatic portal of poo. They led him in quite roughly and every now and then as Sid Pink ranted and raved about margin and mindcut, this last thug would press the ACTIVATE switcher on the rectal probe, sending a white-light thrill of wrongness through our gasping hero, his brainbox carved open by some as yet unknown synthetic-barbiturate.

"You nearly escaped us!" Sid Pink took out his cock and started to rub himself to a lazy erection as they forced the boy Eli-X to kneel before his gaylord master. Sid Pink was so-called for one reason, he had a fresh pink cock, all the way back to the ballsack, a clean thin rod of pink meat, looking like some surgeon had overcircumcised him as a lad and this was the result. The tip of Sid Pink's pink cock was a tattered mess like a Brussels sprout, you  could only wonder at the things he must have put that in, the sweating HalfFucks (tm) gouging with metal teeth and birth shrapnel from the cheap fuck stations they docked in. He had tried all the whores, shall we say, and it was never enough. He hadn't yet found his $500 hooker. And for this reason, he had Eli-X, his loyal cyberfuck superstar of many episodes to be hauled into, full of syntho-barb so he wouldn't remember the crime, for a spot of how's your tonsils feel.

Eli-X looked up at Sid Pink's pink cock as it wavered snakelike in front of his nose, he made chicken like gaping actions towards it like it would give him sustenance. Then it was in his throat, he drew his teeth down the length of the torn shaft and a big old smile crawled all over his drugged up face. His eyes rolled back in his head with sheer delight and a tear of syntho-barbed joy ran down his cheek. The third thug fired off the rectal probe and Eli-X woke up.

"Damn fool!" Sid Pink snarled at the half brain, just too late to stop Eli-X biting off his pink member and swallowing the entire sausage of pain down his raining gullet. He scrambled to his feet, drunken still from the syntho-barb's cruel trickery....

"Looka-here, Mister Pink!  I like women!  I don't wanna be a hustler of the Galaxy no more!  I just did that for skin credits!  I ain't no birdwatcher.  I know you miss your skinjob wife when she done caught that android cancer and it ate her all up..."

Sid stood up, as Sid got a droid-surgeon to reattach his penis; he hadn't felt any pain because hell he hadn't felt any pain in 100 years since the last blood wash and transfusion and organ transplants had gone sour and they severed his nerves, and he hadn't gotten around to reviving them...something about, "I'm too old for that anyhow...".  The miniature droid unit grafted the penis back on as little jet-roaches sucked up the puddle of blood on the floor and shot out disinfectant.

The smell of disinfectant hit Eli-X like a lump hammer.

"It's okay my boy.  I'm partial to alien whores anyhow.  These tricksters try anything with a celebrity like you.  They play tricks with your m-i-n-d!, boy!"

"Yessir.  Sid Pink clicked a substrate indenture and a NudeFuckmeGirlHolographFullsize (tm) rubbed her phosphor tits in his gaping face.  He sucked the brown-pink nipples.  Sid lay back as the fluttering druid surgery was done and a little appended pneumo-stuck him with EZ-Morphine extract.

"You just suckin on those fake air-titties, ain't ja boy!  I'm gonna ride ya ragged!  No tricks!  No cock-sucking or illuso-cock-suckin!  We got you booked F-U-L-L Bandwidth all over the known universe this year..!"

Sid chomped on his virt cigar stub.  Purple stench of stogie hit Eli-x's synthonose.

Eli-X was suddenly in a purple fugue of anger, he wasn't even sure where it came from. If you didn't know, you would say he was gaggin' on a fishbone. Eli-X had hold of his thick white tongue and slowly, from out of his gullet, he drew a 2 metre long Japanese war sword, his tongue the hilt, the steel shrieking as it tore out of his oesophagus reeking of revenge.

He swung to the left, swung to the right, aimed behind him without turning, exhaled the stench of off-milk and looked about him - six body halves. 30 litres of black blood settled shinily. On Sid Pink's grim visage a wish come true.

"Eli-X." he held out his arms in tacit supplication as the sword came in under his chin and the steel tipped shattered the back of his skull.

Somewhere across the known universe, men, women and children were drowning in their own lusty ejaculates. Eli-X had never done it so raw so fictive before, he was a monster, they chanted, he was a monster, Eli-X the reviler, the hunter, the sadist of TerraConapt. A loud cheer of Yessssss hissed out as cocks and vagina let loose with gouts of love lunch, we are measuring the universe in liters of cum.

But something was wrong on the ether waves of stinky fisting......

The sci-consultant droids took another Sid Pink out of the warehouse, downloaded Sid’s cognitive reasoning, memory traces fulltilt, and brought a new Sid Pink, the old-fashioned model, out of the warehouse a few days later. The whirl of the rings of the monster gas planet blooming like a schoolgirl loomed over New Hollywood.

It took those fancy reproduce droids at New Hollywood three full days after that to get the wrinkles to furrow in Sid’s new synthobrain, now fully reasonable but the memory stopped 20 days before the little contretemps fight with old rascal Eli-X.

So Sid remembered nothing, and the New Hollywood droid lawyers decided Eli-X would get away with Sid not remembering his skull was smashed and brains scooped out like the oldy-timey days when men had shit all over them like bugs.

Eli-X was THIS CLOSE to taking a renta rocket back to a plain old EconoMega (tm) transport ship and giving up on the whole crap shoot.

He stood there, as the monster gas planet swallowed the sky; it was the sky. The citiscape of New Hollywood sat silluetted against the acetylene skyline of crystal pleasure studio palaces, the DREAM FACTORY of the Cosmos. He stood there a minute and looked at the creamy swirls of stripes of the mother gas planet the New Hollywood moon circled pretty as a picture four times a terran day. New ships were coming in from the other sectors, tourists, actors, droids of all types, thugs, scoundrels, producers, eunuchs, directors, and ELI X decided he’d stay. His cock was trademarked in 87 galaxies! And everyone wanted a piece of it.

Especially LouxisJane (registration number missing), who was on the vibe-phone downloading blueprints to Eli-X’s sexmap.