“KINKED” WEBisode 2 by Tom Tinney (Membership Required)

“KINKED!” is the story of how Redge and Kinky met. A MUST read for the fans!

“KINKED”

By

Tom Tinney

WEBisode 2 of PULPED!

Any Similarity between any place, event or person (Living, Alien, or Undead) is purely coincidental. If you think I wrote this about you…seek help.(Also, tell me how you got to Mars!)

“Houston, we have a problem.”

That joke was getting old. Kevin Houston, Deputy Director of the “Destiny” Mars rover operations at JPL, was on his second shift in a row. He wanted to make Director, some day, and he knew putting in the extra time was one of the keys.

“Yeah, Jeff, I hear you. What’s the problem?” Kevin asked, running his hand over his bristly black hair, his mocha colored skin a sharp contrast to his piercing grey eyes.

“You’re gonna want to see this,” Jeff’s voice said, over the ear-bud.

“Can’t. I have a phone conference with Australia about video handoff in ten minutes. It will have to wait.”

“No. It won’t,” Jeff said. Kevin’s monitor dinged, indicating an instant live video feed for his viewing. He sighed and slid the mouse pointer over the link and tapped it twice.

He wasn’t sure how long he stared at the picture before he heard Jeff’s voice through the fog. He snapped out of his hypnotic state, but could not take his eyes off the screen.

“And?”

“Jokes? You send a joke feed at this time of night?” Kevin said, reaching for his desk drawer and some disciplinary forms.

“It’s. Not. A. Joke,” Jeff’s voice said, intense with a no-nonsense tone. “Look at the sidebars. Those are the current feed rates, atmospherics, the whole show. That, my friend, is live. And we do have a problem.”

“Yes. Yes we do,” Kevin said, as he stood. He gathered up his touchpad, checked the charge and headed for ops. There were protocols to be followed and probably some new ones to be written.

The pad came to life and Kevin captured the screen for an instant email blast to his boss. And his boss’s boss. And everybody who was over him in the chain of command.

The screenshot was back-dropped by the beautiful and barren Martian landscape. The picture was taken from the rover, which was looking slightly downward from a small hilltop, no taller than two meters from the surrounding terrain. The sidebar was filled with all of the information that any scientist would need to prove the rover was still on Mars and it was early morning at its location.

Centered in the screen was a box. Metal-like. Covered in iridescent lettering that was fluid in its shape and spacing, but not like any alphabet he had ever seen. That was interesting. Hell, it was probably earth shattering in and of itself. But the object stuck into the ground beside the box was the real problem.

A sword. A long sword, with a leather wrapped hilt, and empty sockets where jewels used to reside. Two red crosses at the pommel ends and the words “de Molay in nomine Christi” in very easy to read lettering, etched in the blade.

Kevin Houston did have a problem and it was actually bigger then even he knew.

The sword. Everyone, back then, was talking about the sword. And the box. The alien box. The Rover had spent hours sampling, tugging on, and documenting the box. We weren’t going to get either item back on Earth anytime soon. Or so we thought.

And then everyone was talking about the Farkans, who showed up about five days after the first video of the “Sword of Mars” was broadcast.

Little green men.

In spaceships.

They came barreling into the solar system in a flotilla of well-armed ships. On the way to Earth, they stopped by Mars and picked up the “artifacts”. They even brought them right back here for us to look at.

And they had questions.

Lots of questions.

When was the sword made? Who did it belong to. What was the residue in the alien box? Were there any matches to residual human DNA found in the box. They were very interested in how something from the 13^th century ended up on Mars. Actually they knew, they just wanted to be sure before they went after the “culprits”.

It was the box. The writing was Denubian. Yep, you know the story. They are signed onto the Galactic Accords. Five hundred years ago, some enterprising entrepreneurs with the Denubian trade alliance had figured out a way to make a few creds off a backwater planet and its barely civilized sentient race.

Denubians are also meticulous record keepers. It took the Farkans, appointed to head the adjudication, less than a month to figure out that the Denubians had a penchant for three things that Earth had in abundance. Gold, people and chocolate. They had stolen what legend calls the Templar Treasure and divvied it up at a temp base there on Mars, leaving the valueless sword. No big deal.

Farkan ruling number one: They had to return the gold with interest.

They had grabbed a group of people to use as sex slaves. Seems humans will “do” anything and are always ready to try new things. Those early people and their descendents died on the Denubian home world from some sort of virus hundreds of years ago, so there was no real way to determine who was owed compensation, so we all got a little. Human and Denubian interactions, transactions and disputes were closely monitored.

Farkan ruling number two: A “Tie” always went to the human.

The chocolate. That was the big one. Seems the Denubians had taken the native plants and built a small empire growing, processing and distributing chocolate. It was the most popular product in the Galaxy. It was also a wholly unique product of Earth.

Farkan ruling number three: All past and future profits, royalties, facilities and distribution rights from or of Chocolate are the sole property of the human race.

That was thirty years ago and a lot had happened since. We are out here now. By “We” I mean the human race. Interstellar travelers. We can go anywhere for next to nothing, thanks to the Trust that the Denubians had to fund as compensation.

We are really naïve, so the Farkans have been very accommodating. And the Denubians have been very angry, but that means shit, since the Farkans have twice the firepower of the rest of the signers of the Galactic Accords, combined.

When the Farkans arrived on Earth, I had been a Philly cop, up for my third try at detective and it wasn’t looking good. Not enough connections and I had stepped on a few toes.

Hey, if you’re a cop, play by the rules. That’s what my Dad did. And his three sons. And his four brothers. It’s kinda a family thing. And it’s rule one with me. I had my integrity, but my prospects for advancement had gone down like a Falousian hooker looking for a “money shot” fix. (Yeah, it grosses me out that they get high off of our…emissions, but to each their own.)

So, I was one of the first ones to sign up to be a GISI. Galactic Intelligence Service Investigator. They are intergalactic detectives and law enforcement. Farkans wanted humans on the force to help ease our transition into being a good galactic neighbor. They also wanted investigators that were familiar with the local species traditions and laws. I made it in on my first try.

And now I am retired. Have been for years. I was part of the intra-species crime division, but that career is over. No regrets.

Well, not many.

Today, I had regrets. Kinky, my office gal and someone I cared for, was dead. Blown out my office window by a sonic bomb. Killed by a little bulgy-eyed translucent skinned piece of shit named Syemour Shelzz.

I was caught in that same blast. I should probably regret that as well. Hell, I was barely alive. I was too pissed off to be mad.

The last thing I had seen, before I passed out, was Syemour smiling at me, from across the street. He thought he had gotten away with something. He was a smart little boy blue, he was.

But not smart enough.

He hadn’t counted on an old ex-GISI wearing his service body armor under his street clothes. Probably the only thing that kept me from being hamburger.

Syemour was gone. Off Mars on a private charter.

At least that’s what the young GISI standing in my hospital room had indicated. He also told me I had been in a healing chamber for fifty-four hours. I felt like shit, but at least I would live.

I was about to ask what arrangements had been made for Kinky, but he asked me a question first.

“And, Detective MacDonald, what is your relationship with Charity Leonard?”

“Son, I am retired, You can call me Mr. MacDonald or Redge,” I replied. “And who is Charity Leon—“. I stopped myself short and my eyes watered. I felt my heart pounding in my chest.

Charity.

Her given name.

I had almost forgotten it. I met her when she was already going by Kinky and she even used that name when she filed her employment status.

I have seen many ugly things and been party to more than a few death-filled cases in my life, but Kinky dying? And for such a stupid reason?

I would remember that twinge in my gut. I would use it.

“I’ve known Kink—Charity for about six years,” I said, in a measured and professional reply. “Our relationship? Well, to understand that, I want to talk about her. Do you mind?”

“No, sir. I don’t mind,” the young GISI replied. “We have some time before the Farkan envoy arrives and an officer has to be posted here until we sort this out. Please, continue.”

“Thanks,” I said.

I told him our story.

It was six years ago. I had just retired.

I wasn’t really retirement age. I mean, well, look at me. Salty hair, firm jaw and rugged good looks. My penetrating eyes and worldly airs keep me in dames. I have aged well enough that I could be my own much younger brother.

Yeah, I am a terrible liar.

I am on the other side of forty and just happy to be alive.

I had stepped on the wrong toes again and was told by the new GISI bureaucracy that my services were no longer needed. They pointed out that I wasn’t a “big picture guy”.

Honestly? I wasn’t. Never could be. I could figure out most anything, and I don’t let go, but I just couldn’t seem to grasp why some shit-stick criminal should get a pass. Guilty was guilty no matter who you knew or who you were.

I was a few years from actually collecting my retirement pay, which would be sizeable, so I needed to keep working. If you don’t have family connections or outside prospects, there are two things for an ex-investigator to do. Become a private dick or a security guard. I went with security guard. Who needs the hassle, right?

I was scouted by an agency that provided security for high profile clients. A film company wanted someone to nursemaid some of their stars through the next four or five shoots. I figured that meant a couple of years of employment. I signed on and got my first assignment.

I took a hop out to Andromeda Station and realized that this was no regular movie shoot. The company was shooting Holo-porns. I came to find out that meant the job would last a couple of weeks, not years.

I was thinking of bowing out when I saw her. She was beautiful. She had black hair in a Cleopatra cut, streaks of pink gave it a neon appeal. Not gaudy. Sexy. Her hair screamed for attention, but looked like it just belonged, natural. It framed her heart shaped face and kewpie doll mouth perfectly. Her eyes tore right through you. You could miss her entire performance when she caught you with those eyes.

And you did not want to miss the rest of her or her performance. She was on the back side of her prime, but still unbelievably gorgeous. She was a natural. She had the rack. No, not a nice rack, but THE rack. Perfect. No artificial enhancements. At least nothing for her appearance. Everything fit together like she was God’s own jigsaw puzzle for the perfect woman. She had a face and body that surgery clients point at and say “I want to look like that”. She was what those same surgeons aspire to create.

She had also had firmware upgrades. She was naturally sexual, but the firmware made her performance perfect. I had firmware, but it didn’t help my sex life one bit. Hell, everybody has firmware, but she had this stuff cooked up special.

My stuff is GISI issue, but most of it had been decommissioned when I retired. The only specialist programs left active were personal protection, the law library and situational awareness, which included translation and recognition subroutines. I was shut out of the GISI info net, and my “Testimony” case upgrade was offline.

After seeing her in all of her glory, for the first time, I decided that I could be a decent security guard, given the perks. I gotta admit, part of me wanted to be able to see the pretty naked lady on a daily basis, but that desire diminished quickly during the first few days of filming.

My job was to walk the talent back to their hotel room and pick them up for their scenes. When we reached the set, I would walk them to their portable rooms. They were more like earth-side trailers. Ten of them scattered about in the large bay that served as the sound studio.

I was armed. That is why the security firms like us ex-GISI’s. We can carry anywhere, no questions asked. No additional permits or background checks required..Ex-GISI means armed.

When I was on duty, I was full tactical. My first day on set and I was stuck watching Kinky do the positional marks. With Holo-porn, the viewer can zoom in or out at any angle and from any position around the actors. It takes a lot of computing power to create the surroundings and mask out the cameras and crew. It also takes a lot of planning and re-shoots to make every scene as “live” as it can be.

And that is boring and a real turn-off to watch. Not the finished product, but the process, direction, re-shoots and set work took the fun right out of it.

I’m a man. I ain’t dead below the waist, but watching two, three or four attractive people going like gangbusters and then suddenly freezing while crews moved in or out; while they adjusted and mapped them, took the “sexy” off the table.

The amazing part was that the talent could pick up right where they left off. That was the firmware. The passion was real, but the action was not. Watching Kinky go blank while the crew did their thing made me feel uncomfortable.

One time she froze while she was staring right at me. Her body contorted and her eyes on mine. I got creepy chills. Then her eyes narrowed and she grinned.

That caused the director and continuity guys to shit a brick. The whole scene got scrubbed. I couldn’t watch after that.

I realized my job was to keep the talent safe and that meant watching everybody watching the shoot. It meant looking ahead and making sure fan-boys and girls didn’t bother the talent on the way back to their rooms on the station.

It was work.

It was routine.

It was a paycheck.

I was there for about two weeks and had gotten to know most of the crew and the regular creeps that tailed the talent. Routine can be dangerous and dull your senses, so I broke up mine by changing where I stood or the routes I took. Stayed focused on the job.

I had just dropped off the bendy twins at their “trailer” and was on my way to pick up “The Horse”.

Yeah, it fit.

Look, cops are not the most imaginative people out there. We are really great at solving puzzles or spotting bad guys, but naming stuff? Blue is blue, green is green and a horse is a horse, so to speak.

The Horse was in his mid-twenties and absurdly well endowed. It was almost comical. He was dumb as a box of moon rocks, but his lack of brains probably helped him in his current occupation. Staring off into space for long blocks of time was considered a plus in his vocation.

The rest of the security team came up with other pet names for the talent, in case someone was monitoring the comm. The Horse was an easy call.

I was on my way to get him for his next scenes. This usually meant chasing some intern or star struck groupie off his genitalia and out of his trailer, then getting him in some sort of robe to walk to the set. Did I mention how boring the job was?

I was in amongst the trailers when I heard a loud thump and yelling. The kind of thump that is only made by a human body colliding with a wall or a floor. My instincts took over and I forgot about the Horse, drawing my weapon and pulling open the nearest door. I stepped in, weapon ready.

There was a tall skinny guy, the back of his head was shiny with super-sheen product covering his black hair. He had his back to me, and was wailing on somebody, yelling at them. I rushed forward, caught his hand on the upstroke, bent his arm back and put my knee into his back as I drove him to the ground. He tried to yell over his shoulder, but the wind was knocked out of him under my full weight. He also felt the tip of my gun barrel on his temple. Not the safest position to hold a suspect, but it was an attention getter.

“Freeze,” I said. “Don’t move. Don’t breath. Just sit really still and this gun might not go off.”

He was going to say something.

“Shhhhh, I got a twitchy finger,” I said, tapping the end of the barrel on his temple for emphasis. “Now, pretend that you want to live to see tomorrow and keep your mouth shut.”

I looked up and saw her. Kinky. Her eyes were wide and she stared at the guy. I had seen that look before, on the faces of abused women. Scared, wild-eyed and a darkness that said she could kill.

“You alright, Miss—um, lady?” I asked.

She looked at me, took a breath and then smiled.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine. That piece of shit hits like a girl! Ya hear that Mikey? Like a freakin’ girl!”

She kicked down at him.

In the side head.

Hard.

Her high heel left a cloverleaf shaped stab wound in his neck. That was going to hurt in the morning.

“Mikey?” I asked, bending down near his ear. “Mikey, I am gonna relax my grip. Then you are going to get up slowly and walk out that door, I’ll be right behind you. If you give me any shit, I take you down or shoot you, whichever is the most expedient. Got me, Mikey?”

“Sure, you stupid rent-a-cop. And when I walk out that door, I’ll have your job. Do you know who I am?”

“Yeah, you’re the guy that hits women, like a little girl. Move.”

I pulled him up and shoved him toward the door. He looked back over his shoulder at Kinky, but kept moving. When we reached the door, I saw two other security types had arrived.

“Hey, Redge, you musta forgot to hit the panic button on your comm. If we hadn’t heard the scuffle, we wouldn’t have even known you had a situation.”

“Yeah, sorry, Steve,” I said, as I holstered my weapon. “Just those old reflexes kicking in. I’ll remember next time.”

“You do that. You ain’t paid to take one out here. Just keep everyone safe, okay? You included,” Steve said, as he grabbed Mikey’s arm in a vice-like grip. “And you. You are banned from the set. Come with me.”

They left and I looked back in on Kinky. She looked deflated. Normal. Vulnerable. For exactly two seconds.

“Thanks, officer?” she asked.

“Mister. Just mister. Actually, Redge. Call me Redge,” I replied.

“What if I call you for more than dinner—Redge?” she said as she brushed her neck, guiding her hand down, opening her robe.

“I, er,we—what?” I stammered. Yeah, I was normally a pretty snappy guy. Quick and sharp. Not with Kinky. She always just crushed me.

“Eyes up here, Mr. Redge, “ she said, index finger pointing up at her face, using the hand resting solidly between her two partially exposed breasts. “Let’s just be friends, okay?”

“Yes, ma’am. Fine with me. Probably for the better. Anything else I can do for you, you just call.”

“I’ll do that,” She said. We got along fine after that.

An alarm went off by my hospital bed. I felt a pain in my chest and a nurse came in. She made a few adjustments to the machines hooked up to me and the pain went away.

The young GISI stared back at me, but was silent.

I gotta believe he was using “Testimony” to record what I was saying. Like a deposition. But Kinky’s story would be part of the record. The permanent record.

“Things got back on track after that. We left Andromeda Station for some jungle shots in the Orbital hothouses of Hades,” I continued.

Hades. Three stars in an odd gravitational tug of war. And ring after ring of orbital hot houses growing every vegetable and plant in the known galaxy. It was where the Denubians first grew the stolen cocoa trees.

Now the human race owned it. The entire system was our piggy bank. It was only a couple of light years from Denubian space, but you didn’t see any translucent blue skin anywhere. They were forbidden from even visiting the place. Part of their penance.

I was escorting Kinky on a regular basis. She would ask for me and the director knew I wasn’t banging her, so they played along. A happy Holo-porn star was a…well…happy Holo-porn star.

Two of the movies were in the can and there were a couple of pre-shoots for the third, so Kinky had a late set call. I showed up ten minutes early.

That’s what I do. Once a GISI, always a GISI.

I thumbed my way into her suite. She would be in the final rushed motions getting her makeup just perfect, which meant she would be in her powder room.

My routine was to snag a cup of that Sagittarian coffee. She never drank the stuff, but there was always a fresh pot in her room. I guess the smell reminded her of something.

I came through the door and froze.

Kinky was sitting at the comm terminal, her back to me.

I didn’t want to interrupt her and was about to back out when my GISI brain buzzer went off. Her clenched tone and body language said she was upset. Scared and mad at the same time.

I cleared my throat and bumped the doorframe to make a noise. Kinky tapped the monitor and it went blank. I noticed she wiped her eyes before she turned. I also new the other face that was blanked out as she cut the comm.

It was Mikey that hits like a girl.

Kinky turned and looked like she wanted to say something, but then thought better of it. The GISI in me took over.

“Hey, it’s none of my business, but seems to me you got a problem and I would like to help,” I said.

“Ya? And what’s it gonna cost me?” she fired back, her hand clutching the front of her barely-there robe, subconsciously.

“Not that, if you’re thinking I am a perv,” I replied. “No charge if it’s easy. Hell, I never charged for helping nice people in the past, I guess I wouldn’t know how to now.”

“That’s how you negotiate? You suck at this,” she said. “But you seem like an honest mook. I guess I got nowhere else to go. Have a seat.”

She pulled out the chair at the comm and stepped to the side. I sat down and looked up at her.

Man, she was gorgeous and vulnerable. Mad and sexy, all at once. My throat went a little dry being that close. She reached over me, her robe slipping and affording me a cherished view of her charms. She tapped the comm codes and thumbed a security message. The screen came to life.

It was a small bedroom. Maybe a dorm or cheap hotel. Kinky walked onto the screen and a young guy walked on with her. They took off their clothes.

“I have seen you work before,” I said.

“Not the point or the problem,” she said as she tapped the screen. I watched for a few seconds as it ran at forty times speed.

“Wait, this is not like a real porn or even a bad homemade one. What’s going on?”

“In the industry, we take side gigs. Or I use’ta,” she said, her voice dropping. “Mostly some naked shots, simulated sex with the guy wanting a souvenir. Nothing real tedious. Thirty minutes for three grand and no sex. Easy money.”

“Ok, so what’s the problem?” I asked.

“This,” she said as she tapped the screen into normal play. There were two guys in the room, the naked one and his buddy taking pictures. Kinky was on the bed, but there was a gap between her and the guy that the cameraman wouldn’t see. It must have looked real. Then it hit me.

“Wait, why is this being shot from this downward angle?” I asked, since the camera was looking down. Stationary. “Oh, pervy cam for when gals don’t want to be filmed. Got it.”

“Ya, well that ain’t all,” she said.

The guy in front of her, taking the pictures, started talking to her and making position gestures with his hands, directing. The guy behind her reached under the pillow and then placed his hand just behind her ear. Kinky dropped like a rock.

Her hair fell out of the way and I could see a small disc attached just behind her ear.

“What the hell was that?” I asked.

“I have no idea. Keep watchin’.”

Another person entered the room. Well, I say that in the broadest sense. It was a Denubian. He was naked, his translucent skin flickering with internal luminescence, signaling his arousal.

“These people are in a shitload of trouble,” the GISI in me said aloud.

“No, they’re not,” Kinky said. “They took care of it. Watch.”

I watched as the guy that had been taking pictures pulled out a pad and started tapping the screen. Kinky got up on all fours and looked around. Then it hit me.

I had seen her doing her thing. The look, the intensity, the attention to detail and the pure sexuality. Those were all gone. She was listless, but active. Not focused. It wasn’t her, but it was. She waved the Denubian over and they did everything I had ever thought of, seen or heard about. Kinky shut off the feed.

“That was sent to me. They are threatening to release the ground level vid if I don’t pay them off. Look, I didn’t even remember the Denubian or nothing. I left with a headache and thought it was just a boob and lube session. It was three years ago. All of the sudden, this shows up.”

“Well, rape is illegal all over and Denube on human sex is illegal in 99% of the galaxy. Farkans are all over that. No more mistreatment. Denubian raping a human and filming it? Those folks are going away forever.”

“Does that look like rape from the angle they filmed? No, it looks like me giving consent, just a stupid porn star fulfilling her fantasy,” Kinky said, her lip quivering. Her eyes hardened. “Denube on Human porn can fetch big creds. Six figure creds on the Denube home world. It’s illegal, but prized. There is still enough old school money for this to make the rounds and never see the light of day. But if it does, I am finished. Nobody will work with me again when they see this. I will be blackballed—blueballed? Whatever.”

“So, you either pay or retire,” I said, gritting my teeth.

“I pay. It will wipe out most of my savings, but—they probably made copies and I am ruined anyway.“

“Actually, they didn’t,” I said. “See the silver box on the camera that asshole is holding? It’s a Draconan Dream Catcher. You can only view it one person at a time and it won’t transmit. If someone tries to share or record from it, it wipes the dream. In this case, it wipes the vid.”

“Are you sure?” she asked, a small bit of hope danced across her beautiful face.

“Yeah. If they release this upper view tape, it’s their ass, so their big money is in reselling the Dream Catcher,” I replied. “Actually, that is pretty smart on their part. If they sold a regular vid, it would be copied and distributed all over. No way to control distribution, so the profit potential goes to shit. Also, eventually, someone recognizes someone and people go to jail. This way, only one person can view it at a time and if he gets caught with it, he wipes it.”

Kinky was biting at her lip. I knew she was worried and scared, but her ministrations on that full bottom lip made it hard for me to concentrate. I had to focus.

“I can help with the money drop, doll. When and where?”

“They are talking through Mikey.”

“Oh, that is just great! That douchebag is going to be involved? Is that why he was just on the comm?”

“He is the one they contacted. He’s ruined if the vid gets out. He was my manager at the time. I had already told him I was going to drop him, but he had booked that gig beforehand. If he can’t protect the talent, nobody will work for him or with him. He should have never booked that gig and he knows it. He needs it cleaned up as bad as I do.”

“So, is that why he was pounding on you?”

“I told him he was a two time loser and he should pay the whole thing himself. He is just scared and broke. If it gets out, he is ruined. That’s why he went off.”

“What do you want me to do?” I asked.

“Nothing. Something. I don’t know. I guess I want you to help me, but be careful,” she said, tentatively. “I am gong to trust you with the cred card. It’s got two hundred and fifty grand on it. That’s three years of my life.”

I was in the wrong business.

“You keep that for now and let me think about it,” I said. “And buzz me when Mikey calls back.”

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