Paul Conway was brought round, both by the morning sunlight warming his face and the sweet call in his ear. "Baby you're the best at being good". True, it had been the best intercourse session ever. Jodie had given him everything he deserved. He'd known he had to have her since watching Bugsy Malone as a youngster and finally now, she had been his. He rolled her over to pull her close. The mask slipped off and the plasticky haunch he grabbed needed reinflating. But nevertheless, he bore down on her and gave her the old trademarked Pauly Pucker Up for good luck. He sat up out of bed and looked out of the window. Another fine day on the moon. A fine day to invest in moon community assets. He buttered Jodie and bunged her in the air fryer, 220°. But he wasn't about to do anything crazy. Paul had important business that day. He made time to sit with his breakfast of Candy Snap cereal, before contemplating whether it would be plane, train or automobile to his meeting. He consulted his mentor, the withering finger robbed from the grave of a minor Rockerfeller which was kept in a bell jar on his mantelpiece, and the answer came back; he'd take the jet. He downed a coffee, threw on his suit and headed out. The air fryer was still on but that would take care of itself. Before he could get beyond the end of his garden path, he was stopped in his tracks by a sight which provoked a bubbling of rage to inflate his throat like a toad going at an opera. A sight which he could not possibly walk beyond without addressing publicly. There looking at it too was his neighbour, old Stendel Houghton, with the distainful grin of someone who knew exactly what he'd done. TO BE CONTINUED, NEXT FRIDAY...
Waiting for the part where specific meteorite group buy Crater Athletic and put Conway in charge who subsequently gets them relegate to the bottom tier of the Martian moonball association...
Maybe he knows what he’s doing after all. He needs to buy 42 clubs to understand the purpose of the universe.
The vast, flat flank of his four storey ranch house was still caked in that dried, chocolate moon mousse. The tanker of it he'd ordered had rolled over a week ago in the driver's haste to meet Paul's demands, and three quarters of the thing had splattered the building. Hours later the stain had rendered, unmistakeably, a depiction of the kid from Liar Liar taking a sledgehammer to a can of dessicated coconut. Paul took it as a personal insult. He gave Stendel Houghton his best 'Gordon Geckpherd' stare down. "And why the hell is this still here?" "What? Your mousse mural?" replied Stendel. "The shadow of it lies in your land," said Paul. "Therefore you are in possession of it's shadow in any sunlit hour. So 100% of the time, you're liable for the cost of its removal." "You crank," went Stendel. "This is the ******* moon. There's no such thing as night and day. And anyway, I'm stood here looking cos it's beautiful. It's a work of art." Paul pulled the wedge out of his crack and congratulated himself on his own genius. Damn. Yes. It WAS a work of art. One of great resale value. "That is correct. You can view it from your property, thus are enjoying priceless artwork without authorisation or the rights management publication fee that is owed to the title holder of said art as set in jurispresedence by..." Dear reader, we shall not report Paul's writ in its entireity. Needless to say... Stendel Houghton had poured and drank three Moscow Mules inbetween planting and rearing the limes to make it before Paul concluded. "Whatever Paul. I'll add the letter to the other lawsuit bullcrap you've sent. On the outhouse windowledge." But Paul was already in the jet, Jess the naked mole rat on his lap, waiting to take off for the OosteNancy crater where some business was to be done. "Hurry, by God or by a great hung grace" he screamed to the pilot. Of all the available moon farms, OosteNancy surely held the key, the last bit of that precious material that could finally pull all of his careful investments together... TO BE CONTINUED...