(Writer’s Note: Something special for you guys this time around—the first chapter of my newly published novel, The Totally Gnarly Adventures of the Galactically Bitchin’ Comet Sweat!

If you like what you read, please check out the full book, which is now available to order online through Amazon.com and Target.com!)

DISC ONE—“Never Mind the Volox”

By Edward Beekman-Myers

A mechanical bray that sounded like a Floksulite miser-mallard giving birth to a herd of Kattle Klones blared throughout the Chelsea Boom, rattling the fiberglass walls of the hover-lift as it bounced to a stop at the deep space cruiser’s top level.

“Okay, Smith, what’s so important you had to go and blare the Neener Screener so loud?” Spitt shouted over the bray as she stepped out of the hover-lift and marched across the Boom’s piloting center. A slightly plump and plain young woman, she seemed more than a little uncomfortable in the lime-green mini-dress and white go-go boots she wore. “I was just on my way to the Romper Room to join the jam.”

At the front, an Ichthyoid sat on an orange sofa in the shape of a pair of human lips. His petite body was covered with gold-green scales, and fins jutted from the sides of his face. “Sorry to ruin your fun,” Smith said, aiming his foreclaw at the large window in front of him, “but we almost crashed into a friggin’ planet.”

Outside the window loomed a small, slow-spinning orb. The entire circumference was filled with a heavy swath of deep-purple clouds.

Spitt scowled. “That’s weird. There shouldn’t be any planets on this route.”

“No scrod,” Smith said with a frown. “It’s a good thing I was up here keeping an eye on things or else we’d be in freefall right now.” He flicked a switch on the console in front of him. A tiny microphone zipped out and flew to his lips. “Yo, Declan,” he said into the ’mike, “get your skinny ass up here pronto. And by pronto, I mean now—not ten minutes from now!”

* * * * *

“I’m a million miiiiles away…just a million miiiiles away…”

Declan Slocomb belted out one of his favorite tunes at the top of his lung as he leaped and lunged around the Romper Room. Tall and lanky with piercings all over his face and wavy hair that was dyed bright blue, he was nearly causing an overload on the floating microphone that attempted to follow his every move.

“And there’s nothin’ left to bring me back today…”

Lost in the rapture of his own voice, Declan hadn’t yet noticed his band mates had stopped playing. He also hadn’t yet noticed the silver lights flashing through the narrow tracks along the walls.

“Oi, Dec!” Jett, a brutally beautiful woman with pale skin and hair as black as the leather she wore, tried to shout over his voice. “We’re wanted up top.”

He was so enraptured he didn’t hear her. It wasn’t until a drumstick bounced off his back that he finally snapped out of it.

“Bring me back to- ow!” Declan looked at Klaashhh, the four-armed drummer sitting behind him. “I beg…your…pardon?” Having finally caught up, the hover-microphone added a touch of hollowness to a British diction broken by heavy breathing.

Klaashhh pointed at the silver lights and said, “Sorry, Pebbles, but Smith’s been tryin’ t’ call ya fer the past five minutes.”

Declan looked at the walls; the lights were blinking faster. “Ah…so he…has!” Reaching under the waistband of his checkered pants, he withdrew an antihistamine inhaler, placed it in his mouth, and pressed the pump. “Apparently… something major has…come up.”

“Looks like.” Klaashhh rose from his stool. He was almost eight feet tall, with hard and hairless gray skin covered by baggy Bermuda shorts and a tank top with a picture of David Bowie on it. “But ya know Smith. T’ him a crisis is runnin’ out o’ chocolate-covered sturgeon treats.”

Shaking her head, Jett carefully set her guitar against the wall. “This from a rock bloke who whines when he runs out of Cocoa Pebbles.”

Declan winked at her. “Says the insatiable coffee hound!”

“Caffeine isn’t an addiction. It’s an absolute necessity to keep up with you.”

“Me? How so?”

“Oh, I don’t know…maybe because you’re constantly dragging us into every little bit of reckless adventure your curiosity comes across. But we’re not adventurers, love. We’re musicians. We should leave the death-defying escapades to those who—”

Another bray rattled the room. It was followed by the sound of Smith’s voice through the speaker in the ceiling. “Declan, I mean it! Get up here now!”

Pocketing the inhaler, Declan grabbed the hover-mike and turned it off. “It sounds right more serious than a lack of sturgeon treats, it does. Let’s not keep him waiting any longer.” He gave Jett a kiss on the cheek then galloped across the room to the door that whooshed open as he approached.

“Never thought I’d be happy t’ hear Smith’s squeaky voice,” said Klaashhh. “Five hours without no break sure makes my butt hurt.” He rubbed his stony cheeks as he walked to the door.

“Has it been five hours?” Jett said, blowing the sweaty bangs from her eyes as she followed him out. “It seems like we just started.”

“Maybe that’s a sign we don’t need t’ practice so much.”

“Not with U-GAL-XE just two days away. We can’t afford to stop for every little distraction.” Sighing, she headed down the hallway. “I meant what I said, you know. One of these days, Declan’s sense of adventure is going to get the better of him.”

* * * * *

The door to the hover-lift whooshed open. Jett stepped out and onto the Disco Deck, Declan’s nickname for the piloting center of the Chelsea Boom. Right after they bought it, the two of them had refitted every inch of the cruiser with their unique anarchical touches, from the periwinkle paint coating the walls to the lilac shag carpeting the floor and from the animal-print slipcovers on the navigational consoles to the giant anarchy symbol spray painted above the front window.

Smith glanced at Jett as she slid onto the other end of the lip-shaped sofa. “About time you got here,” he said to her.

“The music is all that matters, Fish Stick,” was her reply. She flipped a switch on the console that was covered in zebra stripes. A holographic star chart sprang from the console into her line of vision.

To the right, Spitt sat on a chrome stool at the communications station. Jett had replaced the standard hologram-Vox interface with an old-fashioned switchboard, complete with an array of wires snaking in and out of a series of vertical plugs. “Hi there,” Spitt said into the switchboard’s microphone. “This is the deep space cruiser Chelsea Boom calling. We’re in orbit and we’d like to speak to someone in charge. Again, this is the Chelsea Boom politely asking to talk to whoever runs this uncharted planet.”

Splayed out in the middle of the Deck was a pink faux-fur bearskin rug. The rug rested in front of a green vinyl Ford Thunderbird driver’s seat bolted to the floor. Declan sat in the chair with his feet propped on the bear’s head and his fingers to his lips as he studied the eerily quiet planet outside the window.

“So,” Klaashhh leaned on the back of Declan’s chair, “where d’ ya think we ended up, Pebbles?”

“I really haven’t the foggiest, Punk Rock,” he answered.

“Well, it’s only been a coupla days since we left Altadero. I coulda sworn those groupies me ’n’ Smith hooked up with after th’ show said there wasn’t no other ’habited planets in th’ system.”

“Maybe so, chum, but the Boom has detected life down there.”

“Well…those chicks was pretty wasted. I don’t think they had no clue what they was sayin’.”

A thump to his right made him jump; Spitt had punched the wall. “For the third and final time,” she growled into her ’mike, “this is the Chelsea Boom asking for someone to respond. Or maybe that’s too much to ask?” She yanked out a wire. “Jeez!”

“Nobody’s home, huh?” asked Klaashhh.

“Looks like.” Spitt flipped a switch and the hover-mike zipped back to its holder. “You’d think someone down there would be nice enough to at least tell us to get lost.”

He shrugged. “Maybe they just don’t wanna be bothered.”

Jett shut off the holo-chart and turned to Declan. “I’ve scoured our entire library, love,” she said, “and I can’t find one bloody bit of info about this place. In fact, none of them say there should even be a planet at these coordinates. It’s as if it doesn’t exist.

Declan nodded slowly. “But we can all see that it does exist. Unless, of course, we’re experiencing a group hallucination…again…” He looked at Spitt. “You say no one’s picking up the phone, eh?”

She shook her head. “I can run another Headhunter scan. It may be mistaking mineral deposits in the atmosphere for biosigns.”

“Cheers, love, but I don’t think another scan is necessary.”

Rolling his eyes, Smith turned sideways on the sofa. “Let me guess,” he said. “You wanna drop in unannounced.”

“Good guess, Fish Stick!” Declan grinned. “After all, this is a world no one but we has ever before seen. It’s our duty to find out what it’s all about.” He jumped out of his chair and clapped his hands together. “Let’s get ready for a little Sunday drive, shall we? Jett, would you and Smith please make sure the Jaunty has enough fuel and is ready to fly? Spitt, please restock the AdventurePak and make sure everyone is issued a fully-charged Xexx pistol. Klaashhh, would you please check the fridge and see if we have any cream soda left, and if so, would you add a few cans to the usual welcome basket? I shall gather some promo discs. It’s unlikely the inhabitants of an uncharted planet have ever heard of Comet Sweat, so it’s always a good idea to spread the cheer. Let’s all meet in the Anger Hangar in ten minutes, eh?”

Klaashhh gave him a salute. “You got it, Pebbles!”

Declan snatched a black leather jacket off the back of the captain’s chair. The jacket was frayed and torn, with safety pins hanging from it and a picture of Queen Elizabeth I smiling and holding up her middle finger airbrushed on its back. He slipped it on as he followed his friends to the hover-lift.

“One more thing...” Declan grasped the frame after everyone had stepped in “…thank you.”

* * * * *

This is the thanks I get for being such a good driver! Smith guided the Jaunty through a sea of purple fog that was nearly impossible to see through, even with his enhanced Reptiloid vision. I don’t care what Dec says, this planet is just a big ball of gas. He closed his eyes and breathed slowly. Regret is the enemy of adventure… regret is the enemy of adventure.

Not long after joining up with Comet Sweat, Smith discovered the peaceful bliss of Zen meditation. He found that focusing on a positive mantra during stressful situations helped alleviate his nerves, so each time he left the Boom for parts unknown, he recited a phrase that would reassure him he could face whatever lay ahead. Most often it worked, but for some reason he couldn’t help feeling something about Comet Sweat’s latest adventure wasn’t quite right.

Well, it could be worse, he told himself. I could be crammed in the back with the others instead of sitting comfortably up here.

The shuttle that Declan bought to complement his cruiser had been manufactured with a passenger capacity of three, including the pilot. At the lot, Declan had opted for style over practicality, which in itself wasn’t so bad. On top of its retro-sporty design, the Jaunty cornered asteroids with a precision clip and boasted a pick-up of zero to five hundred miles in less than six seconds. Also, when Declan picked it out, the group consisted of just himself, Jett, and Klaashhh. He hadn’t anticipated anyone else joining up, although both Smith and Spitt had been extremely invaluable additions to the Comet Sweat family. For that, they were certainly worth a little discomfort.

Sitting on one of the benches in the back, Klaashhh chewed the fingers on one of his hands. His other three were wound tightly around Spitt’s fingers, who sat on his lap, her knees scrunched to her chin and a wicker basket filled with fruit, cheese, crackers, and cream soda wedged between them. “Aw, man!” he whimpered. “I can’t deal with not bein’ able t’ see where we’re goin’.”

Spitt tried to slide her hand free. “I’m not too thrilled about it, either, but do you think you can ease up a little?”

He removed two of his three hands. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay. Just try and chill, huh?”

He sneered at the back of the pilot’s seat. “It’s kinda hard t’ do when Fish Breath’s up there drivin’ like a maniac!”

Smith heard the comment but chose to ignore it. Instead, he moved the steering lever to the right and back again, causing the Jaunty to lurch.

Klaashhh squeezed Spitt’s hand tight. “Aaahhh! We’re gonna die!”

“Now, let’s not panic,” Declan said. He was crammed into the Jaunty with his legs in the back section and his torso in the front half, his chin on Smith’s shoulder. “Try to hold on a little while longer. We’re almost there.” He glanced at Smith. “We are almost there, right?”

He shrugged. “It’s hard to tell through all this smog. It gets thicker the further down we go.”

“Well, we’ve come this far, and it’d be pointless to give up now. I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to try ringing them again.” He stretched forward and flipped a switch on the dashboard. A microphone rose from the front panel to his mouth. “Greetings and glorious salutations to the inhabitants of this pulchritudinous purple planet!” he bellowed. “This is Declan J. Slocomb, owner of the deep space cruiser, Chelsea Boom and lead vocalist for the galactically bitchin’ Comet Sweat! Please accept my sincerest apologies for dropping in unexpectedly, but my mates and I are highly interested in meeting you and learning about your culture. We would be deeply honored if you would deem us worthy of your time.” He gazed at the speaker, but it only hissed and whistled back at him. “Hmm, perhaps I should try another frequency.”

As he reached again for the dial, he felt a hand grab his leg. “Dec, love, I think Klaashhh is right,” said Jett. She sat cross-legged on the bench opposite Klaashhh and Spitt. “I don’t think these people want to be bothered. Let’s just turn around and go back to the Boom.”

He looked at her in disbelief. “You mean without exploring this strange new world? Nova Bunny, where’s your sense of adventure?”

“I lost it a while ago when those radio-wave people on Lektroneka IV wanted to thank us for the free concert by tattooing our—”

The Jaunty lurched, knocking Jett to the floor and throwing Declan backward, his butt landing on her face.

Screaming, Klaashhh clutched the wall with all four hands. “Smith, ya slimy snake, cut that out!”

“That wasn’t me, Rock Head!” Smith shouted. “We crashed into something!”

“Oh, that’s great! I just knew yer drivin’ was gonna get us killed some day!”

“My driving has nothing to do with the fact this planet’s atmosphere is thicker than your skull! Just be grateful we hit something solid. We could’ve crashed into an ocean or a pit of molten lava or—”

A cracking sound came from beneath the Jaunty.

“Klaashhh, please tell me that was your jaw creaking,” Declan whispered.

Another crack, louder.

“Oh, no!” said Klaashhh. “We’re gonna die!"

“Knock it off!” Spitt told him, squeezing her knees to keep the basket from dropping. “Don’t be such a girl!”

Something indecipherable came from Declan’s butt.

“What was that, Nova Bunny?” Declan asked.

Jett pounded his thighs with her fists. He looked down to see her leather-vested chest between his legs. “Sorry, love.” He got off her and helped her back to her seat.

“What I said was,” Jett told him, “instead of playing ‘Name That Noise,’ shouldn’t we be trying to lift off?”

Declan nodded. “Good idea. Smith, why don’t you—”

The cracking gave way to a wailing shatter. The Jaunty dropped—fast. With another squeal, Klaashhh threw his arms in the air. Spitt lost her grip on the basket. It tumbled off the seat, spilling fruit and soda cans onto the floor.

(Editor’s Note: If this has whet your appetite, then get the entire book through Amazon.com and even Target.com!)

Edward Beekman-Myers is the author of several short stories and two novels, all of which contain a heaping helping of sci-fi/fantasy and a smidgen of ironic wit. He currently lives in Springfield, IL, where he is finishing his Master's degree in English, but his ultimate master plan is to move to New York City and take over DC Comics (a plan which is proving quite difficult to achieve, despite numerous attempts at proffering various forms of sexual gratification to the DC editorial staff).

Prism Comics promotes the works of the LGBT community in comics. It does not implicitly endorse any other material or products associated with those works. Any opinions expressed are those of the author(s).