A Very Schticky Thing To Do - 1. Chapter 1

On top of Nits Knob, Spid Doop sat on the trunk of a thorny thung tree knocked over during last week’s storm. Down below him the gray manufactured stone campus of Burpiburg Tech spread out across ten acres of dark green lawn. He liked coming up here on the knob and looking down at all the students hurrying to their classes looking like little bugs skittering about; hiding out behind the gym for a quick joint of fuzzy grass or snort of broccoli ale someone snuck from home; slipping over to the bleachers for a quick boyo on boyo or boyo on dottiir hump or blow job; or simply standing around as if they didn’t have a care in the world, staring at the clouds.

Yeah, he liked coming up here and watching them. Yeah, sure, it was fun watching them. He wished he could be down there at that moment, but he was a Schtickist through and through, right down to the three genes that marked him as socially inferior to the Normals down there.

Well, there was the home schooling Mamt made him take—lessons the government provided to allow S’s to function at least at a rudimentary level, though Spid did get far enough to know there were words such as rudimentary—it just wasn’t the same as hurrying to a class, hiding out behind the gym, going out to the bleachers for a quick suck, or just standing around knowing you were better than those other people, people like him. What really hurt, though, was—other than the big “S” tattooed on his forehead a few moments after the blood test came back at the birthing center—with his clothes on, he looked just like anyone else on Gurd.

Sure he was a natural born Schtickist, sure he could tell jokes right off the top of his head, sure he liked to carry around crème pies and could throw one with damned good accuracy, sure he wore a huge, red foam dildo hat at family Hurlsday celebrations, but was that any reason to spit in his face, call him “fuck head”, try to run him down when he was walking along the road, or any of the other abuses a Schtickist had to put up with?

Should he pull out his schticky, long dick and piss at them? That was a common schticky thing to do, but usually it was done to mock any Excretory Disciple of Hurl a Schtickist might meet. Should he hold up his left fist with the first two fingers extended in a “V” and pierce it with the forefinger of his right hand? Normals did it the other way around, but it was schtickier to do it backward. Up your bum normality!

Or, should he simply walk away and try to hold back the tears of shame at being an official minority unable to participate in even the most basic of activities on his home planet? He sighed, gave one last look at the secondary school he’d never attend, and stood up.

No! There were to be no tears today. He was schtickier than any of those Normals who studied schtickism as if telling jokes off the top of their heads, wearing silly hats, effectively throwing crème pies, or even pulling your dick out and pissing in front of a missionary from the Unified Church of Nits on You (Naked Bleakers sect) made them as schticky as the Schtickists. Unfortunately, for all their studies, all their meetings, all their lectures, and all their practice not one of the fake Schtickists could piss green urine, or red, blue, or brown, in addition to the “normal” yellow. He wouldn’t be able to do oily black until after achieving full sexual maturity, but who wanted an S to pee on you when their urine quickly coagulated and stuck to your clothes or skin on Naked Bleakers.

Spid got a kick out of pissing on a Naked Bleaker. They were so apologetic as if it was their fault an S pissed on them. Then they would ask you to their home or give you pamphlets carried in the little bag around their waist.

He was an S for Hurl’s sake! What was he going to do with a pamphlet? Wipe his ass with it? Officially, though seldom enforced, it was against the law for him to know how to read beyond grade two. He could be arrested just for accepting the pamphlet. And, what if the Bleaker was actually an AGHAST (All Gurdian Home and Safety Team) security agent looking for an S to screw up so they’d have one to torture? Now, that was the last thing he needed.

He walked back through the little forest of thung trees following the trail to iron rungs set into the rock face, the easy way down. At the fork, Spid stared with disgust at the wooden arrow pointing away from the ladder. An S had been burnt into the surface, just another slap in his face. S’s couldn’t go the easy route; they had to find their own way down; or, in the government’s words, “If you figured out how to get there, you’ll figure out a way to get back.”

He used to wonder if the Normals knew that if you turned the sign around, the S still looked like an S. After a couple months of moving it to point the other way, someone affixed the sign with two nails. After a couple months of pulling the sign off and throwing it over in the bushes, someone affixed the sign with screws, four of them. He pissed on the sign until green globs hung down on syrupy strings.

“Were you up on the knob, again?” Mamt asked as Spid walked in the backdoor of his parents’ habitat—three bedrooms, one lav, one bath with shower, a combo kitchen, dining, and sitting room, storage in the attic with the heat regeneration equipment, and bugs in the crawl space with the environmental servicing equipment. What was it about bugs that they had to hang around shit, even if it was being prepped for the community effluent line?

“Yes,” he mumbled and sat down at the dining table, which had been securely fastened to the floor in case an S wanted to steal it.

“Go wash!” Mamt exclaimed. “You’re not a little boyo anymore. I shouldn’t have to keep reminding a fifteen-year-old to wash his filthy hands and face before eating.”

“I’m an S,” Spid spat as he reluctantly stood up. “You can’t expect me to get it right until the thousandth time.”

The slap across his cheek stung. The look in Mamt’s eyes hurt more.

“I’m sorry,” Spid said. He wasn’t, really, but he had to say the words anyway. At fifteen, it was hard remembering when you weren’t shit and when you were.

In the lavatory, he stood at the sink washing his hands with a bar of Bung Shit Soap, one of the few genuine soaps available to an S. After all, who in their right mind would wash with something made of shit from the indigenous weasel-like creature whose shit stunk worse that an ecstatic display by an Excretory Disciple of Hurl? An S would or that’s what the makers of Bung Shit Soap thought. And, they did because Cuml’s Cute, Cuml’s Desirous, Minn’s Mamt’s Choice, Firzl’s Fresh Air, and all the other soaps marketed to Normals weren’t on the S shelf in the market. S’s got to choose between Bung Shit and Cuml’s Basic, which wasn’t even soap and sat for months on the shelf in case some dumb S bought a bar; and, unfortunately, a few did meaning the store always thought there was a market for the stuff.

The mark from Mamt’s hand wasn’t fading as quickly as he wished; Pupi probably would say something about it. Mamt would then say what Spid said and Pupi would have him bend over the back of the chair. Three whacks with the strop on his bare bum, three marks of S humiliation. Sure, he was fifteen and too old to be spanked, but spanking was a whole lot better than a fist in the face. Why couldn’t he keep his mouth shut?

Running his hand over his smooth face, he tried to feel at least one whisker, but he was only fifteen and whiskers usually didn’t appear until sixteen or seventeen, sometimes eighteen. At least, that’s what Pubi said happened to Normal boyoes. No matter how much he wished, how much he dreamed, Spid wasn’t going to get even one whisker. The Schtickist genes ensured he’d have very little in the way of secondary sexual characteristics, no body hair other than a faint darkening of the fuzz above his dick and a slight deepening of his voice to mid-tenor if he was lucky; he was still barely out of alto. At least he got the big, long, naturally circumcised dick, a true sign of a Schtickist. Hung like an S was something a lot of Normal boyoes aspired to, but none achieved. They just didn’t have the genes and were doomed to spending their lives with skinny little things with too much skin; although, followers of the Cult of Blüd, God of Sacrifice, Thoughtless Endeavor, Unfortunate Mistakes, Executioners, and Circumcision, were circumcised without anesthesia in an elaborate initiation when they were thirteen.

After drying his hands, Spid went back to face his punishment.

* * * * * * *

“Sit down, we need to talk,” Snib Nivl said to the male S who just entered his office on the top floor of AGHAST headquarters. “Go on, I’m not going to report you. After all, the report would come to me eventually, anyway.”

“You have a fifteen-year-old son,” Snib Nivl continued as he watched the S sit down in the metal chair normally used for interrogation, it provided a good ground for electric shock. The S was younger by a few years, but looked older. That’s what happened to S’s; they just didn’t live very long. All the stress they were subjected to as a minority probably had a lot to do with it, but who cared. S’s were defective and didn’t deserve sympathy. “I want him.”

The S stared at Lord Nivl. This was the man who held all the power on Gurd. Oh, sure, the Prime Minister Bubt Krimmle was the Big Burpo, but that was mostly a ceremonial title. Lord Nivl ran the show and got what he wanted, one way or another.

“My youngest son needs a companion and has suggested your son as a likely candidate. I don’t know the reason why Dimp picked your son, but he seems to know of him from somewhere. Maybe he saw him someplace. I don’t know. I don’t care. You will be appropriately compensated for the loss of a credit earner in your household. Also, I have placed you and the remaining members of your household at the top of the list for the next opening at the S camp on Mango Island. Any questions?”

“My son, Spid, this will be permanent, sir?” Burp Doop asked staring at his hands in his lap. He couldn’t bring himself to look into a Normal’s eye, especially someone as important as Lord Nivl.

“For as long as Dimp desires, Spid will be in his company,” Lord Nivl said. “Of course, we will have his tattoo removed. There will be some scarring, but the plastic surgeons are doing wonders these days. The other option will be to have the ’xrsc perform a recondite reassimilation completely erasing the mark without scarring. Whatever is done will be accomplished at my son’s request. If at such time Dimp no longer desires Spid, he will be retattooed and moved to your household whether it is on Mango Island or not. Your placement at the S camp will occur no matter what, as will your monthly stipend. If this is satisfactory, please make your mark at the bottom of the contract.”

Burp looked at the document, understanding few of the words; certainly not enough to know what he was signing. As a father on Gurd, he had every right to sign away the future of his son, but he kind of wanted to broach the subject to see how the boyo felt. He should be able to grant him at least that. Burp was certain this wasn’t going to go over very well with Spid.

He stood up and took the pen. He held it and for only the second time since entering the office, looked at the Normal on the other side of the desk. Did he look like a father, too? Lord Snib Nivl, leader of the AGHAST coalition in Parliament, stared back with an expressionless smile out of a red, pudgy face. This was simply business; he was buying his son a toy. That it was a fifteen-year-old male S didn’t matter one bit. Mango Island was full of S families whose children had been purchased away by rich Normals. It was the latest status symbol.

Burp Doop, resigned to the extra money that would make up for the loss of Spid and a future on an island without Normals, clumsily printed BDS on the line.

“You know your letters?” Lord Snivl asked. “Your boyo, too?”

“A little, sir,” Burp answered.

“Good,” Lord Snivl said. Then, flipping a switch on his intercom, said, “Cosmo, we have reached a favorable agreement. I want this S given access to the S Educational Service modules. I want him educated to at least Level Three by the time he moves to Mango Island and Level Four after that; we may want to put him in the government liaison office. Also, call my son and tell him he can pick up Spid Doop tomorrow morning. The boyo should have at least a final night with his family.”

Lord Snivl held out his right fist.

“Come on, I’m not poison,” he said.

Burp tapped his right fist against the other three times.

“Good, welcome to the family, Burp Doop,” Lord Snivl said. “Here’s a release chit, you can go home and be with your family. I’ll send word to Spid’s place of employment to send him home, too. I hope this works out for both our families.”

“Yes sir,” Burp said.

* * * * * * *

“You did what?” Spid shouted at Pubi in the living area of their habitat the government painted green for the soothing effect. The ceiling panels hid the security vid and audio monitors to ensure there wasn’t any subversive activity, but everyone knew they were there. “What am I supposed to do? Did you ask that? Did you ask anything or did you just think about the money and all the sun and sand on Mango Island? I bet that was it, wasn’t it? You can’t go to the beach here, but there are only S’s on Mango and the beach surrounds the island. I bet you’ll be swimming every day.”

“Hush, Spid, you know Lord Nivl,” Mamt said. “He gets what he wants and his son wants you. Your Pubi said you were to be his son’s companion.”

“Well, I’m not looking forward to having my forehead tattooed, again,” Spid said.

“What’s going on?” Spid’s younger brother Dwim asked. “Why is everyone home from work so early?”

“I’ve been sold to a Normal,” Spid said.

“Well shove a bar of Cuml’s Cute up my bum and make me shit, that’s great Spid!” Dwim exclaimed.

“Watch your mouth boyo,” Pubi said. “Get in your room and finish your piece work. Have you hit your daily quota?”

“No,” Dwim said with a frown.

“Then, go!” Pubi exclaimed. “Now, Spid, this is for your own good. The boyo is your own age. Maybe he doesn’t make friends easily and that’s all it is.”

“Maybe he wants me for more than a friend,” Spid said.

“What are you saying?” Mamt asked.

“Mamt, I’m not your innocent little boyo anymore,” Spid said. “You know very well I’m a follower of Vini; maybe this Normal boyo needs a little companion in his bed at night.”

“No!” Mamt exclaimed. “Tell him that isn’t so, Burp.”

“How do I know what Spid’s duties will be,” Pubi said. “It’s not like I could read the contract.”

“Oh, no, no!” Mamt exclaimed as she ran to her room and shut the door.

“Maybe it would’ve been better if they just came and arrested me,” Spid said as he flopped down into one of three big plastic bowls full of foam balls that were meant to be S furniture. “I’ve heard about what happens to S’s when they’re bought by Normals. It’s all over the news, the beatings, torture, sexual assaults and all kinds of other perversions, and, you know, Pubi, last month they arrested a Normal family for killing and eating their S. Thankfully, they were summarily executed right in front of their home. All of them, even the baby, had their heads evaporated. It was right there on the vid.”

“Spid, I’m sure it’s not that dreadful,” Pubi said as he fell back into his own bowl of foam balls. “Lord Nivl may be ruthless, but he didn’t impress me as being deadly. He’s even authorized me to start taking lessons so I can work in the governmental liaison office on Mango. And, he was impressed that you know some of your letters, too. This could turn out to be a decent future for you.”

“Yeah, sure, and you’ll be on the beach on Mango swimming in the warm waters of the lagoon and I’ll be here locked away in some closet in Lord Nivl’s mansion,” Spid said. “Pubi, I know you couldn’t say no, not to Lord Nivl, but it hurts. Okay?”

“I understand son,” Pubi said.