OASIBAST

“ABWHOREHER”

by

Kevin McCray

For the three years Stetson Gipwen and Olivion Zarby were classmates, he resided in the city of Oasibast, which was on the planet of Shabdid, while she lived light-years away on the Alphature Colony, which was on the moon of Pronuit. Like the hundreds of billions of other students living on planets, space stations, moon bases, and outposts throughout the galaxy, both of them used the neuradact (data jack for brain-computer interfacing) in the nape of their neck to attend Prime Caste Academy, a simusurr (virtual reality) educational institution.

    The first time Stetson saw Olivion was during orientation on the first day of the first semester they shared. He was instantly transfixed with a love for her that would remain unrequited. Such as it was for so many teenagers, enduring the pain of one-sided love was a rite of passage. However, for Stetson, it was the impetus for murder.

   Although his scrawny build was paired with a meek disposition, what would ultimately doom Stetson from ever possibly winning Olivion's affection was negative self-perception. Having compared himself to the most handsome and dynamic guys in her clique, he was convinced his peculiarities lacked the necessary uniqueness to make him a charming alternative to what he presumed she found attractive in male suitors. Whether this was actually true or not, he believed it, besetting him with a sense of dejection that failed to dwindle.

    Compounding the inferiority complex vis-à-vis Olivion, a crippling shyness overcame Stetson while in her presence, which, due to them having been assigned neighboring lockers, was an unavoidable happening, condemning his social phobia to be plagued daily, the stress of which, eventually, cracked and warped his mind.

    Year after year after year, as Stetson’s infatuation with Olivion became an obsession, he failed to utter a single word to her. Unbeknownst to all, the mild-mannered grandson, friend, and student grew deranged from squandering the glut of opportunities to make her acquaintance. So much so, in bed late at night, he dealt with his self-loathing by pounding his head until blacking out.

    For all the damage Stetson's untreated personality disorder inflicted on his psyche, one benefit it yielded was remaining inconspicuous to Olivion, allowing him to eavesdrop on her conversations with friends. Among the superfluous information gleaned was knowledge of a hangout on FavHang (app for creating personal simusurr spaces). Motivated to gain the capabilities of a hacker, at long last, he bypassed the apps privacy protection directives to infiltrate her private hangout—a pergola encircled by a tropical garden—with a cloaked avatar.

    Stetson’s initial glee from spying on Olivion soon soured, as her good-natured public persona was revealed to be a facade concealing her true character: mean, self-centered, and tedious. Awash with resentment for having felt so unworthy by—as he then profoundly considered her to be—such a substandard girl, his obsession turned from infatuation to abhorrence, and he decided to murder her.

    On the final day of the semester, Olivion was struck down with a brain aneurysm. Having toiled away his free time to broaden his hacking skillset, Stetson reprogrammed her Tangihapp Consumer Pro RG-IV (home console to connect a nueradact to simusurr apps) to experience a power surge upon her jacking-into Prime Caste Academy. The result of the sabotage caused her neuradact’s synaptic connectors to become overloaded and incinerate.

    Rendered brain-dead from Stetson’s cyber attack, Olivion’s demise was a harrowing, drawn-out experience, as her parents initially refused to end her life support, leaving friends and loved ones with no opportunity to offer their final goodbyes. For Stetson, his revenge was marred with dissatisfaction for having failed to precede Olivion’s murder with a rebuke for—from his viewpoint—her having manipulated his entire existence to hopelessly revolve around her.

1

Chumba’s was on Oasibast's east end. Tonight’s staff was scheduled to be Tige Berm, bar tender and night manager; Rusrick Cringibb, cook; Norven SMV T8-V104, waiter; Tiffiana Matte, waitress; and Pykquat Catank, kitchen hand, bus boy, and dishwasher. At the last minute, Tiffiana called off, stranding Norven to wait tables alone.

    Since the night’s special was half off on all Antakian ales, Norven was overwhelmed by a steady influx of patrons. Displeased with the slow service, the dive bar's usual assortment: hustlers, miscreants, and addicts, hurled abuse while the hapless android scrambled to and fro the kitchen or back and forth from the bar between taking or fulfilling orders.

    At one point, Norven accidentally initiated a drunken brawl by mistakenly serving a bucket of sausage-stuffed cheesy poppers to the wrong table. Before the fracas spread out of control, Tige re-established order by brandishing an LX-291 Disintegrator Combat Rifle.

    Despite the shift being one ordeal after another, Norven endured. With Chumba's now deserted and set to shutter for the night, all he had to do was clear a few remaining tables and he’d be home free, which, thanks to him having been manufactured with four arms, would be momentarily, as he could balance a serving tray on one hand while two other hands stacked it with beer bottles, glassware, plates, bowls, utensils, napkins, and anything else encountered while the fourth hand wiped up.

    However, Norven's imminent departure was in danger of being delayed, as he was forced to halt his frenetic but precise table bussing upon discovering a junkie passed out in a corner booth. He was gaunt and aged prematurely, his balding head was covered by a silver wire fishnet helmet with a spike on top, and tattooed beneath each of his closed eyes was a red triangle extending past his heavily pierced lower lip. Norven calculated the junkie was likely to turn violent if riled. The possibility of such a reaction from the straggler didn't make the android nervous, just annoyed.

    “Excuse me, sir?” Norven said gently to the junkie. "We're closed." Receiving no response, Norven groaned and started rapping the corner booth's tabletop. “Sir! Wake up!" Norven said, raising his artificial voice. Still receiving no response, Norven intensified the rapping and shouted, “HELLO?” That time the junkie responded. Intent to remain put, he grunted and defiantly folded his arms. “Great,” Norven whined to himself.

    From behind the bar, Tige asked Norven, “Problem, Norven?”

    “Some deadbeat is refusing to leave,” Norven said, approaching Tige. "I hate to ask you to step in, Tige, but I seriously can not deal with another belligerent skinbag fuckwad getting in my face tonight!”

  Tige finished wiping off the bartop and said, “I’ll handle it.”

■

Standing on an upside down milk crate, Pykquat was grumbling profanities under his breath while transferring plates from a bus tub filled with dirty tableware to a dish rack. When the runty bimbavor (mammalian resembling a purple and white bear cub) finished, his laser-shaved, tattooed-covered arms slid the rack into a dishwasher and slammed its top-down hood shut, initiating a wash cycle.

    Just then, Norven entered Chumba’s cramped dish room.

    “There’s more?” Pykquat shouted upon seeing Norven’s serving tray stacked with dirty tableware.

    “Afraid so,” Norven said.

    “Look ett dis shit!” Pykquat shouted, gesturing at a five-tier shelving unit storing bus tubs cluttered with dirty tableware. “I’ll be here ‘til dawn sortin’ ann washin’ awl dis!”

    “Then I would suggest less DMing and more hustle,” Norven said, setting the serving tray onto a stainless steel worktable attached to a sink.

    “Fuck you! I wasn’t DMing!” Pykquat shouted, gesturing at a garbage disposal the sink’s drain directly fed. “I got stuck uncloggin’ da garbage disposal!”

    “Oh. Well, sorry to hear that,” Norven said hastily, starting to walk away.

    “Yo! Where da fuck ya goin’?” Pykquat shouted at Norven’s backside. “I need help!”

    “Impossible!” Norven said, spinning his frustum-shaped head around to face Pykquat. “My backup power is nearly depleted!”

    “When ain’t it, ya fucking fako-form louse?” Pykquat shouted as Norven exited through the dish room’s heavy back door, which slammed itself shut.

    Just then, the dishwasher concluded its wash cycle. Pykquat yanked up its top-down hood and shouted through a deluge of escaping steam, “FUCK DIS JOB!”

■

In the back of Chumba’s, among tables, a 1990’s arcade machine that was smuggled off Earth, and two pool tables, Tige stood before the corner booth. With waning patience, he said to the junkie, “Last chance! Get up!”

    Keeping his eyes shut and his arms folded, the junkie muttered, “Fuck you.”

    Tige was about to yank the junkie up, when suddenly: the entry, an automated door, split open, and through it rushed in Ellavette MMons, catching Tige’s attention. “Hey! No!” he shouted across the barroom at her. “We’re closed!”

    “Hold on! I only need a minute!” Ellavette said, nervously checking the entry.

    “I said out!” Tige said, starting towards the front of the dive bar.

    “Please, I—” Ellavette started saying, when suddenly, behind her, Balth stormed in through the entry. He had buzzed hair, a bulky build, and was encumbered with a lifelong frustration too entrenched to ever assuage.