Uncle Kronus

The mountain of yellow clay is without windows and larger than what Spat had imagined. Gamblers and pick-pockets mill around the entrance like zombies. Everyone wants a hot tip or a few extra rubes to spend inside. It’s easy to identify humans from Earth—they are short and scorched brown. But humans from the Moon resorts or the Mars colony all stand tall and pale like him. A doorman with four pistols strapped to his chest scans Spat’s wrist and opens the door.

Spat steps inside the notorious interplanetary brothel and begins coughing. The smoke tastes like old meat and tobacco. It’s loud. He doesn’t see the band until he bumps into their stage: a glass cube. The bass player is completely naked and the lead singer has a massive two-headed anaconda wrapped around her tattooed torso. But it’s groovy Mars music—a combination of the Grateful Dead and Stem-Cell Mushrooms.

The place is packed and it’s difficult to navigate with so much hookah smoke. He’s never seen people with so many injuries: burns, scars, bullet holes, and botched surgeries. Spat finds a greasy stool at the bar and orders a shot of Sooma from a vintage chrome robot. He opens the Clone Zone app and texts Cream:

I’m at the bar! You know what I look like 😉

There is a giant pit where a dancefloor might have been a hundred years ago, and people are betting on a fight taking place down there. Spat can’t see what’s happening until he buckles into his barstool and rises forty feet with the push of a button. Wow—a tall dude is fighting two short girls from Earth. The spherical scoreboard displays the action: “Mars Maniac versus Amazonian Earth Witches.” A drink symbol lights up on his armrest so he drops back down to the bar, slams a shot of Sooma, orders another from the robot, and rises back up to watch the fight.

His hand vibrates so he opens it and reads from his palm-screen. It’s a text from Cream:

I see you! I have 50 rubes on the shorties. Stay there—I’m coming up!

The Mars Man, wearing red spandex, is on the dirt now. The Earth Girls are sporting shiny blue rubber and one of them finally has those long red legs under control. The other Earth Girl is kicking at the dude’s head as he does what he can to protect his skull. The odds on the scoreboard are changing as the fight progresses. Spat bets a hundo on the Earth Girls, despite the weak payout.

Cream shoots up beside him and hands over a shot of Sooma. They nod and drink the neon-orange liquor.

“How you stay so fit?” Cream asks.

They are both clones of Kronus, but Cream is carrying an extra 40 pounds of belly.

“I’m on the Saturn diet,” Spat says.

“Roots and crypto powder?”

“Bingo,” Spat says. He’s about ten years younger than Cream and muscular. His hair is dyed gold to match his teeth.

They stop assessing one-another to watch the Mars Man get his head pounded by elbows and knees. Both of their hands ring like slot machines as their winnings are added to the bank accounts on their wrists.

“So glad I found you!” Cream shouts to be heard over the music. “Two other Kronuses flaked on me.”

“Sounds like us,” Spat says. “It’s weird to meet a Kronus in the flesh. How you get money for this shit?”

“Sex work,” Cream says. “Mostly exotic food stuff. This your first time on Titus? You know the real Kronus is performing later?”

“No shit,” Spat says. “We already talked about this online…but you were taking shots of Kermit Juice.”

“Oh snap—I remember now.”

“You do?” Spat says. “You still gonna ‘kick it with Kronus’ after he sings?”

“You read my mind!” Cream says. “It might be awkward, but I jetted from Mars to meet our sexy little crooner.”

The next fight flashes on the scoreboard: “3 Mike Tyson Clones versus Moon Dog.”

According to the odds, these clones are dog meat. Spat and Cream face each other.

“I thought all the Mike Tyson clones died in the Australian war?” Spat says.

“Apparently not,” Cream says. “This reeks of clonacide.”

The 289-pound Rottweiler walks into the rink wearing a collar made of thick black thorns.

Cream shakes his head. “Why would Kronus perform at a place like this?”

“Maybe he needs the money?” Spat says.

Cream rolls his eyes and says, “I’m going down for another drink. Text me when it’s over.” His stool descends into the smoky chaos down below.

. . .

The Moon Dog literally tears the head from the final Tyson clone after dismembering the other two. A massive cage descends from the ceiling and covers the pit like a pterodactyl aviary. Cream pops up a few minutes later with a bloody nose and two shots of Kermit Juice. They pay 75 rubes to enter a “Royal Rumble Drone Fight.” Their drones are destroyed almost immediately and they slam another round of drinks.

The aviation cage begins to lift when all but one drone remains, wobbling above a pile of smoking metal debris. The giant monitor shows the winner: some teenage girl from the Moon. A chrome floor slides over the pit like a horizontal garage door. The scoreboard begins to display the main event: “Kronus Live!” A countdown from 20 minutes begins to tick away from every screen in sight…

. . .

A buzzer sounds when the time expires—Spat and Cream finish their drinks and launch their stools back into the air. A blue spotlight cuts through the darkness—Kronus begins blowing through a red tuba. The sound is synthesized and each note is made visible when it leaves the horn as brightly colored fog.

He begins to sing, his voice enhanced by the silver choker around his neck. The audience is split: half the people are placing bets on side monitors, everyone else is watching Kronus mimic radical sex positions. Suddenly, Kronusus rise from the chrome floor, each tied to a fake palm tree. Spat and Cream lock eyes.

Kronus, in time with his song, begins to execute clones of himself. He shoots them in the head, on a four-count beat, as they struggle to free themselves from bondage. Eight Kronusus slump awkwardly like marionettes as pools of blood drain through holes in the stage.

Spat and Cream are clenching one another’s hand, trying to cope with the horror of this spectacle.

The song ends and Kronus uses his jetpack to launch onto the third-floor balcony—the brothel level. The crowd goes wild.

“What the fuck was that?” Cream says.

“That was horrible,” Spat says. “We’re gonna start some shit, right?”

Cream, still clutching Spat’s hand, nods in agreement as tears stream down his face.

“Follow me,” Spat says, descending to the bar.

Cream follows Spat’s golden hair to the bar level and hears him order a bottle of Kermit Juice from the robot.

“Let’s move,” Spat says, starting to make his way through the mob with his bottle. There are empty snail shells and broken glass underfoot. They weave through cages that contain half-naked men pole-dancing to the house band.

They cram into one of the glass elevators and push the button marked 3.

“Here,” Spat says, handing the bottle to Cream after taking a drink.

The elevator doors part open and the marquis lights up. Every conceivable sex act seems to have a price. It smells like old oysters. Spat and Cream walk to the balcony and lean on the rail. They are a hundred feet above the crowd now. Down below, people are fighting in the pit again, but it’s covered by smoke at this height.

“How far are we gonna go with this?” Cream says, massaging his gut.

Spat takes a drink. “Fuck it,” he says, smiling his gold teeth. “Let’s put on a show.”

Cream takes the bottle and drinks heavily. The Kermit Juice is half gone and they are feeling it.

“You have a lighter?” Cream says.

Spat nods and says, “Brilliant idea.”

They walk to the cashier: a tall androgynous droid with blue eyes and copper skin. An Adonis.

“We’re hoping to pay our respects to Kronus,” Cream says.

“Perhaps you gentlemen would like a group party?” the Adonis says.

“Sure,” Spat says. “We wanna party with Kronus.”

“Our clients’ purchases, and certainly their whereabouts, are never made public.” The Adonis pauses. “That said, I can offer you gentlemen a very sexy adventure of your choosing.”

“I know you’re sentient,” Cream says. “I’ve read about Adonis AI. You deserve to be paid.”

The Adonis blinks.

“We can offer you 1,000 rubes,” Spat says. “Wouldn’t that allow you to upgrade some of your operating systems? Perhaps a vacation?”

The Adonis, after checking the elevators, reaches a hand out.

Spat taps his wrist against the droid’s shiny copper hand and pays up.

Cream tears a paper receipt from the polished copper lips and shows it to Spat: #303.

The Adonis opens a door made of obsidian and they enter. The hallway is purple and dimly lit like an old-timey movie theater. The brothel’s symbol, a silver heart-shaped locket, is embossed upon the red velvet covering room 303.

Cream tries the door but it’s locked.

Spat knocks like a cop.

A slender Mars Girl opens the door.

Spat pushes past her and they find Kronus fooling around with a much younger clone of himself.

All three clones exchange glances. They nod because they have the exact same idea in their heads. The young clone on the bed kicks Kronus in the nuts. Spat and Cream rush forward, each of them taking one of Kronus’ flabby arms. His eye-liner is sloppy and the metal piercings tug at his old skin.

“What the fuck are you doing!” Kronus yells. “I’ll fucking eat you alive!”

“No doubt,” Cream says. “We saw the show.”

“It was….super-extra,” Spat says, punching Kronus in the throat with his free hand.

They drag Kronus out of the room and into the hallway while the young Kronus clone, still naked and seemingly malnourished, picks up the bottle of Kermit Juice.

“What do you want from me!” Kronus screams.

“Nothing,” Cream says.

“We’re like you,” Spat says. “We just wanna put on a show.”

The Adonis steps aside and the young clone helps Spat and Cream push Kronus to the balcony’s railing.

“I can pay you!” Kronus says.

“You never tip!” the young clone says, now pouring Kermit Juice onto Kronus’ hairy body.

“My pocket,” Cream says.

The young clone already knows this—he reaches into Cream’s leather vest and removes a lighter.

“This is for all of us!” The young clone says, lowering the flame. He sets Kronus on fire and all three of them shove the bastard over the rail. The crowd, now seeing a burning body plummeting from the darkness like a shooting star, begins to cheer.

People beside them on the balcony are placing bets.

Spat checks the scoreboard: “How Long Will Kronus Burn?”