Future Fucked
by Rob Loughran
forum: Future Fucked
speculative fiction for the internet generation.

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Future Fucked
The Time Bomb


        “I couldn’t believe it,” said Tike, “and I was there.”

        “What?” said Freddy.

        “Me and the Professor were standing in the wings, offstage, and I couldn’t believe it.”

        “You gonna tell me?”

        “It’s held every Saturday night, in the San Francisco Opera House.” Tike swung his duffel bag onto the couch, plopped down beside it and said, “Hit me.”

        In a smooth, practiced reflex Freddy opened Tike’s fridge, grabbed a beer and flung it across the studio apartment. In a gurgling, even more reflexive act Tike chugged the beer can dry. “Every Saturday night—”

        “In the Frisco Opera House, I know, cut to the chase.”

        Tike belched, “Hit me.”

        The beer was delivered and downed. “There’s a stand-up comedy competition.”


        “So the Professor and I were watching. Three guys—did I mention the audience is all female?”


        “Yeah. Men perform for an all-female audience and vice-versa. And apparently elective surgery, in twenty-second century San Francisco must be mandatory. There was half a ton of perky-bouncy tits in that audience. Can you imagine an opera house full of naked, pulchritudinous Penthouse pinups?”

        “I don’t know. What’s a opera house look like?”

        “It has a Romanesque façade—”

        “That was a joke, asshole. Call the Professor. I’m going Time-Surfing.”

        “Wait,” Tike smiled. “The first comedian finishes his set, right? He was okay, better than you, but not nearly as funny as me—”

        “Up yours.”

        “And I swear on my mother’s grave they have this retro-applause-meter, like on the Ted Mack Amateur Hour and Star Search?”

        “I seen reruns on the 20th Century Channel.”

        “These sweet, naked, edible Aphrodites started clapping and hooting and jumping up-and-down-and-up-up-and-down-and-up-up-and-down-and-up-up-and-down-and-up-up-and-down-and-up—”

        “I get the picture,” said Freddy.

        “The arrow on the applause meter starts moving and they get louder and louder until the arrow moves out of a red area marked BOMB! And into a yellow area marked HIT! Then all hell breaks loose. The front row of Babe-O-Liciousness rush the stage and attack the comedian. They rip his clothes off and rape the lucky bastard, right there. Team cock sucking. Cornholing. This guy’s got more pussy at one time than Elvis had in a week.”

        “Holy Shit.”

        “So he services like three or four of them and shuffles off the stage, still stiff-cocked with his pants around his ankles, followed by this in the buff harem. The second row of women moves into the front row and the second stand-up comes out. I didn’t get any of his political references, but he was a funny sonuvabitch: rubber-faced like Jim Carey, loose-limbed like Dick Van Dyke, cool and smart and sarcastic like Denis Leary—”

        “I love those Old School fuckers.”

        “—real smooth, great timing: biting delivery. Some babe heckled him and he had her in tears in ten seconds—merciless. He said he was glad she said something because she’s so ugly he thought she was standing on her head.”

        “Right on.”

        “He was slick,” said Tike. He buries the applause meter and the front row carries him off stage. The Professor told me they have this male aphrodisiac they shoot into his ass and he’ll be able to go for days.”

        “Incredible,” said Freddy.

        “Here’s the good part.”

        “It gets better?”

        “Yeah. They won four million dollars. Each.”

        “Four million for one stand-up set?”

        “Yeah,” said Tike. “Inflation was pretty bad. Twenty bucks for a Heineken, but four-million is a chunk-of-change. And all of the politicians, money-guys, importers, exporters, any shaker-and-mover, all of them started out by winning this weekly comedy competition. Listen, in twenty-second century San Francisco the haves and have-nots aren’t determined by race, creed, or gender—”

        “That’s cool.”

        “The Leaders are Funny; the Followers are Unfunny. It’s our utopia, man.” Tike shook his head. “While we’re living on fast-food, playing fag dives and feminist bars in this century, future stand-ups kick ass and take names.”

        “So what’s the government regulation on us Time Surfing forward and entering this competition one week and a hundred and fifty-seven years from now?”

        “The Professor says we got it made. After CENTURYFLEX INC. got busted for returning to present time to reanimate, the rule is simple,” Tike read from a piece of paper he fished from his duffel bag: “If a Traveler affects a wrinkle in Future Time: i.e., sexual contact, death of a Futurist, or death of the Traveler, return is obviated.”

        “So we win the stand-up sweepstakes,” said Freddy, “bop some babes, and we have to remain, by law, with four million bucks in the land of milk and funny?”

        “You got it,” said Tike. “And we’re already entered in next week’s competition.”


        Tike pointed at the duffel bag, “So we work up a couple of routines based on current events in the video-mags I brought back; we Time Surf, rock the house, and live like real Kings of Comedy.”

        Freddy said, “Hit me.”

* * *

        “Jesus Christ on a crutch,” said Freddy, “this is the life." He and Tike stood in the stage-right wing of the San Francisco Opera House and watched a Standing Room Only crowd of birthday-suited beauties file to their seats.

        “Hey,” said Tike, “there’s the other guy.”

        Freddy whistled. “Hey Buddy, over here.”

        The third comedian, dressed in green denim overalls, appeared visibly pained, nervous and uncomfortable as he reluctantly entered the wings from a back-alley entrance. He saw Freddy and Tike and said, “Get over here, you idiots.”

        “What’s wrong with standing here?” said Tike.

        “Just admiring the scenery, Mister Greenjeans,” said Freddy.

        “Get the hell over here,” he said.

        “Why?” said Tike.

        “They might see you,” he motioned at the audience, “and decide they don’t like you.”

        “As long as we leave them laughing,” said Freddy, almost drooling, “what’s the big fucking deal?”

        “We have to decide who goes on first,” said Greenjeans.

        Tike dragged the reluctant Freddy over to a small table littered with $380 worth of empty Heineken bottles. Tike extended his hand. “Name’s Tike.”

        “Jamaal,” said the future comic. “You assholes been drinking?”

        “Yeah,” said Tike. “Takes the edge off.”

        “Drinking before The Competition,” he said. “Stupid fuckers.” He fished a deck of cards from his overalls. “Let’s cut to see who opens.”

        “What’s the big deal?” said Freddy. “I’ll open, Tike follows me, and then you can try and tickle the babes.”

        Jamaal exhaled. “Thanks, thanks a lot.” He hugged them both. Tight. “Good luck, both of you.”

        “Thanks,” said Tike.

        “You,” said Freddy, “are the freakingest, most emotional dude I’ve ever met. It’s comedy, not brain surgery.”

        The audience began chanting: “We want Number One! We want Number One! We want Number One!”

        “No emcee?” asked Tike.

        “An emcee for this?” said Jamaal. “You’re shit-for-brains, man.”

        “Fuck it,” said Freddy. “I’m going.”

        “Luck,” said Jamaal.

        “Break a leg,” said Tike.

        Freddy jog-trotted onto the stage and became slightly confused and disconcerted by the absence of a microphone stand. A microphone wasn’t necessary in the acoustic-enhanced building and Freddy’s confusion was momentary, but that’s all it took. You can lose an audience in a micro-second: with a misplaced gesture, a stammer, or the slightest sign of fear or embarrassment.

        Freddy had lost this audience before he even opened his mouth.

        Shielded by the curtains, Jamaal and Tike winced as joke after joke failed. Not visible to the audience, a triangle of sweat was forming in the small of the failing comedian’s back. "This is tragic,” said Jamaal. “I’m sorry. I know you guys were friends.”

        “Freddy’s bombed before,” said Tike. “He’ll get over it.”


        “Everyone bombs occasionally. Haven’t you?”

        “Of course not,” said Jamaal, “that’s impossible.”

        “That’s exactly the kind of confidence you need, Jamaal.”

        “I’m curious,” said Jamaal, “where exactly did Freddy bomb?”

        “Some cowboy-biker bar in Bakersfield.”

        “And he got out alive?”

        “Yeah, Bakersfield is a tough town. Answer me this: when did stand-up get so popular?”


        “In the old days we, I mean, we comedians, used to perform for nothing. The stages were tiny and the dressing room was a closet that stunk of vomit and urine. You worked for free beer and a percentage of bar receipts that the owner’d fuck you out of. This is a dream, man. The Opera House. Women, sex. Four million dollars.”

        “The money and sex was added after they amended the AAPA: Audience Amnesty in Participation Act. After that, Hollywood, the NBA, jetbike derbies, nothing could compete.”

        “Like I said, Jamaal, this is a dream come true.”

        “Thank you very much, ladies,” said sweaty Freddy, “and gentle—”

        “You stink,” yelled a contralto from the audience.

        “Ladies and ladies,” said Freddy, “is what I meant.”

        “Here we go,” said Jamaal.

        The spotlight on Freddy faded and the applause meter was lit. The crowd of ladies so raucous, loud and antagonistic moments before was absolutely silent.

        “Shit,” said Jamaal. “Sure you want to go on next?”

        “No problem,” said Tike. He stretched his neck and ran in place. “I won’t make that mistake with the microphone. Everything can be fixed in comedy. We learn from other’s mistakes.”

        “You are cold,” said Jamaal.

        “So he bombed,” said Tike. “Big fuckin’ deal.”

        In silence, Jamaal and Tike watched as the first row of perfectly proportioned women hopped up onto the stage and approached Freddy. He flashed the thumbs-up to Tike and Jamaal and said to the phalanx of ladies, “Which one of you bitches likes it up the ass?”

        That’s when they tackled Freddy and like a pack of crazed hyenas ripped and bit and tore at him until the stand-up comedian was a supine, bleeding, unfunny, and dead rack of blood and meat and bones.

        Tike, wide-eyed, pissed his pants and said to Jamaal, “Audience Amnesty in Participation Act?”

        “Yep,” said Jamaal. “Knock 'em dead, motherfucker.”



copyright 2006 Rob Loughran.

Rob Loughran:
Rob's first novel High Steaks won the 2002 New Mystery Award. He's been published, fiction and non-fiction, 200+ times. His freewheeling comic sci-fi novel Teenaged Pussies From Outer Space will be released on 06.06.06: Yes that's correct: The Invasion of Teenaged Pussies begins on 6.6.6.

Check out Rob's new young adult novel Norman Babbit, Scientist at amazon.com Check out his nasty jokebooks at www.lulu.com

link to silverthought.com