Touch Kid to Recieve Prize!

May 26, 2002
Author: Very Metal
Redeemable at selected Taco Bell locations

You know the drill. Fanfiction.net decided that wank-fiction was unacceptable unless it has a viscous layer of adolescent angst to justify it. Sex bad, sex as a demonstration of Chiyo-chan's sordid, unspeakable past good. Not to say that the former was ever good on Fanfiction.net, or to say that Fanfiction.net ever did not deserve to be razed to the ground; hundred meter high flames jutting into the sky as I hold the gasoline canister, cackling maniacally. I'm just saying that the links to this “good stuff” have been lost to the ages. ~The Editor


Somewhere in space an increasingly disparate and sour crew of killers live out of each other's filthy, leggy space-laundry and succeed in not slaughtering each other just long enough to scarcely get by under the vague system of frontier justice which passes for the future. Inbetween a busy schedule of listlessly postponing their deaths, going on lighthearted rampages, and falling prey to their various unpleasant pasts, they still find time to consume their own weight in cigarettes daily, watch the Best Show in the Universe, and recruit people they don't get along with to come and live on top of them in their tiny hulk.

Existing in a stifling ten by twelve space filled entirely with constant mutual suspicion takes its toll on the cast. Whisper-thin Spike barely has the time to devote every fifth line of dialogue entirely to interminable and transparently bogus folk-legends. He and Jet almost don't bicker over the ingredients to Jet's delicious stew: “made with corn... green peppers... onions... hair.” For the want of a few seconds we might be denied Jet and Faye arguing like an old, depressed couple who own a bee farm. Much like Cthulhu, only attracting more tentacles, Ed occasionally makes unreadable non-sequitur visits to the universe, slipping through sanity like androgynous, hyperactive oil through under-dressed water. There's also an enthusiastic Corgi who rises above it only as long as someone has delicious meat on their fingers.

Imagine “Friends” written on a rainy day between a particularly depressed Jean-Paul Sartre, Iain M. Banks and Gir, adapted to the plot of “For A Few Dollars More”, serialised and set in the midst of an interplanetary Milton Friedman/Charlton Heston wet dream. Congratulations. You are our winner! Bend over to receive prize. Touch kid to receive beating.

Apparently that's not enough for some people. It's their opinion that the main cast didn't spend nearly enough time lounging around in a supine state of boredom and devoting their energies to having what appears to be suspiciously last-ditch sex with each other. There's also the troubling propensity for people to think Ed is hot; basically all the encouragement you need to justify a great wave of stuttering, misfiring, inveterately ignorant “pornography” being unleashed. I went looking, not with a great deal of enthusiasm, either, and came back with three upsettingly typical specimens; each one ranging on the scale of unlikeliness from crashing on a tropical island with eight hot babes, to Hitler telling Eva “I don't have no trouble with you fucking me but I have a little problem with you not fucking me”, to crashing on a tropical island with eight hot girls in SS uniforms. I'd better move this along, we have hurting to get to.

So, on to “Edward's Touch”: even the title of which makes you feel uncomfortable, like the rich, professionally sadistic promise of a doctor spending a frosty morning examining your every youthful one-way hole with a variety of cold, incomprehensible metallic devices.

Dissatisfied with an existence which seems to consist entirely of smoking, owning breasts and pissing money into the wind, Faye has decided on a series of sweeping transformations. She's chosen her new look: searching fruitlessly for a “decent job” and going out to dinner with ambivalent men who make a living out of leaving themselves open to being mimicked by fat, ugly runts (Spike). You might imagine she's heeding the words that come spewing from motivational Bond-villain Anthony Robbins' beaker-shaped head but you'd be wrong. There's no apparent program of ceaselessly punching the air like the ones Mr. Robbins advocates, likewise there's certainly less ownership of a jaw which you can lay foundations by than should be the case, and as a result her plan immediately begins to founder. A day later the thing has backfired completely and she's resorting to "unknown liquor" for solace. Somewhere in this there's an implicit agreement between Faye and Ed that they should probably go at it like cum-loving sluts in the near future.

After a few green bottles of refreshing elixir, Faye decides to call it quits before the case for draining every last delicious drop of red diesel from the nearest tractor becomes unanswerable. She develops a manic interest in taking a shower, and not of the “goo-fall of the man-slime” variety, either. Immediately a very sober Ed joins her with all the heady enthusiasm of a Chechen peasant forced to fuck his father up the ass for the benefit of his friendly Russian soldier friends, and it's revealed that she's in possession of a “thin eighteen year old body.” Now, either the author knows some severely fucked up eighteen year olds, or we're supposed to be reassured by the image of what is essentially a genderless novelty rubber ventriloquist dummy (which is nude and uniformly coloured and has no nipples) with slightly more shapely breasts. Thank you, story. Since I really had been waiting so very long for the excuse to think of Ed and declare “she was certainly first in line when God was handing out chests... or mammary glands. Ooh, I'd love to have it off with her. Urrgh! Sex.” and now I can! Yaaay! I tell you, if my mood picks up any more I might not even kill myself.

So the sexual alliance is activated, thus bringing the Serbs into the war. Shirt-bustin' Ed is granted plus height to help Faye work “through her orgasm.” Apparently they're in love now, or have been for a long time, it's not made very clear. The smirking epilogue finds time to explain the layout of the ship to us before delivering the final line “Where neither girl got much sleep. ^_~” Yes, winking face and all. Incidentally a feature which reminds me of the end of A Farewell To Arms: “After a while I went out and left the hospital and walked back to the hotel in the rain; where I didn't get much sleep ^_~!”



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