Bill 4 - on the Planet of Tasteless Pleasure Read Online Free PDF Page B

was an enchanting creature, the stuff of pure dreams. Bill had never encountered a woman like her before. To Bill, women were not mysterious beings; mystery implies intellectual thought, and all Bill's thoughts on the subject were unambiguously coitus connected. Except for his mother, of course. Bill's memories of her were pretty vague and he was sure that she had been kind and gentle; but he couldn't really remember. Which meant that memories of an earlier, possibly gentler existence had been entirely driven out by sadistic Trooper training and his loathsome experiences in the wars. Still, Bill had a soft spot in his heart for Mom; somehow he'd eluded the usual Trooper heart surgery on the subject.
    Yes, he feebly remembered the days with Mom back on Phigerinadon II. He remembered the lullabies she used to sing, “Song of the Passionate Porkuswine” and “Ole Girl River” in her slightly grating, off-key soprano. Bill remembered the chocolate-soy brownies she would nuke in their homey homemade atomic-wave oven that had accidentally killed Dad. He remembered her gentle whippings with the robo-mule prod when she caught him reading WANKY TRI-D COMICS on the Sabbath instead of studying the Neo-Koranic Texts According to the Subgenius Bowb of the Zoroastrian Nabobs for his religious upbringing. He remembered how she had smelled of sour groundhog yogurt, and the way their kitty-kebab suppers tended to stick on her mustache and nostril hairs. He remembered the wonderful soft blue of her skin when she would have those circulatory problems she was wont to. (Poor Mom! Parts were always falling off her at the most inopportune moments.)
    But most of all, he remembered how Mom would rock him to sleep as a child when he had the colic. She'd put on some old blitz c-nodes and make Bill dance to near-exhaustion, urging him on with blasts from their old microwave gun warming the seat of his pants. When she finally allowed his little head to hit the pillow, Bill tended to fall asleep immediately.
    Yes, dear Mom was a creature apart from all other women, and Bill treasured those trace elements he had left of her in the burnt-out neural banks of his shriveled gray matter.
    Other women?
    Well, there were the licensed hookers of course. Bill seldom attained a higher level than the two bucks for two minutes variety to whom he was joyfully addicted. Occasionally he had glanced with lurking lust at the hard-bitten Trooper females. But since they tended to wear aluminum bras and chain mail panties, keeping their skulls shaved for easy node-implants, Bill hardly thought of them as sexual objects. (Far too many Troopers tended to get their joy-plugs burnt if they tried the fleshy interface with one of them.) And then of course there had been Meta. But even Meta, with all her wildly exuberant female attributes, her high octane sexuality and her 90 proof pheromones, was hardly what you would classify as classically feminine.
    Irma was.
    In fact, she was not only classically feminine; she was feminine classically. She was sweet and gentle, her words kittenishly playful and teasing at times. But she could also listen, jaw agape, to what Bill had to say. With those big, round blue eyes full of awe; eyes that Bill could fall into, could drown in their great blue lake of wonder. He coughed and spat lachrymosely, intoxicated not merely with the huge amount of wine he'd downed, but by the subtle shifting of her scent, of her lithe limbs beneath the gauzy gown; the way her gentle fingertips would occasionally touch his swelling biceps to emphasize a point.
    Little did Bill realize it, but here he encountered a threat far worse to his well-being as a Trooper than any Death Juggernaut of the Ether, any Fry Ray of the Cosmos that the dreaded Chingers could throw at him.
    Bill was falling in love.
    They held hands.
    They baby-talked to one another. (As this was a step up in Bill's language skills, he couldn't do it very long.)
    They told each other their deepest