Now Joe remembers. “Oh, right. Take your drawers down.”
The word Frontal appears on the screen. Joe looks upward. Pleasure alternating with pain show on his face as alien hands manipulate his penis. His expression is pure pleasure as he ejaculates into a little metal container.
The alien hands withdraw through their ports, one holding the semen specimen.
The word Rectal appears on the screen.
Joe turns around and bends over. His expression is not a happy one. He winces when the alien’s flat, wooden probe is inserted, and again when it is withdrawn.
In the bench area, Sherry and Kenny wait. A few other new arrivals enter, take their numbers and find seats.
Kenny rubs his eyes. Sherry looks up at the fans, listening to the squeak and pop of the long leather belt. Thus distracted, they don’t recognize Moe among the arrivals. He’s still in the lounge lizard’s suit, though it is soiled, and he looks as dazed as the others.
The alien stops cranking, the fans stop working. All is quiet. Immediately the heat level skyrockets. Those waiting sweat profusely.
When Joe exits the booth, the light flashes fourteen.
When the next booth opens up, the number fifteen flashes.
Joe says, “Fourteen. That’s you, Mother. Kenny’s fifteen.”
Kenny has to bend over and look closely at the ground to see where he’s going. “What happens in there, Joe?”
“It doesn’t hurt that bad. Go on, get it over with.”
Kenny and Sherry enter their respective booths.
Joe sticks a fresh handkerchief into his mouth and plays something somber on the saw.
A bus stop on a highway. The sign says Bus Stop — Line Forms Here. A queue of new arrivals waits, Joe, Sherry and Kenny at the head of the line, Moe near the end. Kenny rubs his rear and grimaces. Sherry is flush-faced, looking contented.
Joe asks her if she’s okay.
Sherry beams, “I’m fine. It wasn’t bad at all.”
Kenny says, “They left a fucking splinter in my ass.”
Joe steps out of line and looks down the highway. “The bus is coming.”
What at first appears to be a dilapidated city bus glides to a stop. Rather than the sound of an engine, there’s the clankety-clank of a steel drive-chain under the chassis while passengers huff and puff through the open windows. In front of every seat is a set of strap-on pedals. Already on-board are three pickup loads of Mexican illegals, poker-faced and tired of pedaling. The driver, in a grey wool uniform, looks somewhat cadaverous.
New arrivals begin boarding. Sherry and Kenny seem confused. Joe takes a seat, buckles his seat belt and straps his feet to the pedals. “Do what I’m doing. Hurry up. Don’t attract attention. Take a seat, strap in.”
Kenny and Sherry strap themselves in place.
The driver calls out hoarsely, “Everybody in? Let’s go. I’m running late.” He closes the door.
Joe says, “Start pedaling.”
All passengers pedal. Slowly the bus gains momentum and moves forward.
An hour or two later, the pedaling passengers huff, puff and gasp for air.
Kenny feels his sore bottom as he looks around at the familiar Mexican faces. “Man, I’m hurting. I think it’s getting infected.”
“My legs are killing me,” Sherry says.
The sound of a jet aircraft overhead. Joe sticks his head out the window and looks up. It’s a clunky old stealth bomber that appears to have been damaged in a crash landing sometime in the past. One of its engines smokes, another works intermittently. A windshield is broken. Holes suck air along the fuselage. A wingtip is missing. Painted crudely on its nose is the plane’s name, Hey Abbott, and a character sketch of “Bud” Abbott and Lou Costello.
Inside the cockpit, from behind the pilot, who is alone in the cockpit, flight control panels blink madly and warning buzzers sound as the Hey Abbott swoops over Witchy Toe. The alien pilot seems unconcerned, yet struggles to keep the craft flying.
The pilot speaks alien words with the caption: Roger Dodger, is Witchy Toe a drop site today?
Alien radio voice in answer, with the caption: Roger. W.T. is a drop site. Over and out.
The alien pilot flips a toggle and says in alien, “Here you go, folks. It’s payday!”
Downtown Witchy Toe. Empty streets, broiling hot, the smokestacks tall against a white-hot sky. A street sign says Arden Boulevard. This part of Witchy Toe resembles a scaled-up model railroad town. It is full size, but looks artificial. Colors are all primary, very little stylistic variation is expressed in the buildings, and each seems to be devoted to a single commodity. One sign says SOAP, another CUTLERY, another MEAT, another FLOUR. One restaurant says DOG, another says FUNGUS, another CARP.
The Hey Abbott’s bomb bay doors open and bundles of yellow money tumble out. The bills flutter to the earth like leaves. The plane makes a wide, banking turn, and heads home.
Shop doors open up and down the street. People materialize from everywhere and gather up the yellow money.
The pedal bus pulls up to a curb, passengers disembark, legs sore, out of breath.
Other passengers, stuffing yellow money in their pockets, board.
Outside, Joe, Sherry and Kenny find plenty of yellow money remaining on the ground. The Mexicans busily gather it, too.
Joe says, “It’s payday. I remember this. Let’s get some. We’ll need it.”
They gather up money and fill their pockets.
Kenny examines one of the bills. “This is money?”
Sherry turns a bill over. “It’s blank on both sides.”
Joe rolls one of the bills rapidly between his palms, then opens them to reveal a ball of what looks like dough with a light yellow tint. He pops the ball into his mouth and chews. “It’s better than money. You can spend it or you can eat it.”
Sherry tries the trick, pops one into her mouth. “Mmmmmm. It’s good. Like a marshmallow.”
Kenny tries it. “Not bad.”
Passengers venture off this way and that, carrying as much money as they can. Soon the streets are empty again.
Sherry says, “What do we do now, Joey?”
“We find a place to stay.”
In another part of town, hours later, Kenny, Sherry and Joe are down at the end of a lonely street, appraising the skid row surroundings: warehouses, lounges, boarded-up storefronts, and a small, dilapidated movie theater called The Terranova. The marquee is dimly lit, but with enough light to make out the feature: The Grotto.
Joe says, “That’s where we stay the first night. It’s not a hotel, but it’s where we stay, where we have to stay.”
A line of new arrivals stands in line outside the Terranova. Kenny, Sherry and Joe join them.
Just across the street is an ice skating rink called The Ice Palace. Lettering on the marquee is bright and clear: SPANKINGS TONIGHT.
Kenny points to the Ice Palace marquee. “What’s that all about?”
Joe doesn’t remember.
Much like a 1950s neighborhood theater, check-in at the Terranova takes place at a glass-enclosed ticket window, only this one is manned by another mechanical alien.
Check-in is accomplished by placing yellow money into the alien’s open palm, where it is rolled into a ball and deposited in the machine’s gaping mouth.
The lobby is very much like a theater lobby, complete with a half-filled popcorn machine and a candy counter with a CLOSED sign. A few new arrivals sit in ratty chairs and tattered sofas reading a newspaper called City Moon.