Ar'Tok - Alana Khan Page 0,69

toward the arched doorway into the casino.

“Pretty little things can rip you apart, my friend. Have at her.” I’m surprised when I lean to one side as I rise. I didn’t think I drank that much. Weaving a little, I make my way into the casino, fascinated by the lights and noises of the machines. Those don’t interest me, though. I head for the klempto tables.

Elyse

The galaxy has no shortage of assholes, I think as I watch the big red gladiator stagger out of the bar. I thought I’d met my share of assholes before I was abducted. I wasn’t two hours into my journey to outer space before I realized I hadn’t seen anything yet. Earth assholes don’t hold a candle to space assholes.

It’s been a demanding four years since I left Earth. I’m a completely different person—harder.

I received my two-year degree in culinary school, but when I turned twenty-one, I took up my real love—singing. I began making decent money in high-end bars, singing and playing piano. I specialized in torch songs throughout the decades. I loved singing the heart-wrenching songs of unrequited desire. From “The Man I Love” Billie Holiday style, to some of Adele’s most soulful renderings.

I loved my life.

Then I was abducted by squat, tusky alien bastards, Urlots, who sold me to a reptilian male who discovered my talent and sent me all over this sector to sing. I’ve had three other owners since then, all of whom treated me as shitty as their predecessor.

Yeah, I’ve thought of ending my life. Things have been rough. Real rough. But there’s something deep in my spirit that keeps pushing me to hang in there, promising me things will get better.

I’m still waiting.

Back home, I sang forty minutes an hour, then had a twenty-minute break. Human vocal cords need time to recover. Here in space? Breaks are unheard of. I just keep pushing through my shift, trying to lose myself in the music so I don’t focus on the shitstorm that is my life.

At least the red asshole quit heckling me and went elsewhere.

Two hours later, I’m on the homestretch. I have about an hour left, and, miracle of miracles, my owner found a prostitute and has given me a room of my own for the night. It’s been a while since I’ve had that luxury.

The red jerk is back. I’m certain he’s a gladiator, you can spot one at fifty paces. I imagine it's because they live in barracks like a bunch of unruly frat boys their entire lives. He’s weaving and squinting and is having trouble finding his rowdy friends even though they’re loudly enjoying themselves in the front row.

He plops into his seat, roaring drunkenly to his friends about how much he won at the klempto tables. I have to admit, if he won even a tenth of what he’s bragging about, he’s a hell of a player.

“You should get a new line of work,” he yells.

I clutch my slave collar and retort, “I do what I’m told.” It wasn’t a good response. He obviously doesn’t care that I’m not doing this for fun.

“Your owner should put you in a job where you don’t have to open your mouth except to suck cock.”

Motherfucker! That was the worst thing anyone’s ever heckled me with, and in the dive bars I sing at, that’s saying a lot.

“Boys,” I say to the group he’s with, “why don’t you take the red devil to his room? He can’t sleep off his ugly, but he can sleep off his booze.”

They try in vain to get him to shut up, but he keeps peppering me with derisive comments. After a while, his friends get tired of fighting him and leave, but he stays put, glaring at me. I have no idea why he’s got it in for me, but he won’t stop.

Finally, my owner approaches him—that’s a first—he’s never been proactive about protecting me before. I assume it will be a quick exchange that will result in the ugly red asshole leaving. Instead, their discussion gets serious as pink, round, play-dohey Drenken sits down at the table with him. Their conversation gets so quiet, my shit detector is screaming warnings.

Something’s going on between them and it involves me. My sense of self-preservation tells me the outcome is going to wind up making this day even worse.

It’s time for my last song, and I belt it out, but I could be singing the lyrics to “Old MacDonald” for all the emotion I