Yes, scream that title to it’s final mission because we all know premature uncoupling can be quite dangerous to riders!
Our The Last Train Contest continues…
By R.R. Spike
It could have been any day in 1880 with Jackson parting my thighs on top of the club car bar complete with the swaying motion of our wild west sex-tracks to Promontory, Utah. My U.S. Grant’s golden spike dug deep, my eyes slitting outward as I involuntarily squeezed my girl ground around his railroad spike as the piano player pounded the ivories and the gathered voyeurs in chaps and saloon dresses cheered us on towards the promise land of connecting my west with his east.
I’m Capricornia Collins of citified gold rush Frisco ancestry and Jackson Kirk is all county corn and wheat harvest heritage farmer uprooted away from Riverside, Iowa. Jake calls me his Irish O’Whore. Everyone, but me calls him Captain. Men on this train know I’m his alone. The women wish they were me, because I am more beautiful and passionate than a train engine’s smokestack puffing to outrace painted up Indians on horseback shooting, fire-lit arrows . Jack stokes me, his bare ass galloping as I build in steam heat pressure.
His one man-arrow pierces me over and over center target until… I…not again! Not during our fantasy time in the Holodeck! No! Bye, bye wild west collision, hello Earth to Captain.
What is the problem with those ball-less android, mission system geeks at Global Space Agency this time? Can’t a girl get blasted into space by her man’s rocket boosters once in a while? It’s not like I’m going to be replicating our own space monkey in this lifetime. I must have remembered to get my last anti-pregnancy shot? Didn’t I?
Will Jake ever marry me? Solder me 21st century, old-fashion with a laser wrench. We’re career, GSA officers exploring space as transition to join Star Fleet. Danger, danger, no space family, Will Robinson.
Our train is actually the T.R.A.I.N. mission to the Neptunian moon of Triton. What do the letters stand for? Have you been living under a planetarium? Terrestrial Research Alliance Initiative to Neptune which is Earth’s acceptance to visit with introductions to a species living below the white bread crack, subsurface oceans of Triton.
I wish my man would be more subsurface in my continental divide than dedicated to being my boss in this put together in orbit, science vessel traveling beyond impulse speed. Jupiter hurricanes! I’m the Communications Officer, so I get it, but can’t this wait till he delivers his cargo in my bay? Instead he is speaking into his communicator and undocking with me prematurely. So unfair Jake!
Jake looks shocked, listens, recovers, then smiles at me with that damn squawker pressed to his ear. Predacious petticoats this had better be worth me not shooting stars. Jake tells me it’s our ship’s doctor giving us congratulations on me being… what? I pull on the train’s emergency cord. Sectional, 2233 AD, holodeck walls return. A boy?
Jackson kisses my cheek, whispering his suggestion. I frown.
What kind of a name is James Tiberius Kirk?