And Deep Throat kept slipping below the horizon—
massive, all-devouring,
like a cosmic porn goddess
staring down from above
and whispering:
"Come closer…
all roads lead into me anyway."Zeros shook his head.
0.0002 seconds.
Exactly how long it took to reboot his aggression.
He took a deep breath—
well, as deep as a droid can take with a toxic-gas filter instead of lungs—
and thought:
“Alright…
time to go drag that idiot Blindy’s dumb sack to the hangar
and start the goddamn space opera.”
And the night sky,
and the garbage stars,
and the burning horizon,
and Deep Throat—
all kept turning,
like a colossal cosmic theater
performed for an audience of exactly one.
And when Deep Throat finally dipped fully below the world,
from the opposite side rose Suckalia—
dim, embarrassed, slightly lopsided—
slipping onto the sky like she was late to her shift
and now trying desperately to pretend
she was the “main light source” on this cursed planet.
Zeros let out a short metallic clank—
a sound like a wrench hitting an empty pipe.
It was his laugh.
The only laugh he was capable of.
That pathetic little orange excuse of a star
reminded him of Blindy.
Just as lopsided.
Just as unnecessary.
Just as desperate to seem more important than it actually was.
Meanwhile Suckalia lazily spilled its crappy orange glow,
lighting the world like a cheap stairwell bulb
that hasn’t yet realized
someone’s about to throw a brick at it
and put it out of its misery.
Zeros blinked with his vertical shutters.
His voice came out quiet, almost gentle:
“Stupid star… you’re basically a Blindy on a cosmic scale.”
He snorted—
like venting steam from an overheated system—
and started walking backward along the rusted crane boom,
toward the access ladder by the operator cabin,
which groaned in agony under every heavy metallic step.
He was already thinking about how he’d explain to Blindy
that today he lost a competition
to the sun
in the grand category:
“Most Useless Bright Shit in the Universe.”
Halfway across, Zeros stopped.
Completely.
He froze for a moment—
as if an inner voice had kicked on,
a voice that rarely spoke
but always nailed it:
“I hate ladders.”
He spread his arms wide,
as if preparing to embrace gravity itself,
turned around,
and ran straight back toward the edge of the crane.
On the final foot, he folded at the waist,
as if the air beneath him had become a flat line,
gathered momentum,
and in one fluid motion leaped forward—
sharp, elegant,
and utterly insane.
His body dropped downward,
turning in a perfect machine somersault—
like an Olympic diver,
if Olympic divers jumped
from 1,312 feet straight down, headfirst,
and experienced pure, sincere joy while doing it.
The air whistled along his joints,
sliding over the metal in thin strings of resonant wind.
Gravity tried to say:
"Are you out of your fucking mind?!"But it was too late.
A fraction of a second before impact,
Zeros arched his body,
twisted around his axis,
and landed—
not softly, not carefully—
but like a sixty-ton dump truck
falling off a crane hook and deciding:
"JERONIMOOOO!!!"The impact rolled through the ground like a shockwave,
kicking up a column of dust, debris, and shattered stone.
The crane above shuddered,
shifted back nearly half a foot,
and began to sway,
its hook rattling violently,
as if asking The android:
"Easy! EASY, you clanking asshole!"A fresh crater formed at the landing site—
just a bit deeper than the previous one,
added neatly to the chain of identical craters
Zeros had left every time
ladders pissed him off.
He straightened.
Completely calm.
As if he had just stepped off a curb.
The metal of his arms steamed lightly—
then cooled instantly.
A short, relaxed growl escaped the android:
“I hate gravity.”
And he kept walking down the street,
leaving the fresh crater
and thoroughly offended gravity behind him.