The triple suns hung low and purple over the surface of the nameless planet, casting overlapping shadows of mauve and turquoise-fuschia, and wondering vaguely what the planetary union steward would have to say about all three of them playing the same gig at the same time. (No matter what they decided, MTV always seemed to get away with that sort of thing.)
It might have turned on it's axis for untold millennia, this planet that had no name, or for even longer than that…Except, of course, that it no longer had an axis. It used to have one, as all planets do, but it had misplaced it somewhere or other. Also it's equator, large quantities of bedrock, the occasional volcano (known in scientific terms as Brainitis Farticus) and a population of predominately blond and very tan humanoid-type beings (to destroy the environment, justify taxes and play tennis on weekends).
This planet had it all.
This planet had it made.
What it also had was amnesia.
Not only did the PLANET have amnesia, but anyone inhabiting it, anyone within its gravitational pull and anyone receiving its bulk mailing circulars in the post ALSO had amnesia. Needless to say, anyone landing at one of its three (five? six?) spaceports was doomed to forget where they parked the car. In fact, anyone in anyway connected to the place was certain - within a short span of time - to forget their purpose, their past and their name. (Making the planet a fine melting pot of lethargists, politicians, and those in the witness protection program.)
Unfortunate space travelers had been known to land on the surface of the planet, never to leave again, wandering and wondering for years before deciding to shuffle off the mortal coil (that is, they could if they remembered where they had put it.) In fact the only chance a naturalized Amnesian HAD of leaving the planet's general vicinity, was by some impossibly improbable fluke…like absentmindedly sitting on a spaceship console button, that consequently hurtled the craft THROUGH the wall of the spaceport and out into the endless cosmos.
Which is, of course, exactly what Tasha did.
"TASHA!" Mollie climbed out from under a towering heap of VOGUE (or is that Vague?) magazines and glared across the cabin. "What have you done?"
Tasha frowned, inspecting her fingernails for chips or breakage. "I think I just placed a VERY good manicure in TOTAL jeopardy…Mollie, your hair is a MESS!"
Mollie climbed shakily over a mountain of free cosmetics samples, empty Perrier bottled and nail polish color swatches, and calmly began throttling her sister.
"GKQSTTWXQTZ…!"
Mollie paused as Tasha swung at her with a
tea towel, inexplicably emblazoned with the likeness of William Wallace playing chess with
Abraham Lincoln. (Tourism, sheesh!) "What?"
Her face turning it's normal color (Mary Kay oil free foundation light beige #3.5), Tasha
repeated her outburst. "I said GKQSTTWXQTZ!"
Mollie counted to ten, twice, then repeated her inquiry. "WHAT?!?1"
Tasha handed her a piece of paper, which had been pinned to the wall with a tack that was functional, but a very unflattering color.
"G.K.Q.S.T.T.W.X.Q.T.Z…" Mollie read slowly.
"There," Tasha fluffed her hair ever perfect hair. "And don’t get mad at ME because you happen to be hair impaired today."
Mollie shook the paper helplessly, before
clearing a patch of the deck to sink on to. "Tasha, what do those letters mean?"
Tasha shrugged. "I don't remember."
"Where have we been?"
"I don’t remember."
"How long have we been where we've been?"
"I don't remember."
"How fast does a cheetah run?"
"I don't remem…"
"That's IT!" Mollie exploded, leaping up and snatching an intergalactic planetary highway index from a disreputable looking bookshelf. She rifled through its pages. "We've been on the Amnesia Planet. It must be! How else could we have wound up on a dilapidated, rubbish packed space ship with no idea of where we came from?"
Tasha considered. "Bad Karma?"
Ignoring her for once, Mollie began searching for a calendar amidst the rubble.
"Maybe we WERE on the Amnesia Planet," Tasha admitted, as Mollie continued her search. "Apparently we forgot to take out the garbage. A lot!"
"But how long were we THERE?" Mollie muttered, emerging fruitless from a cupboard with one door. "How will we ever find out?"
Tasha wrinkled her brow, then smoothed it hastily, before the wrinkle got any ideas of permanence. "We could look at these magazines…" she suggested.
Mollie sighed. "Tasha, I have told you before, Vogue does not hold all the answers!"
Tasha tossed her head. "Cosmopolitan?"
Mollie groaned.
"No, look," Tasha insisted. "If we can find the oldest issue, that will be the date we started to forget to take out the garbage, and the most recent issue would be close to the date it is now, and the numbers in the middle would tell us how long was in between."
Mollie gazed at her in surprise. "Tasha, that was almost math."
Tasha beamed modestly, and they began to sort the magazines into piles. Several hours later, Tasha swooned dramatically onto one of the larger heaps. "I've discovered something."
Mollie hurried over. "What? What is it?"
"I LOATH Cindy Crawford."
Mollie sank into a chair. "It's hopeless! We'll NEVER discover everything we've lost! Face it, Tasha, our efforts here are totally impotent!"
As if answering a summons, a large heap of magazines in the corner heaved and sputtered, then scattered across the floor to reveal a thin, greasy, bespectacled man, clutching a calculator and a diploma from Anal Retentive University (ARU).
Tasha rolled her eyes. "Speak of the devil…"
Buttoning her blouse firmly up to her chin, Mollie hauled the dazed and rumpled man into the open, noticing that he exuded the distinct combined aromas of lite beer, cheap cologne and swamp muck.
"Snerdly," she demanded, smacking him once to silence his technobabble, and again because it made her feel better. "WHAT IS GOING ON?"
Clutching his briefcase with a ferret-like sneer, Snerdly gave what passed for a smile. In Las Vegas. "If I tell you, what will you give me in return?" he leered.
"We'll let you live."
Shrugging, the weasel in question opened the briefcase withdrew a fresh pocket protector. "I DO know what's been going on - I kept a journal the entire time we were on or near that planet," he retorted, switching his leer in Tasha's direction. "You were never far enough away from the atmosphere to regain your memory, but I know EVERYTHING."
Mollie stamped her foot. "Oh yeah?" she blazed, sticking a random copy of ELLE to his snout with an extra bit of nail glue from Tasha's purse. "If you know everything, tell us what GKQSTTWXZQT means."
Flushing guiltily, Snerdly made his way to the closet, and fought his way through seventeen of Tasha's outfits to emerge with a personal organizer book that was roughly the size of Manhattan. Pawing through the pages, he found the corresponding entry (having cross-referenced by number, type, subject and bust measurement…) and peered at the page in satisfaction.
"WHAT IS IT?" Tasha and Mollie demanded, lunging for the book.
Snerdly eluded them momentarily, but paused to tear the magazine from his nose, with the expected uncomfortable results.
"Aaaaarrrrggghhhh!!"
Clutching is proboscis (no, Snerdly, that does not mean what you think it does. At ALL.), Snerdly threw the book in the air. Triumphantly swooping towards the floor and back (See? Salon quality products really DO help you to defy gravity!) Tasha captured a loose page from the binder before the rest of it careened off into the depths of a periodicals oubliette.
Stunned, the sisters read the writing that surrounded a truly horrific NEON LITES logo, done in chartreuse and mustard. Plaid.
Snerdly leaped and grappled for the publicity poster (a tussle he enjoyed FAR too much) until Mollie threatened him (and the nearest chair) with the rest of the nail glue.
"Don't mix up the pages," he sulked, combing a greasy lock back into position. "You've no IDEA how many planets we've been to since you two got amnes…"
"WHAT?"
Snerdly just looked smug.
"Why," demanded Mollie, "didn't YOU get amnesia?"
Snerdly shrugged. "I…" he replied loftily, "haven't got any right brain."
Mollie turned back to the poster. "GKQSTTWXZQT," she read over Tasha's shoulder. "It's a radio station! Broadcasts to over three thousand planets!" She glared accusingly at Snerdly. "Apparently they sponsored our last tour."
Snerdly shrugged sulkily, despite the fact that he hated alliteration. "Concert promoter planet. It was good business!"
"New image?" Tasha read. "New Sound?"
Snerdly glared defensively. "Makeover planet. I got a freebie."
Mollie peered closer at the poster and fixed Snerdly with a LOOK. "All rights reserved, Snerdly Slimebottom Enterprises?!"
Snerdly threatened her with a wildly waving "Lawsuit Pending" printout. "I know the coordinates to the Lawyer Planet and I'll USE them, I warn you!"
Further argument was interrupted as a hatch from the hallway opened, and two figures strode in, talking heatedly. The first, a huge, bearded man carrying bagpipes, kicked a pile of magazines out of his path with casual violence, instantly burying (but scarcely slowing down) his companion.
"Och, I SAID I'd play the pipes at the outdoor concerrrt, aye!" he roared, "AND I even went oot on the bloody BOAT, on bloody LOCH NESS to do it! I'm not afrrraid, Man, ye ken fine well tha' I'm no'…but when I saw that evil, slimy craytur, risin' oot o' the depths an' comin' at me, I near peed me kilt! Och, Lad, it were an evil face it were, a dishonest face, a leering face, sea and slime but strangely human…an' I say 'twas a monster in fact or me name isn't Hamish MacHamish!"
The second figure, burrowing up from the depths of the Vogue volcano, emerged still clutching a fiddle and grinning helpfully. "Aye, weel…`twas nae shame tae be taken aback, ye've a right tae be upset…" He reached up to pat the giant man's shoulder. WAY up.
"Upset!!" Hamish bellowed, highland flinging a few copies of TV Guide across the bridge. "They niver PAID me for that gig!!!"
"There noo…" soothed the fiddler (whose name was Craig-MacCraig-of-Glasgow). "Likely ye'll niver see the slimey beastie agin…"
His voice was cut off by a strangled cry from Hamish, who had just caught sight of Snerdly. "Loch monster!!!" The piper shrieked in consternation, and promptly fainted.
"MMMMppphhh!" said the fiddler, who had unfortunately broken his fall. (This, by the way, is an ancient Celtic phrase that translates loosely as: "I'll have what he's drinking".)
Tasha and Mollie began to stare accusingly at Snerdly, who shrugged sheepishly. "Scotsman Planet?" he offered.
Before the girls could reply, another hatch slid open, and Sparki (erstwhile band member; real name: Sparadicus…) breezed through in all her rainbow brilliance.
"Like greetings, Dude, Dudettes, Snerdman and fiddler…I come in peace, love and all that totally cool Greenpeacey stuff, you know?"
Her gaze rested on the sputtering figure in the corner and her eyes narrowed in puzzlement. "Whoa, Snerd-Dude, you've got this totally bogus hickey on your nose!"