Running from the Dystopian Robots from the Outer Rim of the Hihhiash Asteroid Belt (pt. 1)

So there I am running.
And there they are chasing me.
Frigging lynchmobs, I think,
as I make a left turn down a dark alley.
Did I mention my laser cannon arm has been on the fritz since I spent the
night with that whore in Reno?
And that renders me still unstoppable, except against an angry mob of robot
dystopians from the outer rim of the Hihhiash asteroid belt,
which is what I'm running from right now.
And boy are they mad.
Stop.
I stop behind an old dumpster,
freeze,
as they run by with their motion detectors,
and here comes the group with the carbon detectors,
so I move on like a cat hopped up on speed,
find an old door that leads into a skanked out building.
I ram it in, no problem, for my hydraulic legs.
Just takes one little kick and the thing
flings and flies off its hinges,
and I'm presented with the dark interior of a building that smells
like Billy Idol's BO.

And back to the dystopian robots and why they're so damn mad.
We got into a shouting match
one night
on a trading outpost in
the Sesariastop Region of Qst 19
about who was the bigger asshole,
Tom Cruise or Tom Selleck.
Not that I really cared either way,
but I was drunk on some
good bootlegged alien whiskey,
and feeling my vapors, me a boy of just 19 millenia (Earth time),
and I was looking for a fight.
Plus, these dystopians, they'd been pushing my buttons all day.
You know the type
(imagine super aggressive goth kids like you'd see at your suburban mall, only thirteen feet tall, hopped up on goofballs, and armed to the teeth with fusion violators and macrocellular albatrosses and the likes; not a pretty picture).
And they'd been in my face all day,
challenging me into long discussions
about nihilism and poetry
(which I hate)
and how great American hot dogs are
and how great Americans are,
and I'd just finally had it with them.
We went toe to toe for hours about who
was the bigger asshole, Selleck or Cruise,
and finally I won when I pulled
Look Who's Talking
out of my hat.
"Anyone who starred in that movie is one of the world's biggest assholes, bar none," and they all jabberwockied around for several minutes, considered throwing Top Gun and that horrible Far and Away at me, but finally decided I'd beaten them.
Selleck was crowned the huger of two assholes.
And then it was really on.
One of these dystopes, I think his name was Rockie 9730,
he was pretty high at that point, and he pulled a
Warhese interceptor on me, which I don't take kindly to,
and I says, "Drop the interceptor, Rockie," but he doesn't.
So, quicker than a lightning bug taking a dump on the summer solstice,
I lit him up with my cannon laser arm, and splitting him in two
and just as nice as you like.
By the time his buddies knew what was going on,
old Rocky was just pile of smouldering rubble,
and I was well on my way out of Rose's Cantina
and into the next transport leaving for Tau Ceti,
where I knew those lousy dystopes wouldn't dare follow me.

And they didn't.

But then, a week ago,
I was in this quaint little whorehouse in this little one horse
town
just south of Reno,
and all of a sudden shit was hitting the fan from every direction.
I headed straight for the Badlands, and managed to elude those
dystopian bastards.

But here we are. Here and now.
They're right on my tail, and I'm holed up in this dark,
dank old building
and suddenly,
"What's this?"
There's a thrumming coming from down the hall
and around the corner.
I immediatly know the sound of that vibration,
and I head for the end of the hall.
In case I've never told you, my brother, Jason Hightower is this religious zealot who lives in Nashville, but he's employed by the Universe Engineering Corporation, located out of the Wassasha Province in the distant Narin Galaxy. He punches wormholes into the fabric of existence.
So, I threw open the door,
and there was the dizzying punctuation of a wormhole,
swirling,
and that thrumming sound the closer you get heads you
straight nauseated,
and I was feeling like hell anyway from running
on a hangover for three days with no sleep
and no metabolites
or any speed
to keep me going.
I stopped, bent at the waist and puked some real nasty,
stringy yellow bile, and not feeling any better
stood there a moment, thinking about my asshole brother Jason.
If I leap, I'm going to have to listen to him try to talk me into
religion again, and I'm tired of his ranting.
But just then, a dozen or more dystopes fly down the hall at me,
macrocellular albatrosses at the ready, and so I leapt for the wormhole.