|Dancing to Louie Louie|
|by The Technician|
|[email protected] | Forum Feedback | Published eBooks by Wayne Mitchell (The Technician)Senior Project; Handcuff Island & I, Masochist|
|© Copyright 2015 - The Technician - Used by permission|
WARNING! All of my writing is intended for adults over the age of 18 ONLY. Stories may contain strong or even extreme sexual content. All people and events depicted are fictional and any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental. Actions, situations, and responses are fictional ONLY and should not be attempted in real life. If you are under the age or 18 or do not understand the difference between fantasy and reality or if you reside in any state, province, nation, or tribal territory that prohibits the reading of acts depicted in these stories, please stop reading immediately and move to somewhere that exists in the twenty-first century. Archiving and reposting of this story is permitted, but only if acknowledgment of copyright and statement of limitation of use is included with the article. This story is copyright (c) 2014 by The Technician ( [email protected] ) Individual readers may archive and/or print single copies of this story for personal, non-commercial use. Production of multiple copies of this story on paper, disk, or other fixed format is expressly forbidden.
|Dancing to Louie Louie The Technician Solo-F; M+f+; scifi; alien; spaceship; dancer; naked; crash; escape; party; stage; contest; striptease; crowd; video; voy; cons; X|
A young woman travels a LONG way to attend a Halloween party.
Strange things sometimes happen on Halloween night and no one notices because... it’s Halloween. On what other night could a green female visitor from outer space escape notice – well, not exactly escape notice – it is very hard not to notice a beautiful naked woman dancing on stage, especially if her beautiful, naked body, including her hair, is green.
This story is more Sci-Fi than erotic. There is nudity, but no real sex. It will appeal primarily to the exhibitionists and voyeurs among us. And, of course, it will appeal to the nerds and techies. I guess I belong in that last group. After all, I am “The Technician.”
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Sta-ie-che braced herself as she saw the solid ground rushing toward the escape pod. It had all happened so fast that she had not had time to properly buckle herself into the survival seat. Captain Ha-ie-mak had literally thrown her into the pod moments before impact.
They were supposed to be a contact team. At least, Captain Ha-ie-mak and the four crewmen were supposed to be the contact team. Technically, Sta-ie-che wasn’t a part of the contact team. She wasn’t even a part of the Turillian Space Corps.
She had been added to the mission at the last minute for two reasons, both of which had to do with her position in Turillian life. Sta-ie-che was a pleasure dancer.
Pleasure dancers did what their name implied. They danced for the pleasure of others. Often times that meant dancing on stage in pleasure emporiums for male – or female – Turillians. Sometimes it meant engaging in what was euphemistically called, “The Horizontal Dance,” also for the pleasure of male or female Turillians.
Pleasure dancing was not exactly the most honorable of professions, but it was legal, and a young woman – or man – could save up a significant amount of money in just a few years. They could then use that money to launch themselves into other professions that would have been financially impossible for them to attain.
Sta-ie-che did not need the money. Nor was she planning to become something else in a few years. Her parents, a space fleet admiral and a university professor, would have gladly paid for whatever education she needed for whatever career she wanted to pursue in life. Instead, she turned her back on them to become a pleasure dancer. Her father thought she had done it just to hurt him. It had always pained Sta-ie-che that, to the day of his death, he never understood why she had done so.
It was not a devious or devilish desire to hurt and humiliate her parents that led her into pleasure dancing. It was her love of dance, itself... a love of all forms of dance, not just the rigidly structured dance of the official Turillian dance troupes. And Sta-ie-che could dance!
By the time she had entered junior high school, she had mastered even the most intricate steps required to be admitted into the Academy of Dance. Graduation from the academy was a necessary stepping stone to an honorable dancing career on Turillia. And although few were selected, she would have been eagerly welcomed by the academy. But Sta-ie-che never even applied to the Academy of Dance.
Sta-ie-che was a free spirit who wanted to experience all kinds of dance, not just the limited selection of “officially approved” styles. She was especially intrigued by what the star scopes were now picking up from a very distant planet in a distant solar system. Their music – and their dance – was not rigid. It flowed and it moved – sometimes to slow refrains, sometimes to driving rhythms.
Videos of people from that planet dancing showed them not in the structured lock step of the dance troupes of Turillia, or sitting around quietly watching just one person perform the complex steps of one of the traditional dances. Instead, their movements were wild and free, and there were often many of them moving and pulsing with the music at the same time.
It had been when these videos first began reaching Turillia’s outer ring of sensors that the space corp decided that it was time to contact this planet. They had been keeping an eye on this distant planet for some time as it moved slowly through eras of technological development that in many ways mirrored the development of Turillia.
From the videos, however, it was apparent that this was a very war-like planet, much more so even than Turillia, herself. And now, it was also becoming more and more apparent that the people of the distant, blue planet were planning deep space exploration.
Such exploration would, eventually, bring them into contact with Turillia. So, it was decided that it was time to establish contact and, if the planet showed peaceful intentions, to welcome it as a trading partner. If, as was feared by many, its war-like society was incapable of peace, then Turillia would have no choice but to destroy the planet before it acquired the weaponry or travel technology to become a true threat.
Everyone on the contact ship was a volunteer. To maintain secrecy, the contact ship was launched from the fleet while it was still a great distance from the planet. And because the plan was to land without being detected, it even launched in full concealment mode.
But being totally cloaked requires traveling at a very, very slow pace. In fact, the contact ship had to travel significantly beneath light speed. Even properly shielded, the cosmic waves created by traveling at light speed or above would create ripples in the fabric of time and space that would easily be detected by Turillian sensors, and perhaps by the planet’s star scopes or defense systems.
Reaching the planet from the point of launch at sub-light speed would take two years. A battle cruiser with full power to its star drives could cover that distance in days, or even hours if the captain was willing to risk overheating his engines. But two years is a long time to spend in a small vessel that must maintain complete electronic silence. Crews had broken in less time than that isolated in the darkness of space. So, it was decided that something had to be done to “entertain the troops during the voyage.”
Sta-ie-che was that entertainment. When it was made known that the star corp was seeking a pleasure dancer to accompany a dangerous contact mission, she volunteered. She told her mother that she felt she owed it to her father’s memory to help in this way.
There was a second reason for sending a pleasure dancer on the mission. As near as anyone could determine from the electronic transmissions which were being captured, the people of this planet were very similar to Turillians with one major exception. The people seen in the videos from the planet were pink, brown, red, or even dark black. All Turillians were an equal shade of green.
The five members of the contact team had been chemically and medically modified to be a rather light shade of brown. That, combined with clothing copied from the videos meant that they would be able to mix in with the people of the planet in the early stages of their contact mission.
But so that the main contact group would not be too much of a shock for the inhabitants of the planet, someone was needed on the mission who would remain unaltered... and who would be willing to let the people of the planet examine their body – visually, physically, and perhaps even medically.
Such an action was obviously considered beneath members of the space corps. Pleasure dancers, however, by law were never clothed unless it was part of their dance routine. The climate was controlled on Turillia so clothing was not a necessity, but rather an expected social norm – except for pleasure dancers. Clothing was forbidden them so that everyone would know exactly what they were. And more importantly, no one would mistakenly assume that some other Turillian woman was a pleasure dancer when she was not.
The one item of clothing that pleasure dancers were allowed to wear was shoes and most wore some sort of protection for their feet. This was primarily so that they would not injure themselves in public areas. During a performance, a pleasure dancer was usually barefoot and naked.
Sending along a pleasure dancer was the perfect solution. It would keep the crew “entertained,” and someone like a Sta-ie-che would have no problem allowing anyone – or everyone – to look at her body.
The two years of transit were relatively uneventful. Sta-ie-che sang and danced for the crew on a regular basis. She also sat for hours with them helping them as they practiced the language of the portion of the planet where they would land. As a result, she, herself, became rather proficient in the language.
And yes, she also regularly accompanied them to their rest platforms for horizontal dancing. Captain Ha-ie-mak made sure that her visits were equal to all five men. “You are a blessing and curse,” he told her. “You keep the men happy and entertained, but you can just as easily make them jealous. And that would create problems for the mission.”
He paused before adding, “Remember, the mission is everything.”
Those words were emblazoned somewhere in every room and cubicle aboard the ship. “The Mission is Everything” was the motto of the space corps, and that statement shaped their every thought and action.
They were just circling into their last orbit before final descent when the meteorites hit. Another problem with flying in concealed mode is that you cannot use full shields, and your own sensors aren’t as sensitive as they would normally be.
The sensors did not warn of the approaching meteorite storm because of their size. The individual meteorites were extremely small, but because they were traveling at such high velocity their energy was sufficient to penetrate the reduced shields and breach the hull in several points. The holes themselves were almost minuscule. Life support was able to maintain pressure, but the impact points were in just the wrong places. Three of the four control computers were badly damaged at a very critical time and the craft was barely in control.
The craft had been designed for five men. There was no force chair for Sta-ie-che. So, as they tumbled toward the earth, Captain Ha-ie-mak tore the curtain off the wall which hid the escape pod and literally threw her through the hatch as it automatically opened. He threw the curtain in after her and yelled, “Strap yourself in. We’re going to hit hard.”
There was a slight overlay of fear on the captain’s face and in his voice. Sta-ie-che had never seen that before and she knew immediately that they were not going to hit hard. They were going to crash!
As the door to the pod closed, she heard Captain Ha-ie-mak’s final order to his men, “If any of you survive this, it is imperative to the mission that you send out the safe contact message. The damage beacon sent out an attack warning when those meteorite hits. They will think we were shot down and the fleet will come in with weapons charged and firing.”
He may have said something after that, but the door had already sealed. Shortly afterwards she saw the ground rushing up to meet them. Just before impact, the pod was blown free. Sta-ie-che told herself that the captain had ejected the pod in an attempt to save her life, but she would never know. He may have been sacrificing her in an attempt to save the ship. After all, “The Mission is Everything.”
His motivations would never be known because the ship, itself, was almost immediately lost in a fiery ball of flame as it burrowed deeply into the earth near the top of a large hill. The concealment shields contained most of the explosion before they, themselves, dissolved. Meanwhile, the smaller escape pod skipped off the crest of the hill and bounced across thick vegetation of some sort until it finally came to rest almost a mile from the main crash site.
Sta-ie-che climbed slowly out of the crumpled escape pod. She was bruised, but uninjured. The weather on this planet was not regulated, however, and she felt the cold air blow with icy breath against her bare skin. The silky black curtain provided some protection from the cold, so she wrapped it around her body. The first layer, she wrapped tightly against her skin. The rest of the long curtain she wrapped almost like a cape flowing over her shoulders.
“Well,” she said to herself, “at least it matches my shoes.”
What do you do when you are the lone survivor of a contact ship that has crashed on an alien planet?
“The Mission is Everything.” she said aloud to herself. Sta-ie-che was not a member of the space corps, but she had heard those words from her father many, many times. She had also heard the last orders of the mission commander and there was no one else living who could possibly carry out his commands.
Sta-ie-che knew that she had to somehow make contact with the native population. She then had to somehow convince them that she was part of the space corp. And finally she had to somehow send a message to the fleet that their crash had been accidental.
‘I have to prevent a war between Turillia and... Earth,’ she said to herself as she started walking toward a nearby clearing in the vegetation. ‘And I have to do that with no means of transportation, and no radio.’
She huffed to blow her dark green hair out of her face and said aloud in almost a wail, “Even if I can find a radio, I don’t know the proper frequency or verification codes. Space Fleet won’t believe me. With my green skin, I shouldn’t have much trouble convincing the locals that I am not from this planet, but even then, I don’t know if they will believe me either.”
She huffed again as her hair once more drifted in front of her eyes and added, “Especially since I don’t know what I need to tell them other than the fact that the fleet is about to destroy their planet because our emergency beacon thought we were shot down when we were hit by micro-meteorites.”
She could now see lights moving in the distant clearing and ran toward them. The clearing was some sort of road, and the lights were on a vehicle of some sort that was approaching from the distance. It appeared to have another vehicle hanging from a hoist mechanism behind it. On the side of the second vehicle was a large sign banner that said, “Come to Channel 10's Halloween Junkyard Jam.” In slightly smaller letters beneath that it said, “Halloween Night From Dark ‘Til Dawn.”
As she stepped out of the corn field, the joined vehicles suddenly slowed and pulled over to stop by the side of the road. A glass partition on the side of the first vehicle opened and a voice shouted out, “Are you OK? Did you go off the road into the field? Is anyone hurt? I can send another tow back for your car.”
“I’m OK, ” she answered, hoping that she was pronouncing the words correctly. “I just need to get into town.”
“Looks like you’re headed for the party,” he replied. “That’s where I’m going. Get in, I’ll take you.”
A light came on when he opened a door on the other side of the vehicle. Sta-ie-che gasped as she realized that he could now clearly see her green skin and hair. She waited fearfully for his reaction, but instead he laughed and said, “Neat costume.” Then he added, “I guess you and I are definitely headed for the same place.”
Sta-ie-che had no idea what he meant, but understood with relief that he thought that she was disguised in some way for a party. She decided that it would probably be safer to accompany him there and then try to figure out what to do next. She remained quiet as they drove. She wasn’t sure what to say, and besides, once they pulled away, it was difficult to hear over the roar of the old engine and the rattle and rumble of the aging vehicle.
“What’s your name?” he said loudly.
Without thinking she immediately answered, “Sta-ie-che,” and gasped slightly as she waited for his reaction to such a strange sounding name.
“You’re not from around her, are you Stacey?” he replied. “You’ve got sort of a strange accent.”
“Stacey...” that was a name she had heard on the videos from this planet. “I’m from the far north,” she answered. The people from the far north on Turillia had a strange way of speaking and she hoped that was also the case on this planet.
“My name is Jake,” the driver yelled over to her. “I’m the early morning host on Channel Ten. The station does this Junkyard Jam every year on Halloween, and I’ve been emceing the dance contest for the last five years. It’s gotten raunchier every year, but the station still sponsors it because almost every year, the video of the winner of our dance contest goes viral on the internet.”
He looked over at her and asked, “Did you see last year’s contest?”
“Yes,” Sta-ie-che answered. Then she reflexively added, “But I can dance better than that.”
She wasn’t sure whether or not she had seen the particular video of which he spoke, but she was pretty sure that what she said about being able to dance better than the winner was true. Sta-ie-che could dance better than almost anyone.
“If you can,” he yelled back over the noise of the truck, “not only will you win a thousand bucks, the station has arranged an interview and a clip on the Today Show tomorrow morning.”
“What is ‘The Today Show?’” she asked.
As they pulled into a large open area with many vehicles parked around it – some were even stacked one on top of the other – he said, “You really aren’t from around here, are you? Are you telling me that you have never heard of The Today Show?”
Sta-ie-che gnawed at her lower lip as she debated her answer. Finally she said, “I am a pleasure dancer from the planet Turillia. I was with a contact ship that was supposed to land in secret and contact your government leaders. It crashed. I’m the only survivor and I have to figure out a way to get a message back to the fleet so they don’t think your government has shot us down.”
She looked over at Jake with wide eyes as she waited for him to respond. She didn’t know for sure what he would say, but she absolutely did not expect his laughter. “Keep it up, Stacey,” he choked out between laughs. “If you can stay in character that well for the contest, our winner just might be a green Turillian pleasure dancer.”
He got out of the truck and hurried over to the passenger door. “I tell you what,” he said. “With that great costume and makeup, I can use you in some clips tomorrow morning on our early show. If you keep in character all night – or at least until I leave after the dance contest ends at midnight – I’ll pay your twenty-five dollar entry fee for the dance contest.”
With that he ushered her over to the table where a variety of women in various costumes stood in line. Jake dragged her to the head of the line and said to one of the two young women sitting at the table, “Let’s get her registered so we can get some background shots of her here at the party.” He laughed and said, “She says she’s going to win.” Another laugh. “Who knows? She might. And if she does, we’ll have a great package for my segment that’s going on network.”
The woman looked up and said, “Name?”
She answered, “Sta-ie-che,” but when the woman looked very confused, she repeated it as “Stacey.”
“Last name?” the woman said, not looking up from the form in front of her.
“We don’t have what you call last names on Turillia,” Stacey answered.
Jake was barely controlling his laughter as he stood behind her. “I told her that if she stayed in character, I would pay her entry fee,” he said. “Just put down Turillia as her last name.”
“I don’t know what you want?” Stacey answered.
“Write in the station’s address,” Jake said from behind her. “We can sort out the official stuff later if she actually wins.”
A few minutes later, she was standing near the side of the stage with Jake. “If you don’t mind,” he said, “I’m going to save you for last. You got any questions?”
Stacey looked at the other contestants gathered with her and said, “I didn’t realize that you have pleasure dancers on your planet.”
“What do you mean?” Jake asked.
“That girl there,” she said, pointing to a tall blond in a naughty nurse costume, “she is displaying her body as though seeking someone to dance with in a horizontal dance. Only a pleasure dancer would be allowed to do that on Turillia.
“And that woman who is covered in some sort of dye or paint. Except for some small pieces of tape over her nipples and some sort of cloth that barely covers her sexual opening, she is naked. Is that not the sign of a pleasure dancer?”
Jake laughed again. “I have to admit, your makeup is much better than hers. It almost looks like your hair and skin are really green.” He lifted one of the folds of the black curtain which concealed most of Sta-ie-che’s body. “Hopefully it’s as good under this witch’s robe as what I can see on your face and hands because you are going to have to lose this in order to dance for the contest.”
“Pleasure dancers always dance naked,” she replied, “unless the clothing is worn to be removed as part of the dance routine.”
“You are precious,” Jake answered. “I’m really looking forward to seeing you dance, but right now I have to do my emcee bit and get this party going.”
He then leaned in a little closer to her and said softly, “A word of advice. If you are really interested in winning this contest, just hang around here at the stage. Let the other girls get drunk on their asses. It doesn’t improve their dancing, even if it does really loosen them up.”
Sta-ie-che was not sure what “drunk on their asses”or “loosen them up” meant. Neither was a phrase in the language programs, but from the tone of Jake’s voice, it was apparent that it would be better for her to follow his advice. Besides, she wasn’t sure how long she could keep up her masquerade in the crowd before she was discovered. So, for the next hour or so, she stood near the side of the stage watching the party.
It appeared to her that the primary aim of most of those at the party was to consume as much intoxicating drink as possible and to go off into the darkness to have sex with as many different partners as possible.
‘Not a whole lot different than what young people back home do on some of our own festivals,’ she thought to herself, ‘but I had best remain fully sober tonight.’
The deejay, who was also alongside the stage, was playing a lot of music which she had never heard before. Every so often, though, he would play what he called “an oldie.” Sta-ie-che was surprised that she knew almost all of the oldies, but none of what was evidently new music. ‘I thought I listened to everything that could be picked up, even what was relayed from the outer sensors,’ she said silently to herself, ‘... but there seems to be a gap of many years.’
Then she looked more closely at the vehicles and equipment at the party. The vehicles she was familiar with from the videos were the rusted hulks stacked around the edges of the junkyard. Obviously they were years old and had worn out. The clothing of those few who were not in costumes was also very different from what was expected.
“Light-years,” she suddenly said aloud. Then continuing silently she told herself ‘They forgot about the time it takes for the primitive electronic signals of this planet to get to Turillian receivers. The contact crew was prepared for earth life as it was years ago.’
She gasped and almost shouted, “That means that any message sent to the fleet with this planet’s technology would take years to get there. My only chance is to send a message that will get to General Wi-cho as he approaches the planet, but before he attacks.”
She knew from her father’s dinnertime conversations that the fleet would be monitoring the transmissions from the planet as they approached. That, however, could be millions of messages and transmissions. Whatever message Sta-ie-che sent had to be something that would stand out amidst the electronic clutter of the planet.
The deejay, standing next to her, startled at her outburst, said, “Man! You are really in character. What are you supposed to be?”
Sta-ie-che replied, “I am a pleasure dancer from the planet Turillia. Our contact ship crashed and I am the only survivor. If I don’t get a message to General Wi-cho before the fleet arrives, they will destroy this planet. We were hit by meteorites, but our emergency beacon thought we were shot down and sent a message saying that we were attacked.”
The young man started laughing. “So what do pleasure dancers dance to?” he asked, pointing down at his control board.
“Let me watch some of the other dancers,” she replied. “I have to think. It has to be just the right tune. The existence of this planet depends upon me winning this contest.”
“Whatever you say,” he said with another laugh and then turned on his mic to introduce the next song.
Finally the dance competition itself began. Sta-ie-che stood by the stage and watched the dancers as Jake introduced them. The first was a young blond dressed in a very short, black dress. She had soft leather, high-heeled boots that came almost up to her knees and a strange, pointed hat. She looked over at the deejay and shortly after that a deep voice came over the speakers saying, “I was working in the lab, late one night...”
The girl swayed slowly around the stage until the music changed and the voice began yelling – you couldn’t really call it singing– “He did the mash, he did the monster mash...”
The girl began jumping and moving around almost like she was running in place and stamping out insects at the same time. Sta-ie-che almost wanted to laugh at how terrible the girl’s dancing was. Then the girl threw her hat into the crowd and the crowd cheered. Her tiny black dress followed to more cheers, leaving her dancing on stage in just her boots, a lacy black bra, and a tiny black thong. Just as the song finished out with “Then you can mash, then you can monster mash,” she whipped off the bra and threw it out into the crowd before dashing off stage.
The deejay looked up at her as she stood laughing next to the stage. “What’s wrong?” he asked.
“They don’t train pleasure dancers very well on this planet, do they?” she said with a laugh.
“She’s not the best,” he replied with a shrug. Then, as a very drunk redhead wobbled onto the stage, he added, “but she’s not the worst.”
The redhead was terrible. She could barely stand up. She dropped her clothing at the edge of the stage, staggered to front, center stage and fell over backwards. She lay there on her back, barely conscious, with her knees drawn up and her legs spread wide as her song continued to play and the crowd hooted and made gross comments.
The deejay looked over at Sta-ie-che and shook his head. “OK,” he said, nodding his head toward the stage, “she’s the worst... the worst I’ve ever seen. And she is the worst every year. At least this year she didn’t puke all over the front row.”
A rather large man dressed in black jeans and a black T-shirt with the word “Security” on it came out onto the stage, picked up the redhead and threw her over his shoulder. He slapped her ass loudly as he carried her off stage, but she didn’t respond at all.
A few minutes later, a very stunning woman in a cowgirl outfit strode out onto the stage. A white cowboy hat contrasted greatly with the ebony skin of her face. Her white leather dress, even with the row of fringe around the hem, barely covered her ass. It was easily apparent that there was only a very tiny thong beneath it. A skimpy vest more or less covered her ample breasts. It was also very obvious that there was no bra under the vest. White boots with several rings of fringe on the top completed her ensemble.
This girl could dance. She bounced around the stage as her music blared. She had a microphone in her hand and was singing along with the recorded song. When it got to a chorus phrase, she would point the microphone at the crowd and they would join with “Save a horse, ride a cowboy.”
The music then changed to an instrumental of some sort and the cowgirl started stripping off her outfit. Unlike some of the other girls, she did not throw her clothing into the crowd, but dropped each piece onto the stage. When she was down to just her minuscule white thong– and of course, her boots– the chant of “Take it off, Take it off, Take it off,” roared up from the crowd.
In response, she toyed with the string sides of the thong for the final few bars of the song, but it was still in place when she bowed to the crowd at the end of the dance. After a few moments of applause, she turned around and bowed deeply to the back of the stage. When she bent over, it was almost as if she were naked on stage. The thin white stripe of fabric did nothing to hide her rear hole which she presented to the crowd. The crowd roared its approval all the while she was bent over carefully picking up all of her clothing from the stage. She turned to face the audience once again before bowing slightly and leaving the stage.
“She could win,” observed the deejay. “It helps a lot if you sing, and especially if you work the crowd like that. If she wins, the video of her dance will be all over the net. If it goes viral, it will be seen worldwide and will be picked up on all the major news networks.”
“I know how to send the message!” Sta-ie-che exclaimed suddenly.
“You’re really into your character tonight, aren’t you?” replied the deejay.
“I need something to write on,” she said excitedly, and the deejay handed her a couple of small cards and a pen. “When the music changes...” she began writing on the first card
On the second card she wrote down two songs. She handed him the second card and said, “This is the music I want you to play.” Then she handed him a third card with orders to give it to “the big earthling dressed in black.” The deejay was laughing and shaking his head as she scampered off to take the first card to Jake.
By the time she returned, two more girls had danced on stage. Neither was very good. Sta-ie-che stood nervously at the edge of the stage area waiting for her turn on stage. Jake had said he was saving her for last, and he kept to his word. She waited for almost another hour.
None of the other girls who came on stage while Sta-ie-che was waiting were really notable, except for another girl who was so drunk that she was barely able to stumble on stage. She was naked as she walked up the steps to the stage, and it was obvious that she had recently had sex. At least she stayed upright. The crowd both cheered and booed as she staggered around the stage attempting to dance. Finally it became so pathetic that the deejay faded out her music and the security man walked onto the stage to escort her off.
When she was gone, Jake bellowed into his microphone, “I’ve saved this final dancer for last because she has come from such a long distance to join us tonight. Put your hands together for Sta-ie-che from the planet Turillia!”
The crowd screamed and applauded as Sta-ie-che flowed onto the stage, but they soon became silent as classical musical played from the speakers. She was still wearing the long dress formed by the black curtain as she pirouetted on point across the stage like a dancer from the Bolshoi Ballet. As she performed several of the classical ballet steps from Turillia, the silence slowly changed to cries of derision.
Sta-ie-che ignored the boos and hisses until the man in the black shirt was walking across the stage. She then curled herself slightly and pointed to the deejay as she pulled a microphone out from the folds of her dress and yelled, “Hit it!”
The heavy twanging beat of that great oldie, Louie, Louie suddenly blared from the speakers. As the security man grasped her dress, Sta-ie-che spun away from him until she was standing naked on the stage. She then faced the audience and began a leg-wobbling dance which she had seen someone named Tina Turner do on several of the older video transmissions from this planet.
As she danced, she was singing in time to the music. “Ut-ti-ma Wi-Cho, whoa... oh... oh, oh... pela-too-pa-wa-chi... ba-la-me-ka.” She repeated it as the music looped once again through the riff, “Ut-ti-ma Wi-Cho, whoa... oh... oh, oh... pela-too-pa-wa-chi... ke-na-muka... ba-la-me-ka.”
Jake’s voice blasted over the speakers, “Sta-ie-che is trying to send a message to her fellow Turillians begging them not to destroy our planet. She needs your help. Sing along with her....”
Sta-ie-che pointed the microphone toward the audience as she sang loudly, “Ut-ti-ma Wi-Cho, whoa... oh... oh, oh... pela-too-pa-wa-chi... ba-la-me-ka. ... Ut-ti-ma Wi-Cho, whoa... oh... oh, oh... pela-too-pa-wa-chi... ke-na-muka... ba-la-me-ka.”
The crowd followed along with her. They were totally butchering the words, but it was loud and raucous. “This time in English,” she yelled as her dance changed to a bouncing hop across the front of the stage. She then began to sing, “General Wi-cho, whoa... oh.. oh.. it was an accident... meteorites... Oh, General Wi-cho, whoa.. oh.. oh.. it was an accident... do not attack... it was an accident... oh, oh, oh.”
The crowd began singing with her as she spun and danced upon the stage. As she bounded from one end of the stage to the other, she used several of the standard pleasure dancer moves which thrust her cunt or her ass toward the audience while she simulated the pelvic motions of sexual union. The noise from the crowd was a combination of applause, screams, and the drunken shouting of the words she was singing.
The record was “the long version,” so it continued for several more minutes. When the song finally ended she stood straight in the middle of the stage, bowed once using only her head, and strode from the stage as a proper pleasure dancer was expected to do.
Carson Daley stood in the orange room of The Today Show and said, “Halloween always brings out the weirdest of the weird, but this viral Halloween video of last night and today tops it all. We can’t show you all of this video. We can’t even show you most of it. Even with portions blacked out by our censors, it’s a little too much for morning television, but here’s a small excerpt.”
The screen cut to the video at the point where Jake was introducing Sta-ie-che. Black squares covered her breasts and pelvic area as she spun out of her dress and began to dance across the stage. The crowd’s singing was slurred, but understandable.
The scene cut to a portion of the set where Matt, Jake and Sta-ie-che were seated. As the camera came in for a close up of her green face, he said to Sta-ie-che, “I see that you are still in costume. That must be some really good makeup to survive all that dancing and then a flight here to New York.”
“It is not a costume,” replied Sta-ie-che. “It is the separation curtain from the escape pod to our spacecraft. I was the only survivor. We were hit by micro-meteorites, but the emergency beacon broadcast that we had been shot down. Captain Ha-ie-mak’s final command was that anyone who survived should get the message back to General Wi-cho that it was an accident and to make peaceful contact. I am hoping that he got the message.”
She smiled a rather nervous smile and continued, “Otherwise, the fleet will destroy earth.”
Matt was trying very hard not to laugh as he asked the next question. “So, do you think he got the message?”
Before Sta-ie-che could answer, Carson suddenly ran into the image, stopped and looked back into the orange room. “I am being told,” he said in a very measured pace, “... that our Twitter and Facebook accounts have just been hacked in some fashion. My screens are filled with a message that purports to be from General Wi-cho. He is demanding Sta-ie-che to give the proper contact frequency and verification codes.”
Sta-ie-che stood up and faced the cameras. She said something in Turillian and then switched to English. “I know you can hear and see me, General Wi-cho. And I know that I am but a humble pleasure dancer.” She dropped the black garment to the floor revealing her green body. She then stepped out of the shoes and walked closer to the camera.
Surprisingly, no one on the set moved to stop her and the director’s voice could be heard yelling “No! Stay on her! Stay on her! Stay on her!”
“Please do not attack,” she continued. “It was an accident. We were struck by meteorites that the sensors evidently interpreted as an attack from the planet’s surface. The proper frequencies and verification codes died with the crew.”
She paused and a look of deep sorrow covered her face as if for the first time she fully accepted the death of the five men who had become her friends. Then she recovered herself and spoke once again, “I am the only survivor. And I am only a pleasure dancer. But as the daughter of Admiral Mo-cha-nee, I was bound to complete the mission. This was the only way I could think of to send you a safe contact message.”
She paused and looked directly into the camera in front of her. “The mission is everything,” she said quietly. Tears of relief were streaming down her face as she added, “Peaceful contact has been made. I have discovered that the people of this planet are not that much different from the people of Turillia. Peace is definitely possible between us if we both want it– which I’m sure we both do– and if we are willing to work toward it.”
She paused once again to wipe a tear from her eye and said softly, “I am sure that the government of this planet will transmit all needed contact information to you shortly.”
And that, my friends, is how one Halloween night, a naked pleasure dancer from the planet Turillia became the first alien ambassador to planet Earth.
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