De Von cruised through space in his Mustang Star Rider. He was a tall, thin black man, and, a roué. A womanizer. A frequenter of asteroid whorehouses, smoky bars, with an affinity for cigarillos made of tobacco grown on Promenodron, that far flung planet in Quadrant Two. He was smiling now, the cockpit of his Star Rider, a small orb that had a bathroom, a dashboard, and a seat that reclined into a bed, filled with swirling whirlpools of smoke. Nate Dogg played from the Star Rider’s speakers, two state-of-the-art black rectangles that thumped loud enough to vibrate his seat.
He was wearing a fedora, and a blue feather rose up from the side rakishly. On his bony fingers were a number of rings. Some were gold, a few encrusted with gemstones. A ruby on his middle finger sat next to a hunk of jade on his index, and, even though he was deep in space, he was wearing gold-lined Aviator sunglasses. His mouth was peeled back, revealing a set of straight, yellowed teeth.
He was thinking. About what? Sex, of course. In his mind he was replaying last night’s liaison from his memory’s stockpile of XXX footage, and, anticipating the action he was about to get. He was flying to Asteroid 37, which had one of the best whorehouses in the galaxy. He’d park his Star Rider, step out fly as a motherfucker in his gator-skin boots, wearing his Armani palisade dress shirt, and with a smile that would knock the honeys dead.