The Zdravo, shiny and glinting in the light of the distant sun, was docked at the Federation space station, awaiting her new captain. Senior Dockworker Hugh Johnson and his crew had just meticulously removed the protective tarp from the newly constructed vessel, revealing her glory to the universe.
The universe wasn’t all that impressed.
Space Marshal Phil Orr, on the other hand, soiled his pants with joy. Also, semen. The Zdravo was the cutting edge of space-faring technology, all sharp and pointy and fast and shit. Launching her under the flag of the Federation was his way of telling all the non-Federation governments in the universe to suck it. And, man, they were some asshole governments.
Space Marshal Orr escorted the newly promoted Captain Oswald Van Vanderhoort Van Tyler to the viewing platform overlooking the Zdravo.
“Well, Captain Tyler, here she is, the Zdravo. Your home for the next six years.”
“She looks like a penis.”
“… a penis?”
“A penis. A big one at that.”
“I don’t know that I’d...”
Space Marshall Orr looked at the Zdravo again. She did look like a penis, all long and narrow and kind of bulbous at the front. And her twin rear engines uncannily resembled swollen testicles.
“How did I not see that?” he said, shaking his head. “Anyway, I suppose we should get back and work on getting a crew together for you.”
“We’re gonna fill that giant flying dong with a ton of seamen.”
“That would be the Navy, Captain.”
“Oh, right. Right,” said Captain Tyler. “What are Federation officers called again?”
“Space seamen.”
“That’s not funny at all.”
The candidates were lined up – naked – along the back wall of the conference room. Captain Tyler led Marshal Orr to a desk littered with paintballs. He pulled a slingshot from the back pocket of his battle shorts.
“Captain,” said Marshal Orr, “what’s the meaning of all this?”
“Interviewing takes too long, so I figured whoever gets hit with a paintball gets to come aboard.”
“That is quicker,” said the marshal, fingering one of the brightly-colored balls. “You do have less balls than applicants, right, Captain?”
“I should hope so. Finding pants would be a bitch.”
“You’re preaching to the choir,” said the marshal. “And what of those that don’t get selected?”
“I don’t know, make them all Senior Dockworker or something.”
“That role is already taken by Johnson.”
“Well, now he’ll have friends.”
Captain Tyler loaded a paintball, pulled back on the slingshot, and pointed it toward the first set of testicles he saw.
“Wait just a minute, Tyler. I can’t in clear conscience let you do this to your potential crew,” said Space Marshal Orr. “Not by yourself, anyway. Where’s my slingshot?”
“We’re going to have to share, sir,” replied Captain Tyler, releasing the elastic of the slingshot. The paintball jumped forward, got caught in the pouch, spun around, and came flying back into Captain Tyler’s face, exploding between his eyes.
“Oh my God, it’s pink, everything is pink!”
The paintball wasn’t pink.
“Congratulations, Captain,” said Marshal Orr. “You’re part of your crew.”
“I can’t see! I’m blind!”
Marshal Orr grabbed the slingshot from the captain, loaded a paintball, and then fired it directly into the chest of one of the applicants.
“You,” said the marshal, “you’re now a private. Take Captain Tyler to the bathroom and wash that green paint off his face.”
“Yes, sir,” said the newly hired Private Kim Boxershorts.
“It’s green?” asked Tyler. “Oh God, it’s worse than I thought! I’ve lost the ability to smell colors!”
Marshal Orr raised an eyebrow.
“Make sure the paint didn’t seep into his brain or something,” he added.
“How would I—” began the space seaman.
Marshal Orr fired another paintball into the stomach of another applicant.
“You,” he said, “you’re the ship’s doctor. Go help.”
“But I don’t—”
The marshal fired a paintball into the man’s scrotum.
“I don’t care. Go run an MRI on Tyler. Use the internet or something.”
“Yes, sir,” replied the doctor, sputtering and limping toward Captain Tyler and Private Boxershorts.
“Now,” said Marshal Orr, “for the rest of you...”
Captain Tyler was laid out on the MRI’s bed. “Doctor” Emmanuel Sodomy stood behind the Plexiglas screen, alternately watching the captain and leafing through a six thousand page instruction manual.
“Yes,” mumbled the doctor, “but how do I turn it on?” He slammed his fists into the controls in front of him. The machine buzzed to life.
“I think that did it,” said Dr. Sodomy’s assistant, “Nurse” Poorbed Sidemanner.
“Of course. Right. Yeah,” replied the doctor. “Now let’s run some tests.”
Dr. Sodomy pushed a button at random. The bed slid into the MRI’s hole.
“Heh,” said Captain Tyler.
“Quiet!” demanded Nurse Sidemanner, shouting into the intercom.
“It was funny!” replied Captain Tyler.
“No talking!”
“It’s scanning my brain, not my mouth,” said the Captain. “I’ll talk all I—”
Dr. Sodomy pushed another button. The bed jolted upward, slamming Captain Tyler’s face into the top of the MRI machine.
“Shit,” said Dr. Sodomy, “shit, shit, shit.”
“At least he shut up,” said Nurse Sidemanner.
“I don’t think there’s supposed to be that much blood...”
Captain Tyler awoke hours later in his cabin aboard the Zdravo. Seated in a chair next to him, First Lieutenant Archibald Duknerts was keeping watch.
“Your mother blows zedonks!” shouted the captain, bolting upright.
“Sir?” asked the lieutenant.
“You’re not Sodomy.”
“No, sir. I’m not,” replied Duknerts. “Dr. Sodomy is in the communications room, looking for an online university that will grant him a medical degree with a minimum of effort. Or even just for cash.”
“Who are you then?”
“I’m First Lieutenant Archibald Duknerts.”
“First Lieutenant, eh? Good. That makes you my whipping boy.”
“Sir?”
“Silence. I’m thinking.”
They both waited.
“So,” said Captain Tyler, breaking the bone-crushing silence. “Clean bill of health?”
“Not quite,” replied Duknerts.
“Spill it. I don’t want you to pull punches with me.”
“You have gonorrhea.”
“Shit!”
“Of the eye.”
“Triple shit!”
“Triple, sir?”
“I’d say that warrants it. Any idea of where this came from?”
“Uh…”
“Punches.”
“Right. Well, your mission pre-screening didn’t show it and... You haven’t touched anything with your eye recently, have you?”
“Other than the paintball? No, not that I’m aware of.”
“The doctor sanded the paint off your face and examined the shavings. The only thing the paintball was carrying was space cholera, and you don’t appear to be shitting uncontrollably out of your eye, so I don’t think that was it. I’m guessing whatever it was was inside of the MRI when your face, uh, well, you know…”
“That tube did smell like boning.”
“In a surprising and probably completely unrelated chunk of news, it looks like Nurse Sidemanner was also recently diagnosed. You two should probably go to that support group the Federation offers.”
“I’m somewhat alarmed that there’s a support group for this.”
“As are we all,” said First Lieutenant Duknerts, staring in horror at Captain Tyler’s engorged – and apparently sexually active – eye. “Should I go get Dr. Sodomy? He’s probably got a cream or something.”
“I’ll bet he does,” replied Captain Tyler. “No, thanks. Is there someone else I can see?”
“Uh... the ship’s vet? I guess? I think he just came on. Computer?”
“Yes, First Lieutenant,” echoed the artificial female voice of the ship’s onboard operating system.
“Can you send Dr. Siriporn Porniviriyakul to the Captain’s chambers?”
“Right away,” said the computer.
“Dr. Porn?” questioned Captain Tyler. “I’m going to like this guy.”
“Dr. Porniviriyakul?” called First Lieutenant Duknerts. “Siriporn? You here?”
Dr. Porniviriyakul was indeed there, in the private bathroom affixed to his lab, taking a massive shit. He had been there when the ship had paged him, and for several hours before that as well. The tofu fajita he had eaten for breakfast was doing its best to scrub every inch of his intestines clean. And, while Dr. Porniviriyakul appreciated the fajita’s thoughtfulness towards his colonic health, he didn’t want his first encounter with his new shipmates to be through a bathroom door. So he sat on his toilet, knees high and cheeks clenched, saying nothing.
“Dr. Porniviriyakul?”
Nothing.
“Dr. Porn— What is that smell?”
Still Dr. Porniviriyakul said nothing.
“Oh my God,” continued First Lieutenant Duknerts, “I think something died in here. Oh, sweet jumping Jesus.” He began coughing uncontrollably.
“Computer,” the lieutenant sputtered, “send the janitor-robot in here, ASAP. I... I think something’s rotting inside the walls.”
“Yes, First Lieutenant,” replied the computer.
Dr. Porniviriyakul put his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. This was going to be a long six years.
“Bad news, Captain,” replied First Lieutenant Duknerts, returning to Captain Tyler’s bunk. “We couldn’t find Dr. Porn.”
“I’ve never been sadder in my life,” replied the captain.
“I did, however, find this guy,” said the lieutenant, pointing to the woman standing next to him.
“I’m not a guy,” whispered the woman.
“My understanding is that it’s safer if you pretend you are,” answered the lieutenant.
“That man has the most magnificent breasts I’ve ever seen,” said Captain Tyler. “Who is he?”
“My name is Sarah... uh, toga? Saratoga Springs,” replied the woman.
“That sounds like a porn name. And those are definitely porn tits. Are you sure you’re not Dr. Porn?”
“Miss... ter Springs,” replied First Lieutenant Duknerts, “is a doctor. A real one. She— He, HE was hired to be our onboard physician. Before Marshal Orr shot Sodomy in the nuts and gave him the job.”
“Look, Duknerts, I need a doctor. Not someone who went to school and got a degree and knows the things a doctor should know.”
“That... I don’t...”
“Mr. Springs,” continued the captain, “what is it you do onboard the Zdravo?”
“My official title is Equipment Manager,” she replied. “I’m in charge of all the sports equipment down in the recreation area.”
“Our recreation area is the size of a Tokyo apartment. What kind of equipment could we possibly have?”
“Knee pads and a variety of balls, mostly.”
“Balls, eh? What else?”
“Half a set of golf clubs, the woods to be specific. And catcher’s gear.”
“Are you sure you’re not having some kind of gay orgy down there, Springs?”
“I don’t follow, sir.”
“The balls, the woods... Do I have to paint you a picture? Because I will. Someone get me some paint. And something to paint on.”
“Captain Tyler,” began Equipment Manager Springs, “I take my job very seriously. I wipe down those balls and polish those woods with regularity and I don’t appreciate –”
“I’m sorry, you what?”
“I polish the woods, sir. I grab a cloth and some oil and I run my hands up and down and up and down those shafts. I’ve been on this ship thirty-six hours, sir, and there’s barely been a minute where I wasn’t running a rod through my hands.”
“Equipment Manager Springs,” said Captain Tyler, “I don’t appreciate that kind of talk. Unless there’s a vagina in this story somewhere, you need to lay off the graphic sexual descriptions.”
“I’m sorry... I... What?”
First Lieutenant Duknerts just lowered his head, sighed, and said, “They warned me about this.”
“Does he get like this often?” asked Springs.
“Really only when I get an STD,” answered Tyler, “or a regular disease, or gas. So about every other week. But that’s not important. What is important is that I need a doctor to look at my ever pustulating eye. And you’re not a doctor.”
“Yes, but, uh,” began Equipment Manager Springs, rifling through a handbag that looked surprisingly like a medical kit, “I was sent here by Nurse Sidemanner to give you this... this small tube of Vagisil? No, that’s not what I was –”
Captain Tyler snatched the tube out of her outstretched hand, popped the top and squirted the cream into his eye.
“Should it burn this much?” he asked.
“Sure...” said Springs, stepping slowly backwards. “The burning just means it’s working extra hard.”
“Ah, good. You can go back to polishing your wood now.”
“Yes, sir,” said Equipment Manager Springs, before turning and fleeing the captain’s quarters. And not for the last time, either.
“My God, Duknerts, look at the ass on that man.”
“Captain, I don’t think you should be –”
The computer’s voice twanged from the captain’s intercom.
“Captain Tyler, a call is coming in from Space Marshal Orr on the View-Matic 7000.”
“We’re on our way,” said the first lieutenant.
First Lieutenant Duknerts and Captain Tyler – the captain being lead by hand due to the trauma currently being inflicted on his eye – were halfway to the bridge when they collided with a crew member carrying a box of several hundred Wang Industries GPS nano-trackers and knocked her to the ground.
“Damn it,” said Private Yvette Redshirt, picking nano-processors from her clothing. “I’m covered in Wangs!”
“My apologies!” said Duknerts, immediately embarrassed. “We didn’t see you coming.”
“I certainly hope not.”
“What?”
“It’s okay,” she continued. “This isn’t the first time I’ve been covered in Wangs and it sure won’t be the last. They’re slippery buggers, always getting... into places.”
“Hey-oh!” cheered Captain Tyler.
Private Redshirt pulled a Wang from inside the waist of her battle shorts and tossed it back into the box.
“Where were you going?” asked First Lieutenant Duknerts.
“To the medical bay,” replied the private. “We were all supposed to have these GPS trackers installed before we left.”
“Installed? That sounds unpleasant.”
“Probably, I don’t know. I’m not a doctor.”
“There seems to be a lot of that going around,” said Captain Tyler.
“Tyler,” began Marshal Orr, “what is the meaning of this?”
“It’s a pronoun, I believe,” replied the captain, “denoting a particular person or thing.”
“What?”
“Where?”
“I called for you FORTY-FIVE MINUTES AGO.”
“I know, but, see, Duknerts and I were holding hands and –”
“I don’t want to hear it,” snapped Space Marshal Orr. “Captain, you are aware you are only two hundred feet from Federation headquarters, are you not?”
“I am not.”
“I can see you from my window.”
Tyler leaned forward in his chair, looking out the small side window of the bridge. Sure enough, there was the Federation space station. And there was Space Marshal Orr, on the space station’s bridge, glaring at the Zdravo. Captain Tyler waved. Orr flipped him the bird. Then he hit a button and a plate of space steel slid across his window.
“Tyler, your mission is not to sit around using up all our resources and blocking our docking bays.”
“That did seem too easy.”
“If you are not far, far away from here in the next fifteen minutes, I’m demoting you. And then I’m setting you on fire.”
“That doesn’t seem right.”
“It was in the fine print in your contract.”
“Probably should have read that thing.”
“Probably,” said Space Marshal Orr. “Fifteen minutes, Tyler.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And you should probably get that eye looked at.”
Space Marshal Orr flickered off the monitor. Captain Tyler looked sternly at the blank screen, then at the crew seated along the walls and staring at him, then at the control panel. He furrowed his brow.
“So, uh, what now?”
“We need to go,” said First Lieutenant Duknerts. “Somewhere else.”
At that moment, Equipment Manager Springs stepped briskly onto the bridge, holding a piece of paper and a GPS nano-tracker.
“What the hell is this?” she blurted, waving the paper at no one in particular. “An official order to swallow this Wang?”
“So that’s how they’re gonna do that,” said Private Redshirt.
“Why are we swallowing Wangs?” asked Private Heather Naughtyplaces meekly.
“Whose wangs?” asked Private Kim Boxershorts, decidedly less meekly. “What is going on here?”
“I’m not swallowing anything else for this Federation!” shouted Equipment Manager Springs. “I have put too much stuff in my mouth for these people! I’m not sticking a Wang in there now too! It’s bad enough they’ve got me on my knees, polishing poles, hour after hour. I am a professional, damn it!”
Captain Tyler slid lower in his seat. He crossed his legs. Then he grabbed Duknerts gently by the sleeve.
“I, uh, I may need a minute,” the captain said quietly.
***
Several million miles later, Captain Oswald Van Vanderhoort Van Tyler leaned forward in his chair and stared at the View-Matic 7000 monitor, taking in the hundreds of stars and galaxies before him.
“This is boring!” he stated emphatically. “It’s just empty space.”
“Sir,” responded First Lieutenant Duknerts, stepping to the captain’s side, “if I may. Think about all of the different life forms out there, the planets, the –”
“Blah, blah, blah, BORING!”
“Captain,” said the computer.
“Yes, milady.”
“It’s been two weeks since we left Federation headquarters and thirteen days since you regained consciousness. Shouldn’t we finally start our mission?”
“We haven’t?”
“No, sir.”
“And what was it again?”
“To find a suitable replacement for chicken,” answered First Lieutenant Duknerts.
“Why?” asked the Captain.
“We used them all up.”
“It was all over the news,” said Private Redshirt, sitting on the floor.
“Six months ago,” added Private Naughtyplaces, also sitting on the floor. They were playing jacks.
“Damn. Could have gone for a nugget right about now.”
“The Lunchlady-bot could make you a fish nugget,” replied the computer.
“What do I look like? A vagetarian?”
“I don’t think you’re pronouncing that correctly,” Duknerts replied.
“I think I’m pronouncing it more than correctly.”
“That doesn’t... You can’t...”
“Sirs,” said the computer, “prepare for evasive action.” The bridge was bathed in red light as the emergency systems kicked in.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you,” said Captain Tyler. “I still have this burning in my eye.”
“You don’t hear through your eyes,” said First Lieutenant Duknerts.
“No?”
“Collision imminent,” said the computer.
“I don’t know what imminent means,” said the captain.
“It’s not good,” said the lieutenant.
“Collision occurring...” said the computer, “now.”
The Zdravo collided. With a flock of space chickens. The bridge’s external window was coated with a surprisingly bright neon pink goo.
“BAM!” replied the captain.
“Probably could have used those,” said First Lieutenant Duknerts.
“What do you mean ‘could have?’ Get the janitor-robot out there and scrape that onto a bun for me.”
Private Naughtyplaces threw up behind one of the control panels.
“Have it clean that up first.”
“This... is... DELICIOUS,” said Captain Tyler, seated at the captain’s formal folding table in the Zdravo’s cafeteria. He took another bite of his space chicken sandwich and proceeded to chew with his mouth open.
“We should find out where these space chickens come from,” he continued. “Find their home planet. And then eat it.”
“That last part doesn’t even make sense,” said First Lieutenant Duknerts.
“It doesn’t have to.”
“It kind of does. You’re the captain. Besides, we can’t use the space chickens for –”
“Your mom.”
“How is that helpful, sir?”
“If you want me to be helpful, help me stop this itching in my eye. Call Dr. Sodomy.”
“Yes, sir,” replied the computer.
“Maybe we should call a real doctor,” said First Lieutenant Duknerts. “I can get Equipment Manager Springs up here to –”
“How many times have we been over this, Duknerts?” scolded Captain Tyler. “He can’t be a real doctor because he’s an equipment manager. And I don’t like him anyway. His magnificent rack and his dirty mouth keep making me all uncomfortable. And confused.”
“Who’s uncomfortable when now?” asked Dr. Sodomy, approaching the captain and first lieutenant.
“I am. Whenever Equipment Manager Springs is around. Have you met him?”
“You mean ‘her,’ right?”
“No! You fool!” shouted First Lieutenant Duknerts.
“Her, you say? Springs is a...” Captain Tyler stood up. And then he got up from his chair. “Computer!”
Three days later, Equipment Manager Sarah Springs was fired, out of a torpedo tube, for sexual harassment. This was all the more impressive considering she was the one who filed the suit against Captain Tyler. And had an astounding stable of witnesses and video proof. And that it took five days for the paperwork to be processed.
On the plus side, her rocketing body had managed to take out an approaching Crabulon Death Cruiser, so she died a war hero. They named an interstate rest stop in Oklahoma after her.
“Computer,” said Captain Tyler from his chair on the bridge, “run a search for all inhabited planets in the quadrant where we hit the space chickens. We need to find their home world. And eat it.”
“Sir,” began First Lieutenant Duknerts, “that still doesn’t –”
“Your mom.”
Private Redshirt jumped in, literally, saying, “I think what First Lieutenant Duknerts is trying to say is –”
“Your mom.”
“Captain,” shouted Private Naughtyplaces, “we can’t go –”
“YOUR MOM.”
“My mom’s dead...” she sniffled.
“Then, your dad.”
“He’s... he’s dead, too.”
“If I may, sir,” interrupted Private Marvin Pantyliner, “we, uh, we can’t just go to the Space Chicken Homeworld. It’s a Galactic Nature Reserve and part of the Federation. Space chickens are a protected species.”
“Protected by who? Hippies?”
“By the Federation. We can’t eat them.”
“But I just did.”
“What?”
“Who?”
“Sir?”
“Part of the Federation, you say,” said Captain Tyler. “Do they have a drive-thru?”
A short documentary film later, Captain Tyler was brought up to speed on the myriad reasons his plan for a cheap – *cough* free *cough* – substitute for Earth chicken was, in fact, a terrible and illegal idea.
The space chickens were responsible for manufacturing the material that was used to make the screen protectors for iPhones. If by “manufacturing,” one meant “crapping it out of their butts.” The protectors were, in fact, space chicken poo, refined and flattened several hundred times. And then re-fed to the space chickens. And then they had some Indian food, crapped it out again, and the whole process repeated itself. It was a large, ungainly, and borderline inhumane process, but, seeing as how Apple straight up purchased the planet decades ago, no one had ever complained. Except the space chickens. A formal complaint was lodged with the Federation’s Sentient Being Rights Department, but, after much analysis, it was concluded that if the chickens were given better working conditions the screen protectors wouldn’t be as good and the universe would have a shit-ton of scratched screens, so, man, fuck the space chickens and their well-being.
The other problem was the Federation embassy posted on the Space Chicken Homeworld. Well, not so much the embassy – the Federation didn’t give a flying fuck about humans or architecture, either – but the Neptunian Devil Bear stationed there as an ambassador.
Neptunian Devil Bears were actually stationed at every Federation embassy in the galaxy. They were incorruptible, nationalistic, and had a way with words. Also, they were twelve feet tall, had four sets of arms, and savagely mauled anyone and anything they made eye contact with.
“So what do we need to do to take this beast down?” asked Captain Tyler.
“Sir,” said First Lieutenant Duknerts, “the movie! We can’t –”
“I was asking the computer, not you.”
“Oh, well,” began the computer, “I’d say everything we have, sir. And then a lot of prayer. But, as First Lieutenant Duknerts was saying, I wouldn’t –”
“Hmm…” said Captain Tyler. “I don’t think God is a fan of capturing an entire species to make it fast food. He’s probably rooting for the space chickens. Probably got one of those beer helmets too. Is anyone else thirsty?”
“Sir, might I interject?” asked First Lieutenant Duknerts.
“Sure, I’m all eyes.”
“Whatever it is you’re thinking, don’t do it.”
“My vote is for violence,” replied Captain Tyler.
“Weren’t you listen—”
“VIOLENCE!”
***
“The whole fucking planet, Tyler?!”
Space Marshal Orr was catastrophically pissed. He had initially been pleased to see the Zdravo docking back at Federation headquarters, years ahead of her scheduled return. That quickly changed when he discovered what Captain Tyler had deemed a suitable replacement for Earth chicken. And what he did to Todd Quinlan, the Neptunian Devil Bear stationed at the Space Chicken Homeworld. And, for that matter, what he did to the embassy and the rest of the planet.
“How was I supposed to know we had three hundred nukes on board?” asked Captain Tyler.
“There is a giant red button that says ‘NUKES’ on it. Below that is a screen that says ‘INVENTORY OF NUKES.’ It’s not fucking rocket science.”
“Well, technically...”
“Technically, you can shut the fuck up. We dumbed this down as much as possible for you, Tyler.”
“Marshal, seriously, I didn’t see the inventory screen. The sticky note must have been covering it.”
“Sticky note?”
“I think I still have it...”
Captain Tyler began ruffling through his small, patent leather “satchel,” found a Post It and a marker, and covertly scribbled something down. Then he handed the note to the Marshal.
Space Marshal Orr read it aloud: “Hey Captain Guy, it’s perfectly fine to hit this. Just thought you should know. Dockman Johnson Somethingorother.”
“You’ll note that the arrow is pointing up,” said Captain Tyler. “Which was toward the NUKES button.”
“Indeed.”
“My point is,” continued the captain, “it wasn’t my fault. It was this Somethingorother fellow.”
“I don’t recall hiring anyone by that name,” said Marshal Orr, flipping through the paperwork on his desk. “And we don’t actually have a ‘Dockman’ position...”
“Well, clearly this fellow was damaged mentally. Probably got his own name wrong!”
“That will make it difficult to track him down...”
“Yes, yes it will,” said the captain. “Probably best to just give up now.”
“Probably,” replied the marshal. “But what about the chicken situation? While highly illegal, the space chickens would’ve at least been food. If you were going to commit genocide you could’ve at least made it useful. And tasty.”
“Funny you should mention that, Marshal. On the way back, we swung past Abor Feti...”
“Ah,” said Space Marshal Orr, “the aborted fetus planet. I’ve been there numerous times.”
“Who hasn’t?” replied Captain Tyler. “Anyway, that planet doesn’t have any embassies or satanic bears or anything, and chicken nuggets are really just hyper-processed gloop anyway, so –”
“Don’t tell me.”
“Okay, I won’t,” said the captain. “I will, however, request that the cargo bay of the Zdravo be emptied out. Like, now.”
“Damn it, Tyler...”
“What? Crisis averted! I’m a hero!”
“I don’t know if that’s the word I’d use.”
“You should put Dockman Somethingorother in charge of clean up. You know, as punishment for sucking so hard.”
Like what you've read? Then feel free to buy the whole ebook now!
