don't let your kids grow up to be starclowns

in this part of the galaxy, the weather is usually shit. how else could the cheapshits that run this station afford the real estate... we've got cosmic rays, fucking space debris, dead satellites banging around, and sometimes it seems like every fucking comet that's ever existed is magically attracted to us... causing a lot of tourists to shit themselves which then comes to me to clean up...

but... this out of the wayness has some use: we can help people keep a low profile... not everyone wants pomp and circumstance when they land on a station. the people who run this place aren't all stupid, which is why the keep their fucking nose out of hangar 23, which lets me keep my sanity.

but, along with the legitimate smugglers, hustlers and con-men, we seem to be getting more and more starclowns, these useless fuckwits who decide to quit their real jobs, buy an exorbitantly expensive cargo-skip (usually new), and pretend to be some kind of low-life criminal, looking for business transporting people, drugs, contraband, whatever...

it's fucking pathetic. that kind of work is hard enough, and fucking dangerous enough, because if it wasn't then regular shipping companies would take care of it. our kind requires a certain discretion and anonymity, not flash cruisers and designer made jackets.

so yesterday, this one gorgeous ship shows up... not even close to being a cargo hauler, this fucker is a pleasure craft, beautiful lines, brand fucking new. out steps dippy the starclown, sidearm slung low on his thigh, two day beard, (real) leather coat (who fucking knows what crazy animal it came from), hair all mussed perfectly... i was this close to opening the airlock to kill both of us, just to make the galaxy a better place ridding it of him.

dippy comes up to me, sauntering, trying to look like a bad ass. flapjack just starts laughing at the 'pretty, hairy girl who comes from the sky' and skip 'accidentally' bumped into him and kept vacuuming his boots.

now, i'm not the hangarmaster... to be honest, i've worked here for god knows how fucking long and i've never even heard his name. so, as janitor, people seem to think i'm in charge. which is fine, cuz i can steal as much as i want and don't have any real responsibility...
dippy starts trying to be all cool, which is really difficult with skip repeatedly ramming his calves. i don't stop this.

finally, dippy shoves skip out of the way, which gets flapjack a bit pissed, but he's so stupid he forgot why he was angry and went back to work. turns out dippy wants to scuff up his bird... the thing is too shiny and fresh and he's worried it's going to get stolen.

the irony of all this has not escaped me.

yes, go on, i told him... what else do you need?

any bars around here where the uh... well... criminal element hang out?

oh yes... that'd be zargle's. great bar... i'm there myself a lot.

oh... ok... that should be fine. so how long do you think it'll take to get her looking like shit?

not long at all, my friend... tell you what... get over to zargle's, get loaded, make some contacts and get back here in... say four hours... we'll have you all settled...

great, great... see you soon.

dumbfuck didn't even ask about money...

so now, i had a real decision to make. do i:
1) absolutely destroy the living fuck out of this beautiful ship, render it inoperable then charge the bastard for haulage out of the ship?
or
2) steal the shit out of it, and have dippy the starclown arrested for trying to solicit flapjack as a male prostitute?

these are the decisions that paralyze me... but... i couldn't let a beautiful ship like that get banged up... it's too much a work of art, and i'll be fucked if that starclown is going be allowed to carry on in her. people like that don't deserve to have nice things, they need to be punished and, if that fucking cult that's been following me around is right, i'm the fucking messiah... time to bring some justice to this horrible universe.

a few calls later to a few fences later and i'd found one willing to take this thing...i'd only get a piece of the action once it was sold, but for now, we had to paint, scrape and change her identity... which we all did in record time... those gigantic heaters really do fucking work.
i send flapjack over to zargle's to drag one of our usual drunken pilots out of the backroom and we get him to fly the ship out of 23 and over to 29, a more respectable hangar... now she's been laundered... a fresh, new ship, with new numbers and a new owner, just in for a fueling and provisioning... nothing to see here move along please.

dippy comes back... i have security waiting...
where's my ship? where's my ship?

officers, this idiot's been harassing us all fucking day... he kept groping flapjack (who's bawling his eyes out, as i set fire to his galactopuss doll moments earlier)... get him fucking out of here... i know nobody cares much about the fucking janitorial crew, but we do have feelings you know...

you bastard, i'll fucking kill you!! i'll fucking kill you!! you're fucking dead, you hear me!!

you know, officers, i'm feeling a bit unsafe with all this... check the logs, there hasn't been a ship in here since last week... probably cuz the dispatchers are punishing us for some reason... you know how it is... anyway, we've got some cleaning, if you don't mind...
and that is that!

now we just have to find a buyer for this fucking thing... and hope that dippy doesn't have enough money left over for a good lawyer...