Monday, September 7

the shack of beration is back, ye of little faith!

the whore fortune likes to play games with me... i've mentioned before her cruelty and kindness... once again, she rolls over and accepts another at her teat to suckle... this is why i like her

after sending our 'invitations for a chat' to the respective heads of the insurgency and the status quo, the lot of us were despondent... skip, who thought we'd finally get enough money to fix his little circle habit, fell into a deep robotic gloom when weeks passed and we heard nothing. flapjack refused to take off the nice new clothes we bought him, so now, they are tattered, fucked and disgusting... covered in drool, food and i'm pretty sure what qualifies for semen for his race. he no longer looks nice.

money had been drying up, as you can well imagine. without the shack, we had no solid income. with the deflux of tourists, we had nothing to scavenge from the grates. we even contemplated petty crime, but that was below us, at least for the moment. without money, our credit dried up at zargle's and... shudder... horror... monstrosity of monstrosities... i had to pull a few overtime shifts in hangar 23 to make a little extra scrip. life fucking blew.

all hope was lost... everyone was near suicide, screaming at each other, crying just after... it was a miserable fucking mess. but, as always, i had to be the rock. i had to be the one who took care of everything, making sure no one's feelings were hurt, that everyone was feeling special, that people got little gifts and warm-fuzzies and whatever, just to let them know everything would be all right.

like fuck i did! i locked flapjack in his room when the stink got too bad and skip just needs a bang or two with a monkey wrench and that makes him forget life can be better... tough times deserve a tough man... failing that, a cruel angry man who gets everyone to shut up and do their fucking jobs, whatever they might be.

finally, hope came in the form of captain spacefuck, oddly enough... he came down to hangar 23 a few days ago, and asked to speak with me privately... this usually means i am about to be shaken down for some money, or arrested, or worse, but i humored him...

'look, i'll level with you... we need you?' he looked nervous.

'oh dear spacefuck, i need you too! let's make sweet sweet hate in the airlock right now!' i began dragging him towards the wall.

'no dipshit, i need the you as the angry one'

'i can make it angry if you want!' i made a little kissy face at him, he hates that.

'fuck off... the pangalacticists need the shack of beration open again. we'll let you keep all the money, all the offerings and libations, we just need you to pass us any information that is of relevance to the insurgents. you were getting a big fucking following before we shut you down, and we know they're confessing some shit in there.'

'hmmm... so you'll force me to violate messiah-supplicant privilege all for your precious political purposes... spacefuck, those people need me... i am they're only hope, as you well know...'

'fine, we'll pay you XXXX' (redacted on purpose, you scum don't need to know my earnings)

'double it


'double it again'

'now cut it by one third, and multiply by pi'

'fuck off'

'or you get nothing...'


'now say please'

this went on for a while... finally he started crying and let him be...

finally getting a proper salary to do what i love... it's a good thing to honestly earn your living.

now you may be concerned that i appear to be selling out, and that the insurgency is lost...
well first off, fuck you, i can do what i want and it doesn't matter what you think.

second, i always have a plan...

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