Tuesday, June 29

chivalry is not dead, so much as subjugated by a laser-truncheon

soooo...... where have i been for these last months? have i been on an exciting adventure? have i made lots of new and interesting friends, found myself, found love, found skip, found a brain for flapjack and found happiness?

fuck you for even asking.

i've been in the brig for like a billion days. skip is still gone, flapjack still a retard, love elusive, self annoying, friends pointless and adventures temporal. i have, however, found that the das orbit's finest are in fact the finest cocksuckers in the galaxy.

the last time i screamed into the void about my problems here was about my dinner with flapjack. as you know, this didn't end in a way that made flapjack like me more... in fact, he was rather upset with me and a nearly three-meter tall crying angry alien is not what you want on your bad side.

so, i decided to take him out for a 'i'm-so-sorry-i-humiliated-you-in-public-dinner-but-not-really-but-stop-crying' luncheon. something simple, nice, not too fancy, and definitely not too far up in the upper levels. we chatted, i blamed my problems on alcoholism and hatred, and he pretended to understand... friends are few and far between on this fucking space-hulk so i figured i ought not ostracize one of the only ones i have left, now that old skip has disappeared.

we leave. flapjack notices a tavern across the corridor and invite me to get a drink. who am i to say no to a friend? i politely accept, and we traipse, arm in gigantic arm, boots clanging against the cold metal, our platonic love the only thing keeping us warm in the frigid, empty, lonely deep-space vacuum.

drinks, frivolity, laughter... things haven't seem this cheery for years. we drink to dinner time, at which point we are out of money so we leave. and wouldn't you know it, but cute little galactopus girl just finished her (more solid) dinner at the very place we have our lunch. she's dined alone, apparently, and is trying to hail a cab-bot to get her to what i imagine is her beautiful, well-scented and perverted fuck-dungeon of a home. we've now crossed the corridor in the hopes that she notices me.

an important thing to note about the corridor system on the station here: they are really fucking simple. they go one way, because most people walk, or if they are rich, use the gloryholes. there are a lot of internal transit systems, lifts, whatever, and the actual vehicular traffic is public, delivery related, or emergency.

cute little galactopus girl knows all this, as, according to her diary, she's been on das orbit for 3 years. her favorite color is purple and she thinks her tentacles are too flabby (which isn't true, as far as i can tell, but i'm no expert on octopus sexiness).

so clpg does what everyone does... looks both ways... just in case... steps into the corridor, looks in the direction of where traffic comes from, and puts a delightfully firm yet fleshy tentacle up to hail a cab-bot.

what she didn't count on was some unmarked delivery truck full of spacemonkey-jizz cocks backing up, at who the fuck knows what speed, backwards, down a one way corridor. poor clpg didn't see it coming... the van just barely brushes her tentacle, she oblivious until she turns around and sees five tons of metal directly in front of her. she is shocked and immovable.

well... i know an injustice when i see one and i just fucking saw one right now... so i make my feelings known to the driver of this particular vehicle, using some strong language and choice adjectives. he unrolls his window and stares at me, trying to get tough. he has a little friend in there too, sitting the passenger seat. they both appear to be wearing matching  costumes of some kind... for one of these idiotic sports people follow: megaball, hyperball, ball-zac, sack-ball... i have no fucking idea. they look like giant hairy puffy children dressing up for a party. re-tar-ded.

the beration continues... usually people have to pay for this, but these cocks are getting it for free... i remind them of this. they continue to tell me that she should watch where she is going. this infuriates me more. normally, i'd have no problem with a slight violation of policy, but in this case i'll make an exception to my rule... after all, without rules, what do we have?

at one point, the back window rolls down... another two of these shitspazzes in the back, also with the same infantile little costume on... i can't control myself... they give me these bizarre tough little looks, like they want me to think they are from this ball-handling team... i inform them that 'i don't care how fucking talented you are at playing with each other's balls, you sure as fuck better lay your stubby little paws off mine. i ought to turn you bitches in to station security'

station security... why does that name ring a bell.

my comment appears to confuse them... then irritate the fuck out of them. finally one of them calls me a 'fucking richkid.'
record skip... back the fuck up... hold the gloryhole... i may be a lot of things... pornographer, smuggler, layabout, pervert, sociopath, thief, burglar, kidnapper, molester, alcoholic, liar, unreliable, diseased and sexy... but a richkid i most certainly am not.

'right... to the barricades!'
i search vainly for something to throw at them.

meanwhile, clpg is once again staring at me in horror. at one point, she's light curled a tentacle around my forearm, pleading with me not to make a scene, it's ok, she's fine, she appreciates the help but can handle it from here.
and i've ruined flapjacks 'i'm-so-sorry-i-humiliated-you-in-public-dinner-but-not-really-but-stop-crying' luncheon pretty fucking thoroughly. people have gathered, asking what's happened. i hear someone say 'this guy is fucking pissed off at station security for nearly running over his girlfriend'

i was so happy to hear that someone thought that she might be my girlfriend that i forgot about the rest of that sentence and strengthened my resolve to be a hero.

i manage to pry some kind of metal something from the corridor floor and chuck it into the van. it clanks, pathetically, against the van. i don't have good aim.

this action, though, has inspired others in the crowd to do the same.
'fuck you, assholes... you think your kind can just run over the regular people of this station?'
'eat this donut'
'go stop a crime, bitches'

whatever... things have gotten a bit weird now, and i wonder if i've had too much to drink, again. but... a riot is a riot... and, like a bender, you've got to see where you end up... i get flapjack to help me start rocking the van. once he's in, the rest of the crowd gets in on it.

the little cowards in the car are looking pretty fucking terrified. look, they've called up their friends.
'hey, what, you got more little buddies in unmarked vans, who love flaunting the rules, and have very expensive and complicated communications equipment and matching uniforms and truncheons attached to their side and...'

i stop myself... indeed this lot does have all that and more. once again, i've failed to see the forest for the trees.

but, if you are gonna start a riot, start one against the cops. security-community tensions have been high for a while, now. it's good to release some steam... don't want anything violent happening.

the car goes over... somebody sets it on fire. clpg is nowhere to be seen.  flapjack is bouncing up and down on the flaming wreck of the van... the cops are trapped inside. it gets more and more flattened as he jumps on it...

we hear sirens... more vans approach... gas for us, gas-masks for them... skulls for us, laser-truncheons for them... maybe a riot against them wasn't such a good idea.

although, i continue to remind them that they should have looked behind them when driving their stupid van.

smoke, fire and gas fills the corridor. this might be what hell is like...

i come to, to see what's going on. the metal from the corridor is twisted and covered in a coarse black ash, like detached paint. the van smolders. the scene is moving away from me. apparently, i am being dragged away into a van. my head really hurts.

i come to again, in the brig. welcome home. 100 days for inciting a riot and causing the psychic injury to four station-security agents.

well... i did my time, talked to some of the more unsavoury types on this station... might have some leads as to the location of skip... so it might now have been so bad after all.

flapjack also informs me that cute little galactopus girl stopped by hangar 23 the other day and left something for me. this cheered me up. too bad flapjack confused clpg with clpg's lawyer, and the something was a restraining order, barring me from being within 5 levels of her. that's fine. i prefer the demimonde anyway.

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