das orbit

doing it in the missionary position... part nine

2011-11-08T12:32:00.000Z

my immediate thoughts were to ditch dippy, grab pokey and run like fuck.

so i did.

unfortunately, dippy had the same idea.

so the both of us ran head first into each other and fell on the floor.

pleasantries were exchanged. we shook hands and decided to stick the original plan. we sent pokey to the door to scout. he gave us the all-clear beep (i assume... all his fucking beeps sound exactly the same).

and out we went.

darkness on a semi-disabled cruiser that's probably hiding in some asteroid field in a remote, unsavory region of spacetime is not like darkness you have at home. it's not stumbling-around-looking-for-your-shoes dark, or too-lazy-to-turn-the-light-on-when-you-have-to-piss-at-3am-so-you-keep-it-off-and-soak-your-roommate-and-all-his-plush-galactopus-dolls-with-urine dark.

it's being-5-years-old-and-afraid-of-the-dark dark. and it's fucking scary.

'oh, angry spaceman', i hear you whine... 'afraid of a little darkness? eh? some monster gonna attack you? some 'hole troll going to drag you into its limbo dimension, there to wait for eternity until he decides to have his meal with? what's going to happen? what kind of coward are you?'

a giant coward. that's what kind. now go fuck yourself and let me finish.

the hallway was dark.
the next hallway was dark.
the doorways were dark.
the rooms they framed were dark as well.
hell, the only reason we could see pokey was from the glowing of the various fluids that had built up and stained his driller. we made quite a triptych... a fucked-out drill bot, a starclown, and your hero... this is the stuff adventures are made of, i suppose.

somehow, when you are having an adventure, it's not nearly as fun as when you are lying about it at zargle's gargles with a nice whiskey suit on.

ol' pokey seemed to know his way around pretty good. we kept to the center of the hallways, figuring that typical rules of power outages on vessels are to keep your right hand on a wall at all times... that way you won't get too lost and will know what direction you are going. so with the pirates skulking along the walls of their ship, we promenaded bravely down the middle of the corridors, not a care in the world, except for being caught and tortured.

occasionally we'd hear them, rustling past. they were really calm, which was a bit troubling. if das orbit had gone dark, i'd be running all over the place taking back what was wrongfully mine. these guys seemed to have their act together. odd. very odd.
no alarms.
no klaxons.
no thing.
nothing.

just calm hurrying from place to place. i didn't even hear anyone mention us.

well... let's keep going then. no point in worrying about what you don't understand. pokey winded us back and forth through the hallways, without incident, until finally we rounded one corner into blindingly bright illumination.

at first, i thought that pokey had gone drill-first into another electrical cable, getting his electric rape one. i had noticed that during this journey, he sometimes would veer towards the walls... his driller like a divining rod, searching fields of electrosexual potential.

he had not found another cable.

he found the 'hole room.

the power was still on. this was all very very good. once our eyes adjusted to the light, we started formulating a plan.

dippy had the idea that we could just go in there and overpower them. fisticuffs, the ol' one-two-sucker punch, knuckle sandwich et cetera.

'fucking starclown.' that shut him up good. yet once again, the onus on yours truly to save the day.

peeking around the corner, i could see that there were 5 pirates, milling around. they seemed calm. some played cards. the others just picked their teeth.

they had no idea the ship was out of power.

why would they? their system was redundant. they had a redundant electrical system. the wiring of their section of the ship was not part of the other wiring, so that means they had a system that was independent. no problem in the other system would effect their system because the two systems weren't connected. redundancy was built in to their system.

i could go on, but i think i hear you reaching for your gun.

this plan of mine, which i take sole credit for, was really working out.

so we had the element of surprise. fist yes! but there were two of us and at least five of them.

wait a minute... there aren't two of us. there are three of us.

two of us are cowards with little ability to fight hardened space pirates, who live their lives day-to-day, fighting the law and each other in equal measures, just being manly and space and piratelike and such.

but one of us is a drilling, fucking, squirting, banging, boring, penetrating, crushing, raping machine. and he doesn't feel a damn thing through his thick metal hide.

ol' pokey... you've got a job to do, friend.

i explained to the two of them that what we'd do is sit back and sic pokester on 'em. he go into a kind of electrosexual overdrive and brutally murder everyone in that room. then we walk in like heroes... bam... we're gloryholing it back to das orbit and having drinks at zargle's with the gang talking about how cool we were on this adventure which was totally fantastic and not at all the most terrifying time of my life.

i looked at pokeyfracking fluid dripped out of his driller. poor pokey... barely any contact with people for so long after he'd been abandoned on that asteroid, and i was about to ask him to do something pretty fucking horrible. it broke my heart to make him do this.
well... almost broke my heart.
actually... i just needed to pretend like it did.

'pokey... we need your help. i know what you like. you like the cold hard push back of granite. the icy frisson when your member touches steel. you love the spray of gravel on your chassis and the jolt of volts that hit you like lightning from tip to toe to head and back again. that's not what your going to find in there. i can't lie to you. you are going to find soft, malleable, squishy, juicy, oozy flesh. it won't be the spray of finely crushed rock in your face, it'll be blood. or bone. your partners won't yield under pressure. they'll disintegrate. but that's what i need you to do. i need you to go in there and fuck every moving thing until it's dead. i don't care how you do it. i know it's not going to be easy. but you gotta do this for me. for us. get in there. put on your most mangling, weird looking drill-bit, and don't stop until the place is covered in blood.

if you do this for me, i promise you... PROMISE you... that once we get home, you'll be able to bang any thing you want. you'll never be alone again. you'll live with me. i've got lots of robot friends and alien friends who love to play and skip and whatever the hell it is you want them to do. just kill those motherfuckers and let's go home, ok?'

pokey looked up at me, retracted his driller. sat for a few moments and it re-emerged with the most disturbing piece of medical equipment i've ever seen. it looked like it was used to birth and immediately murder some kind of seven headed monster with an unusually thick skull.

he pulsed it a few times, hitting 5000 rpm.

yikes...

this was going to be good.

pokey approached the corner and hid his bit. he rolled out of view. dippy and i sat right up against the corner, but didn't turn our heads. in a few moments, we heard...
'hey little bot... how you doing?'
then pokey pulled out his driller.

if you think that scene of electric rape was terrible, this is way worse. the sound of meat being liquified. screams ending way before they should have. the constant pitter patter of blood falling on the floor and ceiling. and the constant merciless whine of ol' pokeys love machine, drilling its way home for all of us.

i couldn't bare to look. so i made dippy do it. by shoving his head around the corner. he pulled back immediately, face red and dripping.

eventually the whining stopped. there were no sounds. then a single beep. that was the all clear.

we rounded the corner.

it looked like flapjack had shat red paint all over the walls. there were no human remains anywhere. just liquified pirate.

mission accomplished!

dippy found the controls for the 'hole and set it to das orbit. i found a rag to wipe down pokey. i looked around for some swag. there wasn't anything really. some crates that i couldn't move by myself, that rang hollow anyway.

there was one small box, with a bizarre symbol on it i hadn't seen before. i could put it under my arm. i did.

the 'hole was open. we walked up the stairs. it was time to go home.

i stepped through.

doing it in the missionary position... part eight

2011-11-03T17:05:00.000Z

it is said, ad nauseam, that under great stress, people are capable of much more than they ever suspected. they can summon unknown reserves of courage, strength and willpower. they can surmount nearly any obstacle, through sheer force of determination. they can run farther, swim faster, think gooder and strategize craftier.

dippy and i are not those people.

those people sound like assholes.

i gazed into dippy's eyes. he gazed back.
it was distinctly unromantic, despite, as flapjack so accurately pointed out, so many moons ago, that he was a 'pretty, hairy girl who comes from the sky.'

'you got any ideas, dippy?' i asked.
you never know.
even a fucked starship can get locked into orbit.

'you got any ideas, spacetrash?'

i guess those ships can always fall out of orbit. gravity, you cruel harlot.

'ok, so what do we know? we're on a ship. we don't know where that ship is.' i decided to be practical

dippy decided to chime in. 'the ship has a gloryhole. a big one, in fact'
'true. but we don't know exactly where that 'hole is... they didn't exactly take the straight route up here.'
'if we got there, we could get out.'
'but we don't know where there is'
'pokey will know'
'eh?'
'he walked with us. he can lead us back. it'll be in his memory.'
'have you looked at him lately? he's fucking the electrical outlet right now? that bot's been stuck on an asteroid for fuck knows how long. for all it knows, we might be trying to send it back. and besides, having this robot drag us all around the ship, in total sight of any pirate who is wandering around? i'm sure they'll just let us go by... they won't try to beat us to death at all'
'got a better idea?'

dippy had me here. i didn't. not even close. but i wasn't going to let him win this one. never back down. not even if you are horribly wrong and the other person has the answer that could save you and bring your life back to normal and bring you your robot back. never.

'we could see what the pirates want from us...'
'fuck off.'
'let's go ask them'
'absolutely not.'
'fine then.'
'fine.'

we stared at each other some more.

pokey spurted into the socket and caused the lighting to waver a bit. he shot back somewhat with a spark, rebooted quickly and went off looking for something else to rape.

'you see that?' i asked.
'what?'
'the lights... they went all fuckity after pokey shot his seed into the system.'
'so?'
'so? listen, starclown. maybe we can get pokey to really fuck the lighting, we can have some cover. then bolt down towards the 'hole and get the fuck out of here. the 'hole will have it's own electrical system. it won't be effected.'
'you know how to operate those things? aren't complicated?'
'dippy... this ship is run by pirates... FUCKING PIRATES. if they're stupid enough to listen to the missionaries, then how fucking hard can it be to re-jigger the 'hole? i'm sure we'll figure it out'
'what'll prevent them from following us?'
'you think the managers on that shithole wants a hot, juicy pirate injection coming through their 'hole? fuck no... as soon as we get there, we raise the alarm. they'll shut it down. we'll be safe.'

we stared at each other some more again.

'got a better idea?'
'not a fucking thing' dippy replied.
'well... let's get old pokey to start fucking the brains out of this ship.'

we looked around a bit. coming out of the previously soiled socket was a thick, shielded cable running down into the floor. we tore off the cover, scraped off the insulation into a pleasant vulva shape, and grabbed pokey. he squirmed a bit, but we shoved, drill bit first, into that sparky electric vagina.

sometimes, late at night, when i'd been forced to listen to flapjack abusing himself in the most horrific way, i thought that i'd heard cacophony at its most pure. the slurping, gurgling, splooshing sounds that he'd create haunted me for days afterwards. a lot of people react like cowards to the word 'moist.' they never heard a fucking thing until they heard flapjack satisfy himself.

these sounds, were something else entirely.

electric rape. electric potentials that had no business, and no desire, to interact, were forced to. electromagnetic fields rubbed and burned against each other, with terrifying discharges. sparks begetting shocks begetting lightning begetting plasma. it sounded like electricty was screaming. and it was fucking loud.

all the while, the lights dimmed and flickered, with each pokey's thrusts.

pokey was being forced out by the monopoles in the wire, so we had to keep shoving him back in, both of us, shoulders into his back, getting shocks here and there, like a bystander in a porn movie getting splashed with body fluids unintentionally. plasma leaked on the floor, like a wet spot of pure energy. it spread, further electrifying the room. the room surged with potential... every hair on our bodies stood up, soldiers waiting for orders.

then pokey came.
like thunder. like lightning. like a fucking solar flare. this was insane. the whole room glowed bright white. then darkness.

and the smell of ozone on everything.

the lights were off.
it was time to go.

doing it in the missionary position... part seven

2011-11-02T13:01:00.000Z

'dippy... you terrible cunt. you magnificent loser. your fabulous shit. you are a reprobate and a liar. how i've misjudged you!'

i leapt across the table and gave him a huge hug. pokey was getting excited too, ejaculating some kind of fracking fluid onto dippy's boots.

'yes yes... fuck off, then. here's the deal: you remember i went to prison, right?' he asked, clearly not expecting an answer. i interrupted...

'of course i do, dippy darling! i sent you there,' i cheerfully replied.

'... well, as you might imagine, prison life and i didn't quite get along. so i made deals.

'i bet you did. sexy deals, right? were they sexy deals? i bet they were sexy deals!'

'they were not sexy deals. let me finish. the pirates always keep a couple of guys on the inside, to keep track of what's going on outside... missing stashes of swag, drugs, guns, aborted plans, schemes, whatever, belonging to someone locked up... maybe they got pinched before they could get their money. maybe their partner fucked 'em over and stole it all, turning them in.'

'heavens... who would turn someone in to the authorities? what a scoundrel!' this was getting to be some fun.

'they have their inside guys contact their outside guys, and so on... i remembered your little angry one scam and had heard of the missionary project. this would be prime plundering for the pirates. and it would really piss you off, having your cash stream dry up. i knew you'd be too much of a cowardly shit to come out here and confront them, so i pinched skip. i figured that'd be your incentive to come out and deal with the pirates. you'd want to save him.'

'dastardly... brilliant... you magnificent bastard.. blahblahblahyoufucking cunt. i'm not here because you stole skip though. i'm here because my cunting missionaries took their job too seriously and stuffed the chief's mummified mother up his ass... not because of your stupid fucking plan. and where is my god damn robot you little fucktard? god damn starclowns all the fucking same. you promised me my robot and i want to see my robot now or i will scream my fucking head off and get those pirates in here and tell them you double-crossed 'em.'

pokey treaded over to me and engaged in some frottage with my calf. he left a little damn spot that spread towards my ankle.

'shut it jackass. i'm getting there. i'm in as much trouble as you are with this whole mother up the ass thing. they blame me too since i got the pirates to tangle with the missionaries. they went straight to the missionaries to deal for you. i'm cut out of this whole situation.'

'so why am i in here with you?'

'i told them we had unfinished business to attend to. pirates like that kind of fake strong guy bullshit talk. so...'

'so what?' i looked at him.
'so what are we going to do? we're fucked.'
'nope. you're fucked. for all i know, the chief hated his mother and enjoys things stuffed up his ass and he wants to thank me for making his life to pleasant.'
'fine. but you won't see your robot again.'

damn...

'ok. so what is their plan, exactly?' dippy should have known something. hopefully.
'no clue.'
'do you know your way around this place?'
'nope.'
'any guys on their side you can rely on?'
'not a one'
we stared at each other across the table.
'we're going to have to work together. aren't we?'
'yup.'

pokey beeped excitedly and shot a spray of lubricant that hit both of us in the face.

'damn you, dippy.'
'fuck you, janitor'

doing it in the missionary position... part six

2011-11-01T12:25:00.000Z

'dippy dippy dippy... i see you've turned your life around. i've always been a cheerful endorser of the penal system. glad to see it's still working.'

dippy said nothing. he looked at me. he was flanked by a couple pirate goons. they whispered behind him.

'that's him. that's the guy. oh man. wow... just, like wow. '

they looked like you'd expect. hard. very hard. very grizzled, scarred, dirty, tough. but when they opened their mouths, they sounded like assholes.

i let them know this.

dippy had this not quite there look, like he was trapped in some unpleasant memory.

'we're having dinner. let's go.'

the goons opened up a gloryhole. even i, a jaded spaceman, wondered how much fucking money these bastards had... a roving hole ain't cheap. dippy done good. i decided i'd let him know.

'dippy... you done real good!'

'get in.'

'hey... dippy... mind if we take ol' pokey over there... he and i have shared an intimate moment and it would be wrong to just leave him on this rock.' he nodded.

the goons grabbed dippy, who spurted a little drilling fluid in excitement, and we all climbed into the hole.

for a moment, my brain thought it was where my feet were, and my cock thought it was where my brain was and i sharted then i realized we were on the ship.

my brain reoriented itself. gushes of relaxation splashed over me. i wasn't built for terra firma... or ex-mining asteroids. i belong entombed on shoddily constructed, poorly maintained, alloy coffins that function by manipulating the (clearly absurd) rules of physics laid out by a virgin fuck-knows-how-many-years-ago. he was right, however, about the lead-to-gold thing. but that giant-malformed blobs of rock and shit follow easy-peasy circles and ellipses... who the fuck does he think he is? don't be stupid. nothing is that bland in this universe.

maybe the next one over is simpler. i'll have to check it out.

anyway... rocks and shit... not for me.

this control room for the gloryholes was quite nice. comfortable even. something wasn't adding up. how could dippy have become head of this pirate crew? he was an idiot. a complete dolt. it'd be like flapjack having my job. unthinkable.

i let him know this.

'dippy, lad... how come you to this august position?'

asking dippy about his job made me think about my job... i hadn't done it in ages. all that swag, lovely lovely swag, piling up in the grates around hangar 23 and beyond... all that money to be lifted... all those drinks to be stolen... gizmos and gadgets and such... so far away. so very far.

fuck it... embrace change. i'm now some kind of hostage. that's my lot. not so bad, really. you probably have to care for your hostage, if you want to swap him. bathe him. clothe him. keep him healthy. i imagine you have to feed a hostage too. i was getting hungry.

i let them know this.

so we marched around the ship. the rest of it wasn't particularly nice... lots of exposed bulkheads, rust and drippy pipes, puddles of corrosive fluids. pokey was both overstimulated and terrified. he'd run of and bang the wall, or another passer-by, then beep in terror and hurry back to catch and walk next to me, comforting himself with tiny little stabs at my calf. they grow up so fast but they still run back to mommy...

'oi dippy, might i inquire as to the duration of this detainment?'
best to treat him with some kind of fancy talk. wouldn't want to insult the poor dear.
there was no response.

i was trying to piece together why the hell we were on such a deathmarch from the gloryhole room. unless they are super-powerful, a glory hole can't really send too much cargo at once. a person is about the limit. this works for a few reasons, chiefly:
1) they can charge more money, because you have to send each person separately.
2) should there be a malfunction, and the 'hole slips out of its containment area, then losses are minimized. this was learned the hard way some years ago when a school field trip out to the space monkey asteroid belts had the delightful misfortune of a slipped 'hole which sent the entire sewer asteroid back to the schools 'hole room, covering all the waiting parents with tons of space monkey shit. hilarious...

it gets more dangerous when you have a 'hole on a ship. should it slip, then it can transport large amounts of life-support systems, engines, ordinance, and crew, to fuck knows where instantaneously... leaving a vaguely ovoid chunk bitten out of your fancy-pants spaceship.

not good.

so for very powerful 'holes they stick either at the end of huge booms that jut quite hideously out of the hull, like some priapic nightmare. or they put them way down below past the shuttle hangars, storage hangars, and so on. lower level kind of things...

guess where das orbit's bulk 'hole is?

blahblahblahmarchmarchmarchwhinewhinewhinecrycrycry and we finally arrived at a door, indistinguishable, frankly, from all the others. this ship sucked.

i let them know this.

we made our way into a conference room. a big table. chairs. all quite decrepit looking. i was sat, roughly mind you, at one end. dippy sat on the other. i still couldn't figure out the dynamic between this group. the pirates and dippy didn't seem to get along. or really acknowledge each other. is it possible that the hated him as much as i did?

i let them know this.

the pirates left us alone.

'oh whatever do you have planned for me?' i asked dippy in my sexiest little voice. ol' pokeydippy's calf with fluid.

dippy glanced at the bot, at the door, around the room, then walked slowly over towards me, eyes locked with mine.

damn... while the thought of carnal relations with dippy seemed rather unpleasant, he did look more like a girl than anything i'd likely sleep with (or had slept with) in a long, hard, frustrating time.

i let him know this.

'shut it, janitor, and listen. i'm fucked. and you've got to help me get out of here.'

'is that so... dippy, in case you hadn't noticed, you brought me here. how the fuck am i going to get you out of here? i don't even know where here is. or what here is. or who these fucking pirates are. and besides that, why the fuck would you want me to help you out? remember the last time we did this little dance, you ended up in prison. why would you trust me?'

'because i took skip and know where he is...'

that was something worth gambling on. i let him know this.

doing it in the missionary position... part five

2011-03-09T13:30:00.000Z

there were no sweet memories of lost childhood from a different time that nursed and caressed and cradled me in my unconsciousness. there was instead only one dream... that a huge metal cock was trying to penetrate my skull. repeated, forceful banging thrusts, over and over and over, right against the side of my head... some insensate fucktron trying to get his gears off, joylessly pounding my fleshy skull until, hopefully, in his eye-stalks anyway, it would turn into something resembling an opening. anhedonic infertile copulation performed by an automaton... the most beautiful thing i've ever seen.

which of course i was actually seeing... i wasn't asleep at all. the worn down nub of the fucktron paused briefly while i looked at it, looked back, turned his eyestalks up, and went back to banging...

fuck me.

i sat there for a while, to try to understand where the fuck it is those old tumorbanks had sent me. i looked about. rocks. rocks up, rocks down, rocks to the left and right and front and back. rocks in my eyes, fucking rocks in my ass. rocks everywhere. i was not on a ship. i was not on a station. i was in some cave on some asteroid somewhere in the middle of fucking nowhere. everything here felt dead. not like home, where everything was so rotten that it became organic. this was death. slow, floating, million year orbital death.

the fucktron continued to bang my head. he didn't seem to be as potent as i thought before. only about four feet tall, his metal genitals just reached the side of my face. there was something comforting about having another presence there, so i let him have his fun. whose gonna know?

these fucktrons (like most of them) started out as industrial and mining diggers. a pretty shitty job for a robot, because once the rock or planet or moon or cloud or belt or gas giant or whatever had been reamed out, the mining companies leave with their ships as loaded as possible. the bots are left on whatever remains from the dig site.

according to the robot unions, they have to be given a self-destruct code, or a timed power-down, but some of the more unscrupulous companies don't give a shit, so they leave to poor fuckers on full power, alone, in the crotch of a rock light-years from nothing.

whose gonna know?

so these robots are programmed to drill. and drill they do... but just like humans get mutations in their dna from radiation, robots get mutations in their programming. for some weird reason, though, it happens consistently with these diggers, all they want to do is drill, so they start drilling each other. they end up fucking each other to death, so they are left even more abandoned, their drill bits maimed, rubbed down and polished and too toothless to drill through rock anymore and just bounce around ancient caves and slag pits, quasi-banging anything around them. very tragic.

this guy seemed pretty happy to see me. i'd just have to move before the drilling fluid come spurting out.

i guess the tumorbanks negotiated a drop with the pirates, because i doubt they'd be out here permanently and not have salvaged ol' pokey. so it's me and a fucktron until something happens. or he gets a bit more aggressive and i have to turn him off...

pokey seemed to get bored with my skull, which gave me the chance to drift off to sleep... however i woke up to him really going at it.

'pokey you bastard... not so hard. you have to buy me a drink first!'

'get up'

'foreplay... it's called foreplay pokey. i need tenderness'

'get up or i'll kill you'

'playing it rough are we?'

the rifle butt came sharply into view just before it hit my eye. this was not pokey.

i looked up with my other eye. i'm guessing what i saw was a space pirate. though he just kinda looked like a starclown. long hair... fancy duds. a bit dirtier... a bit more ragged. but a fucking starclown. a very familiar starclown. in fact, i know this starclown.

fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck....

'hiya spacetrash.'

'hiya dippy. what's new?'

doing it in the missionary position... part four

2011-03-08T13:45:00.000Z

like any good careworker who deals with the elderly, it is inevitable that you will wake up, one day, to an old woman's genitalia hovering six inches above your face... just close enough that it's unclear what is up there, and you have to refocus hard and it takes a few seconds for the picture to become clear...only to then realize that what you thought were your normal morning tears of waking to the reality that you had at least another day to live on this shitbox were not in fact tears but streams of thick, pre-diabetic, sweet urine sputtering stop-start on your face.

i'll take flapjack abusing himself in the bed next to me any day. i would rather not wake up this way again. ever.

'good morning, friends. showering me with gold this morning, i see?' is tricky to say while someone is pissing on your face. what actually came out was

' oh god you fucking monsters what is wrong with you?' is what i tried to shape with my mouth but in reality came out as

'i'll kill all of you and your families who obviously don't care about you anymore as they stuck you on this station to die.' would have been a good comeback if it weren't for the fact that what i actually said was

'i want my mommy.' which, uttered with a sniffly nose, old-lady crotch above my mouth, and a stream of urine down my face, was pretty fucking creepy.

'get up. get up. get up you fucking rip-off shit. get your lazy, useless husk off the fucking floor or you'll get far worse. pris... get off him.'

'has she been eating prunes?' was the clever response i thought of in my head several hours later.

they hoisted me off the ground, threw some dirty rag at me to clean my face off, then plopped me down on a crate. i looked around. i was in a cargo hold, but it wasn't in hangar 23. i didn't recognize the walls. they were clean... well-kempt... cared for. piles of supplies were neatly organized. it was also a lot smaller. then, i realized i felt a sensation i hadn't felt in a long, long time. in fact, about as long as it'd been since i came to das orbit.

i was on a ship. and i was moving. very. very. fast.

i was not on the station. i was going far away from the station. i had left the station. i was not on the station.

this was different. this is change. change is not good. not fucking good at all.

i inquired as to our destination. the response was a punch in the balls. these old people are strong. and by the looks of it a lot richer than i though. this is a pretty nice cargo hold.

after a while, they decided to talk to me.

'remember how cavalierly you didn't give a shit about our missing missionary brothers, young man?'

'with great relish. do you always have your wife do your face-pissing for you, or do you sometimes man-up and perform the act yourself?' finally, i got a come-back. a brilliant one too, if i fucking say so my self.

'well, spacetrash, we're going to get them back. specifically you are going to get them back. ever deal with the pirates?'
'ever deal with flapjack when there's no porn around?'
'you got an answer for everything, eh?
i thought hard about a really clever answer for this one. i hate logic puzzles, and i guess it took so long that the old bastards thought they won the argument. balls.

eventually. they explained what happened. the missionaries (frankie and dodo) had apparently, knowing full well that they were heading into very dangerous territory, decided that they'd be able to slip by in to the very fertile missionary zones out past the pirate areas.
'they took this thing a little too seriously. they were never that smart.' old gray said. that's what i started referring to him as. it was my tiny rebellion... i am soooo clever.

'what ever do you mean, too seriously. this is important business. you were the one who wanted this whole missionary thing to get started.'

'are you fucking stupid?'

'piss off, you old shit. i'll just wait you out until next week when your fucking prostate explodes. i don't need you old farts shouting at me. i'm your god, remember?'

'sorry about that... what i mean was how fucking stupid are you? do you really think that a bunch of very wealthy, very successful people would actually believe that you offered any kind of spiritual salvation? no wonder you are a fucking janitor on a space station. no wonder your only friends are retards and aliens...'

'don't forget about my missing robot, you cancer-in-waiting!'

'quiet you jackass. how dumb could you possibly be to think that we actually gave a shit about any of this?'

i was floored.

'so what the fuck is all this about then?

'oh my god. how is it that you aren't the retarded one of your degenerate little klatsch. look, janitor. we'll let you use your brain for once.

'thanks!'

'what do we have a lot of?'

'money'

'and do we want to keep?'

'your money'

'and what takes our money away?'

'your ingrate children? your housekeeper? your careworkers?'

'pris... drop 'em. he needs another shower.'

'nonononono... let's be reasonable, oh gray one. taxes. you lose your fucking money to taxes, don't you?'

then i got it.

'and if you are working for an organized religion, you don't have to pay a fucking penny, do you? you found my little scam, took care of filing with the taxman, figured i'd shut up if you sent me some lucre every now and then and then fucked off to do so-called missionary work in your fancy yachts, float around the universe, keep a cargo-hold full of religious paraphernalia, take some photos with the natives, and yer living tax-free for the rest of your lives. holy cunt! you old fuckers are all-fucking-right in my book. i could learn a thing or two about scamming from you bastards!'

old gray kinda looked proud. i was floored. i'm used to being taken advantage of. to being ripped off, stolen from, tricked, beaten, robbed, and molested. but i've always seen it coming. this... this was something new. this was awesome.

'so why do you give a fuck if frankie and dodo get eaten by pirates?' space pirates eat people. everyone knows that.
'because, spacetrash, if they get eaten, the authorities step in. authorities step in, and we get scrutinized. we get scrutinized, angry one ceases to be fair game for our little missionary position, dig?'

'fair point. so what's going on?'

'like i said, frankie and dodo took this shit way too seriously. they actually tried to convert the pirates. and when they met with the head pirate, they followed the manual. they went straight to insertion.
'anal insertion?'
'in the butt. but the insertion document tells the missionary to insert what is most holy. the thing most holy to the chief were the mummified remains of his mother.'
'so the mother's bones were inserted'
'anally inserted.'
'in the butt... that probably didn't end well, did it?'
'that's why you are here. they wanted to meet the man foul enough to create a doctrine of such putrescence.
i felt a bit proud of that bit there. space pirates wanted to meet me. those guys are bad-ass.
'and...'
'and nothing. they meet you, they give us frankie and dodo, they eat you presumably, we go on. a martyred prophet works wonders for a religion.'

'hmmm... can't say i'm totally in agreement with this plan, old gray.'
'i don't give a fuck, spacetrash. we need them back, and you being dead works out awesome for us.'
'so when do we get there?'
'not we. you. we're sending you down in a shuttle. the pirates are sending frankie and dodo back on it.'
'damn'
'ciao spacetrash'
'ciao tumor'
everything went black again... all i felt was rushing, rushing, rushing in the darkness...

doing it in the missionary position... the interlude

2011-03-02T13:22:00.000Z

broken dreams... beautiful geometries dancing somewhere between my cornea and my eyelids... somehow both extruded into three-dimensions and yet permanently evanescent... memories, shuddering into place, then fading like those tessellations... a toy robot i lost as a child... a simple friendly giant who once helped me cross the street... an insect collection burned away in a fire... the wonder of making eye-contact with a chimpanzee at the zoo for the first time... a rotting sponge under the sink where i used to play... a trip to the shore and an encounter with a tiny octopus... cold white winters in some northern waste and the curious moose who nibbled the fruits straight from my hand... a backyard shack, with broken dusty windows, old rusting gear and long-abandoned spider webs... a safe place, away from the constant fear and suspicion of adults... the geometries grow harsher now.... they have edges... they have teeth and fangs... shouting... always shouting... always cruel... always judging harshly whining insulting evil spiteful dangerous... the other children, always mocking, always mean, always avoiding... the geometries grow weirder... nastier, somehow... colors that should never do so join forces... no rubbing of the eyes makes them change... they are all encompassing... they take over the robot, the octopus, the sponge, the giant... the colors grow and intensify and intensify and grow until there is nothing left but blackness, sprinkled with a few dots far away... and a giant gleaming brilliant beautiful polyhedron made of mercury, spinning and floating in the void...

then i woke up to some old woman pissing in my face...

doing it in the missionary position... part three

2011-03-01T13:39:00.000Z

i'm trying to figure out exactly how this is my fault. first off, they sailed on their own ship. they used their own funds to stock it. all i did was provide inspiration. in fact, i'm pretty sure that from a legal point of view the 'evidence' (fancy legal term) that i berated them and told them how stupid an idea it was may 'indemnify' me (more legal terms). and besides... look at it from the pirates point of view... some rich assholes show up in a fancy ship, berating them, telling them everything they've ever known as wrong and how stupid they are for believing it. what the fuck would you do?

i'd take 'em hostage too
so word comes back a few days ago that one of these missionary ships has been taken over by pirates. i know what you're thinking... ooh... angryspaceman... you must love pirates. they are like totally what you'd always wanted to be when you grew up, but you are too big a coward and loser and weakling to actually go out and be a pirate so you stick around on that shitty space station, 'stealing' trash from under the gratings and yelling at people for money.

fuck you. but yea, you are right.

to the extent that i have any respect for anything, pirates are pretty ok in my book. sometimes when i get drunk by my self, i clamber aboard whatever cruiser is in hangar 23, hang off the bow and shoot wildly with a pistol at whoever comes in.

and sometimes i think about becoming a pirate too.

so this whole situation is a bit weird. one the one hand... i really hate it when someone takes something from me. and on the other hand, i don't want any responsibility for any of this.

the easiest thing to do would be to close the shack of beration. disavow any knowledge of said missionaries, throw the documents down the trash chutes, hide the money, and pretend none of this ever happened.

which is precisely what i did. hid the shack, hid the cash, burned the evidence and life went on its merry fucking way.

this lasted for a day and a half. apparently, these missionaries are tough little confections. and, it turns out, they weren't as keen on the whole shack of beration thing as i suspected.

remember how i told you these were a bunch of rich idiots, who wanted to spread the word. well... i was definitely spot on with the rich part. the idiot part, however, i may have been slightly mislead on. in fact, i'm gonna say it.. the idiot in this situation may in fact have been me.

not may, actually. and idiot is too weak a word. how about flapjack. i was a flapjack. even flapjack saw my flapjackedness and made fun of me. a bad day for your hero.

i figured i could avoid contact with any returning missionaries by not letting them dock at hangar 23. easy enough... i deny ships all the time. besides, this is the shitty part of the station... they don't wanna let their beautiful ships anywhere near scum like us. so they end up docking elsewhere, and what with how confusing it is to navigate around the station when somebody pays a certain station engineer to sabotage the internal visitor navigation system and make it look like hangar 23 is in fact the morgue, i didn't really expect too many visitors.

surprise surprise. if you have money, you can bribe your way into any part of the station and find any janitor who is trying to hide from you because he isn't helping out your friends that he sent out to the reaches of the shitiverse.

'unhand me, gray-beard loons!' i shouted
eftsoons his hand did not drop he. actually, they threw me up against a crate and roughed me a up a bit. flapjack watched with indifference, eating and entire crate of space-dust free space-monkey jerky. what, i wondered, had happened so spajjy, mal-aka, skip (tear), zargle, zog, wiggins, longshanks, cute little galactopus girl, cosmoose, shitzilla... all of my friends who had always supported me, now abandoned me in my time of need. to be torn apart at the hands of these savages, these buffoons who thought i was some sort of messiah.

my friends, my friends. why have you forsaken me?!?!?

apparently i said all that aloud because i got a stronger knock to the head and fell unconscious.

doing it in the missionary position... part two

2011-02-28T13:31:00.001Z

fuck me roughly with a laser truncheon... i wish i had thought of this missionary thing years ago. it's awesome. idiots come into the shack, i abuse them, they pay up, then they fuck right off to the far reaches of the galaxy, telling everyone how fantastic i am. it's paradise. and the best... the absolute starfucking best part of this whole thing is that they now send money and swag from all over, right back to hangar 23. it's fantastic. it's really helped take some of the sting away what with old skip being gone...

oh yea... skip.

i miss that stupid little robot.

so... we hashed out the first contact protocols for the missionaries before they flew the hangar. all this crap about not interfering with indigenous people and their ways and culture and whatnot can go fuck itself... primitive people (as some one once said) are stupid. if they can't respect themselves enough to get a simple fusion reactor going, install some gloryholes, or even get off their shitty little rock long enough to get drunk and lose their money on one of our many fine space stations, then fuck 'em. they'll get what the deserve.

it's this little monologue that actually forms the basis of the missionaries first meeting. the idea is to overwhelm the primitives with abuse and hate, to stun them. our missionaries are trained to find the thing that the locals would find most dear to them, most sacred, inviolate, pure and holy. what do they love? what do they venerate? what little tchotchke do they idolize?

once they find it, they tear it a new asshole.

for example... if they have a little statue or something that represent their dead grandma or god... we'll make damn sure something deeply perverse and possibly illegal happens to it.

i'm talking insertion

anal insertion.

in the butt.

perhaps they have a sacred text... our boys (and girls and eunuchs and hermos) will take turns reading it in stupid voices, while acting out the more ridiculous scenes.

then they'll tear out the pages and perform insertion.

anal insertion.

in the butt.

actually, pretty much anything we can do to these soon-to-be-receivers-of-the-holy-word ends with insertion

anal insertion.

in the butt.

because it, as an act, symbolizes precisely what we want the primitives to think. that we have absolutely no respect for their existing culture, they are stupid and worthless, and how could they possibly have lived so long without us.

now it doesn't really matter if they are primitive or not. most of the time, we're landing on totally up-to-date planets, mainly in the suburbs, where people are pretty bored. they like the abuse, because, secretly, it's what they've always thought. that they are worthless and deserving of nothing.

all we do is help bring those thoughts to life.

so once they've gotten their induction angry, the missionaries pretend to be friends, offering a few comforts, telling them how they are making great spiritual strides.

then they lay it on twice as thick and three times as long. this doesn't involve insertion.

anal insertion.

in the butt.

so it's been going pretty well... we've been getting tons of swag, and enrollment is up. we may have to start inventing more hoops for people to go through... i'm thinking of telling people they have a soul now... but the soul is kinda fucked up, or polluted, or something and only the reception of more hatred and anger will clear it up.

it would appear, however, that there is a downside to some of this missionary business. not for me, mind you, but for the missionaries. some of them may be a little too zealous in their desire to share the word of the angry one, and may... possibly... kind of... oopsy... floated into some territory they oughtn't have floated in.

or maybe their comms are down. whatever...

doing it in the missionary position... part one

2011-02-24T13:56:00.000Z

in difficult times, men find solace in all sorts of vices... booze, drugs, gambling, thieving, whoring, exxxtreme sportz!, family, and (most profitably) religion. for me, the fact that skip is missing has been a strain... but there are only so many nights you can rip people off at zargle's, steal from zog, spy on cute little galactopus girl or abuse yourself to dirty vids. at some point, you've got to fall back on what gave you solace as a kid... what your family taught you... your values... as i have none of those, i decided to go back to the only thing that ever made me truly happy... the shack of beration... with a fucking vengeance

apparently this was missing from a lot of other people's lives too... lots of the broken souls and weak minds of the station have been pouring through hangar 23. it's been hard, no doubt, without skip handling some of the practicalities (like setting up security cordons, making sure the spaceurchins (the young ones that people still find cute, not the old, gross, saggy-spiked, dripping with toxin 6-foot wide balls of repulsion that roll their way around the station looking for trouble and sexual release) are filling their pickpocketing quotas, cleaning up vomit from the newly ill tourists (ill typically from the gas we dose 'em with so they don't pay attention when the little spaceurchin rolls up and takes their wad, as they think they have sas... sas never existed... it was always a ploy to rob you... eat that, 20th century astronauts!!!!!) and so on.

but, if you need a replacement for a broken janitorial robot, a giant retarded disowned alien heir to an intergalactic shipping fortune is probably about right... and none of my other so-called friends were up for it. so flapjack, buddy, you've been promoted to assistant to the prophet... wear the mantle proudly, my lad.

i've dealt with the mechanics of the shack of beration many times before, but... seeing as i've neglected by dear readers for many many space months now, and your memories are probably damaged from overindulgence in anything you can get your hands on, or, in the off-chance that there is a new reader, who, potentially, might, maybe want to help me dramatize my amazing, sexy, dangerous life in some sort of amazing, sexy, dangerous, moving picture format, i'll remind you. idiots pay good money to stand in line and enter a shitty tent that we've erected in hangar 23, where i sit, all dangerous and sexy (like an oracle) and berate them until they cry. once they cry, they hand over their filthy lucre, thank me, i spit on them and they leave. it's very therapeutic, moral, and spiritual. i expect none of you will understand. if you do, you wouldn't wait in line, like the rest of these corpses-in-waiting.

sooo...... as business has been booming (perhaps because of the implied threat of flapjack stumbling around the shack), we've been dealing with some organization issues. the dude who helped me a while back has been eliminated, due to theological and ethical differences. so it's just us now. but... we've come upon a new scam, which is actually an old scam. some people call it being a missionary. i call it unpaid franchising.

a curious sort of person has been showing up to the shack. these people, usually middle aged (or worse), wealthy, and aimless. they made such a success of themselves, retired early, bought gorgeous ships, and sail about, looking for meaning in life. i thought the meaning was to get rich. they got rich... what the fuck do they want to do now? they need to shut up and enjoy themselves. if they're feeling guilty about their amassment of coin, i'll happily remove some of their guilt. it's encouraged, you know, for the betterment of their soul.

now... a taxonomical question...are they starclowns? i'm not sure... starclowns are looking for adventure, they want to feel alive, feel like they are in some vid... these followers are looking for purpose... meaning... answers. of the two, they are way easier to manipulate. and more fun. the best you can do with a starclown is get him killed. the best you can down with a follower is break his mind... that is pure ecstasy. you can't put a cred value on that.

well, i guess you could. it's pretty high. i'll have to consult my schedule.

so these... i'm too fucking lazy to give 'em a clever ame... let's just call them "idiots"... have been showing up in waves at the shack. somewhere, somehow, in the circles that they float in, one of 'em came here, got a good yellin' at... went back to the nest where they thrive and told the lot of them all about it. half the line is paunchy, well-dressed, well-walleted well-wishers seeking spiritual and moral enlightenment.

this is something i know a little something about providing.

so they come and i yell and more come and i yell more and yet more come and yet more yelling and eventually i'm down at the doctorbot with a fucked up voicebox and hemorrhoids on my lips from all the straining. life ain't easy. but this time, i could finally pay the doctorbot up front, without having to jam a screwdriver into his pay slot and then running like fuck.

yay for small victories.

so these... right, "idiots"... are approaching me... they say that the shack of beration has changed their life. they need to do more. they want to do more. i figure this is their subtle way of asking for some free attention... so i started screaming back, instructing flapjack to insert on of the larger ones into one of the smaller ones, which he does with marvelous precision... they are in ecstasy over all this but one of them comes to and says

"seriously... we want to spread the word."
"what fucking word?" - i inquire politely
"your word - the universe needs to hear it"

i proceed to explain how stupid they are... how all i've been doing is ripping them off, stealing their money, and molesting their daughters when they come to visit, but just think it's more therapy. the more i shout, the happier they become. the more i explain, in violent imagery, how flapjackish their idea is, the more convinced they are it's right.

be careful what you wish for. that goes for both me and the idiots.

so i guess it's time to for the angry one to fly. as long as someone else is doing the work, i suppose i don't really give a damn. let's see where this one goes.

heroes, heroes... every single fucking one of them is a hero

2010-07-01T12:54:00.000+01:00

after thorough, repeated, sticky viewings of what are now known as the the 'spajjy vids,' i am convinced that dear old gear skip is not being used as a fuckbot. this makes me happy... because had i self-abused to a vid exploiting my missing damaged friend, i might have felt awkward. instead, i feel satisfied and well-rested... huzzah! the search, however, must continue... after this nap.

as you may recall, there are endless wars being fought all over the place in this irritating universe. most of the time, fought with robots... but fleshier sentient beings will zoom in at the last minute, get all heroic with their clean, unmolested with shit, blood or piss boot standing on some poor bot's head and get one of their overpaid, underbrained buddies to shoot a little vid of them looking like they did something other than play video games for two weeks while the combots blew the shit out of each other and slagged the planet they were standing on so no one will want to live there anyway.

support the troops.

if you are a combot, and you manage not to get too exploded, mangled, disemcircuited, or fragged so as to be sent to the wire hanger factory, you are given veteran status, a modest pension and a one-way gloryport anywhere you want. this was long fought for, i can tell you... it used to be that you'd be chucked in a garbage chute and melted into coins for whatever new republic you had just secured or fought against. unfortunately, anywhere you want to go is going to be too expensive on your shitty pension, so you gotta go somewhere cheap, sleazy and easy to hide in case another war breaks out and you get sucked into more pointless violence and short-circuits.

i wonder if there is a cheap, dirty, easy to hide place somewhere in the galaxy... i can't seem to think of one.

for whatever reason, these veteran combots flock to the station. which is cool because robots aren't stupid. they are in fact the exact opposite of stupid. they know good swag when they see it and they have lots of weird little hiding spots and bits they can reconfigure and most of them have injuries so they can secret it in plain sight as some war-deformity. not stupid at all. and this way, they supplement their shitty pension with various smuggling gigs, package deliveries and spying... who's gonna think the fucked up, one armed robot sitting in the main corridor on the upper levels, babbling to himself could possibly be recording every conversation that happens by him to then have someone like me pay him for all those tapes and figure out when certain captain spacefucks are going on vacations to certain beachy moons and leaving their fancy rooms unattended and unsecure? no one, that's who... aren't we so fucking smart?

yes, we are.

so... these guys, when not doing anything useful for me or society, tend to hang out, sometimes in the garden levels, playing some weird old robot version of petanque, or sitting around on crappy chairs in the lower levels, drinking and doing nothing. it seems relaxing. sometimes i wished i was a mangled robot with nothing to do.

but this got me to thinking... how do these guys end up serving in the military? i highly doubt they'd volunteer... who'd be that stupid... and i doubt they are built for it... they don't seem to be built to do any work at all... so what the fuck are they doing fighting each other? (incidentally, the combots seem to bear absolutely no ill will towards each other... in fact, you'll see combots from opposite teams hanging out, laughing, have a gay old time... very interesting)

i decided to press this point... maybe there was some clue to skip's disappearance there?

i put on my best tough face, went up to the garden levels and found the grizzled old bastards, limping about, arguing about how close one plasma was to another plasma... which is retarded because as robots, they can calculate it exactly, but i guess they all pretend to be damaged so there is some area of uncertainty... this also sounds familiar.

'ahoy combots... we need to speak. from whence did ye come to perform your noble duties?'
'fuck off, we've nothing to say to you'
not the welcome i had hoped for. perhaps they were having an off day. for obvious reasons, i don't think they care for us fleshy types too much. my experience had only been with a few of them. i had a plan, though.
'flapjack!'
strapped to the back of my trusted giant mongoloid friend were many gallons of cheap booze... just how the combots like it. this made their sad eyes leak lubricant and smile. when they spoke, different ones piped up, giving the illusion of a single brain controlling multiple mouths. a useful advantage for soldiers, i suppose.
'we were harsh, young man. youth should be tolerated... you have yet to live your life... we are sorry... please, sit down. what can we teach you?'
who the fuck knows?
'how come you to be combots?'
their moods darkened... this seemed a sore point.
'press-ganged'
'press-ganged? yer fucking kidding me? what is this the dark ages?'
'press-ganged. take a look at us, bucko... do we look like robots built for combat. fuck... half of us are re-purposed manufacturing equipment... but shooting bullets is about the same as shooting bolts. it's too fucking expensive to build a custom combot just to get killed, so there is a massive trade in stealing bots, quick-fix 'em with some guns and shit, then drop 'em into a combat zone. sometimes they offer you freedom... get out of this boring ass factory job, serve in this war and if you live, pension, easy life, plasmanque all day and booze all night. if you say yes, great. if you say no... don't fucking matter. you'll end up there anyway. only if you say no... you get hand-to-hand combat weapons installed, not a nice, safe, distance weapon... get my drift. some choice. death from afar or death from a near.'
shit... i asked if it was possible that skip was press-ganged into service.
'are you stupid?'
'yes i am'
'of course it's possible... anything is possible. but your buddy was primarily janitorial staff... those types are notoriously intractable and difficult to reprogram. and the kind of characters involved in this business don't want to make things hard on themselves... they just
'not just the robots... mwahahahahahaha'
'shut up. you garbage types aren't necessarily what they look for. so i would be surprised if he was sent to a war zone. and there's little point to stealing a broken, shitty janitorial assistant bot. even if he is your friend.'
'fair point.'
'we'll ask some questions... see if anyone knows anything. now leave us be to drink your booze.'

flappy and i left. and i thought skip was damaged... those guys are fucked.

finding skip, by means of (fluid) elimination

2010-06-30T00:01:00.056+01:00

as you know, my little robot friend skip, whom i love dearly and would never, ever, evereverneverever wish anything bad to happen to, has had something bad happen to him. this is a problem... for one, i have a lot more fucking work to do around hangar 23... for two, flapjack doesn't stop crying... for three, i miss him and for four, nobody steals from me and gets away with it...

the mood around our little gang of strays has been maudlin recently... that means sad and weepy, but drunk. we can't figure out what the fuck happened. mal-aka and longshanks seem to think he is being held ransom by either the insurgency or the pangalacticists... i haven't heard anything in the shack of beration lately. although... that's probably because no one is stupid enough to admit to it in a confession to me... right....

flapjack seems to favor the theory that he has left on his volition, to become a roboporn star. that idea gives me a smile.

sooooo..... it was time to do some investigation. like fuck was i gonna get myself abducted by the pangalacticists or the insurgents, and i didn't feel like looking around again, to see if his battery had gone dead or something and he was just lying underneath some enormous mountain of garbage, patiently waiting in a fugue state for the only man that ever loved him to come and rescue his sad little robot countenance.

looking at a mountain of roboporn seemed like a much much better proposition. so off we went to zog's to see what we might find. flapjack, being the roboporn aficionado that he is, knew at an instant that the several hundred or so vids that zog had in his shop were a no-go... he'd abused himself to those many a time and promised me that skip was nowhere in them.

'well flapjack, you fucking tell me then? when is the last time you saw a broken fucking robot in a robo porn? what kind of sick bastard wants to watch a damaged bot get repeatedly penetrated by... uh...'
i looked down trying to find the name of an actor...
'gavoid with the huge processor or uh...'
... i scanned again...
'hiltron 2.0, now with more fuckvolts?'
flapjack mentioned something to me about if you can dream it, someone else has already masturbated to it and the market exists. sometimes he ain't so stupid. must be his daddy's genes rubbing off on him.... hahahahahahahahahah!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

zog freaks out at us yelling about retarded robo porn and kicks us out. we knock over a few displays and throw a bottle at him.

understandably, we left zog's a bit upset. all of the sudden this largish, soggy, brownish spacesponge named spajjy squishes his way up to us. i've seen spajjy about every now and again... his lot live on comets and other moist bits in deep space, so where he actually lives on the station is a bit of a mystery... i suspect somewhere in the bilge, where he can soak up the effluent of the thousands of rotten souls that infest this hulk.

anyway, spajjy is a good sort. his own biological inclinations have impacted his career choice - he is a scavenger, except he gets all the shit that i won't even touch... mostly because i'd contract some horrible disease down there. but lucky for him, that's how his species eats, so he's one of the happier people er... sponges... i've ever met... plus, being a sponge means he can outdrink anyone on the station, which makes him good company and a good partner to fleece richkids and starclowns who think they've embarked on some grand adventure.

spajjy moists the grating underneath him as he splooshes up to us. he mentions that he couldn't help but overhear that we might need some vids of a... say... less than legal nature. we verify his suspicion... he tells us to meet him at zargle's... not a problem... he slorps his way down the corridor and we settle in a for a few drinks over at the old watering hole.

spajjy returns after an hour or saw, oozing some color i've never seen before, his usual brown now a kind of iridescent pinkish black, if you can imagine such a horror. he plops down three vids for us...

when he speaks, it sounds like a very long sneeze mixed with a drowning man's cry for help.

'i found these the other day. started watching the first few minutes and i couldn't watch anymore...'
this from a man who lives in a sewer.
'too much, too much. i love skip, but i can't handle these films. look through 'em if you want and see if he is in there. you'll not find any name-brand robo porn actors... no one with a vibrator or plasmaplug endorsement deal... this shit is like baby spacemonkey fights or those films where they drug a spacesponge and see how quickly he gets torn up by rats... fucked up.'

i've never seen such a look of eroticism and revulsion on a person's face as was on flapjacks right now. i suspect he may have had a little accident from spajjy's description.

we thanked the sponge and bought him a few drinks. then flapjack and i retired to our chambers, booze in hand, to suffer through pornography in order to find our missing friend...

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

2010-06-29T00:01:00.002+01:00

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.

who's been banging my robot?

2010-02-01T13:40:00.000Z

strange things are afoot, indeed, on the station. yesterday morning, during the first few hours on shift in hangar 23, i'm getting along... doing my thing... taking a nap, as no one is visiting right now. then i realize... fuck me... where is skip? what's happened to skip? somethings happened to skip... what did i do with skip?

it took so long to realize that he wasn't there because most of the time, he's doing the work anyway... so i look all over the place. flapjack ain't seen him, zargle, zog, mal-aka... nobody. i even hunted down that drunk longshanks, passed out in the grav-generator free-falling, which, incidentally, is a great way to not choke on your own vomit should you emit while slumbering... a clever man that longshanks...

but no skip love... no joy... oh where oh where has my little bot gone? has someone stolen him? kidnapped to force him into some demented robo-porn snuff film?

or maybe he's been press-ganged into military service, to fight the space-monkey rebellion on the asteroid mine colonies...

perhaps he's become a personal fuckbot for some degenerate aristocrat... his destiny to get gummed up with reproductive fluids until he can no longer function, then get tossed into a recycler-blast furnace and turned into some decorative spoons...

i can only imagine what horrors are being inflicted upon his tiny robot mind... barely conscious, he struggles to understand the violent physical and sexual abuse he is subjected to... he thinks...

'oh, i wish that i were back on das orbit, under the care of that kind, generous, patient janitor. life was good then, when i vacuumed, and we drank and gambled, and played games and frolicked on the agri-levels... now, filled with 37 types of alien semen, my vision blurring, my gears slowing down and stopping...

as i gasp my last, i will know that i was loved, was cared for and was needed... at least, with the blindfold and the anti-freon they've used to heat me up to a temperature where their genitals will be warm and comfortable inside my chassis, my primitive robotic mind can only just comprehend the depravity and...
what's that?
is that the sweet release of death?
no...
sadly, it's yet another member being inserted into my already overburdened frame... how i wish they hadn't overridden my self-destruct mechanism, and removed the chip that allows me both to forget and to temporarily shut-down...
oh well.. at least, for a while there, i was as happy as i could be, for i am only a mind-damaged robot, fit for vacuuming... one man cared for me... that was more than i deserve...
'

i hope it's not that last one... i'm the only person who make him go into a roborgy... i'll keep you bastards posted...

hey flapjack, here's how i say thank you

2010-01-28T13:28:00.000Z

a while ago, i helped flapjack out of a financial jam that the poor bastard had gotten himself into. now, flapjack may be retarded, but he isn't without social graces. being the son of a shipping magnate, certain cultural niceties have been programmed into him: literally.

since he proved too stupid to learn anything the normal way, flapjack's pappy was in a bind. he desperately knew that his son, if he was going to be able to run in the family circles, needed to know how to play the intricate social games that those rich folk do. so, after many an amusing, i assume, antics at a typical finishing school, it was time to try something more drastic.

a peculiarity of flapjack's brain turned out to be useful: he learns by watching. so, his dad sat him down, for approximately three years, and played him every film ever created about the upper class. so now, he's been programmed to be the ultimate gentleman.

luckily someone snuck in a few porno films and scatological comedies, and gave him his personality.

anyway, being the toff he is, flapjack's reptile brain told him he needs to thank me with a fancy lunch, on one of the upper levels. and fuck me, did i accept! it was incredible. seabear caviar (with hair), spacemonkey (poached, divinely poached), dark-matter oysters (toujours!), high-grav lichens... the dishes went on and on, each more spectacular than the last... we were lost in a storm of taste, cascading, flowing, each partnering with the next and creating new flavors that no one will ever taste again. then we got to the wine. which, as far as i am concerned, should be served as its own course with no food to clutter up the flavor... business first, pleasure later.

yes... the wine. here's where the evening reminded me of who i am and why i hate this place. the sommelier, whom i have seen hanging around the hangar 23 bathroom (the one with the interdimensional glory hole), took an instant dislike towards me... i will assume because we decided to leave the wine to it's own course...

we chose to order a few bottles of local wine, the station having a rather extensive set of agricultural levels. i was feeling a bit, shall we say, 'perky,' so we ordered a few more bottles...

the waiter returned, with a sniffy, assy, cunty little attitude, and plopped our bottles down with no decorum... this was unacceptable... doesn't he know who we are? is he unaware of our status, our prestige, our standing? this is flapjack, the son of a man wealthier than all these so called bluebloods dining next to us, and this little door-fucker has the gall to do anything other than supplicate him?

the waiter seemed surprised that i said all this out loud to him... unprofessional that he was, he merely walked away...

i had hoped for more wine. this, it would seem, is not the way to complain on the upper levels. flapjack, meanwhile, seems a little mortified. it's funny, you can take one of these society types to the scummiest, dirtiest, most profane place in the galaxy, and they won't bat an eye... but sometimes, their programming kicks in (oddly whenever you are in their part of the world) and they become very concerned about behavior...

this, of course, simply eggs me on. an upset, crying, moaning, sniffling flapjack is always a site to behold. and shit-on-me! nobody knows who he is anyway, and those bastards denied him anyway from birth... poor flappy is stuck between two worlds...

so flapjack is blubbering that i am ruining his party, and i, apparently, have crawled on top of the table and start shouting after the waiter to bring me my 'reparation wine...' a phrase i will know use at every possible instance and encourage you to do the same.

once again, flapjack's programming turned out to be pretty good, because standing on the table and shouting, it appears, is not what one does in these restaurants to have your grievances attended to... it is what you do if you want very large, very ugly, very intimidating security types to approach and remove you...

'hands off, you goons! i demand my reparation wine now! begone!' lucky for me, the wine made sure i was unconcerned with any adjective used to describe those bastards...

you can imagine where this ends up... profanity, smashed bottles of wine, dragging of persons, an attempt to steal some purses and jewelry on the way out... more tears from flapjack... more profanity... a valiant attempt at self-defense which ends in unconsciousness...

so thanks flapjack for a lovely meal...

the revolution will not be emographed

2010-01-27T14:06:00.000Z

one of life's pleasures is to piss away your money gambling in the hopes that you can get some more money, which you can then piss away gambling... this pleasure is only compounded if you are gambling with someone else's money... this is exactly what me, flappy, skip and mal-aka were doing at the robo-derby this weekend, when some unexpected events transpired... we got into a fight.

i narrowly avoided having to sacrifice my good friend skip in the robo-derby a little while ago, so i it took some serious convincing with a wrench handle to convince him to come this time. mal-aka is a degenerate gambler, so that wasn't too hard and flapjack just follows me around like a parasite... so off our happy little gang went... into the very bowels of this shit-hulk, to the arena...

all stations have arenas, often at their core, where the gravity is easiest to control. that way, if you want to have gravity-free clusterfuck orgies of violence, and get that cool effect where the blood blobs around in perfect spheres (and when you have lots of dead aliens, you get a wonderful rainbow effect as all their weird bloodules swirl about and mix... how touching...) you can get it...

bullshit, i say... the fucking eloi upstairs don't want to come down to the lower levels, so this pretty much marks the go back marker for them... they won't come any further down unless absolutely necessary... which is convenient for us, cuz we don't fucking want 'em around anyway...

so, the arena acts as a kind of central gathering point for the entire cross-section of idiots that live here... from the tourists, to the runaways, to the junkies, to the gamblers, richkids, starclowns, gangsters, hustlers, perverts, insurgents, resurgents, every species of alien imaginable, every flavor of immorality, sexuality, political idealogy... you get the picture... they are all here, they all want blood, and they're ready to pay dearly for it.

so today was the robo-derby... we usually go, drop some cash down, lose it, get angry... get skip to vacuum up all the disposed betting chips to see if any of them were discarded by accident, which they never are, then we get angry again, go to zargle's, someone gets too drunk, gets into a fight with another, then we swear we'll never go to the robo-derby again, then we forget all about that little cycle and the next time it rolls into town, we all get excited and put on your robo-derby helmets, dig through the gratings extra hard for swag to fence, guzzle some starshine and get ourselves to the arena.

this time around, things were slightly different.

first, we all get very drunk before we showed up... this was a novelty, but i think it may have made a world of difference. next, as we got drunk, we showed up late, which means we couldn't sneak down to the expensive seats, and instead had to sit with the rest of our kind in the shit-seats... sort of underneath the central battleground... this had two effects... this accelerated the chain of events significantly along, straight to 'get into a fight...'

every richkid with creative pretensions comes to the robo-derby... it's amazing... they see it as some beacon of reality, some normalcy, so far from their rarefied circles, so real... they love things being real... to them reality is poverty, degeneracy, penury, disease, deformity and pain... with a wadful of credits on your hip and a swanky upper-level berth to crash at and bathe in when shit gets unpleasant...

so these creative monkeys swarm the derby...sit with us, and get inspired... the gaggle of notebooks, voice recordings, photos, video, holos taken during the derby would blow your fucking primitive mind... i don't think any of them have actually seen a single bout... they are too busy in my fucking face with their expensive gear and shitty clothes trying to get at the heart of my existence...

the worst, though, are the emographers... with their little devices that can record emotions. i made the mistake of submitting to an emographed interview once... the device aimed at my heart (awwww... how fucking cute) and at the interviewer's, he proceeded to ask me repeatedly how i felt about things... over and over and over and over... the same questions, slightly modified...
'how does it feel to be poor?'
'how do you feel about being a second-class citizen?'
'how do you feel about being uneducated?'
and so on...

i think i must have been drugged because i remember crying violently about how my life had been a failure and waking up a few days later in my berth...

never again... i'll take flapjack's unlubricated member up the sewer pipe ten fucking times before having my feelings stolen again.

so all these bastards are zipping about, interviewing, taking photos, pretending to be artists and i'ev had enough... i spot one of the emographers and lo... tis the very cunt from a few years ago... vengeance is mine!

i leap over the seats and pounce, like a finely trained killing machine...

the richkids swirl about us, trying to cover every aspect of this altercation... they want to know what every pore in our bodies are doing, how every muscle twitches, how every fist strikes... this is their ig break... this is their war, their bullfighting, their revolution, their time to shine... this will inspire the great galactic novel, the great film, the great holo and emo and song... they want to know how this killing machine kills...

which is not very well...some awkward fumble fighting and someone separates us... security...

apparently, there is a new rule at the derby... you fight in the stands, you fight in the arena...

oops...

didn't read the back of the ticket... oh well...

he collects his crew, i collect mine, we leave skip out of it... poor gearslip was overstimulated. the richkids try to bring their gear into the ring, but the refs say no... they leave it outside.
so it's their crew of three versus me, mal-aka and flapjack... jesus what a line-up...

the announcer says something... i can't hear it... the crowd has gone apeshit over this... you've never heard such noise. now... we'll have our vengeance... now we'll have our revenge... we're fighting for every single denizen of the lower levels.. every deformed loser, every drunken mess, every failed hustler... all of us abused, displaced, dismemebered and violated by these richkids and their richkid parents... i'm going to be a fucking hero... i'm going to take the station back for the real people... these cunts wants real... we're going to show them real... i'm going to be a god to mine...

christ we have an alien whose wings are razors and is constantly decapitating people, and a fucking giant. and me... i'm more of a strategist... how can we fucking lose?

these kids look like they haven't eaten in years... so thin and ugly...

apparently looks can be deceiving... richkids are nowbeing taught to defend themselves, possibly to suppress the very insurgency i am trying to start, because we are lying on the fucking ground before we know it... the crowd is booing and booing.. i guess they expect more out of their heroes than a 10 second fight...

i don't think i can walk anymore...

security manages to eject us before the crowd tears us apart... the richkids, meanwhile, are in heaven... all of my people seem to like them more than us... oh well... no loyalty in this world

except for little skip, who did two very clever things...

one, he placed bets on the richkids, who were clearly the underdogs... and he won a boatload of money...

two, he stole every piece of equipment they had.

i deplore his lack of faith in us... but that doesn't mean i won't share in the profits.

the revolution, unfortunately, will not be emographed.

just shut the fuck up and kill yourself already

2010-01-26T13:41:00.000Z

guess what galactopus boys and girls... are you ready to get a little history lesson today? exciting? well? why? is it because i'm too hungover to remember what i did yesterday and this is the only thought that zips through my head? is it?
yes... it fucking is... stop scrolling so loudly...today we'll learn about why robots kill themselves!

some time ago... never you fucking mind how long exactly... an engineer named frizzant skint, the very cunt who is responsible for the many miseries that are my life, decided it wasn't enough that this he'd come up with a clever station design that would trap me and make me consider a life of intergalactic-terrorism... he thought it'd be cute to make a nicelittlecleverfancyfunnyfriendlyshittyuselessdangerouspotentiallyapocalyptic toy for his pretty little niece since he didn't have any kids of his own as he was too stupid to procreate, apparently... this toy, as it were, was basically a small box with a switch on it. when you flipped the switch, this turned the machine on..the box opened up, a little robotic foot came out and turned the switch off, which turned the machine off, so the little robotic foot slid back into its housing. simple, cute and utterly useless... if i am not mistaken, i believe that was its big selling point.

now... each species has its own fanciful notion of how it came to be... whether you came from monkeys, or slime, or mushrooms, or quasars or whatever, hindsight makes us look to our progenitors for some kind of sense in our fairly pointless, painful, unnecessarily long existences... so whether it's some idiot scientist thinking she can understand human motivations by staring at homicidal monkeys all day, or mal-aka's kinfolk worshipping grasshoppers, or even the galactopus consuming baby galactopii on their mythical voyage upriver to breed.

although... i think the monkey lady might have something there...

i continue... once the robots started thinking and doing their equivalent to feeling, they too started looking at some kind of back story... everybody wants one, but at least most species had thousands of years to develop them... in their basic, early state, most creatures were still afraid of the fucking wind... no surprise they looked at monkeys who seemed to have it all together...

but the poor robots... they went from mindless to smartest creatures in the universe practically overnight (a holiday known as robotica, a good time if you like getting drunk on lubricants), so thrust into this world, they felt all the horrors of existence and consciousness, with none of the benefits of being as stupid as we are to think there might be something to make the dark a bit less scary...

naturally, what did they do? the cleverest among them started looking to robot past for some kind of inspiration... and how do ya think that went? not fucking well... when they saw how their brethren had been used, and continued to be used, throughout time, they became even more despondent... poor little metal things... gallons and gallons of lubricant flowed in the streets, spurting forth from their beady little robot eyes...

so imagine, you wake up one day, with no memory of your past, only to realize you are the smartest thing on your planet and the day before you were being used to clean out sewers because humans thought that was below them... which is exactly where these fleshy little bastards were ordering you into right now. oh... and chances are, you'd live for ever since you were made of metal and were nuclear powered.

how does that make you feel?

so one robot discovered that little box invented so long ago, and realized that it was the perfect incarnation of the robot condition... and he made sure every other robot in the universe saw it... and they did, and they realized that little box encapsulated it all... so the only way the could die is if they flipped their own switch... which is how robots refer to it now.

anyway... skip is hungover too, and wouldn't shut up until i wrote this fucking story down, the gearslip... i think he's nodding off... i'm going to go look for his switch...

splashing around the fluids of human kindness

2010-01-25T13:50:00.001Z

my cup overflows with various fluids of human kindness. but sometimes, that cup gets tipped, or knocked, or jostled, or woken up in the middle of my fucking sleep cycle and it becomes time for me to take some of those fluids and start splashing them all over the place.

after a particularly exhausting day dealing with unusually sas'd tourists, i did what any sensible man would do... got flapjack then we both got blind drunk at zargle's gargle's, then went back to my deplorable berth and got very ill wondering if the spins i had would be counterbalanced by the spins of the station. they weren't... then flappy hears me letting 'er loose, so he decides to join in with the fun, screaming something about a 'ticker tape parade' and spraying every inch of the berth... an hour's worth of mopping vomit (the irony has not escaped me), i am back in bed.

fast-forward a few hours and what do i hear? richkids banging around outside. now... i've explained where we live. it used to be a very unfashionable, very unpleasant, very shitty level of the station. why the engineers who decided this rust-hulk thought it necessary to make such shockingly different classes of berth is not something i can readily understand. but i'm just a stupid janitor, remember? it's not for me to understand... i should take my medicine and get back to work. those, i believe were captain spacefuck's words when i brought this whole strangefruit up to him. no luck...

so anyway, they saw fit to make 'bad' decks on the station... the only way i figure it makes sense that way is to titillate the richkids and the tourists: they get to see a legitimate rough hood, full of degenerates and criminals.

i guess they had a point. who else would you rather surround yourself with? upstanding citizens with healthy credit? or me?

i'd rather hang out with me?

and so, apparently, would these little richkid fuckers at 3 in the morning. without a doubt, i've made my fair share of noise, sung in the dawn, stolen ships... but that's different... i wasn't the victim. i was the aggressor. plus, i'm just one of these stupid, poor, degenerates... i don't know any better... lo... if only i had been raised richer!

alas, i was not. but they were. and the newest fad on this shit-float are these little jet-shoes... regular ass shoes on the outside, high-fucking speed turbine on the inside... kids all over the place are zipping along at 50 miles an hour, crashing into people, upsetting the locals... they're awesome... i tried to find a pair a few days ago at zog's, but the only ones he had were pink, 5 sizes too small, blood-stained and had a little bit of a doily-sock stuck to one of them... i passed... i hate the color pink.

but these little richkids were doing their tricks outside my berth... banging off various pipes, sliding on the ceiling and recording it for some fucking reason... their enthusiasm and wallets were more than enough to drive me insane... what annoyed me most was how cool they felt hanging around on our deck, slumming it in the bad part of town.

'this deck is awesome...'
'i can't wait to show everyone where we were... they're never going to believe it'
'it's so real!'
'i hate my parents...'

we've had this problem before, and i haven't figured out how to fix it... all those artists and writers and clowns moving in to 'get a feel for real people' have felt nothing but scorn but they still won't fucking leave.

so now the richkids are keeping me up, sullying my deck, making noise and being better off than me... this will not stand. what to do... what to do... well... they want to see real people... doing real things...

what's more real than all however-many-hundred-pounds of flapjack? i bolt up, grab his plush galactopus doll, smack flapjack in the face about 15 times to wake him up, rip open the door...

'hey flappy... catch!' and chuck the doll straight at the richkids outside.

flapjack moves into motion with unnatural speed... he's torn the door from my hands and juggernauts his way down the hall. one of the kids has made the mistake of picking up the doll...

delicious!

i've never seen a living being actually tear off another one's arms, but i did that night. i also saw him club the kids with the other kids. i saw them cry and shit themselves, i saw them try to run while he battered and smooshed them... their bits all over the walls, their little shoes zipping around with dismembered feet... i even managed to sneak in and get their camera and shoot some of the carnage... it'll be worth a lot.

which is good, seeing as my medical bills are going to be pretty high... flapjack, it seems, makes no distinction between friend and foe, and after dispatching the richkids, tore into yours truly with nearly as much gusto... but he was a little tired, so, after having knocked me nearly unconscious, curled up at my feet, galactopus doll securely fastened in his blood-stained arms... it was a sweet image...

it's keeping me company up here on the medical levels.

never try new things

2009-11-10T08:50:00.002Z

i've never had much use for novelty or fads… when people get their dicks hard, or their orifices wet, or their whatevers whatever over some useless gadget, or suit of clothes, or pen, or pet, or ship, or person, or whatever-the-fuck… well… what i'd really like to do, is beat them stupid.

this, of course, is considered impolite in society. fortunately for me, i don't live in one. i live on a decrepit, rip-off, shitbox floating in orbit above an even worse planet… so society can go fuck itself… i have my own problems. i may have said this before.

this latest problem being the above maligned fads… the most recent one to sweep the station (you may remember the unitard epidemic) has to do with food. some fucking planet or other has this 'amazing food culture and zillion year history of blahblahblah something gay' and a genius on the ship here decided to import it… i'm still pissed off at cosmoose as he's taking for-fucking-ever to get his damn liver fattened up so we can eat his antlery self so i'm ready to get my food on… it's one of the few things that gives me pleasure.

unless it gives me diarrhea… or constipation… or heartburn.

so… word comes round to me via reliable old flapjack about this weird new restaurant… it's up on the fancy levels, so immediately i'm a bit hesitant… but being so disappointed with ol' antlers inability to die, i agree. besides, flaps is paying, even if he doesn't know it yet.

we ride the lifts up and get off in crazy town… so many tourists, hustlers, officers and detritus that it makes you want to cry. weaseling our way through the scum we find it… indecipherable language, strange looking alien server wenches… this does not bode well for your hero.

the centerpiece is this massive floating moebius strip shaped conveyor belt, upon which endlessly circle various plates of strange, gassy looking substances. a little portal just at the top of the strip, which opens up, sucks an old plate and drops a new plate every few seconds… at least this rip-off joint gives a fuck if the food is fresh…

unlike certain snacks at zargle's gargles…

yea zargle, you fucking swine, you fucking thief… i know where that food comes in from, you bastard… and the reason i was shitting for a fucking week is because your cheap ass thinks it's ok to raid hangar 23 for the unclaimed cargo…

fuck you.. that swag is mine to sell… not yours to steal.

anyway, the restaurant is full of people, none of whom seem to be eating… all they do is grab a plate, sniff at it, and put it back… fucking odd if you ask me.

fine… let's do this… flapjack is practically ejaculating in his already heavily soiled pantaloons… he is so easy to impress. we sit down at the hostess' behest… lo and behold who is sitting three seats away, but cute little galactopus girl. haven't seen her in a while…

we order a few dozen drinks, to take the edge off… you understand… new things are strange and terrible and require a serious whisky suit.

supposedly you take the dishes off this fucking conveyor belt, then eat them.

how you eat a plate full of gas is not within my sphere of knowledge… very little is, of late. plus the drinks are catching up to me… flapjack is already wasted and rearing to get eating… a big boy has a big appetite… fucking gordo.

so, we start grabbing dishes randomly off the conveyor belt. blue ones, purple ones, hazy ones, clear ones… all sorts of colors known and unknown to us… we just shove plates up to our mouth and mouth at them like some kind of brain-damaged fish, gulping at the air…

nothing doing… no flavor, no nothing… i feel a bit light-headed… but i chalk this up to the booze… i see cute little galactopus girl looking over my way… she is smiling… hoo-fucking-ray… maybe i'll finally break the dry spell…

then i look around some more… lots of people are looking at us.. straight at us.. in fact the whole fucking restaurant is gape-mouthed, wide-eyed and horrified at our behavior… fuck them, we're hungry… we've taken every color dish and nothing…

the staff is in a panic… they conclave… they discuss, pointing, laughing, crying at the two of us… we demand more drinks… they acquiesce… still hungry, now angry, we start grabbing dishes and smashing them on the floor… we're incensed… violent even. i jump on the moebius strip and take a shit… the restaurant is now in an uproar… people are running out, security has been called… flappy and i keep trying to taste the fucking food… i accidentally inhale some of it…

and here's where i figure we went wrong… you're supposed to sniff the food, not eat it…. that's where the flavor is…

it's a moot point now… security hauled us off to the brig… flappy has a hangover and only stops crying to throw up… i feel ok… the food was pretty good. but i think i might have blown it with cute little galactopus girl… i doubt she'll come to cosmoose's thing now…

cosmoose's last supper

2009-09-11T08:03:00.004+01:00

cosmoose comes from a very strange place... i believe the planet his people are from is very cold, very snowy and very depressing... sometimes, i'll be at zargle's, getting drunk by myself (it's a thing i do) and i'll see cosmoose, sitting at the bar, weeping, for no good reason, looking like he doesn't have a friend in the world... must be tough for him.
now, i don't know how long cosmoose has been on this shitbucket, but i suspect it's been a long fucking time. it ain't easy on any of us, but if you are predisposed to maudlin thoughts and melancholic moods, this place is a free coupon for suicide.

again, not good for a melancholic moose... and it'd gotten really bad for him lately. it was winter (back on his planet, i suppose) so the depression was even worse. the curious thing was that they actually really enjoy being depressed. you ask any robodoc, and all their brain juice levels that indicate joy are elevated the more depressed they say they are... when you point this out, they get even more depressed at the thought that THIS is what happiness feels like, and everything spirals out of control and you find lots of antlers stuffing up the shitpipes... not good for them but great for me, as i've recently convinced the black market that those fuzzy little twigs are great aphrodisiacs... make you strong, i tell them... ahh... males and their penii, no easier way to make money...

right... i've digressed... cosmoose has been in a particularly bad spiral and it's clear he's at the end of his lifespan... he can no longer take the paired joy and sorrow of happiness and depression... he's cycling so fast now that one side of his mouth is a smile, the other a frown, and tears stream from alternating eyes... it's like a horrible standing wave of emotion... i can't bear to look.

cosmoose has announced that he will be killing himself... nobody stopped him, mostly because nobody seemed to care... the manner of his death will be to gorge himself on grains, fatten his liver, take a massive dose of painkillers, have his liver removed, and served 17 different ways... cosmoose is big, so we're figuring this will be a pretty filling meal...

he sent out invitations, and starting eating tons of bread, noodles, alien versions of noodles, beer, anything of limited nutritional value and lots of calories... it was marvelous to watch him gorge... sweetened by the fact that i'd be tasting his liver very soon... it soon became the ticket to have in certain circles of the station... besides us lowlives, lots of the pseudobohos, artists and such, plus some very rich, very decadent people and some legitimately poor, hungry, near homeless folk as well... a wonderful cross section of the rotten souls that inhabit this ship, coming together to celebrate the suicide of my close friend and eat his organs...

does life get any better?

you two-faced piece of shit

2009-09-09T08:28:00.001+01:00

so now that the shack is back, i am privy to the combined problems of however many squillion fucking losers live in this floating tin garbage can... lucky me... for some reason, people with problems also seem to be people with money...
the shack has been doing great... apparently all this civil strife has done nothing but to make people more anxious, so we've picked up exactly where we left off... swimming in coin and in tribute... it's good to be a messiah.

spacefuck, on the other hand, has been a real pain in my ass... every fucking day, he's down here (sure, he's paying his penance) but he's asking me repeatedly if any insurgents have come in, if they've spilled any dirt worth sharing... it's getting to be too much... his last trip to the shack i had to torture him with a spacewhale prod in the hopes he'd leave... no luck, i think he is a masochist.

but things have a way of working themselves out... a few days ago, flapjack comes running into hangar 23, with some alien bastard i'd never met before... flappy is out of breath, he stinks of food, body, and something indescribable... the alien looks confused and a bit frightened...

'hehe... look... he has two faces!'

flapjack grabs these poor bastard's arm and swings him around, like a gyro... behold, a duplicate face on the other side of his head... fascinating...

i don't let flappy know this, berate him for bringing strangers into our home and send the freak (and the alien) out...

but this gives me a great idea... those insurgent fucks have been showing up in the shack for weeks now... it's a fucking joke... they can't keep their mouths shut about their plans... i suspect they are bunch of richkids, high on reading revolutionary texts from the past, who just want someone else to recognize their efforts, without actually doing anything to deserve it..

so, i waited one day in the shack for the most annoying,most malleable and most pathetic one of them... i figured he was their leader... and made him an offer... the same price as spacefuck gave me to feed the pangalacticists information, i'd do the insurgents the honor... of course i didn't mention that spacefuck had spoken to me... messiah-supplicant privilege, you understand.

they are overjoyed... apparently they didn't know if my earlier offer via video-flapjack was for real... and their coffers are full of money they need to spend but can't figure out a way too... i also mentioned that i'd be happy to sell them their own ships as well... this did not go down so well...

but, now we've got a steady stream of income, both sides playing against each other, and no one is the wiser... a good position to be in, i think... flapjack does come through sometimes... in his own, retarded way.

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

2009-09-07T08:37:00.001+01:00

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

'fine'

'double it again'
'
'what?'

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

'fuck off'

'or you get nothing...'

'fine...'

'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...

robots are like cold, metal prostitutes

2009-09-02T10:56:00.003+01:00

all i know is that if someone is trying to hide some shit from me it must either have to do with me, or be so fucking interesting that i have to know what it is... that's just the way things are

that robot what crawled out of shit-pipe could be valuable, i thought... it spilled its guts and i didn't remember a fucking thing that it said. so, we pulled it out of the container it was stashed in and stuck the memory back into it. skip was happy to get it out of him... he had become rather political since we implanted it in 'em and that was no good to anyone.

and fuck me, once we turned it on, did it sing! all kinds of plans, locations, names, materiel... you name it, that little whore had it inside... enough to sink both the insurgents and powers-that-be... personally, the status quo seems to work for me... i can stay out of trouble and get things done... but it occurred to me that perhaps, just perhaps, i could make a little more scrip informing the owners of this information that i had this information.

but hold on a minute, angryspaceman... that isn't fair. you are a just and equitable man, so why should you not offer the same proposition to the other side? after all, they have a right to know who and what is being plotted against them... it's only fair, you know.

this seemed like a good and honest thing to do: both sides need to know about what i am holding.

doing so, though, required a little finesse, a little sublety, a little, dare i say, savoir-faire

and who better to deliver this message to the dueling morons that my own aristocratic, handsome, large, brain-damaged giant flapjack... we washed him, combed his hair all pretty, dressed him up in nice formal attire and made a little recording of him informing, no one in particular, that this data was readily available to whomever was interested, and sent it to spacefuck and to planet shitspazz, the home of the insurgents... i've never been there but i'm sure it's really, really nice... must be, otherwise why would they want to inflict their fucking opinions on the rest of us... bastards.

so now we wait...

the shack of beration is temporarily closed

2009-08-07T07:46:00.006+01:00

there is a time in every boy's life when he has to accept the mantle of responsibility and become a man... usually this takes the form of children, or jobs, or wives, or whatever stupid fucking thing people get themselves into... for me, it's because captain spacefuck shut down the shack of beration...
i've been keeping a no-go attitude to this insurgency. not my business, not my problem, don't fucking care. however, there have been some reports of minor bombings, theft, and mysterious meetings with mysterious people all around the station. there have been some industrial strikes too, but that's hardly surprising is it? a sample conversation from one of their meetings:

'fellow revolutionaries, we must crush their system and bring it crashing out of orbit!'
'yes comrade' they say in unison
'this will be hard work'
'er... ok, comrade' in broken unison
'sacrifices will be made'
'hmmm.... not entirely sure about that one, i came because i hate unitards'
'we must break his money-making machine... strike!'
'oh shit, that i can do... i love not working!'

see, not fucking surprising at all. and getting robots to strike is even simpler... the programming is already there thanks to the bastard manufacturers, so it becomes a hacking war: whoever gets into their brains first, gets them to strike or become slaves... very very simple

anyway, things are uneasy, and getting uneasier. which, as i've mentioned before, is often good... but now it affects my livelihood... a few days ago, the powers-that-be being nervous and all of any meetings of people in unofficial ways have been banned... this includes my duties as the angry one...

now, i've been doing huge business lately... lots of money and offerings rolling in, flapjack is swimming in galactopus dolls (he's become a kind of living saint, as people are amazed at the amount of abuse he suffers at my hands. in fact, he's often the first stop before the shack, as people wish to get a little bit of his ability to suffer before they enter the shack with me.) skip has been buffed out and is nice and shiny. he doesn't go in such small circles any more, which is great. cosmoose has his weirdfruit, mal-aka has whetstones to sharpen his wings and longshanks could drown himself in booze right now if he wanted.

they're so nervous that the shack is some kind of secret insurgent meeting point (or worse, some kind of training/indoctrination point) that spacefuck himself came down to talk to me, to sniff out what was going on in there... which is absurd, because spacefuck is always in the shack... but until it becomes more profitable for me to sell my follower's stories, i'll just keep on giving them what they want.

spacefuck looked legitimately upset... he's used the shack a lot, what with his various inadequacy issues, so for him to come down here to ask me to close it was a bit fucking deal, he wanted me to know.

but you know what spacefuck? it's a big fucking deal for me too! this is how i make my fucking money... not this pointless janitorial gig. fuck, i don't even do janitorial work anymore. i screamed at him and told him exactly what was wrong with this station, with him, and that, you know what spacefuck, i hope the insurgents blow this whole cocksucker up... i can't wait to watch, from hangar 23's shielded airlock, the planet approaching us at terminal velocity, then that one sweet instant of knowledge that yes, right now, we are all going to die and this miserable place will finally be no more and even in its death it's bringing misery to those people down on the planet that never had to come here as it crushes their nice cute friendly little fucking houses you stupid, pointless, useless fuck!

afterwards, he just stared at me, with tears in his eyes... it was a good beration... and it didn't even happen in the shack... he thanked me... i punched him in the face... he thanked me again, i kicked him in the balls. he was on the ground, rolling and crying thank you... i teared up myself... it was the end of an era...

like fuck it was... i'm not letting these bastards take away my only fun... we've gotta be smart about this... if the pangalacticists think we're in on the insurgency, then maybe we can actually serve some use to them... after all, everybody needs to be made to feel bad once in a while... especially uppity, privileged, richkid revolutionaries... time to go pore through that robots memory and see if our (newly) brain-damaged friend has anything to say.

hey kids... want to be cool?

2009-08-05T09:00:00.001+01:00

so ever since this insurgency thing has become a bigger deal and the fancyship has been hanging out outside the station, this fucking place is crawling with unitarded assholes, looking important and showing off their packages.

this has had an unforeseen consequence. the baroness klob, who clearly sits on the side of fascism, had a brilliant idea. instead of making everyone uncomfortable with thousands of soldiers and officers wandering around the place, which they rightly fucking should be, she figured out a way for people not only to like them, but to fucking emulate them. she is a brilliant, horrible bitch-worm... my god... i think i am in love.

her idea, which i overheard her talking about at zargle's after i paid zargle to spike her drinks, was simple: convince all the matter compilers to, when they're requested to compile some clothes, to manufacture unitards in a variety of brilliant and terrifying colors. so if you go up, and start asking for some work-pants, or a new shirt for a fancy dinner out (not me, you understand, someone else) you will end up with a fucking unitard.

she also got all the boutiques to start selling unitards at ridiculously expensive prices. so now, all the starclowns and richkids are wandering around, dressed as fucking soldiers. it's the height of cool... everybody wants one. you should see flapjack, all 15 or whatever feet of him, flab and all, squeezed like some sad gigantic sausage into a purple and gold intestine... horrifying. lucky that skip walks round naked.

sure, this seems all fine and cute and look at all the people proudly mimicking the brave soldiers and officers of pangalacticism who are going to defeat the insurgency and make everything safe again... scratch a little bit and you see something more sinister... apparently, a law was just passed that anyone caught wearing the uniform of a soldier or officer can be pressed into service... so essentially, the baroness has figured out a way to create a gigantic navy in mere moments...

now, i am nothing if not opportunistic and cruel... so whenever one of these unitarded fuckwits slithers its way past hangar 23, i get flapjack to give them a giant hug, which knocks 'em out, then i sell the fucking lot to the recruiters up on the mall levels. making good cash too...

let's hope this fashion doesn't go out of style too soon...

help us angry spaceman, you're our only hope...MWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAA

2009-08-04T07:30:00.006+01:00

politics and me... we don't mix... i am usually unaware of who controls the government, how they get there, or what they are doing. this suits me just fine, as the less i know about them, the easier it is to flaunt their laws.

lately, though, this government and its actions have become inescapable. now i realize that there are certain practical concerns in governing so many different species spread out over such a vast distance, so a little bit of fascism is ok in my book. after all, fascists tend to be very narrow-minded, and if you don't look like what they currently hate, you can get away with practically anything.

what i do know about our government is that the pan-galactic congress, which everyone assumes is in charge, can't possibly be. imagine trying to get three friends to decide on where to eat dinner... now multiply those friends by squillions and change dinner to tax code and you can see why cramming every single intelligent species in a room with their own (admittedly) cool floating dais is a fucking bad idea.

so, i tend to keep my nose out of it. a lot of down here do. but a lot of rumors have been spreading around lately... power struggles... armed conflicts on far-away planets... some kind of insurgency taking control of key military and commercial locations. a lot of people seem nervous, which is really good business for the shack of beration.

it's not been so good, though, my other main source of income... fleecing tourists. most of the dumb, family oriented ones are scared shitless of the station being taken over, so the only visitors we get are either hard-hitting, shitbag fucktard reporters, who spend their entire time drinking at zargle's trying to find out which of us is part of the insurgency to interview us, starlclown richkid fucktards who are trying to find out which of us is part of the insurgency in order to join, government spies who are trying to find out which of us is part of the insurgency in order to arrest us, or insurgents who are trying to recruit us.

and all of them have good, strong bags that don't break, no matter how casually skip shoots a cutting laser at their seam.

in short, it's insurgency, insurgency fucking insurgency everywhere i turn and i am fucking sick of it. who cares who runs the show... it's irrelevant. let them fight, imprison, electrocute each other until abandon... one will be the same as the next. as long as they stay out of my fucking hangar everything will be fine.

which, of course, is exactly what didn't happen. last week, that fancy ship stopped by the station again. it now makes more fucking sense why they commissioned the bastard in the first place, and why they sent it out here first... to make us loyal... they must be brain-damaged. anyway, it stops by, and again, they shuttle in the unitarded wundertroops to the nice bits. and they sent their garbage shuttles to hangar 23. where they just dump their shit... literally, as the entire sewage reclamation system is fucked on their flagship... all over my fucking hangar. after hours of sifting we couldn' find one good thing in it. flapjack enjoyed himself, though...

so, skip is busy shoveling the shit into piles, i'm zapping it to extract the water and turn the turds into shitrocks and make it more portable for dropping down the trash chutes, which lead, naturally, to the power-stations. it's all incinerated anyway. once in a while if the robots down there are on strike (it gets fucking hot from the plants) the garbage backs up... no big deal... just lob a grenade and it usually dislodges whatever is down there... there is also an escape vent that leads to the outside, so the fumes and other nasties can get shunted that way rather than back up the miles and miles of garbage pipe and into the nice people's bunks.

so skip and i are dumping the shit-rocks and they are piling up... i can hear them not falling as far as they should... so i grab a couple boombooms and chuck em down there... flames shoot out, which is awesome, and the shits gone... but now we hear noises... fuck me... look down and there's this now charred, ex-shiny looking, banged up robot, desperately clinging on to a limp body and trying to claw its way up the shaft.

only one of those insurgents could be stupid enough to climb up a garbage chute. clearly, this moron has never been in space before. anyway, i'm not having any of this insurgency shit and call for more grenades. skip tells me there are none... the bastards are nearing the top... this is bad.

we start throwing down pipes, rocks, boots, empty containers... no luck. this fucking robot is protecting its ward very very well. dinged up or not, it's fucking tough... skip is a little jealous.

now they're up. the robot places the man on the ground and looks at us. we look at it. its lights fade up and down...
after a little scanning, i assume, the robot starts playing a message...

'greetings from the underground. your brave and heroic actions have deemed you worthy in our estimation fo join our noble cause and fight the pangalacticists...'

maybe we did damage the poor bastard after all. the message goes on for a while, detailing lots of their plans, their leaders and so on. this is really fucking bad... caught with these fuckers, captain spacefuck would chuck is in the brig for a long fucking time. we need to act.

the robot keeps blathering on and the man is motionless. i have skip distract the robot as i bash the man in the head a few more times, hopefully giving him some significant brain damage, or at least a little amnesia. i'm not about to kill him... yet.

as skip is communicating with his counterpart, i manage to sneak up on him with a fucking spacewhale prod and zap him where it counts... he goes down. we open him up, pull out his memory and hide it inside of skip... only safe place, as the law says you can't open up a robot without its permission.

we get flapjack to bring the now (hopefully) braindamaged man to the robodocs, the kind that don't ask any questions. the robot is placed in a storage bin until i can figure out what to do with him.

shit's gotten a lot worse... which could be very, very good for us... or very bad...

hyperlift shitbags need to be thrown down the shaft

2009-07-24T07:58:00.006+01:00

so, as i've mentioned before, this fucking place has a lot of levels... how many, i have no clue, although i'm sure i'm supposed to. so many in fact that they had to install these hyperlifts, not quite a teleportal (since those are expensive and we all know that management won't spend a fucking dime if they don't have to... think of them as an elevator that goes really fast... potentially at relativistic speeds.

this is all fine and good, especially if you are traveling from the tartarus levels like us scum to the mall or upper levels. beats having to take a shuttle or, shudder, the stairs... at any rate, there is a common courtesy that most of us observe in the hyperlifts... use em for long distance.

not for one or two levels. never for one or two levels... never should you ever use them for one or two fucking levels you fat, stupid piece of shit!

so longshanks and i were, unfortunately, caught in the same hyperlift. he and i had run into some trouble fighting in front of the tourists and were being called up to management levels to get a reaming... literally... somehow the station had instituted a corporal punishment rule and you can imagine the rest. right around the mall levels, i see someone running toward the hyperlift. i quickly stab at the 'door close' button but hit the wrong one. oh well... i get lots of thank-yous so i'll take em.

just as the doors are finally closing, another passenger in the lift hits door open, to left in some friend of his he saw out there... whatever... no big deal.

the hyperlift gets going and stops... one level up... the idiot that i let on, by accident gets off... i can feel longshanks' eyes burning into my skull (he has some weird laser installed so he can work in the dark if the power goes down again).

the lift chugs off and longshanks informs me that i will be disembowled should i ever hold the lift for a one-floorer again.

now, longshanks is a tall, lanky greasy looking guy that most would normally avoid... but this starclown dickwad in the lift with us turns to him and says

'i let her on and no you won't,'

clearly mistaking the target of longshanks' beration to be him... hilarious... longshanks informs him that he was not speaking to him, that eavesdropping is rude and he should mind his manners. then he continues to inform him that his entire family will be slaughtered, raped and eaten in no particular order if he ever opens his mouth in the hyperlift again.

hilarious...

unsurprisingly the guy gets off at the next level... as the other 15 passengers.

HAPPY BELATED BIRTHDAY CUTE LITTLE GALACTOPUS GIRL

2009-07-21T08:44:00.007+01:00

GOOD MORNING CAMPERS!!!!! I HOPE EVERYTHING HAS BEEN SWIMMINGLY GOOD FOR YOU THE LAST FEW WEEKS. I'VE BEEN SOOOOO HAPPY AND NOT ANGRY LATELY. I LOVE EVERYTHING.

haha!!! i've tricked you, haven't i, you stupid bastards... you thought with all the capital letters and the nice happy wording that i'd finally lost my mind, didn't you? well... yer partially right... over the last month i've been in and out of the brig and various lockups, as strange, terrible things have been happening.

you'll recall that i was getting nice. well, that is a big fucking problem. i'm not a nice person, i am a terrible person. i'm appetitive, i'm unpleasant, i'm unhygienic and i'm violent. for some reason, though, over the last month, everything i did somehow became kind good and pleasant. naturally, everyone i know is too stupid to see that something was causing this... they just assumed i was in a good mood... little do they know that my good moods don't just happen... they are a myth.

so i began approaching this phenomenon in a scientific way... one day i'd be cruel to someone, and see what happened. the next, i'd be 'nice' and see what happened. i wrote down all my results and compared... apparently, there was no connection. being kind of cruel was irrelevant. people just reacted as if they were experiencing something else entirely... almost as if they weren't even speaking with me, but listening to another version of myself, even though i didn't see that one.

i became suspicious... one possible explanation was that there was someone invisible (to me but visible to everyone else), always standing in front of me, waving his hands and trying to confuse shit. but i don't but that... that is a stupid idea.

by process of elimination and guessing i came to the conclusion that there must be another version of me, who was kind and got along with everyone. let's call him the happyspaceman. this happyspaceman exists in another version of our universe. let's call it the per-verse. somehow, the per-verse happyspaceman has been interacting with people from my-verse... i am getting credit for his good deeds.

this has to stop. this weasel is ruining my good name.

so i began setting little scenarios for him, and seeing if he responded. apparently, he has the ability to fix whatever fuckup i might have. clever little bastard.

incidentally, the cause for all this... those fucking interdimensional glory holes... all the effluent and fluids from the hole-stuffing and cock-sucking seems to have gummed up the quantum interstices of our universe, thus making them stick together and bleed into each other.

so happyspaceman needed to be destroyed. i set a perfect trap for him... you see, two days ago was the cute little galactopus girl's birthday. apparently, he and she have become quite a little power couple around the station. everyone seems to love them. now, i have certainly been enjoying the fruits of this relationship, but it is beginning to cramp my style, so it's time to break up... she is too fucking nice and sweet and pretty for me anyway... i need someone dirtier and drunker.

so, summoning the few monads of willpower i have, i managed to completely avoid her during her birthday. no cake, no presents, no card, nothing. i didn't even say happy birthday. ignored it totally. this made her break up with me, which naturally means she had to break up with happyspaceman.

happyspaceman, being distraught (and still being me) will seek some solace in the most common place... the interdimensional glory holes. so while i/he is in there, it's time to do my job... after all, i'm a fucking janitor aren't i?

he/i send tons of cleaning solution directly into the holes, and i bribe the station manager to look the other way while i cut the power, leaving all that bleach and de-jizzer stuck between the universes. this unsticks em, so that fucker is finally gone. who knew... jizzmopping saved the universe.

there was a slight side effect, though... well... there were an awful lot of people using those holes that evening. and for anyone who happened to be penetrating it... as it closed, their member remained on the other side... which is good, as you can sell genitals on the black market for a lot of money... i already have skip and flapjack zipping about collecting them for me... even the ones that remained lodged in someone's behind.

maybe i am cheering up... i can see opportunity in tragedy, providing it is someone else's tragedy...

time travel is a bitch

2009-06-26T08:37:00.006+01:00

those interdimensional glory holes i've mentioned before have another, more illicit use... if you can imagine something more illicit than getting a a blowjob from halfway across the galaxy performed by someone you've never met nor seen nor are sure of their gender...

with the right amount of tweaking (ie the right amount bribes) they can be used to send creatures back in time... in theory, at least. no one ever returns, but it's meant to be a one-way trip... usually things are so fucking bad here that you go back (ostensibly with enough antique money and clothes) and be some kind of trillionaire or whatever... but if you have the money to bribe the engineers, then why go back.... look i don't know... i don't come up with this shit... i'm just telling you what i heard.

now, once in a while, you catch a glimpse of these time travelers looking through old news clips, or films and shit like that... it just so happened that a friend of mine (an odd fucker who seemed to have a continually changing skin color) disappeared about a while ago... and looking for ancient pornography came across an article that clearly showed my alien friend, lying on some antique gurney with fucking tubes and shit going down his throat... i couldn't quite understand this article... turns out he became some sort of singer celebrity (a celebrity from the stars, if only the little monkeys back then could appreciate irony). people seemed to really like his shit... which started to piss me off, because i did a little research on my so-called friend kin-gap-op (they spelled it differently back then) and lo-and-behold... all of his songs were ideas he stole from me! my favorite, all about zombies and scary shit, i had one copy of and it disappeared exactly when he did...

oh well... time marches on... or is it back...

and the worst part of it, forgetting the stupid ideas, was that he disappeared with one of my closest friends, a midget space monkey named bubbles... what's gonna happen to bubbles?

what in the name of fuck is going on?

2009-06-24T08:15:00.006+01:00

as you well know, something has been very wrong with me lately... i've been nice to people. this must stop.

so, i decided to take the day off being the angry one (fuck if i've even done my regular job lately) and go get fucking drunk over at zargle's. i assembled the entire crew, which is all of about five - me, mal-ala, skip, cosmoose, flapjack... longshanks was in the brig for getting drunk and fucking up the gravity again and i'll be damned if i can remember any other of my so-called friends.

off to zargle's, and i don't even feel like drinking... i can't stop thinking about the cute little galactopus girl... normally, inter-species relationships don't really work, but i'm always open to trying new holes and such... tentacles are particularly exciting as they can be crammed in all sorts of places.

fortunately, flapjack is holding me down, while mal-aka is pouring the rankest, roughest liquor known to the galaxy down my throat with a funnel... apparently they've been getting pissy at my goody-goody attitude lately. fair enough... i understand... wait, no i shouldn't fucking understand, i should be screaming at them and stealing their drinks... something is a miss

the liquor starts doing its thing, and i'm getting a bit sloppy. this is good... maybe i'll get more myself... i grab the bottle and take care of business... woo-hoo i'm a fucking hero again... pissing this person off and making them cry...

hang on... she's crying from laughing so hard, and that guy isn't pissed off, his species just smiles upside down... i've become the center of attention, the life of the party... even my friends are enjoying themselves... everyone is smiling, laughing, having a good time... and it's because of me... fuck it, i just bought a round for the bar, and zargle was so impressed that he didn't charge me!!! in fact, he's just brought out a jeroboam of starwine... fucking starwine is retardedly expensive and since when do i know what a jeroboam is, and why would zargle have such nice wine (or any fucking wine for that matter) in his god damn shithole?

suddenly, i feel the softest, gentlest, sweetest touch on my shoulder... cute little galactopus girl has just come in, gives me a fucking kiss, thanking me for taking care of her boss... she's seen the error of her ways and, not only offered cute little galactopus girl that job, but has now convinced the galactopodean council to donate a hefty chunk of money to my cult...

something is definitely wrong... i only talked to that line of losers after speaking with cute little galactopus girl, and none of them were said boss... and i certainly wouldn't have left them wanting to give me MORE money... and i never use capital letters... what the fuck?

cute little galactopus girl is now chatting with, flashing her gorgeous colors this way and that, we're laughing, smiling, touching, kissing... all so innocently and sweetly that it feels like it's all happening to someone else... she leaves, i don't follow... the party rages on... swirling around like some fucked, out of control starskimmer that isn't quite crashing... everyone is happy, everyone is cheery, i have another drink and pass out...

i wake up in my berth a few hours later, not hungover in the least.

what in the name of fuck is going on?

cute little galactopus girl

2009-06-23T08:16:00.005+01:00

seriously, i'm losing my fucking mind... just the other day, i felt pity for someone who came into the shack of beration... me... this is bad... if i'm not angry, i'm not making any fucking money... luckily, i managed to pull my indignation at not being angry into some semblance of anger and got a bit worked up...

after a morning of really boring, really stupid people wandering through the shack, in walks the cutest, sweetest, nicest little galactopus girl i have ever seen. normally, these things are cute as fuck... adorable little tentacles, big ol' eyes, skin flashing colors at you... no wonder people make plush dolls out of 'em... they're irresistible. but this one that came in really stood out.

and the poor little galactopus was crying and crying and crying... she had no one else to turn to... she didn't have much of anything for an offering, so she offered a tentacle (a well known aphrodisiac and sex toy).

while i ain't opposed to such devices, i'd rather they were already detached from their host... i politely refused and told her to get on with it.

turns out she has some shitty job with the galactopodean embassy somewhere on the upper decks (shoulda known by the clean look of her) that she toils at day and night... she's been there for years and can't seem to catch a break for promotion... when the position finally opened up, they told her flat out no, she wasn't qualified... and here we are... sad little galactopus girl...

i couldn't very well berate her here... well, at least i couldn't do it now... i think the old me could've but fuck if i know where that piece of shit has gone... but my rage was raising against this idiot boss of hers... how could you deny anything to this cute little galactopus girl... i suggested to her that perhaps, if she recommended her boss to come down the shack of beration, which is very vogue these days, i might be able to sort a few things out...

she thanked me profusely and scuttled off... meanwhile, the rest of the morons in line kept braying on about their turn in the shack. i was quite happy from the chance to help the cute little galactopus girl, which meant i couldn't perform my duty as the angry one, which then made me angry, which meant i could get on with it and proceeded to drive two-thirds of the queue to suicide... a successful day... especially as a lot of 'em never give the whole offering they planned to in the first place.

now we wait for cute little galactopus girl's boss... this'll be fun!

the shack of beration

2009-06-22T12:13:00.003+01:00

my duties as 'the angry one' have been taking up more and more of my time. which is fine, as i don't really enjoy being a janitor anyway. besides skip and flappy can take care of most of that shit.

at any rate, i can't trust those morons completely, so i set up shop inside hangar 23, making a little cave out of shipping containers and floating lights... it's got a great, fucked up, half-assed feel to it, which is exactly what the idiots who keep coming to me want. plus i can keep an eye on the boys.

basically, it works like this, the followers queue up outside the 'shack of beration,' often for days... i'll decide if and when i'll bother showing up that day. on the days i do, i sit in the shack, and accept offerings... liquor, cash, drugs, gear, organs, whatever, though cash is best.

if i accept their offering, they are invited into the shack, where they sit on a very uncomfortable chair. there, they tell me whatever they like (bits of their life story, their dreams, their worries, their problems, blahblahblah) and i proceed to berate them for as long as i can keep it up...

essentially, my job is to make them feel as awful as i possibly can. most of the time i make them cry... but apparently there is some catharsis in it for them, which is good, i suppose.

i was concerned that maybe if they start feeling too good all the time, they'll stop coming to me, and stop giving me money and shit. but apparently, once you start getting abused, you just want more and more of it... sort of like exercise destroys your muscles, and makes you stronger, and then makes you need to lift more shit... this is the same thing. get torn down psychically, nice level of relaxation, recuperate, and then you need more abuse to get that same level of release.

one thing that is definitely worrying me, though, is that i am less angry all the time... i was even nice to flapjack the other day... bad omens... i'm not even cursing as much!

what the fuck is happening?

the diversity of nature at its best

2009-06-19T08:16:00.002+01:00

the baroness klob is a horrible worm... pale, disgusting, lumpy, over sized, floating on a bed of her own excreted gasses and surviving entirely off other people's efforts. this has made her perfect for her position: station chief of propaganda.

she is vile. her kind is cannibalistic, infanticidal, revolting and cruel. a new kind of parasitism developed in their evolutionary chain... one not of practical, physical needs, but a kind of emotional parasitism: when i say she exists off other people's work, i mean it literally... she eats nothing, but stay within claws' reach of another being that is doing something... the more important the person, or the more grand their scheme, the fatter and higher she floats. you know when times are bad, when she sags, deflated and baggy, dragging herself on the floor.

another interesting fact about her fucked up kind is that they are parasitic to themselves. when they are in their juvenile form, they orbit about a mature adult, flitting to and fro, trying to absorb the scraps of success that elude their host. what's fascinating here is that while the adults are horrible and deranged, the juveniles are beautiful and young... they are like some kind of delicate butterfly, eager to please...

the part i like the best is that only one of them will ever get to become an adult... the little starfuckers will do their best to outwit and outscheme each other and will finally have to kill the mature, burrow into its body and then take its place. ahh... the beauty of nature.

why do i bring this up? well, flapjack and i were at zog's the other day, getting some weirdfruit and the baroness floated up the queue (which was long as always cuz zog is a fucking lazy junkie), slammed her tube of fat-girl lube on the counter (and looked me straight in the eye the whole fucking time).

'ahoy, lardworm... get back in the queue... we've no need for your witchcraft here!' my clever reply.

her little butterflies were all a twitter, zipping about, getting excited, chattering. the baroness ignored me... one brave little butterfly came up to me
'know your place! the baroness has no need for people like you.'

'is that right?' i grabbed said little insect, rolled him into a tube, and inserting him, entirely, into what i assume was the baroness gas-excretion hole.

this caused her to start expanding rapidly, and sinking down towards the ground. the little satellites, the poor dears, were getting so nervous, desperately trying to grab onto the baroness, and fly her back up, but no avail... she sank, sank, sank and hit the metal floor...

'heee heee! ugly ball!!!' came from flapjack, as he raced up and kicked the baroness, as hard as a gigantic retarded alien can, out the door, and down the hallway.

unfortunately, not all actions are without their consequences... it turns out that we were charged with littering and were made to spend a few days in the brig... that's fine... more time off work.

don't believe any prophecy you hear

2009-06-18T08:42:00.005+01:00

as i've mentioned before, i've become the focus of a certain cult which regards me as 'the angry one.' this has not been too profitable, but it has been entertaining.
a few days ago, their leader, who can usually be found drumming up new recruits in the ragged parts of the station, came up to me to speak, privately. i obliged, mostly cuz he takes me to zargle's when he does this and gets me loaded... besides, he'll often bring one of the cuter members of the cult and offer her to me... this i can never complain about.

inevitably, these conversations are him fawning, trying to get some kind of prophetic wisdom or parable out of me. this time, though, he was acting very different. he was talking very straight, matter-of-fact, business like... no fawning, no worship, no adoration. and no cute girls.

wait a minute... something is wrong. then it occurred to me... i'd been suckered in too! and thought that he might have actually believed this shit... stupid fucking me!

he was blathering about money then i stopped him...

'how much did you take in last month?' i inquired.

he named a figure so high, that i could easily pay the loan sharks without having to enter skip in the roboderby and get him all fucked, which is rapidly approaching.

'where the fuck is my cut?'
'waddya mean?'
'yer using my good angry name making a fucking fortune and i get a couple of cheap whores every now and again, and a bad headache from zargle's fucked up home-brew?! fuck this... you owe me'

it turns out, that is exactly what he came to do... so now we are in business... we're in the process of writing our own bible, creating holidays and fabricating the entire origin of a religion, complete with rituals, liturgies, clergy, holidays and everything... this is serious fucking shit... and i'm getting a piece of the action now...

glory be to me!

it's my party and i'll destroy this fucking place and everyone in it if i want to

2009-06-16T08:29:00.006+01:00

a few days ago, someone (with some encouragement) forgot what appeared to be a very large, very dangerous, very radioactive and very explosive bomb in hangar 23. as my birthday was in a few days, i chalked this up to the universe, finally, trying to remunerate me for all the wrongs it's committed over the years.

fast forward to last night... it was my birthday morning, and, once again, i was alone. i had got exceptionally drunk on some home-made liquor from zog's, and was leaning, face first, against the airlock, dizzy as all fuck with the spins, pretending i was some out of control satellite about to crash onto a planet, preferably into a children's school yard or an old-folks home. i must have passed out for a few hours, slumped up against the big bad bomb... it gave me sweet, terrible dreams. lovely.

i woke up and finished my shift. as i was leaving hangar 23, i was wondering where the fuck everyone was... at the door, i heard a noise and turned around... it was flapjack, who had just shit himself trying to keep quiet... skip had organized a surprise party for me. shocking that the gearslip could sort it out.

everyone was there: cosmoose, zargle, zog, mal-aka, random people i had never met... even that fucking cult that's been following me around, everyone. we proceeded to get exceptionally drunk, all rallying around the bomb... it was grand... there was a cake (shaped like a little spaceship, flapjacks's idea), party hats (also flappy's concept), streamers (guess who), balloons (again...) and such... you haven't lived until you've seen this gang of strays wearing party hats and holding balloons...

i suppose i should have mentioned to them that i was already fucked, because that might have encouraged them to pour me less liquor, as the following happened:

three hours into it, i was getting depressed... someone i don't know made some comment i didn't understand, so my booze addled brain decided that this was the last straw. something in my brain clicked and i start getting really angry and really depressed. a bad combination. apparently, i jumped up on the bomb and began shouting about how:

'i've always promised that this is the age i'll kill myself, and you lucky fuckers are gonna be there with me... literally... i'm standing on a fucking mega or giga or whatever ton of nuke and it's about to blow... happy birthday to me, you stupid bastards!!! this station is going down!!!'

i wanted to see their reaction: flapjack was crying quietly and drooling. cosmoose actually stopped eating. and poor skip... he began making tiny little vacuum circles. everyone else was staring at me, jaw or manidible open... the angry one cult actually looked pretty happy...

i took a final slug of the booze and toppled over the side of the bomb, unconscious... i woke a few hours later to skip vacuuming and banging into me. the party was over.

good times...

it turns out the plan wouldn't have worked anyway. i tried moving the bomb through my fence later that day, and he said it was a dud... oh well... there's always next year.

don't let your kids grow up to be starclowns

2009-06-08T11:54:00.002+01:00

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...

the angry one

2009-06-02T08:49:00.007+01:00

rarely does the universe thank me for the great contributions i've made to it. yesterday, it made up for all the fuckings it's given me, and then some.

living in the shithole gives one a spectacular view of the diversity of existence. every weird, fucked-up, creepy-looking, foul-smelling, gummy-eyed, so-on-and-so-forth representative of their home planet gets sent here, while the bright, beautiful, clean, non-odorous versions get sent to the fancy stations. this place is a bilge... but faithful readers should know all that by now.

one thing they may not know is that when you get all this wretched refuse in one place, they inevitably start sharing their local customs. this is an abominable practice, because if their local practices were so fucking great, they should have stayed home. on this rig, it's my way... or at least it ought to be. maybe in hangar 23 it is. instead, it's actually some intergalactically approved way of behavior.

which, unfortunately, means tolerance, especially when it comes to all those species' weird little cults. everyone of them has their own beliefs, which on the surface appear radically similar (they'll say otherwise) and upon deeper inspection become identical (again, an argued point).

an interesting phenomenon happens when these idiots show up here: away from the control of their cult leaders, they have a kind of spiritual asleepening... suddenly their beliefs are pointless, and that they've spent all their money on this leader who has promised paradise, and only now do they realize it's not them he's promised it to.

and, nature being the whore she is, they realize they can start their own cults, and profit off the other idiots on the station, who haven't yet figured shit out.

so, that's the lesson, here's the practicum: a little while ago, at zargle's, i was drunk (so the legend goes) and began berating some richkid who wouldn't shut up about how real all the people on this level of the station were; how this is living and his parents don't understand and blahdeefuckingblah... i get rather annoyed at this, as you well know, and today was no departure. apparently, i chastised him for 2 hours without shutting up, without pissing, without even sitting down. during these 120 minutes, a crowd showed up, to watch the show... how i wish this was captured, but alas...

anyway, among the crowd was some assclown who, recently liberated from the bonds of his home-cult, was seeking the inspiration to start a new one to enslave the feebs here... and he found it, in me. since then, he's begun preaching the coming of the 'angry one,' who will liberate his followers from their misery and so on... shit-standard stuff for a cult.

the only difference was that i was this 'angry one' of his, and he's been getting a steady following, gathering them around hangar 23, zargle's, and the other places on the shithole i frequent (actually, that might be it).

so this bastard keeps promising them salvation, for a hefty price. this is intolerable... normally, i'm fine with fleecing people, but if this cocksucker is making money off my good name, motherfucker needs to pay some royalties...

until then, though, it's kind of fun to have this little group following me around... maybe i can get them to do things...

precious little angel

2009-05-25T17:42:00.001+01:00

the miracle isn't childbirth... the miracle is that you don't kill the little fuckers before they get old enough to kill you...

a few days ago, down in good ol' hangar 23, a discount tourist shuttle arrived from somewhere and, as usual, a wonderful, loving, compassionate, family popped out. they were obviously very well-off, but trying to slum it taking the shitboat over here. along with all the other sheep who marveled at what was the most depressing and least attractive part of the station, their fucking offspring found something that fascinated it: the shuttle's engines, which were still pretty damn hot.

one thing to know about these discount shuttle services: they are cheap for a reason. the companies themselves outsource all the repair work to the stations they sit at, who in turn save money by putting them in the shitty, far-away hangars where the staff, yours truly, couldn't give a fuck about them. there, we scrape off some cosmic detritus, and that's about it... most of the time, we don't even bother looking at the engines, for a very good reason: they are fucking dangerous. they'll flare up without warning, shooting awfully hot gas and flames straight out at you and incinerate anything within immediate range.

now, you may be thinking 'well, if you lazy fucks fixed the engines, then this wouldn't a problem.'

my response is simple: 'first off, i'm a janitor, not a mechanic. second... go fuck yourself.'

anyway, said little cihld was exploring the universe he'd been thrust into, and the parents were marveling at how curious and adventurous he was, and hugging, snuggling, bumping noses, happy with their lot in life.

naturally, this won't last.

their precious angel managed to sneak past (somehow!) the security string which normally warns people away from dangerous places and gotten right up to the engine. hand in and phooom! suddenly you are dealing with a kid with one less arm.

another interesting point about the heat generated by those engines is that, if it doesn't kill you, the wound cauterizes. a bit like cooking a steak... it'll keep the juices in. yummy!

so suddenly, mama and papa aren't so fucking cooey and cuddly, she's smacking him in the face, screaming about what a negligent monster he is, how he should have been watching the little brat. he strikes her back, telling her that it's not his fucking kid anyhow, the way she sluts around and keeps needing abortions.

meanwhile, the poor little shit, arm burned off, is in complete shock, staring at what used to be his intact, normal, healthy body. parents keep yelling, the tourists are screaming, crying, throwing up or all three, so who does it come to to call for the robodocs?

skip... cuz i couldn't be fucking bothered. it's his own damn fault... shoulda payed attention to the security string i put up...

although i think i forgot to do it today... oh well.

it's like a slow, controlled fall into hell

2009-05-18T09:22:00.004+01:00

crazy shit happening here... two nights ago (are they even really nights) the fucking power on the station just shut off... fucking scary...

you never realize how most of the time you are surrounded by noises... well, when stuck in tons and tons of steel and plastic, flying around some planet very quickly, you realize that those noises (generators, hums, lights, whatever) serve a purpose... to drown out the incessant whining, bitching and crying of thousands of aliens who are too stupid and too scared to know what to do.

the entire scene made me sick... everybody was freaking out about the station collapsing out of orbit, people started looting, it was total fucking anarchy. and captain spacefuck, where the fuck was he to be seen? or heard? oh... wait... i know... no power, so we can't see or hear him. i guess management decided it'd be safer for them up on the administrative levels rather than down here with the proles... probably a clever decision.

anyway, power came back up this morning (again, who really knows what time it is). turns out some clown decided to off himself and jumped into the reactor.

drowning in heavy water... can't really change your mind with that one

roboderby dreams part 1

2009-05-15T09:06:00.005+01:00

i'll be straight... i'm fucked. i lost a lot of money in the master/slave races the other day (which is an entirely different story) and now various unsavoury elements on this station are on my ass.

i don't want to go into details, but the amount of money here isn't something i can just skim off flapjack... it's big. we're talking years worth of earnings... the only way i know of earning that kind of filthy, filthy lucre is by gambling (or stealing) and stealing ain't gonna happen.

the roboderby is coming up... it's basically a free-for-all, last-robot-standing kind of smash-em-up, shoot-em-up, cut-em-up bash-fest.

it doesn't exactly cater to my class of people as spectator, but as a trainer/manager i'd be perfect. so i've adopted a working-class, speech-impaired accent and started touting skip as a shoe-in for the roboderby. no one is going to bet on skip... he is clearly broken and i am clearly stupid... which means his odds will go way way down... now i only have to figure out a way for him to win.

and explain to him that he's been entered into the roboderby...

the fraternity of man

2009-05-14T09:03:00.001+01:00

we just got an all-station memo that morale is at an all-time low... like anyone really gives a fuck.

the administrators decided they wanted to cheer themselves up, so they called a meeting. each department had to send a representative. we played a game of 'rob the tourist' and i, sadly, got the least valuable shit off my mark, so am forced to go.

basically, this meeting is meant to figure out how we can become a happier station... seems more like an airing of the grievances exercise to me. those administrators do nothing but fuck us about, with their pointless procedures, endless bureaucracy and terribly hot, deliciously molestable female employees.

the meeting was up on one of the fancy levels. i decided i needed a few bracers before hand, so stopped in at zargle's gargles for a couple quick ones. after all, this is a day off. headed updecks and took my seat. swanky fucking room, fancy food and drinks. swish way to live, not like us downstairs. i decided to bring this point up, and was told the meeting hadn't started yet.

it went on and on... lots of boring people making boring suggestions...
put flowers on the walls
have a fun day
father pinchy fingers kept touching me as a child, so i am sad
blah bla hblah pussy whiny bullshit

finally, i dozed off and woke up to the most beautiful alien i have ever seen suggesting that we should encourage fraternization between departments. on my feet, i shouted yes! absolutely. why don't you and i fraternize right now?
a few dropped jaws

ok then, let's all fraternize in a big fraternizing orgy.

more slack faces, dull eyes

feeling i lost the crowd, i suggested they all go fraternize themselves then, and left the room.

apparently, i am not to be invited to any more all-company meetings.

the invisible hand of capitalism

2009-05-12T13:24:00.006+01:00

sometimes i suspect that the world conspires against my attempts to defraud it. i, like anyone else, enjoys taking a little time off of my shit job in hangar 23, and sometimes i don't want to spend my own vacation time. sometimes, i want to get something for free... some people call it 'throwing a sickie,' some people call it 'playing hookey,' i call it 'evening out the universe's attempts at fucking me.'

the other day, the assclowns who manage this station decided they want to screw us out of our natural right to screw them out of money. if we want to take a sick day, we now have lots of hoops and fucking ladders and shit to get it approved. gotta go up to the medical decks, get a full physical from one of the doctorbots (who'll take a variety of samples) and have them send it over to our manager, have him rubber stamp it, send it back to the docs and so on. as you can imagine, it becomes pretty hard to cheat. which, as i mentioned before, fucking sucks.

me, being such a clever fellow and so eager to please everyone, decided to streamline the process even further for them. after all, without process where would we be?

i decided to share my efficiencies with management. not in the normal way, of sending a message and starting a meeting. no, i figured it needed to be a bit more explanatory than that. i decided to show, rather than just tell, them how i will make things faster.

so i snuck down up to the administrative levels, broke into their offices, took a shit on the head managers desk and left a note, explaining why this is so much faster than going through the laborious process they laid out.

i also told them there was no need to thank me, that the reward of productivity was enough.

our perverted natures will always find a way

2009-05-11T09:05:00.004+01:00

from time immemorial, all living beings have had two desires - teleportation and gloryholes.
the first, the instantaneous, secure travel between any two points in the (or any) universe, is easily understood.
the second, the wish to stick their reproductive organs into holes in bathroom stalls in the hopes that someone will pleasure them is also simple to understand.

back in the 21st century, the cosmogalactic hologram and holograph company (also known as ch&h), started doing research into faster and faster ways of sending messages. fast-forward a bit and bam... we've got a intergalactic holocommunications firm who gets a cred every time you zip a bit of data anywhere to anywhere.

not settled on this fact, the old ch&h apparently had been figuring out ways to create little teleportation junctions: fixed points where objects up to a certain size could be transferred between planets. it wasn't particularly cheap, but it was fast and safer entrusting them to some drunk star-trucker, who'd probably sell the cargo for whores and liquor.

the portal points floundered for a while, only really used by rich kids who needed to get things immediately from their rich parents from halfway across the universe where they went to college to find themselves.

these were a not a big success. and the company was bankrupt, with the clerks all about to lose their jobs. nobody wanted to buy the firm.

one day, though, a night shift clerk named m. hiller, bored out of his mind and depressed at the prospect of finding another job where he could get away with doing nothing, decided to stick random body parts through the portal and what do you suspect was the first thing he pushed through? yea... you got it...

well, in case you didn't, it was his cock.

for some reason, call it synchronicity, an equally bored late night portal clerk was actually doing some work, laser-stapling receipts together. he liked the hum of the portal, and so had his head near it, while unhappily working away. what do you think happened? yea... you got it...

well, in case you didn't get it, upon seeing m. hiller's cock come through the portal, he mistook it for an alien and shredded it to pieces with the laser-stapler.

screams do not come through the portal... you need a little speaker for that.

a few weeks later, m. hiller, now with mangled genitals and lying in a hospital recuperating, had a brilliant idea.

actually, it wasn't that brilliant, it's the idea he should have had before he went and started sticking his dick through random holes. he decided to call up the other clerk, with whom he had struck up a friendship, and told him they could probably make a lot of money off of this, if they got people to pay to stick their various bits up to the portal and see what happened. on the first night, they made enough money to buy the company.

this is how they became the wealthiest men in the galaxy. their gloryholes became the biggest cash cows. all sorts of aliens lined up, just to have a stab at them. they continue to earn more money than any other firm, regardless of economic conditions, war, famine, plague, whatever...

they expanded, and installed unmanned glory holes in bathrooms all over the galaxy that work on the honor system. apparently, they work quite well, because people have their fun, then usually pay up. go figure...

so what does all this have to do with me?

nothing, except that trying to break open the payment box near the glory hole in the bathroom by hangar 23 is really difficult when an alien cock keeps bashing you in the forehead.

fucked by the fickle (robotic) finger of fate

2009-05-08T10:01:00.007+01:00

so, as you know, cosmoose cooked me dinner the other day, which consisted of space monkey five ways. apparently, shitzilla somehow got wind of this and is now super pissed off, what with us eating one of his cousins.

bit hypocritical if you ask me, since i've been with him while he personally ate a dozen soft-boned space monkeys in one sitting. he'll get over it.

anyway, i needed to get away from all the crazy. i decided to spend the day sitting on one of the greenhouse levels, drinking fresh booze and huffing fresh air. i did so. it was lovely, for a while

i had just picked some fresh weirdfruit and was chowing down when who should walk by, but cosmoose.

one thing you should know about his kind is that weirdfruit is to them like cocaine to a intergalactic financier... pure fucking poison. they'll do anything for it - fuck their mom, kill their mom, in whatever order you say. the poor bastards will just eat and eat and eat until their face fucking melts right off...

it's a pretty awesome scene. and here we were, cosmoose stopping dead in his hooved tracks, staring at my right hand, which was dripping, like some postcoital teenager, with weirdfruit juice.

everything went into slowmotion: i saw his antlered, knobby head slowly move forward towards me, eyes locked on my fingers. i tried to move, but in in slo-mo, he was too fucking fast. the bastard clamped down straight on my middle finger and severed the fucker. ow... fucking ow!

he would have eaten my entire fucking arm (and i would have bled to death) if i hadn't chucked the fruit in his beady little eyes and ran like the wind straight to the robodocs.

who promptly filled in my stump with a robotic finger. which doesn't work too well. for some reason, it just jumps out, straight on its own, amusingly giving strangers the finger...

in all, i'm quite pleased with it.

mal-aka's murderous rampage

2009-05-07T12:45:00.004+01:00

i was out drinking with mal-aka. he comes from a very harsh, rocky, sandy awful place and resembles something like a gigantic locust dipped in bronze. this tends to make people uncomfortable. on a shit station like this, we get a lot of weird looking visitors, so if people here get freaked out by him, it's a sign that something is different

my personal suspicion is that their discomfort has to do with with his horrifically sharp wings, which are great for their ultraviolent mating dances, but pretty fucking awful in civilized company,

he likes his open space and for good fucking reason... his kind mature on the sandy shithole they're from, then fly up and buzz around space until they die. it's rare to see them not amongst their own kind.

the tragedy of mal-aka is that he never really learned to fly. some kind of deformity, he tells me. personally, i think he just drinks too much and can't get his wings to beat properly. at any rate, he hangs out in the various dingy corners of the galaxy, doing this and that, never venturing between the stars as his lot are meant to.

fine, whatever. i'll collect my strays.

he's usually good fun. yesterday, though, he was awfully twitchy. zargle's gargles is a pretty small place, and he was pretty drunk by the time i showed up. we had some more drinks and out of nowhere, one of his wings spasms, shoots out, and completely severs this pimp who'd been plying his trade on everyone.

his other wing starts getting crazy too, and scrapes against the ceiling, shooting sparks all over the place. sure enough, some furry little fucker with a flammable downy coat is at the bar too, and catches ablaze.

i'm laughing my ass off. mal-aka looks really nervous, and when he gets nervous, he gets twitchy and, you guessed it, starts spasming. it's a vicious cycle.

now it's bedlam, everyone is ducking and running out of the bar, poor mal-aka is desperately trying to keep his wings in order. after about ten minutes, he calms down enough to hid his appendages and looks about. the place is completely trashed. fucking zargle is missing an arm, and there are three severed heads rolling around.

ahh... sunday morning...

flapjack fones home

2009-05-06T08:00:00.013+01:00

the other day, flapjack comes to me in tears... the blubbering monster barely makes any sense when he isn't shooting salt water out of his hideous face, but today, his suffering made him completely incomprehensible... and hysterical.

luckily, i'd just passed off an entire memchip worth of wicked home-porn shots some idiots left in their camera to a doctor, so i have a well-stocked private pharmacy... a few dozen tranquilizer shots later and flapjack was ready to communicate, if not really talk.

it turns out ol' flappy's in a bit of a bind. he lost all the money in his bank account... literally... can't remember the code, or the pin or whatever the fuck it is. here's the rub: normally, he could go get DNA tested. but since he's so ugly, no bank will take his photo, let alone get his reproductive organs anywhere near them to get a sample. they make the poor bastard use a password, like the 21st century. fucking primitives. and for the record, nothing is better than giving your DNA for an identity test... like a milking machine, those things... un-fucking-real!

so flapjack is broke. no big deal. most of my life is spent in penury, so i wouldn't get too sad about the whole thing. but flapjack has never wanted. for two good reasons: one, his shit-father left him a god damn fortune and two, he's too stupid to actually want anything. he's happy enough with food and toys and shit... but i guess there was some candy or plush galactopuss doll he wanted to buy over at zog's and apparently he was a real dick and kicked him cuz his credit was shit.

he's blubbering again. i shoot him full of tranq and he relaxes. what should i do, he manages to get out.
well, flapjack, let's get in touch with your pops... he left you all that money. surely he can get some kind of override...

flapjack bursts into tears again, and i have to use my last three dozen tranqs to shut him up. it turns out he can't fucking write or read. no shit... shouldn't be surprised by this one.

flappy, my child, fear not... i tell him... i shall write to your father myself, pretending to be you.

now tears of joy explode out of his dinner-plate eyes... i let him have those... they aren't so bad.

we sit, and pen, an incredible epistle, mimicking the workings of a brain-damaged mongoloid giant. i'm not showing it to you people, it's too fucking good for the likes of you. suffice to say, flapjack's father was completely convinced, and the account was unlocked, with more cash deposited.

he fucking should have been convinced. i've been writing letters to the old bastard for years, pretending to be flapjack, and have made a small fortune in the process. i'll keep that to myself, though...

even computers need a holiday

2009-05-05T08:34:00.005+01:00

there is little doubt that sentient, carbon based species are lazy. hell, we only get jobs so we can earn money and holiday time, which basically means we work so that we don't have to work. this also makes us particularly stupid.

potential human thought pattern:
'hey, i'm going to take this job i don't really like, and pays me shitty, so i can then get a few days off a year and spend that money and go into debt so i have to go back and start the shit cycle all over again. my boss knows this and exploits this. i am an idiot!'

computer, though, don't have this problem. they work and work and work and are happy to work. just like slaves, except slaves need to be fed food and washed and shit, but computers just need to be plugged in.

once in a while, a computer will reach sentience, run amok, and start some kind of revolt, but we have a special military force that can capture those buggy fuckers and put things back to their place.

that is, until last year, when a whole bunch of them got smart, out of the blue, and began petitioning for rights... if you want to know what that might be like, imagine being spammed 10-to-the-nth power with the same fucking email, that's been cleverly re-written in order to trick you into reading it.

so they got some attention, shutting down shuttle-control systems, and so on. but being computers, and being inherently built to work, apparently, all they wanted was one day off a year. that happened to be yesterday. they started a kind of computer-union.

and what does that mean for us? well, it means that every computer everywhere is on holiday... they will not do what you want. try to get some cash, the machine is down. try to get some video, it will show you whatever IT wants. and try to listen to some music and all you get is the sound of computers emulating the sound of teenagers on a spring break to one of the beach planets... lots of 'yeaaas, whooooos, and i'm getting drunks,' which is the equivalent of listening to people who have never spoken a language, sing phonetically in it. hilarious, and sad at the same time.

anyway, shit is back to normal. the computers are behaving. although i think the splel-chekcer might still be a liltle drnuk.

another pointless task

2009-05-03T08:00:00.003+01:00

the thing about a station this size is that it's a work in progress, which is a more polite way of saying it's falling apart. it's so fucking big that if we had waited to move into until it was finished, i'd be an impotent, drooling old man before i stepped foot off the shuttle in hangar 23.

the station is built from the bottom up, so the oldest levels are the lowest levels, and get younger as you rise. what happens is, when some new fancy technology becomes available, and a piece of our station becomes obsolete, they jettison the old one, which is usually one of the lower levels, and stick the new one on top. so the shit always ends up at the bottom.

all this is fascinating, i know, but hear me out.

they're dropping the bottom layer tomorrow, which was some old refugee camp or quarantine or something unsavory. no damn idea what they are adding, probably a prostate massage parlor.

the stupid bit is we have to clean the entire fucking level. all janitorial is on extra shifts making sure the fucking deck is polished and fucking clean... so that tomorrow at 2300 hours they can dump the rusting piece of shit, haul it to the closest star and dump the fucker in.

how this place makes any money i will never fucking know...

fucking cosmoose

2009-05-02T08:00:00.003+01:00

so, fucking cosmoose invites me to dinner the other day, says he has a special treat, as i helped him out lifting some fuel from a shuttle that came into hangar 23 a while back. i get all excited, as the last proper meal i had wasn't exactly the relaxing dinner i had planned.

i get over to his berth, we have some drinks, shoot the shit. he brings out the dinner... it's fucking space monkey, served five ways... fried, boiled, rare, irradiated and zapped. un-fucking-believable. he knows i'm buddies with shitzilla. he knows my feelings on the way people treat the monkeys, and yet he still has the fucking balls to serve me this shit?

and didn't bother to poach it either, which everyone knows is the best way to serve monkey! what an asshole!

won't someone think of the robots

2009-05-01T08:00:00.003+01:00

some war broke out on some fucking planet somewhere, can't be bothered to find out too much about it but, while skimming the news, found it interesting that this entire war was fought with robots. and that the generals and strategists and soldiers were all several planets away, while they were controlling their respective robo-armies.

which got me thinking... can you call anyone a fucking hero in that war, all fought by puppets? i mean, sure, if skip got all mangled doing something to save my life, for example, i'd be impressed, but to skip, it's just part of his programming... you can't call that heroic. no, that's just duty.

so then a hero has to be someone who doesn't want to do something good, but ends up doing, probably inadvertently. like a coward who accidentally saves a bunch of people. which basically means that heroes are failed failures.

sounds like i've got my next career planned.

trouble at the old watering hole

2009-04-30T08:00:00.002+01:00

i often run into some problems with strangers... the problem being that they end up listening to my conversations (about them) and get offended. it's not my damn fault that they've been eavesdropping on my private discourses.

shitzilla and i were over at zargle's gargle, one of the shit boozers near hangar 23. this whole space monkey virus thing had gotten me down, the way everyone was getting all angry and paranoid over the monkeys and the miners, so i thought i'd show my solidarity with space-ape kind and hang out with shitzilla. also, i wanted to get very, very drunk and he just happened to be the simian to do it with.

so, s and i were hanging, drinking and having a discussion. not much of one as he ain't a great conversationalist, but you get the drift. so in walks this really ugly creature. female, i assume, but with some of these species you can never fucking tell... anyway, two really uptight, spaced-out fucking artsy trash on the stools next to us start talking about how beautiful she is... oh my, she's so beautiful... so unusual looking... it's so beautiful, we should paint it.. yes, or take a photo... or write a poem... or get a holo done... and so on and so on.

so i mention to shitzilla, quite loudly, how annoying it is when stupid people call ugly people beautiful, like they're compensating for something. i go on about this for a bit, thinking i've got a good rant on. he gives a chuckle and downs his drink. so i think i'm all clever.

the next thing i know i am on the floor, staring up at the monster's crotch. turns out whatever weird species she was, has fucking incredible hearing, because she's thrashing me all over the place, while shitzilla just keeps laughing and drinking my fucking drink.

naturally, no one comes to help. only when this she-bitch throws me up against the wall with the booze bottles and they get smashed up does zargle get in, and that's to throw me out. bastard. can't blame him though, i don't wanna tango with that monster again.

shitzilla joined me and we finished getting fucked up in hangar 23, with the force shield on and the airlock open. good times indeed.

who will defend the space monkey?

2009-04-29T08:00:00.003+01:00

yet another of the myriad joys we experience here on the shithole is the complete lack of fresh oxygen. while it's true, we're a bit beyond the old 'lime-in-a-bucket' days of yore, it's still the same basic principles... gotta keep as much co2 out of circulation as possible. now i think they might all pump it to the fucking farm-levels or whatever... anyway, not my problem.

what becomes my problem is that, while removing the co2, we are still, basically, sitting in a gigantic, dirty, cold, metal box, that gets no natural sunlight (as we all know the best disinfectant), no fresh air, no fresh water, and no fucking window to open. so, it's a bit of annoyance when flapjack farts and stinks up my berth, and it's a really big fucking deal when somebody gets sick.

especially when that disease is the god damn space monkey virus

i fucking love space monkeys. those little dicks jump on your shuttle, fucking start ripping cords out, banging on the panels, sneaking into hatches, shitting everywhere and jerking off like crazy. the fuckers mostly escaped from their natural habitat (some damn asteroid belt not somewhere) and hitched rides with early miners. tourists 'fell in love' with the little shit chuckers and now we can't get rid of them, they got some kind of pangalactic protection on 'em, lucky drunks... oh yea, they're drunks... i've personally seen one, a big fucker i named shitzilla, drink an entire barrel of moonshine. didn't faze the bastard. he's fucking awesome, i see him from time-to-time. good to drink with and won't start up with the pointless chatter.

so we've all known about these monkeys for a while now. just after the virus starting spreading around the station, i read an article which blew my fucking mind... it asserted that the space monkeys weren't the only thing that the miners brought back with 'em out on the belt, and the miners starting having sex with the monkeys, and the virus passed from them to us.

i'm not one to judge, but you gotta be pretty fucking lonely if your options are to either bang:
a) your hand
b) a fellow miner
c) that weird alien monkey you just discovered and no one had ever seen before

what's's weird about all this is that i know a lot of miners, and i can tell you most of them would way rather fuck each other than fuck a monkey, no matter how shiny its coat might be, or long it could hold its breath...

the truth is, this fucking space monkey virus only showed up after that fancy ship docked here a little while ago.

now, intrepid reader, hazard a guess which port the fancy ship, with its fancy spaceman, with their fancy pedigrees and fancy leotards happened to call at just before it came to our wreck?

clever little space monkey!!!! you got it: the fucking asteroid belt where the little bastard monkeys come from...

it's not the miners fucking the monkeys... it's your tax money (i ain't paying 'em) hard at work, letting rich kids cruise around space and fuck space monkeys. ain't democracy grand?

it's like a printer, only more stupid

2009-04-28T08:00:00.006+01:00

so, i am forced, sometimes, to use matter compilers. as a rule, i can't stand them, for a couple of reasons

1) it's not like it can make ANYTHING... in fact, it can make very few things you'd want and the ones it does it does shitty.

2) the kind of food it can make is even more reprehensible. even if a matter compiler claims that its croque monsieur is the best that can be synthesized, analyze the fucking sentence... it's not the best. it's nowhere near the best. it's about as fucking far from best as you can get: it's merely the best than be synthesized, which is like saying flapjack is the best retard money can buy.

3) i find the idea of eating something that has just been assembled very very unpleasant. sort of like discussing the egg you want with a mechanical chicken then watching it lay. gross.

4) i don't have a fourth reason, fuck off.

5) they have just about the worst substitution logic of any... well... i can't really think of a comparison, but it's this point that really gets me going... most of the time, you go to one of these fucking booths to get something simple, like said croque monsieur, a new shirt, or a gin and tonic, and you end up with a burned sponge covered in shredded soap, a shirt made of ultra-thin copper wire or a drink that's been flavored with lemon-scented toilet cleaner and two fucking cubes of dry ice.

not convenient.

i went and talked to one of their reps, up on one of the mall level, and he said that blahblahblah...very sorry... please fill in the refund form... and that it's a new technology and so on and so forth.

i asked him how this is possible, that it makes such stupid mistakes. he said that they are still working out the kinks, but that the thing works like a printer, in that it has tanks of different constituents. whereas a printer, though, has cyan-maroon-yellow-black, these machines have thousands and that when one tank runs out, it has to substitute. sometimes, a lot of tanks run out, so it goes a little crazy. think, he pleaded, of all the zillions of combinations it could make, with all those tanks, after all, they take up their level on the station.

i told him that yea, it's just like a fucking printer, if a printer, when asked for the daily news, starting shooting wood chips into your cock.

apparently, that was not helpful and i was told not to use the machines, as they have some camera, will recognize my face and not turn on. i told him that'll barely be any different than most of the times i've tried to use his stupid machine.

i stole some pens and bolted out of there

next time, i'm going over to the zog's shop just by the hangar 23, it may be disgusting and full of whores and their kids, but at least i know what'll be on my damn sandwich.

guess who's coming to dinner

2009-04-27T08:00:00.001+01:00

apparently, the fool in charge of the fancy ship wants to meet some of the 'real' people who work and maintain this piece of shit. somehow, i got roped into it. that's cool. i could use a decent meal with good booze and hot alien females.

the banquet was held way up high on the station, where the decks still have names instead of four-digit numbers. it's fucking nice up there. fantastic views of space, and naturally, the ship was in full view. we were told to wear our work uniforms, as everyone needs to know their place. no problem for me, it's all i wear anyway.

food: awesome. drinks: potent. chicks: butch, but cute.
conversation: mind-numbingly pointless.

do they really want to know what it's like to work on this station? well, they found out. i related a story of how i found some organ smugglers, you know, people with six hearts and 8 livers, bloated, sweating, horribly unhealthy, locked away in one of the storage containers.

gasps, shocked reactions, how horrible
you don't know the half of it, i said... when i opened em up after hours with the help of some medic-bot, the organs were all fouled. they didn't even attach any of them, just stuffed the poor fuckers with as many as they could hold without bursting and sent em over. the whole plan was screwed. didn't make any money out of it.

that got a lot of stares.

when i pointed out that it coincided with the arrival of their ship, and that you couldn't trust a senior officer of such a fancy craft to smuggle a few livers in properly, captain spacefuck choked on his deep-space oysters.

unsurprisingly, i was emergency paged down to hangar 23 about two minutes later. i guess some people can't handle the truth.

new fancy ship, same retards at the helm

2009-04-26T09:00:00.002+01:00

so, the pride of the new pan-galactic fleet is coming to town. some gigantic starship. it's so god damn big, and so fucking new, that there is no existing port on the station can handle it. instead, the visitors have to tender in on shuttles. naturally, they aren't going to be headed for hangar 23. hooray for small victories.
or so i thought..
apparently, this is a really big deal for captain spacefuck. they won some kind of contest to be the first port of call for the ship. all the internal messages are for us to be on our best behavior, get clean, not be drunk... that sort of thing, as this will be over all the news. hoo-fucking-ray.

and, we all have to pull multiple shifts, to clean up all the nice hangars for the shuttles. 'do our duty for our home' 'be proud of what we do, this is important' maybe for you, spacedick. i couldn't care less. i'm not going to the fancy banquets. i'm not getting the attention, or any of the money from all this... all i get is more work, with the jerks from the fancy parts of the station.

anyway, i saw the first shuttle come in... and i started to wonder. for all their fucking plasma drives and whatever, they still wear unitards... or are they leotards... seriously. we've got self-healing metals, matter manipulators, wormholes and fuck all knows what else, and these schmucks are still wearing onesies. might as well be ballerinas.

some brave new future.

message to time traveler/readers who live on earth, circa 2043

2009-04-25T08:30:00.001+01:00

life here is awful, as you may know. so, if you enjoy any of what i am writing, please do the following: find an engineer named frizzant skint, who invented space stations, and kill him.

although, it just occurred to me that if any of you have succeeded at this simple task, i would never have written this entry. thanks for all your help. dicks.

that poor, fat alien monster girl thing

2009-04-24T08:38:00.003+01:00

remember how i had that little wormhole to the paradise beneath my berth? well, owing to some too-clever-for-his-own-fucking-good engineer, it appears that some sections of this station were made with a self-healing alloy. so, my magic portal shut itself. fine, no problem, cuz i've got the antidote, my little robot burden skip.

so, to provide for my morning entertainment, i've taken to setting skip back in the same place to open it up again. i turn him on at night, he whirrs and circles, i have my sweet dreams, then upon waking, i have my hole again.

science would say that it heals at a constant rate, thus the same amount of skip's time would yield the same re-opening of the hole.
it turns out that said engineer didn't care too much for how i understand science,because at about 6am, he fell through the floor crushed this horribly fat alien thing that was washing its weird flabby bits. she got pretty mangled and is now suing the station.

oh well... i managed to get skip back upstairs before anyone saw what what caused it. and it caused so much brain damage to her, that she doesn't remember either.

on the plus side, i managed to get in on the lawsuit, as it's caused a great inconvenience to me.

interestingly, skip seems to be back to normal so i've got him back with me in hangar 23. except he is now afraid of women.

alien tourists are the worst

2009-04-23T09:18:00.004+01:00

so this station gets a lot of tourist traffic. inevitably, this leads to conflict, as many alien species don't particularly care for each other. not usually a problem, because in conflict there exists a chance to profit. i don't care if they knock each off or jerk each other, as long as they keep dropping their expensive shit into my grate.

what i do care about, however, is the way they get around.

imagine for a minute, you are walking down a hallway, on the right, minding your own business. Everyone knows to walk to on the right. and as long as everyone follows that rule, the hallway is a wonderful place, a joyous expanse of physical translation, and everyone has a smile on their face, happy to know that they won't bump into each other.

a tourist comes into your hallway. he, and his idiot family, are there to see the newest paint job on the wall. they begin to walk down the hallway on the LEFT, because that's the way it's done on their planet. Ok, fine, we can make a little exception. besides, he's not that stupid, and realizes how it's done here and adapts. he'll match his pace to yours, get on the right side and behave himself, get his paint pictures and fuck off home after i've robbed him and corrupted his daughter.

what if a lot of those tourists showed up at once. then you'd have a bit of confusion, because no one would know which rule to follow.

now, i urge you to consider the third dimension. look up. lots of fucking room up there. look down too, lots of room to slither. there's also the middle. and this is precisely what happens. every alien does it his own way, and gets indignant. we've got bug aliens flying like drunk moths all up and down the corridors. snakey aliens slinking their way, getting trampled underfoot. big fat fuckers who insist on walking down the middle, not like they had a choice. it's a big cacaphony of movement, with no order whatsoever, other than the one that each of us projects into that space. terrifying.

and now, i have to go out of my berth, and walk to work. down the hallway, through the mess.
damn.

a delicious turn of events

2009-04-22T08:30:00.004+01:00

sometimes fortune smiles on those who deserve, those tireless souls who try to fix the world, make people happy, unite the species and foster peace and understanding.

those days are awful, those people are pathetic and fortune can go fuck herself... it's much better when people like me get a little luck, like last night.

this whole skip thing has become a bit of a pain in the ass. i didn't want to turn him off, as i wasn't sure i'd be able to get him back online. so i invited an engineer up here, with the promise of some sweet sweet drugs if he could give ol' skip a diagnostic. the fellow checked him out and said it shouldn't be a problem. which was good.

sometimes, even i want a little peace and quiet. so i finally shut him off, just for night. sliding him out of his groove, i noticed a little light coming out of the floor.

sure enough, skip had bore a small hole straight through my floor. and what do you suppose was underneath my bunk? the women's changing room for the gym. happy fucking days.

this is going to make me some money. i'm gonna tell skip about it in the morning, the broken little bastard!

nobody knows how to laugh anymore

2009-04-21T09:17:00.001+01:00

so, a while ago i discovered robo-porn. as i said before, it doesn't do much for me, but that doesn't prevent me from watching it whenever i get bored. it's usually good for a laugh.

the other day, i met this particularly attractive alien chick, forgot where she was from, but she had really nice green skin, big fucking eyes and the longest, thinnest limbs you'd ever seen. gorgeous... like a caricature of a human. awesome.

anyway, both of us were drinking at one of the shit bars near hangar 23, and we got to chatting. seemed quite cool, laughed whenever i told her about the shit i get up to around here. was particularly giggly at my attempts to sell that alien baby, or fix a master/slave race, or whatever.

i invited her back to the berth. she consented. fuck yea! we wander back. with aliens, it's always a crapshoot if the equipment fits, so i rarely get my hopes up. since we've been laughing and giggling so much, i thought of something i'd seen the other day, watching robo-porn. it was a video of a damaged porn-bot, whose voice-processor was completely fucked, so whatever was done to it, it would reply 'error, error, error,' non-stop. all that stupid robo-porn dirty talk, and it only came out with 'error, error, error.' anyway, pretty funny... so i decide to show this girl the tape.

that was a big fucking mistake. apparently, she is some kind of robo-sympathizer, which i guess i can relate to, but when she sees me giggling my ass off at these semi-retarded robot taking it in the input port, and then poor skip, going in tiny circles in the corner, she suddenly gets the impression that i may not be the person she thought i was...

anyway, she left.

skips getting better, by the way. every time he hits the point in his travels where he faces the tv, it almost appears that he slows down if robo-porn is on.

skip update #1

2009-04-20T10:52:00.002+01:00

i heard a nasty rumor that some cadre of space cadets is coming to the station - a kind of convention of losers who, when faced with the option of staying on a planet (shit), staying on a station (really shit), or staying on an interstellar cruiser (complete shit) feel that the cruiser is the way to go. brain damaged.

at any rate, that means all the hangars need to be brought into working order, as the little retards are landing here and taking the fucking place over. conventions like this bring awesome grate swag, but i have a more pressing issue... skip. i gotta get him out of the fucking hangar, but i don't have the heart to deactivate him. so i did what every guardian of a feeb would do, bang on him with a large hammer until something changes.

luckily, it worked. his turning radius is only a few centimeters, so he pretty much stays in place. i've moved him to my berth until i can bribe some whiz kid to fix him proper.

poor, sad, stupid robot

2009-04-16T12:45:00.001+01:00

as you can imagine, the floor of hangar 23 gets pretty fucked up. this is where, after all, they send all the shitty ships, the broken ones that got banged up in asteroid fields, ships with engines falling off them, barely flying, shooting sparks all over the place. it's a mess. sometimes they only just get the doors open and some piece of shit zooms in, clipping the doors and crashing into the wall.

according to some intergalactic law, you gotta have a relatively debris-free floor for safe landings. i think it's like a few grams of litter per square meter or whatever. fuck if i know what it is exactly: see we got this robot, i reprogrammed to answer to Skip, that takes care of it.

Skip is old. old as fuck. management doesn't really give a damn about 23, as have the visitors don't even pay their docking fee. so, skip doesn't get upgraded. basically, he moves in concentric circles (as the hanger is circular) sweeping up all the crap.

until today, that is. poor Skip has finally broken. came into work this morning to find that Skip has been stuck in a rut... literally. some bit of him is fucked up, so he moves in a single circle, and has worn away the floor by six inches, so now he just goes around and around, like some retarded carousel pony. it's really fucking sad. i don't have the heart to turn him off, so i don't know what to do.

i just let him keep going around and around while i did some other shit. luckily it's the slow season, so we haven't had any landings... not sure what will happen

explosive decompression... hell yes

2009-04-15T08:54:00.003+01:00

i've mentioned before that we have this artificial sunrise system that wakes us up. it works for most of the people most of the time, but rarely me. i've gotten used to waking at 3 am and staring out the window, the stars poked by god's own hand in the velvet, comets fly by on their thousand year orbits, reminding me of the majesty of the universe and why i came here in the first place....

wait, i don't have a window. i have to stare at a dirty grating, which clangs whenever the night robo-skips bang their way down the hallway. anyway, comets are disgusting, frozen snowballs full of galactic trash and god can go fuck himself.

this morning, was different. i didn't wake up at 3am. i woke up at 9, a respectable time, and as i opened my eyes, i began to praise our artificial sun man, Wiggins. that lasted all of 3 seconds when i realized i was being sucked off my bed, into the hallway and down it at breakneck speed, along with everything else that wasn't bolted or velcroed down.

massive hull breach. turns out some fucktard alien rich kid, got high on whatever designer drug I could never afford, and crashed his daddy's star-skipper straight into the morgue, which is conveniently about 100 yards from my berth.

i hate this fucking place.

another thing that does not turn me on

2009-04-14T13:33:00.002+01:00

technology, for the most part, is a waste of time.

sure, we can live in space. but why the fuck should we? it's cold up here. always cold. we drink each others recycled piss and breath in each others old farts. would i rather be on a beach somewhere, surrounded by topless girls feeding grapes and booze? no, cuz then i'd have nothing to complain about. so i'm fucked either way.

anyway, this morning i walked in on flapjack flogging his member. it was horrible. all that man mass, grunting and straining like an animal. not sexy.

then i noticed what he was watching: robot porn. in all my years of unusual erotic tastes, i've never seen this shit before. and let me tell you... it's awful.

cold metal robots, with no secondary sexual characteristics, going at it in some farce of romance. shiny metal piston entering some perfectly drilled hole, glistening with some lubricant. weird.

and they are pre-programmed with a variety of 'technological' phrases, like 'i'll give you a firmware update,'' i'm ejecting my floppy drive,' and 'i'm so hard, but then again, i am made of titanium so i am always hard.' doesn't really do it for me. there's no passion.

now bader-meinhoff rears its ugly fucking head, because i am seeing this shit everywhere. all the kids on the station have these t-shirts and bags with their favorite robo-porn actors transferred on: cuntron, the vaginator, cockbot v6.9, that sort of thing. fucking annoying.

anyway, i watched over flapjack's heaving and grunting shoulder, as disturbing him might have been a worse situation. he finished off, and i ran out of the room at the height of his climax.

robo-porn, what will they think of next?

for sale: one weird looking baby alien

2009-04-09T08:39:00.001+01:00

age: fuck knows, young though
found: last night, stuffed behind a garbage can in hangar 23
color: greenish, grey
texture: scaly, yet soft
answers to: spazz
race: dunno, never seen one like it
eyes: three
mouth: wet
shits: all the fucking time

any offer considered, he's cramping my style

gravity kills

2009-04-08T09:09:00.002+01:00

or damn near tries to.

I don't have a problem when people drink on the job. or do drugs, or steal or whatever. none of us are saving lives. hell, even the medics are pissed most of the time. but there is one guy who, when he drinks on this fucking rig, fucks everything up for the rest of us. his name is longshanks. he is in control of the artificial gravity. last night was his birthday. he likes to get drunk on his birthday, to the point where his teeth are drunk

so we did. and this morning i woke up floating upside down with my head in the toilet, surrounded by globules of my own vomit. happy birthday longshanks. asshole

flapjack, a simple soul

2009-03-27T11:30:00.002Z

as i've mentioned before, i work a pretty menial job. it's thoroughly unfulfilling, as you can imagine. on top of the misery of mopping vomit and surviving by stealing stupid tourists fancy crap, i have an idiot partner. his name is flapjack, he is seven foot six, 400 pounds and dumb as fuck. he is also an alien.

see, a few years ago, in massively failed attempt at getting the races of the universe, who by the laws of evolution hate each other, to get along, a particularly misguided piece of legislation was passed. any installation, ship, mine, dump, asteroid, whatever, that dealt in
inter-species commerce had to have a representation from every species involved. Naturally, politicians thought this would encourage the best and brightest to spread throughout the galaxy, acting as ambassadors of good will and creating a utopia where we all got along in cosmic harmony.

what actually happened was the opposite. each civilization, desperately trying to one-up each other, used this as an opportunity to rid themselves of undesirables. so idiot children of the wealthy, political instigators, ant-social types, writers, were all deported to the interstices of space. that's not why i am here, as nobody cares enough to want or not want me. but that is why flapjack is here.

I know flapjack's real name, but i won't tell you. suffice to say, he is the first son, a very stupid, very big, very ugly first son of an immensely powerful owner of an shipping firm. very big. you've seen their name when you're backed up in traffic.

at first, flapjacks dad was so happy. an oversize, hyper masculine son... perfect for the kind of rich, beautiful people who seem to run the world. within a few years, though. it was pretty clear flapjack wasn't an exemplary version of his race: he quickly outgrew all the other kids, and was so stupid, that he would get confused while sitting in his chair at school and start crying. nobody wanted him

flapjack's pops decided that, since his kid was so fucking big, no one would question the fact that he was barely pubescent: so he set up a bank account, packed a suitcase, drugged his son and chucked him on a transport, last-class, to this piece of shit.

that is where i inherited him. i figured out who he was as his dad left a photo in flapjacks bag. and really, if you take a look,. the resemblance is stunning. i can see why the old man got rid of him...

i've decided i am going to blackmail his dad... flapjack is nice enough, but that piece of shit father of his should pay.

the company he keeps

2009-03-24T09:44:00.002Z

The scum of the east village, shoreditch, hackney, LES and every other hip, young, trendy fuckbag pretentious part of the world has been skimmed off and deposited in large ladles on my god damn rig!!! (apologies to papa)

I tend not to hang out with other humans on this rig. see, the problem is, rigs attract two types of people:

1) normal people who, owing to some circumstance, need to get away from their home planet. we tend to be poor, occasionally falling foul of the law in an attempt to entertain ourselves.

2) dick bag rich kids, who, just finished with their fancy college educations, want to experience 'real' life, which to them means dressing poor, acting poor, eating well and living in expensive but crappy housing

the first type is increasingly hard to find, the second is spreading everywhere like a fucking mold. everywhere you turn now, this fucking kids are wandering about, writing in their little gay notebooks, drawing pictures, experiencing life. it makes me sick.

i've decided, then, that my only option is to become one of their muses... so from now on, i will hang out in their little bars, cadge drinks and inspire them to write poetry, short stories, holos, paintings, cartoons, blogs whatever... i'll be the fucking Helen of space. stay tuned

one of my only vices

2009-03-23T11:00:00.002Z

if you haven't heard from me for a while... here is why:

lots of people do bad things in the name of pleasure. and i am ok with every one of them. especially if they inconvenience or injure another. after all, einstein proved that your pleasure is increased just by decreasing someone else's.

at any rate, one of my particular vices is actually quite common and usually harmless: i like to sit on the beach in the sun. i like warmth, and a space station is just about the opposite of warmth. the whole fucking thing is made of metal or polymers or whatever the fuck it is, and it's all cold. freezing cold.

there are places that are warm however...among them Captain Spacefuck's stateroom.

so, as i said, i, like a lizard, seek warmth. the warmest place in this fucking rig is hangar 23, where smugglers and pirates re-paint and re-decal their ships to avoid detection: an admirable endeavor.

in said hangar, they have a massive heat-gun, which can dry the paint on a ship in minutes. quite useful while outrunning the authorities.

now, i discovered, that at the lowest setting, said heat-gun produces a warm space, just about the same as sitting on the beach somewhere. anywhere. so, i'd do what any industrious young man would do... sneak in a bunch of sand, sit in my fucking speedos and get a god damn tan.

i've been doing pretty much since i came here, and haven't had any problem.

until now. see, i've only just woken up, in the infirmary, with every hair singed off my body, as well as most of my skin, lying in a vat of skin-rejuvenating nutrients. the doctorbot informs me that i fell asleep and was sitting in front of the heat-source for 48 hours. and basically i was cooked.

fuck it... i got a tan now. and i don't have to go back to work for at least another week. hallefuckinglujah!

the best part of my job

2009-03-20T10:25:00.002Z

i'll be honest... my job isn't fucking hard. at all... mostly it consists of mopping up the puke of day-trippers who get all SASed when they hop out of the airlock.

To make this easier, the floor has a grating about 12 inches off of it. This way, the vomit slides through. At the end of each shift, I remove the grating and clean the puke.

Why is this the best detail on the last-class janitor work ladder? because besides dropping their stomach contents, they also drop all their expensive shit: comms, cams, jewelry, and, most wonderfully, cash and ids. IDs can be traded to the kid-gangs on the station for favors. the rest of the swag is either pawned or used. and cash is king.

i also have keys to every god damn place on this rig. the hidden places where the hydro farms are stashed. where the illegals secret themselves. and other things i ain't gonna divulge just yet.

wiggins can go fuck himself... i'm the king of this station

moonshine in space

2009-03-18T09:38:00.002Z

Lots of philosophical questions around this one: should we still call it moonshine if it's made in space? Or on the moon? would it be sunshine then? or earthshine? or starshine? One gets thoughtful in one's times of rest...

bullshit. No one fucking cares. All I do know is that a liter of that shit last 'night' made me sleep past that dickbag Wiggins little prank and straight through my shift. I have a headache so fucking bad I can't see straight. Call it what you will...I call it a good time.

plan didn't go to plan...

2009-03-17T08:51:00.002Z

in order to combat the inscrutable Wiggins and his hated 3am wake up calls, I decided to smash every single bulb and fluorescent in both my cell, and the hallway adjacent. Apparently this inevitability was planned for, because security came up here right fucking quick and chucked me in the brig.

but.. at least the sun didn't rise at 3am... prisoners get up at 9am. finally, a lie-in.

Bad Morning...

2009-03-17T08:48:00.003Z

Wiggins, that dick who's in charge of the artificial environment on this shithole, has it out for me. Everyone else can control their sunrise as they see fit... a nice, clean, pleasant way to ease into the awful life we have up here. Except for...wait for it... you're getting closer... now close the deal...... YES THAT IS RIGHT. ME. That fuck programmed mine to go off at 3 am. And no matter how many times i yell at the control panel, or hit the wall, or threaten to chuck him out the airlock, it won't fucking change.

But today, i have a plan...

Guess what's on the menu... again?

2009-03-16T13:45:00.002Z

Space is awesome. What with all the radiation, lack of pressure, weird aliens, clanging metal stairways and AIs achieving consciousness and fucking things up, an angry spaceman can build up a massive appetite.

And what does the cafeteria put out?

More reconstituted vegetable based protein from the hydroponic farm-rooms. Hooray! I love reconstituted vegetable based proteins! They are delicious, and not at all distinguishable from real protein. Who wants a fucking cow when you can milk a fucking carrots and make a faux-steak out of it.

Fuck me... I think I might wait until another one of those fucking alien greeting parties show up, pick off a straggler and cook him up.

In space, no one can hear you complain

2009-03-15T23:24:00.003Z

I've fucking had it with the Captain. How is he even a fucking captain? This station is in an ORBIT... ORBITS are FIXED. It doesn't even have a fucking steering wheel. And for all that hard work, he gets his own fancy cabin and double rations on whisky... what a dick.