precious little angel

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.