CHAPTER 25: Helpfully Vindictive

Wally’s DNA was used to shooting around like an extra in a Godzilla movie.  This new, Clint-Eastwood-with-a-big-gun-movie type stance he now took, was quite liberating and empowering.

It had a list of things to get done, certainly.  But any counteracting orders were now simply ignored.  Once he’d set something in motion, he continued on despite the management’s schizophrenic demands, withdrawals, and outright denials.

Currently, he was setting x-ray vision and huge genitals into motion, in the hopes of reducing repeat requests for the same basic things every day.  It was also thinking about adding in an extra stomach, as all these modifications were using up all the natural resources of the vessel.  His iodine alarm went off.  If he wasn’t careful he’d give the vessel a goiter with all these renovations…

CHAPTER 24: Cranium Thumping Desires

Brap was not exactly built for stealth.  In fact, there were days when it took every ounce of his self control to not simply give in to the urge to trample about quite loudly and hit something with his face.  It was a private desire.  One he kept to himself, and the occasional uni-net chat room.  But it was a desire nonetheless.  What really brought the desire out in him, was activities like sneaking and slinking and slunking and anything else that wasn’t stomping about and shouting.

Brap carefully without-toes-tippied, gently lifted aside some metallic objects he feared would make a noticeable clanking noise should he have brushed against them, and ever so subtly crept up towards the empty Galacticop cruiser.  Stretching out all his senses for the tiniest hint of discovery, Brap inched closer and closer…  The door… the door wasn’t even locked… he would simply get inside, lock the doors, and then he could float away… like a rather mischievous angel…

“BRAAAAAAP!” Came Mr. Sploosh’s sudden expulsion.  Brap winced, and reigned in his now nearly overwhelming desire to smash his face into the cruiser, and looked around fearfully.  Paused, shrugged, and then got into the space cruiser.  “Well, that was uneventful.” He thought to himself as he shot skyward, thumbing through the Galacticop’s music selection.  “BRAP!  I know you can hear me!” Mr. Sploosh something-spherical-and-air-filled-resurfacing-after-being-held-down-underwater-between-your-legs-ed. 

Brap winced, “Yes sir.  I’ve just commandeered the vehicle and am heading into the stratosphere.  This is a delicate operation sir and…”

“They’re using YOUR expense accounts Brap!  Those credits are coming directly out of YOUR paycheck!”  Brap winced anew.  This job would end up costing HIM money by the end of it… if he didn’t need the experience so he could get hired by a real boss… “What are they buying sir?” 

Mr. Sploosh paused, “It doesn’t matter.  I have their location!  Hurry up!” he finished, sending Brap the coordinates.

“Roger sir.  Out.” Brap cut him off.  He’d found the new “Nuthin’ but a Snarfplat” Album he’d been dying to hear.  Elvis was really the only thing that took his mind off of bashing things anyway, and the first track was a pretty good driving tune as well…

CHAPTER 24d

****

[WEE][AVE][AH][CLIEEENT][WEE][BOY!] Mr. Sploosh announced, noting the flashing red light of recent payment, and the ship’s signature & location.  [AH…]  “Hold the fuck on…” he dripped, dropping his translator in shock.  “That… those are my…  heeeeey…  BRAAAP!” He fat-kid-cannon-balling-into-a-small-kiddy-pool-ed, smashing his wall mounted communicator button; then, realizing the incorrect order of his yell and his communicator activation, yelled for Brap again. 

CHAPTER 24c - Distracting abbreviations

****

“…I’m sorry, what?” Steve quipped into the silence.

“I…  Uh, I like…  Crickets in bog form.” Splatch stammered.

Steve, like many in this position, feigned knowledge with an overdramatic nod, like he’d seen just that very thing on the news last night.  “Ah, yes.  CBF, familiar with that are you?” he replied, with what he hoped to be a distracting abbreviation.

“Er..  I heard your fart echo too.” Splatch replied back, in an equally phony distractionatory reply.

“…Oh yeah, what was that, anyway?” Steve said, having quite believingly forgotten entirely about what he’d been talking about.

The ship’s computer paused, interpreted the demands of the crew, adjusted its speech protocols, and replied in Earnern Terren, subsection English, “Oy! Govnah!  I’m the bloody ship’s bloody com-peewtah aye!?  Yeh wan’ me t’ grab yeh sem o’ them video streams y’ requested then?”

Steve, ever the pretender, replied with a confused, and nearly-immediately-regretted, “uh… yes.”

The computer accessed Brap’s credit card, or rather, Mr. Sploosh’s expense card authorization under Brap’s name, and commenced the video stream from one of Mr. Sploosh’s many broadcast satellites, projecting it upon all the nearby monitors (causing a nearly unanimous expulsion of expletives from the crew).  The computer, having done a basic personality workup from various body languages and facial expressions, had come to the conclusion that its new owners would prefer a live, and interactive show, to a taped one, and had ordered accordingly.

CHAPTER 23b - Scottish Shoes and Oiled Midgets

****

Elsewhere in the galaxy, a rather robust midget rode a recently-oiled-down frog, of which, was the approximate size of one of those really large, and therefore often mistakenly-presumed to be high-quality, (but really just old and clunky), televisions, that one often finds in second hand stores, or run down rental flats.  The kind of television that a person is invariably disappointed with, when they attempt to view anything upon it that requires a frame rate faster than a Special-Olympics-hurdle-jumper, but is so incredibly awkward and irritating to remove, that one keeps in their flat for the sole reason that it makes a handy table, and is bloody heavy.  Mr. Sploosh, who was directing the midget to use a strained expression, owned one of these giant-frog-sized-televisions, and, at the time of his purchase, had thought it quite the steal, only having to have paid the man a single credit, and having to agree to remove the set himself.  He was a wiser shoe now, and one day hoped to rope another sap into the same arrangement, but in the meantime, was using it as a handy table and claiming that he liked the ‘retro’ look.

“That’s it…” Mr. Sploosh kabloofed, “…Squeeze the frog with your little legs… look like you mean it damn it!”  The midget, like many midgets who do frog porn, didn’t speak a word of Rubbersole, and nodded his head vigorously, before spinning his arms in a lariat-esque manner, grinning, coincidently, like that same Special-Olympics-hurdle-jumper mentioned previously.  Mr. Sploosh groaned, and grabbed his translator box, of which, he’d bought from the same fellow with the gargantuan TV.

[THAH][TIS][EET]…  [SQUA][EEZE][TH’][FREUG][WITH][YER][WEE][THIGHS]… [THERE’S][AH][GOOO][LAHD]…  Mr. Sploosh’s translator-box spat, in a rather poor Scottish accent. 

Seeing as how the midget barely spoke English, Scottish was a step up in complexity that often caused rather embarrassing, but sometimes-rewarding, misinterpretations on the part of the unnamed midget.  One such mistake, in fact, had led to the entire genre of pornography of which Mr. Sploosh was currently the sole producer of, and in fact, was attempting to produce right now. 

[AH][SEEID][TAH][SQUEEEZE][NOH][AH][SNEEZE!][YA][FLEEUHMEN][CRAP!] Mr. Sploosh screamed angrily, then paused, did his species version of a shrug, which somewhat resembled a loosening of one’s laces, and corrected himself.  [ACTUALLY][YEE][MIGHAH][AVE][SUMPTIN][DERE!]… [GOH][WIT][DAHT!]… [BLEEW][YER][NEEWS][ONNA][TH][FREEUG!]

CHAPTER 23: Why They’re in Space

To recap:  Groink was about to reveal why Mr. Sploosh was after Steve, and Ronald was about to reveal why they were in space, and Amber was about to reveal how Wally could prove his love, and Splatch was about to reveal that he liked to reproduce asexually while watching midgets ride overgrown frogs, and Steve was approximately sixty seconds away from revealing just what gasses an empty drunkard’s stomach could produce.

The resulting cacophony, odds defyingly, sounded very much like a semi-distorted “begin one minute count down self destruct sequence, authorization Brap, code 4-12-16-9, Alpha Omega Supra Giraffe” in Fart, Brap’s native tongue.  Thankfully, that wasn’t even close to the code Brap had put on his ship’s self destruct sequence.  (but wouldn’t it have been weird if it had?)

“WAIT WAIT WAIT!”  Amber, who had plenty of experience in interpreting and mediating a swarm of people talking all at once, due to her waitressing experience, blurted (coming close to blurfing).  “Ok, ok…  ONE at A TIME… ok!?  Ok.  Groink, you first.” She pointed, reigning in some order.

“Thank you.”  Groink said, visibly relaxing his forehead.  The previous little while had been very taxing on his brain.

“Your friend here,” He began, wiggling his hips and nodding towards Steve, “is wearing a dead female Rubbersole, who very likely, is in some way important to, I suspect, Mr. Sploosh, of the same species, who fits your description of an unerringly cheap crime lord.”

As Steve’s current clothing consisted of broken glass, a semi-stolen pair of Wal-Mart pants and a moldy sneaker, the process of elimination of what, exactly, a Rubbersole was, was fairly quick.

“Oh.” Steve said.

“Shit.” Ronald said.

“Yeah.” Steve answered.

“Shit.” Ronald said again.

“Yyeah…?” Steve answered, wondering if he should.

“That’s bad.”  Ronald informed him.

“…Y…eah.” Steve answered, hating to sound so repetitive.

Ideally, I’d end the chapter here, y’know, to build suspense.  But everyone really needs to talk for quite some time.  But now would still be a good time to go to the bathroom, or grab some crackers before continuing.

All settled in then?  Great.

“You’re walking around…” Ronald began, “with a murdered, one can only assume anyway, woman, ON YOUR FOOT, who, granted, looks a lot like a shoe, but if we get pulled over…” 

“WE’RE ALL GOING TO BE PUT IN SOME HORRID CELL WITH AN ALIEN WHO’S GOT ENOUGH DICKS TO MAKE US ALL HIS BITCHES AT ONCE!” Wally finished the thought, as succinctly as was possible for him.  Wally’s DNA heard the weird request to start building female reproductive organs in place of the waste disposal unit, but (thankfully) disregarded it.

“Ahem.  Well, yes.” Ronald pipped.

Wally half squealed, half whined, all yelled, “WHAT ARE WE GONNA DO!?  WHAT ARE WE GONNA…”

“HOLD IT!”  Amber snapped.  “Ok Ronald, your turn.”

“Sorry?”


“I’m mediating, remember?”

“Ah.  Yes.  Why are we in space, correct?”


”That’s it, yeah.”

“OH SHIT OH SHIT!” Wally screeched, before getting slapped in the face by Amber.

“I said shush!” She said, shaking her hand in annoyance.  “Sorry Ronald, please continue.”  (Wally whimpered a little, but remained silent otherwise)

“Well Wally, it seemed like the best way to get away from an alien.  Steal his ship and leave him stranded on a planet unable to fabricate any means of pursuit.  I figured we’d fly to some nearby space port, and sort the whole thing out over a nice plate of un-blown-up” He shot Fred a dirty glance “pancakes.”

“…and maybe a strawberry smoothie?” Wally whined, weakly, wincing from a second blow that never came.

“Or some reasonable facsimile, sure.” Ronald patronized, knowing full well that strawberries were the last thing one found in most space ports (though pancakes were pretty much universal).  “And” Ronald continued after enough of a pause to ensure that it was still his turn, “As for how we found, hijacked and knew how to operate the vehicle, to summarize as quickly as possible, because I’ve done this sort of thing before.”

“All good and well?” Amber checked, waited for Wally’s nod, then pointed to herself.  “Right, I’m next.  Wally, you can prove your love for me by proving that you are somehow different from every other dweeb who falls in love with me on any other given day.”

Wally blinked.

“HOLY SHIT!” Steve and Amber screamed together in nearly the exact (and somewhat embarrassing) tone.

“What?” Wally answered, blinking.

“HOLY SHIT!” Steve and Amber screamed again, this time in their own respective tones, and with a lot of pointing towards Wally’s forehead.

“You seem to have grown a third eye there, Wally.” Ronald remarked.

Wally hopefully looked towards Amber, “…does that count?” he semi-pleaded.

“…uh… uhmmm…”

There’s really no good time to let out a fart as horrible as was about to follow.  But Amber would still be partially relieved when it did (at least, at first).

Steve let out his sixty-second-repressed, but long-fermented, small, yet oh-so-pungent, puff of gas, which, as luck would later have it, loosely translated to “thinking machine?” (It should be noted now, that Fart is a fairly simple language, similar to Hawaiian mixed with Chinese, having lots of vowels and inflections of tone that can mean totally different things with a simple adjustment of one’s speaking… apparatus.  Lots of vowels and all that.  So, although it IS a pretty large coincidence, it isn’t enormously so, when one considers the considerable lack of variables in such a language.)

The ship’s computer, taking the initiative, let out a tentative toot of its own, in reply, of which, was nearly lost in the outbreak of cursing from everyone who wasn’t Steve, or Splatch, as he didn’t seem to have a nose.

“DID MY FART JUST ECHO!?” Steve yelled over the din, embarrassed just slightly less than he was curious.

“I LIKE MIDGET-ON-FROG PORN!” Splatch hollered in reply, having completely misunderstood the intent behind Steve’s sudden yell.

CHAPTER 22b - Seriously, what're they called?

****

Peering through Brap’s vid-com at Steve’s crayon drawings, Mr. Sploosh gasped (sorta) “Is that… is that Groink on your shoulder?” Mr. Sploosh splushed, pointing a [What’s that word for those little plastic thingies on the end of your laces?  Tittle?  Tuttle?] at Steve’s earlier attempt at a parrot.  “…Why is he on your shoulder?”

“Er, I don’t know sir; I’m not exactly up on Earth art…” Brap fluttered, wondering if now was a good time to mention the scattered remains of strawberry people (or possibly strawberries and people).

“No matter!  Let’s track down the piggy and see what he knows…”

“Sir?”

“Well, your previous ship was stolen, and I feel it proper to alert the authorities that it was last seen on Earth… of course they’ll come to inspect the crime scene, and you can take their vehicle.”


“Er… stealing… from a Galacticop is really… really…”

“Stupid?  Dangerous?  Suicidal?  The only option that doesn’t involve the paying of a 40 trillion credit Galacticab fare by yours truly?”

“…I…” Brap silent-but-deadlied-with-follow-through.

“Right then.  I’ll track down Groink’s ship in the meantime.  Give me a shout when you’re space-born.”

CHAPTER 22: Squidless Blurfing & Detective Work

The Green Pig with the frightfully thin legs repeated his question into the suddenly chaotic room as everyone seemed to yell at everyone, at once.  “Y’all!?  Hello!?  Where are y’all headed!?”

“How can you be in love with me, Dave?” Amber asked Wally, “You and I just met!”

“Uh, listen, I don’t want to stand in the way of you two’s happiness so…” Fred, the terrorist mustered, doing his best to seem noble, when really he was just trying to ditch Amber.

“What is love, anyway?  I mean, who here even knows how to spell it?” Steve started, then realized how easy it was to spell, and did his best to compensate with a “just kidding”.

Captain Groink noticed that he was being ignored, not unlike a substitute teacher (or captain for that matter); unfortunately, Groink saw no nearby light switches to flick on and off.

“Uh…  guys?” Groink tried again.

Steve, reverting to his grade school days, where he would often be called up to the board in order to demonstrate a problem to which he had zero clue on how to solve, blurted out the word “Poop” in an effort to make everyone laugh.

“But I do love you Amber!” Wally protested, his nerves having gotten slightly unsettled enough for him to momentarily forgo screaming about his new unearthly local.

Groink, again, somewhat like many a high school instructor, missed the humor entirely, and answered, “Poop!?  Why would any sane person go there?” The pig replied, adjusting his, for lack of a better word, hat.

“Are you breaking up with me?” Amber asked Fred.

“Don’t mind Steve, he’s an idiot.” Ronald said, stepping forward.  “It seems you’ve gone and blown up your ship there, Captain Groink.”

“Well, yeah, I mean, I didn’t think you were so serious…” Fred answered Amber.

“…er, well… yes.  It would seem so… so…” Groink muttered, having a hard time listening to only one conversation at a time. 

“so…?”  Ronald prompted.

“Look Fred, we weren’t serious, but either way, I think you and I should break it off.  I mean, with all the threats to blow things up… I mean, how ‘fear of intimacy’ can you GET man?” Amber blurfed*, embarrassingly.

*Blurfing, without having a squid attached to one’s face is nearly impossible, but Amber’s a special kinda gal.

“…so…  whaddayawannadoaboutit?” Captain Groink oinked, in the vain thought that, if perhaps he talked really fast, the outcome would be more positive, and, worst case, at least he could end the conversation so as to make the whole thing a little less confusing.

“Me?  Nothing really.  Can we drop you off somewhere?” Ronald prompted.

Captain Groink paused, and made sure Ronald was still talking to him, confirmed, then, continued.  He’d really been planning on looting the ship, then blowing it to smithereens.  Now, he decided, would not be a good time to bring that up, however.  Instead, he decided to play down his evil.  “I was… on my way to feed the …uh… poor!  Y’know… clothe the homeless, and like, uh…  help… blind people… that kinda thing…”  Groink paused, Too much!  Too much!  “…And kick some people… in the shins… y’know…” He added, in an effort to make it all sound a little more realistic.

Ronald arched his eyebrow most impressively high.  “I… see.  Well… perhaps we can help each other then.  You see, my friend here,” He paused, pointing at Steve, who seemed to be adjusting himself at just the wrong moment, “… he… well he seems to be a target of some unerringly cheap crime family, who has hired a tentacled rhino-esque creature to capture and/or vaporize him.”

“…” said Captain Groink, as quietly as he could.

“How can I prove my love of you Amber?” Wally pleaded like a cat-owner (of which, Wally, was not).

Amber frowned.  “Can’t we talk about this later?  There’s too many people talking at once, and it’s all very confusing.” She stalled, not really wanting to answer Wally’s question.

“Anyway, we’re sure it’s all just some big misunderstanding ‘n all, and well, you seem like the sort of chap who might have heard of such a family…?” Ronald finished like a teenager’s first attempt at intercourse.

“…well, that wasn’t what I expected” Captain Groink paused, “But, as a matter of fact, I do know nearly exactly who you are talking about…  And I might even have an inkling as to why Mr. Sploosh has put a bounty on your friend’s life here...”  He trailed off, paused, then realized he’d failed to gesticulate throughout the entire discussion, and made up for lost time in a small, piggy seizure, which inadvertently distracted Wally just enough, so as to settle a single nerve.

“…Wait… WHY ARE WE IN SPACE!?”

CHAPTER 21: Edgewise Tooting

The vid-com let out its irritating squeal.  “I keep forgetting to change that ring-tone…” Mr. Sploosh dripped, forgetfully.  “Yes?  Oh.  It’s you.” He finished, eying Brap sardonically.  “Why do you have an imploring look upon your ugly face?  Should you not have an excited I have captured your quarry look?  Yes!  Yes you should!  Where are you, a restaurant?  What’s the matter!?” The Shoe rambled, semi-rhetorically, “No wait!  Don’t answer that!  I don’t care!  Fix it yourself you overpaid Snarfplat!” (A Snarfplat being one of those feces-aliens Ronald mentioned earlier)

Brap stood inside the very restaurant of which he’d stowed his space craft upon.  And, though he’d already checked the roof several times, he felt a tingling Carkeywallet-esque urge to check one last time, before admitting the loss of a fairly shiny ship to his employer.  Brap repressed the urge to check.  Three times was more than sufficient.  Instead, he took note of his surroundings once more while his Shoey employer prattled on about just how similar a certain rhino-esque bounty hunter was to various forms of feces.

It was obvious that there’d been some sort of commotion, (though he couldn’t be absolutely sure that Earthern restaurants tended not to include pyrotechnics and splattered human remains in their dinner-shows, he hadn’t seen anything like that in the free travel brochures he’d received as ‘recon’).  Though how it had led to the stealing or destruction of Brap’s ship, was still open for deduction.

Brap, noting a moment wherein he could attempt to get a toot in edgewise, quickly piped up.  “Sir, I must respectfully request…”

“I knew it!  No!  Request denied!” Mr. Sploosh squirted angrily.  “…oh… what do you need…?”

“Er… it would seem…” Brap decided to do it like a minor-injury-bandage, quick, and harsh.  “I NEED A NEW SHIP!” He blurted.  “I LOST MY OTHER… one.” (This was, perhaps, in retrospect, not the best method.)

“…you… lost…  your…  hey, what’s that behind you?” The Fungicidal Tennis Shoe flushed.

Brap whirled, then, pausing in mid-whirl, realized that he’d fallen for the oldest trick in the book, then, noticed there was something indeed of interest behind him, and, somewhat awkwardly, restarted his paused whirl; wondering silently to himself if Mr. Sploosh had, in fact, seen what was behind Brap, or, if Brap had, as he’d originally suspected, fallen for a ruse… but then had a ‘happy accident’.

“Er, it appears to be some children’s drawings… I… hey!  Sir!  This could be a clue!  I… My legs aren’t that large, are they…?” He queried, picking up Steve’s former “war room strategies”

CHAPTER 20: Chunky, Spastic Bursts of Sorrow

“…eeeeh.” Captain Groink grunted, somewhat like a defective joy buzzer, considerably more upset at the loss of his exotic mud collection than the lives of his former crew.

“MATILDAAAA!” Splatch screamed, pointing in vain at the monitor like some spastic ferret playing a game of charades.

“Oh calm down Splatch, we’ll get you another 1 Bowl of snot2 Pet ferret3 Dish rag4 Vacuum cleaner vacuum cleaner.” Captain Groink sighed, realizing that the simian barbarians he’d been stranded with likely didn’t even have common, let alone exotic, mud.

“… she was… she was so much more…” Splatch did his species version of collapsing in tears, which basically, involved him turning into a lumpy puddle while excreting the salt from his body in chunky, spastic bursts.

“Man, does that make anybody else hot?” Captain Groink grunted rhetorically “…so where you folks headed?”

CHAPTER 19b - Still messing with Wally

At that moment, Amber came out of the ladies room.

This caused, due to:

A)     The unavoidable architectural effect upon bathroom allocation, (caused by the inherent desire for life-forms not to acknowledge their sexual opposite’s need for defecation), of separating the two rooms as oppositely as possible, so as to give the illusion that one is for bowel movements, and the other, simply for facial and clothing adjustment…

B)      Wally’s previously noted attraction to said sexual opposite…

C)      That same highly adaptable human genetic code…

D)      The smorgasbord-ish gamut of activities through which the human species carried itself, and the psychological effects it all had upon their DNA’s evolutionary statistics (that of being reinvented, reorganized, and recalibrated nearly constantly like some micromanaged engineer company)…

E)       Some external factors related to space travel, food preservatives, and his preferred brand of deodorant.

Wally’s DNA to decide on a course of action, once and for all. 

It would pick a plan, and stick with it. 

If it offended some minority, or quashed some parasite’s rights or irritated some bowels, that was just too damn bad.  Wally’s DNA decided once and for all, to grow a third eye in the middle of Wally’s forehead. 

That was it, the decision was made.  The expenses quantified.  The budget approved.  Even the manager’s signature was spelled correctly, and was in all the right places.

It was final. 

Not only, the DNA continued, would it construct an eye right smack in the middle, but it would also move the other two eyes farther apart.  That would give Wally the ability to worry about three different things, all at the same time; (Location, breeding, and self preservation in this case)

Wally’s DNA hit the proverbial ENTER button or, perhaps, signaled the proverbial ensen to a proverbial speed.  Or… well anyway, the process began.

Wally winced, a sharp pain erupting in his frontal lobe.  “Ow!” He said, failing to notice, nor appreciate the significance of the event.  “That’s all I need, a bloody headache, a terrorist, a woman I’m in love with, who’s in love WITH the terrorist, and not even being on my own bloody planet!”

“Love?” Came Amber, Fred, and Steve’s simultaneous (though tri-nounoly* targeted) question.

*Tri-noun-o-ly: For a group (of 3, in this case) to do the same action, with possibly similar intent, at the same time, but to different persons, places, or things.  Possible variants:  Bi-nounoly, Quad-nounoly etc.

Amber, was questioning Wally’s love for her, (both for timeline, and validity).

Fred, was questioning Amber’s love for him (as he’d been quite sure it had all just been for a laugh and roll in the explosive hay [and the sex that generally took place in said hay rolling])

Steve, was just questioning the concept altogether.

Interestingly, the factory default silent-10-second-self-destruct-activation code, was, on many ships, coincidentally, three people (one female), saying “Love” at the same time.  This was similar to those combination luggage locks whose combination is always 1-2-3 or 0-0-0.  Fortunately for our heroes, Brap had, like most intelligent captains, reprogrammed the ship’s computer to respond to HIS language, changed the default codes, and adjusted all the seat heights accordingly, before promptly having his ship stolen by our little band of vagabonds (the process and reasons of which, Wally was still intensely curious).

UNfortunately for anyone NOT being a member of Captain GROINK’s away team/inspection crew, Captain Groink had NOT reset ANYTHING aboard HIS ship (which caused one’s legs to fall asleep on the far too high chairs, among other things)

Captain Groink, Splatch, (and three expendable fellows in red shirts) materialized on Brap’s former bridge. 

One expendable fellow half-materialized inside a wooden (and as a result very out of place in the otherwise futuristic and metallic ship) desk, and another slipped on some oil, knocking himself unconscious.  The third tended to him, looking very nervously about as he did so.

Captain Groink strutted the way only a green pig with frightfully thin legs and a tendency to over-gesticulate can.  “Alright boys!  Fan out!  Show no mercy!  Give them no quarters*!  Leave no stone unturned!  Torture who you have to!  Stress your badness to all who question it!  Steal their toilet paper!  Go fourth and spread your seeds of terror!” Captain Groink groinked furiously, all but cart wheeling in his emphatic gesticulations.  He paused and looked at the view screen.  “Oh hey, we left our communications port open eh?” Captain Groink’s ship exploded on the screen.  “…eh?” He said, for once, failing to gesticulate.

*It should be noted that “Give them no quarter” is derived from an old saying of general lack of niceness and lack of mercy, whereas “Give them no quarters” would be something one might hear whilst working in an environment where people kept asking for them.  This greatly confused his only remaining minion, who, as luck would have it, wasn’t the evilest of evil henchmen, nor the brightest (which was really saying something when one considered that particular bell curve).  And, though he hadn’t planned on giving anyone change before, he now held onto it with a vicious frown upon his face to warn any who might attempt to part him with his coinage.  It should be further noted that “quarter” is a very common term for various forms of currency, in various galaxies; though what, exactly, they are a quarter of, varies considerably, and one should be very careful as a result.

CHAPTER 19: Wally gets significantly messed with

"WHAT THE FUCK!?" Wally screamed, bouncing partially up (fully up not being quite possible until the holy-crap-I’m-not-in-my-own-bed-nor-on-my-own-planet symptoms completely quashed his post-Amber-baby-oil symptoms [rather like a misguided Porcupine-clown-in-training’s first attempt at making a balloon-hat.])

"You're thinking hey, aren't I usually on that?" Ronald soothed, without the use of abstract metaphors, similes, or brackets.

"WHAT THE HELL!?" Wally tried again, this time trying out a different, somewhat more socially acceptable expletive, in a vain effort to receive a different, more calming result.

"Or maybe hey, isn't that usually a lot closer?" Ronald spoke, as calmly as possible.

Wally whirled, looking left and right, in an obscure Carkeywallet-esque fashion, vainly attempting to find the Earth below him, and very much closer, by looking in obscure places.  The next stage, blame, was quick to follow.  "THIS!  …THIS IS -YOUR- FAULT..." He screamed, pointing in an obscure, sweeping fashion, as he wasn't quite sure whose fault it all was yet.  "...WHO THE HELL ARE YOU!?" He finished with a flourish, resting his gaze on a view screen displaying a giant, somehow mobile and upright amoeba and an impatient-looking, rather large (and somehow familiarly green) pig, with frightfully thin legs.  The un-pink, stilted pig also appeared to be wearing a rather complicated, for lack of a better word, hat.

"…As I was telling your captain, I am Captain Groink of the Gipneerg Alliance!"  The stilted emerald hog answered, flourishing and saluting like a spasmodic mime.

“WHAT!?” Wally squealed, just to keep his momentum going, and failing utterly to note the intrinsic irony in his manner of speech.

"Er, and I'm Splatch" The amoeba added, jiggling his own, more subdued version of the salute.

“GWAH!?” Wally continued.

"... and…  This, is Splatch."  The pig added, overdramatically flourishing in an intensely sarcastic motion (an impressive thing, with hooves and lack of eyebrows)

“I…” Wally attempted.

Splatch furrowed his nonexistent brow, equally impressively.

“Ffffffffrrrrr….” Wally clenched.

"Seeing as how you have failed to transmit proper clearance codes..." The pig o' green continued, his arms flailing all over the place like a drunkard's excuse note's penmanship, "... you will prepare to be boarded by myself and my security crew for a FULL inspection!" He finished, looking very much like he was about to do a back-flip but then, at the last second, thought better of it.

Wally decided enough time had passed, and also on using his original expletive.  “WHAT… THE… Ffffhey… where’s Amber!?”

"Oh yeah, sorry, she got blown up in the kafuffle."   Steve shrugged offhandedly.

I think its important now, to pause, and reflect upon Wally’s already fragile psyche, and general panic-y nature.  When he was but a lad, what terrified him most, were the squirrels in his back yard, that is, until he went inside and was met with random inanimate objects which, in theory, if they were turned on, could potentially possess a higher threat level than the squirrels, but, really, only because squirrels just weren’t all that dangerous.  I make this point now, because, well, I felt this area needed a pause to reflect, but I didn’t want to end the chapter.

As you were:

"BUT... B…BUT...  WHAT!?" Wally squelched, doing his absolute best not to remember the squirrels in his childhood that, at first, had been met with fear and timidness, until he’d been encouraged to befriend them by his Mother, and indeed, had, until his father had decided to shoot and serve “Super Timmy The Super Squirrel” for dinner one cold, bleak August (they’d lived in a colder part of Canada at the time) night.

"Better to have loved and to have lost and all that…" Steve offered.

"I THINK THAT’S A STATEMENT GENERALLY RESERVED FOR RELATIONSHIPS THAT LAST LONG ENOUGH TO... to..”

“Fool around?” Steve offered.

“Well… WELL YES!  TO FOOL AROUND AT LEAST!!! " Wally squished (there was really no other word for his current manner of speech)

Steve waited until Wally was just about ready to cry, and then added "Ooh I’m only kidding…  She’s in the can."

"I… what!?  I mean… she’s… Wait, there's a can!?" 

"Well what do you think you do, when you're in space?"  Ronald prompted towards Wally while simultaneously firing off a reprimanding scowling at Steve, "Suddenly bypass the whole digestive process?"

“Hello!?  We’re beaming aboooard?  Hello?” The pig prompted, crossing and uncrossing his freaky long arms.

Editor’s Note:  It’s around this time that one must accept that Pigs don’t really have arms, but rather, an abundance of legs.  However, in this instance, this is an upright pig, of whom is bipedal, and thus, certain exceptions to the rule of anti-pig-arm-ism must be put aside for the sake of literary continuity.

Wally frowned, reigning in his sanity like a midget on a recently-saddled 600lbs frog.  "Well, I guess I just never thought about...  WAIT!  WHY ARE WE IN SPACE!?"  His nerve-settling having returned his consciousness to where it had previously been only moments ago.

"It's true, y'know…" Steve interrupted Wally’s own self-interruption, interruptingly.  "…You never really see a men's room in any of those sci-fi ships..." 

Ronald sighed, "Look, everyone poops... well, except that species I met that was made OUT of poop... they viewed it more as reproducing...  What a horrid planet…" 

"Sounds crappy" Steve giggled.

“WHY ARE WE IN SPACE!?” Wally squealed again.

“Good one, Steve” Fred chuckled, coming out of the men’s room.

Wally’s brain had a desperate moment of allocation issues when it suddenly had to decide if it was more important to watch the fellow on his left, with the dynamite strapped to his chest (and indeed, the inherent desire to use it) or the planet to his right, so as to make sure he remembered where it was, should he need to get back. 

What was completely, and understandably lost upon the entire crew, however, was the effect this little indecision had had on Wally’s genetic code.

So adaptable were humans that, every time they were met with a no-win situation, they began to evolve.

Now granted, the next time Wally needed depth perception, the evolutionary restructuring would occur again, which made the likelihood of Wally’s offspring having individually opposable and biopic eyes (not to mention the stylish, fishy, streamlined heads), quite slim.  It was still, however, an interesting thing to observe, if one were able to do so…Which one wasn’t.

One thing Wally would never evolve out of usage, certainly, would be his mouth and vocal chords.  “…Wait, we took the TERRORIST along… IN SPACE!?” 

The Key to Awesome: The Step by Step Guide to Having an Outstanding Life

"This book is about the price of a good meal, and it could change your life"

You're dang right it could. This book is a step by step guide to having an outstanding life.

5 Stars!

The Key to Awesome: The Step by Step Guide to Having an OUTSTANDING life!

CHAPTER 18c - Oh, you so don't!

****

Wally opened his eyes.  It had all been a horrible nightmare, with exception to the parts with the baby oil, brief though they'd been; those, had been quite the opposite of horrible.  In fact, they were so un-horrible, Wally figured he might just sleep a little bit in today, and take care of just how un-horrible it had been…

Wally rolled over in his bed and sighed, looking dreamily out of his window at the Earth.

"I know what you're thinking." Ronald said.

CHAPTER 18b - Dream Sequence

****

Wally was flying... flying and floating... floating and drifting and flying through the cosmos...  An angry tennis shoe dribbled at him and giant green pigs with frightfully thin legs perched precariously on rhino-pirate's shoulders...  Amber took off her clothes and got out the baby oil, space ships shaped like horse shoes perched overhead, and Wally had forgotten it was the first day of school... where were his pants?  And where had Amber gone?  What was that man doing with those hot dogs?  Why couldn't Wally fly any more?  He was falling!  He was in a car being driven by a fanatic and he was falling!  Where were his pants!?  He didn't want to die without his pants!  Couldn't he just go back to work?  There were lots of pants there... there were policemen there… They were arresting him for stealing pants!  But he owned the store!  Couldn't he steal what he wanted?  Amber was rolling around in Jell-O in the store, there she was. God she was beautiful...  if only he had pants, he would make love to her right now... that didn't make sense really...  I mean...

Why did Wally need pants to make love to Amber?  Why was she IN Jell-O in the first place?  Did she have any idea how much that Jell-O would stain his store's floors?  Granted, it’s not like you just walk up to a girl, pantless, and say "hey, wanna do it?"  There's necessary segues required for that sort of thing.  First, you must DON pants, THEN, she must take them off, or at the very least suggest that you do so yourself; If you just skip to the end, it just doesn't this was a dream.

This is a dream.  What?

Two words and a bleep that'll make every gamer geekasm:

Batman: Arkham !@#$ City.

Hell.
Yes.

Pre orders of Batman: Arkham City are available!!!
Playstation 3 Version
Xbox 360 Version


SO FREAKING EXCITED!!!

It is coming out for the computer as well, though it doesn't seem that the pre-orders are available for that, yet.

CHAPTER 18: Hotdog Sweater-Vests & Pity Bludgeonings

"Alright Amber, while Steve has the terrorist fellow distracted, you and I can sneak out the back!"  Wally whimpered, as macho as he could muster.

"Er..."  Amber erred.

"What?  Too risky?"

"Well, it’s just that... well..."

"Too dangerous?"

"It's just that me 'n Fred are kinda dating..."

"What!?"

"Why is that so hard to believe?  He wasn't ALWAYS like this y'know..."

"What, he wasn't always strapping dynamite to his chest and making demands?"

"Well, when we were younger he used hot dogs."

"I... what?"

"Budget."

"What did he... no... wait, I... look, this isn't really relevant right now..."

Ronald came briefly out from behind his cover "I suppose this is why you didn't want to start with the demands, Amber?"

"Well, yeah" Amber mumbled.

"Kinda alienates you from people, when you threaten to blow them up and such."

" I've noticed that."  She mumbled some more.

"There are better ways to make friends"

"Like sleeping with lots of people?" She asked, perking up.

"Er... well, that's a step up from blowing lots of people... up... anyway..."

"Yeah, I read that in a teen magazine, that I should like, be thinner, and like, sleep with lots of people ‘n stuff…  At first I thought it was total like, bull ‘n stuff?  But now… now I’m actually considering starting a new life... a promiscuous life...  a life of sin...  it was the way your friend Dave..."

"Wally."

"What?"

"His name's Wally, he just said Dave because he's an idiot."

"...oh.  Well, it was the way your friend... Wally... said 'Girlfriend'.  It just really made me want to sleep with him."

"Wally passed out.  This caused his eyeballs to roll back into his head, and stare angrily at his inner suave, as if to say 'squisshy squishy squort', which is as close as something without a mouth could ever get, to saying I told you I had the moves baby, just stand back, and let me get my groove on"

"Dave!?" Amber squealed, noticing Wally's sudden loss of consciousness.

"Wally." Ronald reminded, softly.

"Oh right.  God, is he ok!?"

"He's probably just had a little too much stress lately.  Look, were you serious about dating el-dynamite-o over there?"

"Well, yeah.  I mean, it's not that serious, but I was serious when I said it..."

"It’s just that I was considering beating him unconscious so as to avoid becoming a rather blown apart bum."

"What about the rest of you?"

"No, I mean, I'm homeless."

"Oh."

"Yeah."

"…Well...  I guess it'd be alright then." Amber sighed.

"Sorry?"

"I mean, I guess it'd be alright if you beat up Fred, y'know, considering."

"Considering?"

"Well, yeah."

"Wait a second…” Ronald shook his finger angrily “I don't want your pity bludgeonings... Just because I'm homeless doesn't mean you have to feel sorry for me, or obligated to let me beat up your boyfriend."

"No, it’s not that... it’s not..."

"Yeah, whatever.  Never mind, I'm not even going to hit him now."

"No, go ahead, I don't even like him."

"You're not just saying that?"

"No, I mean, the sex is great, don't get me wrong, he does things to me that take weeks to wear off, but..."

"But there's no emotional attachment."

"Well, it’s hard to get committed to a guy who's so ready to blow himself up all the time."

"Does this fairly often, does he?"

"All the time.  We rarely make it through a movie these days."

"That bad eh?"

"Yeah, I was probably going to break it off with him anyway."