GALAXY
GALLEY
by Greta GagdroidHung over from that bar run last night? So
sensitive to sunlight that it blinds you even on
Castillo? Hearing so acute you swear you never thought
the scampering of Marsrats would sound like the
thunderous roar of a stampeding herd of buffalo? Well
here is a recipe for your throbbing head:
4 oz. Rigellian Brandy
2 oz. Epini or Aqua Rum
1 oz. Blood of Marsrat
1 Egg (preferably Lizard)
2 drops of Tabasco Sauce
1 drop of Whoosh!
Mix all the ingredients together
thoroughly in a bowl (of course crack the egg first and
dispose of the shell... unless you like to crunch on
eggshell! (but crack the eggs gently... have you any idea
how loud the sound of breaking eggshells can be?)) until
it becomes an unsightly reddish mess. Quaff the resulting
concoction while pinching your nose closed.
While this may not exactly cure
your hangover, it will certainly take your mind off of
it!
MINE
EDITORIAL ON THINE EDITORIAL
by Duchess Poco
So here I am, a happily retired
Duchesse (Yes, damnit, with an "e") (Retired
too, but more on that later) sifting through my fresh
copy of the Spynet Bulletin from the Evening's News.
Well, lo and behold, I spot an article by Danny which
looks dern familiar. His rantings on modern marriage
detail an artform which I helped pioneer. Ye Olde
Hit-N-Run Marriage followed by the Express Divorce.
(Kinkos now offers this service at its 24-Hour service
outlets.) All's well and good I suppose, except I
received no royalties on this report. Credit where it's
due: Posie the flower duke deserves royalties on the
"I hate you" divorce section. Our embittered
marriage and trailer-park fallout made the locals more
nervous than a rash-prone albino in Chernobyl. I'm
ranting here. Good, I can. I'm retired dernit.
Oh yes, the retirement thing. I
guess not many folks have heard yet. I'm retired. What
this means exactly is debatable. I'm certainly not
handing over the reigns of power. I rather like yanking
them and watching my POs chomp at the bit. I had a fun
time harnessing one the other day. I am, however,
appointing a Supreme Magistrate to run the judicial
affairs of Weasel, mainly as a set-up stoolie to absorb
blowback. The first job of Her Unholiness Satinsheets
will be conducting the sham trial of one of our POs. The
verdict (beautifully written, I might add) proclaiming
said PO guilty of high treason and sundry misdeeds will
be read afterwards for a bit of dramatic effect. Head
Persecutor NickDanger (Hey, I'm retired... notice TIRED
in there. No way I'm giving up Pina Coladas to go slander
someone I couldn't give a flip about) seems to find the
whole fiasco suitable (More Corrupt than a Barrel-full of
Iranian Cleric Judges in a backwater pork-barrel county
in Louisiana). This trial being the last major hurdle to
my retirement to complete drunkardness, bad taste, and
moral corruption in the fullest, I have started moving my
personal belongings (Serfs, bonded Squires, intriguing
bedside toys, blenders, bartenders, etc...) to my
retirement residence on... Earth! What, say you? I'm not
retiring on my own planet? Heck no! Who wants to retire
where they work? Anyhow, my POs can reach me via comms in
my own duchy and I like to keep my comms
on...Therefore... Earthwards Ho! Using an ungodly sum of
groats from my illicitly obtained hoards, I have
purchased a small plot of land on Earth: Mexico. There, I
have taken up residence of the seaside town of Mazatlan,
where henceforth I will spend my days drinking,
socializing, lambasting capitalist swine, and ensuring
that all of my POs suffer enough. As for the continuing
spread of Communism in the Federation, I continually work
to ensure that... A Cuba Libre is never far from reach.
As a form of entertainment, I've
taken to giving unscheduled and infrequent newscasts on
Channel 9, libeling, slandering, and demeaning suitably
any poor sap unfortunate enough to be caught in the
crosshairs. (Thank you, Killrwhale.) Perhaps the PBS
specials will return as well... Oh yes, who could forget
the riveting tale of The Pinstriped Fickle-Finned Kelp
Oyster of Outer Namibia... Obviously, quite a few folks.
Oh dear, seems I must go. I just
received a disturbing letter. Hopefully this doesn't put
a stop to my delightful retirement. ::Sigh::
Well, for now, put this hodge-podge
of rant into your pipe and smoke it, newsies.
Befuddledly Yours,
--Poco
ROACHES?
IN CDS?
by Danny
Yes, you read that right, roaches
in CDs. Here's my investigative report:
Sitting in CDs, I noticed a strange
stain on Diesel's bat. Knowing that it is Diesel who
wields the bat, I figured it was skin pigment from some
poor sap dumb enough to annoy her. But after closer
examination I realized that it was the remains of a
Martian cockroach.
Now, in case you don't know,
Martian cockroaches are about a foot and a half long and
are similar in all other ways to the Earth cockroach. The
theory is that a normal roach crawled on a hauler's ship
back when there were haulers, found its way into the
Transuranics room, mutated, bred, and populated the
planet. But anyway, what would roaches be doing in the
Social Center of Sol?
Donning my reporter hat with the
press pass pinned to it, I decided to do some
investigative reporting. The first place I went was to
Diesel herself. Mistake. I added to the stain on the bat.
Apparently she doesn't like people saying that her bar is
infested with anything but drunks. So the next logical
place to go was a local exterminator shop on Venus, home
of some of the largest bugs in the known galaxy. They've
got gnats there that eat cows.
Back on topic, I spoke to the
owner. He said that there was a chance that the roach
didn't come from CDs but may have been hunted in some
little-known jungle on the unpopulated side of Mars. This
news surprised me, I didn't know there were jungles or
unpopulated areas on Mars, so I went back to Diesel and
asked her if she was indeed hunting. She replied with a
yes. Then I asked when she actually left the bar to go
hunting? I took another hit from the bat and a lecture on
a little-known bar privacy policy. I did the next best
thing; paid ten groats to a workthingie to stake out the
jungle for a week.
After a week of waiting, I got word
from my informant. Diesel would hunt during the weekly
maintenance period! The mysterious period where the
galaxy would temporarily cease to exist was created to
give Diesel, the cleaner, Dr. Fogg, and all the rest of
the Sol regulars some time off. Satisfied with my knack
for finding out the inside scoop, I went back to CDs. She
hit me again with the bat for hiring someone to spy on
her...
THIS
OLD FROG…
A frog goes into a bank and
approaches the teller. He can see from the name-plate
that the teller's name is Paddy Whack. So he says:
'Mr Whack, I'd like to get a loan
to buy a bigger ship so that I may go on holiday'.
Paddy Whack looks at the frog in
disbelief and asks how much he wants to borrow. The frog
says 3 gigs.
The teller asks his name and the
frog says his name is Kermit Jagger and that it's ok
because he knows the bank manager.
Paddy explains that 3 gigs is a
substantial amount of groats and that he would need to
secure some collateral against the loan. Paddy asks if he
has anything he can use as collateral.
The frog says yes and produces a
tiny pink elephant, about half an inch tall. Bright pink
and perfectly formed.
Very confused, Paddy explains that
he'll have to consult with the manager and disappears
into a back office. He finds the manager and says:
'There's a frog called Kermit
Jagger out there who claims to know you and wants to
borrow 3 gigs. He wants to use this as collateral.'
He holds up the tiny pink elephant.
'I mean, what the devil is this?'
The bank manager replies:
'It's a knick-knack, Paddy Whack.
Give the frog a loan, his old man's a Rolling Stone.
JOURNAL
OF A NEWBOD
Passages from the journal of John
D. Newbie, caught in a DD world labyrinth.
Day 1
They promised me a 2.4 gig lotto, then they locked
the gate behind me. The LP was exit-only and I couldn't
even travel out because I gave my only 2 megs to the
psychopath who trapped me here. So now I'm stuck here,
only 128 groats in my pocket, looking for the way out. He
said there was a way out and anyone who could get off the
planet would get their money back. But at least I wasn't
alone, there were three people with me in similar
situations, broke and stuck. So we, together, set off to
find our way out.
Day 3
After hiking the vast and expansive landscape for a
day, some began to give up hope. People who fell into the
trap and left before us joined our party. We had our
first two casualties, one who stepped into a death
location and another who took his own life shortly after
out of insanity. The rest of us set out, leaving the two
behind.
Day 8
The more people we catch up with, the more lose their
minds. Some have given up and tried to go back to our
original location to plead with the PO to free them, only
to find that they can't go back... if we turn around
we're instantly killed by some "natural"
phenomenon. I hold true in the thought that eventually,
if we keep going, we'll find the way out, someone with
enough money to pay our luxury liner fares, or someone
wise enough to give us the solution.
Day 19
We're all getting tired. Our group, at one time
consisting of over 30 people, has fallen to the
single-digits. More and more are giving up. More and more
are losing their minds. I'm starting to wonder if
eventually I'll be alone.
Day 22
I'm alone. They've all left me. All I have to comfort me
are the sounds of the surroundings and the thought that
eventually I'll find the way out. The way out can't be
far now, I know it. Even though this looks just like a
place I've been two days ago, I know it can't be the
same. As long as I keep my sanity, I should be OK.
Day 39
The voices say I'll make it. All the little voices in my
head. They all say I'll be safe and sound with the
bunnies and the little men. I like bunnies. One day me
and George'll move out to the country and live off the
fatta the land, and I'll tend the rabbits...
Day 77
All work and no play makes John a dull boy. All work
and no play makes John a dull boy. All work and no play
makes John a dull boy. All work and no play makes John a
dull boy. All work and no play makes John a dull boy. All
work and no play makes John a dull boy. All work and no
play makes John a dull boy. All work and no play makes
John a dull boy...
Day 122
Today I found something wonderful. It's... it's...
another living soul! A wise man, a very wise man. He says
that if I sit, if I sit with him for a while we'll think
of a solution. I'll be home very, very soon. Very soon
indeed.
Day 135
He figured it out! The solution that's escaped me for
all this time! It's so simple, of course I never thought
of it! Turn on my comm unit and ask the wise, wise men on
channel 9! Now where did I put that thing?
Day 146
I found it today. I tuned to 9, and do you know what
I heard? The sweetest sound that ever my ears came
across, the voice of Danny. And do you know what he said?
The wisest thing ever to cross my ears. I took it down so
I'd never forget it's wiseness:
Your comm unit crackles with a
tight beam message from Danny: "You know, if you
sell your ship you get more than 10,000 groats for it,
more than enough to travel."
Day 147
He was right, I got a whole meg for my hauler, and
now I'm back on Earth. Now how in Sol am I going to get
the money for a new ship...
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