Wednesday, September 24, 2008

Have Ray Gun! Will Travel! Please Pay Me! (part 6)

I am very hot.

I am not talking about my body. I am a sexy beast of a man who has been recently laundered, even if I currently smell like a sewer. But I digress. I am talking about the weather.

I am very hot. Because I am in the desert. I am in the desert because the Man With No Name shot down the rocket shuttle I was in. His ray gun must truly be mighty. I am the only survivor of the crash. I am the only one who drank his rocket alcohol. I am also the only one on space drugs. I can only credit these two substances for my survival. How else would I have possibly managed to pick the rocket shuttle filled with soft bag-bellied methane moon people?

This journal entry is being written while I hide under a rough lean-to built from a rocket fin and the stretched out rubber skins of three fellow passengers. They weren't using them anymore. In the distance I can see the mountain where the Man With No Name shot down my rocket shuttle. Unfortunately the space drugs cannot decide if I am at the foot of the mountain, or if I am twenty miles away from it.

The Friendly Peanut is of no help. It tells me this is the will of the Old Ones. Then it tells my pocket lint to build a pyramid in its image. It dispensed with pocket diplomacy and declared itself god emperor of my pants. I hate my life.


I am now at the foot of the mountain. It was actually very close. The space drugs make close things seem far away, and far away things seem close. I can almost see that smug expression on Dirk Gradient's face now. He is laughing at me. He knows the desert sun has destroyed my laundering. He knows I have drunk my own urine to stay alive in the 25 minutes since the crash. He knows all these things. I hate him.

But I must first kill the Man With No Name, otherwise I will never survive in this wasteland. If I do not survive, I cannot kill Dirk Gradient. I must kill Dirk Gradient. Thus I must survive. My hate gives me strength. The rocket liquor gives me courage. The space drugs give me strange hallucinations in which I am purple and the sun is insulting me in high school French. The space drugs make the trip more comforting.

Now I must go up the mountain and face the Man Who Has No Name. I may be dead when you read this. If so, please pump my bloated corpse full of space drugs and rocket liquor. Then mail my bloated corpse to Dirk Gradient. Payment on delivery. I will have my revenge from the afterlife.


The Man With No Name has given me dinner. He is talking about his kidneys The Man With No Name is obsessed with kidneys. This is why he eats only desert weeds. And rocks. The Man With No Name eats many rocks. He wears nothing. He is bright fuschia in color, with purple hair and small antennae. His only friend is a bottle of rocket liquor. I feel his pain.

He has long since run out of space drugs, and has now settled into being happily insane. His ray gun is powerful, but without his space drugs he is powerless. I could overpower him. But I must be polite, otherwise he might think I have space madness.

When the time is right I will shoot the Man With No Name and steal his ray gun. But until then I will munch on my rocks. They do not taste good. I suspect that he ate these same rocks yesterday. However, given that I smell only of poo gas I do not know how anything tastes. I will force the rocket shuttle's airline to pay for my laundering. I will require much laundering.


The Man With No Name is dead. I never even found out what his actual name was. Unfortunately I did not shoot him, so I still do not know if the other settings on my ray gun work. He choked on a rock that he unwisely did not attempt to wash down with rocket liquor. Rocket liquor will dissolve deck plates. It will make rocks edible. Rocks are not normally edible. This is why the Man With No Name is dead.

I have been attempting to contact the space police for some time using my personal communication device. They finally told me a car was coming by with my reward. And pants. Pants free of legumic control. I will have pants not ruled by a tooth-hat wearing Friendly Peanut.

The space police have given me my money and my pants. They would not give me a lift back to the city because I smell like poo gas. However they did say that the rocket line will be sending a smaller shuttle out now, and could I please not blow this one up?

I have taken stock of my life.

I have not one, but *two* ray guns now. I have traveled...and unfortunately am now stuck until I can travel back to where I traveled from. And I have been paid. I have much money now. This will make the next leg of my trip easier.

My next stop will be at the space police station. To inquire after a certain Gradient, Dirk. Space agent. Revenge is a dish best served cold. Currently mine is a solid block of ice at sub-zero temperatures. It is time to bring out the microwave of hate. Long live the microwave of hate.


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