Have Ray Gun! Will Travel! Please Pay Me! (part 7)
The rocket shuttle brought me back to the city. I was the only one onboard. The smell of rocket liquor overpowered the poo gas. I no longer stink of methane people.
The rocket shuttle crew thanked me for not shooting them out of the sky. I imagine that I must look like a crazed lunatic to them. I have drunk my own urine. I have eaten rocks given to me by the Man With No Name. And I no longer wear pants. Instead I carry the new pants given to me by the space police as a status symbol. I will not wear them until they, and I, have been properly laundered. I do not trust unlaundered pants given to me by strangers. I do not know where they have been.
I am sad, however. The space police demanded the Man With No Name's ray gun. They said it was a thing called "evidence". Bah. The microwave of hate cares not for their space evidence. But I must continue to be polite. Otherwise they will send me to a space doctor. I do not want to be probed. I do not have enough orifices for space doctoring probes. I do not want to have a forehead sphincter. Now I only have my ray gun, a pair of unlaundered mystery pants, and my old pants which smell of rocket liquor overlaying poo gas, and are ruled by the Friendly Peanut. I have not checked the pockets to see what it has done now. I suspect that it has bred.
I now wait to be questioned by the space police. I will assure them that I have killed the Man With No Name and that I am innocent of all charges of property destruction. Then they will pay me. Then I will ask them for their help in locating that nice young man, Dirk Gradient.
Then I will *kill* Dirk Gradient. Who is neither nice nor young. But I must be polite. Space madness.
...
My mystery pants have been laundered. Somewhere in the process the Friendly Peanut migrated into them. It was banished from my old pants by the bastard spawn of its own loins. Friendly Peanuts can apparently breed with the...leavings...of radioactive roaches. From these humble roots do Esperanto-spewing monstrosities emerge. Who knew?
I now wear the mystery pants. I have also been laundered by the space police while I spoke with them. They were, are, intimated by my great ray gun. They have only their sissy pistols. Space police are not allowed to carry real guns. Otherwise there would be no crime to police. So they fear my ray gun, and fear the card that says I carry it for religious reasons. None have the courage to ask what religion that is. Even I do not have the courage to ask myself.
They have agreed to look for that goddammed bastard Dirk Gradient for me. Their mighty space intarwub is mighty. It has space tubes that travel between dimensions. The result is that the space intarwub is filled with pornographic material from a thousand different stars. I sometimes cannot tell the pornography from the political campaigning. I do not have the correct number of orifices to comprehend it. I do not want a forehead sphincter.
The space police have found out about the mighty exploits of Dirk Gradient. They show me pictures. He is in my rocket ship. Cindy the Girl-Computer is beside him. I have restrained myself from testing my ray gun against the space police. They are many. I am one. It would be an unfair fight. No sissy pistols can stand against my ray gun.
But good has come of this. I have held onto my sanity and learned of Dirk Gradient's whereabouts. It will require another rocket ship ride. I have requested to be seated in the "non-gigantic aliens" section. Those people are just weird.
I am giddy with excitement. Or maybe that is just the new round of space drugs I have taken. But giddiness abounds. The microwave of hate hums in my mind.
I want to stick Dirk Gradient in the microwave of hate. Is that wrong?
I have a ray gun. The space police stole my second. I will travel. Just not with elephant people. The space police paid me. If only they knew what I was about to do.
The rocket shuttle crew thanked me for not shooting them out of the sky. I imagine that I must look like a crazed lunatic to them. I have drunk my own urine. I have eaten rocks given to me by the Man With No Name. And I no longer wear pants. Instead I carry the new pants given to me by the space police as a status symbol. I will not wear them until they, and I, have been properly laundered. I do not trust unlaundered pants given to me by strangers. I do not know where they have been.
I am sad, however. The space police demanded the Man With No Name's ray gun. They said it was a thing called "evidence". Bah. The microwave of hate cares not for their space evidence. But I must continue to be polite. Otherwise they will send me to a space doctor. I do not want to be probed. I do not have enough orifices for space doctoring probes. I do not want to have a forehead sphincter. Now I only have my ray gun, a pair of unlaundered mystery pants, and my old pants which smell of rocket liquor overlaying poo gas, and are ruled by the Friendly Peanut. I have not checked the pockets to see what it has done now. I suspect that it has bred.
I now wait to be questioned by the space police. I will assure them that I have killed the Man With No Name and that I am innocent of all charges of property destruction. Then they will pay me. Then I will ask them for their help in locating that nice young man, Dirk Gradient.
Then I will *kill* Dirk Gradient. Who is neither nice nor young. But I must be polite. Space madness.
...
My mystery pants have been laundered. Somewhere in the process the Friendly Peanut migrated into them. It was banished from my old pants by the bastard spawn of its own loins. Friendly Peanuts can apparently breed with the...leavings...of radioactive roaches. From these humble roots do Esperanto-spewing monstrosities emerge. Who knew?
I now wear the mystery pants. I have also been laundered by the space police while I spoke with them. They were, are, intimated by my great ray gun. They have only their sissy pistols. Space police are not allowed to carry real guns. Otherwise there would be no crime to police. So they fear my ray gun, and fear the card that says I carry it for religious reasons. None have the courage to ask what religion that is. Even I do not have the courage to ask myself.
They have agreed to look for that goddammed bastard Dirk Gradient for me. Their mighty space intarwub is mighty. It has space tubes that travel between dimensions. The result is that the space intarwub is filled with pornographic material from a thousand different stars. I sometimes cannot tell the pornography from the political campaigning. I do not have the correct number of orifices to comprehend it. I do not want a forehead sphincter.
The space police have found out about the mighty exploits of Dirk Gradient. They show me pictures. He is in my rocket ship. Cindy the Girl-Computer is beside him. I have restrained myself from testing my ray gun against the space police. They are many. I am one. It would be an unfair fight. No sissy pistols can stand against my ray gun.
But good has come of this. I have held onto my sanity and learned of Dirk Gradient's whereabouts. It will require another rocket ship ride. I have requested to be seated in the "non-gigantic aliens" section. Those people are just weird.
I am giddy with excitement. Or maybe that is just the new round of space drugs I have taken. But giddiness abounds. The microwave of hate hums in my mind.
I want to stick Dirk Gradient in the microwave of hate. Is that wrong?
I have a ray gun. The space police stole my second. I will travel. Just not with elephant people. The space police paid me. If only they knew what I was about to do.
posted by Derek the Bard at 12:54 a.m.
1 Comments:
Your story is almost too awesome for words. XD I particularly like how it's structured - it's very disjointed, but works really well with Clint's eccentricities and outright craziness. The Friendly Peanut is also pretty nifty, especially in its takeover of pants. Ta much for a good read. =)
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