Have Ray Gun! Will Travel! Please Pay Me! (part 9)

I have entered the heathen death phallus in a space race. I do this not for the money. I have space pirate booty. And space police paychecks. Oh no. I do this for me. And because the prize is a new rocket ship. I hate the heathen death phallus.

Exploring this new rocket ship of mine, I have found terrors. There are tentacled horrors in the bathroom. The bathroom is unusable. I have taken to defecating in the airlock. The Friendly Peanut now rules over the bathroom. It took my mystery pants with it. I am now wearing space pirate pants. They fit surprisingly well.

Amazingly, there were no space pirates left aboard the heathen death phallus when I took it as my own. A strange monster made of bedsheets assaulted me, but I reduced it to radiant light. I live safe in the knowledge that the bed monster is dead.

All this pales in comparison to what I have found. I cried tears of joy. I am still crying...or that might be my tear ducts melting. I am unsure right now. Because the space pirates had a whole room full of rocket liquor and space drugs. Space drugs in all the colors of the rainbow, including ultra-orange and infra-green. Infra-green space drugs make you think you're a twenty-seven legged platypus on steroids with a god complex. I am wary of infra-green space drugs. I have a hard enough time piloting the heathen death phallus with two arms and a ray gun.

Speaking of which, I believe that these space pirates had more arms than initially thought. Everything here requires four arms to use. This aggravates me. It truly is a heathen device.

Anyway. The race.

I learned about this race because the space pirates had already signed up for it. I was then approached by giant crocodile men in large tank ships to make sure that I participated. They said they had money riding on me. When I informed them that I was the proud new owner of the Heathen Death Phallus they laughed. Then they hit me. A lot. I wisely decided not to vaporise them. Have you ever tried to get rid of the smell of radiant crocodile?

So emboldened by threats, I set forth to the space race. I will be there soon. The Friendly Peanut is engaged in fell acts with the tentacle bathroom horrors. I have drunk too much rocket liquor. I shall have to use the airlock soon.

...

I have arrived at the space race. It is a race. In space. The entirety of the thing that can be described in the two preceding sentences. Everything else is just dodging around asteroids, small stars, black holes, and sentient space beasts the size of nebulae who eat ships like they were Friendly Peanuts. We are only snacks to greater powers.

There are approximately thirteen other ships involved in the space race. I say "approximately" because two others have already been destroyed. One was converted into starlight by an as-yet-unknown-assailant. Possibly the Man With No Name! The sixteenth ship refuses to exist and not-exist at the same time, and so tends to appear and disappear whenever the cat in its rocket engine dies.

The race will begin soon. I have taken more space drugs. I need to be sharp for this. Sharp like a space tack. On the attack. Like a space razor. With a...I hate rhyming. These space pirate space drugs make me rhyme more. They also make me interject "space" more often. I believe they are purely concentrated space madness. Space.

I grip my bottle of rocket liquor in my free hand. There is a grin on my face. I imagine I look like a hungry ghoul. My ray gun sits in my lap. The Friendly Peanut has come to sit on my shoulder, covered in tentacle monster slime. Soon the race shall begin.

Some idiot in the ship beside me is making rude gestures. Oh yes, sir! I know you! I can see your brain through the space drugs! Your evil, wicked space brain! You and your hairy friend shall soon eat my afterburners. The space race begins!

The space race begins! Onward, heathen death phallus! Onward into oblivion! Onward to the death of Dirk Gradient! SPACE!