Have Ray Gun! Will Travel! Please Pay Me! (part 11)

The burning has not yet gone away. It sharpens my mind. I thank the burning for keeping me from ramming the heathen death phallus into a large planet. That idea was the construct of the hyper-pink space drugs. I am not a pretty girl. I am, in fact, a handsome stud.

Unfortunately this means that I have to detour around many obstacles to get to Dirk Gradient. This is not helped by the strange noises the heathen death phallus makes in the night. Perhaps I should have have defecated in that particular airlock. It might have been important.

I have become aware that the crocodile men have been following me in their tank ships. They are unhappy that I was disqualified from the space race. It serves them right. They should have told me the rules beforehand. Clint Corona never enters a competition where his ray gun would be a liability. That ray gun is my only friend.

My kidneys still ache from my last encounter with the crocodile men. This time I will have to turn my ray gun upon them, as they are obviously agents of that bastard Dirk Gradient. Dirk Gradient knows that his space pirates failed. And knows that he failed to kill me in the space race by entering all those other ships piloted by dangerous, space drug-addled space maniacs against me. So Dirk Gradient has hired the crocodile men to kill me, just like he secretly tried to poison my space flakes breakfast cereal this morning.

I have begun to suspect that the Friendly Peanut may be in collusion with Dirk Gradient. Its gibbering in the night has turned fell. It hordes my mystery pants with a fierce inhuman greed. It does not want me to learn the secrets of the mystery pants. Perhaps they contain a secret way to kill Dirk Gradient sewn into their cuffs. But that would mean that Dirk Gradient has become more than human. How can this be?!? That isn't true. That is impossible.

I must remain calm. If the crocodile men realize that I know the identity of their true master they will strike early. I must remember my canniness. I must be full of canny. To facilitate this I need to stop taking these strange death-by-ping-pong space drugs. They don't do much to me, contrary to the insane paranoia-inducing side affects that others complain about. They just make my brain buzz like a thousand bee hives and make my pores smell of used champagne and moldy goat bread. I love goat bread, but Dirk Gradient will likely try to steal it if I eat it. I wish I had a space goat.

I must prepare for the crocodile men. They will board the heathen death phallus in large numbers. They have large rifles. Their rifles are neither ray guns nor space police sissy pistols. I suspect they may fire a terrible ammunition. Perhaps something organic. I cannot stand the thought of being attacked again by a faeces gun. Those things are just gross.

...

The crocodile men boarded the heathen death phallus from their tank ship. They were tall and armored. They smoked huge cigars and ground them out on the death phallus' upholstery just to be annoying. They spoke with high pitched voices. I hate crocodile men.

The Friendly Peanut's new bathroom friend ate four of them very quickly. I must beware of that bathroom. And the surrounding floor. The beast has become bigger than expected. This reduced the rest of the crocodile men to a state of animal canniness, in which they opened doors and vaporised everything inside a room before proceeding inwards. I lost nothing of value. But the previous owners would have lamented the destruction of their food supply. Fools. Man can live on rocket liquor and space drugs alone. I am living proof. My veins are turning a disturbing shade of emerald. This can only mean I am a superman.

The first crocodile man to enter the bridge was converted into radiant light. They had no resistance to my ray gun. Even Space God has no resistance to my ray gun. Their space armor was no match for "Purify". The next crocodile man I killed by throwing a bottle of rocket liquor at him. And then converting him into radiant light. After this they became wary of me and pulled back, but not before I'd vaporised several more of them. They were becoming worried at this point.

I think they were afraid of me. I may have been foaming at the mouth. The red-brown space drugs will do that to you. I admit that my aim may have been somewhat off...I really did just want to fire some warning shots. But its so hard not to hit your target on red-brown space drugs...anything else just seems like a silly option. Only sissies and pretty girls miss. Real men take lots of red-brown space drugs and shoot things, then go out and get drunk and shoot themselves by accident, meaning to holster their weapon.

The space drugs wore off in time for parley. The crocodile men surrendered. I graciously let them live in return for all their rocket liquor, space drugs, and tentacle-monster-degreaser. I will kill the Friendly Peanut's friend tomorrow, before it kills me.

Before I accidentally converted their ship, and crew, into starshine and moonglow I forced a confession from one of the crocodile men. After shouting at him and gesticulating with my ray gun in a very reasonable manner he concurred that, yes, they had been hired by that bastard Dirk Gradient. Even he called Dirk Gradient a bastard. It must be true.

I have locked the confessed Dirk Gradient hiree in the airlock. The one where I do not defecate. He will stay there until I return him to his master. Or get hungry for something other than rocket liquor and space drugs. I may get to use the microwave of hate for something useful after all!

I have beaten your soldiers, Dirk Gradient! There is no stopping me now! Next stop, Vandervilk XXVII, to put an end to the burning and find a good recipe for crocodile!