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Coffee · 10-05-2004, 07:57 PM

The blaster jammed again. AGAIN, I tell you. What is that, the third time this week?" fumed Triggon Wedje.

"I dunno, Trig," sighed Antrim Lynd, as he knocked back his glass of Cyon whiskey. "If you weren't so fond of blasting everything in sight it might have a chance to cool down. Now all we need is for the hyperdrive to go out." He poured himself another and raised it to his lips. Wedje slapped it out of his hand.

"1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10, 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10, 1," The headset began to belt out a badly distorted test pattern, " 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10, 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10, 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10, 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10, 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10, 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10...." Antrim lucked at it with his third eye and began to laugh. "Heh, looks like the subspace reciever is workin' again!"

"Great. Is the toilet working? Or do I have to fetch the Astro-Mega-Plunger?" Wedje responded, summoning his worst impression of space opera cliches. "Three-eyed freak!" He walked aft to the head.

Antrim, secretly hurt by Wedje's slanderous remark, stormed into the gasparro-retroactivator chamber hoping to find a moment of peace. He strapped himself into the anglamsitizer and hit "go" to begin the sequence.

"Yah Baby," he whispered to himself "just like that."

The mirror facing him in his chamber allowed him to see the changes taking place. His hair turned from butch cut brown to long, glossy American curls. Robot arms applied lipstick and perfume (Debbie Gibson's brand). He felt his body expand and soften. He stepped out rejuvenated and ready for the day in his new look.

Some days, especially days like this, Antrim wondered why he thought it would be a good idea to sign on for a 5 year hitch with the Parsec Inner-Galactic Trading and Investment Consortium (PIG-TIC). It wasn't hard work, and it paid really well, but damn it could be dull as corbydium stone out here with just a crew of 4 on year long near light runs between star systems. Despite the novel entertainments provided on board, the lack of a more diverse community was a test for anyone's patience. Triggon, their two headed Andulusian astro-navigator, was really getting on Antrim's last nerve recently with his penchant for blasting everything in sight, a really annoying way of relieving boredom in Antrims opinion, and dangerous to boot. Antrim wished he could get some support from the other crew to get Trig to knock it off.

*PFFFFIZZZZ!!* He stepped back into the hubscape alteroid module right into the path of a green molten beam of lazer light. Lightning-quick reflexes were barely enough to save his third eye from being scorched but not enough to save his full head of curls, which quickly fizzed into a smelly gelatin and fused onto his skull.

Triggon blinked.

"Dude." He breathed. "I so almost wasted you."His breath could be smelt from three moltachs away.

Antrim turned angrily to see the intended target, a strung up weejee-bolo, plucked of it's neiderhosen. It was unsuprisingly intact, with blaster blasts scarring the metal behind it.

"Even with two heads you are the dumbest piece of spaceflot it has ever been my misfortune to meet. If we didn't need your sole talent for astrogation I would be shoving your otherwise useless oxygen wasting carcass out an airlock right now." Antrim bellowed.

Triggon was, as usual one head half stoned, the other head half drunk and thus the whole Triggon-one hundred percent oblivious to what Antrim just said and he simply replied "Bra,a,a,a,pa,p,a,p,a,p,p,p,p,p". Antrim always found Triggon's belches to be strangley melodic since his head's vocal cords were at sublty different modulations.

They stood staring at each other for what seemed a million quanto-seconds. Triggon hiccupped and looked down at his trilliactium blazer, adorned with medals.

"Ah, leftovers."

He sniffed the green goo on his scarf with one head's nostril and licked it up with a long reptilian tongue coming from the other. Antrim decided he has seen enough. It was the last hyperbo-straw.

He bolted down the corridor, warp modules whizzing past his melted goopy scalp, and lauched himself into an escape pod. Sweating bits of molten prybene from his tentacles, he held his finger poised above the red, throbbing eject button.

"Oh for crying out loud Antrim. What is the matter this time?" Captain Zachary Frake said in his least condescending tone. "Don't tell me Trig got you flustered again." "Do I really have to remind you that those pods are only rated for 10 LY, and that we are still 15 LY from the nearest star system, and 25 LY from the nearest system that will support life? Do you really think floating adrift in Cryo suspension for what could be eternity before someone finds and rescues your impulsive metamorphing butt is better than dealing with your issues with Trig?"

Antrim at this point, looking about as sheepish as a metamorph could get (which is pretty damn close to looking exactly like a sheep) replied "Sorry captain Z, I don't know what gets into me sometimes, Triggon just knows how to really grate on my last nerve and does it out of boredome I think". "Ya sure, I know it Ant, sometimes I wonder how you and Trig passed PschTests to get on this duty? Thank leptons at least two of us on board retain a bit of sanity, uhhh, that is, if someone capable of taking a job like this can be called sane". "Now get out of that pod and get back to your duty assignment, you do still remember where your job is suppoed to be don't you?"

Antrim had to stop and get on his tentacleas and fobble out to his master, Leptons of the Moon to remember his task. As he pressed his tentacles to his eyeballs, it all started flooding back.

" Potato salad....... Aged mayonnaise... circa 2004. It killed millions!!!!"

He jerked up, sweat splashing the corridor. The mayonnaise must containned before the disease it spread beyond the realm of the earth. The bowels of the Circadium Amphrophenes people were eroding with 2004 Potato Salad as he thought those very words.

He lifted his eyes to the heavens.

Great Lepton, what shall I do?"

"Oh no you don't Antrim, not 'that' look again, Damn it, are you hallucinating AGAIN about that horror movie we saw last month ?"
Zachary grabbed Antrim by his fleet uniform collar, and began slapping him repeatedly. "Snap out of it man, you are not an octopus from another galaxy, there is no disease threatening our galaxy...snap out of it for freaks sake." "If you didn't make the best damn potato salad in the fleet I would stick you into cryo suspension for the rest of the trip...and I am definitly kicking asses of the psych techs that approved you and Trig for space duty when I get back to fleet Ops".

"Sorry there." Antrim mumbled. He waddled over to his blaster unit and fiddled with the controls. ....set on JELLIFY.... Danged if he wasn't 3,000 klyptons away from his home galaxy to do something worth while- stupid potato salad- got him every time.

"Salad, schmalad... I hate salad." He pouted.

"Huh?" Triggon's one head looked over.
"Huh?" Triggon's other head whirled to glance at him, but his first head got in the way. The two heads started bickering.

Captain Zachary slammed his fist onto the table. "Antrim, make me some Oota Boota Soup. On the Double!"

Antrim resignedly shuffled away to the kitchen.
Just in time to miss hearing the announcement come over on the Captain's Relaat Pin. "Zack, you should get up to the bridge, something, odd, is coming across...it sounds like a distress call, but it's on channel Alpha 1, no one has used that in.... You Gotta see this".

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10-05-2004, 07:57 PM	#20
Coffee Cheeses Save Join Date: Oct 2003 Location: Floating Posts: 9,204	The blaster jammed again. AGAIN, I tell you. What is that, the third time this week?" fumed Triggon Wedje. "I dunno, Trig," sighed Antrim Lynd, as he knocked back his glass of Cyon whiskey. "If you weren't so fond of blasting everything in sight it might have a chance to cool down. Now all we need is for the hyperdrive to go out." He poured himself another and raised it to his lips. Wedje slapped it out of his hand. "1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10, 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10, 1," The headset began to belt out a badly distorted test pattern, " 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10, 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10, 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10, 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10, 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10, 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10...." Antrim lucked at it with his third eye and began to laugh. "Heh, looks like the subspace reciever is workin' again!" "Great. Is the toilet working? Or do I have to fetch the Astro-Mega-Plunger?" Wedje responded, summoning his worst impression of space opera cliches. "Three-eyed freak!" He walked aft to the head. Antrim, secretly hurt by Wedje's slanderous remark, stormed into the gasparro-retroactivator chamber hoping to find a moment of peace. He strapped himself into the anglamsitizer and hit "go" to begin the sequence. "Yah Baby," he whispered to himself "just like that." The mirror facing him in his chamber allowed him to see the changes taking place. His hair turned from butch cut brown to long, glossy American curls. Robot arms applied lipstick and perfume (Debbie Gibson's brand). He felt his body expand and soften. He stepped out rejuvenated and ready for the day in his new look. Some days, especially days like this, Antrim wondered why he thought it would be a good idea to sign on for a 5 year hitch with the Parsec Inner-Galactic Trading and Investment Consortium (PIG-TIC). It wasn't hard work, and it paid really well, but damn it could be dull as corbydium stone out here with just a crew of 4 on year long near light runs between star systems. Despite the novel entertainments provided on board, the lack of a more diverse community was a test for anyone's patience. Triggon, their two headed Andulusian astro-navigator, was really getting on Antrim's last nerve recently with his penchant for blasting everything in sight, a really annoying way of relieving boredom in Antrims opinion, and dangerous to boot. Antrim wished he could get some support from the other crew to get Trig to knock it off. PFFFFIZZZZ!! He stepped back into the hubscape alteroid module right into the path of a green molten beam of lazer light. Lightning-quick reflexes were barely enough to save his third eye from being scorched but not enough to save his full head of curls, which quickly fizzed into a smelly gelatin and fused onto his skull. Triggon blinked. "Dude." He breathed. "I so almost wasted you."His breath could be smelt from three moltachs away. Antrim turned angrily to see the intended target, a strung up weejee-bolo, plucked of it's neiderhosen. It was unsuprisingly intact, with blaster blasts scarring the metal behind it. "Even with two heads you are the dumbest piece of spaceflot it has ever been my misfortune to meet. If we didn't need your sole talent for astrogation I would be shoving your otherwise useless oxygen wasting carcass out an airlock right now." Antrim bellowed. Triggon was, as usual one head half stoned, the other head half drunk and thus the whole Triggon-one hundred percent oblivious to what Antrim just said and he simply replied "Bra,a,a,a,pa,p,a,p,a,p,p,p,p,p". Antrim always found Triggon's belches to be strangley melodic since his head's vocal cords were at sublty different modulations. They stood staring at each other for what seemed a million quanto-seconds. Triggon hiccupped and looked down at his trilliactium blazer, adorned with medals. "Ah, leftovers." He sniffed the green goo on his scarf with one head's nostril and licked it up with a long reptilian tongue coming from the other. Antrim decided he has seen enough. It was the last hyperbo-straw. He bolted down the corridor, warp modules whizzing past his melted goopy scalp, and lauched himself into an escape pod. Sweating bits of molten prybene from his tentacles, he held his finger poised above the red, throbbing eject button. "Oh for crying out loud Antrim. What is the matter this time?" Captain Zachary Frake said in his least condescending tone. "Don't tell me Trig got you flustered again." "Do I really have to remind you that those pods are only rated for 10 LY, and that we are still 15 LY from the nearest star system, and 25 LY from the nearest system that will support life? Do you really think floating adrift in Cryo suspension for what could be eternity before someone finds and rescues your impulsive metamorphing butt is better than dealing with your issues with Trig?" Antrim at this point, looking about as sheepish as a metamorph could get (which is pretty damn close to looking exactly like a sheep) replied "Sorry captain Z, I don't know what gets into me sometimes, Triggon just knows how to really grate on my last nerve and does it out of boredome I think". "Ya sure, I know it Ant, sometimes I wonder how you and Trig passed PschTests to get on this duty? Thank leptons at least two of us on board retain a bit of sanity, uhhh, that is, if someone capable of taking a job like this can be called sane". "Now get out of that pod and get back to your duty assignment, you do still remember where your job is suppoed to be don't you?" Antrim had to stop and get on his tentacleas and fobble out to his master, Leptons of the Moon to remember his task. As he pressed his tentacles to his eyeballs, it all started flooding back. " Potato salad....... Aged mayonnaise... circa 2004. It killed millions!!!!" He jerked up, sweat splashing the corridor. The mayonnaise must containned before the disease it spread beyond the realm of the earth. The bowels of the Circadium Amphrophenes people were eroding with 2004 Potato Salad as he thought those very words. He lifted his eyes to the heavens. Great Lepton, what shall I do?" "Oh no you don't Antrim, not 'that' look again, Damn it, are you hallucinating AGAIN about that horror movie we saw last month ?" Zachary grabbed Antrim by his fleet uniform collar, and began slapping him repeatedly. "Snap out of it man, you are not an octopus from another galaxy, there is no disease threatening our galaxy...snap out of it for freaks sake." "If you didn't make the best damn potato salad in the fleet I would stick you into cryo suspension for the rest of the trip...and I am definitly kicking asses of the psych techs that approved you and Trig for space duty when I get back to fleet Ops". "Sorry there." Antrim mumbled. He waddled over to his blaster unit and fiddled with the controls. ....set on JELLIFY.... Danged if he wasn't 3,000 klyptons away from his home galaxy to do something worth while- stupid potato salad- got him every time. "Salad, schmalad... I hate salad." He pouted. "Huh?" Triggon's one head looked over. "Huh?" Triggon's other head whirled to glance at him, but his first head got in the way. The two heads started bickering. Captain Zachary slammed his fist onto the table. "Antrim, make me some Oota Boota Soup. On the Double!" Antrim resignedly shuffled away to the kitchen. Just in time to miss hearing the announcement come over on the Captain's Relaat Pin. "Zack, you should get up to the bridge, something, odd, is coming across...it sounds like a distress call, but it's on channel Alpha 1, no one has used that in.... You Gotta see this".