Action, adventure! Nudity! Er...

[damncoldnight]

This is my first try at this, so hopefully all will go well.

1) One to five sentences per post.

2) Dialogue counts for as many sentences as there are in the dialogue.

3) Attempt correct spelling.

4) Sentence(s) must be added to the end of the previous post (please copy & paste the post before yours).

5) Please turn off your signature.

And now, let us begin.

=====================================
((This post is 4 sentences...3 in the first dialogue [with the 'fumed Triggon Wedje' as a closing, not its own sentence], and 1 in the second. Get it?))

"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.

[zenbabe]

um

[noxxville]

Does that count as a sentence? I need more rules! More structure!

[zenbabe]

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, 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....

[noxxville]

Wait wait wait....is one of the characters actually named wegdie?

[noxxville]

Hey..."dunno" isnt in my dictionary! Is dialogue immune from spelling rules?

[1kookykat]

"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.

[masterofNone]

"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!"

[1kookykat]

"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.

[noxxville]

"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."

[joppa.gal]

"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.

[Coffee]

"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.

[joppa.gal]

"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.

[Coffee]

"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.

[joppa.gal]

"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.