A Spell of Blood is now available on Amazon. The paperback is all available for now, but the electronic version is coming in a month or so or whenever I feel like it. Now I've written two books. Now it's a habit. Prepare for book three.
Today is awesome for me because my first book, SciFi Doodad, got approved and placed on Amazon. I've got a lot of work to do, and more books to write, but for now I'm just riding the high of actually following my passion and hobby. The first of many books.
Rated M for Monica Fake-script style is simple. We find Monica sitting on the living room couch, flipping through a photography book showing the architecture of Shiru Castle. She is wearing black gauchos, a purple dress shirt, and black flats. Monica is also sitting in the lounge chair on the other side of the room, in a blue bath robe, filing the callouses off the pads on the bottom of her canid feet. She is ALSO standing at the front window, wearing gray sweat clothes and flip flops, her white tail flipping in irritation. MONICA: Looks like it'll rain again. MONICA: The news didn't say that it'll rain- OW, damn file. MONICA: They won't cancel the flight if it rains. Humans are dumb. Monica steps away from the door and sits on the arm of the lounge chair next to Monica, who is sucking her thumb, nail file pinned between her big and middle toe claws. MONICA: Did it again, eh? MONICA: Shut up MONICA: Look, you should just let me do that for you. Monica leans close to Monica, but Monica sets her hand on Monica's chest. MONICA: Hey, stop! I want to do it myself. MONICA: Haha, sure, come on let me get that. Monica leans into Monica's lap, reaching for the file. MONICA: Stop it. MONICA: Give me. MONICA: No, stop. MONICAL Gimme. MONICA: I said, don't touch my SHIT!!!! Monica's maw splits and her eyes roll back as she bites into Monica's neck. Monica rears back, her neck tearing open as she withdraws. Enraged by the wound, Monica bristles her back, sets her feet and hands and claws around Monica's waist, and begins to rip and strip clothes and fur and fat from Monica's belly. Monica looks up from her book and glares at them. MONICA: I'm not in the mood, okay. Go somewhere private if you're gonna do that. To add insult to blood-soaked massacre, Dick's voice echos from the kitchen. DICK: Monica? You in there? Monica rolls her eyes. She shoves her face closer into her book, trying to ignore all the titillation dumb things happening. DICK: I can hear you gang-banging in there, or whatever. Monica cringes at his choice of words. She glances at the pile of gore in the middle of the living room- bared teeth and skinless feet and stripped tail still writhing in a grotesque display of slaughter- trying to put his comment out of her head. MONICA: What do you want, Dick? DICK: I need help. MONICA: Story of your life. Completely flustered by the twin snapping meat cocoons, Monica sets her book down, sighs, sits up on the couch on the balls of her feet a little, and slips her middle finger down the front of her gauchos. She slides her middle finger between her pussy lips, using her thumb and forefinger to massage her- DICK: Please? MONICA: Shut up, Dick head. DICK: ... Please please please please please please please please pleas- MONICA: MOTHER FUCKER!!!!1! Monica rips her hand out of her mons, surges up from the couch, and flicks the moisture from her hand onto the pile of ribs and jawbones and organs bleeding all over the floor. She stomps from the living room, through the hallway, and into the kitchen and dining room. MONICA: I'm going to fucking strangle you. Dick is standing behind the kitchen table. He is wearing shitty clothes. His face is squat, his forehead gross, his hair black and oily, and his body teeny and lanky and gross and when you look at it for too long you go blind and fear for humanity and know why you led Japan into that war with Korea and you pray for death. MONICA: Wha? Jesus, I'm not thinking that. There is also a pie on the table. MONICA: ... Eh? DICK: Heya there. MONICA: That pie better have fucking gold in it for you to bother me. DICK: You can masturbate anytime. MONICA: What do you WANT, Dick?! DICK: I like pie. So I made one, and wanted to show you. MONICA: Yeah, but... wait how? DICK: Want some? Please eat some. Please. MONICA: How did you make that pie? You don't know how to cook. Monica walks from behind Dick, wearing nothing. MONICA: Aw, sweeety, why'd you have to make it a crowd? MONICA: GOD DAMN IT! DICK: Please help me. Monica points at Monica. MONICA: I thought you were getting ready for the tour? Monica smiles, splays her hand across Dick's chest and melts along his shoulder, groaning in delight. MONICA: Oh, but we diiid get ready. Monica rubs the rim of the pie pan with a seductive finger. MONICA: ... Pft... we- Fuggin' PIE!??! MONICA: Mhm, sexy pie. MONICA: THAT DOESN'T EVEN MAKE ANY SENSE!?! Monica points at Dick angrily. MONICA: Dick, you know better than this! DICK: I'm sorry. You're very persuasive... and sharp, when you want to be. MONICA: Yeeah, and he's just so biiig, and meaty- MONICA: HAHAHAhahahahahahahaaa- DICK: ... MONICA: -hahahhahahaaaa, okay, he is NOT. DICK: ... Hey. MONICA: He is medium-to-chode at least. DICK: Hey now- Monica withdraws herself from Dick and glares at Monica. MONICA: Don't ever insult my man again. MONICA: Fuck you! MONICA: Pff, fuck you. DICK: Heeey, yeeaah, ya'll should maybe just love on each other instead of always bothering me- MONICA AND MONICA: SHUT UP WHORE!! Monica leaps onto the table, steps in the pie, and lunges at Monica, who withdraws her hand from Dick and crouches low. Monica tackles Monica, but Monica slaps Monica across the face and grabs Monica by the collar, as Monica bares her claws and begins to tear into Monica's exposed body, just as Monica bites Monica's breast through her shirt. As Dick watches Monica and Monica tear each other into bloody pulp, Monica walks up behind him. She has a fork and knife and plate in her hands. She slices a blob of pie from the smashed pan, sets the piece on the plate, and pokes it with the fork. She sets the bite in her mouth and begins to chew. MONICA: What's this all about? DICK: Wait, you can't tell? MONICA: *chew chew* Meh. DICK: It's a lover's spat... I think. MONICA: No, ass, what sort of pie is it? DICK: Oh, uhm, cherry. MONICA: Mhm, the fuck fruit. DICK: WHAT?! MONICA: HAha, just kidding. DICK: Woah... oh God, thank goodnes- MONICA: Seriously though, get on the table, bitch.
Rated F for Furries, Also it's a script-- PAGEBREAK We find Dick Spillsew sitting on the couch, reading a video game magazine. He is wearing his crappy brown pants and black shirt that says 'This is a shirt?' on the front. He is as oily and teeny and ugly as when we last saw him. MONICA: Also as dumb as when we last saw him. Dick ignores the thing that doesn't exist, and flips the page on his magazine, revealing the best part about video game magazines: The Dead or Alive Girls calendar. Breasts and Butts and boobles bobble about on the bages, I mean pages. MONICA: Narrative's slipping a little. DICK: I'm not letting you out. It's not happening. Nope. I'm busy. Yup, busy with- A clawed, padded hand slips through the front of Dick's pants and holsters his slightly enlarging shaf- DICK: WOOOAHKKAY!! Dick stands up and spins around to face Monica. She is on the couch exactly where he was sitting, only slightly corporeal. She is wearing 'contemporary' clothes: jeans with a white blouse, and black flats like from the 50s. Dick watches her evil clawed hands. One hand is cuffing fur on the back of her pointed ears, while the offending hand is twisting a bit of his pre between thumb and forefinger. MONICA: What you got planned for today? Before Dick can answer Monica sticks her fingers into her maw and licks. MONICA: We could go kill someoooone. Dick turns around and walks into the hallway. He enters the dining room, next to the kitchen. He finds Monica splayed on the table, shoes dangling delicately on digitigrade paws MONICA: Play a video gaaame. Dick stomps away, into the hallway, and rips open the door to the bathroom. She is sitting inside the sink, legs crossed. MONICA: You could fuuuck meeee- Dick shuts the door, turns into the hallway, and slams into the white silk fur of Monica's nude chest. MONICA: Hm, yeah, that last one- Dick punches her in the jaw. Her head jerks back, and her jagged canid teeth flash for a moment. He punches again, this time into the top of her mouth. He feels the gash on his knuckles from her bite, but she stumbles back. He charges her and punches her neck, then her face again, then the top of her head. She falls down in front of him. He turns from her corpse, and finds himself facing her, standing in the hallway leading to the living room. She is now wearing her 'traditional' clothes: a blue hakama with a black cloth belt, and a white haori. She points at her 'dead' body. MONICA: See, that's disappointing for two reasons. He turns to run, but as he steps away she dives at his waist. Her claws effortlessly rip his stomach and thighs open in massive bloody tears. He throws his head back in pain. DICK: AAAAHHH- wait a minute. Dick looks down at his perfectly fine body. MONICA: One: killing each other might have broken the spell the first few times, but I've gotten used to it. You're not fooling anyone. Dick looks at Monica's body on the floor, as her ruined face seeps blood in the cracks between the planks of the hardwood. DICK: ... Deja Vu. MONICA: Two: violence towards women is not funny. DICK: Woman!? Dick points at the dead body, shakes his head, then points at Monica. DICK: You're not a woman! You're a demon! MONICA: Not a woman? DICK: That's right, and- She slips her hand into the front of her haori. DICK: -no nono, I see where this is going. Nope. Dick turns around, only to run cock first into Monica's 'dead' body, standing fine and healed between him and the kitchen, hands around his neck. DICK: Woah... two- MONICA: -three way. The newly resurrected Monica sets her hands close to Dick's belt loops. DICK: Nope. Dick crosses his arms, and turns so he is standing sideways between the two Monicas. DICK: I'm being good. Both Monicas burst into a cloud of smoke, shift in front of him, and twirl together into a single 'contemporary' clothed Monica, standing in front of him. MONICA: Fucking Christians. DICK: No swearing, please. Monica crosses her arms, mirroring Dick. MONICA: Well, what are we gonna do then, Dick? Dick looks to his left and right, into the kitchen then living room, and notes the quiet emptiness of the house. He looks at Monica, and smirks. She smirks back. DICK AND MONICA: Death Metal. Ten minutes later Dick and Monica have the plugged a large speaker to the TV, and set it in the middle of the room. They move all the furniture out, strip down to underwear, and 'mosh', and head-bang to very loud music for the rest of the day. They break the couch and coffee table, and knock over one or two lamps. Dick dry-humps the wall, bashing a hole in it with his hip bone, and Monica head-bangs so hard she passes out for a minute. She's right back up soon, however, and they keep it up until Dick's Mom comes home and tells him to stop being an idiot. Reference:
I couldn't resist. Sung to music of "In the Army Now" by Bolland and Bolland Liberation of a foreign land Truancy guard does the best he can You're in the army now Oh, oh you're in the army, now Now you remember what the surgeon said No matter what you see you need to keep your head You're in the army now Oh, oh you're in the army, now You'll be the hero of the capitol Freedom in the future and you'll never get old You're in the army now Oh, oh you're in the army, now Smiling faces as you wait to land But once you get there no one gives a damn You're in the army now Oh, oh you're in the army, now Invaders glimmer at the edge of sight War machines flying over your head You want to survive but you're already dead You're in the army now Oh, oh you're in the army, now Knife and scalpel writhing under your skin You're not allowed to die because they need to win You're in the army now Oh, oh you're in the army, now You've got your orders now to kill on sight You cut them all away, but it doesn't seem right You're in the army now Oh, oh you're in the army, now Time to shut down, repair, and learn to see Is this an illusion or reality? You're in the army now Oh, you're in the army, now
I usually don't talk about work, but today was unlike anything I've ever seen, I have to tell everyone. ALL of this is true. It really happened. We were running a combined arms, crew-served weapons range. Hundreds of Marines were run through a series of stations where they fired m240, M2 50 Cal, and Mk-19 machine guns one after the other. They also got a 60mm and 80mm mortar system demonstration. Over 100,000 rounds are fired in this range, and it takes all day, non-stop movement from about fifty instructors. Two hours into the range the lightning starts to strike in the distance. Usually storms and lightning are cause for cease fires, but these shooters hiked over 15k to get to the range and shoot. So, our captain orders us to continue because we're not going to waste these Marines effort, and we are pretty pumped anyway because the flashes of lightning are cool with all the guns going off. It starts raining, still sunny out, somehow raining. We get some reports that a tornado's touched down nearby; it's not too close, but all roads are cut off. We're trapped on the range. We keep firing. Imagine this line of twenty machine guns shooting out across this range at these old tank hulks. The rounds and tracers are smoking as they leave the barrel, burning little trails of clarity through the rain as they fly, before flashing and skipping off these old tanks husks. The barrels are so hot that they're still dry; the moisture cooks off of them instantly. We're all, screaming and joking, and just being as belligerent as fuck. The captain is laughing, and the WO-5 gunner's eyes are just as wide as they can be. We finally, finally, get cut off for safety when a damn lightning bolt strikes the ground less than fifty meters in front of our line, and we all see the flash. We cut the guns, and all go hide inside the ammo shed, while the students hide in the bleachers. We wait out the rain for an hour, just screaming and laughing at how awesome a time we've had. We finish the range, no injuries, all training complete. As soon as we try to load the guns, it starts hailing. Middle of the day, sun out, damn hailing on us! Military life can be challenging, and honestly really boring most of the time. But times like today, I can't imagine doing anything else.
In the Universe of God, in the milky way galaxy, in the Sol... solar system, on the 3rd planet from the sun, in the county of America, in the state of North Carolina, in a small neighborhood with woods all around and little play parks between the houses, was a two story, three room house, with green shutters, and a big, cursive M hanging from the front door. Inside the house, in the living room, on the couch, in front of the TV, behind a coffee table, sat Mark and Monica... Side-by-side. Monica inhaled deeply through her canid nostrils, and sighed out of her foxish maw as she spoke. "So... It's come back to this." She flicked her bushy, almost fox-like, tail, in foxy irritation, little white bits of fox fur floating off- "They get it, I'm a furry." -And getting the couch covered in stinky, musky hairs. "Eat me." "Monica!" Mark thrust-ed his arm into the air epic-ally and clenched his fist in a tight fist of fisty, epic triumph! "Do you know what today is?!1!?!" "You know." Monica looked down and began fiddling with her phone. "I read somewhere that using exclamation points outside of dialog is like jerking off during your own narrative." "No, you heard that on Marley and Me, which was way too depressing for a movie about a dog!" Mark stood up on the couch, raising his fist of power even higher. "Today is an extraordinarily stupendous... day, for... er, today, I begin writing our weird adventures again!" "Look, dude." Monica leaned over the couch arm dejectedly. "The last story you wrote about us literally culminated with your wife bleeding out in Okinawa after slipping on a samurai sword during a hurricane, you selling your soul to Cthulhu to save her-" "Wgah'nagl fhtagn." Mark declared for the dark lord. "-and me becoming your weird, traveling, murdering thrall." "... So?" "S-o-o-o, I don't know how we top that." "Come on, we're still young!" Mark gestured at the living room's white, normal walls, and normal, brown hardwood floor. "There all kinds of adventures we can do... have... partake." Monica flipped her phone to 'Animal' by Disturbed, and plugged one of the headphones into her ear. "Mark, there's just nothing interesting about some stupid, bald, white dude-" "..." Mark's feelings weren't hurt; nope. Not at all. "-and the weird fantasy creature he came up with in middle school," Monica gestured at the Minotaur standing in front of the TV, "screwing around watching TV or whatev-... er." Mark and Monica both stared at the... Hold on, what was it again? Minotaur? Yeah, a Minotaur. They stared at the Minota- "Female fur creature!" The Minotaur's voice rattled the walls, the TV screen cracked from the shockwave, and his loin cloth shifted a little. "Aw, Christ!" Monica threw her phone against the Minotaur's massive chest muscles. "I can already see where this is going!" She slapped Mark upside his bald head. "Ow!" "You rape-fantisist!" "Hey, what, I-" Mark was speechless. "I don't know what's happening! I'm not doing this." The Minotaur took a massive, hooved step towards Monica. "Female, I am enticed by your supple-" So she pulled out her Glock 23 and blew his head off. "Woah, Jesus!" Mark jerked into a ball on the couch, knees tight, eyes wide. "That's what I think of that!" Monica slammed her handgun on the coffee table, as the Minotaur's brains and blood began to ooze all over the nice hardwood floor. "No stories about us, and no weird shit." Monica pointed at Mark. "Got it!?" "Yeah yea yea, no problem. The end." "Oh no you don't!" Monica pointed harder, scarier. "Do it right!" The End
Day 21 "Engage multi-phase, omni-directional accelerators!" "Roger!" At the command I form the most awesome pose I can think of, tighten by blue space-suit spandex-ed butt cheeks glistening in the starlight, and promptly forget half of my training. "What?" "That means take off, newbie!" Master Ambassador Puretide smacks the back of my helmet, giving me a helpful 'head start' away from the ship towards my first real negotiate-ee. Fingering my palm engages the rocket pod on my back, and I fly V-visor first towards the... "Whoa." A Xen'dellian mind wyrm flays about against the black and white polka-dot skirt of space, it's ten primary bloom heads poofing acidic spores against the hull, its mega-womps grating and pusstulating against the emergency hatch. "You forgot the javis hoiks." My team mate is right on time, orange butt-cheeks settling behind me as we soar towards the creature/plant. "Pff, no one cares about those- acid!" I finger my palm and shift to the left, my team mate shifting right. The corrosive blob soars past us straight at- "Thank you, sir!" I hear the Ambassador's melting voice, as the acid sears and melts through his suit, helmet, and body. "I greet you in kind, in peaaglrb." "Looks like you just got promoted!" My teammate takes a quick pic of the oozing Ambassador with his thumb-cam. "Should I post the casualty report on flinder, or space-book? "Put that phone away nerd!" I flip and spin, dodging a hoik. "Mark the ship! I'm going in!" Boosting hard, I close straight towards the wyrm's face/beak. The G-force pushes my face back, but I tense up to stay sorta-conscious. I reach for my negotiator prompts-cards, trying to judge the optimal way past the mass of strange appendages towards the eye of the creature. Too late. A bloom head thwacks me hard, my flight interrupted, my legs, waist, and arms soaking into the ooze, my shoulders and head sticking out stupidly. Shortest mission ever. "Hey, dude!" The mega-eye turns towards the hull. The motion whips me upside down, as the creature's huge body turns towards... my teammate... "You know..." I rip my hand out and point, ooze flopping from my hand into space. "... I don't even know your name." "I'll tell you if we live." He steps boldly towards the creature, hands on hips, and points at one of the numerous holes burnt into the hull. "No!" "Er..." I don't remember this being on any of the prompt-cards. "Bad!" He points at the wyrm. "No!" He points at the ship. "Look at this mess." Just when I consider sending two more casualty reports, the head releases me and begins to shrivel. I boost away and turn, just in time to see the massive wyrm retract all it's feelers and spores, the segmented body withdrawing into a small coil. I watch teammate as he demonstrates the first rule of the Para-negotiator: Control how the negotiation starts, and you control how it ends. "This is horrible, horrible damage to the ship..." He points at the creature. "Sir!" As I land the creature begins to slink away. I follow my teammate's lead. "Sir, ma'am!" I beckon the creature over. "Would you please come look at this damage!?" The wyrm looks away. "Sir, this is some horrible damage!?" The wyrm looks guilty, slinking sideways towards us, but refusing to look. "Oh yes, horrible damage." My teammate shakes his head. "I don't know if we can talk now." "No!" The voice rips my mind in half. I now have two personalities. "We can still talk." Oh good, my mind is back- "I didn't know meat creatures were living here." Crap, three I think. "Well sir, me and my three butt-cheeks are living very happily in the currents the river styx-" "Personality split." I mumble... I think. "Oh, that makes sense- shut up! Er, me and..." With my teammate's mind still split, I quickly take over. "Sir, these damages might be overlooked, IF we can set a time at a neutral location to discuss communication methods that don't rip apart our minds." I pull up my thumb phone. "Are you free on..." I flick my oozy, thumb phone shut and pull out a piece of plastic paper. "Are you free on..." I snap my fingers in front of teamey's face. "You got a pen?" "Dave Razer, but my friends call me John." "I didn't ask your name, gimme a pen, dork!" The End
Day 1 It's clear, as soon as the muscular pair of biceps with a screaming head between them faces me- "Put that wrench down, you're gonna cause a WAARR!!" -That I am in the wrong place. "What's your name, scumbag!? "Betty Baxter. Er... Mr... I think I'm in the wrong-" "From this moment on any words from your disgusting, warlike mouths will begin and end with Sir!" The knot of muscles in the muscle-shirt and muscle-hat turns to the line of cowering, doe-eye people. "Do you hear me!?" "Sir, yes sir!" The response is loud and militaristic, the voices of the tight bodied women and men echoing off the low white ceiling and rattling the metal bunk beds. Definitely the wrong place. My thoughts are interrupted as a muscular 'knife-hand' jabs into my temple. "Oooww-" And a muscular face closes within a centimeter from mine "Did you hear me, war-monger!" "Sir, Ow, sir!" I yell. "Miss Backer, why did you join my beloved Para-Negotiator Corps?!" Finally, a chance to voice my concerns. "Sir, I think I might have stood in the wrong line for taco tuesda-" "Wrong!" His knife-hand pokes me harder. "You joined to save lives!" He jerks the hand away, and walks away down the line of people. "Human lives!" His back is towards me. "Alien lives!" He is walking away. "Interdenominational lives." I leave the line of victims. "All creatures deserve peace!" And begin to tiptoe towards the hatch. "And peace is what we will give them!" I am a meter from the door, freedom so close. "In the Para-Negotiator Corps!" His voice is right behind me. I spin around just in time for muscle man to press his nose into my nose. "Hey." His breath is hot against my mouth, although minty fresh. "Where you going?" His tone has totally changed. He is not yelling. His voice is calm. Deadly calm. "I-I, sir, I..." There is nothing in my brain right now. I did not know that a simple glare could destroy one's ability to form coherent thoughts. "I'm not sure-... there's... there were tacos." "Do you hate aliens? "No!" "Do you hate peace?" "No nono-" "Your persuasion skills are sloppy, Miss Buttster." "I am sooo sorry, Mr. Sir-" My collar is in my throat, as the muscular monster pulls me up from the floor. "CONVINCE ME PEACE IS THE ANSWER, MAGGOT!!!!" "AAAHHH!!!" I feel my argument is valid. I hope he thinks so. "AAAHHH!!!" His response is hard to read, but I think he is pleased. "You've just gotten your entire race killed!" Darn it. "But that's just FIIINE!" The volume he manages to put into the word 'fine' might have chipped one of my teeth. "We'll fix you." My heart freezes at the word we'll. "Oh space Jesus." The hatch opens behind me. "There's more of youOUGH." Another fist, a massive knot of bone muscle, bashes into my back and shatters my spine. "What the PEACE, recruit!?" The new, muscular-er voice is already heaping on the failure. "You call that a spine!?" The new muscle-wad grabs my face and pulls my head back to look at his knot-face. "Convince me to accept the need for all five prime genders to have equal opportunities in the workforce, while simultaneously communicating the need for children to stop working and stay at home with parental figures serving as strong custodians of oral and kinetic tradition NOOWW!!" "Huuugghh." "WRONG!" ----------- I slam my shoulder into the door, hop into the zero gravity, and pull my med kit up to my face. The plasma wad smacks into the kit as I float into the room. My two team mates take the corners of the room, med kits up, knees tight to the body. I discard the kit before it melts through my gloves, again, and float towards the back of the room. A naked peace-instructor, wearing a giant fish helmet with ten eyes, is aiming a rifle at my exposed form, his muscular muscularity tight and threatening. "Hello, friend!" I declare quickly. He fires the rifle, and I roll backwards in flight, careful to maintain my forward momentum. The plasma passes between my legs. "Congratulations on making contact with humans!" I spin back up to face him and stomp down, planting myself a meter away. "Please accept this gift as a token of peace!" I reach into my breast pocket and whip out the 'Aquatic card', a postcard with a lovely ocean and swimming aquatic creatures depicted in gentle, peaceful- "I am enticed!" The 'Fishman' rips the card from my hand and throws it at my face, the corner bouncing off of my helmet visor. "However! I find your clothes offensive to my culture and people!" Using my emergency shoulder loops, I rip off the neutral colored jumpsuit and toss it aside. Boots, helmet, and air tank are all that remain, my pale form exposed to the radiation pouring into the room. "Sir, I regret to inform you that your atmosphere is hostile to my organic type-" "I wish to discuss trade possibilities." "Aw, Jesus Chris-" My Faux Pas is instantly punished by a muscular muscle flying across the room, her knife-hand chopping against my neck in punishment. "Introducing foreign, dogmatic religions to alien cultures. WRONG!" ------- Later, in another- "WRONG!" ---- I burst into the room and smack the muscle in the giant bird-face. "Wron- DUR!" I engage in a powerful, non-aggressive, slouch shouldered, double handed 'stop' signal "Stay calm, friend!" I whip out the avian card and slap it across the avian's eye holes. "TWEET tweet, and welcome to the best day of your life!" I dodge the claw and grab the wing, facing the second avian as it attempts to interrupt negotiations. "Support up!" My team mate flies in and 'negotiates' the first avian right in the face. "What is-" "Stay calm!" I scream into the beak of the second avian, the two of us floating towards the ceiling. "I understand that your people-" I kick off of the ceiling, making sure to push us away from the other negotiation rolling and punching in the corner. "-Are having trouble achieving deep space flight sustainability-" I tether myself to a wall, pinning the avian's arms with my legs. "-Due to governmental differences wherein the two prime planetary nations-" The avian tries to peck me, but I slap the mask head hard. The helmet turns completely around, the beak and eyes facing away from me. "-continue to oppose each other's overall political climates." "Sexual appeasement commencing." Damn it, my partner's dropped the ball, ew, and can only delay at this point. "I wish for sexual-" I slap the international, multi-party, political card across 'front-back' of my avian's backwards face. "Sex is only a short term solution to a long term problem! I extend an invitation to afternoon, pleasurably thermally-altered, caffeinated beverages, for your two parties to discuss grievances, so a lasting peace can be achieved on your planet, and your race can spread your wings in the glory of holy flight-" I grab the bird head and scream at the scalp, my very soul pressed into my words. "-not just in your atmosphere, but in the beautiful, limitless winds of SPACE!" A slow, careful, muscular clap extends from above us. Looking up, my heart races, as a muscular peace-instructor smiles down at me. "Well done, Miss Baxter." --------- Graduation is a sea of dark military uniforms surrounded by colorful civilian attire. I have seen so many of these graduations, but this time, I am in the center. Tears stain my face, as my favorite muscle stops in front of me. He turns to face me. I close my eyes, bearing shattered, palm open and quivering. A small, metallic weight falls into my hand. From this moment onward... "Say it now, PN." "Show no fear in the face of the warlike. Remain brave and upright that my message remains above reproach. Spread peace, always, even if it leads to my death. Safeguard the helpless, and do no wrong." ...Everything will be different
Day 981 Nothing makes me happier than food. Except repairing things... or guns. No... "Betty." Let me start over. There are three things I can't stand. "Betty." One is- "Betty." "Augh." I glare at Jethro, the second thing I can't stand. "What?!" "I'm..." Jethro looks uncomfortable. His hands wring in front of his waist, and he is avoiding eye contact. His tool belt is catty-wompus, and he has missed a button on his jumpsuit. "I'm gonna go repair something... for my self-education bonus points." "... Okay, so?" My comment about not standing Jethro was mean. He's my best friend, although sometimes he can be a little slow. "Well... I don't want to mess the repair up." "... That would be bad, yes." What is he trying to say? What does he want? "It's a robot." I shut the computer sandwich and put it in the fridge. I don my cleanest looking coveralls and a pair of blacked-out goggles. As I grab my wrench he raises his hands defensively. "If you're not comfortable in this kind of situation-" I slap his forehead gently. "Bro, don't you say another word." I shoulder my massive wrench. "I'm here for you." ---------- I glare down at the mechanical masochist masterfully. It doesn't look damaged. Typical robot. "Greeting's hu-mons." The robot rotates on it's wheels to face me and beeps towards my waist. "I did not know this was a two per-son job." "Uh oh." Jethro is already uncomfortable. Time for me to step up. I aim my wrench at the robot. "Mr. 1010110010 tac Bot Ver. 8.1, please explain your damage immediately." "Yes, of course." The robot pops open the hatch on the front of it's torso, a patchwork of gears and doodads revealed. "As you can see, the dam-age is real, and not fake." I still see no damage, suspicions growing in my chest- "I don't see any damage, Betty-" "I know, Jethro! Jeeze!" I turn back to the robot. "I said 'explain' the damage." "I am not sure exactly- Oh the pain." The robot sputters and jerks. "Such horr-i-ble dam-age to my..." A small arm raises in front of the robot's speaker/face, a little prompt card held aloft. "... Parts." "Are those 'lines'?" I cut straight through this charade. "Not at all." The robot lowers the card. "Space English is not my first lan-guage, I am..." A long, slow, arduous pause fills the space air. "... Al-ban-i-an." "Okay, let's see what's wrong." I do a double take as Jethro steps towards the liar and kneels next to it's small form. "Where does it hurt?" "Jethro!" I watch the robot as it leans back a little, presenting it's torso to Jethro. "Thank you sir!" The robot sounds grateful. Maybe it is hurt. "As you can see, the damage is right there." "Okay." Jethro reaches into the torso. "Right there." The robot's voice sounds strange. "Hm, I'm not feeling any-" "Along the shaft." "Augh!" Jethro recoils. "All right, pervert!" I charge the robot and Jethro leaps back. I stand between them, wrench held like a space-baseball bat. "Stay back!" "No, please!" The robot thrusts at me, it's innards twisting and vibrating. Ew. "I truly am damaged!" "Keep your shaft to yourself!" I yell. "No please, I am sorry." The robot stops moving and backs away a few step... er... wheel-rolls. "I am ashamed." "You should be!" I scold the sicko. "Watch 'him', Betty!" Jethro is safe behind me, his massive form ducking behind my wide stance, cocked-wrench presence... Ew. "I could not cont-rol my robot lust, but please believe me when I say..." The robot turns around, revealing a loose wire and protruding panel. "... That I am damaged." "Oh gosh." Jethro steps forward just a little. "That's a loose thermometric transmitter." "Why didn't you just show us what was actually wrong!" Anger and concern mix in my voice. The robot does not respond right away. "I'm sorry..." It drones. "... I am a sex addict." Aw man, I think I made a pun with the drone thing. Also, ew. "Look come here, little guy." Jethro walks up to the robot and begins to reattach the wire and straighten the plate. "Next time just be honest." "Thank you sir." The robot rolls back and forth on its wheels happily. "I am lucky you came to help me." "Crazy robots." I shoulder my wrench again. This is going to make one strange repor- "Now call be Mr. Rolls while you shove it up inside nice and tight." "Safeword!" Jethro leaps away and I descend with my wrench. "Back off!" I smash the head/speaker, ew, oil spraying, ew, all over me. Robots are perverts. End
Day 27 Betty: This is an on the spot, emergency audio- hey! Corner that one-...audio log. No, wait wait! *Crashing noises* Jethro: Heya, uhm. Hey. Jethro here. We... Betty, how do I do this? Betty: Just talk into the mic, ding-a-ling! We have to record this! Jethro: I just don't- Betty: This is unprecedented! It warps all notions of time and reality! We have to documen- Hey! You drop that giant ladybug right now! Jethro: Right. So, we were trying to realign solar array fifteen, listening to some Lil'kim, when a whole batch of space cupies just appeared out of nowhere!" Betty: It's kewpie, Jethro, no cupie- Get off of that, you freaky little nudists! Jethro: It's a nightmare! They're hopping around, touching everything, rubbing their little, flat crotches all over the array- wait, ah ah AH! *Loud smack sound* Kewpie#43: Yaaayy! Hello, Mr. Space man. Would you like a song?! Jethro: Aaahhh! Betty: Don't listen! Their bubbly, childish voices will melt your brain! Kewpie#163: Loud mouth, big-butt lady is meeeaan! Betty: Hi-yah! Jethro: They're so pink! Kewpie#98: Saltwater taffy for everyone! Betty: Reader 6-4, this is Rep 7! Marine: This is Reader 6-4, send your traffic. Betty: Mayday mayday! We're under attack! Requesting rescue! Marine: Roger that, Rep 7. Do you have a description of the enemy force- Betty: Some have taffy and insects, they stole my wrench, others appear to be, like, mermaids or somethi-... Oh my space Jesus, one has a garden! Marine: ... Jethro: *moan* Radish and lilac... *cough* little, tiny little... white fence. Marine: The Corps. is on the way. We'll get you outta there, just stay calm and just hold on. Please. All Kewpies: Oh, one sunny day in May, when the world was feeling gray- Betty: They won't stop singing! Augh, the singing! Marine: I said survive, dammit! No, send the Raiders! Call back the fighters. Call back everyone! Broken arrow! Broken arrow!
Day 14 1331: Work is going slow today. Which is good, I guess. My job is to repair catastrophic damage to the ship. Still, success is boring in my line of work. I have decided a wonderful donut would help the time pass. I have a dollar left over from ladies night at the Zip Club. I should be able to uncrinkle it well enough. 1345: Unsuspected complication in my donut acquisition plan. The snack machine, once the true source of all hope in the break room, has been relocated to the outside of the space ship, right next to thermal exhaust port 281558 tac 881271. I will ask the Boss about this odd change. 1346: I have been tasked with relocating the snack machine to the inside of the ship. Alone... for efficiency. Personal note: The Boss still doesn't like me. 1459: Having risked the cold, bleak, yet beautiful void of space, I have arrived at the snack machine. Just as suspected, my heart rises and my soul glows in anticipation of a chocolate frosted, chocolate covered, chocolate donut. Although I know I should probably bring the machine in first, I am not certain I will be able to resist the siren call of- 1459:30: Nope. Donut acquired. 1515: Madness and ruination have reared their ugly, unshaven, neckbeard-ed heads. While trying to enjoy my treat, I am being accosted by a massive, blue, blue-green, tentacled creature, it's body adorned with multiple beaks and feelers, it's mind possessed with just the worst attitude. He says he's an ambassador, or something stupid, and is asking to meet our leader or something dumb. Donut acquisition occurred less than fifteen minutes ago, and I don't appreciate donut-time interruptions, his blabby voice disrupting the lovely taste and feel of chocolate fluff in my mouth. I have no choice. I key my wrench radio. Initiating protocol 0311. 1530: Marine Enforcers, along with elements of the 750th Ranger Battalion, have reduced the invader to a pulpy mess. A whole kilometer of the ship is now a black, bloody, smoking crater of freedom. I have been offered a 'contract marriage' and a 'cold one' for finding such a juicy target for the jarbrains and tantops. I'll decline the marriage, but a beer sounds like a good chase to this donut. 1531: Not beer. Much harder. Dang Marines. 1535: Unex-shpected damage to the sshhip. Break over. Time to friggn' fix shump'ting.
Day one. In space, everything breaks, and nothing works. That sounds redundant, but in reality, understanding the difference between those two ideas is what truly distinguishes a true Spacegineer from an idiot with a wrench. I have a theory... maybe. Take my space suit. Before I exited that airlock back there, I was confident it would be the most important thing I needed out here today. The outer layer was hole free, the inner layer was clean. Air tank attached properly, claw boots sharp and magnetized, glove tread ripe and friction-y. I could see my lovely face in the visor, buffed to a crystal clear, translucent shine. But there's no friggin' tool belt loops on any of these suits. So, if I forget my personal tool belt, shut up, then there's no built in reminder on the suit itself to help me realize that it's not there. I have to float fifteen thousand meters, which takes soooo suuuper long, you guys, attach to the broken shield generator, and reach for a tool. Only then is the black emptiness of space replaced by the black emptiness of my toolbeltless waist! My daddy once told me something about being dyslexic, back when I was a little tyke. Something I'll never forget. He said. "Betty! Stop being dyslexic!" I try to live by that mantra every day, struggling against a dumb brain what learns too slow and remembers too much. I can tell you every thing I've ever fixed, how I fixed it, and what part of my body was damaged in the process. But right now, in this moment, I have no idea what to freaking do. Guess I'll wing it.