Betty Baxter's Spacecraft Repair (B)Log

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.