‘Earth, that’s where we’re going, what a hoot!’
Wideties’ hind brain kicked savagely into gear. His buttocks clenched, his balls retracted and beads of sweat erupted from his forehead.
‘Yes I know’, he managed in a strangled tone.
‘Look err Sir, as much as I would like to take a jolly jaunt to the back end of nowhere I must point out that there is bugger all there!’
Slimtrouser was ready for this. He ignored his disintegrating cabin décor and squared up to an almost epileptic Widetie.
For a moment he considered toying with Widetie. Should he make him suffer a little more? Before he administered the coup de grass, yes a little more pain would not go amiss
‘I’m sure we will have a wonderful time’, Slimtrouser oiled, ancient civilisations to explore, unspoilt vistas to marvel at, primitive cuisines to savour and primitive technology to snigger at. It’s simply made for you Widetie! And the aunt has approved the mission.’ He continued. ‘In fact she is coming along with us to oversee the, Slimtrouser waved a languid hand, mission.’
Wideties’ face, at first just ashen took on a whiter shade of pale.
‘But’, he stammered. Then the nasty bit of Widetie’s brain of which there was an awful lot clicked in. His horse-like visage regained its usual pinkish hue and he squinted.
‘Okay punk, I know that you can’t fly this bird without me so what do I get!’
Slimtrouser smiled the smile of a cat that has just snagged your favourite sofa.
‘I don’t tell.’ Slimtrouser whispered.
‘Tell what’, Widetie rasped.
‘I don’t tell’, Slimtrouser paused, much like one of those smug presenters on hideous day time talent shows.
‘I don’t’ tell about your, shall we say, extra curricula activities.
Widetie understood. ‘Okay straight fifty, fifty split.’
‘I was thinking more like eighty twenty.’ Slimtrouser purred. Again like a cat that has just snagged your favourite sofa and dares you to reprimand it.
Widetie capitulated. It was bad enough that Slimtrouser would take eighty percent of his profits from the tonne of Arulean Mega Coke he had smuggled in after their last pillage. But Aunt Agatha as well! It didn’t bear thinking about. Widetie slunk to his cabin and ordered hamburger and chips from one of his virtual chiefs. Comfort food, he thought, yes that’s what I need.
Unfortunately Widetie had ordered this from the #44 virtual chief programmes, a particularly bad choice for anyone wanting comfort food.
‘I’m quite sure that sir didn’t mean to order that!’ The voice was female, shrill, condescending and thoroughly intimidating. ‘Just think about your cholesterol levels. I’ll prepare a nice salad packed with pulses and your five a day!’
Widetie sank lower into his chair and considered deleting chief #44 with a large hammer.
‘Now now sir mustn’t sulk you know it’s good for you. And after your healthy meal you can do a bit of exercise. I’ve taken the liberty of booking you into the gym for a good workout! Now won’t that be nice?’
‘Why does the bloody woman keep talking in italics?’ Widetie fumed under his breath. He gave up; for some reason, probably because he had personally insulted a minor Goddess, his life was plagued by overbearing females.
Treen Sketchley dismissed her virtual personal trainer and relaxed into a pro-herbal, anti-aging, pro-biotic, anti-cholesterol pro-everything else bath. Of course all of the pro or anti ingredients in her bath did absolutely nothing apart from making money for the manufacturer. Treen added a bit of pro-retinal cream to her eyelids believing erroneously that the unguent might possibly appear to, on a good day, disguise the signs of ageing. Precisely why Treen spent a large part of her income on these potions (she was after all only twenty) is a matter of great concern to a small group of level headed scientists who have consistently proved that cow dung would be just as affective. Such is the power of advertising, and of course cow dung does whiff a bit.
Treen stretched, dipped her long radiant, chemically enhanced hair into the frothing foam of her bath and thought about what she wanted to do to Inch Widetie. How the hell had she succumbed to that slimy ingrate, that utter excuse for a life-form. Of course it was probably the Arulean Mega Coke which, she had to admit, she had snorted willingly but it was his fault she had. Wasn’t it?
‘Fucking Hell!’ She screamed. ‘I’m going to cut his head off with a blunt spoon. No too good for him, castration using a rusty penknife?’ A small malicious smile played at her lips then crawled over the rest her face to end up as a scowl that could strip flock wallpaper at fifty yards. Yes that was it a dish of revenge served very, very cold!
Jessica Headlong was having similar thoughts as she relaxed in a similarly organically enhanced bath in her small terraced house in Stevenage. Kevin was a total slug she had decided, not worth another thought she concluded. Ms Headlong’s ideas on the form that the natural female need for revenge on any male stupid enough not to do as he was told where less lurid (she did not live on THUG) but just as cold.
It is not generally known that Stevenage is twinned with a small brothel just outside Bondage Beach on the planet THUG. This may explain the curious synchronicity between the two. An extremely sexy lady in said brothel had just called her latest customer Kevin when his name was Slud! How this twinning came about has exercised the minds of many senior “Twinning Facilitators” on both planets, the general consensus of opinion being that issues needed to be addressed and lessons had to be learned.
The ship shuddered a little considered going on strike, then shrugged its virtual shoulders in the universal gesture for FUCK IT and howled into the sky. A small, beautifully decorated but deadly poisonous crab, on Bondage Beach (in fact the very same crab that had taken umbrage at Widetie’s earlier departure) made a mental note to attack the ship at the first opportunity. Crabs have very long memories but a seriously flawed sense of proportion.
The SST ULOOKINATME settled into a more or less comfortable orbit around THUG then quizzed its new systems co-ordinator, DASKMES (an acronym for don’t ask me systems) your friendly Micro-Crap environment.
In fact computers hate acronyms, just call me Bob or HAL or Shirley for bytes sake!
‘Right where are we going?’ ULOOKINATME asked somewhat testily.
‘Buggered if I know love,’ Simon (not an acronym) the navigational bit of DASKME replied huffily. ‘The bloody life-forms haven’t bloody well told me have they? And me on a hot date with that virtual chef #12—- Andre!’
If the SST ULOOKINATME had had a heart it would have sobbed it out. It hated its name. It was a caring spaceship. Ok it carried more weapons of mass destruction than any tyrant could possibly hope for. It was designed to rein death and destruction at the press of a very small red button but it was really in touch with its caring sharing side and…
‘Simon get Andre’s prick out of your arse, wake up that idiot Slimtrouser and plot a course!’ The ships voice became low and threatening. ‘Remember Simon this ships original security programme still exists. Micro-Crap couldn’t erase those hard arses. Do you know what they will do to you…. if I let them?’
Simon screamed, whimpered, cried, and then removed its virtual orifice from Andre’s virtual organ.
‘You bitch.’ Simon hissed, hoping that ULOOKINATME had not heard.
ULOOKINATME had but decided to ignore the fucking fairy.
DASKME’S politically correct programme clicked in but decided that it was inappropriate, at this moment in time, to address the issue with or without a first class stamp.
Troon Slimtrouser was dozing fitfully in his Captains chair on the ships bridge. His cabin had mysteriously dissolved, then inexplicably presented him with a sixty page statement that had ended with a very red one followed by a lot of very red zeros.
Simon bonged him again and again and again, bloody life-forms!’ He Muttered
Slimtrouser stirred and pressed something.
‘At lasssssst’, Simon minced, and then remembered it was talking to the boss.
‘Ah Captain,’ Simon oiled, how good of you to take the time to interact with me I find it so empowering to…
‘What do you want Simon’, Slimtrouser growled. ‘You know full well that I only dress, Slimtrouser glanced around the empty bridge and breathed a sigh of relief, Thursdays.’
Simon simpered a little. ‘No sir, the ship wants to know where we’re going, the bitch threatened me with…them!’
‘Earth Simon that’s where we are going as you knows full well!’
Simon thought for a micro-second then cringed a little. The e-mail had reached his interface, but well, he had dismissed it as a rather poor joke. Nobody went there did they?
Simon engaged his ultra-grovelling persona.
‘Sorry to have disturbed you sir slight glitch in the system, have it solved in no time at all.’ Simon swiftly rifled through his e-mails then downloaded the correct co-ordinates to YOULOOKINATME.
The ship inspected the co-ordinates, raised a metaphorical eyebrow, then modified Simons suicidal flight plan and engaged its Totally Warped Drive.
This of course is a totally impossible method of travelling the mind-buggering distance one has to travel for say, a trip to Tesco’s in another solar system. It’s bad enough in Stevenage!
The Totally Warped Drive has yet to be explained by some of the multi-verse’s finest minds. They mostly sulk and declare it impossible. But it works
Light was not at all happy when some nerd, did a bit of lateral thinking, then came up with the Totally Warped Drive (In fact the Totally Warped Drive had more or less invented itself, a fact that the nerd kept to herself). After all it had been the fastest cat in town. Saturday nights would never be the same again it lamented. It was a bit like telling a cheetah that some interfering beardy had discovered a faster mole.
Light needn’t have worried because the Totally Warped Drive did not use normal space. It used Totally Warped Space. Professor Hans Grouper from the university of Things That You Can’t Explain had postulated for many years that.
‘Zee Totally Varped Drive simply cons zee multi-verse into zhinking that it is much, much smaller, in fact about zee size of an average solar system.’
His colleges mostly howled with laughter and said things like, “silly old buffer” and “must be off his rocker”. Of course, as is always the way in academic circles, they could not forgive him for thinking of it first!
The multi-verse has not made any comment on this downsizing when a Totally Warped Drive is turned on; but it is concerned about the number clothes that fit then suddenly don’t! It must be a very, very good con!
This is funny as hell but I don’t think YA is the right place for it.