***
In a galaxy not as far away as some might wish…
Captain Guitard of the Starship Tastipize surveyed the bridge and smiled tightly. Everything was proceeding with efficiency: the consoles were making background bleeps, the elevator was wooshing, and the communications system was making its customary chitters, as if a set of insane crickets had invaded the wiring.
True, in the twin drivers’ seats, Mr. Waiter was wearing underpants on his head, while beside him Nestley Crunch was smirking, clearly unaware of the “Dweeblet” sign on his own back. Behind Guitard, the alien security chief Whiff was making those soft growls that indicated someone had spiked his morning prune juice with coffee.
Pranking had reached a new level on the ship, from short-sheeting beds to switching people’s heads in the transploder. Doctor Crunch had even tried soaking Mr. Waiter’s bathmat so he’d short circuit and start singing show tunes with the rapidly-deteriorating remnants of his android brain, which had gone over thirty million miles without a tune-up. It had been a long week.
“Sooo.” Guitard eyed his rather worse-for-wear bridge crew. “Mr. Waiter, what are you doing?”
“Completing a 1969 crossword puzzle, writing a rather substandard haiku, analyzing the most probable weekly wash cycle of Counselor Trip’s trendy outfits, and attempting to master the accordion. Oh, and driving, sir.”
“And there is a pair of tighty-whiteys on your head because?”
“Mr. Crunch told me it would attract anomalies of the sort we are in this sector to observe. Apparently, asking the helmsman to wear them is a time-honored tradition.”
Guitard rolled his eyes. Back in his day, they’d done the same thing, ordering ensigns to find left-handed coffee cups and next week’s memos. It was good to see the fleet was upholding its fine traditions.
First Officer Biker strode onto the bridge, surreptitiously rubbing his stomach. He was tall and muscular, with good looks that attracted many alien women, though few human ones. “Sorry I’m late, sir. Someone put prune juice in my coffee.”
“Crikey! Golly jeepers!” This was Nestley, the alleged teen genius.
“Something to report, Mr. Crunch?”
“Something strange ahead, Captain.”
Guitard gestured at the flatscreen. “Make it show.”
Mr. Waiter stared, eyes extending from his artificial skull in order to zoom in. “Captain, it appears to be…an anomaly.”
Captain Guitard studied the swirling pink wobbly shape, like a mass of scented soap that wouldn’t go down the drain. Against the blackness of space, it was particularly garish, like hot pink socks with a pinstripe suit. “Indeed.” He paused. “What precisely is an anomaly?”
“Something we don’t have a name for, sir.”
“I see.”
He turned to his left, where Counselor Ditzy Trip was brushing her abundant curls. There was no purpose to having her on the bridge, but, as she had pointed out, the chairs up there were far comfier than the ones at her hairdresser’s. And the magazines were more hip. “Counselor, can you sense anything with your flimsy telepathy?”
“I’ll try.” Her face contorted in agony. “Such arrogance!” She smirked self-importantly. Then her eyes widened into a vacant expression. “And small-minded idiocy.” Ditzy straightened, face setting in determination. “Courage untempered by any kind of brains. And lots of shifting moods.” She tried to act this one out, and in the process tumbled out of her chair. Biker craned his neck, trying to see up her miniskirt. “Captain!” Ditzy stared at him, eyes so wide they were filling with tears. “It’s teenagers!”
Nestley Crunch’s head shot up. “Cool!”
“Bloody teenagers,” Guitard muttered. “First it’s spraypaint, and then they’re poking holes in the fabric of reality with their platform shoes and degenerate ways.”
“No, Captain, something’s coming through!” Biker said. Stating the obvious was his top resume-worthy skill. That and Alaskan ice fishing.
They all stared at the flatscreen, rather than, say, arming weapons, raising shields, or monitoring the monitors. At last, a strange creature appeared, part eagle, part horse, part lion, and based on its shrill cries, part speaker feedback.
“Mr. Waiter?”
Waiter tilted his head, analyzing the spectacle, and then rechecked, using the less useful solitaire game on his monitor. “Captain, it appears to be a hippogriff.”
“A what?”
“A mythological creature. In the Middle Ages they were deemed incredibly unlikely because griffons eat horses, or would if they were not also fictional. The griffons, that is, although horses appear in many fictional works from Black Beauty to Mr. Pony Uses the Potty. In British folklore—”
“Shut up, Waiter.” Guitard considered. “So we have an impossible creature that couldn’t exist anyway because half wants to eat the other half for lunch. If it weren’t also fictional. What a puzzle. I propose we compile all the research into a tidy hundred-page report…”
“Captain!” Nestley shouted. “It’s flying straight at us!” Since Mr. Waiter was busy changing the picture on the electronic solitaire cards from spaceships to fuzzy trubbles, Nestley executed a sharp right turn. Waiter flew from his seat and hurtled through the flatscreen.
Everyone paused. “Where is he?” Biker asked. A few fragments tumbled from the spider-webbed screen with its jagged hole in the center.
“There is no cause for alarm!” Waiter leaned through the hole and waved. “Fortunately, the Tastipize camera crew caught me. And they agreed to only bill us after taxes.”
“Right!” Guitard stood decisively and tugged so hard on his fake tuxedo front that it flew up and hit him in the nose. “Whiff, turn on the loudspeaker. Waiter, get back in here and start scanning for useful information. Ditzy, you too. Nestley, achieve puberty already. Biker, state something obvious.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Yes sir.”
“Sir, we’re in space.”
Ditzy gasped. “That’s just what I’ve been sensing.”
“Loudspeaker on.” Whiff eyed the screen. He only ever wanted to see something like that while drinking Klinger beverages from his unlicenced still. “And weapons charged.” His brow furrowed (even beyond its alien pre-furrowed state). “With extreme prejudice at the ready.
Guitard straightened, which allowed him to use his full vocal range. “Attention, teenage hooligans. This part of space has not been cleared for joyriding on mythical animals. In addition, you may be further endangering an endangered species, as only one exists in this universe, and it may be tempted to eat itself. Please go back where you came from or we will notify your parents.”
“No response.” Whiff reported.
“Hostile?”
“Not unusually so. Unless someone spikes my Purina Klinger chow.”
“No, I meant those…” Guitard wiped at his sleeve, as if trying to scrub away some imaginary filth… “teenagers.”
On the flatscreen, three human shapes were clear on the hippogriff’s back. They bounced in place.
“Captain, I feel I should mention that sound does not travel in space,” Waiter reported. “And since they have no spaceship, they have no way to answer our transmission.”
“Hang on,” Biker said. “How are they breathing?”
“They seem to be using a bobble-head charm.”
Guitard winced. First teens, now toys. “Surely, you mean bubble.”
“No sir.” Waiter paused. “Bobble-heads don’t require oxygen.”
The three figures looked increasingly bouncy now. Ridiculous, even.
“Captain, if we transplode them aboard, we can talk to them,” Biker said.
“And this would bring the ship’s teen population up to?”
“Still within tolerance levels,” Waiter reported, fudging the details slightly. He had nearly made the solitaire high score table.
“Very well. Transploder room two.” Guitard eyed Waiter, who still had underpan
ts on his head, and Whiff, who was fingering the stungun under his sash. “Biker, Trip, Crunch, with me.”
The trio entered the transploder room conveniently just as the beam energized. The fuzzy shape, rather like television static, solidified into one hippogriff with three teens huddled on its back, all bobble-head shaped. Then one in front waved a wand, and they changed into three normal teens. Relatively normal, anyway.
The one in front sported a devil-may-care smile and a strange wiggly scar across his forehead. Behind him was a red-haired adolescent who looked about thirteen in both age and IQ. His patchwork sweater had most likely been cobbled together from recycled handkerchiefs. Behind him sat a girl genius, evidenced by a bandolier of calculators and pocket protectors only rivaled by Nestley Crunch’s collection. She looked at Nestley. He looked at her. Then she threw up all over the transploder pad.
“Bloody teenagers!” Guitard roared. “Can’t hold their spacesickness. Biker, fetch a mop.”
“Sorry sir, it’s not in my contract to be useful.”
“Counselor?”
Ditzy’s headshake possibly indicated anything from her being on the same plan as Biker’s to her not knowing where mops were kept, or in fact, what a mop even was.
The teen in front beamed. “Great, another Brit.” His British accent was clearly pronounced.
The captain coughed. “Actually, I’m French.”
“But your accent—”
The captain coughed again. “It was decided that forcing Starfeet personnel to deal with the French on a daily basis would constitute unnecessary hazard pay.”
Horrendous retched again (possibly at the mention of the French). Her two companions didn’t react, as they only had eyes for Ditzy Trip. At their school, concealing robes were in fashion, and Ditzy’s spandex top was especially tight today.
“And I’m Commander Biker. This lady in the miniskirt you two can’t take your eyes off is Counselor Ditzy Trip, who’s responsible for keeping us all distracted.” The captain elbowed him and he jumped. “I mean, balanced.” The captain elbowed him again. “Oh, and this is the captain. He’s in charge.”
“I’m Henry Potty,” said the teen. “These are my pals Really Wimpy and Horrendous Gangrene.”
“Charmed,” Nestley said, voice cracking, as he stared across the vomit-stained transploder at the geeky Horrendous.
Guitard cleared his throat. “Perhaps Mr. Crunch here will show you three around. Starting with the infirmary where his mother can try to work out what—I mean who—you are.”
“But we don’t have time for a tour,” Horrendous screeched. “We were being chased by Demeanies who plan to suck our souls out. And we were nearly murdered by the Man in the Iron Pants who’d been a convict for twelve years, only to find out he was innocent and it was Really Wimpy’s pet chinchilla who’d done it!”
“Worn iron pants?” Biker asked.
“No, killed half the countryside,” Henry said.
“That’s what I sensed,” Ditzy said. They all ignored her.
“Anyway, the Demeanies were closing in, and I closed my eyes and waved my wand a lot and this kind of rip opened, so we flew through it and here we are.” Horrendous paused. “Where is here?”
“Ah, a question of cosmic importance. I suggest you bother Mr. Waiter. Or anyone, in fact, but me.” The captain tugged on his uniform, futilely attempting to lessen his wedgie. “Mr. Biker, I’ll expect a prompt report. And learn to spell.”
A Preposterous Portfolio of Parodies: Free Selections from Spoofs of The Hobbit, Game of Thrones, Harry Potter, Star Trek and More Page 8