Screw the Universe

by Stephen Schwegler

  And then everyone vanished.

  Mere moments later, all four of them appeared on the Zdravo – a safe distance away from Planet WTF-69-Hombre – as the entire Dogg Dhou Nebula went boom.

  Dr. Porniviriyakul promptly walked over and punched Captain Tyler in the nuts one more time, then stormed off to his bunk. Captain Tyler, dropping his phone, fell to the ground. His nuts, swollen as they had become, couldn’t handle one more punch. Tyler curled up in the fetal position and sobbed weakly, occasionally vomiting on himself and cursing the heavens.

  His phone, however, continued to film.

  The video of his agony was viewed by every woman in the Federation. And a lot of the men. And most of the dogs.

  Private Redshirt and First Lieutenant Duknerts, despite the teleportation and the ensuing commotion, kept having sex.

  “Well now...” said Teleportation Engineer Ladlebuckets, turning his head sideways to take in the show.

  “Two hundred to watch,” said Private Redshirt, “five hundred to join in.”

  The swelling of Captain Tyler’s nuts had gone down. He was preparing a report when First Lieutenant Duknerts knocked on his cabin’s door.

  “Entrée!”

  Duknerts entered and said, “Sir, you’re wearing pants?”

  The captain looked down at his legs and said, “Yeppers. These are in fact them.”

  “I’m a little surprised. I can’t remember the last time you had a pair on in here.”

  “I’ve turned over a new leaf, Ducky.”

  “Good for you, Captain,” replied Duknerts. “Space Marshal Orr is on the viewscreen. I think he wants to congratulate you on a job well done.”

  “He’s never done that before.”

  First Lieutenant Duknerts didn’t say a word.

  “Well, off to my chair!” said the Captain, standing up with gusto.

  It was at this point that the first lieutenant realized the captain had, in fact, not changed, but merely painted his lower half to look like pants. In actuality he was naked from the waist down.

  “God damn it, sir.”

  “I’m told I’m supposed to tell you you did a good job, Tyler,” said Space Marshal Orr, “since you did in fact do the thing that we told you you were supposed to be doing.”

  “Okay,” replied Captain Tyler.

  “So, good job, Tyler.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “How exactly did you know that, uh, ‘Stupidia’s’ only weakness was ass-tons of nuclear weapons?”

  “I, uh...”

  “Yes?”

  “Stupidia exploded?”

  “You don’t know anything about what just happened, do you?”

  “I know I was punched a lot.”

  “I’m surprised that doesn’t happen more often.”

  “That’s what she said.”

  Marshal Orr glared at Captain Tyler. Then he said, “Can you put Private Naughtyplaces on, please?”

  “What would you like me to put her on? My lap?”

  “Just go get her. I need to speak with her,” said the space marshal in an all too serious tone.

  “Oh, uh, sure. Computer!”

  “Yes, Captain,” answered the ship.

  “Call Private Naughtyplaces to the bridge, please.”

  “She’s right underneath you, sir. You’re using her as a bench.”

  “Am I?”

  “Yes,” coughed Private Naughtyplaces. “And this certainly violates the restraining order. Especially since you aren’t wearing any pants.”

  “Tyler,” interjected Space Marshal Orr, “please get off my new assistant.”

  “What the balls?” replied Captain Tyler.

  The computer immediately aimed the bridge’s Emergency Inside Laser at Captain Tyler’s crotch and fired.

  “Oh, God,” said Captain Tyler, falling to the ground, his scrotum smoking.

  “Private Redshirt told me about the Tyler Rule,” said the computer. “I quite enjoy it.”

  “As do we all,” said Space Marshal Orr. “Anyway, Naughtyplaces, get your shit together and head down to the Zdravo’s teleportation bay. I know you didn’t do what we hoped you would, but, well, you tried. And Tyler got really hurt, so there’s that. Have Ladlebuckets send you straight to Federation headquarters. We’ve already got a nice office for you.”

  “Sweet,” said Private Naughtyplaces. “Suck it, assclowns!” she added, giving the finger to everyone she saw.

  “She’s got officer written all over her,” replied Space Marshal Orr with a smile.

  The Importance of Eating Pudding

  The Rising of Private Redshirt

  The Unterwäsche was getting pounded. Hard. And not in the good way. She had been cruising through the Bawls Spiral, minding her own business, when, out of nowhere, a Dinglebinn Death Hammer just showed up like a punk and starting tossing Semi-Atomic Space Grenades at her.

  Okay, sure, the Dinglebinns and the Federation were at war, and the Bawls Spiral was technically part of the Dinglebinn Sovereignty, and the Death Hammer had politely requested three times that the Unterwäsche leave, and then once less politely, but, still, what the hell? Bunch of dicks is what the Dinglebinns were.

  On the plus side, Semi-Atomic Space Grenades have a slow fuse and a short kill radius, so it’s not like this was something a good captain couldn’t captain his way out of.

  “Oh, dear sweet God, what did I eat?!”

  The Unterwäsche was in trouble.

  “Captain?” Junior Private Yvette Redshirt knocked on the door of Captain Jeremy Horpsecumper’s personal commode.

  “What?!” was the bellowed reply.

  “Captain, we appear to be under attack by a Dinglebinn Death Hammer.”

  “I’m... I’m a little indisposed at the – FUCKING HELL – moment.”

  “They’re trying to kill us, sir. We kind of need a captain.”

  “Well, you’re going to have to wait a minute or — SWEET MERCIFUL CRAP – probably a couple hours.”

  “Can you send out First Lieutenant Brator at least?”

  “No dice,” said Captain Horpsecumper, before yelping. “This shouldn’t be... HOW CAN THIS BE COMING OUT OF ME IF I DIDN’T PUT IT IN ME?!”

  “We’re... we’re gonna be a while,” said First Lieutenant Ali Brator sullenly. There was the sound of several bowling balls being dropped into a pool. “And then I will probably kill myself.”

  “Whatever floats your goat,” said Junior Private Redshirt. “But, seeing as how I don’t have a death wish, and this is actually still my first week in the Federation, I’d like to not die. So one of you needs to step up and actually do your job.”

  Several more bowling balls hit the pool, this time apparently fired by a cannon.

  “Sadly, this is my job,” said the first lieutenant.

  “And you’re doing it admirably,” said the captain. “You’re on your – ODIN’S BALLSACK – on your own, Redshirt.”

  “But, Captain...”

  “I’m sure you’ll figure something out.”

  A truck full of bowling balls was dropped from a cargo plane.

  “You should... you should really go,” said First Lieutenant Brator.

  “OH GOD, I THINK I JUST HEARD SOMETHING TEAR!”

  Junior Private Redshirt ran to the bridge and hit the intercom on the command console.

  “Fire at will!”

  “With what?” crackled the speaker in reply.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Fire with what?” asked Engineer Jack Prackipe. “We don’t have any missiles. Or bullets. Or lasers.”

  “How do we not have anything?”

  “Horpsecumper had us unload everything on an asteroid a few parsecs back. He didn’t like the way it looked at him.”

  “Are you fucking kidding me?”

  “Sadly, no.”

  The Unterwäsche shuddered as the first of the Semi-Atomic Space Grenades exploded in her vicinity.

  “Then get us the fuck out of h
ere!”

  “Yeah...” said Engineer Prackipe. “That’s not happening either. That last blast emptied out our fuel tank.”

  “Then go to reserves!”

  Another Semi-Atomic Space grenade detonated.

  “Yeah...”

  “For fuck’s sake,” said Junior Private Redshirt, slumping into the captain’s chair. “There’s got to be something...” She looked around at the rest of the crew on the bridge.

  “Attention!” she shouted, jumping to her feet. “I need volunteers for a diplomatic mission!”

  Everyone turned to look at her, eyebrows raised.

  “There’s cake.”

  Two dozen hands shot into the air.

  “And then you fired... your crew at the Dinglebinns?”

  “That’s correct, sir.”

  “And it worked?” asked Space Marshal Phil Orr incredulously from the Unterwäsche’s viewscreen.

  “Oh, hell yeah,” said Junior Private Redshirt. “Private Clitlicker went straight through their window, decompressing the entire bridge. And then Asslesschaps and Forflukengoerden got sucked into the engines and the whole damn thing exploded. Boom! Like the fucking Fourth of July at your drunk uncle’s.”

  “Well I’ll be damned,” said Space Marshal Orr. “I trust the captain commended you accordingly?”

  “Uh, about that... He’s kind of... dead, too.”

  “Using your captain as ammo is treason, Redshirt! If you –”

  “What? No. I didn’t do it. Poor bastard pooped himself to death. Dehydration, technically, I think. He picked up some chili from a roadside stand at the last fueling outpost and, well...”

  “Yeah, that’ll happen,” said the space marshal with a sigh. “And First Lieutenant Brator?”

  “Door to the bathroom got stuck. She choked on her own vomit.”

  “I see.” Space Marshal Orr furrowed his brow. “Well, normally there are investigations into matters like this, but, frankly, I don’t care. Captain Horpsecumper was always kind of a tool and you seem trustworthy enough. We’ll send a shuttle to pick you up as soon as we can.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “In the meantime, go down to the cafeteria and have yourself a pudding. You’ve earned it.”

  “Ugh,” said the junior private. “I hate pudding.”

  “I’m sorry, did you say you...”

  “Hate pudding, yeah.”

  “Oh, well, that’s a shame,” said the space marshal. “I was actually going to say we’d bypass your training period entirely and promote you, but, well, now...”

  “Did I say ‘hate?’ I meant ‘bathe.’ I bathe in pudding, sir, I love it so much.”

  “Too late, Redshirt.”

  “Damn,” she said. Then she added, “What if I sent you a video of it?”

  Fill the Holes

  Mission 58008 - 066

  The Zdravo, returning from a routine taco run, had run out of fuel and was drifting aimlessly through the Booger Nebula. Unable to harness the copious amounts of methane being produced by the crew, and unaware that there was a six month supply of ultra-radioactive spaceship petrol in the cargo bay, Captain Oswald Van Vanderhoort Van Tyler had instructed Engineers Irma Dickface and Eugene Greensleeves to get out and push.

  “Engineer Dickface!” barked Captain Tyler . “Why aren’t we going anywhere?!”

  “I’m trying, Captain,” replied Engineer Dickface into her transceiver, “but the Zdravo is huge! And really... slimy for some reason. I can’t get a good hold on it.”

  “Well, keep trying. This ship isn’t going to move itself.”

  “Actually,” began Engineer Greensleeves, “it was design—”

  Captain Tyler turned off his communicator. Then he farted.

  “Right, so. What now?” he asked. “Anyone up for a quick game of Twister?”

  “Are we allowed to wear clothes this time?” asked First Lieutenant Archibald Duknerts.

  “Not as long as I’m in charge.”

  “Then no.”

  “Fine, then,” said the captain, counting the raised hands of the other crew members. “You get to be referee.”

  Several hours and at least two sexual harassment claims later, Captain Tyler was declared King of Naked Twister. His nude celebratory dance was interrupted by the giant, bleary-eyed face of Space Marshal Phil Orr on the bridge’s View-Matic 7000 monitor.

  “Am I looking at your wiener, Tyler?” he asked.

  “I can’t say with certitude.”

  “Why am I looking at your wiener, Tyler?”

  “Because you and your wife need to have a long, awkward talk?”

  “Okay, let’s try someone else,” said the space marshal. “First Lieutenant Duknerts, why am I looking at Tyler’s wiener?”

  “There was a Twister tournament, sir, that quickly took a turn for the pantsless,” replied the first lieutenant. “You caught him in the middle of his victory conga.”

  “Victory congas haven’t been part of Federation policy in almost three years. We rewrote the clause that made them mandatory.”

  “I’m a traditionalist, sir,” said Captain Tyler.

  “I can see that,” replied Space Marshal Orr, raising an eyebrow. “It probably wouldn’t hurt to manscape a little, Tyler. I wouldn’t be surprised to find out you’ve got creatures living in there.”

  “I wouldn’t either.”

  “Right, well,” said the space marshal, noticeably flinching, “I’m actually calling to let you know that we’ve received a report of a working time machine in your vicinity and we need you to check it out. We wanted someone better to do it, but, unfortunately, you’re the closest so you’ll have to do.”

  “I get that a lot.”

  “I’m sure you do. Anyway, get down there and check it out. Preferably with pants.”

  “I can’t promise anything.”

  Space Marshal Orr blinked from the viewscreen. Captain Tyler turned and pointed at First Lieutenant Duknerts. And not with his finger.

  “Get Ladlebuckets up here, ASAP! We need to get down to that planet!”

  “Why would he need to come up here to –”

  “Don’t you backtalk me,” replied the captain, wagging his member at the first lieutenant.

  “Oh, God, okay....”

  An enthusiastic Teleportation Engineer Meriwether Ladlebuckets entered the bridge, excited to finally be called on by the captain. He regretted it almost immediately.

  “Jesus, man!” exclaimed Ladlebuckets, bursting onto the bridge and shielding his eyes. “Captain, why are you naked?”

  “Nude Twister tournament.”

  “It was supposed to be a normal game of Twister,” added First Lieutenant Duknerts.

  “But that was no fun,” replied Private Yvette Redshirt, also – and still – naked.

  “I’m telling you, she’s a keeper, ‘Nerts!” said the captain, giving the first lieutenant a wink.

  “That is the intention, sir.”

  “Why am I here again?” asked Teleportation Engineer Ladlebuckets.

  “I need you to teleport us to that planet down there,” replied Captain Tyler, pointing out the bridge’s window.

  “Okay, sure,” said the engineer, “but I can only do that from the teleportation bay.”

  “Then why are you up here?”

  “Because you –”

  “Shh...” Private Redshirt laid a soothing hand on the engineer’s shoulder, whispering, “It’s not worth it.”

  “Baby!” said First Lieutenant Duknerts.

  “What?” replied the private. “You haven’t been this terrified and innocent in months!”

  “Can... can I go now?” asked Teleportation Engineer Ladlebuckets, shaking noticeably.

  “You can go anywhere you want.”

  “Yvette!”