Astro-Nuts

by Logan Hunder

  “I’m surprised Donald and Whisper still aren’t back yet.”

  “Ah, cut ’em some slack. It’s a tough job.”

  “It’s literally the easiest job we’ve given them this whole trip.

  “I still don’t get why we have to send poor Willy away. I mean, we got his stomach pumped. After a couple days of R&R I’m sure he’ll be good as new!”

  “Tim, this stuff could potentially be existential-threat level dangerous. I already told you: just because we pumped his stomach doesn’t mean there won’t potentially be any left in his system. If it eats him then we’ll have a Willy-sized blob of the stuff running rampant on our ship. Grey goo, purple goo, Space Jam, the Blob, whatever you wanna call it, is no joke. There’s a reason sci-fi authors have used it as a lazy plot device since the genre was invented.”

  “Hey, look, Whisper and Donny are back!”

  He was correct, Whisper and Donald were indeed back from the dealership across the road. Neither one made a beeline back to the ship, either. In fact, their pace could have been described as leisurely, as Donald twirled a ring of keys on one finger and Whisper lagged behind to look at the different shops.

  “Here.” He shoved the keys into the captain’s hand. “Wasn’t the fanciest one he had, but should be fine for what we plan to do with it.”

  “Well look at you, Donny! Walking right on into a suspicious Space Winnebago dealer and even taking the time to browse. So much for being scared of being affiliated with the kinds of guys that hang out at these places, eh!?”

  “Well, it’s a little late to be scared, seeing as I am already on god knows how many shit lists now!” Donald frowned. “But after everything we’ve been through, I will admit this place isn’t so bad by comparison.”

  “And it beats going with Willy,” Kim added.

  “That too. Where is he, anyway?”

  “Still inside. Should be out in a bit.”

  “Are . . . Are you gonna tell him?”

  “Am I going to have to?”

  Whisper, who until this moment had been lost in thought, snapped out of it just in time to see all eyes upon her.

  “What?” She asked, ready to get defensive. “I did what you wanted; the autopilot knows where to go.”

  Cox blinked at a rapidly accelerating pace the longer she went without adding to that thought.

  “He can still change the course, though, right?!”

  “Yeah, yeah, if he’s still alive in a week, he can change it to wherever he wants. Or he could just keep on going. I dunno. He could want that . . .”

  It seemed like a barbaric treatment, but there was nothing in the company handbook about how to deal with an alien-parasite infection. The Space Winnebago had been stocked with the best food and entertainment this desolate collection of barebones boutiques could offer. Provided everything went smoothly, there would be no reason for their haggard security guard to even know he was in any more danger. Instead, for all he should know, that gigantic missile they were locking him inside was nothing more than an opportunity for some privacy and recovery from such a burdensome few days.

  “Heyyy, there’s the man of the hour!” The captain announced, partially to greet Willy and partially to tell everyone else to shut up. “How’re ya feeling, buddy?”

  “I’m okay, I guess.” The big man gingerly touched at his belly. “Still feel a little funny, but my gut doesn’t hurt as much.”

  “Well, that’s fantastic!”

  “I’m glad to hear you’re okay, Willy,” the much-less-enthusiastic voice of Kim added. “We actually have a surprise for you. No, Tim, he doesn’t need the blindfold. Just . . . come with us.”

  They guided him with an eagerness a more-intelligent man would have found suspicious. On the other side of the path was an undoubtedly reputable small business called Dick’s Fairly Reliable Rigs. The door screeched like a hoarse pterodactyl when they flung it open. Wind chimes fashioned from old vehicle parts dripped grease from the ceiling, making the floor slick and difficult to navigate. Yet the surly old stereotype that ran the place had no trouble dashing up to them so fast his trucker hat nearly flew off.

  “Well, howdy there, folks! I’m Dick and boy do I have— oh, you aren’t new customers.” He threw a thumb over his shoulder and walked away. “Yer buggy’s in the back.”

  Another set of squeaky doors, another unintelligible mishmash of machine parts posing as art, and then they were on the lot. From there, it was Donald who took the lead. It was only through his memory that they were able to navigate the labyrinth of junkers and lemons before finally coming to a stop in front of a hunk of metal that was magnificent, state of the art, and completely rust-free—however many decades ago it was manufactured.

  “And here we are. The Auto Von Bismarck.” He paused for a moment to stare at it before turning around.

  “It’s the Germans that always make good stuff, right?”

  “Cool! . . . But why did you buy me a space boat?”

  “It’s for a cruise, Mister Padilla!” Cox clamped a hand on his shoulder and joined in the marvelling. “As a thanks for all your hard work! It’s all stocked with goodies and pre-programmed to fly you around for a few weeks while you kick back and let the stress of the mission just drift away.”

  “Cool! . . . But what about you guys?”

  “Uh. We . . . we are also going to be kicking back and letting the stress of the mission . . . also drift away.”

  “Ooh, I gotcha! . . . But why are you guys going without me?”

  Donald cleared his throat in a very loud and fake manner.

  “We aren’t! We . . . each got our own cruise as well. That one over there is mine.”

  He shrugged and grimaced at the rest of his crew while Willy inspected the alleged ship.

  “Oh I see! . . . but how come you got one held together by duct tape?”

  Kim took her turn to intervene, dashing over and redirecting the man’s attention back to the first one.

  “Due to budgetary constraints, we splurged and got you one nicer than ours. Since you made the biggest sacrifice and everything.”

  “Oh! . . . Well, that’s real nice of you guys, but I don’t need—”

  “Can you just get into it already!?” Whisper snapped. Three wide-eyed angry looks and one clueless gawp made her recoil and add: “ . . . Uh, because we’re all waiting to go get on ours.”

  With collective peer pressure finally quelling his inquisitive quality, Willy climbed the rickety steps of his unwitting prison and turned around.

  “Ah, I’m just messing with you guys!” He said with a wave. “I know what you’re trying to do here.”

  Each feigned their own interpretation of what a confused person looked like.

  “You . . . you do?” The captain finally asked.

  “Well, duh! Everybody knows ships made of duct tape can’t fly in space.”

  “M—maybe not normal duct tape! But this is special . . . space-grade duct tape!”

  “Why are you still lying, dude? You know I’m onto ya!”

  The captain was at a loss. If Willy really was onto them, he did not seem angry in the slightest. In fact, he seemed happier than ever. As each painful silent second ticket by, Cox became more and more anxious, until finally Kim’s voice erupted from behind them.

  “OH MY GOD.”

  Everyone turned around to find her rubbing her face with her palm, phone in her other hand.

  “Ya got us, Willy,” she continued. “Happy Birthday.”

  The big fella grinned.

  “Thanks, dudes! Oh boy, this is gonna be fun.”

  The door clanged shut behind him, eerily reminiscent of a cell. Or perhaps a bomb shelter. Either way, momentarily afterward, the thrusters commenced burning and the remaining crew of the Jefferson made a mad dash out of the line of fire. When they emerged on the other side of the car lot, Willy and his haul were just a bright speck in the sky among all the other stars, potentially off to literally join one of them.
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br />   “Godspeed, sweet prince,” Cox murmured.

  “I can’t believe I might actually miss that glorious idiot,” Kim added.

  Crises averted and core crew intact, they embarked back toward the Jefferson. Somehow throughout all of this, their rhodium cargo had still survived and was thus ripe for the delivering. Any potential shot at an early-bird bonus had long since been missed, but one of the few perks of the job was their boss’s complete ambivalence towards employees accused of criminal wrongdoing. So long as shipments came, they could have an actual reincarnation ofJoseph Stalin onboard and no damns would be given. That being said, obtaining a list of places from which they were now unwelcome would likely be a necessary move going forward.

  “I’m gonna miss him too.” The captain smiled one last time up at the stars. “If you told me when we first met him that we were going to end up shooting him into the sun, I would never have believed you.”

  Kim shrugged. “I would.”

  “I hope our next security guard is actually good at his job,” Donald grumbled.

  “After that disaster?” The first mate spat. “We’re not getting another one.”

  “Baby, how can you not want another one!? He was so friendly. And easygoing. And obedient. AND he kinda kept us safe, sorta.”

  “Let’s just get a dog then, Tim.”

  The trip back to the ship had gone down without incident until, unbeknownst to them at first, they managed to attract some attention. With their beloved home still a stone’s throw under diminished gravity away, a woman appeared from the dingy and decrepit landscape to accost them. Despite being every bit as dirty as the other lowlifes, something in the way the petite blonde carried herself gave the impression that this was a lifestyle she was not accustomed to.

  “Excuse me, did I hear you say you wanted a dog?”

  “No.”

  “Cause this little guy right here is just the bestest, awesom-est, most lovingest little cutie wootie ever. I wish I could keep him, but the stupid police keep making it hard for me to collect my alimony checks, so I can’t take care of him anymore.”

  “Ma’am, we don’t even know you—”

  “TAKE MY DOG! TAKE HIM! LOVE HIM! DO IT!”

  Without waiting for a response, the deranged woman dropped the leash she held and stole away back into the desolation. Maybe it was the way the little guy seemed just as confused as they were, or maybe it was the way he made no attempt to follow his owner, but something about his being in their company now just seemed right. He did not flinch in the slightest when Cox came over and knelt down to read his tags.

  “Well, this isn’t the weirdest thing that’s happened to us lately,” he said over his shoulder. When he retrieved the leash and stood back up, it seemed his mind had been made. Yet just for the sake of keeping up appearances, he posed the question to the crew anyway.

  “So what do you think, guys? Should we have some more adventures with our new security guard here? Officer . . . Woody.”

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  LOGAN J. HUNDER is A Canadian comedy writer who breaks into a wicked case of the shakes if he goes more than a half hour without making fun of something. He treats this rare self-diagnosed illness by rambling via text. His first novel, Witches Be Crazy, was published by Night Shade Books in 2015.