“We need to focus on the problem at hand. Once we reach the docking bay we will need to find a working ship.” Jerkoff demands.
“All docking bay documentation previously downloaded. Vessels collated against floor plan and cargo placement. Optimal vessel selected.” Beep
“Capital job Robo-Droid. I’d love to analyze your initiative algorithm sometime. Now our destination is set, but we will still need some time to get to that ship. We need a distraction!” Jerkoff’s eyes meet Buck’s. All eyes are on Buck.
“What’s this? That’s right, everyone drink me in. I can’t say I’m not used to it. All this attention is making me feel quite sexy, but that isn’t unexpected. Anyone else feeling sexy? But damned if these clothes aren't constricting.” He begins to tug at the fabric. When stretching the garment, a small bag falls from a concealed pocket. He gasps excitedly and quickly swipes up the bag, filled halfway with white powder. “Oh man! I’ve been looking for this!” He opens the bag and shovels as much in his face in as possible.
“What is the strange man doing?” Beep.
“I don’t know,” Jerkoff smiles, “but I think we have our distraction. Look at him, he’s barely cognizant. Look at those eyes.” Buck’s eyes seem to widen on cue and he begins wobbling back and forth, drool sliding from the corner of his mouth. Then, in an unprecedented move, his eyes return to life and he begins to writhe in his clothing, clawing feverishly at them.
He has gone mad, causing the heroes to step back. The spectacle continues, Buck manages to squirm out of the top portion of his jumpsuit. Next, he wiggles the rest of the onesie down his hips to around his ankles. Stepping out of his couture, he frees his undergarments with a kick. He stands in nothing but his socks. With a leap and a spin, he is out of the room and dancing spasmodically through the docking bay threshold. No one imagined their day getting any stranger. Of course, they’d never witnessed Buck strung out on drugs before.
“Where am I! Who am I! Where have I bee—n?” Buck sings dramatically. He slows down his imaginative flailing and begins rhythmically swaying his torso, legs crossing and sliding. “Is this… the beginning? Or is this the end? Far be—yond the things I know. I’ve tried to expand my mind!” He squeezes his palms against his head then shoots them outwards, simulating an explosion, then hinged at the waist he swings his torso in an arc. “Is this a fantasy? Or is this real? What was there, who cared? Is this foreve—r or will this a—ll end?” He picks up the tempo for sissonnes ouvertes to arabesque. “Searching my stash. Searching for my stash. Searching for my—” He’s halted by a cough but quickly picks back up in a pirouette. “Searching for my stash for the shit that I need! For the shit that I need, we can all just get along in peace. We can all just get along… in peace?” His head bows down at that and his arms raise. He expects some sort of applause. He only receives bewilderment.
“Open fire!” The voice comes from nowhere, followed by laser blasts.
Buck’s song and dance sync harmoniously. “Searching my stash,” he sings, jetés over parallel laser beams. “For the shit that I need!” He completes a series of pirouettes spinning doubling back on his previous path, laser fire leaving a matching set of scorches in his wake. “Searching my stash for the shit that I need!” He slides on his knees under another beam. Arching his back, throwing head down, his splayed hands part the air in front of him and he wriggles impossibly around a heavy volley, striking the air with feeling.
Buck maintains his avant-garde performance for the astonished Cockmaster and his underlings. Meanwhile, Hairdo’s entourage skulk behind the spectacle, making their way towards their ship. Robo-Droid reaches the selected Leghorn Class Brood Hen transport vessel then extends his dongle to a small oblong port. With two Beeps the tip of his adapter splits in thirds and the center piece slide home in the slot. Two counter clockwise spins, then a light activates on Droid’s dongle stem and the vessel door slides open. One by one, the group sneaks in. The engine hums to life. Peeking out of the window, they can see Buck Aldrin swinging into high gear, dancing seductively around the guards. He playfully slaps and teases any guard ballsy enough to reach a hand out to him.
The Chicken Guards around Buck swoon. All the while, he maintains the tempo of his song. Cockmaster is so deeply absorbed in his applause that he doesn’t notice the ex-prisoner dancing his way over to the lifting shuttle. Increasing the intensity of both song and dance Buck builds to the crescendo. In a bouquet of blasts with a final powerful grand allegro, arms allongé, he catches the gate of the ascending spacecraft. Flinging himself up and stumbling in, he barely clears the pod bay doors as they close behind him. Muffled impacts ping into the closed door after him.
Stunned at his nimble prowess, the guards lower their weapons as Cockmaster calls out. “Cease fire! Cease fire!” He steps forward through the troops, tears running down his neck. “That was…absolutely beautiful. You see, boys?” He turns in wonder. “You can fly!”
“I’m so wasted,” Buck laughs on entry. To the discomfort of everyone present, he slinks around and stretches like a cat; making sure to invade everyone’s personal space.
As the shuttle pulls away, Cockmaster sighs. “There goes one beautiful man.” He waves dreamily, wishing a fond farewell to the spaceship.
Chapter 4
The Sexy Sirens of Syrus Six
Unbeknownst to Swansea and the Emperor, Hairdo’s ship departs from the docking bay into open space.
“We made it!” Dale smiles, bobbing with excitement as the docking bay doors of the Tiramisu display on the monitor from the rear cam feed.
Buck jerks up in a sitting position between Botchit and Hairdo unexpectedly. “Are we headed to Manhattan?” He grins for a moment, his head nods exuberantly, he collapses again sliding to the ground.
∆ ∆ ∆
Swansea applies a final piece of opaque tape to the last camera in the room. Emperor Elephantine is tied to a chair, struggling but to no avail. Swansea having finished his task, takes the time to gloat, “Ah yes I Swansea Picklesworth lowly manservant and baker have bested you, Elephantine, leader of a once glorious empire… to think such a force squandered, so many resources wasted on a gluttonous fool like you. No wonder it has fallen to such sad state, but as you can see all of my plans have come to fruition and I will be the leader you never were and could never be…” Swansea drones on without stop.
Once the Emperor realizes the futility of his escape, he relaxes in his seat. He knows Swansea will be awhile in his self-aggrandizing and decides to pass the time with some view-screen watching.
“Unrealistic melodrama,” he mutters as an orbital camera catches Hairdo’s ship fleeing into the distance. “Definitely a piece of speculative fiction,” he says, louder. Swansea catches his breath and spins around quickly. His mild curiosity at what the buffoon is droning on about is replaced with shock and anxiety when he sees the monitor.
Rage reddens Swansea’s face he points a trembling finger at Elephantine. “Cease your incessant babbling. Computer find Cockmaster. Display him now!” The image of the fleeing ship disappears, replaced by Cockmaster sweating through his mask.
“Hail Swansea… Glorious day! I don’t suppose you’ve caught any great art-”
“-Shut it bird brain. How did the prisoners get away? Forget it -- No time – you’ll answer for that later. Right now, you need to stop them. Shoot them out of existence.”
“Wow, um… yeah love to help ya out guy but without a direct order from the Emperor I can’t fire the destruct-o-ray, it’s super expensive to reload and-”
“— Silence, I am now the authority. Elephantine is on a sabbatical – “
“—Oh yeah were’d he go?”
“Uhhh…” Swansea scrambles for an answer, a smirk draws across his face as inspiration flavored with truthiness strikes. “He heard of the ancient earth tradition of fat camp and wanted to be prepared for his trip to Chub Chub to scatter peasant ashes.”
“Fat Camp?”
“Assuredly,
he expects to grow far more corpulent… striving to achieve a ‘bikini bod’. Now fire damn you!”
Cock Master nods seemingly buying the cockamamie story. “Ok well, he has been talking about giving Jerry a deserving sendoff and that guy loved him some Chub Chub.”
“They’re getting away! You have two choices: fire or be fired upon.” Swansea extends his arm, forming his hands as if choking some invisible specter. He grunts softly.
“Commander?”
Swansea continues, more aggressively and begins to grunt even louder.
“What… exactly are you doing, sir?”
Swansea’s hands begin to shake and tremble. “You… will… follow…” He grunts loudly face straining, “…orders,” followed by a wet squirting sound. He shrieks embarrassed, “Gahh! Screen off!”
∆ ∆ ∆
One of Cockmaster’s security soldiers nervously steps forward to consult his commanding officer. “Did he just… soil himself?”
Cockmaster clears his throat. “He means well.”
“What about Hairdo?” another chimes in.
“Swansea’s in control now. We can’t defy his orders while the Emperor is on sabbatical. Man the targeting stations. We must shoot them down.”
∆ ∆ ∆
“Well,” Hairdo leans back in the captain’s seat, having just set the craft on an autopilot course for the closest Confederation base. “Looks like it’ll be smooth sailing from here on out.” Red lights start flashing. “Now that’s more like it. Some mood lighting for the ride home, didn’t realize we had taken a luxury craft.” His eyes drift closed.
“Hairdo…I don’t think that’s ‘mood lighting.’” Botchit hurries over to the security panel.
“Red flashing lights never make for good mood lighting.” Dale insists, shaking Hairdo to attention. “View screen, on! Wake up!”
As soon as the screen flickers to life the ballistic projectile has already homed in on the ship. The crew only manage a mere glimpse of the missile, before the ship rocks in an explosion. Sounds of metal shearing are followed by shrieks of unintelligible voices. Feet scramble across the deck.
“—f the ship!”
“—n’t confi—”
“—sh!—ld on!”
Beep beep beep beep beep beep.
Then just like that, the adrenaline from the cannon strike dissipates and everyone returns to their senses. The ship spirals out of control.
“The autopilot systems were destroyed with that last impact!”
“Don’t worry about the autopilot, we need to brace ourselves!”
“We can still regain control of the ship!”
Fingers point in every possible direction, outlining every feasible course of action. But everyone speaks at once and fail to communicate anything worthwhile.
“We’re too close to the atmosphere!”
“I can steer us out of it!”
“There’s no point in trying! Find something and hold on to it!”
“Where’s Manhattan?”
“Not now!”
“Controls aren’t responding!”
“Keep trying!”
“Forget about it!”
“I’ve gotta bring her down!”
“Everyone hold on!”
Their voices blend together into an incoherent cacophony. No one understands anyone else, making communication under the circumstances impossible. Nothing on the ship remains under control especially the flight stick, gripped in Hairdo’s unskilled hands. He jerks the ship to and fro in a mad attempt to stabilize their course. He knows the attempts are futile at best, but he keeps at it; with the hope that his perseverance will ultimately prevent critical damage. His face twisted into a grimace, he maneuvers the vessel as it dips into the atmosphere of a nearby planet. In a flash, fire surrounds the craft, the planet’s atmosphere is much stronger than anything Hairdo can compensate for. Realizing this, he takes his own advice; already strapped into his seat, he applies a death grip on his armrests.
“We’re going down!” he screams to the choral response: “We know!”
The final screams of panic and terror are silenced by an impact. Panels of interior explode outward as external shielding breach the cabin guided by large rocks and various other geographical outcroppings. Turf, dirt and synthetic ship debris mingle as a spray that combined with the smoke obscure visibility and impede breathing. Darkness, deafness and confusion greet all the crew that maintain consciousness throughout. To the few checking on those that lost their senses during the ship’s collision, it seems their unconscious compatriots might be the more fortunate.
“Ohhh… my head.” Dale moans, as she stumbles to her feet. Hairdo, Botchit and the rest follow suit. The crew knows the ship is inoperable and, most likely, un-repairable, especially considering their circumstances.
Gazing past the wrecked ship the views are astonishing. Pink skies are breached by little smears of rich jewel toned mountains. A crescent of lavender hills with deep purple soil dot the skyline around their crash site. The opposite side of the clearing is bordered by a forest showcasing trees in cool tones ranging from seafoam to blueberry. Shrubs and herbs in a rainbow of hues blanket the lush woods swaying in a light breeze.
“I think it’s safe to say we’re not in—”
“Manhattan! Finally!” Buck tumbles out of the wreckage, sings one last broken note and falls to the ground.
Jerkoff clears his throat, he pushes his bent and cracked glasses up the bridge of his nose. “We’re not leaving the same way we came. But great Science, look at that!” The scientist points to a statue situated only a few feet from where they crashed, the legs and torso are reduced to a pile of rubble beside their ship. The only remaining features of the statue reveal that it was a man clad in a forged mask, wearing a single glove. The wrecked plinth upon which he stood is now in shambles, making it impossible to tell exactly who the statue was dedicated to.
“Forget the statue,” Botchit screams in a panic. “We should thank Science we even survived and keep vigilant. We have no idea what dangers lurk around every corner of this alien land.”
“You’re being overdramatic,” Hairdo insists. “More importantly, you should get into something a little less… charred.” Hairdo stage whispers, “your nipples are exposed.”
Jerkoff moves over to the statue and runs a finger across a plaque. Examining the damaged plinth his focus lands on an impressive stone codpiece. “This appears to be a primitive worshiping ground.”
“What a scoop! The more I think about our circumstances, the luckier I think we are.”
“What do you mean, babe?” Hairdo demands.
“Well, we narrowly escaped the grasp of the gluttonous goober, Emperor Elephantine. We witnessed an empire wresting coup d’état first hand. Just now, we’ve survived a crash landing on a strange and fascinating planet, that from all indications, the Confederation has never stepped foot on. We’re pioneers here! This’ll make one hell of a story. Oh, and don’t ever call me ‘babe.’ Like ever again.”
Hairdo wanders off Botchit approaches Dale. “You don’t plan on telling the entire story, do you? Surely some details are better left unsaid.”
“I’m sorry Botchit, but the public has the right to know. Besides, that metal bikini looked quite fetching on you…” her voice trails off and her stare travels past the babbling professor Botchit into the distant flora. Spotting movement, she interrupts the professor’s protestations pointing, “Hey guys, what’s that?”
A small, furry sphere bounces across the length of a nearby log. Two large, glassy eyes are set in its shaggy omni-body.
Captain Hairdo tosses a cookie pulled from his jumper and coos, “Little fella looks hungry!” The cookie arcs towards the entity, landing by the log. Squatting, the fuzzy creature opens its mouth and the cookie vanishes in a single bite. “That’s a good boy!” Hairdo runs over, reaches down and pets his new friend, “you like that, don’t you boy?”
“Hairdo! First off, we don�
�t know it’s preferred pronoun and I don’t think it’s a good idea to touch--” Dale’s voice trails off.
“Nothing this cute could possibly be dangerous,” Hairdo dismisses Dale with a wide foolhardy grin. His cupped palm cradling the creature’s mouth, scratching into the ball’s fur with increasing vigor, “Coochie, coochie coo-.” The creature stretches into the scratching. Just as the affection reaches a climax, it abruptly turns and bows. A rear orifice, pointed directly into Hairdo’s cupped hand, expels a noxious vapor. “Oh, sweet bippy!” Hairdo jolts, gasping for air, “How can something so fluffy, smell so foul?!”
Botchit covers his mouth with both hands, wincing through tears, “Truly, it seems to be committing chemical warfare!”
Jerkoff’s palliative voice cuts through the hysteria, "Actually, my good sirs,” he pauses, jotting a final entry into his small holo-pad. “I believe this foul smelling, malodorous, monstrosity is attempting some crude form of communication.” He swipes back a few pages, mouthing words to himself, “Please, allow me to interpret.” With a cough and a flick of the wrist his pants drop. Bending over, Jerkoff respectfully presents his buttocks, to the creature. Grabbing his buns with each hand Jerkoff flaps his two cheeks together in quick succession. Each contraction between the cheeks produces a fart, unique in both sound and scent.
The creature toots its rebuttal, delivered in similar sequence.
“Oh,” Jerkoff ruminates. “That’s how you feel?” The two continue their back and forth. “This really isn’t a matter of debate.” He breathes in deeply and begins a large succession of farts. The first is loud and pervasive, then transitions to less potent poots until they build themselves back up into a crescendo. Jerkoff clenches his fists and eyelids, squatting in a wide stance to release his greatest fart to date – and his finale culminates in a strange, wet sound. “Oh shit,” Jerkoff mutters, wincing he slowly rises to an upright position. “Too much butter.” He looks surprised at the creature, which is now bouncing in a rage. “Oh no, no, no. I didn’t mean that!”
Captain Hairdo- Conquers the Cosmos Page 8