Swansea sidles into the production accounting office and attempts to power on the first computer he comes across, but with no success. He moves on to another, after attempting to access several he realizes they are all de-energized, “If I remember correctly, the production manager’s office runs on a different circuit.”
Swansea slips through the studio double doors. The studio is pitch black, though to his relief the sound proofing muffles the alarm to a hum. He tries the standard lights near the entrance, but nothing happens. Annoyed but determined, he decides to advance further to activate the set lights. Several feet in he is surprised when the emergency light system turns on. “Hello? Anyone there?” No answer, he shrugs off the strange electrical issues. Looking to the other side of the room he spots the production office door laid invitingly open and heads directly towards it.
Crash, a giant grid light falls and explodes at his feet. Jumping back much too late he yelps, “Sweet fudge, that almost hit me!” He looks, up and squints, but can barely make out the light grid and the cat walk 30 feet above his head.
Figuring it was an isolated incident, he calms his nerves and continues walking through the familiar set pieces and interview spaces, “Oh that’s where we interviewed Lardosa… I remember, we could hardly kick him through the airlock, why we had to-” Smash, another deadly light crashes down inches behind him. Hearing the explosion of metal and glass, he jumps forward, trips over his feet and shields his head. Two more lights fall on either side of him barely missing. He crawls forward over some of the shattered glass and climbs to his feet, “Oh this is going to be a thing now, is it?! Fine!”
Darting in a hap hazard zig zag through the studio, Swansea continues to narrowly avoid falling lights. He runs past an equipment depot and spies his salvation. A string of three lights fall at his heels. Breathing hard, speed flagging, he won’t clear the fourth light in the cluster. The trajectory is set for the top of his head even at full tilt. Desperate he throws himself through the air, diving into the undercarriage of an AV cart. Clang, the fourth light lands on top of the cart, “Half way there!”
Gulping down air, Swansea reaches down and begins to pull the cart forward, paddling his impromptu turtle shell towards the office door. Increasingly larger lights slam onto the cart top, heavily denting it. Scooting across the floor on his belly wincing at every impact Swansea looks to his right and spies a strange tableau. A scattered smattering, dozens of safety cones holding signs sit haphazardly arranged on the floor underneath dilapidated set tables. “Hard Hat Area… Sweet trifle of tribulation I should have seen this sooner, incompetent peons.” Huffing and wheezing rage fuels Swansea he redoubles his efforts. Wheels wobble and bow as the frame creaks and crumples.
Swansea slithers his way out of the mangled cart. Just as his toes clear, the cart receives its death blow from above. Collapsing the top shelf buckles through the frame then sits, sandwiched between the casters on the ground. He wriggles into the office. “Sweet relish that was close, must get to my Gherkin! Ah excellent a working terminal.” Poking around on the terminal and the sirens are silenced. “Excellent, killed the alarm and this should slow them, now to find that ticket… There it is, power on, air lock access codes and ha! The old Auxiliary maintenance hangar, an entire bay lost in a beautifully misfiled pile of bureaucratic paperwork. Hidden behind a low priority maintenance ticket, with an invalid number, assuring it will always be the next shift’s problem and thus never will be investigated or resolved. The perfect contingency, yes! Oh, hot dog, I could kiss myself for my forethought and genius!” Giving the statement some thought he shudders. “Ugh or a brisk handshake at least.” He probes a bit more on the terminal, eyes narrowing in concentration. “Let’s see, it’s two floors below us, best avoid the studio and enter the multivator through the backdoor. Yes.”
∆ ∆ ∆
Cockmaster General flaps his arms in disbelief, “Cluck! He’s cut the communications feed and locked me out me out of the system.” Desperately he pecks at his terminal’s controls.
Dale’s head tilts towards the general, “But you’re the chief military and security officer, how could he?”
Cockmaster turns to face her, his head drooping in deep shame and embarrassment, “He was the right-hand man to the emperor, I was the left… he… out ranked me.”
Botchit interrupts Cockmaster’s squawking, attempting to motivate the team into action, “Thanks to his complete lack of inner monologue, we know he’s headed to the multivator to access the Gherkin, whatever that is.”
Handy chimes in adjusting, swiping and zooming a viewing monitor displaying a station map to help visualize Swansea’s route, “He was near the old production wing, we can beat him to the multivator if we take the direct route, through here.”
Cockmaster snaps out of his sulking. He stands erect and powerful, “I’ll summon my flock!”
New Jerry lowers a communication device from his ear and waves his hand, silencing the room. He speaks calmly and slowly to the group, “Now you all can just calm down. No need to get all up in arms, I told you the Janitorial Union has got this… Just follow me.” All eyes watch New Jerry slowly exit the room accompanied by the steady squeak of his bucket wheels echoing down the hall. The group looks at each other confused, shrugs and follows.
∆ ∆ ∆
Crossing the threshold into a brightly lit white room, the vacuum pressurized door seals behind him. Swansea stands on a catwalk stretching across a vast cylindrical shaft. On the opposite side of the catwalk lies another door. Giant centrifugal ventilation blades lay idle 100 feet below him. A large polymer dome spans the top of the shaft. It features a central aperture, the only portal between outer space and the turbine duct. The mounded structure maintains pressurized atmosphere during temporary shutdowns and maintenance procedures. “Ah, ventilation unit 42, so white and clean… Almost blindingly so…” Swansea shields his eyes from the absurdly white reflective polished surface. Stepping forward his feet shoot over his head. With a clap he crashes onto his back, rendering him breathless. “Great gravy, waxed… So slick.” Catching his breath, he looks to his left and right, “Where are the guardrails?! Oh, no the devil dog of dread is not pleased by this! Not one bit! This short cut is not worth it.” Scooting back against the entrance door, he shimmies to his feet and hits the open button. A non-compliant boop is his only result. He presses the button again, another unhelpful boop sounds, “Open! Come on!” Slamming the button, he glances at the door and notices two small placards mounted on it. “What’s this…‘Caution: Slippery Surface’, well duh, ‘Caution: Use Other Door Testing in Progress’… Testing?”
The silent room is suddenly assaulted by the sound of slow depressurization on a massive scale. Looking up, Swansea sees the dome split open. Atmosphere vents as the turbines scream to life, “Oh soba of suckage why ensnare me in your tendrils? I am but an acolyte devoted to path of animus!” Pawing desperately at the door crease he is grabbed by the vacuum’s pull and is sent sliding down the catwalk towards the door on the other side. Half way across, his body lifts from the floor flying up towards the dome’s opening sphincter. Suddenly, the pitch changes and the dome abruptly closes, the turbine slows to a stop. Swansea slams down with the full force of the station’s artificial gravity. Sliding, he skirts dangerously close to the edge of the catwalk. Groaning, he orientates himself and wheezes a short prayer, “Dearest Popsicle of Darkness, guide me out of this room of light and into the safety of your sticky embrace.”
Swansea then proceeds to rock and pull, walrus scooting away from the ledge towards the door, “How undignified… I’m crawling like some kind of semiaquatic peasant. No matter, soon I will climb aboard my Gherkin and head to some unincorporated planet far from the Empire’s reach and that of the Confederation. This humiliating moment will be far behind me…” Reaching up and slamming the open button the door slides ajar, just as the air intake turbine squeals back to life, “Not again!”
The dome reopens. Swansea is pu
lled back towards the center of the catwalk spinning across the floor. Papers, chairs and office supplies are sucked through the now open door as the vacuum claims the neighboring atmosphere. Clinging to the edge for dear life, Swansea’s body levitates off the platform. His pathetic grip is all that separates him from a miserable death in space. Suddenly, a long cable flies out of the office smacking him in the face. Distracted he slips and tumbles towards the portal. Desperately he claws at anything near to use as an anchor. His burning face provides inspiration, grabbing the cable he wraps it around his arm and attempts to rappel. Wrapping each loop gained around his aching arm, he inches his way back towards the door.
Muscles not used for decades burn like amateur night at teppanyaki. Exhaustion setting in Swansea inches through the doorway. Finally, inside he flails his arm at the door frame and manages to knock the close button. The door closes severing the rope. He falls to the floor in a heap, traumatized. “Oh, sweet merciful meringue, I almost died… I literally almost died. That was terrible!” Coughing to clear his throat, he gets to his knees finally taking in his new location. “What… Where is this? Another abandoned office?” Banks of desks, chairs, out of date viewing screens and data filing are now shuffled all over the room by the recent vacuuming. What was once most likely a dull but fairly organized call center, is now an office themed obstacle course.
Peering around wreckage fairly nonplussed he sees signs scattered around the floor. Again, he undertakes to reading them aloud, “‘Warning: Hazardous Substance Present XenoBomb’… XenoBomb? Oh matza of mercy!” A thick powdery smoke starts pouring in from numerous air vents lining the room.
∆ ∆ ∆
The repetitive slow squeal of Jerry’s wheels fills a nondescript hallway. “You see, we have covered every contingency. All of course properly labeled by the Empire’s Occupational Safety and Health Administration standards, as to not violate our safety protocols.”
Cockmaster strolling next to him nods, “Very smart New Jerry, last thing we need is a claim investigation and you’re certain you know where he’ll end up?”
Jerry moves to a side doorway and stops abruptly, fumbling in his pockets, “Yes sir, all roads lead to Rome, as the ancient Earthers use to say.”
Hairdo scratches his head, “Did they?”
Dale rolls her eyes, “Yes, Hairdo they did… You’re from earth, you should know that.”
Jerkoff adds, “Speaking of, how do you know Earth History New Jerry?”
New Jerry waves his badge in front of an old fashion ID sensor and the door slides open, “I know a lot of things, I like to read. Anyway, we’re-”
∆ ∆ ∆
“Almost there…” Coughing sputtering, covered in white powder, Swansea resembles a badly bruised powdered donut. Before him is a long starkly lit hallway, tiled floor cleaned to shine, at the end of which are the multivator doors.
Swansea pauses, cautiously looking around without moving, halfway down the hallway he spots a wheeled mop bucket sitting in the middle of the floor. Taking one cautious step forward he stops and clenches his eyes shut, anticipating the next catastrophe planned for him. Nothing. He takes another step and looks around, “Well?” No response.
Shrugging Swansea starts to gingerly stroll down the hallway, still nothing. He stops at the bucket, it’s filled with vaguely familiar diarrhea water. A rank smell fills the air. “Oh, wow great trap, you really got me. But what should I expect from you mouth breathing lowborn poors.” Swansea gingerly side steps the mobile poo vessel and quickly walks past, “Ha thwarted you at every turn!” Now cocky he struts to the multivator door and engages the lift. Surprised he feels something tug on his robes. Ding, the door opens. He turns around to find the bucket has snagged on the end of his now torn and ragged robes. Swansea tugs, attempting to pull his garment free as he backs into the multivator. Suddenly, he finds himself falling head over heels. He’s plummeting down the shaft. The doors opened, but there was no multivator car inside. Swansea Picklesworth hits the bottom of the empty shaft with a bone crunching, wet thud.
Lying broken at the bottom, his shrill girlish screams cease. Now all he can hear is his own whimpering and the distant sound of squeaking wheels approaching. Peering up he sees the entrance from whence he fell. A shadow occludes the light, the opening is eclipsed by a teetering object. With a splash and a pong like the IBS riddled bowels of Satan erupting, the shit bucket topples down after him. Splash, the cold liquid drenches every inch of his sorry mangled husk.
With a dull thud the bucket comes to rest at his side near his twisted and broken legs. Still alive, he forces himself to turn away, “The smell is worse than the pain.” He turns his head away from the bucket and spots something strange. The name “Jerry” is sprayed in red paint across the shaft wall and next to him lays a small sign reading, “Caution: Multivator Temporarily Out of Service”.
Bright light fills the shaft, Swansea is both terrified and awestruck, “Oh my! The light! I see the light! Well if I have to die, at least I’m going to the good place! The great Flying Spaghetti Monster embraces me with his noodly appendage! My devotion will finally be rewarded! I-I- see an angel!” Swansea’s semi-coherent jubilation is quickly crushed by a familiar voice.
“Woah, what a stench! Hey, you’re right New Jerry! He is down here! Alright Swansea, in the name of the Confederation of United Planets, I’m placing you under arrest.” Hairdo hops down next to the beaten would be tyrant.
Dale jumps down next to him. She pulls out her Holo-Camera and snaps a quick photo of Hairdo flashing a thumbs up next to the nearly dead Swansea. Then, she waves Hairdo away, “Wait, give me a moment. There is just one thing I want to do before you take him into custody.”
“Oh sure… I guess.” Hairdo backs up.
“Thanks,” Dale walks over to Swansea, carefully avoiding the puddle of fouled water.
“What do you want Earth girl?” Swansea snarls up at Dale, eyes wild in pain and fear but still attempting to put on an indignant front.
“This.” Kneeling to Swansea’s level she punches him square in the jaw, knocking his head to the floor and his lights out in the process, “A peasant’s death? Really, asshole?!”
“Wow.”
“Don’t judge me,” Dale elbows Hairdo, sidling up beside him.
“I wasn’t… That was just a really impressive right hook.”
“You think so?”
“Yeah… You know Dale, you really are an impressive, woman, I mean- person.”
“Thanks, you’re a pretty impressive person too, in your own way,” Dale gives Hairdo a bit of a nudge, their eyes meet, “Wow, this diarrhea water is really spoiling the mood.”
“Who gives a shit.” Hairdo grabs Dale and kisses her.
She slaps him across the face, “That was 5th degree rape Hairdo, you didn’t ask permission.”
“Ow, oh ok sorry. I guess I should have said, ‘Wanna make out?’”
“Yes, yes I do,” Dale grabs Hairdo and takes the lead, their kiss is long and passionate. She dips the space hero back. His right leg starts to rise, then subtly he shifts his thigh and lets loose. Wheeee the sound of a small balloon being slowly released reverberates through the shaft.
Dale pulls away. Shrugging Hairdo lurches forward to reinitiate the kiss. Dale keeps her arms extended between them, “Was that a dolphin cry?” The recently heralded aroma reaches her nostrils, “Really? What the quark?”
Going in for a peck and being thwarted again an exasperated Hairdo questions, “My god Dale do you have dog’s hearing? Some cybernetic implants?”
Dale scowls as an answer.
“Ok, ok Dale I have been holding that for a long time, I mean it has been hours. Remember when Buck was winning the heart of Splendora with the help of his magic powder? Yeah before then and I believe that the delivery was respectably discreet. Plus, we’re surrounded by diarrhea water, my emission could only improve the ambience.”
“This will never happen again! Also, that man is a date
rapist,” proclaims Dale.
“He’s from a different era Dale. Come on, it was nice, and I was just so relaxed. Plus, Buck is so cool! I could have never done that in front of him. I mean, I want to maintain a heroic stature and favorable image around him. He is a hero…” Scowling Dale sullenly leaves Hairdo. She climbs up and the out of the Elevator shaft grumbling as Hairdo extemporaneously expounds upon Buck Aldrin’s many merits.
∆ ∆ ∆
Emperor Elephantine sits upon a newly reinforced throne, legs spread, bearing a scepter. The weight that not long ago confined him to his throne has diminished, consumed by the creature feeding and growing within him. It wriggles from inside his gut, frequently poking its head out to observe; then periodically dips back inside for warmth and sustenance. By the heroes’ estimation, the monarch is tickled by its presence there; often chuckling when it returns to its “nest”. Elephantine, expresses his jubilation with bouts of laughter and casts looks of admiration at Hairdo and his group. A phalanx of Elephantine’s highest-ranking guards encircle the heroes and hold a salute.
“You, agents of the Confederation have done me a great service today. I would have never done this before – a part of me still wants to see you all thrown into the Butterdome – but I owe you my life and for that, you are to be rewarded.”
The chicken color guards approach the heroes and present them with medals. Cockmaster presides over the presentation, “A Medal of bravery in the face of opposition; a medal for facing great perils, risking your lives and safety for the good of the empire. And finally, a medal for unveiling the astonishing truths of the food pyramid, a balanced diet and a working knowledge of basic nutrition, to our beloved emperor.”
Cockmaster steps aside, Elephantine continues, “Thank you Doctor Lemme Botchit, Dale Harden and Doctor Handy Jerkoff. None of this would be possible without you. As for you, Captain Hairdo... You might remember that my former commander, Swansea Picklesworth, at the height of his power-driven madness, declared himself the cosmos. It’s only appropriate then, that I, Emperor Elephantine of the Space Station Tiramisu name you, Captain Hairdo, Conqueror of the Cosmos.”
Captain Hairdo- Conquers the Cosmos Page 14