Hard Light Productions Forums
Off-Topic Discussion => Arts & Talents => Topic started by: Unknown Target on August 24, 2006, 12:10:50 am
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I might actually submit this to a sci fi magazine for publishing, so once it's complete (this is still a WIP), I'll probably be removing it. I'd like some C&C from it's potential readerbase though. Tell me what you think! :)
Ow.
The only thought coursing through McSweety's mind for the last twenty minutes, having occupied every nerve of his conscious thought, had two letters and brought with it a world of pain.
Ow.
A bit of blood dribbled upwards along his neck and fell off into space, bobbing there for a few seconds. More of it started to dribble from his face.
Ow.
Dizzy from his early morning grogginess, he reached out to nab a washcloth, missed by about half a meter, and ended up spinning in slow, crazy gyrations about the small bathroom. And yet all he could think about was how much pain he was in.
Finally he snared a handhold with his foot and steadied himself. Making three more attempts at the washcloth, he missed the first two only to succeed on the third, snatching the small capsule of ragged fibers from it's orbit about his head. Dabbing it gently on his face, he felt a little bit of sentience creep back into him. Damn Martian razors. The salesmen had said they were just as useful in zero-G as they were planet side. Worthless Martian salesmen. Worthless Martians.
McSweety finally finished up his morning shaving ritual and floated from the bathroom, his face spotted with dozens of small white dots of toilet paper. A short, muscular man in his early thirties, he possessed a sharp wit, twisted sense of humor and a crabby attitude towards other people and life in general. Accompanying his personality, he carried a monstrous beer gut, dark, tasseled black hair, with a matching beard that would put even the legendary pirate Blackbeard to shame. He looked outwards in a permanent scowl, with his eyes sunken deep into his face, peering over a crooked nose at any stranger who had the audacity to try and talk to him in a pleasant manner. At the moment he was clothed in nothing but a pair of plaid boxer shorts.
Bouncing off one of the bulkheads with a metallic ring, he spun in an unpleasant and gut wrenching manner until he could finally grab his seat and slowly settle himself in. A sippy cup full of coffee was floating nearby. Worthless artificial gravity. Worthless spaceship. The damn thing was nearly spare parts when he stole it, and it gave him nothing but trouble ever since then. He should have left it there and stolen the nice luxury ship just a few kilometers away. It didn't
matter that it had dozens of armed vessels surrounding it; all he wanted was a working zero-grav system so he didn't have to drink hot coffee out of a bendy straw. Worthless bendy straws, they never bent quite the right way.
Punching a few buttons on his control panel, a small window popped up on the display. Scrolling through a list of ship systems to make sure nothing exploded during his sleep, he sucked a few drinks out of his sippy cup, when, true to form, the straw bent the wrong way and let hot coffee bubble out of the cup and float around weightlessly in front of his face. He made a mental note not to lean forward for a few minutes and went back to work. The computer had just finished a full system scan, and for a refreshing change of pace, nothing was broken. He scrolled through the equipment list with a half-hearted, disinterested stare while he finished what remained of his coffee. Smacking his lips and chucking the now empty vessel over his shoulder, he listened with sadistic glee as it panged off the same bulkhead that had given him such trouble earlier. He turned back to his display, now more awake, and glanced through the headlines. Most of it was junk; celebrity marriages, politics, various wars of various importance…there was an interesting article on a Scottish Terrier that had survived two weeks in an escape pod by eating the electrical wiring…more junk…stocks…
“Ah-ha!”
McSweety thrust his fist into the air as he let out a joyous cry. There, on the fifteenth page, was a small one-paragraph article detailing his latest escapade;
MAY 13TH –(IFP): A large shipment of precious
minerals was stolen off of a cargo
barge departing from Asteroid mine 093 to
Europa Shipyards. Authorities are still unable
to find any information on the culprit, and if you have
any information that may be of use, please inform the
Europa Police Department immediately.
McSweety gave himself a small pat on the back – the minerals that the article was referring to were sitting in his hold at that very moment, waiting to give him quite a large payoff, as promised to him by his contractor. Safe in the knowledge that he would get to eat and drink for another week, he checked the ETA to the drop-off point and ventured forth into the ship’s lounge.
Within this room were McSweety’s favorite items; a computer terminal, subspace television set, a rapid fire 50 MM hand carried minigun, and the first dollar he ever made – the latter was attained when he was in first grade. One of his classmates had bet him a dollar to slap the teacher’s rear end, and he did so with uncharacteristic enthusiasm. He spent three days in detention for that stunt, but was worth it in the end to hold that crisp token of wealth in his grubby, pudgy six year old hands. From then on, he pledged not only to earn as much money as he could, but also to continue his flat-palmed tirade against all that is fleshy and feminine.
He floated over to the kitchen to fix himself a snack. His cash flow had been running low lately, and he had to make some concessions in less than necessary items – and the results were obvious as soon as he opened the refrigerator door. Despite his best efforts to imagine that he would be greeted with half naked women and a slow-roasted steak, he was nevertheless disappointed to find three shelves chock full of beer, apple juice, and cups of instant ramen noodles. Sighing heavily, he resigned himself to starvation and slammed the door shut. To add insult to injury, the force of the impact was enough to send the refrigerator door popping back open, knocking the poor man in the back of the head. Again, he slammed it, and again it popped open, this time knocking him in the face. Gritting his teeth in anger and frustration, he gently took hold of the door and slowly shut it, making sure the rubber seal made good contact with the metal of the frame. Smiling triumphantly, he turned and pushed himself off of the door, sending himself sailing towards the TV. Behind him the refrigerator popped back open, unnoticed. McSweety, with the grace of one who had spent much time falling down in gym class, caught hold of the top of his comfy chair, jerking himself to a sudden halt. Settling himself into his seat and buckling his custom seat belt, he picked up the remote, turned on the TV, and was soon fast asleep.
He awoke to an irritating beeping sound in his ear. Groggily looking about for the source of his newfound annoyance, he found that it was in fact the warning claxon, alerting him that he was in fact just five minutes away from the drop off point. Unbuckling himself and stuffing the remote in his back pocket, he pushed off towards the door. As he entered the main corridor running the length of the vessel, he was struck by the fact that it was much warmer in the rest of the ship than in the lounge. Without giving it a second thought, he hurried off towards his room to quickly stuff himself into his jean pants, T-shirt, and black work boots. Grabbing his lucky brown leather jacket from its customary spot on the ceiling, he bolted out of the room and hurriedly made his way towards the bridge. No sooner had he settled himself into his chair than a distorted voice crackled over the radio, announcing its presence through the loudspeakers scattered throughout the small vessel.
“Unknown vessel, unknown vessel, this is the Starkiss, Captain Jimmy Wolfe commanding. Please state your intentions in this area.”
“Starkiss, this is the Hangdog, Captain Ralph McSweety commanding. I’m here en route to delivering cargo to a customer.”
“Acknowledged sir, do you have chocolate in your hold at all sir?”
“That’s an affirmative, why?”
“If you are not aware sir, there is currently a chocolate shortage on the Moon, and we’ll have to be requisitioning your parcels for redistribution.”
“Jimmy you ass, I know it was you who thought that crap up.”
Jimmy was a new guy at the mining company, but insisted to everyone that didn’t know him that he had been there for years. He also insisted on making up the code for each delivery.
“Just doin’ my job, Ralph.”
“Doesn’t mean you have to be such a little dick about it.”
“But it’s fun to be a dick, Ralph.”
“So that’s why your mother had so much fun having you.”
“What?”
McSweety chuckled to himself, then cued the radio again.
“So are we going to deal or what?”
“I…guess…”
Jimmy was apparently still trying to figure out whether or not he had just been insulted. The hard thinking was taking a toll on him, and he couldn't process his thoughts at the normal rate of about one per hour.
“Good. I’ll just drop these guys right here after you wire me the money.”
Jimmy decided it was time to give up on comprehending what had just happened. This was important business – if he managed to pull it off, it’d be the first real story in his collection of “memories” with the mining company. Finally, he’d have a story with witnesses. The barflies would love this one.
“No – you give me the cargo first, then I give you the money.”
“Is that so Jim Jim? Well I’d figure someone with such esteemed knowledge of the inner workings of this business would know that I always take my money up front.”
“But the boss said-”
“I don’t lie, your bosses do. Pay up.”
Irritated at what was an obvious snipe at his name, and confused as to what to do, Jimmy reluctantly agreed to go along with someone who had more experience in such matters – even though he hated admitting to himself that someone out there was indeed more experienced than him at anything. He sighed and tapped some buttons on his display, confirmed the money transfer.
“Fine…I’m sending you it now.”
McSweety checked his own display – and grinned with satisfaction as his account was a full 10 grand larger than it’s previous number, zero.
“Alright, I have received the money...it looks good. Pleasure doing business with ya, buh-bye now!”
Jimmy panicked – that bastard was about to make off with ten grand worth of cash and cargo, and he was to blame!
“But wait, you sai—!”
McSweety cued the mic and laughed out loud in a wheezing, gasping, choking display of amusement. It took him so long to stifle his hysteria, that by the time he finished Jimmy was tearing in confusion and worry.
“Kid – kid! Don’t worry, I’m—“
He stifled another burst of laughter.
“I’m kidding! Oh God you should’ve heard yourself!”
He burst out laughing again. Jimmy stammered back onto the radio, trying to make himself heard above McSweety’s continuous guffaws.
“But but bu-“
He trailed off, still stammering. McSweety stopped laughing long enough to jettison the crates of stolen minerals from his hold.
“Sayonara Jim-Jim! Play safe now!”
“Bu bu bu…”
McSweety kept the radio on so Jimmy could listen to his laughter. Turning his ship around, he sped off in the other direction, ceasing his laughter only when he had engaged his jump drives and left the area.
Jimmy, meanwhile, took a few minutes to recover. The poor man was nearly swimming in his own sweat – he had nearly lost twenty thousand dollars to a privateer! On top of that, the whole prank had completely messed up his story! What was he to tell the ladies and the guys back at work...!
Then it hit him. What makes them so special that they have to hear the truth, anyway? He had just taken a huge deal of minerals from a seedy privateer, in the outskirts of space. Danger lurked everywhere – why, in fact, he had nearly been blown apart in a fierce battle with the ruffian! Why, the bastard had insisted that before he give him his loot, he must first prove his manliness by fighting him in an epic space battle! A battle where he single handendly disabled the enemy ship without taking a single hit! Yet the privateer was so mighty, he refused to surrender – it was only when he was forced to don a space suit and leap across the gap between their ships, board his vessel, and beat him down in a one on one fistfight, did the black bearded monstrosity finally relinquish his cargo!
Jimmy had become so enraptured in his own dreams of success that he promptly forgot all about what he was doing, and nearly put a three by five hole through the cargo with one of the docking arms. Luckily, he recovered just in time, and concentrated on much less violent, more sensual dreams of all the ladies he would pick up with his latest adventure tale.
Meanwhile, about fifty thousand kilometers away, McSweety was just getting over his fit of hysteria. Wiping away tears, he unbuckled himself and floated aft, to resume his slumber in the lounge while he waited to arrive at his new destination. Unfortunately, by this time the lounge was now covered with an inch of snow, curtosy of the now frozen-open S&R Industrial Refrigerator, which was spewing out cold air so fast that snowflakes were forming as soon as they hit the air circulating through the vents. Sighing and shaking his head, McSweety decided to save this problem for another day. Shutting the door behind him, he was forced to pass the next two hours flipping through old pornography magazines as he floated about aimlessly in the ship's central corridor. As such, when he finally arrived at Rumbling Randy's Rest & Relaxation Station, it was with no small amount of enthusiasm that he disembarked his cramped vessel and returned to civilization – civilization full of gambling, prostitution, and best of all – artificial gravity. Kissing a thankful, if temporary, goodbye to his sippy cups, he stepped out onto the station launch pad, promptly falling flat on his face. Having spent almost a month in zero gravity, McSweety had made the embarrassing and incredibly funny mistake of forgetting to acclimate to his new environment.
He, of course, was thinking of none of this. What McSweety was thinking of at that very moment was lifting his face off of the floor – no small feat when your muscles are so atrophied that lifting a beer can becomes a problem. After several loud and wheezy grunts and groans, he contented himself with simply rolling himself over on his back. For the next twenty minutes, there he lay in the docking tube. Luckily enough for him, the tube's airlock doors were closed, so passersby could not see him. Nevertheless, the security camera operators had quite a laugh at his expense.
Finally, he was able to end his embarrassment and crawl to his feet. Stumbling to the airlock door and pulling the release lever, he panted with impatience as the door slowly swung itself upwards on it's pneumatic hinges. Lurching forward like an epileptic zombie, he made a beeline for the first bar he could find – any place that he could sit and consume some liquid strength. Staggering through the door with what felt like a thousand pounds on his shoulders, he collapsed onto a bar stool. No sooner did he relax than did he face plant once more, this time landing his nose right on the edge of the table. The denizens of the bar, already confused and transfixed by his erratic behavior, burst out laughing. Rather than face their jovial faces, McSweety ordered his liquor face down. The bartender, trying mightily to stifle a great guffaw, hurriedly obliged, then hurried off to another customer before he broke down completely. McSweety took the drink in one hand, brought it to his lips...and promptly realized that he could not drink it without lifting his head up. Rather than face the cheerful wrath of his bar mates, McSweety left out a heavy sigh and plopped his hands, palms down on the table.
“Bartender.”
The bartender heard him, but was still trying to bite his tounge. McSweety repeated himself, louder now.
“Bartender!”
The bartender shuffled over and stood in front of his fallen customer.
“Ye--”
He stiffled a chortle. Breathing deeply, he momentarily calmed himself.
“Yes sir?”
McSweety sighed, then prepared to speak. The words were poison in his mouth – he curled up a little and died inside as he said them.
“I need...”
He stopped. He could just lift his head up instead – he tried, only to thump back onto the counter. Now he couldn't do it even if he wanted to. The bartender nearly burst his gut trying to hold himself together. McSweety paused, breathed, then spat it out.
“I need a bendy straw...please...”
The bartender was dying. He practically ran to the other end of the counter, grabbed the straw, stuck it between McSweety's fingers, then dashed off into the back room, shutting the door behind him. McSweety could faintly hear his laughter from where he was sitting. Worthless space station gravity. Worthless space station bartenders. Sticking the bendy straw into his drink, he bent it a little to get at it better, and took a sip. A loud crackling slurp met him, and upon closer inspection, he found that the bendy straw was broken, and leaking most of what he was drinking back into the cup. Worthless space station bendy straws.
Meanwhile, some eighty million miles away, Jimmy was in a decidedly less awkward situation. Flanked on either side by three gorgeous women and one man pretending to be a gorgeous woman, the twenty-four year old's body was a quiver with his own raging hormones. He had just finished retelling his story of how he had captured a load of cargo from one – no, three swashbuckling privateers, beating each one of them down in successive fistfights – in outer space, on the hull plating of his own spaceship! The women and one man present were all agasp at his manliness, his bravery, but most of all, his sharp, manly chin, with it's fuzzy and infinitely appealing five o clock shadow. They cried, they screamed, the wept in amazement at his cunning and bravery.
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Heehee..comedic gold. Got funnier and more whimsical as the story progressed :lol:
You could also call it the High Misadventures of Ralph McSweety :D
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That was hilarious!
C&C: "claxon" is spelled "klaxon." It might be embarrassing to have a typo if you are going to submit this to a magazine.
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Here we go. I added in the same paragraph as the last one, because there were some changes to it.
Meanwhile, some eighty million miles away on the Martian moon Deimos, Jimmy was in a decidedly less awkward situation. Sitting in a booth at a bar, he was flanked on either side by three gorgeous women and one man pretending to be a gorgeous woman. The twenty-four year old's body was a quiver with his own raging hormones. He had just finished retelling his story of how he had captured a load of precious minerals from one – no, three swashbuckling privateers, beating each one of them down in successive fistfights – in outer space, on the hull plating of his own spaceship! The women and one man present were all agasp at his manliness, his bravery, but most of all, his sharp, manly chin, with it's fuzzy and infinitely appealing five o clock shadow. They marveled at his chiseled abs, his muscular arms, defined features, and his wavy brown hair. They wanted him, and Jimmy was happy to oblige. Rising heroically to the cooing of his fan club, he strode off, girl in one arm, man-girl in the other. Behind him the other four women scampered after him, fighting desperately to be the one held in his brave embrace. As the chortling and cheering procession slowly left the bar, striking the ire and jealousy of all men and women who saw them, one man was slightly more intrigued in Jimmy's story than others. Sitting at the bar about ten feet away from Jimmy's former seat was a forty-something year old miner with his head head hung low over his beer. He cast a sideways glance at the departing crowd as they left the room, then shuffled his weight to one of his elbows and jerked a thumb in the direction of the door.
“Oo wad dat?”
The bartender turned and gave him a quizzical look.
“Who?”
“Da one guy who wad siddin o'er der wid da ladies an' dat guy.”
“Oh – that was Jimmy Wolfe. He comes here often – he's a new guy at some company based on Mars. Drinks like a pig and from what I here, he's the same in bed.”
Ron Maccaw nodded slowly. A mining accident had put a three inch nail through his tongue, and ever since then he was cursed with sounding like one of those rotten teenagers with a piercing through their gullet. On top of that, at six foot ten, he was about one hundred fourty pounds overweight and in possession of the most intriguing smell one could ever lay their olfactory organs on. Suffice to say, his chances of ever getting laid now or in the foreseeable future was close to nil. As such, he had to find other mediums with which to amuse himself; one of them being listening in on other people's conversations.
“Wa' ee dalkin about da robbery?”
“Robbery?”
“Ya. Buncha gold an duff wad dolen from a cargo tranport. Big money for da info on who did id.”
“I have no idea if he was talking about it – why don't you go ask?”
Ron slowly nodded, then turned to look out the door. He would ask – and if his hunch was right, he stood to make a lot of money in a very short period of time...
McSweety was in a fix; he stood to lose a lot of money in a very short period of time. He gazed across the table at his opponent, thinking of ways that he could outrun him before he'd have to pay up. Looking back down at his cards, he shuffled one of them.
“Come on mack, you gonna play or fold?”
McSweety glared at him for interrupting his thoughts. What was this guy made of? Glaring stare, red hair, big cigar, stench of whiskey. Definitely Irish, that's for sure. He looked tough – those arms had to be at least as thick as McSweety's calf. Brown eyes, grizzled skin, booster seat. This midget was going to be tough to get away from, as he couldn't fold – he already had five grand on the table.
“Shut your face shorty. I'm raising you two fifty – in change.”
He dug into his pocket and flicked some bills out onto the table adding sending a casual smirk for effect. The four foot man across from him took notice, glancing up at his cards, trying to study McSweety's face for signs of a bluff. He smirked back.
“I'll see your two fifty, and raise you five hundred – in change.”
The midget reached into his own pocket and pulled out his own wallet, tossing a wad of cash on the table. McSweety began to sweat. He looked for an exit. Heart attack? Sudden brain seizure? Infectious and deadly disease? He dug around in his mind, trying desperately to find a way out. The midget man was starting to get impatient.
In this, Jimmy and the midget man were quite similar. He was starting to become frustrated with the constant roadblocks to his sexual satisfaction. First all the hotel suites had been full. Then the docking ring that he had docked his ship to had to undergo repairs. Eventually the crowd had settled on gorgeous man's house (whose true gender was still a secret). By that time it had shrunk to only two women, Jimmy, and one woman-man – the other three women had ventured off to find their next hero. As it can be quite imagined, Jimmy was in quite a foul mood at this turn of events, so when Ron Maccaw finally came knocking on the door just as the group was undressing, he was in neither the most hospitable, nor most intelligent states of mind. When he opened the door and began to scream at this new intruder, he was surprised to find that he was at least a foot taller than himself, and at least twice as wide. As soon as he made this realization, he began to shut the door, only to be surprised as a massive hand grabbed him around the throat and slammed him against the opposite wall. Never taking his eyes off Jimmy's, Ron grunted a command to the other occupants of the room.
“Thram girlths.”
As the trio gathered their belongings and scattered from the room, the owner of the establishment turned to blow a last kiss towards Jimmy, who nodded and smiled faintly, still petrified from both the hand around his throat and the smell emanating from it. It wasn't quite rotten eggs, but it wasn't quite dog poop either. Ron's eyes flashed towards the door to make sure it had closed behind Jimmy's entourage, then returned his gaze to the man who's throat was firmly wrapped in his massive hand.
“Now oo. Oo wad dalkin by da bar about some stolen mineralths. Oo steal dem?”
Jimmy wasn't quite sure what sort of sick game this man was playing with him. Wasn't enough that he was scared half to death, now he was pretending to talk like one of those rotten teenagers with a piercing through their gullet!
“Wha-wha-what?” he stammered.
“I ded did oo steal da mineralths?”
Jimmy was quaking in fear.
“Wha-wha-what'd you s-s-say?”
Ron was starting to get angry; this little punk had the balls to make fun of him while he had him around the throat. He took the man's body like a rag doll.
“I ded did oo deal da mineralths, unk!”
Jimmy was in real terror now. He began to sob, gripping the giant hand with his small, manicured fingers. He was ready to say or do anything to get out of this and make this man speak English!
McSweety was in real terror now. He fought the impulse to sob, and gripped his cards with his large, rough fingers. He was ready to say or do anything to get out of this with his wallet and head intact. Still on the same hand, the two betters were reduced to nothing but their boxers, and it was McSweety's turn to bet. He had nothing left – the midget had raised everything he had put down, and he had nothing left – but he couldn't fold and lose not only all the money he had just earned, but all the clothes he was just wearing. He sighed, slowly getting up and setting his cards face down on the table in front of him. Sucking his chest in as far as it could go, he pulled his boxers off and tossed them onto the monstrous pile in front of him. The assembly that had by now gathered around the two gamblers gasped, some in awe, others in jealousy, some for air because they had swallowed the cherry that had come with their drinks. He sat back down at the table and picked his cards up again, smiling contently at the midget in front of him. The midget looked around the room, nervously, then stood up, unbuttoning his fly.
Jimmy was thrown against the opposite wall for the third time now, then picked up by his neck for the fourth. Gasping for air, with blood trickling from his nose, he stared in horror at his malevolent assailant.
“Dop makin fun o me!” Ron screamed, spittle flying from his face. Jimmy cowered underneath his laser beam gaze, shielding his eyes with one hand.”
“Please! Please stop! I'll do anything, I just really can't understand you – here -”
He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a notepad. Scrambling around the nightstand that now felt like it was part of his back, he found a pen and held the two up in front of Ron's face.
“Please, just – just write it down!”
He turned away and shut his eyes tightly, anticipating another blow. He nearly died with relief when Ron released him to fall to his knees, then wrote down his request in exquisite cursive.
I heard you talking in the bar about some mineral shipments that you had aquired from some privateers. Did you steal and/or hire the privateers to steal them for you?
Ron handed the pad back to Jimmy, who took it with fear in his eyes. After reading the message, he shook his head vigorously.
“No! No, it wasn't me! It was – my bosses, they hired some guy, his name was, it was, Ale- Rale – Ralph! Ralph McSweety, I swear! Please don't hurt me anymore, please!”
Ron nodded his head slowly.
“Dank oo.”
Jimmy looked at him curiously and momentarily forgot himself.
“What?”
Rage welled up inside Ron's eyes again. Jimmy realized his mistake and immediately curled into the fetal position, shielding his head with his arms. As Ron was about to pummel Jimmy into a pulp, he realized that it was probably a mistake, and that if the police found a puddle of goo instead of a man, he'd probably get in trouble. Snorting, he created a massive spitball and expelled it onto Jimmy's quivering body, then stormed out of the room. With a bob of the head at the man-woman, whom was still waiting outside his/her apartment, he left to go inform some friends of the new information he had aquired. The man-woman watched him go, then stepped inside the apartment. Jimmy smiled at “her,”, and beckoned weakly. The man-woman shut the door and stepped forward. About five minutes later, witnesses reported hearing a scream and seeing a bloody, half naked man storm out of the apartment in full flight.
Witnesses later reported seeing a jubilant midget with a large bundle of clothes and money storm out of the bar with a large group of followers in tow. McSweety had lost the bet, after being forced to show his cards once the midget matched his wager. After raising and re raising for almost two hours, his pair of twos finally lost out to the midget's pair of threes.
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Witnesses later reported seeing a naked, overjoyed midget with a large bundle of clothes and money storm out of the bar with a large group of followers in tow. McSweety had lost the bet, after being forced to show his cards once the midget matched his boxer shorts wager. After raising and re raising for almost two hours, his pair of twos had finally lost out to the midget's pair of threes, and he was forced to concede defeat. The midget had been kind enough to let him keep his boxers; something that McSweety was sure he would not have done had the situation been reversed. Gathering up what little remained of his pride, he meekly stepped out of the bar and shuffled off towards his ship to look for a new job to pay back all of what he had just lost.
At that very moment, Ron had just gotten off the phone with some very important people in the asteroid mining business. The shipment that had been stolen was earmarked for a very large, very expensive luxury being constructed at Europa shipyards, and the owner of the cruise line was more than a little upset at it being stolen. It also didn't help that the owner of said cruise line happened to be one of the most powerful mobsters in the Solar System, and was now calling for someone's head on a platter. The mining company was all too happy to give Ron whatever he wanted in exchange for a scapegoat, whether or not it was the right person. Thanks to their generosity, Ron was now the proud owner of a brand new space yacht, and the holder to some twenty thousand dollars.
Meanwhile, the head of the mining company hurriedly dialed up his dissatisfied customer, desperate to reach him in time. The phone rang twice, then picked up. A sultry female voice answered.
“George Cozner's office, LL Luxury Liners, how may I be of assistance?”
The head of the mining company practically gasped out his name.
“This is Bill Styk, from Asteroid Mining Co., I need to talk with Mr. Cozner immediately.”
“Oh, it's you.” She snorted out in disgust. “Hold one minute please.”
Bill mopped his brow and rung his hands. The three second wait was like an eternity – by the time Cozner picked up,Bill had felt three brand new gray hairs grow in.
“This is Cozner. This had better be good Bill.”
Bill gulped and cleared his throat. Cozner put the phone in the nook between his head and shoulder, keeping it there as he toyed placidly with a decorative dagger he had on his desk.
“Y-you know that shipment that was stolen? Well, uh, well we found the guy.”
Cozner took the dagger out of it's sheath and watched the light glint off the silvery blade.
“Oh?”
“Yea, he, uh, he was some privateer hired by some third party company on Mars – so, uh, so you see, we really had nothing to do with your delay Mr. Cozner.”
He tried a weak chuckle and snorted out through his nose. Cozner nodded slowly, mulling over the information. Pools of sweat were beginning to accumulate in the bottom of Bill's shiny leather shoes. Cozner put the knife back in his sheath and decided to end his little torture session.
“The privateer's name?”
Bill rushed over to the other side of his desk, where a notepad with the hastily scribbled name had been placed. Scattering pencils and pens over the floor in a loud commotion, he dug frantically for the pad. Cozner listened patiently to the commotion, picking at something underneath his nails until the crashing finally stopped and Bill came back on the line.
“Got it! His name's...uh...his name's Ralph McSweety. Some nobody privateer, odd cargo piracy jobs usually. Works the Venus/Saturn area mostly.”
Cozner rubbed the upper part of his tongue across his teeth, then smacked his lips.
“Is this information good?”
“Yes sir, one hundred percent, we got it direct from the buyer.”
Cozner nodded, pursing his lips, then sat up straight in his chair, crossing his legs. He thought it over for a few more seconds, then came to a decision.
“Alright Bill. I'll have my guys take care off him – you're off the hook for now.”
He paused.
“And Bill?”
“Yes, sir?”
“Thank you for your help in rectifying this unfortunate situation. I won't soon forget it.”
Bill was overcome with himself and nearly fainted with joy. Unfortunately, however, he did drop the phone with joy, and scrambled to pick it back up. Pulling it tight against his face, he was nearly shouting with relief.
“Thank you sir! Oh thank you sir, you are a wonderful sir, sir! Thank you so much sir!”
His exultations of praise and of Cozner's character continued for almost two minutes before he realized he was talking to a beeping dial tone. Gently setting the reciever down, he retired to his chair, feeling the squish of his now-watery pants against the soft leather. Laying his head back on the chair, he exhaled a monstrous sigh of relief and promptly passed out.
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Not sure how many people are actually reading this, but I figure I should keep posting. Comments would be much appreciated though.
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By the time Bill had woken up, McSweety had managed through sheer force of will and effort to scrounge up almost five dollars in change. It had taken him nearly an hour to comb the floors of all the local brothels, strip clubs, bars, and vending machine outlets, yet something was amiss – it seemed that in all these locations, the money he gathered up disappeared as readily as it was found. He did manage to keep fifteen dollars long enough to buy a pair of dark green khaki pants and a light blue T-shirt, but that was it. Stumbling back to his airlock tired, half drunk, and full of junk food, his eyes were so blurry that he didn't notice a tall, wide man with two chins about ten feet away, following him casually. The man was dressed in a black trench coat, with a bolar hat that covered a bald head, and green-tinted sunglasses. He moved with a grace that was unusual for his size – a good six feet plus, twice the size of his diminutive prey. As Mcweety yanked the airlock lever, the man with two chins bolted after him, grabbing him just as he set foot inside the walkway leading to the small vessel. McSweety yelped, but the man's hand was already encompassing his mouth as he dragged him inside the small tube, throwing him bodily against the opposite wall. McSweety was dazed, confused, and in pain – even worse, he was still full of junk food, which made all this throwing about doubly worse. He hiccuped and tasted what appeared to be potato chips and blood in his mouth. Turning on his belly and scampering towards the door on his ship, he was about three inches from the airlock latch when his back was stomped on mightily by the giant man with two chins. Turning his head groggily towards his towering assailant, he attempted to choke out a question before he was snatched around the neck and pushed up against the wall. Gasping, he managed to get his message out.
“Who—who are you? What do you want?”
The man's grip tightened.
“I don't --” he swallowed, hard. “I don't have any money!”
The man used his other hand to pin McSweety's left arm to the cold metal wall, his palm totally encompassing McSweety's wrist.
“I swear! That goddamn midget took it all!”
MSweety's eyes were bulging. This was it! This was how he was going to die! In a fume filled tube, with a fumy-smelling man's hand around his throat! Unless – he had one chance. Slowly he turned towards the airlock door leading to his ship. Stretching slowly, painfully, he reached out his arm to grasp the latch. He could feel his bones popping out of their socket as he pushed his arm as far as it could go – the world was getting darker and darker, the potato chips and blood started to taste a lot more like blood – it was now or never. Softly, his fingers fell on the latch – he began to choke on his own spit, his body roared at him to breathe. He finally got the latch and yanked, hard, throwing himself towards the door, half falling, half leaping off the wall. The sudden movement caught the man with two chins off his guard, sending him reeling through the narrow entranceway, knocking his head against the bulkhead. McSweety, released from his stranglehold, went sailing through the zero gravity, bouncing off of one of the pipes on the opposite wall, sending him spinning into space. He gasped for air, breathing it in with heavy heaves, loving every molecule of it, every fiber in his body soaking it up and relishing it. He spun there for a few seconds, until he saw that the man with two chins was beginning to recover himself. Re orientating himself and pushing off of the ceiling, he went flying down the corridor, glancing over his shoulder to check if he was being pursued. He got the scare of his life when he saw the man with two chins barreling after him, his massive bulk filling up the entire hallway, his head looking like a small black-topped pimple on top of a massive black balloon. A very unpleasant look was on his usually expressionless face. McSweety went wide eyed and hiccuped again – now the potato chips and blood was starting to taste like potato chips. Passing a doorway, McSweety reached out and snatched one of the frames, yanking himself inside and throwing himself against the panel on the opposite wall. He quickly slid open a small hatch, revealing a small number pad. He could hear the man getting closer and closer – McSweety's heart beat faster and faster. He punched in the number sequence as fast as he could – but when he tried to confirm it, the system let out a loud screech and turned red. The man's giant hand gripped the edge of the doorway, and his massive pimple head slowly came into view, his eyes wide, veins bulging. McSweety tried again. The man grasped the opposite frame with his other hand, his body taking up the entire doorway. The number pad bleeped cheerfully and turned green – the panel next to it slid up with a loud clanking sound. The man lunged, letting out a primal roar. McSweety reached inside the panel. The man was halfway across the room. McSweety pulled a long, dark object from inside the panel. The man with two chins was almost on top of McSweety – McSweety grabbed the bottom frame of the panel and yanked himself downwards, bringing the long, dark object to bear above him. The main sailed over him, smashing his head into the wall – McSweety spun the object around by it's handle, a loud, metallic snap issued forth from it. Time seemed to stop. The man's glasses were by now long gone, lost in his collision with the bulkhead earlier. He stared at McSweety. McSweety stared back. The man stared back. McSweety's finger moved an inch – a loud report echoed throughout the ship, bouncing off the metal walls, traveling up and down the entire length of the ship. The man reeled backwards as if snatched by his belt and yanked straight back. Blood seeped from a giant, raw, red hole in his gut as he smacked hard against the ceiling. He writhed in pain and grasped at his stomach, screaming in pain – McSweety yanked the cocking lever down and up again – a shell flew from the gun and floated into space – the air was thick with the noxious fumes of the gunpowder. McSweety took aim at the man's head. He wanted answers.
“Who are you?” he shouted. The man's screams were his only answer.
“Calm yourself down or you'll get another one in the ass – now who are you, fatty?”
The man choked down some sobs, still holding tightly to his stomach. Small red planets of blood orbited around the room, oblivious to their former owner's pain. McSweety raised the gun sights to his eyes.
“Stop!” The man with two chins shouted. McSweety smiled and lowered the gun slightly.
“You've got thirty seconds.”
“My name isn't important --”
“Oh yes it is.”
The man's face contorted as another wave of pain shot up from his stomach. Some blood drifted by his face and deposited itself on his forehead.
“The name's Logan” he coughed in pain “Logan Garcia.”
“Much better...hello Logan. My name's Ralph.” Logan winced. McSweety smirked, and continued in a mocking tone. “Now that we're all nice and cozy - why do you want to kill me, Logan, Logan Garcia?”
Logan winced again.
“I was...I was hired.”
This caught McSweety's attention. He lowered the gun slightly, so that he could get a clear view of his former attacker.
“Hired by who?”
“Not...not gonna--”
McSweety brought the gun to bear again, this time on Logan's crotch. The latter panicked at this, shaking his head furiously.
“No no no, wait! His name's George Cozner!”
“Bull****.” McSweety replied coolly, never lowering his weapon.
“I swear! He sent me after you!”
“Why would the George Cozner, 'ruler of the inner rim' want me dead?”
“I don't know—!”
McSweety aimed and started to squeeze the trigger.
“No, I swear! I just know what I need to know! Oh God please don't shoot me there!”
“Then where would you like me to shoot you?”
“Nowhere! I swear to God, please! Look in my back pocket – get my phone!”
McSweet eyed him cautiously. Re orientating himself and pushing off the floor, he sailed slowly towards Logan, a little above him so that he could keep his weapon trained on the giant. McSweety reached the ceiling and stopped himself with an outstretched hand. Reaching out gingerly and spinning the bloody Logan around so his back faced him, he moved the trenchcoat aside and reached into the man's back pocket. When he withdrew it, he held in his hand a small black cellular phone with no markings of type, service provider, or anything that might identify it to curious eyes. He flipped it open. Logan heard and grunted out instructions.
“Scroll...scroll to 'Jobs' and hit” he stopped and groaned loudly in pain. “Hit dial.”
McSweety nodded and spun around, this time pushing off of Logan and heading back to his previous corner. He settled himself in, still keeping the gun trained on the hitman. The phone rang once. Logan's eyes were scrunched up, he was breathing hard. Blood floated and bobbed around the room. Logan moaned once again.
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McSweet eyed him cautiously. Re orientating himself and pushing off the floor, he sailed slowly towards Logan, a little above him so that he could keep his weapon trained on the giant. McSweety reached the ceiling and stopped himself with an outstretched hand. Reaching out gingerly and spinning the bloody Logan around so his back faced him, he moved the trenchcoat aside and reached into the man's back pocket. When he withdrew it, he held in his hand a small black cellular phone with no markings of type, service provider, or anything that might identify it to curious eyes. He flipped it open. Logan heard and grunted out instructions.
“Scroll...scroll to 'Jobs' and hit” he stopped and groaned loudly in pain. “Hit dial.”
McSweety nodded and spun around, this time pushing off of Logan and heading back to his previous corner. He settled himself in, still keeping the gun trained on the hitman. The phone rang once. Logan's eyes were scrunched up, he was breathing hard. Blood floated and bobbed around the room. Logan moaned once again.
“Oh God man...please...at least get me some...get me some morphine or something...” he pleaded, staring off into nothing, hoping for some sympathy from McSweety. The phone rang twice. McSweety nodded at Logan.
“After this.”
Logan moaned again. The phone rang a third time, then picked up. A sultry female voice answered.
“George Cozner's office, LL Luxury Liners, how may I be of assistance?””
“Yes, may I speak to Mr. Cozner please?”
“Whom may I ask is calling, sir?”
“His hit. I want to speak with Cozner – now, or lardo here -” he waved the gun at Logan “gets a bullet to the balls.”
The female voice choked slightly, then came back, sounding a little nervous.
“One moment please, sir.”
The line blanked for a few moments, then rang once. It was immediately picked up and a gruff but unhurried voice came on the line.
“Cozner's office. Hello Ralph.”
“So this is the voice of the infamous George Cozner's?”
“That's right, Ralph.”
“Only people who aren't trying to kill me are allowed to call me Ralph – you call me McSweety.”
“Dreadfully sorry, Mr. McSweety. My mistake.”
“Mhm.”
There was a pause. Cozner was the first to speak.
“As I am to understand it, you are holding one of my...business partners hostage?”
“You could say something like that.”
McSweety's voice was completely level, not betraying a hint of emotion. He'd had experience with tough deals before – this was no different. Logan shifted, trying to ignore the pain so that he could listen in on the conversation. There was another pause – Cozner spoke again.
“What do you want, Mr. McSweety?”
“Want? What do I want?” There was a note of incredulousness in McSweety's voice.
“That's about the gist of what I asked, yes.”
“I want to know why you sent this meaty, muscular man-murder after me.”
“It's simple, Mr. McSweety. You stole my money, so now I steal your life.”
“Steal? What did I steal of yours?”
“Why my minerals, of course.”
Logan shifted again – it looked like he was trying to move a hand into his pocket. McSweety's eyes snapped to him, as leveled the gun on him again, shaking his head. Logan's hand slowly pulled away and returned to the bloody hole in his gut.
“Minerals? Those were your minerals?”
“Yes – and your little 'adventure' will cost me quite a bit of money, McSweety – which makes me an unhappy individual, you see.”
“Judging by the look on your Doberman's face, here, I say I'd have to see...speaking of which, Cozner – you might want to tell your dog to heel. There seems to be a psychic connection between us, and his twitchy fingers are starting to make mine twitchy as well – I would hate for this gun to accidentally go off.”
Cozner chuckled on the phone.
“Put me on speaker.”
McSweety did so. Cozner spoke, a metallic ring to his voice now – he was addressing his now-incapacitated hitman.
“Logan, stand down for now. Let the man have finish his phone conversation.”
Logan, too weak now to say anything, simply nodded. McSweety shut off the speakerphone and brought the phone to his ear, still eying the hitman. He addressed Cozner to tell him of his henchman's action.
“He nodded.”
“Good...Now, McSweety. You see my predicament. I have a very expensive shipment of minerals which has just been stolen – which makes me lose money. This in turn makes me unhappy, which, in turn, makes me want to make you unhappy.”
“Oh no, no...I see perfectly well. But I have a question, if you don't mind?”
“Oh, by all means. It's tradition to let a dying man have his last requests be heard, is it not?”
McSweety smirked, then continued. “I was just wondering what sort of unhappiness we're talking about here? I mean, what happens if I don't want to lay down and die in front of chubbo here?” He waved the gun casually at Logan.
“Ah, excellent question. I admire a man of intelligence.”
It seemed to McSweety that there was a note of sarcasm in Cozner's voice as he said this, although it was gone by the time he continued.
“Well you see, it's quite simple. If you refuse to die by whatever means Logan had planned for you, then I will hunt you down for the rest of your life, catch you, bring you to my office, and make you spend the last two hours of your life staring at your own beating heart as it rests on your forehead. We're talking about that sort of unhappiness here.”
McSweety nodded casually, still dividing his time between the gun and the phone.
“That sounds pretty uncomfortable, Cozner.”
“Indeed it is Mr. McSweety. Those who have tried it have unfortunately not volunteered to go through it again.”
“What if there was, maybe, I don't know, some way I could make it up to you?”
“How so?”
“Well we have already established that I am a thief.”
“This is true.”
“And a privateer.”
“Also true.”
“And quite good at what I do.”
“I would not go so far.”
“Well, I was wondering if maybe, possibly, there was something you would like stolen in return for the gratitude donation of your cargo to my monetary gain? As a way of 'getting even,' so to speak?”
Cozner did not reply for a few seconds. McSweety eyed Logan Coolly, playing with the safety switch on his weapon. Cozner began to talk again, slower, more cautious.
“There may be something that you can do for me. But it won't be easy, and if you fail, well, I'll have to be unpleasant with you again – and I am sure that's something neither of us want.”
“Indeed...Well Mr. Cozner, what is it you have in store for my humble ship and I?”
“It's funny that you should mention a 'ship'...My opponent, Double-Star Solar Liners, has just commissioned a new one -”
“Is that so?”
“Yes. It's quite state of the art, very fast, very sleek – holds almost one thousand people. A ship like that could seriously degrade a competitor's profit margins...”
“Of course – seriously degrade.” McSweety was intrigued. Where was Cozner going with this?
“Yes...now, if something were to happen to that ship – nothing overt, mind you, nothing that could be traced to the financier of such an operation. But something, like...oh, it were destroyed or somehow...stolen...”
Ah...so that's where he was going with it. “And let me guess,” McSweety replied casually, “You want me to dress up in a leotard and steal from the rich, give to the needy, save kittens, and make you a nice profit on the side?”
Cozner chuckled. “That's about the size of it.”
“It sounds pretty tough.”
“Yes – and I can't send my boys to do it, you see, for they are both recognized there, and tied to me. So I could use a man of your talents, if you will consider it.”
McSweety considered carefully. He could either wear his heart or a hat, or steal a mile long cruise ship. The conundrum was crushing him.
“Fine – I'll do it.”
“Excellent.”
McSweety waved his gun at Logan.
“What do you want me to do with your man here?”
“Oh, leave him in the station if you wouldn't mind. I'll send someone over to pick him up later.”
“Sounds like a plan – pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Cozner.”
“And you, Mr. McSweety.”
The phone went dead. McSweety smiled at Logan and grinned.
“Looks like you're going to have to skip the check for this week, buddy.”
Logan groaned.
It took about three hours to patch Logan up and push his massive bulk through the tight corridors of McSweety's ship, but in the end he managed to get the large man outside of the airlock and lying on the deck of the space station. He called station security and left him there, gurgling spittle in a morphine-induced stupor. Best to escape early before any serious questions were asked – even though Logan had been ordered to seal his trap, there was always the chance that something might be tied back to McSweety.
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By some stroke of fortune, I've landed here on your topic and am obliged to inform you that your work is entertaining, to say the least.
Oh there are some typographical errors here and there, but the story itself is very engaging. I especially like the comical back-to-back shifts between characters that mirror their situations.
You've got some fresh humor here and a talent for story-telling. I can see a lot of this in my head, not because you've paid meticulous attention to detail, but rather that the story is so enjoyable that my mind lends itself to framing the scenes naturally.
This is great.
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Ah, thank you very much for that comment :) No update right now, though. Been busy with school and trying to find a job :(
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Be a :pimp:, or a :snipe: for the ICA.
I read these from the off, Very good as always.
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Nice...very nice.
Hey, do you plan on continuing the HLP Movie?
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R...O...F...L...
You're such a :pimp:... :yes: story! continue ASAP!
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Always nice to hear comments - thanks guys :)
It took about three hours to patch Logan up and push his massive bulk through the tight corridors of McSweety's ship, but in the end he managed to get the large man outside of the airlock and lying on the deck of the space station. At Cozner's request, McSweety liberated Logan of his cellular phone, so that he and his new employer could keep in touch more regularly. After removing any other items of value he happened to find, he called station security and left the assassin there, gurgling spittle in a morphine-induced stupor. Best to escape early before any serious questions were asked – even though Logan had been ordered to shut his mouth about the whole affair, there was always the chance that something might be tied back to McSweety.
After about an hour of racing away from the station and it's newest comatose occupant, Logan's phone rang, vibrating against McSweety's rear end. Leaning out of his seat and reaching into his back pocket, the privateer withdrew the phone and held it to his ear.
“McSweety?”
“Cozner.”
“Good...so you haven't flown the coop just yet.”
“Just yet.”
Cozner chuckled in a vague mirth of amusement at his new contractor.
“Is your vessel datalink-capable, Mr. McSweety?”
“Yes, it is.”
“Very well. I am sending you all the information I have about your target...now.”
McSweety tapped a large flashing smiley face on the upper right hand corner of the screen. The smiley face expanded to fill the entire screen, then faded away to show the progress of the transfer, which was already at about eighty-five percent. McSweety turned his attention back to the phone.
“Recieving.” he reported.
They waited in silence for a few seconds while the transfer completed – a loud, recorded cheer went up from the computer display and a dozen brightly colored balloons floated from the bottom of the screen to the top. Whoever had owned this ship before it was stolen must have been very, very bored.
“Alright, I received the file – opening now.”
“Very good Mr. McSweety. I have other matters to attend to, so I'll leave you to whatever it is that you do, but let me just make one thing very clear --”
“You'll be watching me and it would be very bad for me if I messed up?” McSweety interjected.
“I see you get the picture.”
“You're not the first person to threaten me, Mr. Cozner.”
Cozner chuckled and the line suddenly went dead. McSweety turned his attention to the screen in front of him. Setting a course for the asteroid belt, he opened up the recently received file and began to read.
The first page was a brief background on the cruise line - Double-Star Solar Liners; mostly a bunch of boring history that no one ever really cared about except some pompous pencil neck behind a travel counter somewhere. The only useful facts in the whole section was that they had been involved in some pretty serious money scandals about twenty years ago, and that they had been competing with LL Luxury Liners for the last ten – and it looked like they were winning, as far as he could tell.
The next few pages was a myriad of technical readouts and history on the ship to be stolen; the newly-christened Isabela. Mostly technical stuff that McSweety couldn't comprehend, although the first sentence of the section summed it up quite nicely; “The Isabela is the most advanced cruise liner ever constructed, and the pride and joy of Double-Star Solar Liners.” He put a small note at the bottom of the page so he could remember to come back and try to understand it later.
Finally, he reached the last section of the document, and the only one he really understood – security and anti-theft devices. About two pages in, he started to think about writing his will. This job was impossible! Not only was the very size of the ship daunting, but the fact that it was in low Moon orbit made security impossibly, mind-bogglingly hard to get through. He stopped reading for a few seconds to think about how he could escape his predicament, when he remembered the very gruesome image he had of his heart looking something like a giant, bloody, oversized version of the zit he had had on his forehead his senior prom. Shaking his head to clear the image, he tried one last time to think of a way out, only to be confronted with the vision of him being picked apart like one of those frogs on the little dissection trays. Shuddering, he gave up on trying to escape and turned his efforts to trying to find a way to complete an impossible job.
It was certainly daunting, to say the least. The area around Earth's orbit was the most heavily policed area in the entire solar system. The moon itself, where Double L's shipyards were located, was home to the headquarters of the Third Space Fleet, the Earth Space Police, at least a hundred patrol vessels, and thousands upon thousands of very big, very scary guns.
And smack in the middle of all of it was the Ship Farm – a large collection of shipyards within relatively close proximity to each other, orbiting on the dark side of the Moon. Each individual station had it's own security force of several hundred very mean looking guards, complimented by a small wing of very mean looking fighter craft. The specific shipyard that McSweety was targeting, DSS-15, had just undergone a security upgrade as a result of the Isabela's construction at the facility, and now boasted twice the usual complement of security guards, security vessels, and had a state of the art early warning system, internal laser detection grid, and...McSweety felt dizzy. He was going to die, and there was nothing he could do about it. He needed a drink.
Floating out of his seat and drifting haphazardly into the lounge, he opened the fridge, snagged a beer, and slammed it shut, only to have it pop back open. Too depressed to fight another impossible battle, he simply kicked off of it and floated gently to his chair in front of the TV. Flicking it on, he settled into his seat to enjoy one of the last beers of his life.
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10/10
:lol:
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I was trying to find this on Pirate day, but for the life of me i just couldn't for some reason..... :(
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And smack in the middle of all of it was the Ship Farm – a large collection of shipyards within relatively close proximity to each other, orbiting on the dark side of the Moon. Each individual station had it's own security force of at least a hundred very mean looking guards, complimented by a small wing of very mean looking fighter craft. The specific shipyard that McSweety was targeting, DSS-15, had just undergone a security upgrade as a result of the Isabela's construction at the facility, and now boasted almost one hundred and fifty security guards, fifteen fighters, a state of the art early warning system, internal laser detection grid, and...McSweety felt dizzy. He was going to die, and there was nothing he could do about it. He needed a drink.
Floating out of his seat and drifting haphazardly into the lounge, he opened the fridge, snagged a beer, and slammed it shut, only to have it pop back open once more. Looking at it and sighing, he moved onto the couch – he was just too depressed to fight another impossible battle. Kicking off a nearby wall he floated drearily to his chair in front of the TV, flicking it on and watching aimlessly as cartoon characters pranced about the screen in an unwavering show of joy.
Worthless cartoon characters. Worthless TV.
He sat their for an hour or so, eyes glazed over as he enjoyed one of the last beers of his life. The room was growing steadily colder from the air leaking from the refrigerator. When it at last got cold enough to see his breath, he sighed mightily, pushed off to the couch, and resolved to fix the goddamn thing once and for all. He floated across the hall to the closet, where he kept his little-used cleaning supplies and tools. Rummaging for a few minutes through the ensemble, sending hammers and brooms and dustpans flying in every direction and bouncing off the walls, he found what he was looking for, stuck to the very innermost wall. With a mighty tug he pried the double extra large roll of duct tape off the wall – and paused. Floating by his face was a small power generator – nothing special, just an odd bit that he thought he had lost a long time ago. He pocketed it without thinking, then went back to the lounge, leaving the door to the closet wide open. Now liberated from their prison, the cleaning supplies made a break for it, drifting about the corridor enjoying their newfound freedom.
McSweety meanwhile, had just attached himself to the refrigerator with his hand, and had begun his makeshift repair job. The room was so cold his fingers were starting to get numb. Stretching out several long strips of duct tape, he slowly and painstakingly wrapped them around the door and body of the refrigerator. Now he finally had a means to keep the worthless thing shut. He admired his handiwork for a few minutes, praising himself mentally for his genius. Floating back over to the couch, he could feel the room already beginning to heat up as he settled himself in to enjoy the rest of his beer. A jab in his thigh reminded him of the power generator he had temporarily stored in his pocket. He pulled it out and examined it slowly, twirling it about in space in front of him. Then he stopped it suddenly, grabbing out of it's spiral and holding it in his hand. He stared at it for a few seconds, thinking – then he glanced back over his shoulder at the refrigerator. He smirked slightly and chuckled; the latter of which soon turned into a great, maniacal guffaw. He might just have a way to get that ship after all.
The tour group was awful today. Cal was getting more and more annoyed with each passing minute as he tried to shepard the unruly miscreants through the station. It was a lower school student trip from the Moon, which mean that he had to deal with some twenty whiny, annoying, pain in the ass little ten year olds, all intent on making his life hell. Cal stopped in front of a large window – outside, the Isabela gleamed in all her glory as the final stages of construction were being completed.
“Now, on your left you will see the Isabe-- hey, you! Stop that!”
One of the little monsters had broken free from the teacher's hold and darted off towards one of the restricted access zones. He had reached the door and was now banging his tiny, plump little fists against the door handle, which despite his best efforts was unyielding to his advances. The teacher who was in charge of him quickly darted over and grabbed him, herding him back to the group. She turned to talk to Cal, apologizing profusely.
“I am so, so sorry for all of this, sir. They're never this disobedient, I don't know what has gotten into them!”
Cal waived his hand and faked a smile.
“Oh it's no trouble at all Mrs. Roonish.” His fake smile grew larger. “Now please if you'll gather them up, we can continue?”
Mrs. Roonish nodded and smiled wearily, signaling the other chaperons to follow her. They gathered up the children and hurried off toward the next part of the tour, only barely getting their charges to follow them. No one seemed to notice that the tall man in dark glasses and a wide brimmed hat, dressed in a smart looking business suit, had seemingly vanished from the procession.
In truth, McSweety had sneaked off into a nearby bathroom and was simply waiting for the tour group to move on. Pocketing two very large bundles of candy, he snickered to himself silently. Pulling out a small PDA that he had stolen about two years ago, he turned it on and tapped the screen several times, opening up a diagram of the station. Zooming in on his location, he mapped out a course for himself and stepped outside, warily eying the corridor for any sign of cameras or personnel. When he found none, he continued, putting the PDA back in his pocket. Outside the white-washed internal corridors, the Isabela gleamed proudly in the dark through the large windows along one side of the corridor. Small welding plumes flamed into being in a hail of sparks all across her deck at random intervals. A massive latticework of lights and steel sprawled over top of her, large shuttles and trolleys moving back and forth across it.
McSweety took a right at the next junction, and the Isabela disappeared from view. He was now in a long corridor with the same white walls and fluorescent lighting as the rest of the station. Lining the walls were rows of slag-gray doors, each numbered, most all of them labeled RESTRICTED ACCESS. McSweety heard voices approaching and darted into one of the unmarked doors, shutting it softly behind him. Two voices, male and female, slowly approached, their shoes clicking softly on the metal floor. He waited uncomfortably in what appeared to be a pipe room with a very large steam vent in the roof. All around him were a myriad of other pipes of all different shapes and colors – most of them were over one hundred degrees Celsius, so he spent his time there sucking in his gut and standing as still as possible. Outside, the two voices stopped at a room across the hall, and a door opened. He could faintly make out what they were saying if he pressed himself right against the thick metal door. The female voice was speaking at the moment.
“Yea, it's a mess. One of those kids in the tour group did it.”
“All over the control panel?”
“Yep. Cal, too.”
The male voice laughed heartily.
“Goddamnit, where is that mop?” the female voice said, frustrated.
“Are you sure it's here?”
“Put it here this morn—ah, here it is.”
There was a pause and a rustle of some objects, then the door was slammed shut. The male voice said something indistinct.
“Mhm...” the female voice acknowledged lazily. The clicking of the pairs heals faded into the distance and McSweety breathed a sigh of relief. As he stepped through the door, he heard a faint squishing sound every time he walked. The steam vent had treated him to a free sauna, and his shoes were paying the price.
“Goddamnit...”
He took them off and wrung his socks out, then slipped them both back on and continued on his way. Removing his PDA from his pocket and turning it on, he glanced at the map again. First take a left...then a right...then...he followed the directions he had carefully laid out for himself just a few moments earlier. Within a few minutes he was standing in front of a nondescript door in a nondescript hallway, and above him was a very large plaque exclaiming that he was located in front of the LOCKERS. Across the hall was another door marked STATION LOUNGE, a fact that he took a mental note of. Pocketing his PDA once more, McSweety squished his way into the locker room, trying to avoid the few people that were in there. Most of them were naked and about to shower, so they weren't paying much attention to him anyway. Stealing quickly to one of the lockers in the corner, he tried the lock. No dice. Pulling out a small device from his back pocket, he placed it over the digital keypad, depressing a large red button on the device. It hummed for a few seconds, then the light on the lock turned green. Removing the lock picker, he opened the door and found...nothing but a bunch of pictures and extra socks. He shut the door gently and moved on to the next one, glancing over his shoulder to see if any of the naked people were coming back. Repeating the same process, he broke into the next locker, only to find...more pictures and extra socks. The next three lockers were all the same. Station crews are bizarre. Searching around for his next target, he spied an already opened locker, probably belonging to one of the naked people taking a shower. Lo and behold, there laid a sweaty, greasy jumpsuit uniform on the bench. Returning the lock pick to his back pocket, he quickly snatched the dirty cloth from the table and removed himself from the area as quickly as he could.
Darting back to his previous steam room, he quickly donned his newly acquired apparel, pulling it over his suit. The baggy light blue jump suit smelled of axel grease, engine grease, bacon grease, and some sort of grease that McSweety wasn't even sure if it was real grease or not. Obviously the man who had worn it was quite large, as the collar was almost down to McSweety's chest and the sides sagged worse than an eighty year old woman. He tried to remedy it by using the belt off of his suit, with a little luck, but he still felt like he was on the inside of a blimp. Stuffing his PDA into one of the front pockets of the jumpsuit, he left his sauna and made his way back to where he had found the door to the locker rooms. Instead of returning to the scene of his previous crime, however, he went into the Station Lounge to commit another one instead. Hunching over and putting his hands in his pockets, he made his best effort to look like a nondescript grease monkey, and opened the door. Immediately he shielded his face, pretending to drop a dime on the floor right in front of him. He hadn't counted on there being a security camera pointed directly at the door, and now his face was on video tape for all to see. Shuffling grudgingly off to the side, he slowly made his way to the refrigerator. The room was relatively unoccupied; he had made sure to book the tour when most everybody would be home or working. There were a few fat mechanics lounging about on the sofa in front of a very nice TV, watching a football game. McSweety was struck by a pang of jealousy; their TV was much larger than his, and he thought that if he pulled this off, he should steal there's as well. Just on the other side of the room was the refrigerator, and he casually made his way behind them to it. No one challenged him when he reached it and opened it up, grabbing a juice box and opening it up. Sticking the straw in,he tried to bend it down to take a casual sip from it.
“****!” he exclaimed loudly. The straw had bent the wrong way, splitting open and spilling juice all over him. To make matters worse, his outburst had caught the attention of all those in the room. He grinned nervously and waved.
“Heh...oops. Sorry, my bad.”
They returned to the activities they were doing. One of the fat men on the couch rolled his eyes and muttered something offensive about 'new guys' to one of his companions. Worthless bendy straws. McSweety gingerly set the juice box down on top of a desk, reaching into the refrigerator once more, pretending to try and retrieve another beverage.
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:pimp:
nice story... keep going please!
latest chapter is 9/10!
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Could someone collate this into a PDF, then i can print\bind\read on the train home.......... :nod:
please?
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copy it to notepad, and then print it all out...
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Agghh, Formatting hell//................ :(
Still cool points to the author.Again :lol:
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They returned to the activities they were doing. One of the fat men on the couch rolled his eyes and muttered something offensive about 'new guys' to one of his companions. Worthless bendy straws. McSweety gingerly set the juice box down on top of a desk, and pretended to drop another bit of change. As he stooped down to pick it up, he reached behind the refrigerator and withdrew the small black device, planting it securely on the back of the fridge near the power connector. He depressed a small side button on it and listened with satisfaction as the device emitted a small high-pitched whine and a red light came on. Standing back up and dusting himself off, he picked up the juicebox and strolled casually out of the room, making sure to keep his back to the camera at all times. Ducking back inside the pipe room and changing back into his previous clothes, he rolled the jumpsuit up under his arm and hurried to catch up to the tour group. Finding them was no problem; although he had recorded the path of the tour on his PDA, the trail of destruction left by the twenty-some sugar-fueled second graders pointed him straight towards them. Crayon markings on the walls, broken glass, and throw up on the floor all indicated the direction he should take.
By the time he had reached them, they were just near the end of their tour. Cal, smelling like a cross between vomit and urine, was on the phone to his superior, trying to convince him that he needed ten armed guards to guard twenty young children. One of the chaperons was on the floor unconscious, while the other one cradled her head in her lap and fanned her with a pamphlet. The teacher, meanwhile, was standing in the middle of the war zone, trying to establish some sort of order to the writhing mass of prepubescent flesh. A few of the children were writing obscenities on the wall, others were actually climbing on top of Mrs. Roonish, still more were simply running about in their hyperactive giddiness. One child had managed to find her way into the gravity-generator conduit and was now dangerously close to shutting down gravity on half the deck. McSweety confidently strode his way through the thick of the enemy, quietly grabbing the little girl by the conduit around the waist and depositing her in front of Mrs. Roonish. He smiled and nodded, while she looked at him, flabbergasted and in panic, her eyes wide with fear. The privateer continued out the exit, stopping briefly to examine a gift shop. There was a small plastic model of the Isabela, which he purchased with the little change he had. As he was waiting at the checkout counter, ten fully armed and armored security personnel stormed past him. Five minutes later as he left towards the docking pad, he saw two of them crawling out of the hall that he had just left, one of them bleeding from a large gash in his forehead. One man came out sobbing, stumbling around in blind agony, and still three more came out, the two carrying an unconscious teammate. Finally, the teacher, chaperons, Cal, and the remaining four security guards came out, carrying twenty sleeping children between the eight of them. McSweety smiled to himself and vacated the premises as soon as he could, before anyone could notice the blue cloth that was inconspicuously rolled up underneath his arm.
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Nice... longer please!
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Nice... longer please!
EAsy tiger, let him go at his own pace :nervous: :lol:
Good stuff btw :yes:
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A little late to say that... only 2 weeks later!!
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Ta da :)
No one could figure out how it had happened. A station full of the most talented technicians money could buy, and yet no one could figure out how or why the refrigerator had blown up. They even called the maintenance department head down to take a look at it, but he was just as dumbfounded as the others. As he entered the Lounge, he nearly gagged as the scent of phosphor and burnt cabbage assailed his nostrils. Mustering up his courage and pressing a handkerchief to his nose, he strode meekly into the room. Yet for all of his gusto and expertise, he could not figure out why such a machine would decide to spontaneously combust. One of the mechanics had offered that it might have been some sort of super circuit breaker overload, but there was no evidence of any such a thing occuring. Sabotage had been ruled out, as no explosive had been found – they had self-vaporizing explosives, sure, but those were military-issue only. The likelihood of someone stealing one of those was very remote.
Whatever the cause was, the problem still remained. The lounge was unusable in it's current state, and take-out food was beginning to get old. The maintenance office put in for a new refrigerator as soon as it could, and sent a repair team to fix the lounge as quickly as possible.
That replacement request was then rerouted through several stacks of paperwork, lost for about three days, found, lost, found again, sent, stamped, approved, and finally managed to get it's coffee stained pages to the transmission desk, where it was typed out and sent away to LL Luxury Liner's replacement desk some .5 light seconds away on Earth. There, it was stamped, re stamped, approved, disapproved, re approved, and finally sent through to the ordering desk back on Luna, where the new refrigerator was finally ordered after almost two weeks of bureaucratic snafus. The lounge regulars were overjoyed to finally hear that their order had been processed – the more radical elements of the crew had gotten so desperate as to store their drinks near the cryogenic coolant for the station's nuclear reactor. This practice did actually keep the drinks cool, although the health concerns of such a practice were a little more than scary.
There was one other soul who was also quite happy to hear of the refrigerator's replacement. McSweety had been sitting in deep orbit around the Moon ever since his daring raid on the station and his subsequent detonation of several packs of soda and pop rocks underneath the of the now-deceased appliance. It was around noon by his watch when a shrill klaxon banged through the ship, shaking him awake from his slumber inside the bridge. Grogilly he rolled over in midair and glanced over his shoulder at the offending console – then promptly chucked his now-empty beer bottle at it, which bounced off with a loud clang and continued on it's course to places unknown.
It was around midnight by McSweety's watch when he actually received the message. After finally awakening from his nap, he turned over to find that the previously beaten console had not learned it's lesson previously, and was still displaying information in defiance of his best efforts otherwise. Perplexed at this obvious and flagrant disregard for his command authority, he decided to investigate, and was surprised to see that there was a file on his screen, begging for his attentions. Drearily he opened it, half hoping to find it to be a love note from some beautiful woman somewhere out in the universe, who had heard of his daring exploits and wanted to see if such a manly man really existed.
Unfortunately, he found it instead to be some stupid refrigerator order. Someone must have sent it to the wrong address – he was about to delete it when he noticed the name at the top of the page – LL Luxury Liners. Immediately he recoiled from the delete button as if he had been bitten by a snake. Shaking his head at what could have been a monstrous mistake, he took a closer look at the document in front of him. From the looks of it, the engineers down at the shipyards were taking the opportunity to order the biggest refrigerator they could, and had used the company's already bloated budget to add in all of the bells and whistles. Chrome-plated exterior, ice maker with laser cube cutters, enough space to fit three men inside, a partially walk-in freezer – the list went on. This was a serious piece of culinary machinery that McSweety had on his hands, and he wasn't going to let such a prized bit of equipment go to waste. Immediately he found the factory that was shipping the refrigerator, where it would stop off before it reached the shipyard, and started on his way. Programming the autopilot for the Luna Cargo Yards, he set off to steal himself one very large, very expensive refrigeration unit.
Two days later, when the refrigerator finally arrived at the orbital cargo yard, McSweety was ready. Dressed in the fake uniform he had copied off the one he stole earlier, a bushy parka, dark sunglasses, giant rubber boots, and carrying a fat backpack stuffed with equipment, he looked just a little bit crazy. Slowly he maneuvered the Hangdog towards the floating container park – rows upon rows of neatly aligned block cargo pods. A short distance away laid the massive hub station,and above the cargo field several small cargo drones slipped back and forth between the containers, monitoring them carefully. McSweety set his course for the outermost edge of the field, stealthily approaching the container he knew to hold the new fridge. His radar picked up a moving blip and he shut off his engines, drifting lazily to rest behind A security drone buzzed past, blissfully unaware of the pirate vessel hiding just behind several large crates. McSweety waited several minutes before firing his engines up again and approaching the container, his massive ship slowly emerging from the shadows of the other crates as if stalking it's prey. Sidling up gently to the crate, McSweety quickly docked his ship. Setting the autopilot for an automatic heading, he bolted quickly to the airlock hatch – he only had a minute before the autopilot automatically undocked from the container. Undoing the latch as quickly as he could, he tossed his backpack inside the crate and hauled himself in rapidly afterwards. Quickly turning around inside the damp, dark vessel, he quickly rebolted the latches connecting the two hunks of metal – and not a moment too soon. No sooner had he closed the hatch for good than did he hear a loud whooshing sound as the Hangdog departed. Standing up and brushing himself off, hescrounged the floor for his back pack – the interior of the container was absolutely pitch black. Finding it with nothing but his sense of touch, he unzipped it and scrounged around inside. His hand grasped a long cylindrical object and he pulled it out. Feeling around the cold outer surface, he found the switch. Turning it on, he waited for the light to come – only to be greeted with a loud humming noise and a bright red LED counting down from five. Dropping the grenade in his surprise, he frantically scrambled around on the floor, snapping it up and turning it off just as it was about to hit zero. For a few seconds he sat, composing himself – he then put the grenade back in the bag, and this time made sure to pull out the flashlight. Flicking it on and waving it about the room, he was happily greeted with the sight of refrigerator, looming not five feet in front of him, draped in cargo netting.
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Ehem 10/10! :pimp:
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this is pretty gud - is it still going?
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Dont.... bump.... old.... threads.... unless.... you.... have.... something.... meaningful.... to.... add....
UNLIKE YOUR COMMENTARY!! Commentary isn't allowed; the author (Unknown Target) would be the only one who is allowed to bump this thread... he would have the only thing meaningful to add.
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Hey, be nice :) I appreciate the compliment monk.
Unfortunately, real life and BTRL have taken over my time atm, so no updates for a long time. I kind of wrote myself into a semi-corner, so it'll take a lot of explaining to get out of it :)
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No worries - :). Is a good plot and made me smile.
Bob-san, the thread wasnt locked/deleted, so ill post where i like. Besides, ive just read it and thought it deserved a compliment. The thread aint that old, not like some others that appear every so often.
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Octobre 17th to January 23rd. If memory serves, that is 3 months and about 6 days? It's quite a while between bumps.
Remember the red box that appears before you post on an old thread? Well, I do! It says "Warning: this topic has not been posted in for at least 30 days.
Unless you're sure you want to reply, please consider starting a new topic."
That means that, quite basically, if there is something meaningful to add, reply. IF there isn't, either PM the person who started it or leave it alone. Enjoy the story.
Sorry if that was a bit harsh thegreenmonk, but "this is pretty gud - is it still going?" isn't contributing to the topic. The rule is you don't spam old topics... you can (to some extent) spam (pretty much meaningless) posts on newer topics but not older topics.
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Are you still planning to submit this to magazines? I can provide some tips, if so.
It's not easy, and it'll probably require more work than you're willing to put into it.
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no worries bob-san. :) i didnt actually get the red box, so missed the warning.
wat it really 3+ months - good grief, uni term goes by fast.