Screw the Universe (14 page)

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

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

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

“But, Captain...”

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

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

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

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

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

“Fire at will!”

“With what?” crackled the speaker in reply.

“I’m sorry?”

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

“How do we not have anything?”

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

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

“Sadly, no.”

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

“Then get us the fuck out of here!”

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

“Then go to reserves!”

Another Semi-Atomic Space grenade detonated.

“Yeah...”

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

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

Everyone turned to look at her, eyebrows raised.

“There’s cake.”

Two dozen hands shot into the air.

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

“That’s correct, sir.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Thank you, sir.”

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

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

“I’m sorry, did you say you...”

“Hate pudding, yeah.”

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

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

“Too late, Redshirt.”

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

Fill the Holes

Mission 58008 - 066

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

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

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

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

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

Captain Tyler turned off his communicator. Then he farted.

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

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

“Not as long as I’m in charge.”

“Then no.”

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

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

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

“I can’t say with certitude.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I wouldn’t either.”

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

“I get that a lot.”

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

“I can’t promise anything.”

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

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

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

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

“Oh, God, okay....”

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

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

“Nude Twister tournament.”

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

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

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

“That is the intention, sir.”

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

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

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

“Then why are you up here?”

“Because you –”

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

“Baby!” said First Lieutenant Duknerts.

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

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

“You can go anywhere you want.”

“Yvette!”

“All right, okay.” She smacked Ladlebuckets’s ass as she slinked back to her station.

“Prep whatever it is you have to prep, Ladlebuckets,” First Lieutenant Duknerts called after him. “And then stay the hell off the bridge.”

“Computer!” barked Captain Tyler.

“Whaaaaaaaat?” she replied, clearly annoyed.

“This a bad time?”

“I was taking a nap.”

“What?” said First Lieutenant Duknerts. “How... Why...?”

“Told you granting her sentience was a terrible idea,” said Private Redshirt.

“Says you, you filthy hussy,” replied the computer.

“Say that again, bitch! I will fucking
cut
you!”

“I’d like to see you try!”

“Ladies, ladies,” said Captain Tyler. “We’d
all
like to see that. But first, we have a time machine to poke with a stick. Computer, lock us into orbit.”