by Matt Medlock
Disappearing into the night, Harry counted the assets in his pockets (which was short a bank card and “walkin' round money” after the mugging). Much of what he found was worthless—a spare button, lint, Alkaline earth metal of the month club card, a cracked monocle, eighteen pounds of Buck U. Bees game tokens, a slightly used band-aid, coupon for fifty cents off your next superfluous ear removal, a locker key to Space-Christ-who-knows, a micro-drive containing the complete Barenaked Ladies discography, a Discover credit card, and so on. But he did have his SCROTUM expense card.
Exploiting the trust of that evil organization was so blatantly obvious, that even Hopeless Harry had no trouble jumping to that conclusion.
“I shall be beaten down by SCROTUM no longer!” he announced proudly. “Now...it will be SCROTUM being beaten by me!”
II: Set Your Phasers to Funky Cold Medina
Hightailing it off of Naxariz 2G was the easy choice, so Harry eagerly committed to the endeavor. Typically, the bureaucratic runaround on planetary emigration took a long time to reach completion. The bureaucratic reacharound was the same, but in a considerably different way. Luckily, Harry was able to avoid both thanks to his SCROTUM diplomat card and his polite refusal to follow a causally-suited bureaucrat into a private room.
Reaching the nearest spaceport to his (now-atomized) termek loft, Harry used his SCROTUM expense card to make flight arrangements. He ended up booking a seat on the second offworld flight. Second, because the first one didn't offer vegetarian meals, and anyone with a shred of sense refuses to eat meat on an interplanetary commercial starship. That goes without saying, so apologies are in order for again wasting your time.
The starliner carried 11,654 people, about half of which were stacked in human Jenga columns in the cargo hold. Most of the other half were squished tight into tiny, poorly-inclined seats in various coach classes. Twenty other lucky souls were given luxurious rental condos that took up about sixty percent of the total vessel space. Having a spacious, eight-acre holographic dog park and an Elbescian restaurant in the luxury class section were nice touches, but there was really no excuse to have nine different bowling alleys that catered to twenty people.
Being stuffed in the coach seating wasn't all bad, though. There were complimentary bags of kruntnuts, which are only mildly poisonous to humans and are seasoned to taste slightly better than limestone. Plus, as luck would have it, the inflight holosphere movie was the original Noisy Stupidity, which was beneficial for Harry because he had been lost while trying to navigate all the plot intricacies of its sequel, such as when the film paused for twenty-two seconds for racist dialogue in between explosions. Unfortunately, the film had to be turned off seven minutes after takeoff because the soundwaves threatened to rip the spacecraft apart. So Harry had to spend the remainder of the flight in discomfort.
The discomfort (and voyage) lasted just shy of four months, and, of course, the baby in front of Harry refused to stop crying the entire way. Worse, another baby was delivered to a Mulachnax femme-noid in the seat behind him, so he soon got to experience the misery in surround sound.
Five births and twelve suicides later, the ship was cruising around the planetoid Tripponima when there was a terrible noise. It went unheard by Harry (because of those angry babies), but the pilot heard it loud and clear. It was a warning alert, signaling that the commercial starship would be going no further. Any attempt to continue on its present course or make a break for it would result in catastrophe. And not the kind of catastrophe that was Noisy Stupidity: The Movie. No, this catastrophe would involve the large starliner being blasted out of space, an occurrence that it not recommended for anyone looking to not be incinerated or sucked into a thoroughly inhospitable vacuum.
The message was being broadcast from a nearby source, but it was difficult to pinpoint. While the starliner crew argued frantically about their options, the co-pliot decided to take the reins himself by responding to the warning with a hail of his own.
“What's the problem, disembodied threatening voice?” the co-pilot asked gruffly.
“Who dares address the great hyper-assassin Chuugik with such insolence?” came a harsh response.
“This is Assistant Chair Eb'loon Smith. Now, what—?”
“Consider your family vaporized, Assistant Chair Eb'loon Smith.”
“What?”
“You heard me. Now put someone on who is wise enough to pay proper respect.”
Eb'loon stammered, stricken with fear. As his mind raced over dreadful possibilities, he began to hand over communication control to the lead pilot. But then the harsh voice returned abruptly.
“Uh, Eb'loon...” muttered the voice. “How do you spell that?”
Eb'loon gaped. “Wh-wh-what?”
“How do you spell that name? I need to find your family address using a search engine so I'll be able to vaporize them. Now, tell me how to spell your name. It might prove impossible for me to find them if I can't get it right.”
Eb'loon replied, “E-B-apostrophe-L-O-O-N.”
“Two O's?”
“Yes.”
“And N as in Naphlogggg?”
“Yes.”
“Okay. 'Cause it sounded like an M sound. Gosh, that would have really thrown me. So, lemme just verify. That's an N, right? N. N as in Norxiquass?”
“Yes. N.”
“N as in Ng?”
“Yes.”
“Okay. I'm still hearing that M sound. Must be a faulty connection or something. N, huh? Okay. E-B-slash-L-O-O-N?”
“N-no. Not a slash. An apostrophe.”
“Apostro—wait, what did I say?”
“Slash.”
“Slash?” The voice laughed. “Wow. I don't know where my head was at. I wrote down an apostrophe. I was looking right at it. And I said 'slash.' Ha, that's weird, man. Okay. Got it. Apostrophe. E-B-apostrophe-L-O-O-N. N as in Nochareptylimangusphyblakt.”
“Yes.”
“Cool. One moment, please. Right. Now, please verify if this address is correct: 1228 Hakka Tube, Derflek Greens, Spisnar XII, in the Garang Quadrant?”
“Yes.”
“Good. And your children's school schedule?”
“Pardon me?”
“It would really be convenient for me if I knew what your kids' class schedule is. That way, I can pick 'em off easier and there's not as much messy collateral damage. I mean, you don't want to be responsible for the deaths of children besides your own, do you?”
“Oh, heavens, no!”
“I didn't think so. We're reasonable sorts, yeah?”
“Absolutely.”
“Great. So...class schedule?”
“Umm...actually I think you can see it on the school's website, that'll be easier. You'll just need permission. So, type in the username, 'Pilotsdoitwiththeircapson,' and the password, capital F-capital Q-4-lowercase V-9-uppercase N-uppercase T-1-0. The schedule will be on the dropdown tab to the left. You can't miss it.”
“Right, uh...wait. I'm getting an error message. Wrong password. Say it again?”
“Capital F-capital Q-4-lowercase V-9-uppercase N-uppercase T-1-0.”
“Why do you do that?”
“Do what?”
“You start out like, 'Capital this and capital that,' and then you switch it up by using the word 'uppercase.' What's up with that?”
“I dunno. You're right, though. That is kinda weird.”
“Right?”
“Yeah, yeah.”
“Okay, so anyway...I got F-Q...both uppercase...then a 4, a small V, a 9, an uppercase M-an uppercase—”
“Wait, did you say M?”
“Yeah, what?”
“No, no...that's a capital N. N as in Nothrapoop.”
“M?”
“No, man. N! N! N as in Nnnnipht.”
“Jeez Louise...I keep hearing that as an M! Crazy... So, that's capital F-capital Q-4-lowercase V-9-capital N...N as in Nprqxgbjvn, that is...and then capital T-1-0.”
“You got it.”
“And that's a zero at the end, right? Not an O?”
“Yes. A zero.”
“Okay, lemme try this again. Lessee...oh! Okay, it worked now. I'm in. Got it. I see the dropdown. This will really help. Thanks.”
“Anything else?”
“Nope. Just hand me off to someone better and your family is vaporized and so on, yada yada yada.”
The co-pilot cried out, “Nooo!” before breaking into tears and letting the lead pilot take over.
The pilot growled, “All right, listen up, you...”
“Is this really how you want to begin this conversation? May I remind you of how it went with the other fella?”
“Good point.” He cleared his throat and pleasantly asked, “How may I help you, great hyper-assassin Chuugik?”
“You can start and end with one very simple task. Send out a single ejection pod, populated by a man named Harry.”
“Harry?”
“Yes. Harry. Harold. Harrison. Harrinophalus. Whatever. Just...send...Harry...”
“Great hyper-assassin Chuugik, I'm afraid I'll need a bit more than that. A last name would be great, for starters.”
“I don't have that information. Just send Harry. Stop wasting time.”
“Great hyper-assassin Chuugik, I would love to accommodate this request, really, I would, but I'm afraid I'm at a loss. And...and where exactly are you? I'll need to know coordinates in order to send him anyway.”
“No coordinates necessary. I am here, there, and everywhere. Knowing that love is to share. Got it?”
“Not really. I was always Team Ringo.”
“Stop lying! No one was Team Ringo! Even Ringo was Team Paul, you ape!”
“What can I say? I've always gone by the beat of a different drum.”
“A beat that Ringo could barely keep in the first place! You are starting to anger me, sir!”
“Look, Chuugik, you gotta tell me where to send him!” He frenetically gestured for the co-pilot to bring up the flight manifest so he could find this “Harry.”
“My ship is currently cloaked for defensive purposes. I cannot tell you where I am. Just know that my veknob claw is hovered over the attack triggers. A nasty sneeze, and you'll come face-to-face with a hundred Screamy Space-Kablooie-Bolts. You'll be a goner before you can even lift a hand for an evasive maneuver. As for where to send Harry...just pop him out in one of your eject pods and I'll handle the collectin' and killin' myself. Now send him!”
“Right away, great hyper-assassin Chuugik.” He silenced the com and yelled at Eb'loon. “Well? Do we have a 'Harry' or not!?”
“Calm down, dude. I'm a little out of sorts, okay? My family is gonna be vaporized very soon and I'm in pre-mourning.”
“Oh, I'm very sorry.”
“It's okay.”
“Anything I can do?”
“Un-vaporize my family?”
“I'm a pilot, Eb'loon, not a de-disintegration specialist.”
“True.”
“Or reintegration? Would that be right?”
“I couldn't say.”
“Okay.”
“Yeah.”
“So...Harry?”
“We have three passengers named Harry on the ship. All three are in Coach Cramp-Class Ohmykneeees.”
“Great. Get on it.”
A saccharine-sweet Popogop flight attendant stood at the fore of the Coach Cramp-Class Ohmykneeees and asked of the passengers, “If your name is Harry, can you please raise your hand?”
Hopeless Harry (and the two other Harrys, probably not as hopeless) tentatively raised their hands.
“Good. Now, will the Harry who is targeted by a hyper-assassin named Chuugik please keep your hand up?”
While Hopeless Harry blinked in alarm, the other two Harrys dropped their hands immediately.
“Snooze and lose,” the flight attendant shrugged.
“Ah, crap,” muttered Harry (the hopeless one).
Harry, of course, had no idea about this fella called Chuugik and the desire to obliterate him. But from past experience, he had learned that anytime he was singled out, it was not a precursor to something agreeable. So, as he was led out of Coach Cramp-Class Ohmykneeees, he couldn't help but feel pessimistic about what was going to happen next.
The friendly Popogop attendant deposited him into a small chamber, which he was slow to discover was, in fact, some sort of escape capsule. Of the Pogopop standing at the entranceway and alerting the flight crew, Harry meekly asked, “Uh, am I going somewhere?”
“No, sir, no, no, no, no, no, no...” the attendant obviously lied. It was clear that after saying seven “no”s, she in fact meant “yes.” In fact, that was actually law in the Alaxius Vaiur system, after a lawmaker pushed through a bill saying exactly that. No one could have seen that coming, not even the space university chairmen who did their darnedest to transform the seventeen allegations against that future lawmaker of date rape into incidents of “an irascible undergrad making sleepy-time more fun.”
“Are...you sure?” Harry nervously asked, after the Popogop went through a routine of telling Harry how to fasten his seatbelt and to make sure to shut down all electronic devices and to formally declare any parasitic organisms growing inside of his body.
The attendant said into her earpiece, “Captain, he's ready. Let's blast 'im outta here already!” Then looked at Harry and told him, “No, sir, this is just protocol. Nothing is happening. You're fine. Just lean back in your seat and grip your armrests comfortably. Now, I'm going to shut this hatch in a routine measure. Nothing to be alarmed about, sir. Nothing at—“ The hatch slammed shut before Harry could hear the end of it.
But Harry couldn't help but feel a little alarmed. Certainly a healthy dose of concern. But that intermingled with no small amount of pleasure. He was finally away from those wailing infants. And he finally had a moment of complete peace and quiet. He sighed happily.
He heard a low, ominous noise. Like the sound of a suction breach and hissing propulsion. For a moment, Harry was terrified that the escape capsule had just been ejected from the starliner, leaving him to the mercy of cruel, inhospitable deep space. But he realized that he felt no sensation of his tiny pod actually moving, so that couldn't have been it. He leaned forward and stared out of the tiny, clear panel on the hatch. And saw the huge interplanetary commercial starship he was once aboard spiraling away from him. So...maybe he was wrong?
The reason that Harry did not feel his inertia changing is because he wasn't moving at the moment, and hadn't moved since he was told to strap himself into the capsule. Thanks to faulty engineering at the hands of low-wage and notoriously dyslexic Saiphish designers, the starliner's ejection system wasn't set up properly. When the pod was disengaged, rather than the capsule being propelled away from the main craft, the main craft was actually propelled away from the small pod. So Harry and his capsule sat perfectly still while the starliner was hurtled away from him.
Along with Harry and everyone still aboard the interplanetary vessel, the great hyper-assassin Chuugik was also not expecting this. And he was forced to jump to evasive maneuvers quickly when the huge starship was suddenly flung right at his cloaked position. The spinning vessel swiped his own as it passed, temporarily scrambling his targeting systems and phrecking his engine tubes. Chuugik could only curse and spit helplessly for nearly fifteen minutes while he had no ability to seize his prey.
By the time that operational and systemic control returned to Chuugik's ship, Harry's little ejection pod had been tugged by the gravitational forces of the nearby planetoid, Tripponima. So Chuugik had no choice but to give chase to the capsule as it barreled with increasing acceleration toward the planet's surface.
“I'll have you yet, Harry,” Chuugik snarled. “Nobody crosses the Neptunian Yakuza and gets away with it!” Then he inexplicably reached over to a basket of jeempies (which look like miniature baby harp seals) and devoured one whole before cackling madly for six straight minutes. Some might call this
a cheap ploy by a storyteller to garner sympathy for Harry and spite for Chuugik, but, really, Chuugik just didn't have very good long-term memory, so he needed to constantly remind himself of just how evil he was. Therefore, it was not a cheap ploy.
A cheap ploy would have been to say that the jeempie squeaked for its mama right before being chewed into pulp. But storytellers who do that are insipid, so there will be no such petty theatrics here. Moving on...
III: Suffering Fools Is a Job Best Left for More Foolish Fools
It was not a bumpy landing. Nor was it a smooth landing. It was a nougat-fluffy landing. Which, admittedly, is one of the nicer emergency landings that one can experience. Hopeless Harry might have been hopeless, but he'd happened upon a few strokes of luck in his time. He could have just as easily had a catastrophic landing into an eyrie of man-eating mega-canaries. And if you think that sounds highly unlikely, try to realize just how unlikely a nougat-fluffy landing is. The likelihoods (or, rather, unlikelihoods) really are comparable.
Now, “nougat-fluffy” landing does not simply describe any landing that is cozy and downy soft. Nor does it just relate to anything fleecy, airy, rich, velvety and sweet. No, a “nougat-fluffy” landing is precisely as it sounds. The person has just landed in a large mass of fluffy nougat.
Tempting as it might be to blurt out in exasperation how insane it might be to find a planet with a surface covered in fluffy nougat, restraint is recommended in this case. Because the planetoid Tripponima was not covered in a surface layer of fluffy nougat. Don't be ridiculous. Instead, Harry and his escape capsule crashed into a gigantic, partially-eaten candybar that had been sitting around for a long time. It had been discarded by one of enormous planetoid inhabitants for which they were made by the sweetmaker conglomerate Diabeet-Yums many years ago. Much less ridiculous. So calm down.
