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WEB FED NEWS YEARBOOKS Earthdate June 2000 |
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WEB FED NEWS YEARBOOKS Earthdate June 2000 |
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INSIDE SCOOP |
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What was in June 2000's Inside Scoop:
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SCOUNDREL'S CORNER: THE CIVILIZED MALE There are some that believe that males today are little different from their distant caveman ancestors. They would detail the similarities of modern man to those that struggled to survive in the ages before the invention of the wheel, the utilization of fire, the use of deodorant, and the advent of the remote television controller. Such people argue that the actions of modern males hearken back to those of their ancient ancestors. They would see a correlation between the behaviors of cavemen and Homo Sapiens. They have even gone so far as to claim that the "missing link" is just a fabricated lie and that the fossil record actually proves that man is, in fact, Homo Neanderthal. They would offer, as an example, the gruesome scene that is the average stall in a men's public restroom. Is not the condition of the floor vaguely reminiscent of that which you would find in a cave? Do not the graffiti and vulgar images sketched with a Magic-Marker on the side of the stall seem to be a contemporary cousin of images found drawn on cave walls? Has not the restroom a smell that could easily be that of a cavern in which someone was born, lived, died, and decomposed? Are not modern men utterly confused and at a loss as to the operation of a standard toilet seat, much like their forbears? They would illustrate a typical male's fluency in Grunt, with English or another spoken language used only as a secondary form of communication. They would point out the male's tendency to direct physical violence at broken inanimate objects as part of the repair attempt. They would draw a parallel between the attempts of the typical male to get his female companion bloody well bollixed on wine during their first date with the customs of ancient man - beating her over the head with a large club and dragging her home by the hair. The people who hold such uncomplimentary beliefs about men are, of course, women. More specifically, women who have been dumped like a load of artifacts in an all-agricultural duchy. Even more specifically, women who have been dumped like a load of artifacts in an all-agricultural duchy by men who read and followed the teachings of The Complete Scoundrel's Guide to Federation. These poor bitter wenches would be the first to tell anyone with a mind to listen that perhaps the biggest indication of the male's lack of evolved, civilized behavior is the inherent sense of competition the typical male feels towards other males, females, and for that matter, potted plants. (Everything you just read is not really what this article is about.) (This article is about my visit to Mythose to personally welcome Gavin, a fellow writer, to the News Team as a permanent columnist.) (It didn't seem to go well, and I just wanted to let you, the reader, know that it wasn't because of the blatantly false stereotypes described above. I, a civilized male, am certainly above those sorts of base behaviors.) That settled, let's begin the story. Mythose Link/Orbit I immediately felt very comfortable as I looked out the viewport at the world slowly revolving before me. The sense of comfort I was feeling had absolutely nothing to do with that fact that "Grantos" sounds almost like "Gruntos". It also had nothing to do with the brown muddy color of the land reminding me on some subconscious level of cave dwellings. It certainly had nothing to do with the blood-red patch of land stirring up instinctual urges to go out in the forest, brutally slaughter and eat some innocent creature, and wear its hide as a winter coat. Nothing like that at all. Don't go thinking that the destruction of the directory sign as I landed the Wild Rover on top of it was intentional. It didn't have anything to do with feelings of competition regarding Gavin's well-written locations. Not at all. The launch of two SGM-65 Nova space-to-ground missles into Gavin's planetary exchange building was likewise an accident. They just went off. I stepped down off the ramp, shielding my eyes from the falling, flaming concrete wreckage, and looked around. Gavin was nowhere in sight. I hoped he was in the exchange building when the missiles decimated it. Oops, did I say "was?" I meant "wasn't," of course. The buildings that I hadn't accidentally destroyed bore the scars of battle. Bullet holes and carbon scoring were in evidence upon the walls, and the bunker-type architecture led me to believe that Gavin's office would not be found within. Assuming he hadn't been blown to bloody chunks in the exchange building, I assumed he'd be there. With the directory sign crumpled under the Rover's landing gear, I had no idea where to go to find his office. I shrugged and headed off along the road to the southeast. I had hardly gone a mile when I stopped before some sort of small hill in the mud (which of course did not remind me of a primitive burial mound.) Hoping to find some artifacts I could later dump, I started digging. I came up with a flat metal disk. My thumb was pressed down on some sort of button in the center of the disk. It was then that I realized I was in a minefield. Not knowing what else to do, I affixed some transparent tape I had been carrying over the mine's trigger mechanism to prevent it from exploding. Gavin appeared, approaching carefully from the northwest. I naturally did not feel any disappointment that he was still alive, since I was of course here to bid him welcome and let him know that there wasn't any sort of petty territoriality felt by his fellow writers. We exchanged some pleasantries, and then he invited me to accompany him to his office. He pressed a button on a thing that resembled nothing so much as a television remote controller, and the ground parted, revealing a stairway leading down. As Gavin turned around to begin descending the stairs, I accidentally dropped the land mine and it accidentally landed in his pocket. I accidentally forgot to mention that to Gavin, and I certainly had no predictions that the tape holding the pressure plate would probably work its way loose in about a half-hour. Even if there had been some sort of sense of bitter blood-boiling competition welling up inside me, I certainly wouldn't arrange the demise of this poor scuz... er... fellow. We exchanged further pleasantries while seated around his desk, but I for some reason utterly forgot to mention my happiness that he was now a regular member of the News Team. After about ten minutes, he told me that he had some business to take care of and that he must depart. He said to make myself at home in his office and took his leave. Now don't go thinking that I was feeling an overwhelming sense of relief that he had departed before the tape on the land mine worked loose and caused his messy and potentially bystander-harming demise. I already told you that I had forgotten about that. I also don't want you to think I was acting out of some frivolous sense of rivalry when I produced a Permanent Black Magic Marker and set about decorating the walls of Gavin's office. Even though the images and phrases I drew could perhaps be mistaken for an appeal to the spirits for fertility, I assure you that this was in no way some sort of throwback to cave drawings found by anthropologists from prehistoric Earth. It was also not done out of a sense of malice, I was simply trying to liven up the place. Certainly no one could accuse me of the distinctly Neanderthal trait of not understanding the concept of fire. Gavin's mahogany desk erupted into flames as my blaster accidentally went off seventeen times while pointed at it, and I understood the resulting conflagration perfectly: time to leave. With a grunt that wasn't at all like the language of cavemen – a much more sophisticated grunt – I took the stairs two at a time and got out of there. I carefully made my way back to the landing area and boarded my ship. Now, unbeknownst to me, as I sat down in the pilot's seat my hand accidentally brushed against the lever that opens the cargo bay doors at the Rover's stern. As I lifted off, six hundred tons of livestock accidentally fell out of the hold as the Rover's nose pitched upward, heading for orbit. Since I knew nothing about the hold being open in the first place, how can you even think that my choice of exit vectors was intentional? I had no idea that nearly four thousand individual and distinct "moos" were being suddenly silenced as surprised cows broke their fall in the mud of Mythose's minefield. Nor did I even realize at the time that the resulting series of explosions cratered over one-third of Gavin's planet, radically shifting its orbit and killing every living thing on the surface. Oblivious of Mythose's fate, I set a course for Mars. I sauntered in to Chez Diesel, glancing over to where Diesel often stands, swinging her bat. I once clubbed her over the head with her own bat and dragged her into her back room, but that had nothing to do with any sort of primal urge. I simply wanted to save six meg. Really. To my surprise, she wasn't there. Remembering that I had originally gone to Mythose to welcome Gavin to the News Team, and unaware that he had surely perished, I began to post the welcome on the message board. It was then that I learned of the tragic disaster that had befallen Mythose. I did the only civilized thing: I raised a glass of Leestian Evil Juice in a toast to our fallen comrade. "Here's to you, Gavin. The News Team will miss you." The evil grin that was spreading upon my face froze as a voice answered in the otherwise empty bar. "Thanks, Olias, but I'm not going anywhere." I spun around, and to my amazement Gavin was standing before me. He was holding Diesel's hand and smiling serenely. "Oh, and I owe you other thanks as well," Gavin said. "When I walked in here, Diesel took one look at me and said, ‘Is that a land mine in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?'" Gavin winked as he went on, "I said, as a matter of fact, it is a land mine in my pocket, but I am also happy to see you. I pulled out the land mine you left in my pocket and we both laughed so hard she gave me a freebee." At this point Gavin handed me a sack full of groats. Six meg's worth, in fact. "I just want to say, Olias, that I appreciate the warm welcome you and the rest of the News Staff have given me. I feel right at home." He smiled and gave me a manly sort of hug, a clap on the back. I could not find my voice. I could only grunt. Needless to say, at this point I felt like a heel. A Neanderthal's heel.
ALSATIAN AND THE HOMING BEETLE It looks like time may run out for me to find the "hep" that Hound had requested I bring him a few weeks ago. Like any pup that has been concentrating on a task far too long, my attention has been captured by other pursuits. Hazed put a beetle under my nose. You know, one of those black little shiny roach looking things that stands perfectly still, daring you to make a snack of him, then scurries across the floor as soon as he feels your warm bone-and-kibble scented breath get within an inch. I was hot on the trail, sniffing out clues for the "hep", and she teleported that insect right in front of me. I couldn't resist; why, no canine can pass up the chance for a beetle hunt! What I didn't realize at the time was that this was a homing beetle droid. They make them out of painted pieces of ancient cleaners that had been victims of well-placed kicks from Cantina patrons. The beetle and I cycled through every location in Sol. In Chez Diesel, Hazed, with demi-goddess lightning reflexes, snatched the insect up from right under my snout. "No no, doggy. No bug, I need to talk to you," she said as she inspected the object in her hand. I quivered in anticipation; was she going to give me the beetle-morsel or eat it herself? "I have a little surprise for you." I didn't want surprises; I wanted bug hors d'oeuvres. "I've made an appointment for you later this month to get…" Her words were masked by my whine as she slipped the beetle into her waiting designer knock-off demi-goddess fanny pack and closed the zipper. No snack for me. I grudgingly brought my attention to back to the discussion; it sounded like she said I was going to be tutored. "You'll be just fine. Finish off the planets in the queue right now, take a couple weeks for this, then you can get back to business." What could take a couple weeks to learn? She patted my head and smiled at me. "You'll be so much happier. Now you run along, that's it, good doggy." She turned back to the bar, leaving me dismissed and still a little puzzled. I don't know what kind of classes I'll be taking, but if her demi-goddessness says I have to go, then I guess I'll do my best to be a Good Dog and obey. Planet owners that request a review may see a few weeks delay after the current queue is finished, and Hound will just have to hope I find his "hep" pretty soon!
I'm on the verge of giving up. Things have just become too complicated. Between our new "simplified tax forms" which require a PhD in everything to understand and computerized cars, it's becoming more and more difficult to keep up. But I've found something that drives me totally insane. I am, of course, talking about mobiles and objects. I have a nice little planet that I am quite happy with. My only complaint is that I ran out of locations and could have used about fifty more. But that's something else entirely. Recently, I decided I'd spruce things up with a few mobs and a few objects. Something spiffy. Looking back, I should have done something easier, like cure the common cold. After reading the manuals and working hard for awhile, I thought I'd made myself a nice banner and a couple nice people. Instead, I ended up with a nightmare on wheels. The banner kept moving around the planet, forcing me to chase it like some deranged bloodhound. However, this could be explained away by saying there's a stiff breeze on the planet, so I concentrated on Ozzie and Harriet - the nicknames I gave to my two new people. I should have called them Pain and Agony, because that's what they gave me. They never once moved, even when I hit them with the bulldozer. (The bulldozer is expected to recover.) So, I ended up going back to the Workbench and deleting all three of them. Maybe at some future date I'll bring them back, but for now, visitors are going to have to imagine Ozzie and Harriet. Standing still on the LP as a banner flies by. In the off chance anybody out there would like to say anything to me (and I wish you would!) you can mail me at Horatio_TheWriter@excite.com at any time of day.
C.U.J.O.
Part I "Ahh, this is the life," I said, after setting myself down into a lounge chair. The hot sun beat overhead, warming my entire body, and the tropical panorama was breathtaking. "Oh, who am I kidding?" I asked myself rhetorically. The hot sun was Grantos, and it really wasn’t all that warm. At least, it would be if it wasn’t for the rain pouring down on me. Finally, the tropical panorama was nothing more than a holocard I put in front of my face. Yes, I was on Mythose. And what a mess it was. I was camped out on the landing pad (I didn’t have to worry about any visitors landing on me, because I get very few, except for the occasional scoundrel). Surveying the scene around me was just disheartening. The exchange was destroyed (not like I used it anyway though), my beloved sign smashed, and smoke was rising from the hidden entrance to my office. Besides that, I could see a muddy crater encompassing a large portion of my planet on the horizon, and everywhere I looked, there were traces of cow remains. "That scoundrel is going to pay!" I yelled out, getting up from my soaked lounge chair. I immediately went down into my office, ignoring the magic marker on the walls and the smoldering mess that was once my desk. Next, I used the communications gear, which had fortunately not been disabled during Olias’s primitive jealousy attack, to call up Slarti’s. "Yes, I need approximately one-third of Mythose’s landmass restored and as soon as possible, a planet tug to pull Mythose back into her proper orbit," I told the clerk on one end of the comm line. "Certainly, Mr. Gavin. Shall we credit that to your bill?" he replied. "No, no. You see, Olias of Emancipation had a little accident, and has nicely enough volunteered to pay for all of this," I craftily explained. "Olias? The scoundrel? The one who writes those awful articles for the FedChron?" asked the clerk in a state of disbelief. "That would be the one," I assured, smiling smugly as I said it. The clerk was clearly perplexed, "Very well then. If you say so, Mr. Gavin. After all, a talented writer like you wouldn’t lie." My ego ate that up as I disconnected the comm line and dialed up another one: Smerg’s Building and Repair. "Smerg’s Building and Repair... you break ‘em, we fix ‘em, Smerg speaking." "Hello, this is... Nivag, I work for the scoundrel, Olias," I said, in my best impersonation of an underling who hates his boss because he pays next to nothing and is more abusive to his employees than he is to his workthingies. "Well, hello there, Mr. Nivag. What can I do for ya?" responded Smerg, who believed the whole act. "Olias made a bit of a faux pas. He meant to visit Gavin and congratulate him on his recent promotion to the position of NewsDroid, but instead accidentally caused quite a bit of property damage. He felt so bad about it that he ordered me to call you up and here’s the list of what needs to be fixed: new exchange building, a new freshly painted placard is needed for the exchange, new bullet-riddled directory sign for the Landing Pad, carbon-scoring needs to be removed from Gavin’s office, new mahogany desk, black magic marker needs to be removed from the walls of the office, and a cleaning crew needs to come out and remove the mess made by the mutilation of 4,000 cows," I eagerly read off the list I had prepared. Over the comm line, Smerg whistled. "Phew! That’s gonna cost him a bundle." "Oh, he can afford it, you have his account on record, right?" "Yep, he had to pay up big time after Diesel refused to give him service one night when he was drunk. He had called her some pretty nasty things and didn’t remember. After she told him no, he went on a drunken rage inside Diesel’s. Took quite a few people to calm him down. Of course, that was under the old Martian leadership. I don’t think the People’s Mayor would put up with that, he’d just have the guy shot. Anyway, we were contracted by him to fix up everything he broke. There are some real nice things in there... he had to dish out quite a bit of cash to pay for it all," said Smerg, rambling on as he usually did. "Well, Smerg, I have to go attend to some other scoundrelish duties. Tell Gavin that Olias sends his regards and apologizes when you get over there," I concluded. "Will do, Mr. Nivag. Have a nice day," said Smerg, and the line disconnected. I just sat down in the remains of my chair and chuckled. Perhaps the day was looking up after all. That’s when I decided I wasn’t going to hang around here anymore, the smell of dead cow was getting nauseating. Where to head then, that’s nice and pleasant? The first place that popped into my head was Delos. That’s when I realized I didn’t have a ship. Not a big deal. I can handle paying 10,000 groats to live in the lap of luxury for about two minutes while traveling to Delos, probably the closest planet to Mythose in the entire universe. I then proceeded to call up Imperial Spacelines. When the clerk on the other end of the line picked up, I told him that I would like a flight from Mythose to Delos. Then, the unexpected happened. "Tsk tsk, Gavin. I would’ve expected better out of you. Olias used the whole Imperial-Spacelines-won’t-come-to-such-a-backwater-planet gig a few weeks ago. He probably did it better than you’re about to as well. So do your self a favor, get up off your lazy rear, and go buy a ship," replied the clerk curtly. Then the line disconnected, and I went into a rage. "OLIAS! Everything is about OLIAS! THAT SCOUNDREL!" I screamed, and began to destroy things in my office, which was alright, because Olias would end up paying for them anyway. Then, calmly collecting myself, I ascended the stairs leading out of my office and went into one of the concrete buildings encircling the Landing Pad. The building housing ship services. I waltzed in like I owned the place, which, coincidentally, I did. Some nameless workthingie or something, I didn’t even know, nor cared, was working behind the counter. With nary a "Hello" or "How are you doing?", I laid out the specs I wanted for my ship. "Sure, no problem, chief," was the laid-back response. He punched a few numbers into the computer, and then said, "That’ll be a cool 906,400 IG." I guffawed. "Look son, maybe you don’t know who this is. I’m Gavin... I own this planet, this shop, and I’m not sure, but I probably own you too," I yelled at him. He was not phased. "906,400 IG," was his monotonous reply. My temper was rising now. "I can have you and your entire family killed... mercilessly!" I even tossed a copy of Workthingie Torture Devices Quarterly over to him. "You see that idea for manual transportation of rads? Well guess what, they’re in surplus right now, and my exchange is destroyed, so no one can haul them out for me. I could, but we all know I don’t haul. So why not have you, your wife, your children, and your entire extended family do it?" I screamed at the clerk. "You give me 906,400 IG or I cancel the order," he responded without even batting an eye. I gave up. My day was just not going well. I transferred over the 906,400 IG and as I turned to leave, he spoke up once more, "Tip?" I smiled while my back was still to him, slowly turned around, and said, "Never associate with a scoundrel." Then, before he could answer, I left the place, wondering why Olias’s SGM-65 Nova space-to-ground missles didn’t hit that building instead of the exchange. Settling into my lovely ship painted a stunning manky shade of institutional gray, I prepared for take-off. It was a wonder that some inexorably awful thing didn’t happen to me as I left Mythose, hoping to return to it just as I like it: raining, cold, and war-torn. After a very short hyperspace jump, I was circling beautiful Delos and landed. Unfortunately, my very own Babylonian goddess, Ishtar, was nowhere to be found. No worries though, I just settled down onto the beach, staring out at the river and watching the awe-inspiring conflux of colors during the sunset. This is the REAL life I contentedly told myself. Eventually, though, my tongue became parched, so I wandered over to the Terpischore Lounge for a drink. As I set down at the bar, however, a piece of paper caught my attention. It read:
I groaned, had another Whispering Sea, and began to think about where else I could go, now that my dear was after me with a bloodlust. I sighed, and then began to lean back in my barstool, at which point I realized that it was without a back. I promptly fell off and was sprawled out on the floor. "This feels like bi-polar day. Feeling good, feeling bad, feeling better, feeling worse. I think I’ve had the low for today, though," I said to no one in particular except for the little person that had appeared in my drunken haze and was dancing across the ceiling. Then, the low became lower. A brick sailed through the door and landed square on my stomach. I let out an "Ooof!" and began writhing in agony on the floor. Eventually, I managed to sit up and read the note attached. All it said was:
"Now what in Hazed’s name is C.U.J.O.?" I slurred. Fortunately, my limited brainpower of the moment was sentient enough to tell me I should sleep off the drunkenness and deal with the note tomorrow. I barely made it out the door after nearly killing myself running into things. Once on the Landing Pad, I stumbled into my ship and still had the consciousness to take-off. It was an ugly one though, and I ran into the exchange as I ascended to orbit. That’s alright however, as it merely added to the dilapidated look Ishtar was going for. Then, with my last ounce of sober strength, I punched a random hyperspace vector. I ended up in Altaria space, and even if that was bad, I wouldn’t have cared. Instead, I slumped back in my pilot’s chair and began to sleep. I woke up, and saw white. The white of a ceiling. The white of a hospital ceiling. The white of Altaria General’s hospital ceiling. Then the white of a rather attractive woman in a nurse’s outfit. "Ah, I see you’re awake, Gavin. How are you feeling?" she asked. That’s when I realized that I miraculously was not suffering from a splitting migraine as a result of a hangover. "Just... fine, actually. How did I die?" I asked out of curiosity. It didn’t scare me to fall asleep and wake up in a hospital bed, it happens often enough. I had no sudden heart attack as a result of waking up and seeing white. As a matter of fact, a jack-up in my insurance premium was probably worth getting drunk without the hangover the next day. "Well, we reviewed your ship’s log, and apparently while you were asleep, you shifted in your chair and activated your ship’s accelerator, at which point you began to fly around in a circle. This odd behavior resulted in a few ships accidentally bumping yours, which changed your flight path into one that ended up in the Altaria arena. The Panther then promptly blew you to bits," she explained. I shrugged. "Oh well," I said halfheartedly. It was really no sweat off my back. Then I got up out of the bed, holding my hospital gown shut behind me, and walked down the corridor to the lobby. The nurse called after me, "Don’t forget to re-insure!" I then turned and beat my ahead against the wall a few times. A trip to the insurance salesman, how wonderful. I got through it somehow, having to shell out a meg or so worth of insurance money to make sure my next drunken death wouldn’t result in a complete expulsion from life. Although I couldn’t shake the feeling that the insurance salesman kept snickering at my attire. You would think he’s seen enough men scantily clad in those hospital gowns not to laugh anymore. After a brief trip to the clothes store, I entered my ship again, still painted a breathtaking manky shade of institutional gray, and sent myself off to SOL. Speeding past Pegasus and Monty, I parked myself in the warm, radioactive glow of Mercury’s orbit and then landed. Quickly making my way north, I found myself before the Mercury Central Library. I entered the output room and found an ‘Out of Order’ sign on the terminal. Most people would’ve turned around and left at this point, but I was resilient. I began to beat on the glass. "Open up! Come on! I know someone’s back there!" I yelled. Finally, a grizzled old librarian appeared at the door. "Whadda ya want, sonny?" he said, squinting with rheumy eyes through his thick glasses. "I’m an official Federation Chronicle NewsDroid, and with this license, I have the right to enter an establishment such as this one under any circumstances," I told him. "NewsDroid? Why, you don’t look like a droid to me," he said, confused. He reached out and pinched me. "Feels like humanoid flesh to me, sonny." "Please, don’t do that," I replied. "Just let me pass, my Chronicle article will be late if I don’t hurry." "Federation Chronicle? Now what in tarnation is that? Why, in my day, we had the Explorer’s Gazette," he said, going off in a senior citizen moment. "The Explorer’s Gazette? Good god man! How old are you?" I asked incredulously. "Why, just a few days short of... come to think of it, I’m not exactly sure, I’ve lost count," he said, scratching his head. "Alright, just step aside, sir," I commanded, tiring of this conversation. I was getting impatient. "Now you listen to me, you young whippersnapper! Look at me when I speak to you, son!" he called out in his wheezing elderly voice. I got very impatient. Without any words, I pushed him aside. He fell over, which gave me at least an hour to work without him bothering me before he would manage to right himself. I sat down at the first terminal I came to and booted it up. When asked for the topic I wished to search, I entered "C.U.J.O." The next thing I heard was a juvenile voice say, "Your mother makes more money at her art than Diesel does... and your father needs to visit Dr. Fogg before he can visit her at work!" followed by raucous laughter. I stood up and grimaced, "Hackers." The next terminal was in working order, and no annoying youth’s voice came over the line. Instead, I got the following entries on C.U.J.O.: 1. Cujo 2. CuJo 3. C.U.J.O. Having finished, I posed a rhetorical question to myself, "Well, I know Olias is the one having dog problems, and I’ve always been a fan of Deep Space Freeze Ball, so it must be this C.U.J.O. group that sent me a warning. Now my question is why would they want to kill me? I’m a good journalist... right?"
FED
OP-ED: SOL MOBILES This week I decided that even the "regulars" in Fed aren’t safe from the duchy poll! Let’s see what they had to say.
Q: Which planet is your favorite, and why? A: Mars, because that’s the home of Chez Diesel! Seriously though, I prefer the moon to any planet. Those rays are stunning!
Q: Sir, you seem very bored in your job, and I heard you are horridly underpaid. Do you ever look for a better job? A. ::grins:: I would never think of it… Let’s just say this job is rewarding in a way… ::grins again, turns his back and starts counting:: 300 this time! Gotta love this job.
Q: You look rather distressed. May I ask what is wrong? A: Well… ::SNIFF:: you ::SNIFF:: see ::SNIFF:: and ::SNIFF::. <indistinguishable words within sniffles:: And ::SNIFF:: that ::SNIFF:: is ::SNIFF:: why! Q. Maybe I should come back at a better time…
Q: So! How’s business? A: How’s business? HOW’S BUSINESS?!? Lemme tell you something here, with places like the Cantina and Chez Diesel around, a honest man can’t make a good day’s pay. Why if it weren’t for those two, I’d be rolling in groats! And when I say rolling I mean… Q. ::quickly creeps away:: >ex inspector Q: Hello sir, I was wondering if… A: Jelly? Are you another one of grandma’s products? One more thing she didn’t declare… ::sighs:: COME HERE YOU LITTLE RASCAL! Q. ::high tails outta there::
Q. Hello sir! How goes the traveling? A. Oh, great! You should see all the pictures I got, and I got a moon rock and I went to Venus and Mars and Titan and Callisto… ::takes a deep breath:: I still have a few more places to visit. What puzzles me though is, I always get dirty looks from everyone I pass. Oh well. ::shrugs and goes on his way::
Q. Hi Ma’am A. Mmhmm Q. I was wondering if… A. Mmhmm Q. You would be interesting in answering… A. Mmhmm Q. A few ques… A. Mmhmm Q. Oh nevermind…
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