Chapter 9 - Compunction Space Junction, What's Your Major Malfunction? (page 1 of 10)

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Having bechorltingly completed the shortest chapter in what was sure to eventually become my rememboirs, I was free to move on to the matter of our journey at hand. It was perfect timing since we had just pulled up to launch spot 411, where our wet Magnotorocket had been gleaned clean of all its mucous, fur, endangered bird feathers and ultramung to reveal the technological thing of beauty that had lurked so unpresumingly beneath that thick surface of outlandish nastiness and gut twisting stench.

“She looks good, Cappy, what happened?” I asked, as I often do when I end a sentence with a question mark, or begin it one with an upside down question mark while interrogating ala Mexspañol.

“Nobody would sell us the supplies for cash anymore, nobody takes that stuff. I had to barter off the lung-hawky shell just to make our deadline,” said the man named Cappy, sweating as much as he is too old.

The glistening craft was as gorgeous as I’d remembered her from the schematic drawings I’d seen so many times, the culmination of a million man-hours of engineering combined with just the right amount of fresh, moist adobe to keep her safely in space. She had shapes so flawless it made children weep and edges so sharp you could split a razors edge twice on the worst day. She was a ship that could cut through the intense friction of deep space with chainsaw precision and as easily julienne slice any beggar who tried to wash her windows at a stoplight.

When us future men say “damn the man”, we mean poor people and sentient lesser monkeys, and damn them all to hell.

She was a sub-compact, only 4,000 spacefoots from end to end, and looked like a robot bejeweled battle cruiser, and fittingly so, as that’s precisely what she was. You could jam a dozen Titanics inside her, despite the rest quarters being so cramped that, despite the three grand ballrooms and dozen-odd Olympic swimming pools, many of the crew members still had to share cubby spaces to hot swap their shared cots.

Change your sheets, gentlemen, that was always my best advice to those yoink-frenzied mastur crewfolk.

“I couldn’t get everything on the second list,” said Cappy, fidgeting derisorily as he apologized for pulling me out of my reflection. “I’m not even sure half the things on your requisition form exist.”

It’s always the second list that jackholes up the works. The first list is the standard stuff; air supplements, assorted fuels and oils, reduced-mercury seafood, pastries and the like, but my contract rider clearly stated I was welcome to create my own second list for items my seventh-sense predicted I would need for my mission. It didn’t feel like I was really allowed to write these second lists, since never more than half of any of them had ever been fulfilled. But even when he disappointed me, you could always count on Cappy to make up for it with a glut of excuses.

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