THE ADVENTUROUS LIFE OF A LOUSY COWBOY, ISSUE #7
09 Jun 2016Mike Syron
[ ongoing story, go back: ISSUE #6 ]"There's always a time when you’re really in need of somebody else."
- some famous goofball who's dead obviously
Present, at LTT 4131 AB 1 (gas giant)
The man was the genetically engineered outcome of an old, successful project to create human beings that were able to stand, walk and work by themselves on high-G planets. So he was about 2.80 meters tall and 1.50 meters broad, being all muscles and bones. In fact this was a problem in a galaxy were people tend to get older and older but never really taller than their ancestors - a huge problem. For everybody else than this man at least.
His throne on the bridge of his Anaconda was custom-made of course, otherwise his tremendous butt wouldn't fit into it. Just like the big, black Stetson that was sitting on his head. While rubbing his chin and chewing some herbs that contained a high dose of nicotine, he was thinking about the silly name of a that ship he had been following. That prick Lambert seemed to have a true talent finding some real morons who were dopey enough to work for him.
"Who were those bluebottles that blew this ship up, nav-guy?" he asked the man who was actually operating the flight controls. His voice could make steel plates to vibrate, loosening their screws. "Where did they come from? Are they any threat to us? - Should I be concerned even?"
"No, Sir!" the nav-guy replied loud and clear. "As far as I could figure out there's no mother ship or something nearby, radar shows no spooky stuff. The last fighter had got new orders it seems, it just jumped out of the system after he'd finished off this poor guy."
"You mean, that asshole left the scene after destroying my cargo. Which was pretty rude ... I had hoped for a chance to thank him properly for this. Did he got any ID?"
"No, Sir! No ID. Pretty much looked like some military spec-ops fellow."
"Oh, those fuckers! Always messing stuff up, aren't they? Someone should make them pay for their bullshit finally. - So ... I can assume that we won't get into any trouble the next few minutes?"
"So it seems, Sir! But I'll keep an eye on the scanner and channels, we better stay prepared for any kind of nuisance that might occur."
"Yes, good man! Now get us closer to the wreckage, nav-guy, perhaps Lady Fortune is on our side today and my cargo is still intact."
"Yes, Sir! - But what do we do with this poor fellow? His suit is sending a distress call, somebody might actually pick it up for further investigations."
"Well, just blow his ass to the next dimension where Lucifer's eagerly awaiting him already." commanded the man cold and merciless. But then he suddenly changed his mind. "Oh, wait a sec. - Don't! As far as it looked like he's on God's side, wouldn't you say so too, nav-guy?"
"Yes, Sir! He saved a girl from certain death!"
"Nobody should get his ass blown for rescueing a girl, I say! Grab that fellow too and give him some drinks at my cost!"
"Yes, Sir!" The nav-guy showed a broad grin.
*** ***
The first thing Mike heard were cursing men who were trying to move some clunky stuff around, causing a lot of rumpus. One voice was blaring all the time, instructing and insulting the others. It reminded him somehow of the times where he had been still a cadet of the Fed's navy. Syron this, Syron that. What in hell had made him believe that he could even polish his own boots properly? And playing pranks on those fops whose marvelous accomplishments were to stick their dumb heads as deep as possible into the butts of their superiors really hadn't been one of his primary duties either.
Oh, man, this noise! What was going on ...
A few seconds later he realized it finally. He was alive! This insight hit him hard and let his heart jump in circles. He had survived. He was breathing fresh air, his butt was pressed against a steely floor. Mike coughed and opened his eyes, still feeling pretty much exhausted and dizzy. His hands and arms seemed to weigh tons, but with all his energy and patience he was able to open his helmet. Gasping for air he turned his gaze around. He was still wearing the space suit, it had been connected to an external oxygen and energy supply. Somebody had been smart enough to not just pull him out of it, recognizing that it was necessary to let the suit computer abort the artificial coma first.
It felt wonderful to be alive.
He saw four men and a woman who had trouble lifting a huge cask onto a movable platform, some mean looking debris was laying around, spreading a nasty stench. The women got no hair, Mike noticed, instead her head was fully tatooed. Given that she was wearing only some sleeveless, grubby shirt with a low neckline it was quite visible that her entire body was tatooed. And she was really upset somehow, insulting a guy on her side, calling him a worthless braindead rat several times. She bite her teeth and showed some formidable muscles on her neck while she was dragging the cask. After the group finally managed to put the canister onto the platform, she gave the poor man a fierce punch on the back of his head, having only pure hate and disdain in her glowing eyes. His cap fell onto ground and instead of giving that bitch a nice counter, he just kneeled down and grabbed it.
"Yes, she's just that kind of girl she's giving the impression." Mike suddenly heard a man saying near him, "But Bonkers brain malfunctions match perfectly with Jimmy's. It doesn't look like it but they really love each other. - Fucking cliché, eh? I would give my right arm to just have one night with her. After that I would be pretty dead either way."
He looked up. The man wore steel-toed safety shoes, a smudgy jeans, almost black from all the oil, and something that had been a nice shirt years ago. His unshaved face was ruggedly handsome though, with bright eyes and an impish grin in it. "My name's Brigadier. Welcome on our ship, mate."
"Bonkers? You really call her Bonkers?" asked Mike, still orienting himself.
"That's her name. Berserk sounds more fitting, I know, but she can be a really nice and funny person at times, when her damaged brain isn't fucking up."
"W-w-what's this ship? Does it have a name?"
Brigadier smirked and shrugged. "Speaking of fucking clichés ... Balls of God. - Yep, this name gives us troubles from time to time when we scratch certain systems."
"Yeah ... fuuck. My hell looks like some utterly stupid comedy!"
"Oh, it will get better by the minute, don't worry. You didn't meet our boss yet. And when I say boss, I really mean boss. Like in HUGE boss. But then you'll understand everything. - We're all court jesters, dancing and joking for the pleasure of the one and only king."
"What's his name?"
"The great Duncan 'Pyro' Caldwell. To whom the bell tolls. Burnt to ground and raised again."
He was dead.
Again.