FEAR & LOATHING FOR DISTANT WORLDS 2
The Distant Worlds Expedition is a gang of diabolical Bohemians. Outlaws, outcasts, outliers. Criminals and cutthroats. Half of them twisted on mind-bending drugs, the rest already so twisted they have no need for chemical assistance.
Exploring is not a profession or a trade. It is a cheap catch-all for fuckoffs and misfits—a false doorway to the backside of life, a filthy piss-ridden little hole nailed off by the structural inspector, just deep enough for any wino to climb into and take hi-def self-flagellation pictures.
The elite. The dangerous. Multiple-felons, perhaps, but well-meaning.
Good People. Our People.
And now, a new home for all of us has been built right on the edge of sanity, staring into the void of the Galaxy’s largest Black Hole. How long before this place devolves into a chaotic orgy of barbarity, opulence, and Asps-in-front-of-things?
Not long, especially if we have anything to say about it.
After all, we have all the necessary supplies. Well, except the Asp.
The scuttlebutt said to expect heavy attrition at this point. The belief was that many pilots had joined the expedition so they could say they were a part of it, and help with the construction of this Anchorage of Anarchy.
But not us, our trip was different: a classic affirmation of everything right and true and decent in the human character. A gross physical salute to the fantastic possibilities of life in this galaxy - but only for those with true grit.
And we were chock full of that!
Collectively we had managed to gather enough water, air, and buxom-ness to fill Sagittarius A, or keep the pencil neck geeks alive out here long enough to study it.
As per usual, my co-pilot and I managed to contribute just enough to reach that juicy second-from-the-bottom tier and it’s 12,500,000 credit reward.
The “locals” from Deep Space Surveys had been begging us to unload some our cargo for their enjoyment, but we wouldn’t budge:
Yes, we actually did need every single drop of Saxon Wine, every ounce of Bast Snake Gin, each flower of Lyrae Weed, and there was absolutely no way we could spare any Aganippe Rush.
If they really wanted any, they could follow us to Beagle Point and have as much as they could handle… Assuming we had any left by the time we got there...
Now it was off to the Fleet basecamp and that uncanny view of the hole in the centre of our galaxy. From here things would only get weirder. Perfect...
Last Time on Fear & Loathing...