🚀 go-pugleaf

     Zima. The very word strikes fear into the hearts of sane alcoholic
beverage drinkers everywhere, the same way that Barney strikes fear into
the hearts of sane tv-watchers everywhere. Zima is. Or, rather, it isn't.
Many top alcohol philosophers have postulated that Zima is actually the
physical manifestation of a substance called Anti-Guiness. Several have
actually gone so far as to prepare experiments to combine Zima and
Guinness, to see if the resulting reaction would cause a massive explosion.
All those experiments, unfortunately, were never completed, due to the
researchers in question drinking all of the principal reactant, Guinness
beer.
     What does this have to do with anything?
     Just... just don't ask.

                         WANDERING  MORONS
                             Part  Two
                         "The Second Part"
                          by Jesse Taylor
                  with talent on loan from Weird Al.

     As has been stated many times before, waking up is not a cool thing.
Waking up after being zapped with a sonic stunner and tossed into a small
jail cell is even less of a cool thing. Having dreams involving Zima prior
to waking up in a small jail cell after being zapped by a sonic stunner
basically kills all possibility of even ranking as a positive value on the
coolness scale.
     "Hrgll." Morgan said, struggling to sit up, having just had a really
bad nightmare about being chased around by anthropomorphic Zima bottles.
     "You ok?" she heard someone ask. Turalyn.
     Morgan's thoughts blurred for a moment. "NO! Not the Zima!!" she
exclaimed, suddenly.
     "Wha?"
     Morgan blinked. "Oh. Hello." She shook her head, as if to clear it. "I
thought you got shot."
     Turalyn shrugged. "It was just a flesh wound."
     "WHAT?! There was a gaping hole blown in your back!!"
     "I've had worse... A few band-aids and I was fine."
     Morgan slapped her forehead. "I just won't ask... Can I get out of
here, or is that massive, hairy thing going to blast me again?"
     Turalyn blinked. "Oh, yeah. I'm sorry about that, but He tends to get
rather excitable around new people."
     "Where is he now?" Morgan asked, glancing around as Turalyn keyed in a
code to open the cell door. There were a couple other doors, with displays
indicating their 'empty' status, as well as a bleeping-light-covered
computer panel.
     "I think He's in his Playroom." Turalyn shrugged.
     "Ok, before we get to anything else..." Morgan said, suddenly. "I want
the whole story. Who are you, what are you doing here, why are you doing
it, and where the Hell(tm) are we?"
     "Hurm. Ok, I'd offer you a seat, but there aren't any in this section..."
     "Just talk, dammit."

     "Ok, ok, geez... It all started, oh, maybe a year or so ago. I was an
independant merc with the Ninto Empire, during one of the flare-ups in
their skirmishes with the Beigian-Veluran Alliance. Well, this was great,
and I somehow got promoted several times, despite the fact that I was a
merc. I finally got command of my own ship, and proceeded to beat the smeg
out of any and all enemy ships we encountered."
     "For particular bravery during one of these battles, I was given one
of the most coveted offers in the entire Empire. The Emperor offered me one
of his daughters in marriage."
     Morgan snorted. "Yeah, right. So why are you here, then, if you're
married to royalty?"
     "You think I actually married her?"
     "You turned down an offer to marry into the royal family of an
interstellar empire?!"
     "You haven't ever seen this critter. Gives me nightmares whenever I
think about her... The Nintan Royal Family is not noted for conforming to
human standards of beauty."
     "Geez, heartless."
     "Hey! Now let me finish. Ahem. Now, a couple days before the wedding,
the industrial-strength Prozac injections they had been giving me wore off,
and I hightailed it out of there, spending most of my money in an attempt
to get out of Empire space. I ended up stuck with only a small scoutship in
a dead-end spaceport on the far side of planet Beige-or."
     "The Beigian homeworld?"
     "Er... yeah."
     "At least they didn't get called Beige-orans." Morgan snickered.
     "Anyway," Turalyn continued, "I hooked up with my current crew, and
with a few, ah, loans, was able to purchase my ship, the Centurion Falcon.
My tech chief has modified it to 300% of the origional performance stats,
and I even did some design work myself!"
     "Well ain't you special." Morgan snorted. "I suppose it's because of
these loans that you have to smuggle stuff, right?"
     "Err.. yeah. This shipment of Zima should earn me enough money to pay
off the Sharkee, and make a little profit besides. Then I won't have to
worry about those money-chasers always following me around, anymore!"
     "Why Zima? Can't people just buy it?"
     "Not in Empire space! It's one of the most controlled, illegal
substances, period. There's a race called the Republicans of Planet
Washington that crave the stuff, though, so there's always a market for it,
if you can make it past the Imperial battlefleets."
     Morgan blinked, thinking. "Do you know where Zima comes from?"
     "Er... no."
     A grin slowly spread across her face. "Aaah."
     "What?"
     "Oh, nevermind..." Morgan said sweetly.
     "Look..." Turalyn said, as if coming to something he found mildly
distasteful. "Ah, kid..."
     "I'M NOT A KID!!!"
     "Yeep! Er, right..." Turalyn gulped, seeing Morgan glaring at him.
"Ah, what I want to say is, ah, thanks for, ah, saving my butt back there."
     Morgan shrugged. "Mention it." she said, casually. "Do you know where
we are?"
     "Er, in space?"
     "No, I mean _where_ are we?"
     "Ah, I think somewhere near the Youshuudnitgohere system, near the
edge of Ninto Empire space."
     Morgan sighed. "That tells me absolutely nothing. What co-ordinates
are we at?"
     Turalyn looked at her oddly. "What do you need the _co-ordinates_ for?
I mean, geez, what could you possibly use 'em f- urk!"
     Morgan grabbed his collar and pulled his head down level with hers.
"Look, buster, I'm Admiral Morgan. I may not look like it, but I am. I've
been known to order the populations of entire planets exterminated just
because I was having a bad hair day. I've commanded battlefleets that would
give your Empire's strategic commanders wet dreams for months. I've
_killed_ more people with my _bare hands_ than you've _met_ in your entire
_life_, so do _not_ get condescending with me, ok?!"
     "You're a bloody loony!" Turalyn exclaimed, breaking free from her
grasp. Morgan fixed him with a cold-eyed stare. He glared back, keeping it
up for nearly a minute before being forced to turn away. "Ok, ok! I'll take
you to the bridge, maybe Felix can call up our exact location..."

     "FELIX!!!" Turalyn exclaimed, as he stepped onto the bridge. Morgan
coughed at the oppressive levels of smoke in the small room.
     "Yeah? What's happenin', cap?" said the creature identified as Felix,
turning and yawning at them. Morgan's eyes narrowed as she looked Felix
over. He looked slightly reminiscent of one of her old enemies, Ha'Veluri,
but while Ha'Veluri was sleek and muscled, Felix was not very sleek, and,
in fact, rather obese. An ashtray and a half-eaten Drekburger adorned his
display console, along with a copy of _Planet of the Scantily-Clad
Ring-Tailed Lemur Babes_ [*]. "I finished checkin' the shipment 'a Zima,
and she checks out as 100% pure."
     [*: Yes, that book really exists. No, you may not borrow my copy.]
     "Felix, how many times have I told you not to smoke on the bridge?"
Turalyn asked, quietly.
     The felinoid shrugged, idly scratching himself. "I'd place the guess
at, uhm, around two hundred."
     Turalyn sighed loudly. "You know I _hate_ those damn cancer-sticks of
yours, Felix... Look, make sure the vent systems scrub this stuff out of
the air, ok?"
     "Sure thing, cap." Felix said. The alien turned back to his book.
"Yowzah! Look at the [descriptives deleted - Auth] on _that_ one!!"
     "Felix?" Morgan asked, with a quiet, deadly voice.
     "Yah?"
     "Could you be any _more_ tasteless?"
     Felix shrugged. "I try, y'know."
     "*sigh*. Look, Felix, can you call up our current coordinate
location?" Turalyn asked, trying to give Morgan a reason for not attacking
his Navigation Officer.
     "Sure..." Felix said, reeling off a set of spacetime coordinates.
Morgan exhaled sharply and staggered back against the door.
     "How did I end up so far from Earth?" she whispered, confused. "Geez..."
     "We're coming out of overly-hyped space now near Planet Washington
IX." Felix said, putting aside his book. "Engaging realspace drives..."
     The view shown on the main screen changed abruptly from the dull,
featureless grey of overly-hyped space to the
black-with-points-of-light-on-it of realspace. As a special bonus, the view
included up-close shots of several Nintan battlecruisers.
     "Hurm." Felix commented. "That shouldn't be."

<----->

     On board the Nintendor-class battleship N.E.S. StreetFighter, a sensor
tech turned to his commander, idly straightening his yellow mohawk. "Yo,
cap'n. We've got the ship you were lookin' for on the scopes."
     The captain, whos imposing red uniform read B'son, turned to the
blue-robed person who stood next to his seat. "Your highness, what are your
orders?"
     "Board them..." the blue-robed, reptillian Nintan hissed, "Take my
groom alive, at all costs!"
     "As you order." Commander B'son said, pressing a button on his command
chair. "Have N.E.S. StarCon and N.E.S. MechWarrior disable the enemy
vessel, get Lichun and Beastguy to prepare their marines, and have N.E.S.
Bonk and N.E.S. DuckHunt move to cut off the enemy's escape routes.
Execute!"

OOOH. SCARY, SCARY, DON'T WE LOOK MEAN???
WILL TURALYN GET MARRIED??
WILL MORGAN GET BACK TO EARTH???
IS THERE REALLY A BOOK CALLED _Planet of the Scantily-Clad Ring-Tailed
Lemur Babes_???
IF THERE IS, DOES [expletive...er...name deleted - Auth] HAVE A COPY???
DOES THE READER EVEN KNOW WHAT I'M TALKING ABOUT???
DO _I_ KNOW WHAT I'M TALKING ABOUT???

OH, NEVERMIND. GEEZ.

Jesse Taylor / taylorjb@vuse.vanderbilt.edu / Accept no substitutes!!
GCS/E d-(?) H s+:- g- p? !au>* !a w(+)>+++ v+(-) C++>++++ US+(++) P-- L- !3
E---- N++ K+++ !W--- M+>++ V-- -po+ Y+ t+ 5++ j--(x) R+ G'''' !tv+ b+++ D
B--- e+(*) u-(*) h* f r-- n+(----) y+(-)* :: GEEK CODE Vers 2.1! (-: :-)