|Star Drek (standard:science fiction, 1885 words)|
|Author: hvysmker||Added: Aug 21 2006||Views/Reads: 2492/1466||Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)|
|Captain Cirk gets all wrapped up. Humor.|
Like waves, they scattered ... Grooking, whatever Grooking meant. If you Grooked and I Grooked, would Grooking be heaven sent? We Grook, and like to Grook, Grooking around our apartment. Grook, Grook, Grook.... Now what the hell rhymes with apartment?” Griskee thought of herself as a great poet. Her problem was a simple matter, lack of talent. It could be easily corrected, since the Universe had so many great ones, most of them long dead. She could have made up for her inadequacy by simply searching old tomes from far off galaxies. But the young female dreamed of doing it honestly. In the meantime, what the hell, the girl Clingin could only try. Right then, she was trying to pen an original for her hero, Captain Cirk, the human nemesis of her daddy. What made it exciting was that she would be punished if he found out. Her race hated the good Captain. He had been responsible for killing or imprisoning multitus ... muld ... multitudy ... a lot of her people. Even now, her family was on the way to a Confabulatory Alignment of Planets Against Bullying Legal Entities, or CAPABLE, conference. It was to be an informal meeting, on the Planet Cyclops III, to talk about the growing problem posed by Star Fleet Command in general, and Captain Cirk in particular. All of them had relatives imprisoned by the Captain and his crew of goody-goodies. At the moment, they had stopped for fueling, after which her family went out shopping in the Nexus 12 Shopping Center. In a fit of inspiration, Griskee had stayed on the ship to work on her poetry. Only a few years before, Captain Cirk had retired after having his ship, the Enterprizer, split in half by a photon blast in it's arse end. It split like a big fart, blasting crewmen across the cosmos. Captain Cirk had been playing a game of chess, or so he said, with one of the female crew members at the time. Luckily they were playing the game while in a double bunk in a life craft, and were uninjured. Now, in revenge and without official recognition, Captain Cirk was on a personal vendetta to exact revenge for the deaths of his crew, and that of his personal pet, Chompy. His fellow survivor, lovely Ensign Twiliger, accompanied him on his mission. The two had brought alone Chompy II the Captain's new eight-foot humanoid pet. The new Chompy was a native of the Planet Kibble, and a bit of an enigma. Although he had a humanoid body, he also had a brain that resembled that of a dog's on steroids. Most importantly, the new Chompy was a Nexus Hound. If in trouble, he could teleport them to the nearest Nexus Station. He even came with a family lifetime pass for five. (It was discovered that the Physical Universe had a number of what were named "Nexus Points," usually adjacent to the shopping centers at Black Holes. One Nexus Point could take you instantly to any other, a boon for shoppers. If a specific shopping center didn't have what you wanted, simply zip across the universe to another. Where it had previously taken weeks to cross the universe, it now took seconds. Of course it didn't take long for the Nexus Authority to establish rules and set up tollbooths.) “Shssss, quiet, Chompy,” Ensign Trina Twiliger cautioned the huge oaf. The three companions were sneaking around the side of a medium sized luxury yacht allegedly belonging to the nefarious Black Bottoms Gang. Unfortunately for them, the airlock was locked. They had become trapped there on Exodus IV after killing most of that gang in a bloodbath. The BB Gang liked to bathe in Grooggle Blood, an aide to their complexion. It was one habit which was well warranted, due to their resemblance to warthogs. The heroic captain and his ensign had trapped them in the bath, killing them with a blood-coagulator grenade. In retaliation, the remaining gang members had surrounded the spaceport and were searching for the three outlawed heros. “I is, Mzus. Trenee,” Chompy replied, chomping on a bag of corn chips -- the crumbs crackling under his size twenty-three loafers. His fangs interfered with chewing, half of the chips falling out rather than into his wide mouth. Click here to read the rest of this story (146 more lines)
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