Selections from...The Illustrious Annals of Slagheepian History

By Ran Cartwright

Civilizing with a grunt and a groan; that’s what it says at the beginning of “Tale of the Trojan Sphynx.” Well, yeah, might as well say that’s how it all started. Grunting and groaning. But that little experiment in Slagheep’s primordial slothic scummy dooey goo has given us some of the most vile disgusting gut belching, ass farting, nitwits and numbskulls the multiverse has ever witnessed. Care to witness for yourself? Then dive in. At your own risk of course.

A little irreverent.
Some adult content.
Some satire.
Some fantasy.
A lot of fun.

Here’s a few of the colorful characters that you’ll find in Selections from...THE ILLUSTRIOUS ANNALS OF SLAGHEEPIAN HISTORY -

•Lil’ Skippy Shitler in his bid to enact war on anyone over two feet in height.
•Bertha Bustanut who makes an unscheduled stopover in the Slagheepian village of East Mudbucket.
•Timidly Blurry the king stoner brought back from the dead to promote one last multiversal “rok” concert.
•Doktor Froggenstein and his terribly horrible nasty experiment.
•Elderly Billy Space Codger and the December Frog reminiscing about the old days.
•Billy Space Dude...yeah, there was an unfortunate time warping accident.
•Cap’n Brane Phart traveling the Spaceways for excitement and adventure.

Come for a ride on the Spaceways across the multiverse with these colorful characters and an amalgam of other such ne’er-do-well nitwits and join in their galvanizing misadventures. You’ll be on Slagheep in no time!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ran Cartwright
• Release date: Jan 11, 2012
• ISBN: 9781465988119

Ran Cartwright

Ran was born in Salem, Ohio on a cold winter’s day. He doesn’t remember much of those early days, but he does remember watching Echo 1, a faint dot amongst the stars, cross the sky one dark and clear night in1961. That small event generated a lifelong interest in science and literature. The literature interest began with the science and science fiction works of Asimov and Clarke and exploded from there into just about anyone and everyone who wrote in the genre. Ran has a few particular favorites that still include Asimov and Clarke. Horror started with Saturday night double features that were aired on Chiller Theater out of Pittsburgh and hosted by Chilly Billy Cardille. That led to horror stories and novels, few at the time (more were available in films than in books), but Poe was a favorite. The early seventies brought H P Lovecraft into Ran’s dark nights (and days). After reading so much horror and science fiction, Ran thought it would be fun to try his hand at writing in the two genres. He had dabbled years earlier for a brief period of time with a little ditty he called “Journey to Messier 51.” Thankfully, that item has long been lost. But he never gave up, and, as they say, the rest is history. Ran has written in a variety of forms and formats for years. He prefers horror, of course, but has also written science fiction, fantasy, and historical drama. Two of his short horror stories were recommended for Bram Stoker awards in 2000. And Ran’s interest in science? Well, he’s a retired archaeologist. Interests? Ran’s a biker, makes Indian chokers, and travels around the country in an RV with his biker/writer wife, Christene, and their three cats, Rufus, Clyde, and Pixie. You never know where they might end up. Ran's books can also be found at: http://www.lulu.com http://www.rainfallsite.com As an added note, Ran has a single short story eBook also available at Smashwords. Entitled "A Criminal Portrait," it was written under Ran's pen name of Robert Tangiers, and published by Hellfire Publishing. http://www.smashwords.com/books/search?query=ran+cartwright

Book preview

Selections from…

THE ILLUSTRIOUS ANNALS OF

SLAGHEEPIAN HISTORY

By Ran Cartwright

Revolving Nuclear Zoo Productions

in association with

Frogtown Press

Selections from…

THE ILLUSTRIOUS ANNALS OF SLAGHEEPIAN HISTORY

Contents copyright © 2012 by Ran Cartwright

All rights reserved by the author. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without written permission from the author.

Second Edition

First Smashwords Edition, January 2012

Cover illustration, Billy Space Codger & the December Frog, copyright © 2011 by Sunny Hatter.

Song lyrics in Blue Moon Over Widdlydink by Christene Britton-Jones.

Author’s Note: The stories in this collection are works of fiction. Names, places, characters, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual people (living, dead, or otherwise), places, and events is entirely coincidental.

CONTENTS

Varnie Proposes Marriage

Rasta Booglely-Doo and the Old Seer of Frogtown

The STRANGE UP & DOWN World of FLAVOR & CHARMing COLORs

Sheisgrooby!

The Terrible Tragedy of One Colorful Character

The Church of the Holy Shaggaho

Tale of the Trojan Sphynx

Time Warped

Billy Space Codger & the December Frog

Spaced Out in East Mudbucket

Sex, Drugs, & Siren’s Songs

Froggenstein’s Monster

Brain Transplant

Time & Time Again

Blue Moons over Widdlydink

The Other Slimy Cesspool of a Frog Shit Village

The Mesmerizing Sound of Lethargic Radiation

VARNIE PROPOSES MARRIAGE

One of the sickest, most vile, disgusting, Huht Rinds guzzling, farting and belching buffoons in all the multiverse just happened to show up on Slagheep. Where? Boingo’s Booze Joint and Pool Hall, Frogtown’s infamous dirty and sleazy dive. Whom? Varnie the Garf. Of course everyone knew it could be none other than one of the infamous Huht cousins.

The disgusting sleazeball belched and farted as he entered the dive, slobbering putrid slime down his ample chest and gut. He paused, his bulging google eyes fixed behind glasses fixed on a nice young schoolgirl dressed thang. With an exploding fart that knocked three patrons off their ballstools (yeah, the scent left them unconscious for three days), the disgusting sleazeball started his slow deliberate waddle across the floor toward the poor helpless schoolgirlesque young thang.

She sat there, timid, passive, her eyes radiating contempt and sickening disgust at the approaching sleazeball.

It seemed a multiversal eternity before the sleazeball arrived at her table, but arrive he did, much to her dry heaving revulsion. He planted his fat hands on the table, fingers slayed out like huge pulsing Slagheepian puss worms, waved his amply bubbling lard ass, and farted. Two more patrons were out for a few days.

And drooling disgusting rancid slime onto her table, Varnie slowly leaned forward. The table groaned under the added stress of Varnie’s ample collection of lard, sounding like it was going to collapse at any moment. The sleazeball paused if only for a moment, and then belched directly into her face. She knew immediately that the sleazeball had been chomping Deep Fried Greasy Cracklin’ Huht Rinds. Not to mention that her hair immediately turned white and began to fall out.

Huh huh huh, are you married? Varnie mumbled and winked.

Eeeeek! was all she could shriek before she fainted dead away.

RASTA BOOGLELY-DOO AND THE OLD SEER OF FROGTOWN

The old Seer wasn’t only old, he was damn near ancient. As ancient as ancient can be. His hair was white and long. His beard was white and equally long. He was one son-of-a-Slagheepian-three-toed-ho-bitch of a fossil. But he loved teaching the sleazy undesirables of Frogtown (not to be confused with East Frogtown which can, in all honesty, be quite confusing) all that weird philosophical shit that really didn’t matter any more than a bag of frog shit mattered to the people of Frogtown (or East Frogtown). It came with the territory. Frogtown. Frog shit. Naturally.

The old fossil fart had choice places from which to impart his philosophical frog shit. A serene setting is always conducive to a receptive learning environment, the old fossil fart was known to say on occasion. One such serene setting was the nearby shady little grove next to the Frog Condo southwest of Frogtown. Now, for those not very familiar with Frogtown environs and terminology, the Frog Condo is a rather moderate sized wetland swampy area with an abundance of lily pads. Yeah, the frogs there just love their quaint little Frog Condo. A regular vacation spot for them, all stretched out on lawn chairs with sun tan lotion, sun umbrellas, wearing sun glasses, and sipping Long Island Iced Teas.

Another such serene setting favored by the crusty old fossil fart was a peaceful memorial grove, constructed to honor the founder of Frogtown, one Cap’n Brane Phart, Cap’n of the Spaceways. In fact, there was a statue of the Cap’n in the center of the grove, a little bronze ditty looking all serious and dignified despite the disgusting artwork and graffiti the sleazy undesirable bastards of Frogtown had written and drawn all over it.

It was to this serene and peaceful memorial grove setting that the crusty old fossil fart brought his latest Pupil. He always referred to them as his Pupil rather than what they truly were, ie., wild half-assed brain fried sleazy undesirable bastards. Frogtown’s finest pricks. And the latest brain fried sleazy undesirable bastard, AKA Pupil, from Frogtown was one Rasta Booglely-Doo from a long line of Doos. A rather arrogant smart-ass always-toking-on-a-number brain fried sleazy undesirable bastard to say the least was Rasta Booglely-Doo.

The crusty old fossil fart was scratching his wrinkled old ass as he led the sleazy brain fried bastard Booglely-Doo through the peaceful grove of trickling water and chirping chingots. That brain fried bastard chuckled as he and the crusty old fossil took a seat next to the dignified and graffitified statue. Brane Phart; just another bitch as far as Booglely-Doo was concerned. He toked on his big fatty torpedo and then hitched up the ole fossil with a stomping boot. Looked like the old dude was drifting off to sleep.

Booglely-Doo said: Yo, bitch, whatcha got for me today?

The Seer saw and said to the Pupil: The photon door opened. Fourteen multi-colored rogue photons flashed across the universe. Thirteen multi-colored rogue photons flashed out of existence. One multi-colored rogue photon was left.

And Booglely-Doo said: Say what, bitch?

The old Seer saw and said to his brain fried Pupil: Listen closely and you will hear the screaming banshee wail of the multi-colored rogue photon careening through the dying universe.

Booglely-Doo listened and Booglely-Doo said: Uh uh. I ain’t hearin’ no screamin’ banshee. She be turnin’ tricks in Frogtown maybe?

The Old Seer sighed.

Booglely-bastard said: Hey, bitch, I ain’t got much time now. The tricks I’s pimpin’s comin’ in ta pay up thiz afternoon. You got sumpin’ t’say or not…Biotch!

The crusty old fossil cleared his throat, sought through his clouded thoughts, and then saw and said to the prick: The end. Silence. What is it like when there is nothing left?

Booglely-prick said: Yo, I done tells ya what it’s like, biotch! I done had ‘nuff yo shit!

And with that, the brain fried undesirable sleazy bastard jumped up, blew smoke in the crusty old fossil’s face, and proceeded to three-toed-ho-slap that crusty old fossil until the crusty old fossil understood. It didn’t take long.

* * *

Just past noon the brain fried undesirable sleazy bastard Booglely-Doo came prancing back into town, toking on a fatty, and dragging the crusty old fossil, all glassy eyed and lopsided grinning, at the end of a leash and collar. Rasta Booglely-Doo was there to collect his share of the profits from pimping out a few Frogtown three toed hoes.

Coming down the street was an old client of one of Booglely-Doo’s hoes. The client grinned and said: Whatcha got there, Rasta bro?

Toking Booglely-Doo took a hit and said: Yo, homie, this here’s my prison biotch. He’s gonna serve some time.

The crusty old fossil of a Seer stared dreamy-eyed into space, grinning like a well used three toed ho, and said softly and longingly: If you got the money honey, I got the time…

Rasta Booglely-Doo and the client busted a gut.

The STRANGE UP and DOWN World of FLAVOR and CHARMing COLORs

1

Hanging on the Edge of Oblivion

It all had to start somewhere. This was back in the day when science and technology meant something. Back when science and sleaze were equally important. Back when the hyper-spaceways were crowded with people, things, doodads, zingbits, dingbats, and slimy sleazy aliens jaunting from one bar/whore house/restaurant/gambling establishment/bowling alley to the next located conveniently at each interchange along the hyper-spaceways.

Situated near one of those convenient interchanges was the small backwater hamlet of Frogtown where every frog had his day, and night, peacefully co-existing with humans, aliens, three toed-hoes, and various other intergalactic garbage that happened to filter through the little dust bitten bug ridden frog croaking hovel for a Mint Julep and an order of basted and fried frog legs.

One of those pieces of intergalactic garbage was Cap’n Brane Phart, self professed Cap’n of the Spaceways, ie., Cap’n Brane Phart of the Spaceways. Cap’n Brane Phart, himself a Frogtown native, built himself a starship. Called it the Spitball. Kinda looked like one too. Manufactured with some nails and a hammer, wires and fancy colored lights, a few lawn chairs, spit, glue, polish, and paper wads, how in the Holy Huht this thing was gonna hold together was anybody’s guess. But it did in the long run.

Of course, it didn’t take much to run the slimy thing. So, with an onboard computer named Dr Dodo controlling just about all there was to control aboard the ship, Cap’n Phart didn’t need too many people to man the thing. Just a few. Well, a couple. There was Busty Bouncing Missy Pisswick, a former ten toed ho and dancer from Boingo’s Booze Joint and Pool Hall, Frogtown’s sleaziest establishment. And there was a former exhibit from Weezie Sneezie Boozenbopper’s Collection of Frog’s Feet and Traveling Circus Freaks, Bobby Ivan Gregory Schlong (AKA, BIG Schlong). Both had been hand picked by Cap’n Phart.

With the Spitball crew chosen, Cap’n Phart slapped Missy Pisswick on the nice round firm ass and gave her (and BIG Schlong) a guided tour of the ship. They were impressed, ooooing and ahhhhing at every turn, Pisswick bouncing merrily along and Schlong scratching his crotch (he was an avid lover of crotch scratching although some have heard him mutter bugs from time to time). And just like everyone else in the far flung reaches of the Multiverse, most of the people on Slagheep (ah, yeah, Slagheep – the planet where the disgusting hovel of Frogtown is located) were wanting to get away. The same for Cap’n Brane Phart, Missy Pisswick, and BIG Schlong. So off they went in the Spitball, careening into space, bouncing along a hyper-spaceway, looking for adventure until they bounced a little too far and found themselves hovering on the brink of a steadily decaying orbit around a black hole.

The Spitball lurched violently. Man, it was bouncing like a bobber on a frog pond. A ripple in the fabric of space caused by a shift in the black hole's gravity field sent a wave propagating outward through its accretion disk. The Spitball rode the wave on a course to certain destruction. It looked like the Spitball was gonna get squashed like a Slagheepian Bush Bug scurrying across the floor, dodging the mad rush of clients who bought and paid for a 45 minute tryst with one or more three-toed hoes.

The effect of the wave had been devastating. Systems all over the ship short circuited, lighting up like a Frogtown holiday celebration. Smoke rolled through the ship. In the Spitball nerve center, commonly called the bridge (more commonly called The Joint) the crew were frantically trying to regain control. Cap’n Brane Phart forced himself up from his command chair. The ever growing form of the black hole spread across the view screen. Getting closer. And Closer.

Mr Schlong, status report, Cap’n Phart called out.

Life support down 40%; power production down 30%; all non-essential power has been cut, Schlong said, flashing lights dancing across his face. He scratched his crotch and smiled. Hmmmm, seems heavier under the black hole’s gravity. He shrugged off the thought, continued scratching, and added, Dr Dodo’s gone bonkers. We're alive now, but don’t know how long. Schlong paused, still scratching, and nodded at the black hole on the screen. We certainly can't pull away from that thing.

Cap’n Phart turned to the screen. Well, I’ll be frogtied on a lily pad, he thought.

The Cap’n of the Spaceways was convinced the space program had been lagging for years. Scientists had been busying themselves with a new and improved super hyper elasticized condom in an effort to control and prevent the spread of Huht Cousins DNA. The thought of Huht Cousin DNA mutating and running wild across the Multiverse was simply ghastly.

Very little of the money appropriated for research by the Galactic Research Foundation had gone into the development of an energy source for interstellar space travel. As is the case with most purely accidental discoveries, the energy source for interstellar drives became a popular snack food, so popular, in fact, that it was mass produced to the point of galactic economic collapse. Consequently, Grandma Huht’s Deep Fried Greasy Cracklin’ Huht Rinds were outlawed by the then governmental body responsible for the common welfare of the galactic populace, namely the Galactic Department of Pocket Fleecing and Knuckle Busting. Whereas the Spitball didn’t have sufficient power to pull away from the black hole, the crew did have an ample supply of Deep Friend Greasy Cracklin’ Huht Rind stored in the galley.

But that’s neither here nor there. We’re talking about Cap’n Brane Phart and crew. And the Starship Spitball hanging on the edge of oblivion. It was a pretty black hole with one bitchin’ far out light show. The colors were amazingly amazing. Matter from the accretion disk spiraled toward the oval blackness. Interstellar noise hissed across The Joint. Off to one side a console exploded in a shower of sparks. More light for the light show.

Wow man, far out, Missy Pisswick said in soft reverent awe of the spectacle. It’s like the lighted dance floor back in Frogtown where I use to hook...ah, work.

Well, it ain’t no damned lighted dance floor, Miss Pisswick, Cap’n Phart said. He stared at the big bad gobbler on the screen as it spread ever wider in the field of view. Billions upon billions of places we could’ve gone and we had to come here, he muttered softly, shaking his head. This never would’ve happened to Sergeant Icon or Bad Ass Billy or Mad Dog Browne or the tea-totaller himself, Zap the Astro Dog.

Got Dr Dodo back up and running, Schlong said suddenly.

Cap’n Phart turned to Schlong. Ask him what our chances are, the Cap’n said.

Will do, Cap’n. Schlong flipped a couple of switches and scratched his crotch. A whistling noise suddenly filled the bridge. Dr Dodo the computer rose from the dead. Dr Dodo, compute survival probability.

Lights flashed on Schlong's console. There was a short whistling noise, and then Dr Dodo’s ear splitting tinny voice flooded the bridge. Ain’t happenin’, fans. Ain’t got ‘nuff info. And then he immediately went into his favorite song – I wish I was in Pisswick. Hooray! Hooray!

Come on, Dr Dodo, Schlong interrupted.

Come on what? Dr Dodo questioned. You interrupted my song, bubba.

You have the capability to dissect and store all pertinent information about that thing out there.

You betcha, Schlongie baby, Dr Dodo replied.

So nothing's impossible, Schlong began, Analyze...

Not so fast there, Schlongie baby, Dr Dodo interrupted, nothing IS possible. Won’t be long before this ship will be nothing. Say, is that sweet hummer babe, Missy Pisswick, still on board? And he picked up his song again. I wish I was in Pisswick. Hooray! Hooray! In Pisswick land I’ll take my stand...

All right, all right, all right, knock it off with the damn song already! Schlong interrupted, still scratching.

Damn computer, Cap’n Phart muttered under his breath. We're all gonna die.

Now don’t go getting your schlong all tied up in a knot, Dr Dodo said. Lemme see if I can come up with something for you. Just hang on bubba. Dr Dodo’s lights flashed in tabulation while he softly whistled Pisswick. And then, Probability of survival..., Dr Dodo paused. Zero.

I don't get it, Schlong said softly.

You ain’t suppose to get it, Dr Dodo said. You’re a circus freak sideshow, bubba!

The black hole suddenly belched some tachyons. The Spitball bounced like the gut of a Huht Rinds addict. Schlong was thrown to the floor like a soggy greasy bag of Huht Rinds. Cap’n Phart grabbed Missy Pisswick for support. Pisswick grinned, thoughts ‘bout the good ole days. Another control console exploded in a shower of sparks. An orange plum of smoke rolled toward the ceiling.

Pisswick took a whiff and wrinkled her nose. Damn smoke smells just like you when you shit yourself, Cap’n Phart, she complained.

The Cap’n of the Spaceways shot her a cold icy stare. He hadn’t shit himself in a couple of days. Besides, this wasn't a time for fetid remarks. It was only a matter of time before the Spitball would come in contact with the black hole's event horizon. And then POOF! BANG! CRUNCH! KABOOM! Something was certain to happen.

Cap’n Phart..., Schlong began. He had dragged himself back to his feet and was staring at the console while scratching his crotch. He flipped a couple switches, scratched his crotch some more, and then leaned against the console.

Well, what? Cap’n Phart said impatiently.

There’s a warp out there, Schlong replied. Like an open gate on the edge of the event horizon.

Now just what in frog shit does that mean? Cap’n Phart asked.

Don’t know yet, boss, Schlong replied. Could be a lotta cool things – a classic wormhole to another multiverse; big ole black hunk of dark matter; a burp in the event horizon. Just don't know. Could get us squashed like a Bush Bug. Or it could be our ticket outta here.

Cap’n Phart paused to think it over; he came to a conclusion fast. He normally didn’t do much thinking. Common practice. Just enough thinking on this occasion to come up with a hair brained, frog’s ass, wild idea. Anything that could save the ship was worth a try. Maybe we should fly this slime bucket right through that gate, Cap’n Phart said.

Maybe, Schlong replied. Maybe not.

Can you steer us a course for the gate? Cap’n Phart questioned.

You betcha, boss, Schlong said with a snickering grin, and scratching his crotch, he added, I can shoot the ole Spitball right down her...

All right, Schlong, I get the picture, Cap’n Phart interrupted. The Cap’n of the Spaceways paused, puffed himself up like something important was going to happen, and sighed. Okay, let’s do it! he finally said. Miss Pisswick, give Schlong a hand.

Schlong’s eyes and grin went wide as he scratched his crotch, his thoughts on Cap’n Phart’s remark.

Relaying vector coordinates, was all Pisswick said.

Schlong frowned, disappointed, ego deflated, and punched the gate coordinates into Dr Dodo. The computer took over the ship and laid in the course.

Here we go! Missy Pisswick said. And she sat back and stared at the screen.

Like a horsefly tightly wrapped in a frog’s tongue and headed for frog diner, the Spitball spiraled toward the warp in space on the edge of the black hole. The course change was ever so slight, hardly felt aboard the starship. In a matter of mere seconds the Spitball would be pulled apart at the seams or they’d transition into a new world of wonder and infinite possibilities. Or a world of horror and finite possibilities. Like death, or something far worse like common labor slaves aboard the Huht cousins garbage scow in a parallel Multiverse at the beck and call...and whim...of those three large and rather imbecilic slime balls. The mere thought of such a fate would cause even the stoutest to wretch and belch bile.

Nevertheless, the Spitball was committed. They were heading in. A strange silence pervaded the ship. The silence was absolute. No longer could commotion be heard on The Joint, the blowing systems and hissing sparks, Dr Dodo softly whistling Pisswick, or the dull humming of Spitball's life. It was eerie, ethereal. Time slowed. Movement slowed.

The black hole swallowed the Spitball's view screen. The ship plunged through the gate. The murky light on The Joint vanished, plunging The Joint into darkness. The silence was total, absolute.

Cap’n Brane Phart, Missy Pisswick, BIG Schlong. They had lost all feeling, all senses, detached minds, pure thought, floating in black nothingness. There was nothing to do but wait. They waited.

And suddenly, sound began to return ever so faintly. In the dark there was a soft scraping noise. It was Schlong, scratching his crotch. And the soft, nearly inaudible, sweet refrains of Dr Dodo whistling Pisswick.

2

Just pissin’ in the wind, Cap’n

Lights and sound erupted all over the Spitball. Control panels blinked. Corridor lights flashed. The familiar hum of Spitball's power was returning. Whizzing, beeping, and popping control circuits resounded. The Spitball was coming to life. Dr Dodo’s snapping circuits sent filaments of energy throughout the ship. Cap’n Brane Phart, Missy Pisswick, and BIG Schlong jumped up and down like a bunch of doofus loonies, clapping their hands and acting rather stupid. Understandable, of course. After all, they had survived their encounter with the space warp.

Cap’n Phart turned, nearly tripped, and fell over his own two feet. Foolish it was for him to nearly throw himself against Missy Pisswick in the process. She’da frog-slapped his foolish little ass from one side of The Joint to the other and back again. So, lightly stepping back from Missy Pisswick on prancing tippy-toes, Missy Pisswick glaring at him with her hands on her hips, the Cap’n of the Spaceways glanced about The Joint. Okay okay, alive, whew! he said to himself thinking about their encounter with the black hole and his near encounter with Missy Pisswick. We made it. Yeah, we made it. I made it! Well, I’ll be frogtied. And in the dire circumstance of the situation, he hadn’t even shit himself although it was close. Turning to Schlong, Well? the Cap’n questioned.

Well what? Schlong responded with a scratch of his crotch.

The ship, how we doing? Cap’n Phart was just a tad jumpy and jittery. He rocked on his toes, hands clasped behind his back.

Schlong punched a series of instructions into Dr Dodo. There were a few more beeps and buzzes. The computer’s lights flashed and flickered. Images began to flash across a terminal screen. There were deep space images, circuit diagrams, Frogtown’s pet frog of the month, a photo of Missy Pisswick naked as a jaybird in a back room at Boingo’s. Schlong had paid a handsome price for that photo. And just as Schlong was about to jump up and shield the image for fear of Missy Pisswick seeing it and subsequently beating his ass soundly, the photo suddenly gave way to a list with facts and figures concerning the Spitball’s post black hole/space warp welfare.

Not too bad, boss, Schlong said amidst a rather furious crotch scratch. Minor damage. Power levels returning to normal. Repairs being effected.

So, Cap’n Phart said in great contemplation, we’re okay.

Eyeah, that's about the size of it, Schlong replied, unconsciously scratching his crotch upon uttering the word size.

Strange, Strange indeed. But Cap’n Phart really didn't give a frog’s fart why or how they (and the amazingly resilient Spitball) were okay. Simply that they (and the Spitball) were okay was all that mattered. Well, I’ll be frogtied on a frog barbeque spit, the Cap’n of the Spaceways thought, and shrugged his shoulders. Barbequed frog was a favorite in Frogtown much to the chagrin of the local frog population.

Miss Pisswick, would you please switch on the main view screen? Cap’n Phart said coolly, noting that the viewer was blank.

It’s on, Pisswick replied, staring at the screen in rapt awe.

Cap’n Brane Phart stared through big googly eyes.

BIG Schlong stared, quite audibly scratching his crotch.

Dr Dodo began to softly hum the melody of his Pisswick song.

Okay, where are the stars? Cap’n Phart questioned.

I don't know, Pisswick replied.

Cap’n Phart shook his head and turned a questioning eye to Schlong.

Schlong flipped a switch on Dr Dodo’s console. Dr Dodo, explanation please, he said.

The humming of the Pisswick song faded. Explain what, bubba? came Dr Dodo's whiny metallic voice.

The view screen, Schlong replied with a crotch scratch. Malfunction?

Ain’t nothing wrong with it, bubba, Dr Dodo replied.

But there are no stars out there!