Aboard the Inflatable Pub, the batwing doors creak wide from the airlock hatch. The battered bionic Lizard, bearing the equally-battered G5265 hexatone starship with the Badass Inter-Galactic Supremacy Bridge Yardarm gleaming at a cocky angle, enters the Designated Intoxicant Dispensary Area.
Pressing the Intercom button atop his helmet, he initiates a live holo-simulcast to Duck’s Pond, mostly for the hell of it, since they stopped carrying his favorite flavor of Ganymede’s Tropical Coolant. Still, he wants a wide audience. He pauses to drop a hat at his feet, remembers he owns no hat, sighs mechanically, and dumps out the contents of the lobsters’ spittoon for the purpose. Even those damned Unizone-printed StarBit notes are machine-washable, after all.
How 'bout that. It’s Open Mic night at the Inflatable.
Sir Galaxy holds his starship like a freshly smothered infant, then drags a manipulator claw over the hexatonic resonance array in a surprisingly tuneful manner.
“Ahem.”
Ahoy, Ignoble Calumnie! Be Cap’n Mack aboard?
I hear he’s back from jury duty, two bits more to hoard.
The geezer ran the Hot Pockets to famished engineers,
And flashes to the Speed Patrol his trademark yellowed sneers.
I hope he’s got some bits to share with this old bluesy Lizard.
He looks like we might be related, crusty ancient gizzard,
And I have no doubt his cloaca’s windy as a blizzard,
But when it comes to hauling ass, ol’ Mackey’s just a wizard.
I hailed A Certain Moral Flexibility just now,
And shot a cask of high-grade coolant just across her bow.
Belatedly it hit me that her Captain Watford Gap
Might be belowdecks in his cabin workin’ on a nap.
My XO thinks my gesture misinterpreted will be,
That bowshots will result in a returned missile or three,
But ancient is the custom of libations poured or burnt
In hopes of some financial largesse offered in returnt.
O, Mamma, Mamma, Mamma on the Dabohaze (and Beard),
Is by the Unizone and I.C.U.P. rightly feared.
We’re not sure why the crew so closely matches their big boss
In face and eyewear, temperament, but we don’t give a toss.
Our interest lies in their performance during Mission Three
When they and we took on Nilah and chased her speedily
And damn near caught that slipp’ry skink inside a steel bucket!
Until—oh, wait… Beard’s only got four point three StarBits. Fuck it.
Heave to alongside the fair ship of Everest Fullerton.
The YOLO Mk 2 is her name, her superstructure’s hurtin’.
Perhaps the Denture might be helpful to the YOLO’s skipper
Since rumor has it Fullerton’s a green and youthful nipper.
But once aboard I note the playlist on the bridge Jukebot
And realize young Fullerton is older (quite a lot).
As 80s tunes regale my ears I drop my sly pretext,
And hope the old guy spares a bit or three to help me next.
The Smiling Dingo’s my next stop; it’s helmed by Avery Waters,
Who’s rumored to be one of Orion’s bloodthirstiest daughters.
But mayhap in my scaly eyes she’ll sense a kindred soul,
And be inclined to subsidize my climb out of the hole.
I’ll make it worth her while, and with payback all financial.
When we combine our forces, you see we have Grit substantial.
A force to reckon with! A fearsome terror to the nation!
A team—oh, wait… she’s almost broke as I am. God-damnation!
I note that David Falkayn’s flush aboard the Muddlin’ Through,
So I would be remiss if I did not hit him up, too.
But I draw up outside his hatch and pause before I knock
For I, like Hedwig, have no urge to go off all half-cock.
He’s got the cash! He speaks of loans! Encourages teamwork!
He’s all about cooperation! He’s no selfish jerk!
And yet can I, proud Space Lizard, approach him, hat in hand,
And grovel for a handout? It turns out that, yes, I can.
The reptile is an independent, solitary beast,
Who cares for friends and coworkers and kin not in the least.
Its evolution through millennia has driven out
The urge to seek assistance, or help anybody out.
So Communists and mooses (even really sexy ones)
Are antithetical to Lizard tastes, the story runs.
And yet, Natasha runs a very profitable ship!
So I shall bow and ask for alms aboard Audacious Blip.
As Sir Galaxy lets the last note ring out to silence, he thinks he hears the beginning of slow applause down at the back of the bar. Honest mistake: lobster-retching sounds like clapping during molting season.
Our hero attaches a translucent plastic collar around his neck as he sidles off the stage, a collar of unmistakably Arcturan construction.
The Pleiades 360 is an unusual craft,
Constructed of plastic and steel, no larger than a raft.
But Captain Phuong, new to deep space, has made a mighty start
With Grit to spare, raw firepower, and a gift for pixel art.
She’s broke like me, as tends to be the case with Gritty ships,
So I will not waste time with mere fundraising on my lips.
We’re tough. We’re bold. You’re young, I’m old. So I propose we meet.
If this round pays out poorly, let’s form us a pirate fleet.
The Somewhat Broken Heart is skippered by my distant cousin:
Ol’ Quirky Kumquat, last surviving egg of Aunt’s last dozen.
Another broke-ass bastard who is rolling in raw Grit,
His toothy grin conceals a heart that won’t take any shit.
Perhaps it’s my imagination running off with me
But I think we could go far next round, just we Gritty three.
If we can’t turn a profit by legitimate commerce,
Let’s hoist the Jolly Raptor and descend on them… or worse.
