All my orders will be submitted through my spokesperson, Hans Landau. I’m done dealing with fake computers. [please accept my orders from Hans. I agree to a trade he proposed, and his mission suggestion for me. He also has full authority to handle any needed juice trades]
Sure sure, whatever you want to call yourself. North Charybdis is launching intergalactic cruise weapons capable of being fitted with neutron plasma warheads and I can’t be distracted right now. Oh, this? I always wear golf clothes to the warroom
“Jones, quit staring at me while I’m trying to suit up.”
“Boss… you’re not actually going out there, are you? We’re becalmed out here in the dark… we’re sittin’ ducks!”
“You gotta be kidding me. The Fearless Feline of Felixia-5 is a fraidy-cat? The guy who salvaged the O’Mortson by eating the acid-blooded xenomorph spawn for lunch is actually scared of the dark?”
( Theodore Rump’s spokeslobster? Now there’s a role my socialization engineers didn’t anticipate. I will need to recalibrate the Level 3 Prigoninian Interaction parameters to pull this off.
empathy 70 -->20
sense of privilege 60 -->95
sense of outrage 20 -> 85
respect for measurable facts 85 --> 0
Some might say we’re off to a shaky start with the massive spike in eel kisses – bad hombres, those eels – and the Coleridge now derelict, but that’s because Li’l smokey inherited a mess from the prior administration.
Since Mr T. Rump is leading us in dark moment in which only he can save us, he will be taking MIssion 3 to insure the minimal possible damage to his little hands and his precious golf grip. He will also be loaning his Rad_Shielding to Philosolobster.
All Hail President Rump
(whew. that was unpleasant. need to reset my parameters now.)