Screw the Universe

• Screw the Universe
  
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Screw the Universe

a collection of connected short stories

by Stephen Schwegler and Eirik Gumeny

SCREW THE UNIVERSE

© 2011 Stephen Schwegler and Eirik Gumeny

Smashwords Edition

The stories included in this collection are works of fiction. Any resemblance to actual businesses, locations, talking animals, intergalactic federations or persons, living, dead, or otherwise, is entirely coincidental.

Also by Stephen Schwegler:
Perhaps
., a collection of short fiction

Also by Eirik Gumeny:
Exponential Apocalypse,
a novel

“
Space. It seems to go on and on forever.

But then you get to the end and a gorilla starts throwing barrels at you.”

–
Futurama

Fuck the Space Chickens

Mission 58008 - 001

The Zdravo, shiny and glinting in the light of the distant sun, was docked at the Federation space station, awaiting her new captain. Senior Dockworker Hugh Johnson and his crew had just meticulously removed the protective tarp from the newly constructed vessel, revealing her glory to the universe.

The universe wasn’t all that impressed.

Space Marshal Phil Orr, on the other hand, soiled his pants with joy. Also, semen. The Zdravo was the cutting edge of space-faring technology, all sharp and pointy and fast and shit. Launching her under the flag of the Federation was his way of telling all the non-Federation governments in the universe to suck it. And, man, they were some asshole governments.

Space Marshal Orr escorted the newly promoted Captain Oswald Van Vanderhoort Van
Tyler to the viewing platform overlooking the Zdravo.

“Well, Captain Tyler, here she is, the Zdravo. Your home for the next six years.”

“She looks like a penis.”

“…
a penis?”

“A penis. A big one at that.”

“I don’t know that I’d...”

Space Marshall Orr looked at the Zdravo again. She did look like a penis, all long and narrow and kind of bulbous at the front. And her twin rear engines uncannily resembled swollen testicles.

“How did I not see that?” he said, shaking his head. “Anyway, I suppose we should get back and work on getting a crew together for you.”

“We’re gonna fill that giant flying dong with a ton of seamen.”

“That would be the Navy, Captain.”

“Oh, right. Right,” said Captain Tyler. “What are Federation officers called again?”

“Space seamen.”

“That’s not funny at all.”

The candidates were lined up – naked – along the back wall of the conference room. Captain Tyler led Marshal Orr to a desk littered with paintballs. He pulled a slingshot from the back pocket of his battle shorts.

“Captain,” said Marshal Orr, “what’s the meaning of all this?”

“Interviewing takes too long, so I figured whoever gets hit with a paintball gets to come aboard.”

“That is quicker,” said the marshal, fingering one of the brightly-colored balls. “You do have less balls than applicants, right, Captain?”

“I should hope so. Finding pants would be a bitch.”

“You’re preaching to the choir,” said the marshal. “And what of those that don’t get selected?”

“I don’t know, make them all Senior Dockworker or something.”

“That role is already taken by Johnson.”

“Well, now he’ll have friends.”

Captain Tyler loaded a paintball, pulled back on the slingshot, and pointed it toward the first set of testicles he saw.

“Wait just a minute, Tyler. I can’t in clear conscience let you do this to your potential crew,” said Space Marshal Orr. “Not by yourself, anyway. Where’s my slingshot?”

“We’re going to have to share, sir,” replied Captain Tyler, releasing the elastic of the slingshot. The paintball jumped forward, got caught in the pouch, spun around, and came flying back into Captain Tyler’s face, exploding between his eyes.

“Oh my God, it’s pink, everything is pink!”

The paintball wasn’t pink.

“Congratulations, Captain,” said Marshal Orr. “You’re part of your crew.”

“I can’t see! I’m blind!”

Marshal Orr grabbed the slingshot from the captain, loaded a paintball, and then fired it directly into the chest of one of the applicants.

“You,” said the marshal, “you’re now a private. Take Captain Tyler to the bathroom and wash that green paint off his face.”

“Yes, sir,” said the newly hired Private Kim Boxershorts.

“It’s green?” asked Tyler. “Oh God, it’s worse than I thought! I’ve lost the ability to smell colors!”

Marshal Orr raised an eyebrow.

“Make sure the paint didn’t seep into his brain or something,” he added.

“How would I—” began the space seaman.

Marshal Orr fired another paintball into the stomach of another applicant.

“You,” he said, “you’re the ship’s doctor. Go help.”

“But I don’t—”

The marshal fired a paintball into the man’s scrotum.

“I don’t care. Go run an MRI on Tyler. Use the internet or something.”

“Yes, sir,” replied the doctor, sputtering and limping toward Captain Tyler and Private Boxershorts.

“Now,” said Marshal Orr, “for the rest of you...”

Captain Tyler was laid out on the MRI’s bed. “Doctor” Emmanuel Sodomy stood behind the Plexiglas screen, alternately watching the captain and leafing through a six thousand page instruction manual.

“Yes,” mumbled the doctor, “but how do I turn it on?” He slammed his fists into the controls in front of him. The machine buzzed to life.

“I think that did it,” said Dr. Sodomy’s assistant, “Nurse” Poorbed Sidemanner.

“Of course. Right. Yeah,” replied the doctor. “Now let’s run some tests.”

Dr. Sodomy pushed a button at random. The bed slid into the MRI’s hole.

“Heh,” said Captain Tyler.

“Quiet!” demanded Nurse Sidemanner, shouting into the intercom.

“It was funny!” replied Captain Tyler.

“No talking!”

“It’s scanning my brain, not my mouth,” said the Captain. “I’ll talk all I—”

Dr. Sodomy pushed another button. The bed jolted upward, slamming Captain Tyler’s face into the top of the MRI machine.

“Shit,” said Dr. Sodomy, “shit, shit, shit.”

“At least he shut up,” said Nurse Sidemanner.

“I don’t think there’s supposed to be that much blood...”

Captain Tyler awoke hours later in his cabin aboard the Zdravo. Seated in a chair next to him, First Lieutenant Archibald Duknerts was keeping watch.

“Your mother blows zedonks!” shouted the captain, bolting upright.

“Sir?” asked the lieutenant.

“You’re not Sodomy.”

“No, sir. I’m not,” replied Duknerts. “Dr. Sodomy is in the communications room, looking for an online university that will grant him a medical degree with a minimum of effort. Or even just for cash.”

“Who are you then?”

“I’m First Lieutenant Archibald Duknerts.”

“First Lieutenant, eh? Good. That makes you my whipping boy.”

“Sir?”

“Silence. I’m thinking.”

They both waited.

“So,” said Captain Tyler, breaking the bone-crushing silence. “Clean bill of health?”

“Not quite,” replied Duknerts.

“Spill it. I don’t want you to pull punches with me.”

“You have gonorrhea.”

“Shit!”

“Of the eye.”

“Triple shit!”

“Triple, sir?”

“I’d say that warrants it. Any idea of where this came from?”

“Uh…”

“Punches.”

“Right. Well, your mission pre-screening didn’t show it and... You haven’t touched anything with your eye recently, have you?”

“Other than the paintball? No, not that I’m aware of.”

“The doctor sanded the paint off your face and examined the shavings. The only thing the paintball was carrying was space cholera, and you don’t appear to be shitting uncontrollably out of your eye, so I don’t think that was it. I’m guessing whatever it was was inside of the MRI when your face, uh, well, you know…”

“That tube did smell like boning.”

“In a surprising and probably completely unrelated chunk of news, it looks like Nurse Sidemanner was also recently diagnosed. You two should probably go to that support group the Federation offers.”

“I’m somewhat alarmed that there’s a support group for this.”

“As are we all,” said First Lieutenant Duknerts, staring in horror at Captain Tyler’s engorged – and apparently sexually active – eye. “Should I go get Dr. Sodomy? He’s probably got a cream or something.”