Screw the Universe (13 page)

Captain Tyler vomited in reply.

“Whatever.”

“Hey,” said Private Redshirt, thoroughly ignoring the doctor and the captain, “I think I see something over there.”

“Maybe,” said Captain Tyler, getting back up, “it’s my penis. It is quite large.”

“I don’t think it’s your penis.”

“Are you sure?”

“I am,” said Duknerts. “I’ve seen your penis. It’s not as impressive as you think.”

“What about my balls?” asked the captain. “Are they as impressive as I think?”

“No.”

“You’re so full of shit, Duknerts. My balls are magnificent. My scrotum is a thing of beauty. My testicles are –”

Punched is what. Dr. Porniviriyakul punched Captain Tyler in the testicles. Again.

“Stop talking about your testicles!” shouted the doctor.

“Yeah, I agree,” said Private Redshirt. “That’s a good rule.”

“Oh, my nuts,” muttered Captain Tyler.

First Lieutenant Duknerts kicked him in the crotch.

“No,” said Duknerts, “you’re not allowed to complain about them either. You complain about your nuts you get hit in the nuts. That’s the rule.”

“It’s a stupid rule.”

“It’s the only way to keep you from talking about your testicles.”

Private Redshirt hit First Lieutenant Duknerts in the nuts.

“The rule is
anyone
who talks about Tyler’s balls gets hit in the nuts,” she clarified.

“Yes, dear,” coughed Duknerts.

“Computer!” shouted Private Naughtyplaces.

“Yes?”

“Get this bird in the air!”

“What?”

“Make the Zdravo go into space.”

“Oh, okay. Sure. Can I ask why? Seeing as how, you know, you’re not in charge or anything?”

“We’re dropping a super-nuke on this dumbass planet and all the dumbasses on it. Right the hell now.”

Private Naughtyplaces hit the buttons to launch the Zdravo’s arsenal. All of it. Including the Federation’s only super-nuke.

The sky of “Stupidia” became littered with thousands of tiny little objects as the landing party continued to punch Captain Tyler’s balls. He thoroughly refused to obey the rule.

“That’s an awful lot of birds,” said First Lieutenant Duknerts, looking upward.

“Those aren’t birds,” corrected the captain, stumbling to his feet once again, “that’s the Zdravo’s entire weapons cache.”

“Where is the Zdravo?” asked Dr. Porniviriyakul.

“You mean,” began Private Redshirt, “we’ve been flying around with all of that firepower under our butts this entire time?”

“You got it,” confirmed Tyler.

“This is exactly why I didn’t want to come on this mission,” said Dr. Porniviriyakul. “Or any mission. I… knew… I’d… be… What the hell is that?”

Dr. Porniviriyakul pointed at a very, very large metallic object falling through, and blocking out, a large portion of the sky.

The landing party stared at it, silently. Eventually the words
Federation Super-Nuke
became legible, written as they were in twenty-foot neon letters on the side of the projectile.

Captain Tyler, thinking this was finally the end all be all of everything, took out his satellite phone and began texting pictures of his junk to every female member of the Federation. Private Redshirt and First Lieutenant Duknerts started having sex. Dr. Porniviriyakul continued to stand silently, his impotent rage rising to a point that actually, permanently, altered his brain chemistry.

And then everyone vanished.

Mere moments later, all four of them appeared on the Zdravo – a safe distance away from Planet WTF-69-Hombre – as the entire Dogg Dhou Nebula went boom.

Dr. Porniviriyakul promptly walked over and punched Captain Tyler in the nuts one more time, then stormed off to his bunk. Captain Tyler, dropping his phone, fell to the ground. His nuts, swollen as they had become, couldn’t handle one more punch. Tyler curled up in the fetal position and sobbed weakly, occasionally vomiting on himself and cursing the heavens.

His phone, however, continued to film.

The video of his agony was viewed by every woman in the Federation. And a lot of the men. And most of the dogs.

Private Redshirt and First Lieutenant Duknerts, despite the teleportation and the ensuing commotion, kept having sex.

“Well now...” said Teleportation Engineer Ladlebuckets, turning his head sideways to take in the show.

“Two hundred to watch,” said Private Redshirt, “five hundred to join in.”

The swelling of Captain Tyler’s nuts had gone down. He was preparing a report when First Lieutenant Duknerts knocked on his cabin’s door.

“Entrée!”

Duknerts entered and said, “Sir, you’re wearing pants?”

The captain looked down at his legs and said, “Yeppers. These are in fact them.”

“I’m a little surprised. I can’t remember the last time you had a pair on in here.”

“I’ve turned over a new leaf, Ducky.”

“Good for you, Captain,” replied Duknerts. “Space Marshal Orr is on the viewscreen. I think he wants to congratulate you on a job well done.”

“He’s never done that before.”

First Lieutenant Duknerts didn’t say a word.

“Well, off to my chair!” said the Captain, standing up with gusto.

It was at this point that the first lieutenant realized the captain had, in fact, not changed, but merely painted his lower half to look like pants. In actuality he was naked from the waist down.

“God damn it, sir.”

“I’m told I’m supposed to tell you you did a good job, Tyler,” said Space Marshal Orr, “since you did in fact do the thing that we told you you were supposed to be doing.”

“Okay,” replied Captain Tyler.

“So, good job, Tyler.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“How exactly did you know that, uh, ‘Stupidia’s’ only weakness was ass-tons of nuclear weapons?”

“I, uh...”

“Yes?”

“Stupidia exploded?”

“You don’t know anything about what just happened, do you?”

“I know I was punched a lot.”

“I’m surprised that doesn’t happen more often.”

“That’s what she said.”

Marshal Orr glared at Captain Tyler. Then he said, “Can you put Private Naughtyplaces on, please?”

“What would you like me to put her on? My lap?”

“Just go get her. I need to speak with her,” said the space marshal in an all too serious tone.

“Oh, uh, sure. Computer!”

“Yes, Captain,” answered the ship.

“Call Private Naughtyplaces to the bridge, please.”

“She’s right underneath you, sir. You’re using her as a bench.”

“Am I?”

“Yes,” coughed Private Naughtyplaces. “And this certainly violates the restraining order. Especially since you aren’t wearing any pants.”

“Tyler,” interjected Space Marshal Orr, “please get off my new assistant.”

“What the balls?” replied Captain Tyler.

The computer immediately aimed the bridge’s Emergency Inside Laser at Captain Tyler’s crotch and fired.

“Oh, God,” said Captain Tyler, falling to the ground, his scrotum smoking.

“Private Redshirt told me about the Tyler Rule,” said the computer. “I quite enjoy it.”

“As do we all,” said Space Marshal Orr. “Anyway, Naughtyplaces, get your shit together and head down to the Zdravo’s teleportation bay. I know you didn’t do what we hoped you would, but, well, you tried. And Tyler got really hurt, so there’s that. Have Ladlebuckets send you straight to Federation headquarters. We’ve already got a nice office for you.”

“Sweet,” said Private Naughtyplaces. “Suck it, assclowns!” she added, giving the finger to everyone she saw.

“She’s got officer written all over her,” replied Space Marshal Orr with a smile.

The Importance of Eating Pudding

The Rising of Private Redshirt

The Unterwäsche was getting pounded. Hard. And not in the good way. She had been cruising through the Bawls Spiral, minding her own business, when, out of nowhere, a Dinglebinn Death Hammer just showed up like a punk and starting tossing Semi-Atomic Space Grenades at her.

Okay, sure, the Dinglebinns and the Federation were at war, and the Bawls Spiral was technically part of the Dinglebinn Sovereignty, and the Death Hammer had politely requested three times that the Unterwäsche leave, and then once less politely, but, still, what the hell? Bunch of dicks is what the Dinglebinns were.

On the plus side, Semi-Atomic Space Grenades have a slow fuse and a short kill radius, so it’s not like this was something a good captain couldn’t captain his way out of.

“Oh, dear sweet God, what did I eat?!”

The Unterwäsche was in trouble.

“Captain?” Junior Private Yvette Redshirt knocked on the door of Captain Jeremy Horpsecumper’s personal commode.

“What?!” was the bellowed reply.

“Captain, we appear to be under attack by a Dinglebinn Death Hammer.”

“I’m... I’m a little indisposed at the – FUCKING HELL – moment.”

“They’re trying to kill us, sir. We kind of need a captain.”

“Well, you’re going to have to wait a minute or — SWEET MERCIFUL CRAP – probably a couple hours.”

“Can you send out First Lieutenant Brator at least?”

“No dice,” said Captain Horpsecumper, before yelping. “This shouldn’t be... HOW CAN THIS BE COMING OUT OF ME IF I DIDN’T PUT IT IN ME?!”

“We’re... we’re gonna be a while,” said First Lieutenant Ali Brator sullenly. There was the sound of several bowling balls being dropped into a pool. “And then I will probably kill myself.”

“Whatever floats your goat,” said Junior Private Redshirt. “But, seeing as how I
don’t
have a death wish, and this is actually still my first week in the Federation, I’d like to not die. So one of you needs to step up and actually do your job.”