Alright then: Our story begins
(Seriously, thats how you're starting out?)
Our story begins...actually how the fuck does our story begin? Space-faring wombats? What planet does that start off on?
(How about Gallifrey?)
I think that's a copyright infringement.
(How about Bob? That's a nice neutral name.)
Sure...wait...Titan AE. We'll go with Bertha, because who the
hell names anything Bertha?
(Your originality astounds me.)
Shut-up, this isn't Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy.
Our story begins on the miserable, rainy, windy, grey and generally soggy port planet named Bertha. Our gallant hero, Captain Wembly Wombat
(Oh, sweet jeebus)
had just disembarked from his faithful ship, the SFD Wingnut.
(That's space fishing dirigible for those of you who failed to read the introduction).
Captian Wemby
(Wembly)
was a stricking figure of a wombat, however several months of chasing space squid through the Crab nebula had given him a bit of a strained look around the eyes. The never ending downpours on Bertha and his wet fur made him look like a drowned rat.
(...he's a giant rodent! Your similies are bad and you should feel bad!).
Didn't I tell you to shut up earlier? And he's a marsupial.
(By all means continue on).
The honorable Captian Wemby
(Wembly.)
felt a little queezy, it had been months since his paws had felt dry
(soggy)
land. He had been born on his father's space dirigible some thirty years prior, and while he had never experienced space sickness like many of his crew did, he did occasionally get land sick. Like any good captain, the lack of solar waves beneathe his feet made him a bit uncomftorable, coupled with the thick smell of overly ripe space squid
(Why squid?)
Why not?
(Why not space halibut?)
That would be a little bit too autobiographical.
(Whatever you say).
Damn straight, and I say...
coupled with the thick smell of overly ripe space squid made his stomach clench in rather unpleasant ways. This was of no consequence however. This trip to shore was unfortunately necessary. Wemby's
(...ly's)
greenhorn had jumped ship at the tropical port of
(Oh, here we go...)
Siren. He couldn't blame the boy. He had had similar aspirations the first time he saw the paradislistic
(That is not a word.)
planet. What young man
(Wombat.)
That would make it woman and create even more problems.
(Valid point.)
wouldn't jump at the chance to oogle at hundreds of scantly clad women
(wowom...nevermind.)
who would do absolutely anything for or too you with no more then a wink and a nod. At least that was what it was like during Siren's summer season: nothing but beautiful, nearly naked, singing ladies. Unfortuanatly, during the off-season those women turned into angry face-eating jaguars. Literally.
Fortunatly the first time Wemby
(ly. Oh, fuck it.)
saw Siren, the first mate had duct-taped
(Space wombats with duct tape?)
him to the deck so the crew had an oppurtunity to explain to him the more 'listic' side of paradise.
(I hate you.)
Unfortunatly for the young deckhand, whose name Wembly
(Make up your mind.)
couldn't recall, had been off the dirigible and into the skilled hands of the Womrins before they had even dropped anchor.
So here Wembly
(...)
was, in the odiferous backspace cesspool of womanity
(Really!?)
that was Bertha, looking for a man with a strong back to help him with the quickly approaching sterring
(That's space herring for
those of you who haven't
realized our author is an
idiot.)
season.
Wembly walked down the Worf
(Bad pun, no cookie!)
to a rundown boarding house, where his friend Warren had set up an interview with a likely young man who wanted to try his hand at adventure. As the captian entered the common room he took of his red coat, embroidered with red dragon
(That's a horrible reference,
what's next? Hair-braid
pulling?)
and hung it up. Scanning the room he spotted a rather evanescent looking wombat, huddled over a pint of ale, sitting in the corner. The boy stood up as Wembly approached.
"You the young joey Warren told me about," asked in his gruff yet oddly melodic voice.
"Yes, sir," responded the boy, completely free of expression or emotion.
"What's your name boy?"
"Call me Wishmael."
(You're joking, right?)
"Alright Wishmael, we work long thankless hours and may or may not be rewarded for it. If you're okay with that, then welcome aboard the Wingnut."
Wishmael shook Wemby's
(Oh for the love of all that is holy.)
hand in agreement. Wembly immediately realized that the joey had absolutely no thoughts or personality or his own, it was almost like he was just a puppet with someone else's voice. 'Perfect,' Wemby thought, 'we need more deckhands like that.'
"Grab your things kid, we leave as soon as all our supplies are loaded."
The boy almost spilled his drink in his rush to get out the door.
Wembly smiled, today was turning out to be a good day. Well, unless you were some poor bastard stuck on Siren. There, 'Winter is Coming.'
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