The Church

The Church was formed in the early 21st Century Earth culture, in an area known as “Texas” in what was known as the “United States of America.”

Founders developed a unique formula to attract adherents: take all the world religions, subtract any pesky requirements involving mercy, understanding, or sharing, and highlight the necessity of hating and killing anyone different from the worshipper. Greed was also highly encouraged.

It spread like wildfire throughout the world, the galaxy, and the universe.

Giant indoor venues were created. No religious iconography could be found anywhere, and altars were replaced by Jumbo-trons. Children were sent to play video games, where they simulated killing. Depending on where they were located, they could “Mangle the Muslim,” “Hurt the Hindu”, “Jab the Jew,” “Crush the Christian,” or “Smear the Queer.” As it spread, every culture and species added its own group to hate.

Each group believed themselves to be the “true Church,” and thus began the Everlasting War. War profiteers and corporations gleefully celebrated the simultaneous burst of consumer spending and elimination of any silly “oversight;” greed, after all, was now a religious obligation.

Only one small island of innocents remained. One group, who the Church could not touch. Blogadoon. The Church’s greatest fear was that Blogadoon would someday be found, and their archaic practices of love, acceptance and wealth redistribution would take hold.

Blogadoon must never, ever be found.

The Enemy Revealed

Captain Beefheart barked a few gruff words in an attempt to restore some order to the meeting. The crew were showing signs of hysteria and the now kicked in sugar rush from the Brownies Ubermilf had provided as "meeting bait" was only adding to the mayhem.

She punched another code into the "Net-Rep" replicator device and downloaded a glass coffee caffatiere, seventeen mugs and began to hand round the hot java brew. The device had only recently been repaired by the ships droids after another unknown crew member had attempted to replicate a copy of Angelina Jolie downloaded from the Internet. The attached virus that crashed the device replicated into a pair of giant lips that consumed the whole of the crews ready room area. Nanobots were dispatched to clean the mess up but were put on stand-by for three hours after Nick Seaman was spotted writhing in the puffy red mass, naked.

"Well if it's not WhiteBoyBob who's gone an' crashed his space girth into our starry porthole..." Questioned a small stout pirate sipping on his coffee to sounds of muffled laughter from the crew.

"Then who is it?"

Ubermilf fixed her gaze on the crewmember and applied her best disapproving teacher look in an attempt to quash any further outbreaks of the giggles. He shrank back as if deflated, like a failed erection.

She continued. "From the reverse-tachyon-pulse-array-signature diagnostics we can only assume that the beings aboard our ship have originated from the Romany Quad - possibly from the fifth moon".

The pirate rabble gazed at her. Slowly, they all began to nod slowly to each other and pronounced their agreement to her with the odd "arrrr" and "grrrr".

"You've no idea what the fuck I just said..... have you?" she quipped.

In his brain, the electrical activity that made up "beefie" heard and began to process the words she had said. Neuron's sprang to alert, synapses fired and the VR implant located at the base of his skull suddenly started to itch. He knew this was a bad sign. Sensory cross-over caused as a by-product of such a cheap back-street purchased intercourse between silicon and flesh. He first felt this happen when betting his ex-colleagues life savings on him winning a Zero-G mud wrestling contest against an eight armed, bald, muscular opponent. The rumor was spread that he lost the fight deliberately - allowing the expressly oiled assailant to grapple him brutally and he avoiding the chance to pull a quad-nelson to win the fight. And to think they wondered why he was smiling? While he lay sweaty, bloody and pummled, strapped to a spine board in a recovery room his colleagues entered and had their revenge. The itch was a bad sign...

Beefheart's face turned a pale grey and he turned his head slowly to face Ubermilf.

"The Church?... This Church have found us... Here?"

Will They Listen?

“If we’re quite finished here, sir, I’d like to see what has upset Mr. Owl,” Ubermilf said evenly, masking her irritation with Beefheart with a coolly placid demeanor. Owl was a favorite of hers, and Beefheart knew it.

“Good luck with that!” snorted the Captain. “He’s a loony!”

Her heels clicking briskly and efficiently down the smooth surface of the corridor, Ubermilf set off for Owl’s sleep compartment, muttering to herself. While the other crew members saw an easily tormented victim of jokes and pranks, Helga saw a sweet, sensitive man filled with gentle humor and fascinating insight. Her favoritism of him only drew more abuse to him, however; with so little female attention to go around, the crew was bound to feel jealous from time to time.

“Owl?” she tapped on his door. “Sweetie? It’s Helga.” The sole answer she received was a low moan from inside the cabin. She activated the door with her master (in this case, mistress) key card.

She found Owl on his bed, knees tucked into his chest, clutching a pillow and rocking back and forth.

“Owlet?” She said, using her pet name for him, “What happened?”

When she still received no verbal answer, she sat on the edge of the bed and started stroking his hair.

Finally, his eyes focused on her face. “It was… Evil!”

“What was evil, sweetie?” she asked softly, still stroking his forehead.

“It! I can’t explain it… I saw it, and felt it, and knew what it was all at once! It was in the C deck corridor!” he started to shake.

“Owlet,” Ubermilf began, cautiously, “Did you…”

“Take my medication! Yes! I know what I saw, Helga!” he said, his voice rising. “We have to get the crew together and talk about what we’re going to do about it!”

“Darling,” she said, patting his hand, “before we can decide what to do, we have to know what it is.”

“Well, we’ll discuss that, too. Come on, we don’t have much time!”

Owl leapt off his bed and raced out the door. Ubermilf, her brow knitted, followed reluctantly behind him.

She heard him pounding on Beefheart’s door. “Captain! Open up! This is an emergency! Captain!”

“Maybe he’s not in there, Owl,” Helga soothed. “Let’s call the crew ourselves.”

She didn’t want Owl to punch Beefheart’s face in again, like he did after the Captain mocked him three years ago for losing at darts to Piebeard.

Helga took the intercom and announced, “Attention all crew members. There will be a full-crew emergency meeting to be held in the galley at 09:00.” She glanced at Owl, knowing how upset he would be if no one showed. “Refreshments will be served. I made brownies.”

The irresistible draw of Ubermilf’s famous fudge brownies brought a full house to the galley.

While their mouths were full of warm, chocolate goo, Ubermilf commenced the meeting.

“Gentlemen,” she began. “I have a serious issue to put before you this morning. An intruder has breeched our vessel.”

A worried murmur started up from the crew. “Is it White Boy Bob?” wailed one voice.

“No, it’s not White Boy Bob,” Ubermilf said, raising a calming hand. “Spirit of Owl will now fill you in with the details.”

A groan went up. “What is it this time, a floating headless dog?” called out one snide voice. “No,” laughed another pirate, “Those tiny garden gnomes he used to lead into battle every Sunday!” “No, wait, it’s…”

“That’s enough!” cried an annoyed Beefheart, silencing the rowdy lowlifes, as a red-faced Owl was balling up his fists in rage.

“Now, Ubermilf,” the Captain condescendingly started. “We all know you like to coddle the biggest foul-ups and numbskulls on this ship…” Pereira gave an irritated “Humph!” at that … “But really. We have work to do, and this…”

“Is only the greatest threat we have ever faced!” snarled Owl, his chest rising and falling heavily.

“Not again,” groaned Piebeard, putting his head down on the table.

Bad Mofo

Spirit of Owl stood swaying in the galley, reading the dish washing rota as best he could with one eye twitching like a butterfly in its death throes. For what possible reason it might amuse certain members of the crew to replace his name with "Dances with Elves" he could not fathom but he was determined they would not pollute his soul with their pettiness. He thumbed the button on his belt mounted hypnoticantipsychotic applicator and gradually felt the red mists fade from his mind, to be replaced by the faint impression of birds singing and the wind ruffling his feathers.

"There is no spoon... there is no spoon... there is no-"

He stopped abrubtly as Perreira lifted a hot teaspoon from his coffee and dropped it deftly down Spirit of Owl's neck. Gritting his teeth and thumbing wildly at his medication, Spirit of Owl left the galley in a king sized huff.

With wings.

Cursed by the uncanny ability to see the Ultimate Truth of the Universe, Owl found it difficult to relate to his crew mates at times. Lacking the inately human characteristic of self deception he was unable to lie to himself about how his crewmates were "OK really, just a little high sprited on occasion," and was forced to face the constant undeniable reality that they were in fact a bunch of drunken degenerates who flung themselves through life on a wing and a prayer and yet somehow managed to always come up smelling of, if not roses, fairly high grade machine oil and decent enough liquor (and pie too, in some cases).

Although he didn't know it, this was a characteristic he shared with Franklin, PSM Cheyenne's metal masterpiece. It must be noted, however, that a talent for seeing things as they really are is truly a mixed blessing.

In the engine room, Franklin was attempting to indicate to Cheyenne the cause of his consternation by gesturing frantically at his console.

"What?! What is it? For the last time, I don't see anything!! What are you trying to tell me? If you can't talk sense just shut up will you?!" screamed Cheyenne in bewilderment at his protoge's remonstrations. Finally, having been presented with a viable alternative to attempting to carry out his basic science droid's duty of communicating the sense of danger he experienced in every circuit of his being, Franklin switched immediately to cruise mode and the stress level indicators in his eye sockets stopped flashing red and blue and instead suffused a deep oceanic green, indicating plain sailing for the forseeable future.

"Thank you... I think..." muttered Cheyenne distractedly whilst trying to focus his attention on discovering the cause of the recent near death experience felt by both ship and crew, totally unaware that at that exact moment the cause was standing by a recently patched rupture in the outer hull near the entrance to the galley. The reason he was unaware of its presence was simply that, as human - or at least humanoid - the crew of the Beefheart were unable to see True Evil when they saw it. This is a trait we all share and is simply the survival instinct inherent in all humans which when faced with the suffering caused by evil in its purest forms will scream, "Don't get involved!!"

Being an intelligent, rational, thinking machine capable of emotion, however, Kingston could see it, but having been offered a more attractive alternative he chose to believe his protestations were useless and so decided to shut up as instructed. In this, not only by choosing the path of least resistance but in so many other ways too, he became daily more human.

Meanwhile outside the galley, a shadowy form extended its tendrils to test the limits of its latest manifestation. Light shifted uneasily around it as though it would rather be elsewhere which, quite frankly, was true.

"So, solid pass through fluid but not through solid, right?" it breathed with a sound like a death certificate sliding off a mortician's table onto an unswept floor.

"Yes! And as we're hoping to remain inconspicuous for the time being I'd thank you to remember that!", responded its companion irritably, giving the impression to anyone who cared to listen of a thousand tungsten ball bearings beneath the wheels of a locomotive just beginning to show the first stages of failing under the strain.

"I don't know... it's a pretty bloody weird setup, isn't it? Four dimensions and they're all in different directions? What the hell's that all about then?"

"Yes, well that's just the way things are done here so the next time try and manifest your physical form inside where you want to go, not just near it. They tend to notice when we interrupt their journeys by appearing where they're going to be and waiting for them to catch up!"

"All right, all right, give it a rest why don't you! I'm sure they didn't have time the last time I was here... I mean.. they weren't governed by it in quite the same way before... you know...the unpleasantness..."

The voice seeped uncomfortably into the metalwork of the ship until finally in some dark and forgotten corner of the hull's outer sheilding a heat resistant plate detached itself and drifted slowly away into the cosmos, carrying with it the suicide note of a sheetmetal worker who had riveted it in place before severing his umbilical line and casting himself free of the rigging of dock Alpha 17 Green on the lunar space port of the Sea of Tranquility ("Rest assured, we'll send you on your way soon enough!") in the mistaken belief his fiance had been cheating on him with his brother whilst they had actually been planning him a surprise birthday party.

"Not my problem", muttered Owl to himself as he left the galley. "They can all go fu-"

He stopped in mid oath as he came face to face with evil in its natural state. Instinctively, his thumb convulsed on the medicinal applicator but the more the drugs kicked in to suppress his delusional tendencies, the more Owl saw the apparition before him for what it really was. Finally, his concious mind having thrown in the towel completely and wandered off to play spillikins with his sense of irony, Owl's Primal Self took charge and plumped for Door Number Two in the great "Fight or Flight" Game Show of Life.

Outside his ready room, Beefheart was attempting to explain to Ubermilf the little misunderstanding she may have experienced whilst simultaneously holding a clipboard in his outstretched arm to protect the modesty of Taoski's naked astral self, which at that moment was pointedly studying the hessian wall weave in use outside the Captain's ready room and trying with all its might not to giggle.

"So, we just need to swing by Ursa Minor, let Tao pick up his... er... belongings and settle his hotel bill, and we can be on our way," offered Beefheart, trying to make it sound like the most natural thing imaginable.

"Uh huh. Sir. Well, I'm sure that's perfectly in order. Sir."

Ubermilf's clipped tone made the Captain feel uncomfortably like he needed to tidy his room. He had to maintain discipline, goddamit, but when she spoke to him that way, like she was just so... disappointed... he didn't know what to do and longed for a way out of the conversational stalemate.

At that moment, Spirit of Owl rounded the corner screaming like a banshee and ran straight through Taoski's astral form. He skidded to a halt, turned, rolled his eyes wildly for a moment then resumed his screaming passage.

Taoski cocked his head contemplatively and pondered the experience while the Captain and his most trusted of Lieutenants stared vacantly at the empty space recently occupied by Spirit of Owl's desperate figure.

Siezing the monent, the Captain cleared his throat and enquired: "Is he self medicating again?"

Sytems Alert!

Sectors 423E and 416A sustaining heavy damage. Quantitative results show maximum output in sectors 12 and 32 will be at critical within one minute forty two seconds. “Give me the analysis of the internal catalyst system pronto Beefie” Cheyenne yelled at the on board computer assistant. As he hurried between the monitors, cans of crystal Pepsi and macadamia nuts flew about the engineering room causing Franklin to go into clean-up mode with vengeance.

“Don’t worry about the goddamn snacks Franklin! And get on that overview to see what in the hell might be causing this.”

Franklin scurried away; grasping any nut he could while apologetically explaining that if the snacks were to invade any manual systems he was not to blame. Cheyenne grabbed the COM mic.

“Listen up ladies, were in for some bumpy waters so hold onto something and make sure its not connected to anything that looks important.” “I’m not quite sure what the fuck is going on outside but I'm working on stabilizing the internal gravity field so we can get ourselves out of this mess.”

Hull breach. Hull breach. Imminent death, two minutes and twenty-three seconds. Initiating evacuation sequence in 5,….4,…..3,…..”Hold that thought Beefie, I’ve got a plan!”

Cheyenne ran over to the controls and begin meticulously pushing sequences into the main boards repair system. Within a split second the hull breach had been repaired. Cheyenne wiped away the sweat from his brow thinking he had just saved the crew from a lovely stroll into outer space. What he didn’t know was whatever Franklin was looking at had just made its way on board.

“Oh sir, I think you should have a look at this.”

The Word

For centuries the Buddhist Monks of Tibet had guarded their secrets to Universal Enlightenment with the casual nonchalance of: "What, me...? Hold the secrets to astral self realisation and inner conciousness? You reckon...? Do me a flava....!"

However, in the late 21st century their monopoly was finally broken and the true commercial potential began to be realised as - to begin with - those investing in deep space haulage began to wonder whether there might be method in this madness. Eventually it was realised that not only could sentient beings achieve a higher state of conciousness (TM: Josh Wink) but heavy goods also.

In a nutshell, the long sought after faster-than-light "hyper drive" turned out to require no more than expanding the conciousness of thinking machines, and with the advent of A.I. it once again came down to having the latest software.

Now, althought highly dangerous due to the extremely high levels of concentration required and the potentially disasterous - not to say existentially hazardous - consequences of "fucking up" as the dialect of the day had it and faltering at the incredibly highly focused level of meditation required even for an instant, the practice of using transcendentally advanced monks to contact deep space trawlers by - telepathically speaking - crossing a few wires and stepping across the live rail of reality to a higher plane of existence remained, although illegal in just about every plane of existence, a cheap and easy way for starship crews to communicate with home and with their employers on the other side of whichever galaxy they happened to be happenning in at the time.

In Beefheart's Ready Room, the captain contemplated the floating naked apparition before him.

"Are you sure the clothes don't come with you...?" he complained, wincing and attempting for the fourteenth time to get his head around what the astrally projected form of Taoski was telling him. Telling him, that is, whilst hovering naked several inches above the deck.

"I told you, it's hard enough to envision the sound of one's skin flapping in the breeze, I can't astrally project every piece of clothing that happens to be nearby, can I? Anyway, forget that - you've got far more tangible problems to get to grips with matey! The word is, someone's after you and it's not for the stash on Blogadoon, it's for the fact you've even started looking for it in the first place, numb nuts. I don't know who they are but a fuck of a lot of people have started not being there any more where once they might have commented upon the fact that someone knew about something that was looking for you, if you get my snowman."

Beefheart flapped his jaw unsuccesfully a few times whilst trying to engage his fractured memory and get it to cough up a name of someone whom he might have pissed off enought to have some grievance against him. The list was far too long to be of any use so he turned to Taoski's astral projection once more, trying very hard not to stare at his penis.

"Wh-" he began, just as a mighty jolt rocked the ship and temporarily sent the artficial gravity into emergency override mode trying to compensate. Beefheart sagged to his knees with his mouth flapping open whilst Taoski calmly observed the furniture sliding around his field of view.

At that moment, intending merely to report upon the hourly status of the U.S.S. Beefheart but with an unintentional and perhaps unnecessarily dramatic flourish, Ubermilf burst through the door of the Ready Room.

"Sir, I - OOH..!!!"

Ubermilf was brought up short by the sight of her captain on his knees in front of a floating naked man. Beefheart was lost for words.

Taoski, on the other hand, was not and giggled like a schoolgirl which only served in Ubermilf's eyes to add to the impression of impropriety.

"A second, once you've finished - I mean - you're free to come - I mean..."

Ubermilf turned and left, and Beefheart looked sullenly up at his informant's astral self.

"Very funny. Most risible..." he muttered.

"Looks like you're on your own, Butt Captain!" grinned Taoski as he rolled his eyes back into his head closed both eyelids and prepared to slip down a few planes of astral conciousness to his "fleshy meatbag" as he referred to his body, currently residing in suite 492 of the Beverley Hills Room-a-Rama. Just then, however, and quite unexpectedly for all parties involved, nothing happened.

After a few seconds Taoski opened one lid, slid his eyeball back to the horizontal and scanned his surroundings whilst frowning uncertainly. The penny dropped and his other eye opened slowly, gradually sliding into allignment with its orbital brother.

"Bugger..." he muttered to no one in particular.

"Oh dear, " smirked Beefheart unpleasantly. "Lose your train of thought, did you...?"

"Fuck off," said Taoski's naked astral form, testily. "I'm paying for this room by the hour you know..."

"Piebeard's In Charge, Now..."

Piebeard was alone on the bridge contemplating steering The Beefheart into the Blue Giant that was up on the monitor, when the Prime Science Magistrate, Cheyenne, walked in.

"Where is the Captain, Piebeard?" Cheyenne said with a tinge of fear in his voice.

"Piebeard's in charge, now." Replied Piebeard, referring to himself in the third person, as his mentor and captain was apt to do.

"Great, should I ready the escape pods?"

"Belay that insult, Cheyenne, lest I throw you in the brig."

"We don't have a brig, Sir." The last word rolled off Cheyenne's tongue with contempt. He and Piebeard had had many a row since he joined the crew of The Beefheart. Piebeard didn't have any respect for science, he claimed it was all "witchcraft" whenever the opportunity presented itself.

"That's not important, what is important is that you pull up "Initiative T" and the star charts on the monitor. And summon that damnable robot to the bridge." Piebeard ordered.

"His name is Franklin"

Franklin was Cheyenne's greatest achievement. A sophisticated droid capable of translating thousands of languages, including Owl's (which everyone was sure he had made up). Franklin was also programmed to perform routine checks on the ship's computer system to ensure optimal funtionality. Piebeard refused to call him by his name and insited that he was a slight against mankind.

"Initiative T, Dammit!" The self-proclaimed captain barked.

With a groan Cheyenne punched a series of keys at his console and raised Franklin on the comlink.

Within moments Franklin The Robot was on the bridge.

"Your directives, sir?" Franklin spoke to Piebeard in a mechanical voice.

"It's about time, robot. Grab a seat a pull up a console."

"Yes Sir." Franklin did as he was told and took the co-pilot's seat.

"Are you ready over there, witch doctor?"

"Sir, I strongly suggest that you rethink this. What if we happen upon a stranded freighter or stumble into a meteor field?" Cheyenne always had a level head.

"I don't pay you to suggest, science-man. Besides, space is huge, what are the chances any of those things will happen? Nope, it's time for some Initiative T. Bring it up. Robot, are you ready to get your ass kicked?"

Franklin spoke in typical monotone, mechanical timbre; "Query not understood, please rephrase."

"That's what I thought, bitch." Piebeard's arrogance was astounding.

A sense of dread consumed Cheyenne. Whenever Piebeard had the bridge trouble always followed. Why couldn't Beefheart see past his aviators? Piebeard represented a constant danger to the crew and their mission. To say nothing of the fact that it was his idiocy that brought them altogether to begin with. But not wanting to ruffle feather's Cheyenne pulled up Initiative T on the monitor. Initiative T was, in fact, a ported version of Tetris that Piebeard had hid in the ship's computer. (With the reluctant help of The Science Magistrate)

Cheyenne took no small amount of pleasure in watching what ensued. Franklin, being the cold calculating machine he was proceeded to beat Piebeard round after round, in brutal fashion. Piebeard's rage grew stronger with each loss.

"This goddamn robot is cheating! We should have made scrap out of him months ago."

Cheyenne, snickering silently to himself, spoke: "Sir, I assure you, Franklin is incapable of cheating."

"Is that it, robot? Are you cheating? You yellow, no good..."

Piebeard's tirade was interrupted by the wailing alarms going off and a frightening jolt to the S.S. Beefheart.

Piebeard's lone thought could be heard in the ears of all Gods, past and present, and they all nodded in agreement.

"Lieutenant Ubermilf is gonna be pissed."

I gave up the theatre for THIS?

"Let's not jump to conclusions, Antonio," soothed Ubermilf, smiling tenderly at the young and easily startled Perreira. "Go sweep the galley and expel the garbage. And remember to reset the vacuum lock this time." With an uneasy glance backward, Perreira did as he was told.

No sooner had Master P exited the command center, Lt. Ubermilf turned to Piebeard.

"What do you suppose he's up to?" she anxiously asked Piebeard.

"Hmmm?" Piebeard distractedly answered, without looking up from his hand-held holographic gaming device. He found great comfort in avoidance.

"Beefheart. Why do you think he wants WhiteBoy on board? Shouldn't that be our last resort? We can't be that desperate already!" Ubermilf sank into the co-pilot's chair, and dejectedly cradled her chin in her hands.

"I should never have left the theatre," she grumbled.

"You probably only had another year or so before you got too old for the good roles, anyway," answered Piebeard, displaying his usual skill with the ladies in his bumbling attempt at comforting her.

Ubermilf lept angrily to her feet, "You make Beefheart look like a genius," she snarled, before stomping away.

"What's her problem?" Piebeard asked, of no one in particular.

Dirty White Boy

Strolling proudly around the bridge of the S.S. Beefheart, its captain busied himself tapping dials, making lastminute course adjustments and examining readouts, whilst pretending not to notice Uber Leuitenant Milf discretely correcting his changes so as to avoid ploughing the ship through the heart of the nearest star. Being so suprememly vain as to name his ship after himself, Beefheart managed to maintain his stellar ego by living in a permanent state of denial and self deception. He habitually wore his Aviator shades, partly because he hoped they would one day come back in fashion but mostly because they had prescription lenses and he refused to admit his myopia to anyone, even himself.

Settling in his chair, he pondered their situation. Clearing his throat, he announced to the bridge, "This is a pretty sticky position we find ourselves in men", then remembering present company nodded towards Milf, "and..er.. ladies. We'll need to call in some assistance on this one. Lieutenant Milf, take a letter - I mean - open a comunication channel".

Milf fumed silently, sublimated her anger by picturing Beefheart being streched over a rack of hot irons and truly getting medieval on his ample posterior, then thus satisfied, smiled broadly.

"Aye, Captain."

Noticing her smile and misinterpretining it entirely, Beefheart switched tack. He fumbled wildly for her forename before hazarding a stab in the dark. "Er... Yvonne..." he began, then faltered.

Milf added a pair of pliers to her mental gratification scenario, then cranked her smile up a notch.

"Place a call- " Beefheart's voice cracked like a pubescent choirboy questioning his neighbourhood priests unconventional interpretation of God's will, then he cleared his throat and began again. "Call White Boy Bob!"

A blanched mask of shock spread through the bridge crew like a palid Mexican wave before settling reluctantly on Beefheart's features. White Boy Boy. Three words guaranteed to strike, if not actual dread, then feelings of extreme uncertainty into the hearts of any pirate who heard them.

White Boy Bob: bounty hunter, bounty hunter hunter, and - when occasion demanded - bounty hunter killer hunter.

Sensing an upswell of dissatisfaction amongst the crew and anxious to avoid confrontation, Beefheart glanced at his watch, muttered "Um, five to lunch... Piebeard! You have the con!" and strolled off the deck with as much bluster as he could muster. The door swished open before him then failed to close more than half way in his wake, leaving the bridge crew in stunned silence with just the schwup-scwhup of the captain's ActivWare (TM) Sports Utility Sandals on the rubber flooring of the corridor echoing around the bridge.

Piebeard climbed uneasily into the captain's chair, trying to avoid the unpleasantly warm patches that marked Beefheart's own anxiety. Perreira looked nervously from Milf to Piebeard and back.

"Is that bad? Are we in trouble? We're screwed, aren't we? Are we screwed? This doesn't seem good..."

Milf bit her bottom lip hard enough to draw blood, cursed under her breath and passed the unwelcome expression to Piebeard. Piebeard seemed to shrink in his chair and wished he were elsewhere, preferably outside a large pie and an even larger cocktail.

Something Wicked

Meanwhile, far beyond the inconceivable vastness of the cosmos, in the immeasurable depths of a darkness that existed solely to point out the impossibility of light, a timeless evil cast its soul wrenching gaze across the realm of mortal men, examining every detail of what it saw to confirm beyond all doubt what it had already known for aeons to be true.

The darkness seemed to tense, grow thicker, more granular, then ease itself apart with the finality of a dying breath, the overall effect being of an oilslick clearing its throat. A voice that would rot iron whispered:

“It is him….. the time has come.”

The blackness was suffused with an immense aching sense of loss, as another consciousness stirred, and turned its attention to the theatre of creation. Galaxies swirled to their deaths and drifted apart into interstellar dust as it paused, before it replied, sending ripples of pain through the unknowable reaches of the universe.

“That’s him, alright,” it murmered. “Let’s get the bastard”.

“No!”, replied the first voice hastily, sending a billion suns into supernova and winking countless lives out of existence. “If he dies everything is lost, remember?”

“Hells bells, if we can’t kill him then just what are we supposed to do about it? I mean we can’t just sit here, can we? We have to intercede somehow or it’s all over!”

The conciousness fiddled irritably with an ocean of agonised souls, before picking one at random and flinging it through time to the dawn of the universe, to be condemned to a void of interminable solitude before finally being reborn as a butterfly, dying moments later and returning to its master.

“Hmmm…. tricky one to call, isn’t it? I mean, we’re damned if we do, damned if we don’t, if you get what -

“Is that supposed to be funny? Is it?! ‘Cos I’m not bloody laughing!”

“No, no, no, I mean we have to think about this”

“And just what do you suppose I HAVE been doing!!”

“I KNOW….!!!”

There was a pause pregnant enough to give birth to a universe, then the voice continued in a measured tone.

“I know, we’ve given the whole matter of whether we should get involved or not a lot of consideration, but we never actually decided what we would do in the event that we found him and actually had the opportunity to... you know… interfere, before he discovered the truth about it...”

“Alright. Point taken.” Another pause. “So what do you suggest?”

“We have to tread carefully here. I mean, we can’t risk being seen to be taking any undue interest in him, we mustn’t draw attention to him or to ourselves. If we give the game away, either our boys will kill him, or they’ll start interfering and he’ll end up a messiah or a prophet or whatever the kids want these days.” It sighed deeply, stripping the flesh from a hundred million rotting carcasses in their graves and blowing it to the corners of creation. “Whatever we do, we’ll need to go down there ourselves, at least to make sure no-one else gets to him.”

“Agreed. Let’s keep an eye on him.”

Back in the realms of what we arrogantly like to think of as "Reality", Beefheart, Piebeard and crew begin their quest, dreaming of untold riches while blissfully unaware of the fate that awaits them should they ever discover the truth about Blogadoon...