Hand Shandy

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 ...

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 o...

“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 int...

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...

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 intern...

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 disa...

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 summ...

"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 ...

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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”...