Professor McLaw, Space Attorney, stood on the observation deck of the silver spaceship as it gently descended into the atmosphere of a brown and orange planet. The vignette of space faded, black gave way to a blue sky and when the ship broke through a layer of wisp-thin clouds Professor McLaw raised his shin so he could properly peer down at the planet with his most disapproving stare.
The red deserts of Vile Cesspit Planet #47 cooked below him.
He never bothered to learn the real names of all these planets so far out on The Rim. They hung to the edge of the Universe by some celestial gob and were perpetually in danger of slipping into the black beyond known space. They came in all sizes, small as moons or unfathomable giants, and their climates differed wildly. Some had lush summers and tropical heat, weather that favored the evolution of ever-skimpier swimming attire, and in others it simply rained shit. Day in, shit-sprained day out. Shit from the heavens to the shit-covered ground below.
The planets were as different as scrotum and pie but they all had life. And to Professor McLaw life on The Rim was always the same. The people-creatures here had no sense of personal space. He'd land and almost immediately someone would spit, hug, lick, kiss, tickle or try to fuck or eat him. Whatever insufferable indignity the local customs demanded. In horrific places they tried all these things. And most planets on The Rim were horrific places.
There should be new and horrible profanities fit for planets such as these, he thought.
Now entering Arsetopia. Capital Dogpenisville. Birthplace of Jonathan.
At least a hundred local creatures had gathered for his arrival. As the silver spaceship touched down it whipped up a small sandstorm and those who had eyes covered them.
Professor McLaw, Space Attorney, steps out to the soundtrack of angel choirs, a silhouette backlit by a portable sun. He clicks a button and stairs materialize from the hull of the ship. As he descends toward the crowd sand disintegrates against his figure-hugging forcefield with small sparks of energy and his perfect posture, polished shoes and immaculate hair remains untouched by the rough desert winds. The first official looking creature that nears him gets punched so hard that the tripedal-being slips on one of its tentacles and drops a red and white cake that splatters down on the stairs. Strawberry-shaped creatures scuffle away on spider-legs. In their wake there's traces of what is most-certainly-not whipped cream. One only makes that mistake once.
Professor McLaw lets his Panther Gaze of Dangerous Knowledge sweep across the crowd and those who don't pass out stare back in awestruck horror at the mad stranger come to save them from Legal Woes. Their orifices hang slack-jawed open. Thankfully most are identified as mouths. Professor McLaw, Space Attorney, clenches his adonis jaw, for he is a Very Serious Man, and then exclaims, loud enough to shatter the eardrums of the coarse-haired, grotesquely overweight sand beast doubling as rafters:
“Rejoice heathens FOR JUSTICE HAS ARRIVED!”
The red deserts of Vile Cesspit Planet #47 cooked below him.
He never bothered to learn the real names of all these planets so far out on The Rim. They hung to the edge of the Universe by some celestial gob and were perpetually in danger of slipping into the black beyond known space. They came in all sizes, small as moons or unfathomable giants, and their climates differed wildly. Some had lush summers and tropical heat, weather that favored the evolution of ever-skimpier swimming attire, and in others it simply rained shit. Day in, shit-sprained day out. Shit from the heavens to the shit-covered ground below.
The planets were as different as scrotum and pie but they all had life. And to Professor McLaw life on The Rim was always the same. The people-creatures here had no sense of personal space. He'd land and almost immediately someone would spit, hug, lick, kiss, tickle or try to fuck or eat him. Whatever insufferable indignity the local customs demanded. In horrific places they tried all these things. And most planets on The Rim were horrific places.
There should be new and horrible profanities fit for planets such as these, he thought.
Now entering Arsetopia. Capital Dogpenisville. Birthplace of Jonathan.
At least a hundred local creatures had gathered for his arrival. As the silver spaceship touched down it whipped up a small sandstorm and those who had eyes covered them.
Professor McLaw, Space Attorney, steps out to the soundtrack of angel choirs, a silhouette backlit by a portable sun. He clicks a button and stairs materialize from the hull of the ship. As he descends toward the crowd sand disintegrates against his figure-hugging forcefield with small sparks of energy and his perfect posture, polished shoes and immaculate hair remains untouched by the rough desert winds. The first official looking creature that nears him gets punched so hard that the tripedal-being slips on one of its tentacles and drops a red and white cake that splatters down on the stairs. Strawberry-shaped creatures scuffle away on spider-legs. In their wake there's traces of what is most-certainly-not whipped cream. One only makes that mistake once.
Professor McLaw lets his Panther Gaze of Dangerous Knowledge sweep across the crowd and those who don't pass out stare back in awestruck horror at the mad stranger come to save them from Legal Woes. Their orifices hang slack-jawed open. Thankfully most are identified as mouths. Professor McLaw, Space Attorney, clenches his adonis jaw, for he is a Very Serious Man, and then exclaims, loud enough to shatter the eardrums of the coarse-haired, grotesquely overweight sand beast doubling as rafters:
“Rejoice heathens FOR JUSTICE HAS ARRIVED!”
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