Archive

Archive for the ‘Ordeal of a Cosmonaut’ Category

Ordeal of a Cosmonaut

September 29, 2015 Leave a comment

Nick Del Rio Space2

Nick Del Rio, Space Asshole Correspondent

Nick Del Rio

Runny shit from a lying fuckchop.

I notice immediately upon approaching the derelict quonset hut that the turf suddenly disappears and is replaced by a pale green substance resembling sand. When I step upon this strange substance however, a tremendous noise like a loud squeak issues forth and I pause, confused. It is then that I hear a desperate rustling inside the hut and the night seems to grow suddenly darker and ominous.

I feel something shoved into my back, with such force, in fact, that it is detectable through my spaces suit. Something is speaking a language incomprehensible to me and then I am thrown into the sand to the sound of that cursed high-pitched squeaking. It is then that I have my first look at The Being.

It is a grotesque blue-hued creature, likely eight feet tall and it is holding some sort of laser awkwardly in its hairy paw. Buckets of drool spurt out of its toothless, gaping hole of a mouth.

And then I am dragged to my feet by Dr. Ernwhitts himself.

“Are you the Frolix from Planet 21?” he asks.

I do not instantly respond. Instead, I stare at this shell of a man, filthy and nearly naked in a series of disgusting rags that are beyond description. He has put up his hand to keep The Being back and he stares at my various identifying suit patches but there seems to be no recognition, no acknowledgement of this very same costume that he once donned himself, with such honor.

“Are you the Frolix from Planet 21?” he asks again.

“Don’t you remember me, Dr. Ernwhitts?” It is all I can think to offer.

He continues staring at me and then suddenly away, at nothing. Then he speaks to The Being in its own savage language.

The Being advances.

“You should run,” he says. “He will eat your head right off.”

I stare one more time into the vapid eyes. And then I run towards the woods.

Ordeal of a Cosmonaut

September 22, 2015 1 comment

Nick Del Rio Space2

By Nick Del Rio, Space Asshole

By Nick Del Rio, Space Asshole

A stupid ongoing saga by an insufferable space cock.

I find the Repelletron Skywalk in the pod, buried beneath a mound of empty packages of space ice cream. Night has fallen on the orange planet and the light is a bland greenish color. Curiously, there are no stars but far above I spot a whirling red planet unknown to me. The friction kicks off a series of distant sparks.

I set up the Repelletron Skywalk by the Satellite Econo-Beam. Immediately, two beams bolt outward, creating a walkway above the savannah, disappearing over the horizon. This walkway will lead me directly to the mysterious camp of my fallen robot. I thank him silently for his efforts.

The journey takes hours. Normally, the Repelletron Skywalk will shove the traveler along at speeds exceeding 30MPH, but tonight, it is weak and limpid. I conclude that it must have something to do with different air streams here or perhaps a surfeit of gravity. I notice that I am bloated.

The Skywalk begins to descend. The topography has changed now– the savannah has given way to a series of flat rocks, surrounded by swamps. The flora here is large and threatening and moves with an eerie cadence. I take a space pill designed for gas and bloating by the inimitable Dr. Phoebus-Grotts. Afflicted with permanent bloat while touring Jupiter, the good doctor sought to help others. He died shortly after its release to the space market; beheaded with an adz by persons unknown.

The pill instantly provides relief. And then, the skywalk ends. I have come upon a seemingly abandoned camp– a dilapidated temporary quonset hut, dim and unpainted in the distance.

I know instantly that Dr. Ernwhitts is inside.

Perhaps you’re asking yourself, how? How did I know? (editor’s note: we’re not, asshole).

Dr. Ernwhitts

Dr. Ernwhitts

I have to take you back to 1997. It was then that I was a fresh-faced young student at the prestigious Cust-Heaves Aeronautical Center, completing my doctoral thesis. Dr. Ernwhitts had come for just one semester; indeed, he was too great a man to be in the employ of one institution for long and it was my fortuitous fortune of mentoring under him.

I will never forget the first time I made my way to his office. It was on the fourth floor of the Danius Zubrus Building, located off a distant corridor beyond some abandoned classrooms. The office itself was spare– only a metal desk and file cabinet and folding chair. There was a pennant tacked to the wall by means of the only decoration and Dr. Ernwhitts’ wife’s picture had been printed directly onto the felt with her name– SLOBOTKA fanning out towards the tip in an attractive cursive font.

There being nowhere to stand, I leaned against the wall. Dr. Ernwhitts looked over the top of his eyeglasses at me for what seemed like twenty minutes. Indeed, the light outside his small window had changed.

“I just stared at you for twenty minutes without speaking. Do you realize that?” he finally said. His voice was soft and low but seemed concussively jarring after the interminable silence.

“Yes.”
“You will have such periods of silence in the outer limits. Do you realize that?”
“Yes.”
“Then, let’s begin. Sit down and I’ll show you some pamphlets of different models of quonset huts”.

A chair was produced from somewhere and that was how we spent the next two hours. And it was from that strange encounter that I took away the great man’s penchant for a particular type of quonset hut. And it was precisely that type (a rare type indeed) that I found in the clearing upon my orange planet.

I headed towards it.

Getting to Know Nick Del Rio, “Astronaut”

September 16, 2015 Leave a comment
By Brock Belvedere

By Brock Belvedere

Brock Belvedere had a chance to sit down with alleged “astronaut” Nick Del Rio via an apparent “robotic space transmission”.

BB: I’d like to begin this interview by telling you how vastly disappointed we are in you.

NDR: I don’t know if I agree. I think a lot of people are very excited by the evidence we have uncovered…

BB: You’re a veritable pariah in Lankville and you’re wasting everyone’s time.

NDR: Let’s move on.

Nick Del Rio, Space Asshole Correspondent

Nick Del Rio, Space Asshole Correspondent

BB: Tell me about this stupid planet you discovered.

NDR: Well, I have been a little disappointed with some technological issues…

BB: Not as disappointed as we are with you.

NDR: I thought we were moving on.

BB: Stupid asshole up in space. (Mockingly): I’m just a big dumb asshole up in space.

NDR: Do you want to talk about this or not?

BB: Look at me! I’m just a huge horse’s ass parading around in space.

NDR: We’re done here.

(Transmission was aborted).

Ordeal of a Cosmonaut

September 15, 2015 Leave a comment
Nick Del Rio, Space Asshole Correspondent

By Nick Del Rio, Space Asshole Correspondent

An ongoing series by a lying asshole piece of shit.

Slumber is troubled in deep space. I have a long dream in which I am standing before a gigantic vending machine. There are some processed tarts inside– two for a quarter and I have never before experienced such desire. I put quarter after quarter into the slot but nothing happens. Then a blimp crashes into a nearby building.

When I awake, I find that the pod is far off course. Momentarily, I do not even recognize my orange planet but my instruments indicate that I am well within its orbit. My instruments tell me something else– a test pod with some big robots that I sent out last night has come back and has indicated that there is water on my orange planet.

I am astounded by this discovery. I try once more to radio earth but the transmission is now permanently dead. I consult several space manuals for protocol. “When approaching a strange, unknown planet, you must be careful of THE BEINGS”, I read. “THE BEINGS are recognized as the cause of the disappearance of Dr. Ernwhitts, our greatest cosmonaut.” Unfazed, I make the decision. I will attempt a landing.

It is well-known that Dr. Ernwhitts attempted to launch a colony somewhere in the outer orbits. I fantasize that this could indeed be the planet where his lost ship touched down. Perhaps I would find him living among the grasses and THE BEINGS, taming them, civilizing them– I would be able to pick his brilliant mind. As I am lost in thought, the gravity-jenny suddenly sputters and stops working completely and I am hit in the face by a giant meatball mouth hoagie.

I restore the gravity-jenny and its faithful hum returns. Using the ropelletron-vision screen, I find a suitable spot for touchdown. I decide on a sandy butte overlooking a series of green puddles. I immediately memorize the topography, shifting the ropelletron-vision screen to show different angles. Suddenly, my picture disappears and a crudely-made card reading BUCK UP, SPACE ASSHOLE! flashes across the screen. I suppose wryly that transmission with earth has not totally failed.

The landing is rough and I miss my preferred spot– alighting instead on a savannah-like terrain characterized by long, flowing grasses, sparse vegetation and a strange field of intermittent purple flowers. The pneumatic hiss that follows the opening of the pod door is also a release for me, after nearly five weeks trapped inside.

I am aware of an overwhelming silence. Not even the long, flowing grasses make a sound, though they move briskly in the wind. I am in a sort of valley, surrounded by high hills and then suddenly I spot a donkey and a lion fighting soundlessly before me, a mere twenty feet away. My God, it’s just like Lankville, I think. I watch the great battle– the lion eventually proves the victor and decapitates the donkey by utilizing a strange device that looks like a concave pizza tray. He drags the carcass off over the hills.

Photo of the satellite receiver lost two nights ago.

“Space”

After a short walk, I come to water. All of the singular characteristics of earth are evident here– hills, waters, grass, donkeys, lions. After a drink, I send out a triphibian robot. Then, resting by the water, I set up my satellite econo-beam with regenerating power source. Then, I wait.

The robot comes back after two hours reconnaissance– indeed, I had fallen asleep and he was forced to push gently on my buttocks. It was dimmer now; there was a strange green glow in the sky.

The robot discharges two printed images. The first is a lion, the same lion, resting among the grasses. The second is the mutilated donkey carcass.

“Anything else?”

Some calculations are made and the robot attempts to spit out another image. This time, however, the paper becomes jammed and the robot begins to wobble in an insensate manner as the obstruction becomes worse. I attempt to intervene but find that the robot is far too hot to touch– his steel casing melts away in moments. I am left with only a corner of the intended image.

I kick the robot remains in a hole and sit down to examine the photo.

It appears to be a cleared area beneath a thin canopy of tree-like entities. I can see faintly what appears to be a crude cook-stove fashioned out of dirt and clay. I see what may be the arm of an unfashionable shirt.

I start.

And I know then that I have found the long, lost Dr. Ernwhitts.

This fucking crap will continue in future installments.

Ordeal of a Cosmonaut

September 14, 2015 Leave a comment
Nick Del Rio, Space Asshole Correspondent

“Astronaut” Nick Del Rio

The Lankville Daily News is annoyed beyond measure to present a new series by noted “astronaut” Nick Del Rio.

My fascination with space began at a young age. Dad would drop me off at the library. He’d say, “You’ll be spending nine hours here while I go to the offtrack betting place that we don’t tell Mom about. Use it wisely.” I would head right to the science section and devour the great tales of the pioneering astronauts– all of them, Armstrong, Aldrinson, Colbys, Ricer, Hossdoggs, Rance Mullinks, I just couldn’t get enough. To this day, I return to their stories for inspiration.

I have a picture of Rance Mulliniks and Dr. Ernwhitts (who never returned from space) cotside as I orbit a new, unknown orange planet. I am nearly out of reach of man’s primitive signals which is a mixed blessing as someone has given out my cell phone number and I keep getting messages telling me what a liar I am. But I am not deterred. For, out of the portal is my planet.

I don’t yet know what it will be called. I reflect upon this. An email comes in announcing that Dick La Hoyt has been punched in the face again. I am saddened by this news from earth despite the fact that Dick constantly leaves rude messages on my Lankbook page (along with tens of thousands of others). I suppose I should not be so hard on him.

The darkness here is ethereal. It is so delicately refined. The stars are delicate– like a lamb or one of those complicated Easter treats. I am in awe.

As I move closer to the dark side of this strange planet, my measurements confirm that I have only a few minutes longer before transmission with earth is completely aborted. I radio Control. For a long time, I hear only faint murmurings, then something mysterious comes in clearer. It sounds almost like the ambient noise of a party– the ebb and flow of conversation, the sound of cake being passed out, the squeak of balloons skirting the ceiling as if blown by a sudden, fervent wind. Finally, Lowenstein confirms my report.

“Go ahead, Nick,” he says, “Go ahead to the distant side of the planet.” He seems almost as if he is attempting to stifle laughter and the room behind him has grown suddenly quiet.

“Confirm functions,” I state, clearly.

“Oh, yeah, yeah, functions are great,” he says. I begin to wonder what is so funny.

“Confirm fuel intake.”

“Yep. Just great. Keep going there, Nick,” he says. I hear an eruption of laughter from a woman somewhere.

“Confirm atmospheric pressure.”

There is a sudden loud jolt and a series of quiet whisperings.

“Yep. Really, just perfect. Keep going, Nick. Keep going. No need to call back.” Transmission is abruptly ended.

I reflect upon this strange exchange. The light grows dim as I bear witness to a magnificent eclipse. I look back to the earth for the last time.

There is no going back.

Del Rio Recalls Horrifying Inaugural Space Mission

September 12, 2013 2 comments

Nick Del Rio
Space Asshole Correspondent
tumblr_mjxzukoVRF1qe609ko1_500
File Photo

I have flown over one-hundred missions to space but none was more horrifying than the first.

I was just a junior astronaut, attached to a mission led by the great Commodore Heinz Barrels.  There were 56 of us aboard the Spaces-Ship as it was known.  The initial part of the voyage went well– I was able to conduct some experiments involving thick fluids poured into flat containers that yielded important data.  The crew was cheery and amicable.

As we approached the Moon, Commodore Barrels made a fatal error in judgement and the ship crashed into a crater. 53 aboard were killed– only Commodore Barrels, Special Woman Astronaut Lara Topping and myself survived.  We spent weeks jettisoning the mangled bodies into space, a job that was increasingly left almost exclusively to me.  The Commodore and S.W.A. Topping would disappear for long stretches at a time; later I accidentally discovered them in flagrante delicto behind a pile of spaces rocks.  Or, I should say, as much as that is possible through a thick, rubbery spaces suit.

I voiced my concerns over dinner that night.  We were not doing enough to repair the Spaces-Ship .  Intercourse was one thing, I admitted, but survival quite another.  They quietly agreed and after that they followed my directions.

But then some Hill-Aliens ate them.

Sometimes, I don’t know how I got back.

Del Rio Suddenly Returns from Space; Presents Paper

September 9, 2013 Leave a comment

By Marles Cundiff
Lankville Lakes Region Attache
http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/en/a/a1/Peter_Manuel_mugshot.jpg
File photo

Alleged cosmonaut Nick Del Rio returned from space yesterday after a year-long voyage and presented a paper on his travels to a group of distinguished “scientists” at Goddards Famous Astronaut House.  The explorer was then presented with several medals and unwieldy trophies from LASA (Lankville Association for Space Achievers) and met briefly with the media afterwards.  We had a chance to speak with him briefly.

MC:  I hate you.

ND:  Listen, do you have any real questions?

MC:  Let’s talk about Lankville.  What did you think of President Pondicherry’s recent address?

ND:  I think the President has taken his lumps but that he’s much-improved and…

MC:  I hate you.

ND:  …and I think President Pondicherry is ready to take Lankville to the next level socially, scientifically…

MC:  Everybody hates you.  Everybody hopes you die in space.

ND:  …politically and economically…

MC:  I hope your space rocket runs out of gas and you get eaten by something big on a lonely, uncharted planet.

ND:  Listen, can I finish, please?

MC:  OH!  Look at the big fancy space asshole!  The delicate genius space asshole that CAN NOT be interrupted!

ND:  Alright, we’re done here.

Del Rio intends to chronicle his long ordeal in space in upcoming issues of The Pondicherry Association News.

The Ordeal of a Cosmonaut by “Nick”

February 6, 2013 Leave a comment

Continuing falseness from an anus.

Gustav has died.  He expired quietly in the night, after eating a light dinner of candy.

I cannot bury him.  The cracked, dry earth yields to no pick or shovel.  So, after saying some words and repeating some great astronaut quotations, I burn the body near the outlands.   As I watch the great conflagration, I could not help but be slightly unnerved by thoughts of the Wandls.  I stare constantly at the far-off hills but nothing appears.

I spend the next day hauling enormous quantities of candy back to the bunker.  After that, I make few trips outside.  I continue to read Gustav’s strange account.

The great pink pancakes are now coming into the yard.  I can see their tracks in the morning.  Occasionally, my lawn chair is overturned.  Though I see no prints of man, I know that Blectum is with them.

In the evenings, I climb onto the roof and survey the area.  I see nothing.  On the cot inside, I read more.

The great pink pancakes were back last night.  A message was left in the dust.  It said, WANDLS.  I know now their name.  And I know that Blectum is with them.

I keep Gustav’s ray with me at all times.  It is an older model and it no longer charges well.  I have no idea if it works.  I am growing ill.

The Wandls were back again last night.  They have grown bolder.  They removed an outer screen in the bathroom window, bore or punched a huge hole in the middle and then replaced it.  And I saw Blectum’s tracks for the first time.  I know there will be an attack.

Here, the text becomes confusing.  A series of violent images, hastily-scrawled notes followed by vast accounts of the dead.  Blectum appears only as a mysterious and sinister figure, faraway and yet present.  The bunker is partially-destroyed and Gustav takes refuge in a series of candy sheds.

I have killed hundreds of Wandls.  But they are merely replaced by hundreds of new Wandls.  It is ungodly.


The text becomes muddled.  It is unclear what happened but the attack suddenly ceased.  There are pages of indecipherable writing.  There is a large chart listing available candies.  There is a shocking and sudden account of a decades-old murder.

And then it hits me.  Gustav was mad.

That night, I pack some candy and head for the interior.

The Ordeal of a Cosmonaut by “Nick”

January 12, 2013 Leave a comment

More vile space whoppers by a liar of the highest water

The light here on Freebis is disappearing, marking the end of another strange day. Further expeditions into the outlands have revealed no new information. Just more barren, cracked wasteland. I take a tonic (comprised primarily of various candies run through a blender) and finally sit down to read Gustav’s account of the great Wandl Attack of 1995.

In the beginning, there are observations and scientific readings that would only be of interest to astronauts* and so I shall not reproduce them here. On page three, Gustav is joined by Commander Blectum, who arrives in a reconnaissance ship several months later; this I had not known and I resolve to probe Gustav about this once he recovers from his mysterious illness. The narrative paints Blectum as an enigmatic, perhaps even insane figure and may explain the preponderance of transportation models on the planet– Gustav writes, He orders things constantly from space-mail ships. I don’t know what these things are but ships land once or twice a week in the interior and Blectum disappears for long periods of time and does his very best to keep me away from certain areas on the planet.

Something happened in late 1994 and space-mail contact with Freebis was terminated. In early 1995, the planet lost complete and total contact with Earth and all reconnaissance and rescue missions were aborted. We have been left to die here, Gustav writes. For several days Blectum has sat sulking on the front slab, spitting into the dust. When I awoke this morning he left a note.

Dear Gustav,

I’m going into the Barrens. Do not follow me there. I have attached a list of coordinates. If you approach within 100 metres of any of these coordinates, you will be shot dead. The candy sheds in the outlands are safehouses. I shall not deprive you of sustenance.

Blectum

Gustav writes, I have grown afraid. I have worn a path from the candy shed to the bunker– I am tentative about wandering too far for fear of being killed. I hear strange noises in the night– there is often a most eldritch howl. It is otherworldly. Occasionally, upon waking, I glance out the window and see a brief, hallucinatory vision in the early morning light. It is that of a pink pancake moving silently on spindly legs. It cannot be. When I look again, there is nothing there. Once, my feverish, candy-soaked brain convinced me of a whole army of pink pancakes, crouched grotesquely in the dust. Blectum, dressed in sleeveless fatigues, was their leader.

It must not be real.

I close the book. I can read no more tonight.

The story will unfortunately continue in further issues.

* Editor’s note: liars.

The Ordeal of a Cosmonaut by “Nick”

January 9, 2013 Leave a comment

An ongoing series of vicious lies for trashy individuals.

The days on Freebis pass slowly. The weather has remained hot and dry with only an occasional dust storm to break the monotony. I have quit sniffing model glue and am now building models in a dark shed located during one of my expeditions. There are hundreds of boxes here– cars, airplanes, spaceships, moveable towel carts of every stripe and vintage. I have built and painted hundreds and, once completed, pile them senselessly on wood palettes.

Gustav has grown ill; it is a seemingly mysterious affliction and he takes various tonics and disappears for long periods into his bedroom. He eats no hard candy but, instead, crushes specific sweetmeats with a mortar and pestle and mixes the powder with water. He has lost weight.

My expeditions have yielded no sign of the spacecraft. Gustav, in one of his rare lucid moments, opined that the craft was dragged off by a Wandl.

“What’s a Wandl?” I asked.
“It’s a large, soft, pink creature, a sort of insect. It has numerous tentacles.”
I was shocked by this and expressed so.
“They are everywhere in the Barrens. But they do not come this far.”
“What do they want?” I asked. I realized quickly the foolishness of the question.
“Freebis belonged to them. We are visitors. But they stay away. There has not been an attack since 1995.”
I grew uncomfortable.
“You are welcome to read my account of the incident,” Gustav offered. Then he fell off his chair and I was forced to drag his limp body to bed.

Days later, Gustav submitted to me the account. It was written in a tiny, cramped hand with red ink and filled 40 pages of a marble notebook. There were blurry photographs, taken with an instant camera, and I examined these first.

They showed a distant aggregation of Wandls. Their bodies appeared pancake-flat but as large as a fireman’s net. The tentacles were as Gustav had described. They had sharp pincers. The photograph was labeled, “some Wandls from Area 16.”

I pushed the notebook aside, still trying to process the information. Out of habit, I began constructing a model of a spaceship. The box was labeled, “FAKE SPACESHIP: FOR IMAGINATIVE PURPOSES ONLY”. I cast it aside.

I am determined to begin the account this evening.

The Ordeal of a Cosmonaut by “Nick”

January 9, 2013 Leave a comment

Grievous falsehoods from a piss ant

It has been a week since I crash-landed on Freebis. I have been staying with Gustav (for that is the name of the fat, red-faced man) and have been force-feeding myself candy at every meal. Gustav, in his ever-accommodating fashion, has been trying to serve the candy in ways to simulate the foods of earth– he presented an enormous amount of the sweetmeats in a large salad bowl complete with tongs*. Still, though, I have grown sick at the thought of eating more candy– each meal is now a sort of revolting hell and I fear the moment when I hear the tinkling of the plates and silverware and the sound of the candy being dumped into serving dishes from the kitchenette. Also, I have become addicted to model glue. There are large storage sheds of model glue on Freebis.

I have made a few lonely expeditions outside the pale (Gustav patently refuses to accompany me, though he is generous with directions and information). And I have found mile after mile of unbroken arid lands. Upon occasion, a lone succulent may be found growing but otherwise all is desert.

Except for the mysterious storehouses. I noticed a precision to their appearances and, taking measurements, I found them each to be separated by a half-mile. They are domed-shaped with heavy grey doors– high fences surround them. Gustav has keys to many but not all and he has warned me against illegal entrance, though rather lamely. “They could return,” he notes. “Who?” I ask. He does not answer.

During my first survey of the storehouses, I thought I might lose my faculties. Every heavy door opened to a darkened arena filled to the ceiling with candy. I thought that if I searched deeply, I might find some other more suitable form of sustenance. But there was nothing but candy. The frequency did not vary until I found the storehouse with the model glue. There are two of these.

When my strength returns, I will travel the two hours to the wreckage of my ship. Perhaps I can salvage some parts.

I must return to earth.

*Author’s use of bold. Reasons unclear.

The Ordeal of a Cosmonaut by “Nick”

January 8, 2013 Leave a comment

A runny sack of bullshit from the very end of a donkey’s ass.

The implosion has left the small craft reeling through a field of debris. I am hit several times in the tail but somehow continue on. Finally, an enormous chunk of matter, encircled by a giant flame of fire, strikes the cockpit directly. I am knocked out and remember nothing after that.

The next thing I can recall is being shoved repeatedly in the shoulder, then having a bucket of water tossed into my face. I can hear something but cannot yet make it out. Another bucket of water stings my face and I realize suddenly that my helmet is gone. I panic briefly and open my eyes.

There is a round, red face staring back at me. He is an older man, perhaps 50 or so and he wears unfashionable aviator spectacles and a fishing hat. He says something but nothing registers. I have a tremendous headache.

I am placed in a wagon and the man begins hauling me across what appears to be an arid, desert-like landscape. The sky above is of a yellow tinge and it is terribly hot and humid.

After several hours, we seem to suddenly come upon a mean tin hut of diminutive size. There are a couple of lawnchairs on a small concrete patio and a clothesline off in the distance.

The old man sits down in a chair and begins panting. He has grown shockingly red and he suddenly removes his shirt revealing a round hairless belly and a strange green object over his breast. He removes the object and casts it aside. I become aware then that I too am wearing a similar object but I make no move to discard it.

Minutes pass until the man finally resumes normal respiration. “I’ve been traveling for weeks, trying to find you,” he says. There is a pause. “You can remove the Tibbs Device now if you like. We are within the protective inhalation sphere. The Tibbs Device can cause massive skin irritation to the nipples, the only reason I mention it.”

The man disappears momentarily inside the hut and I remove the device, looking it over carefully. There are a couple of small meters, a digital clock and a small slot for business cards on its surface. The man returns then with some waters in silver canisters and begs me to drink.

“You can probably get out of the wagon now if you like,” he suggests.

We sit in the chairs and look out at the sterile landscape.

“Is this another planet?” I finally get around to asking.

“Yes, this is Freebis. Third planet from Volks, in the South Hoisted Galaxy.”

I stare dumbly. “I’ve not heard of any of this.”

“I’ve been here for 18 years,” he says. “I am the only inhabitant of Freebis. It would take me all afternoon to explain the circumstances…”

I interrupt to outline the events of my past six months. The man listens quietly. It is not until I am finished that he offers a comment.

“It sounds to me like you were in the North Hoisted Galaxy, which is, of course, uncharted territory. But even here, in the south, I am afraid to tell you that you are absolutely stranded. Fortunately, there is a lot of candy. They left a lot of candy here. There is an unlimited supply of candy.”

I have no idea what to say.

“I’ll get you some candy, if you’re hungry,” he offers after some time. “I’ve tried to figure out ingenious ways to prepare candy but there really aren’t any. You just eat the candy for sustenance at this point.”

I nod stupidly.

The light begins to dim.

The Ordeal of a Cosmonaut by “Nick”

January 8, 2013 Leave a comment

A shit serial by a shit spaceman.

The takeoff nearly does not happen.

For a moment, the engine sputters and the craft suddenly lurches forward, perilously close to the butte’s edge. I attempt to reverse direction back to center but receive another obscure error message on the dash. I have no time to consult the manual.

And now, port side, I see that Dr. Ernwhitts and the Being have reached the surface. Sweat is now dripping into my eyes and my spaces-helmet is fogging up. And just at the moment that Dr. Ernwhitts has knelt to fire his annihilating ray, the craft suddenly blasts forward. For a moment, I lose altitude and tear through one of the mysterious trees with the low-hanging branch balls but then, just as suddenly, I begin to climb. My meter readings are surprisingly excellent. The Thorpe-Tube Pressure Flowmeter* reads a perfect 8.2.

Before long, I have left the orbit of my orange planet. I look back one final time and then concentrate on the gorgeous cosmic tableau before me. This strange new galaxy should be of keen interest back home if I am fortunate to reach Earth. I try the spaces-radio and telescreen. Nothing.

And then suddenly the craft is thrown forward by a colossal blast. Orange gases and unidentifiable matter fly past me. And looking back, I see that the orange planet has imploded. I am mesmerized as I watch it collapse upon itself. But only for a moment.

For if I am to dodge the debris of this violent compression, it will take all of my skill and concentration.

* Editor’s note: completely made-up donkey shit.

The Ordeal of a Cosmonaut by “Nick”

January 8, 2013 Leave a comment

Further subterfuge by a space anus.

I land the little craft on the surface of a large, brown butte not far from camp. From here, I can look down on the strange orange planet whose hue has grown increasingly lighter with the coming winter months. I have been given only one container of fuel– shoved carelessly in cargo– someone has written “ASSHOLE” in demented, jagged letters on the side. It will not be enough for earth, I know, but it could be enough to land at one of the space stations that dot the troposphere.

I examine the controls. There is a space radio but a click of the switch reveals only the quietest of space feedback. Someone has hung a little green pine tree air freshener to one of the ceiling buttons– I touch it and it falls to pieces.

This tiny spacecraft could be my salvation or it could be my coffin.

I take one last look over the orange planet. And, to my shock and horror, I find that Dr. Ernwhitts and the Being are making their way up the north side of the butte. Dr. Ernwhitts has a “ray”.

I hurry into the craft and begin preparations. It will take at least five minutes before I am ready to even attempt a takeoff and nothing is guaranteed. I had always refused to carry a “ray”– I recognize the folly in that now.

The engine sputters and the interior lights suddenly fail. A message pops up on the dash– “Green, 26, X256”– I tear open the guidebook and search for the mysterious code. After what seems like minutes of nigh-frantic scanning, I locate it deep in the text– “Green, 26, X256– denotes improper launching pad. Craft will shut down.”
I can scarcely believe it– the absurdity of this craft is beyond me.

I hit eject and the cockpit opens slowly. Racing to the northern edge, I see that Ernwhitts and the Being have made significant progress up the steep ledge. A green ray suddenly is upon me– I can hear it menacingly pass my ear.

I search the surface of the butte for weapons and finally I locate some stones hidden in sagebrush. I begin raining them down on my tormentors. Another ray passes by. It is no use.

I climb back into the craft and attempt another takeoff.

This time the engine turns over.

The excrement will continue in further issues.

The Ordeal of a Cosmonaut by “Nick”

January 8, 2013 Leave a comment

The Lankville Small Messenger of Selected News Items is depressed to present a new series of dispatches from Pumpkin Tits GM and maligned “astronaut” “Nick”. The Messenger would like to note that we have been throwing these dispatches in the garbage for several weeks but are now bound legally to publish them. We hate them.

The last four months have been a cosmic ordeal. Many a night, as I have huddled in some lonely, mysterious culvert on the dark side of the orange planet, I have wondered why I ever became interested in space travel. I have thought back to my days as an exuberant youth at the Lankville Famous Astronaut House, under the tutelage of the great Dr. Ernwhitts, now my tormentor. Who would have thought that this firm but generous man would succumb to such evil?

Karl Saffran is dead. At least, I believe him to be dead. Our attack on Dr. Ernwhitts and the Being failed miserably and Karl was, at last sight, being whisked away in a space balloon. I have not seen him since nor have I ventured to the camp of Ernwhitts but instead, have made my way far to the other side of the orange planet– I believe myself to me hundreds of miles from my original landing spot but I cannot be sure.

Three months ago, a spacecraft began orbiting our planet. I kept watch on it by night using one of the few surviving tools from my original mission– an excellent pair of Peeper binoculars with extraordinary magnification powers. Finally, for reasons unknown, the spacecraft fell out of orbit and crashed into an orange hill several miles from my temporary camp. I hustled towards it, found it to be in relatively decent condition (though tiny and poorly-equipped) and began the long process of repairs. I hid the craft at night behind a perplexing copse of orange berry trees whose fruit hung low in the summer and bounced lewdly on their limbs despite a total lack of wind. The fruit proved to be edible and it sustained me through the long, lonely months.

Though I expected an ambush from Ernwhitts and the Being, I saw no one.

In September (or what I believe to be September– it is now hard to tell), I deemed the spacecraft ready. I slid into the control seat– it was like lying in a tight coffin– and started the space engines. They purred softly and for this I was grateful. I knew that any takeoff would be noted by Dr. Ernwhitts and the Being and that I would likely be killed before long. The mad Doctor wanted no part of anyone sharing his discovery and it was only his misnomer that I had been previously killed that had kept me alive. I kept the craft low for several hundred feet to test its efficacy. It appeared spaceworthy.

Then, I prepared for takeoff.

The lies will continue in further editions.

%d bloggers like this: