A year ago, I solicited for inspiration leading up to my 200th story in Year One. This was the result from my very helpful Facebook friends:
With all that going for me, how could I fail? Deciding to dive butt-first into the absurdity of the story, I wrote one of the most (intentionally) terrible sci-fi stories of all time. Enjoy…?
“Even in the year 2214, in a society as advanced and utopic as ours,” the Over-Admiral said, staring off the bow’s viewing deck into the sea of stars before him, “the most perilous dangers come not from the strange and unknown civilizations that we encounter on our journeys across the heavens in the last remaining Mega-Ark, but from the rebellious citizens of our own coalition comprised of all the sentient species from our home planet of Sol-3 (previous designation: Earth).”
“Aye, sir,” Corporal Monger replied. “If I may, sir, is this about the fact that your uniform is around your ankles and you have laser graffiti of a snail on your, um, posterior?”
The Over-Admiral looked down. The Corporal’s report was exactly correct. “Oh, sweet tapdancing Space Jesus, they’ve done it again!”
“Not to nitpick, sir, but I believe that’s Galactic Moses? If you remember, he assumed his Astral Snail form to part the Red Nebula?”
“I don’t care if it’s Holy Omniversal God Itself! Find me those troublemakers! We can’t allow this kind of dissent, even in the year 2214!”
Back in their bunk, those very troublemakers were gasping with laughter. Blinx clicked off first her own, then her partner’s holobands.
“Someday I’ll manage to do that myself,” he said, shedding his disguise of an Ark officer for his natural, feline shape. “Somehow I don’t think, when my housecat forefathers achieved sentience in the year 2149 amidst the Mutate Wars, that they thought their children still wouldn’t be able to operate a simple holoband.”
“That’s the beauty of this partnership, Mr. Fuzzybutters,” Blinx replied. “You have the ability to freeze time for short bursts, thanks to your years spent studying under the mysterious Asteroid Yogis, but it takes my thumb to draw laser graffiti on the Over-Admiral’s over-ass.”
Mr. Fuzzybutters did not immediately reply, because he had grown distracted by licking his own derriere. “What did you say?”
“Oh, Mr. Fuzzybutters, no matter if it’s 2014 or this future of 2214, I guess some things never change.”
The pair laughed before planning their next act of civil sabotage.