Category Archives: humor

Everything That’s Wrong

As old Mickey has been watching the Impeachment Inquiry, he began thinking about making a naughty or nice list. Ooh! The naughty side is huge!

I really don’t need to talk about the Impeachment itself. I knew the Pumpkin-head President was guilty before I knew what the crime was. He has routinely done the most horrible thing possible, and everybody wants to see him removed except for those deplorable Tea-Bagger types who are positively giddy about the pain he inflicts on Democrats, liberals, immigrants, school teachers, poor people, and highly intelligent people whom they also hate and want to gleefully continue to punish for the crime of being alive.

So, who was on the naughty list? Without a doubt the Great Trumpkin Pumpkin-head President heads the list. He cheats to win elections and colludes with Russians to do this. Robert Mueller investigated and came up with enough evidence that the Presidentsy-foo was covering things up and interfered with the investigation to the point that he had to be guilty. You don’t obstruct investigations like that if you are innocent.

The naughty list includes toxic leprechaun and budget-buzzard, Mick Mulvaney. He who cuts budgets to the bone to kill Meals on Wheels, starve grannies, and then gives that money to rich guys in massive tax breaks.

It also includes Steven Miller, the nephew of Dracula, who single-handedly sucked all the blood, hopes, and dreams out of DACA kids and other worthy immigrants whom he personally hates and wishes to deport over the protest of everybody else. He also thinks asylum-seekers need to give him their children to put in cages, and then intentionally loses the lists of them and who they belong to.

The naughty list has to include all those who enabled the President to do horrible things to good people, especially government Republicans who didn’t actually resign their positions in disgust and leave the rest to help the Great Orange Face to get away with any and all crimes

The single most important factor in putting these dark elves on the naughty list is Greed. Too many of the naughty-listers care about no one but themselves. It doesn’t matter to them what happens to others, especially others that are different than themselves ( a different color, a different sexual orientation, a different language-speaker, a different way of looking at the world, and often, every difference that makes another person not the same person as them). They are okay with depriving those others of wealth and ease, respect, dignity, and even those things necessary to stay alive.

I even need to include on the naughty list the dreaded Pink-Hat Bandit. That notorious stealer of hot-dogs and random pieces of bread from the fanily dinner table also poops out that food in the house when she is done with it, especially if it is too wet or cold outside to go pee and poo outdoors.

So, who, then, is left to be on the nice list? Well, we nice-listers tend to forgive everybody and try to see only the good in others. Therefore, if left up to us, everybody taken off the nice list eventually goes back on. It is the primary difference between us and them. We, have to do something different than we usually do. At the very least we need to help the old Pumpkinhead into his nice, comfy prison cell for the rest of his life. But since I am no longer desirous of making that whole gosh-darn naughty list, Mickey does not volunteer to be Mickey Claus. He merely liked the hat and bought it at Walmart.

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AeroQuest 3… Adagio 13

Adagio 13 – The Pathfinders

It was difficult enough to piece the whole story together before Artran left his parents, but it’s about to become even more difficult to follow.  Let me try to straighten you out about the plot of this history.  Well, maybe straighten out isn’t such a good term.   It’s more like having a giant Gordian Knot of colored pipe cleaners without being able to cut it apart with a sword.  Instead, you have to follow the ins and outs of the different colored strands and try like hell to make out how it all fits together.  That is by way of analogy, mind you.  Don’t go thinking that this entire history is made of literal pipe cleaners. 

The thing is, it started out as a straight-forward tale with two brothers leaving Imperial space because of persecution.  They were determined to make a new and better home somewhere out in unknown space. 

It’s surprising, though, how quickly the unknown becomes a part of the known, and how the known can become a heavy anchor that pulls you back to weighty things. 

When Ged sent Ham in the wrong direction, back into the Galtorr Imperium, we have the first fork in the plot.  Then came the Corsairs’ determination to work together, all except for the evil Monopoly Brigade, and then, following that, Tron and Arkin and Razor and the rest all get split up again.  More forks in the path.  In fact, everything gets pretty much all forked up.

I see the story going plot-wise in two directions at once, then with a couple of curly-cues, a loop-the-loop, and a full back flip.  It gets even more complicated as Dr. Hooey and the Time Knights get involved.  I mean, they started meddling with events themselves, backwards and forwards in time.  It gets pretty hairy in an ugly, back-hair sort of way.

So, even though I started this chapter in my history as a way to clarify how and where things are going, I am more confused than ever myself.  You’ll have to forgive me.

Anyway, little Artran leaving his parents for the first time is important because of the result.  He would fly off from the impending Battle of Outpost and into history as one of the most important explorers since Martin Faulkner himself.  You’ll see what I mean as the story goes along, that is, if I don’t get so balled up in it that I meet myself going the opposite way and forget to tell you that part.

This is not just a record of the doings of the famous safari masters, Ged and Ham Aero.   It is not just a record of the rebellion by pirates and politicians.  It is a story of how a small boy gets separated from his parents and discovers worlds undreamed of in our philosophy.  Oh, and don’t forget about the “Teachers in Space” parts of the story.  That’s important too.

But this Adagio is entitled “Pathfinders” for a reason.  Admittedly, not a very good reason, as the path is very hard to follow.  But hang in there.  The story gets better later.  I promise.  For one thing, I myself, Professor Googol Marou, am about to enter this story.

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Toons Are Easy

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AeroQuest 3… Canto 68

Canto 68 – Blunderful Voyage

When Tron sent a message to Frieda’s Starbase at Don’t Go Here, he requested Ged himself come to Outpost for little Artran.  Frieda, however, knew that Ged was at Gaijin with Xavier Tkriashav.  She sent a courier in a brand-new Express Boat to Gaijin.  It was listed for Tkriashav or Ged Aero only, but somehow it got delivered to Vince Neill aboard the Megadeath.

Scarpigo Snarcs wore an X-boat officer’s uniform as he gave the message to Vince.

“All right, dude!  I’ve heard of this kid-dude.  It’d be an honor to serve Ged-dude and the pirate-dude at the same time.  We leave immediately!”

“Thank you,” said Scarpigo in his guise as Bill the Postman.  “I will just be hitching a ride.”

“Wha…?” said Cold Death, his bright green Mohawk shaking in confusion.

“ME RIDE WITH YOU!” said Scarpigo in that extra loud way you normally talk to stupid people, as if they were deaf rather than merely mentally impaired.

“Okay, Bill,” said Vince.  “You can ride if you try to be just a bit quieter.  That gnarly voice of yours can surely give me a headache.”

Nikki Sixx looked over the coordinates to Outpost, tried to figure out the navigational logarithms in his head, and then gave up; inserting the computer crystal with the jump program that Bill the Postman supplied him with into the ship’s navigational computer.  The Megadeath roared musically to life.

Now, travel between the stars is a miracle of physics and mathematics that only takes place in certain narrow corridors of gravity and space.  A space ship creates a field around itself that alters the fabric of space nearby.  Space will actually fold itself around the matter the star ship is made of.  It appears to disintegrate in one place, and, after a period in which the space-time continuum percolates around it, reforms itself in the new location.  The location could be anywhere within a range of six parsecs, even empty space.  But spacers only found it useful to travel from star system to star system.  Fuel would eventually be necessary and none was available in empty parsecs of space.

Twenty-seven hours after they had taken flight from Don’t Go Here, the Megadeath arrived at Outpost.  Immediately they were surrounded by Pinwheel Corsairs.

“Alien ship of unknown design!” called the nearest corsair, “state your business here.”

“Yo, Dude!” warbled Vince Neill from behind his mirrored shades.  “We come on a mission of mercy from Ged Aero.  We come to pick up little dude Artran and take him to Gaijin.”

“We don’t recognize you and we don’t know any Gaijin.  Prepare to be atomized.”

“Whoa, not cool!” said Neill into the communicator.  He immediately threw the Megadeath into maneuvers that the corsairs had never seen attempted, let alone being able to catch up with them.  The highly efficient ship made with Ancient technology danced out of reach of all Pinwheel weaponry.

“Is this an attack?” rasped Tron’s voice over the communicators.

“No, Dude.  I just don’t want my biscuits fried by you!”

“Stop, then, and prepare to be boarded,” said Tron.

“Whatever you say, Dude.” Despite everything that was sensible, the Megadeath and her Rock-and-Roll crew had fallen into the hands of a desperate pirate who faced total annihilation at the hands of the Galtorrian Imperial Fleet.

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The Blacklight at the End of the Writing Tunnel

The link above is still capable of giving you a free copy of this e-book until midnight on Tuesday, November 12th, 2019. By all means, click on it and get yourself the free Kindle e-book.

I write this plea as my third free e-book promotion is half-way done. It is, as expected, failing miserably. As of this writing, the promotion using Facebook and Twitter has managed to give away six free books. And one of those is me grabbing a free e-book for my own free Kindle reader on my laptop. So, basically, I can’t give away copies of my own book for free.

But writing this book was not a matter of making myself famous or wealthy or even acknowledged as a good writer. Those are not the things I need. I wrote this story because I myself have been badly damaged by life. I was sexually assaulted by an older boy when I was ten. I had teenage bouts of depression that nearly made me end myself. My sex-life did not develop normally and led to chronic prostatitis and the precursor to “Priests’ disease”, a prostate gland the size of a grapefruit. Yes, it may ultimately end in prostate cancer. And then when I finally made a family for myself in my late middle years, I was besieged by depression again, this time not my own, but others in my family. So, in many ways, I have lived a sad life.

The novel itself is a means to self-healing and recording how I rebuilt myself using love, laughter, and artistry. The singing orphan boy wearing clown paint and singing only sad songs is a metaphor for me and my struggle. The clowns that haunt the main characters’ dreams are also a metaphor. I was always known as the laughing teacher, the one who joked around in class, and let laughing grow into a means of instruction in the English classroom. I used humor to make learning painless. I used it to take away many other kinds of pain as well. The book is about how a family can be healed by someone who has nothing, yet selflessly gives everything to make that family come together and be whole. It is a story, just as the introduction claims, about what love really means.

But the world is stacked against lying truth-tellers like me who make up stories only to heal themselves. Facebook stopped me from messaging everybody who is a Facebook friend whom I wanted to send the book link from Amazon. They called it spamming, which really means, “advertising something on Facebook without paying Facebook lots of money.” I discovered on Twitter that sending the link in DMs makes more of my followers stop following me than it makes followers click on the link to obtain a free book. Ah, disappointment again. At least I gave away three more books than I did on the last promotion.

So, this is like a blacklight, shining on my promotional inspiration. It only shows in ultraviolet the opposite of what I thought I would see. And it resigns me once again to be only ignored as a writer of novels. I suppose it is my proper place in life.

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AeroQuest 3… Canto 67

Canto 67 – Scaling the Dragon (This Canto has been re-ordered in the re-write.)

The Dragon Gate of the city of Kiro, Gaijin, was a huge carving of an oriental dragon’s head which allowed a fairly good sized caravan to pass through its open mouth and into the city all at once.  The shoulders of the dragon were carved from the south side of the gate in the immense city wall that, like a coiled serpent, circled the city and ended in a gigantic tail that rose up like a tower on the northern side of the gate.  The carved dragon itself snarled in that crazed oriental manner and was colored red with gold trim edging each and every individual scale.

Ged and his students walked there and stood looking up at the edifice.

“Is it hollow?” blond Rocket Rogers asked from under the brim of his white cowboy hat.

“No, stupid, it’s obviously one solid piece,” sneered Alec Songh.

“Shut up, Alec!” shouted Friashqazatla.  Freddy had become Rocket’s shadow, following him everywhere and imitating everything about him.  His worshipful friendship had become indispensable to Rocket.

“How will we get inside?” asked Shu Kwai, ignoring the bickering and concentrating on the problem at hand.

“Can Jadalaqstbr do it for us?” asked Hassan Parker innocently.  Hassan was still nude in protest for the group’s rejection of his Classical Worlds’ notions.  He wore only the blue felt fez he always had on his head.

“She might teleport inside a solid part, not being able to see inside,” said Sensei Aero.  “We don’t want to lose her.”

Jackie stood close beside Alec Songh, blushing as they talked about her, in spite of her dark brown skin.

“Can a clairvoyant look inside?” asked Billy Iowa, pushing up the front of the brim of his own cowboy hat.

“Maybe…” murmured Phoenix.  His green snake eyes glazed over for a moment, and then he awoke from his brief trance.  “No.  I can’t see through some sort of fog inside this dragon.”

“What is it that we think is here?” asked Sarah Smith.  The Gaijinese sunshine made her blond hair and snow-white body suit glow with reflected light.

“An alien artifact from the time of the Ancients,” said Ged distractedly, studying the eyes of the great beast.

“Possibly a space ship,” offered Phoenix.

“Some of the other artifacts we’ve encountered had a sort of mind of their own,” stated Ged, more to himself than to his students.

“Should I try to detect a mind?” asked Sarah sweetly.

“She’s a powerful telepath,” added Junior Aero.

While Ged was thinking, Alec Songh put his hands on Jadalaqstbr once again.  She melted up against him and began to softly coo with pleasure.

“Alec!” said Shu Kwai sternly.  Alec let go of her, both body and mind.  He and Shu had talked at length about what was acceptable White Spider behavior in a public place.  Seducing someone was not one of things that Shu was willing to allow.

“All right, Sarah.  Perhaps that is a good idea,” said Ged at last.  He remembered how telepathic Tara had been able to use the Hammer to create an entire downport on Don’t Go Here

Sarah put her forefingers to her temples and began to concentrate.  “Oh!” she said, almost immediately.  “It is a dark and powerful mind!  I can’t even get close to it!”

Junior took hold of her shoulders, concerned that she might somehow be hurt.  His intentions, however, were turned inside out by the dark red mind that came flooding into his inner eye.  Swirling patterns of circuitry and resistors flooded into his brain.  A series of controls formed in his mind.  Stunned, Junior blinked at the others and said, “I have it.”

“What do you mean?” asked Ged.

“It is a machine,” said Junior.  “I can make it work by telepathy.”  He concentrated for a moment on the controls arrayed before him in his inner eye.  Red-gold-green-red.  The mechanisms awoke for the first time in a million years.

With a rumble, the carven upper jaw of the dragon splintered and the roof of the huge mouth fell out, shattering on the pavement below.  A long, thin lower jaw dropped down from the great carven head.  The tongue rippled itself into a sort of stairway leading up into the dark throat.  The dragon had come to life and now was offering to swallow them if they only decided to take the stairway.

Cautiously, Ged led the way.  Rocket Rogers, then Shu Kwai followed him.  Looking slightly panicked, Taffy King scanned the others and then followed Rocket up the tongue-stair.  Friashqazatla went next.  Then Billy Iowa and timid Gyro.  Holding hands, Alec Songh and Jadalaqstbr went up.  Phoenix, Hassan Parker, and little Mai Ling followed.  Finally, Sarah looked at Junior Aero, who had opened this hatch, smiled, and led him, too, up the stair.

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The Big Picture

Some of the pictures I draw, especially in colored pencil, take hours of time to complete. But they are generally only done because the ideas being pictured are totally worth the effort.

As I get older and older, the deeper meaning of this picture becomes clear.
Magic, mystery, and family are a part of my way forward as a warrior for the light.
Of course, as a retired teacher, I have to believe that class pictures will still be a thing with schools even in the distant future.
And I like to draw what makes me happy.
But sometimes I draw what I fear.
And sometimes it’s a jumble of thoughts and feelings.
And sometimes the meaning isn’t clear.
But I think in pictures constantly.
I think about it all…

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Mickey Does More Mickey Stuff

Yes, I am doing Mickey stuff to recover from a multiplicity of bad stuff happening to poor ol’ Mickey.

My computer had a brain injury and is no longer capable of connecting to WiFi. I am now tethered directly to the modem via an Ethernet cable. It limits where I can do my writing, internet surfing, and other computerized gymnastics. My favorite writing space upstairs is now out of reach.

But I have moved to a location right next to the table where I set up my paints for miniature figure-painting. That leads to a temptation to do things besides writing.

I put paint on Princess Persimmons’s Castle while writing this very essay.

It is easy to move back and forth from table to couch. From tiny figures and paint to the computer keyboard and more Mickian wordification. (A made-up word that here means putting Mickian nonsense into the form of purple paisley prose. Like this comment as a convoluted, many-worded parenthetic expression.)

You can see that I even managed to paint the Princess herself as I switched seats between loopy paragraphs.

She is obviously eating a persimmon as I painted her.

As you may have read yesterday, I had a miserable teaching day on Tuesday, and a better, but longer and more tiring day teaching on Wednesday. So, yesterday for me was a rest and recuperation day, as well as a feel-sorry-for-myself and licking-my-wounds day. For my daughter, however, it was a creative day in which she wore the suit of armor she made for herself to school on Halloween.

I am impressed by her creative abilities. Wherever could such a thing come from? It must be from her mother’s side of the family. Me, my creative urges go into writing stories, painting little stuff, and playing with dolls.

Next week I intend to do another book promotion. I made $0.04 on book royalties in October. Of course, giving away free e-book doesn’t even make that much. But Mickey does what Mickey has to do. And he will continue to do Mickey stuff laced with both good and bad substitute teaching days until the day comes when he can do no more… of anything.

Probably from November 6 to November 10th. I haven’t signed it up yet.

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No Bad Kids in School!

You know that old saying, “There are no bad students, only bad teachers?” Yeah, that one that Betsy DeVos keeps pinging off of Trump’s brain?

Well, only idiots and educational administrators actually believe that. And I had three full classrooms of proof of this Tuesday while subbing sixth-grade Science classes.

Yes, they were bad kids. And apparently, the last time they had a sub before me, they killed and ate her, after eating her lunch in front of her. They were not merely bad kids. They were vile and noxious, unrepentant Spawn of Hell.

They were, in fact, laying in wait for me, testing every way a vile and noxious sixth grader knows to get the sub off track, dazed and confused, and turned from teacher into a helpless prey animal.

The very first class in the door immediately chased each other around the room instead of having a seat. Jamika stole a package of pencils off the teacher’s desk, ate one, and threw the plastic package in the trash. Seferino chased her around three of the tables and pinched her on the butt. And Jaden threw three different pieces of a pink eraser in three different directions at once at about three different girls, hitting two, in about three seconds of time. These aren’t their real names. But I know their real names because I had them sign my sin-sheet with first and last names before I even went through roll call. I tell them, “Sign your name so I can report what you did and, hopefully, also leave a note for the teacher that you were much better behaved for the rest of the period.” Two of the three were actually better for a majority of the period. Jaden got the Golden Turkey award at the end of the fifty minutes.

The next class had four names on my list before roll call ended, and they never did completely settle down. In fact, the teacher across the hall came in at the end of the period and jumped all over them about “Unacceptable behavior!” and vent a little heat and hatred on a few of the star players whom she knew by name and had for Math class. It wasn’t just that she thought I was an incompetent sub, but she deeply disliked some of the bad behavior that was a part of both the varnish on the surface of these kids, and the taint in the marrow of their bones. Ah, sixth graders! Thy teachers do not love thee, and yet thou keepest on screwing aroundeth! And I know the teacher I was subbing for. She taught number two son and the Princess both. She is no slouch as a teacher and is not to blame for the condition of the class.

And then the last class sauntered in behind Mr. Evil-in-a-small-package. Yes, the last class of 28 kids was under the complete control of one self-centered, manipulative, emotionally-disturbed little man. The teacher I was subbing for had warned me about him and had arranged for the Special Teacher of Special Edwards to come and take him to his special quiet place because they knew he was so special and the special things he would do if they left me at his mercy. And, of course, something went awry with the arrangement. I was left at his mercy (of which he had none.)

He would not sign his name to the paper. Or sit in his assigned seat. Or stop talking. Or stop saying inappropriately sexual things to the girls. I tried to phone the office, but the number of the assistant principal’s secretary would not ring through. I asked the teacher across the hall, also a sub, to call for me. The science teacher next door came in just in time to see Mr. Evil give me the one-finger salute. He immediately began arguing that he would not be removed from “his” class. He wanted me removed instead. Then an assistant principal showed up. He began hollering and screaming about being touched as the AP shoved him out of the classroom through the lab door. It was a total meltdown. And the fumes and melted wax of it affected the behavior of the rest of the class for the rest of the period. I yelled at them (a pointless thing to do, but it made me feel better). The science teacher next door came back in and yelled at them for making me yell at them. And everybody ended the day feeling terrible. A couple of well-behaved girls apologized to me for the behavior of the class, saying that that kind of thing happened almost every day. A cute little black kid who got in trouble too that period ended the day by almost crying and telling me that he was basically a bad kid. I told him I knew him just well enough to tell him he was not, that he only needed a little more self-discipline and he could be among the best kids in that classroom. (And I don’t believe that was completely a teacher-lie either.)

So, I had a bad day at being a sub. Not merely a bad day, but the kind of bad day that makes a teacher want to give up and never sub again. The sub that got eaten before me probably did that very thing. But, me… I’ve had bad days like that before. Worse ones, in fact. So, I will not give up.

I had an excellent day teaching yesterday at a different school. I can still teach, no matter what lasting scars Mr. Evil gave me. And there really are bad kids in the world. Somebody needs to actually feed them to alligators, not just threaten them with being fed to alligators. Then they will finally know how their substitute-teacher victims feel.

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Filed under angry rant, feeling sorry for myself, humor, Paffooney, strange and wonderful ideas about life, teaching, telling lies

AeroQuest 3… Canto 66

Canto 66 – Fish-Skin Socks in the Rock Garden

The planet Hyde Park was different than most planets in the Thousand Worlds of the Galtorr Imperium.  Where most life in the Orion Spur was made up of carbon-based life-forms, Hyde Park was rife with silicon-based life-forms.

Instead of forests of trees or plants, the countryside was overgrown with gardens of living crystal, quartz, and harmonic stone.  The wildlife was made up of electro-energy creatures with crystallized bodies, or even no bodies at all.  The amorphous stone men of Hyde Park communicated with no one but each other, taking whatever shape struck their weird fancy.  They could constitute and dissolve themselves with the speed of thought.

Nert Cooblegooble felt ridiculous in his red-and-white-striped pajamas.  His blond hair was tied up in random pony tails, and red freckles had been added to his face with a paintbrush.  He stood next to a table advertising fish-skin socks for sale.

“Stop fidgeting, Nert!” said Mr. Crushcracker, waving his fat, smelly cigar.  “You have to look business-like to sell these things to tourists.”

“Why do we have to play these silly pretend games?” complained Nert Cooblegooble, secretly Arkin Cloudstalker.  He looked dubiously over at Madame Prong, who was obviously an ugly man in drag wearing a tight blue dress over an overstuffed body and wearing gobs of makeup on his… er, her eyes and cheeks.

“We calls ‘em as we sees ‘em,” said Phineas Crushcracker, secretly Scarpigo Snarcs.  “These rubes and yokels are used to seein’ us like this.  These secret identities are critical to our roles as agents of the Thin White Duke.  Now be quiet, or I’ll buy a supper club and beat you over the head with it.”

Madame Prong, secretly Zero Snarcs, put a swollen white finger to her badly painted red lips and pantomimed shushing Mr. Crushcracker for saying the TWD-word out loud where any stone could hear.

“There are no humans about anywhere!” moaned Nert.  “Why the need for secrecy?”

“The rocks have ears,” said Mr. Crushcracker.

“What is that supposed to mean?”

In answer to Arkin’s question, a man walked up to the fish-sock table.  He was not like any other man either Arkin Cloudstalker or Nert Cooblegooble had ever seen.  He was made entirely of stone, a living statue looking out apparently through carved stone eyes.  He was an eerie, zombie-like figure that moved and talked without expression, always a degree or two off of what would be natural for a human man.

“Well, well!” gushed Mr. Crushcracker.  “So nice to see you again, Mr. Lazerstone!  How have you been?  How’s the missus and all the little pebbles?”

The cold stone voice that came from the hollows inside Lazerstone chilled Arkin to the bone with dread.

“I don’t pretend to understand your need for charades, Snarcs.  I do understand the position of the White Duke.  I am ready to render aid.  I can do far more than even Duke Keyser himself realizes.  Don’t mock me.  I get tired of the human need to maintain personal fictions.”

“Have you met Nert Cooblegooble?”

“You know that this man is different from the last human who you introduced as Mr. Cooblegooble.  Don’t play games with me again.”

“Oh, you take all the fun out the whole spy thing!  This is the Pirate King, Arkin Cloudstalker.”

“Yes.  A noble reputation among those who travel through the Hyde Park starport.  I believe you use the Knights as a privateer band working to liberate the people of the Galtorr Imperium, do you not?”

“I do.  I like your directness.”

“We are many, Mr. Cloudstalker, but we are one.”

“Wait, I don’t understand again.  Is this a riddle?”

“No.  It is merely a factor in the differences between your kind and mine.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Of course, you don’t.  You are like these ephemerals.  You do not have the Wisdom of the Stones.”

“Oh!” interjected Mr. Crushcracker, “You mean like, I can’t get no… satisfaction!?”

“Shut up, Snarcs.”  Lazerstone turned cold, sightless eyes on Phineas Crushcracker.  “This meeting is important.”

“Help me understand,” pleaded Arkin.

“Very well.  The crystals of this planet are all alive.  They are all capable of thought.  In fact, they all share one vast consciousness.  We, the Lazerstone, are capable of understanding everything about your kind and what they are doing in our shared galaxy.  We have seen the unnatural evil and crimes of your Galtorr Imperium.  We understand the need to put an end to that.  We also realize that only men like you, Ged Aero, and the White Duke are capable of making your kind turn away from violent animal ignorance and start harmonizing with the galactic symphony of life.”

“That is all very poetic,” said Arkin, still not fully comprehending, “but how are you going to help us?”

“I will fight for you.  Soon you will see how important that is for your future Empire.”

“My Empire?”

“Your Democracy if you prefer.”

“Yes, that would be better.”  Arkin tried to use mental x-rays to pierce the colorful stone of that impassive face.  “Can you see me through those stone eyes of yours?”

“He can see through you, Nert,” said Scarpigo Snarcs.  “He’s an all-powerful monster from outer space.  Booga-booga!  He can even tell what color underwear you have on.”

The humorless stone face turned towards Snarcs.

“At least I have enough respect for his underwear that I don’t feel the need to reveal what it looks like.  Not like the silk shorts with printed pink bunnies on them that you have on.”

Snarcs turned stone white.  “How did you know about those?”

“Lazer-vision, funny boy.  I see by using my perceptions of relative density and wave-lengths of gravitons.  Don’t cross me, or I might eat you in the night!”

Phineas Crushcracker and Scarpigo Snarcs both cringed.  Madame Prong held a rubber chicken in her hand with less than the usual gusto.

“By the way,” added Lazerstone, “Booga-booga! Scarpigo Snarcs!”

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