The Last Wordforger

Discussion in 'The Workshop' started by NAHTMMM, Oct 19, 2015.

  1. NAHTMMM

    NAHTMMM eating my lemon

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    Part one
    In which we meet other characters
    In which plot finally happens
    In which someone probably dies
    In which someone's depravity is exposed
    This part is moderately important
    A skirmish
    You all saw this coming, right?
    In which we meet the antagonists and other things happen
    In which shooting finally happens
    A very special guest star
    More exciting action
    In which the writer is a dork
    This part jumps around a bit
    A little more talk, a little more action
    Things you never wanted to imagine
    In which proper nutrition is discussed
    In which Chuck learns that the Forge will be with him . . . always
    The end
    Deleted scenery


    Part one

    [We open on a shot of an alien planet suspended in space. A violin plays a heroic, upbeat theme as the credits roll. As the credits continue, the camera backs away from the planet, passes its moons, travels through a wormhole, and passes through the Solar System, stopping at Earth. The planets, moons, asteroids, and stars are all made of folded paper.]

    [Cut to a trailer park with a convenience store. Late morning. The caption reads PODUNK, ARIZONA. Lots of cacti, mesas, buzzards, and hard-bitten sheriffs in these and other establishing shots. Pan up to the store's sign, which soars toward the heavens and reads STAR CHASE in large, gaudy letters.]

    [A beagle dozes peacefully on the doorstep of a mobile home. An old woman dislodges him as she opens the door and leans out to yell.]

    Anna: CHUCK! CHUCK? Where is -- CHUCK! Over here!

    [A teenager is walking to the mailboxes. He turns and responds.]

    Chuck: What is it, Ms. Anna?

    Anna: My TV’s broken again! Can you fix it quick? My soaps start in less than an hour!

    Chuck: Sure, I'll be right over. Let me check the mail first.

    [Chuck heads to the mailboxes at the roadside, where a girl about his age is already standing, drowsily looking through envelopes.]

    Chuck: Hi, Teeks. How are you doing today?

    Teekie: Not too good. Poor Sheldon was up all night with an upset tummy. The tomato he had for dinner last night didn't agree with him.

    Chuck: Uh, sorry to hear that. But how are you doing?

    Teekie: Tired. I had to sit up with Sheldon. You know how it is. He gets to feeling sick and he wants someone to sit by his little bed and sing him a lullaby. It wasn’t boring, though. I read a book about saltwater-dwelling members of the echinodermata phylum.

    Chuck: So, uh . . . . Nice weather we're having, huh? It looks like it'll be a cool day. Maybe we won’t break 100.

    Teekie: Really? That's a shame. Sheldon won't want to go out today at all. [She leans in confidentially.] I think he's getting a little too attached to his cage. It's not good for you to be inside all day, I tell him, but he gets comfortable and doesn't want to be moved.

    Chuck: Er yeah. I, uh, well . . .

    [Chuck searches for more non-turtle topics as he sorts through the mail, then gives in.]

    Chuck: I guess you won't be buying that brand of tomato again?

    Teekie: Oh, I don't think it was the tomato itself. It was probably the cayenne powder I put on it. I warned him, it might upset your digestive system, I said, but Sheldon insisted on trying it.

    [Teekie chuckles.]

    Chuck: Right. Of course.

    [Chuck takes a long look over the last envelope, then droops, clearly disappointed.]

    Teekie: He likes to try something new once in a while, you know? So anyway, he was reading Darwin the other day, and we had this fascinating discussion about the implications of evolutionary theory for self-identity among the upper classes of late nineteenth-century --

    [A horn honks. Teekie and Chuck turn and gasp dramatically. Close-up on Chuck's face.]

    Chuck: Good grief! It is the bane of my existence: the John Truck!

    [A pickup truck pulls up to the side of the road. A teenager is at the wheel, with two more teens in the bed.]

    Driver: I say, hello there you sorry little chap. Greetings to the young lady as well.

    [One of the passengers leans over the side. His full name is Johnathan Florentio Millingston-Evansworth, Esquire, but he goes by Johnathan Millingston, or, more commonly, "Other John".]

    Other John: Hey, loser!

    Chuck: [sighing] Hi, John Fork, Other John, Other Other John.

    Driver: John Fork? Never heard of the fellow in m' life. If you are, perchance, attempting to address me, the name is John Cuticle.

    Chuck: You decided your name was Fork only yesterday! It's bad enough that you've been changing your name every week, but if you're going to change daily, I'll just put you on my list of people to ignore.

    John Cuticle: If that was a threat, my good fellow, I assure you that it was for naught. My day is not improved by your acknowledgement of my existence, as indeed your own existence is scarcely worth a trifle. I merely seek to gain some amusement from reminding you of how pathetic you are, whilst my friends and I live in the lap of trailer trash luxury.

    Other John: We gots flames on the sides of this here truck!

    John Cuticle: Precisely, my good Millingston.

    Teekie: Hey, if you're going into town, could you pick up some Romaine lettuce for Sheldon?

    John Cuticle: Alas, no. We do not wend our way towards greater population concentrations. We are about to embark on a memorable journey to our favorite body of water, so that we may partake of swimming and such feminine diversions as may exist in that location.

    Other John: We're on a road trip to the lake! And we're gonna find some lake whores and DO them!

    Other Other John: Or non-whores. I'm not picky at all.

    [An awkward moment of silence.]

    John Cuticle: Er, yeah. *ahem* Teekie, although you may be persona non grata in our little social circle, I would like to invite you to join us for the night, as a reminder to Chuck of how worthless he is by comparison. Would you, therefore, like to come? The forecast predicts vast quantities of alcohol and fun.

    Teekie: Wow, thank you for inviting me! I'd love to come, but I don't think Sheldon would appreciate being alone for a whole weekend.

    John Cuticle: Er, of course. I quite under--

    Teekie: Why, just last Friday I was gone for just a few hours because Mom was sick and I had to do the shopping, and when I got back he was --

    John Cuticle: Yeah, okay. Gotta go. Bye!

    [He drives away in a hurry, tires squealing.]

    Chuck: Huh, that was quick and nearly painless. He even forgot to insult my scalp condition.
    Last edited: Dec 2, 2015
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  2. NAHTMMM

    NAHTMMM eating my lemon

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    In which we meet other characters

    [As Chuck heads over to Anna's home, he passes the convenience store, where his younger brother, X, is standing at an arcade machine. X is about ten years old. We see the machine's title is WORDFORGER, and it is decorated as a first-person shooter involving spaceships.]

    Chuck: Taking another crack at it?

    X: You just wait, Chuck. I'll beat that high score before you do.

    Chuck: [indulgently] Sure you will, squirt.

    [Chuck leaves. X puts two quarters into the machine and it flashes START GAME on the screen.]

    Machine: Greetings, Wordforger. You have been recruited by Interwebs to -- oh, it's you again. Have you figured out the controls yet?

    X: Shut up and let me play.

    Machine: Maybe I should run through them for you, eh?

    Machine: The left arrow moves you left, the right arrow moves you right, and -- pay careful attention, this is tricky -- the up and down arrows also move you.

    Machine: I'll leave it to your amazingly developed brain to figure out which directions they represent.

    X: I get excited, okay? But this time those Class One WimpDrones are going down!

    Machine: I know it's hard for you humans to grasp this, or pretty much anything, but I'm using your own symbols here. This is easy stuff.

    Machine: Four buttons with arrows on them. A "go faster", lever. A couple of shooty buttons. And a third button that also blows up adorable little spaceships. How you humans can make this game so difficult is beyond me.

    Machine: Oh, right, you're all idiots. "Ooh, look at us, we've figured out the wheel." "Hooray, we made an alphabet." "Let's give each other lots of economic resources for winning stupid sports, and stupid wars fought for stupid reasons, and occasionally putting out a horror movie that isn't a total snoozer." Yeah, you're awesome.

    Machine: Why did I wind up here, again? This planet is home to an intelligent species, there might be one or two great pilots among the billions of chaff, pfft. That Chuck guy is almost half-way decent, I'll give you that. Almost half-way decent. But c'mon, intelligent? You still think smartphones are a pretty neat idea.

    Machine: I’ll tell ya what, squirt, I'll send the entire first wave at you one at a time. Just straight at you. No turning, no shooting. I'll give you a sporting chance. How's that sound, eh? Eh?

    [Three seconds of play follow before an explosion and a comical "failure" sound. X pounds the console in disgust and stomps off.]

    [Evening. Chuck is heading home. Voices call out to him as he passes people and homes, thanking him for helping with one thing or another. He reaches his home and enters the kitchen. We see his Mom, who is so tall that her head doesn't appear in this or later shots, at the stove.]

    Chuck: Hey, Mom! How was work?

    [Chuck's Mom squawks.]

    Chuck: What?

    [Chuck's Mom squawks.]

    Chuck: No, no, I understand that he was upset about what he found in his soup. But you're just the waitress. He shouldn't have yelled at you like that. Anyway, how did the doctor's appointment go?

    [Chuck's Mom squawks.]

    Chuck: There’s a promising new treatment for your speech impediment? That’s great!

    [Chuck's Mom squawks.]

    Chuck: The afternoon mail delivery brought an envelope from the tech school I applied to? Oh boy!

    [Chuck's Mom squawks.]

    Chuck: Of course I'm going to open it immediately! This is exciting!

    [Chuck's Mom squawks.]

    Chuck: [laughing as he opens the envelope] You bet I wouldn't want to wait until tomorrow! What a great country we live in, where the mail gets delivered twice a day! I bet in the future, as technology gets even better, it'll be delivered three or four times a day! Maybe there'll be tubes that deliver mail straight from the post office to your desktop, day or night!

    [Chuck's Mom squawks.]

    Chuck: Sure, Mom. "Dear Sir: Thank you for your interest in Forbin's School of Kitbashery. We have considered your application and decided that our program is not for you. We wish you good luck in your future endeavors, signed."

    [Chuck trails off and stares blankly at the letter.]

    [Chuck's Mom squawks.]

    Chuck: I don't understand it either. Did they not see the pictures? Oh, here's a note at the bottom: "Frankly, the examples of your 'work' you provided have horrified us on levels too primal to verbalize. We are currently filing for a restraining order to keep you away from our school and everyone associated with it. In the meantime please honor the spirit of our wishes and stay as far away as possible. Cordially yours, the entire faculty plus janitors." But, but . . . I . . . my dreams . . . my career . . .

    [Chuck's Mom squawks.]

    Chuck: No! It's not fair at all! This is what I've wanted all my life, and just because my skills aren't polished yet, some stuffy old geezers want to take it away! It's not fair!

    [Chuck runs into his bedroom and flops down in a chair, holding his head in his hands. After a moment, he sits up straighter and looks toward the ceiling, where he hangs his kitbashes. A breeze ruffles his hair as he gazes upward, suggesting a heroic spirit, imminent upheaval, and the fact that his window is open. The wistful violin solo moves us to tears with Chuck.]

    Chuck: How could they hate my work?

    [We see his ceiling. A Millennium Falcon glued, upside-down and sideways, to the top of a Tonka school bus. A Boeing 747 painted in an outlandish black-and-orange pattern. A conglomeration of four different Star Trek ship saucers Scotch-taped in a stack.]

    Chuck: [choking on his sobs] They look like pancakes. How can anyone not like pancakes?

    [Chuck slouches back down. The camera focuses in on a corner of the room. It contains a toaster with a photo of a Cylon's head glued to the side. Fade out.]
  3. NAHTMMM

    NAHTMMM eating my lemon

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    In which plot finally happens

    [Later, after dark. Chuck is taking his frustrations out on the "Wordforger" arcade machine. It's clear that Chuck is an expert at the game.]

    Chuck: Reject me, will they? I'll build a Q.E. II / F-15 as big as a pickup! No, even bigger -- as big as Barry Bonds! We'll see what they think of me then!

    [Someone jumps into foreground view suddenly. Chuck yelps and flinches away.]

    Dove: [lowering a crowbar] Oh, it's just you. Thought it might be a ghost prowlin’ around.

    Chuck: Don't be silly, there's no such thing as ghosts.

    Dove: Well, the old store burned down somehow. And I saw something orange and ectoplasmic floatin' around, violating the laws of physics, the night it happened. And if that don't spell G-H-O-S-T then I'm a fundie!

    Chuck: [still playing out of the corner of his eye] You know we all think you burned it down for the insurance.

    Dove: I did no such thing! But if I had, I'd be fully justified. Star Guard, ha, what a stupid name I gave it. Stars don't need guardin'.

    Chuck: They don't?

    Dove: No, they sit there and burn just fine on their own. You know, stars are like dreams, Chuck. You can't just sit around all your life an' stare at them. You'll go blind and get nowhere. No, stars are there to give light and meaning to the rest of the universe, and you've got to live your life in that light for as long as it lasts. And when the time is right, you gotta grab that star and hold on with both hands. You might get burned real bad, you might cause a supernova that destroys civilizations and sends a lunatic back in time to kill your mother, but you might also make something wonderful happen. Chase your dreams, Chuck.

    [Chuck considers this.]

    Chuck: The metaphor is a little confused, but I see what you mean.

    Dove: One day humanity will chase the stars. We'll get off of this sorry planet and head for other worlds. It's our destiny, our great dream.

    Chuck: I'd like to see that happen. I wonder who we'll find out there?

    Dove: [sourly] Can't be any worse than the people we already know.

    [An awkward silence.]

    Dove: But I tell you though, they've found us here. The government tries to hide the proof, but there are aliens among us today, Chuck. The only question is whether their intentions are friendly . . . or evil.

    [Another uncomfortable silence, then Chuck turns his full attention back to the game.]

    Chuck: Hey, I've never gotten this far before. I see a suspension bridge off in the distance.

    Dove: A bridge in outer space? Wouldn't that basic’ly be a bridge to nowhere?

    Chuck: Hold on, I think it's supposed to be a mothership. These graphics aren't very good.

    Dove: Chuck, look at your score! It's -- it's --

    Chuck: Over nine thousand, yeah.

    [Dove runs to the other end of the store and yells toward the trailers.]

    Dove: Hey, everybody! Chuck is going for the record!

    Voice #1: Keep it down! Some of us have work tomorrow!

    Voice #2: What's all the commotion about? Are the narcs raiding the turkey pen again?

    Voice #1: No, it's just Dove.

    Voice #2: Oh. Probably "discovered" his store on fire again. Wake me if it reaches my trailer.

    Dove: No, it's Chuck! Chuck is goin' to bust the record!

    Voice #3: Ooh, the record for the pinball machine?

    Voice #2: No, that burned with the last store, remember? It's probably that space invaders game that mysteriously appeared under circumstances that have never been explained.

    Dove: Yeah! Come quick or you'll miss --

    Voice #1: Right. Did we ever find a way to blame any of that on Obama?

    Voice #2: Oh you know we blamed it on every president going back to Jackson!

    Voice #3: Haha, now I remember. That was the best Friday night ever. Didn't someone insist that NASA was a Zionist conspiracy to give China replicator technology?

    Dove: Listen to --

    Voice #1: You two can stay up and remember the good old days if you want, but I'm going back to bed. Dove, quit yelling. Don't wake me for anything less than a swimsuit model's ghost. And then only if she died young and hot!

    Voice #3: Rowr!

    Dove: You don't understand! We live in a trailer park in the depths of Arizona! This is the biggest thing to rock our little community since Teekie missed a perfect GPA three years ago!

    [All three voices engage in very fake snoring.]

    Dove: Well, I gave them fair warnin'. How you doing, Chuck? Why aren't you still playing? And what is that noise?!

    Chuck: Oh, I beat the game while everyone was yelling.

    Dove: Hmph. No good deed goes unpunished.

    Chuck: And I think the broom-broom-broompt is supposed to be the victory music.

    Dove: [shakes his head] I swear, one of these days I'll get those speakers fixed. How'd you do it?

    Chuck: Well, the LED on the red button lit up when I got within 9.99 kilometers of the mothership, so I pressed that and all the enemies exploded in order from smallest to biggest. And then the screen went blank and read in large blue sans serif, "Congratulations, Master Wordforger! The galaxy is restored to peace." And, uh, the uh music started playing. There was blue and green confetti, too. Oh, and there was something about a recruiter coming to pick me up for the real thing, but it didn't seem important.

    Dove: Ahh, they're promising bigger and better things for the sequel. That's modern Hollywood for you, pushing out nothing but sequels and remakes. Not a trace of originality. I hope the aliens wipe them out first, well third after the lawyers and politicians.

    Chuck: I don't think Hollywood makes arcade --

    Teekie: [running up] Did I miss something? What's the excitement?

    Dove: Chuck beat the star war game!

    Teekie: Neat. High-five?

    Chuck: You bet!

    Dove: Way to go, Chuck!

    [High fives are exchanged.]

    [As the three head back to their homes, a Jeep pulls up. A man leans out of the driver's window and calls toward the group.]

    Albert: Good evening, sir. My name is Albert and I'm with the organization that produced that arcade game. Am I speaking with the person who beat that game?

    Dove: Uh, no, you want him.

    Albert: Hello, sir, if I might take a moment of your time --

    Teekie: I'm a girl.

    [Chuck steps forward cautiously.]

    Chuck: What do you want?

    Albert: Just get into the Jeep and buckle up. Or don't buckle up, it's your neck on the line. But don't blame me if you can't take basic precautions.

    Chuck: I'm pretty sure this isn't how I'm supposed to talk to strangers, but okay.

    Albert: Now, see that guy in the backseat?

    Chuck: You mean the person whose facial features are hidden by deep shadow?

    Albert: Yeah, him. Shake his hand.

    Chuck: Why?

    Albert: No reason.

    Chuck: Well, if you think it's important -- ow!

    [Albert drives off with Chuck, leaving the person standing by the road, his back to the camera.]

    Chuck: Am I being kidnapped?

    Albert: Nope. I'm just picking you up for the greatest task you will ever have.

    Chuck: Most people who say that kind of thing drive something better than an old Jeep.

    Albert: Hey, she may not look like much, but she's got it where it counts.

    [The Jeep tears along narrow, twisty Arizona roads, causing saguaros to sway and hard-bitten sheriffs to stare at their radar guns in disbelief.]

    Chuck: Are you going to explain anything anytime soon?

    Albert: Nope.

    Chuck: Why not?

    Albert: Stupid director wants to maintain suspense.

    Chuck: In that case, I'll catch a nap. It'll be morning before we get anywhere important.

    Albert: Oh yeah? Watch this.

    [Albert shifts gears, and the Jeep goes even faster. Chuck is pressed into the back of his seat.]

    Chuck: Look out! A tumbleweed!

    [Sure enough, a large tumbleweed is drifting into their lane ahead. Albert's eyes go big and he hauls on a lever. Rockets extend from the back of the Jeep and fire. The Jeep lifts off of the ground, just clearing the tumbleweed, and heads for the starry sky. Chuck digs his nails into his seat cushion as he tries to get his breath back.]

    Chuck: So, uh, this Jeep flies?

    Albert: I made a few modifications.

    Chuck: Exactly how rigid should I be to avoid tipping us over?

    Albert: I made a lot of modifications, okay? Relax. And if you've gotta expel or secrete anything, do it over the side.

    [Chuck looks around quietly.]

    Chuck: I notice we're still rising.

    Albert: Yep.

    Chuck: Are we going to stop rising any time soon?

    Albert: Nope.

    Chuck: Are we, in fact, going into space?

    Albert: Yep.

    Chuck: Just checking.

    [The Jeep continues to rise into the sky.]

    Chuck: So, uh, I guess you're an alien.

    Albert: Yep.

    Chuck: Lots of superior technology?

    Albert: If the next thing out of your mouth involves direct deposit, I swear I'll shove you right out --

    Chuck: No, no! I'm, uh, just wondering when you were going to activate the forcefields.

    Albert: Forcefields?

    Chuck: Well, I mean, this is an open Jeep, so you must have some means of sealing in the air. Right?

    Albert: . . . Are you one of those species that can't survive in a vacuum?

    Chuck: Sorry, could you speak up? The air is getting so thin that --
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  4. NAHTMMM

    NAHTMMM eating my lemon

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    In which someone probably dies

    [The Jeep nears the planet from the intro. We watch from the side as it enters a tunnel in the planet’s surface, suspiciously like the shot of the Millennium Falcon being tractored into the Death Star. It comes to rest in a very old-looking hangar, cut out of the bedrock and grimy with neglect. Albert, all business, pulls Chuck’s body out of the Jeep and carries him over his shoulder, walking through a battered pair of sliding doors that bear a curious logo consisting of a broken circle within a blue triangle. The next room looks a little more modern.]

    [Albert hauls Chuck up to a counter. The man behind the counter seems fixated on the ground at his feet.]

    Albert: Got another recruit for you.

    Attendant: Uh, okay. Where is it?

    Albert: Right here.

    [The attendant gulps, heaves a huge breath, then risks a quick glance up.]

    Attendant: He looks kind of dead to me.

    Albert: He's fine. Probably.

    Attendant: I'll take your word for it. Here's your redemption form.

    [He reaches way over without looking, grabs a sheet of paper, shoves it at Albert, then flinches away from the ground and holds his hands up defensively.]

    Albert: Problem?

    Attendant: [whispering] I think my shoes are trying to eat me.

    Albert: Is that so.

    Attendant: They've gotten up to my ankles. If I make the slightest move, they might bite down.

    Albert: Uh-huh.

    Attendant: Could you call security for me?

    Albert: Meh.

    [Albert drags Chuck into a waiting room, dumps him into a chair, and leaves. The slamming of the door causes Chuck to awaken, groaning.]

    Chuck: Ugh. I feel like massive otters trampled me all over. From the inside.

    [A man in the room stands up and smiles. It is an unsettling smile.]


    Chuck: Sorry?


    Chuck: Look, does anyone here speak English? Spanish? Jive? Anything Earth-y?


    Chuck: Should I have been alarmed by what you just said?


    [The Translator enters the room. Her smile is practiced and pleasant.]

    Chuck: Hello? Buenos dias? Klaatu barata nikto?

    Translator: No eth cnotrayr, ym moehtr aws a sniat.

    Chuck: So, no then.


    Chuck: [staring blankly] That's . . . good, right?

    [The Translator pulls a matte-black object from a pocket. It is a spiky ball about half an inch across.]


    [Chuck slowly backs away as the Translator comes closer.]

    Chuck: Uh, sure, okay. Say, that's a very nasty, spiky thing you've got there, heh, I wish you'd keep it farther away from -- AAAUGH!

    Translator: There, all done.

    Chuck: Hey, I can understand you now.

    Translator: Yes, that's why I put that device into your spine. Welcome to the planet of Interwebs, Wordforger.

    Chuck: Interwebs? Wordforger? You mean, like in the game at Dove's store?

    Translator: Come along now. We must hurry.

    [Chuck hesitates, then looks at the Greeter, who puts on a much too big smile, and hurries after the Translator.]


    Chuck: At the risk of you shoving another foreign object into my body, I didn't understand a thing he just said.

    Translator: Oh, don't worry, that's normal. Nobody has the slightest idea what he means. Come along now.

    [She pulls Chuck out of the room, leaving the Greeter alone.]


    [A velociraptor alien enters the room. It looks at the Greeter, snarls, and licks its chops.]


    [Cut to morning in Arizona. Chuck and X's bedroom. X is sorting his anime and related print materials into stacks.]

    X: Puma Girls X-Posed. Dirtiest Pair 1, 2, and 3. Sailor Venus Does Dallas. Bubblegum Crisis Swimsuit Special . . . where's the swimsuit special . . .

    [X digs through a pile, pulls a magazine out, and opens it centerfold-style.]

    X: Yowza.

    [A grunt from offscreen. X looks over at Chuck's bunk, where there is a person-sized lump in the bedsheets.]

    X: C'mon, get over it, Chuck. So your entire future was destroyed last night. That doesn't mean you have to mope in bed all morning.

    [The lump groans.]

    X: Fine, be that way. I'm outta here.

    [The lump waits until the door latches, then immediately throws off the covers to reveal . . . robotic eyes in a body made of raw, pulsating flesh! The monstrosity opens its maw, revealing tiny teeth, and speaks.]

    Robotic-eyed thing: Ugh. I always hate this part.
  5. gul

    gul Revolting Beer Drinker Administrator Formerly Important

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    I'd say you nailed Uncle Albert.
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  6. NAHTMMM

    NAHTMMM eating my lemon

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    Thanks!

    Obviously I tried harder to match some of the voices than others. ;)


    In which someone's depravity is exposed

    [Chuck and the Translator walk down a long, white corridor, passing a variety of aliens as they go. Included are a huge black dragon, an orange feline, a small leech-like thing crawling on a wall, and plenty of budget-friendly humanoids. There are a lot of doors and cross-passages, many of which have their own peculiar sounds or glows. Chuck stops at one door and peers through. It opens into a huge circular cylinder lying on its side, a dozen stories high and extending far into the distance. Zillions of video screens cover the interior, each showing something different. People move freely and weightlessly along the interior edge or across the center, apparently looking at whatever strikes their fancy.]

    Translator: [with pride] This is a recent innovation. It cost many billions of rep units and took eleven planetary supercycles to build. Citizens are permitted to film whatever they please and store it here for others to view. It is hoped that this will lead to a rebirth in art and culture, as the means for distribution of personal expression are made freely available to the masses.

    Chuck: It looks like it's mostly videos of pet cats and TV shows.

    Translator: I'm sure that's an exaggeration.

    Chuck: Lots of pop music, too. Hey, it's been a while since I heard this one. [singing along] Never gonna give you up, never gonna let you down . . .

    Translator: Please stop that.

    Chuck: In fact, the only original art I can see is the graffiti this guy's spraying on the wall behind you.

    Graffiti Guy: Fuggeddaboutit!

    Translator: Perhaps, but . . . you see, it's . . . we must be patient. The most grandiose of plans take time to come to fruition. Come along now.

    [They step out into a cavernous room. Aliens and humanoids in uniform bustle about. Computer and wall screens convey information of a clearly military or police nature. The ceiling, walls, and floor are all painted a bright red.]

    Chuck: Auugh!

    Translator: This is the center of our peace-keeping efforts. Here we collect information on criminals, coordinate troop deployments, order drone strikes against people with mismatched socks, all the usual violence that a sovereign government engages in.

    Chuck: [shielding his eyes] You attack people with mismatched socks?

    Translator: Shouldn't we? Anyway, this place, for future reference, is called the --

    Chuck: The Red Room? Or possibly the You've Blinded Me Room?

    Translator: Why would we call it either of those names? This is the War Room.

    Chuck: Do you at least have a pair of sunglasses I could use?

    Translator: What would you need with sunglasses?

    [Chuck sighs, then heads to a computer terminal to look over a Red-Haired Woman's shoulder. The top of her screen reads "PACKARD: WANTED DEAD OR ALIVE" with a mugshot to one side and tons of microscopic text filling the rest of the screen.]

    Chuck: What did he do?

    [Red-Haired Woman looks to Translator for approval, then adjusts the screen for Chuck's benefit.]

    Red-Haired Woman: See for yourself.

    [Close-up of Chuck's face as he scrolls the text, then scrolls it again, and again, and . . . . His expression gradually transforms into a picture of fascinated disgust.]

    Chuck: Wow! He did all that?!

    Red-Haired Woman: There's no question about it. We have a separate list for everything he probably did but forgot to leave a note at the scene of the crime.

    Chuck: How did he find a lake big enough to hold that many puppies?

    Translator: There's one on the fifth planet of the Aldebaran system.

    Chuck: But he really forged a check worth fifty trillion and a night with --

    Red-Haired Woman: Yes.

    Chuck: And he really conquered seven planets using a fruitcake and a revised edition of --

    Red-Haired Woman: Yes.

    Chuck: And he really said that Diet Pepsi tastes better than a yak's --

    Red-Haired Woman: It's terrible, but true.

    Chuck: [still scrolling] How did he murder five million people in a day using baguettes?

    Red-Haired Woman: It was a Tuesday.

    Chuck: What?

    Red-Haired Woman: Bakeries have sales on Tuesdays. He bought baguettes in bulk, landed on Zeta Neutra, looked around, rolled up his sleeves, and started killin'.

    Translator: Also, a day on Zeta Neutra lasts three-point-seven galactic standard years.

    Red-Haired Woman: Oh yes, he was definitely cheating. But the Guinness Book of Galactic Records still accepted it.

    Chuck: You people are strange.

    Red-Haired Woman: Not as strange as someone who doesn't know when bakeries have sales. Don't bakeries have Tuesday sales where you come from?

    Chuck: Er, not all of them do.

    Red-Haired Woman: Seriously? Where do you live? Some Third World world?

    Translator: He's from Earth.

    Red-Haired Woman: Is that so? [turns to her computer and makes a quick note] Sorry to cut this conversation short, but this analysis needs my attention. We think we might have Packard cornered somewhere in the Lesser Magellanic Cloud. But if I can't sort through his recent assassinations to determine what he's wearing . . .

    Chuck: Oh, I understand. I mean, I have no clue how what you just said makes any sense, but I didn't mean to distract you.

    Red-Haired Woman: Don't worry. Honestly, the worst that will happen if he escapes is he'll con a few planets out of their mineral wealth, then blow it all betting on iguana races. Packard doesn't seem to go in for mass mayhem these days.

    Translator: Yes, it's sad to see all that ambition vanish. He was one of the greats in his prime. Well, come along now, Chuck. The Administrator is about to give a big speech to the Wordforgers. And may I add, it's an honor to have met you.

    Chuck: Yeah, about that . . .

    [The Translator guides him to some folding chairs in the middle of the War Room and leaves, ignoring his protests. Chuck accepts his fate for the moment. He begins making his way along one of the rows, but steps on the foot of a big, Scary Alien Wordforger.]

    Scary Alien: [growling] HEY!

    Chuck: Sorry, sorry! I didn't mean to hurt you. Sorry!

    [The Scary Alien stands up. He looks to be about three feet taller and eighty pounds more muscular than Chuck. He also has four hand-claws and a jaw that look capable of crushing marble.]

    Scary Alien: Hahahaha! YOU, hurt ME? I think not! But mind your step, you little twerp, or I'll rip your head off! And grind it to bits!

    Chuck: Sorry! Don't hurt me! Please!

    Scary Alien: Do you realize how much these shoes cost? More than a pathetic little mammal like you would make in a galactic standard supercycle! How dare you stomp all over them? I shined and waxed them just one galactic standard decicycle ago! :ualbert:

    [Chuck looks down at the shoes. Aside from being designed for large, webbed feet, he doesn't see anything special about them.]

    Chuck: Oh yes! I can see that! Sorry! It won't happen again!

    Scary Alien: [flexing his claws] It won't happen again if I tear out the centers of your reproductive and nervous systems!

    Chuck: Please please don't, but if you must, then please do it in the reverse order!

    Wordforger #2: Stop that, gentlemen! You can't fight in here!

    Scary Alien: Why not?!

    Wordforger #2: You'll get blood on the floor! The stain would be unsightly!

    [The Scary Alien grumbles and sits down.]

    [Chuck walks carefully past, sitting on the far side of Wordforger #2 and next to Wordforger #3.]

    Chuck: [whispering] Thanks!

    Wordforger #2: No problem. He's just naturally hot-headed and a little attached to his footwear. His species has trouble finding proper arch support.

    Chuck: [still whispering] Although he must be really dumb if he thinks blood would leave a noticeable stain on a red floor.

    Wordforger #2: What are you talking about? Black stains pretty much anything.

    Chuck: Uh, well, but my blood is red. See, I'm a human.

    [Wordforger #2 looks unenlightened.]

    Chuck: My, uh, my species calls ourselves Homo sapiens. I'm from --

    Wordforger #3: Earth, right? You poor, poor thing. :no:

    Wordforger #4: [turning around from the row in front] You're from Earth? That's the fourth planet in the Sol system, right?

    Chuck: Yeah. Earth. It's, uh, the third planet actually.

    Wordforger #4: :yuck: If there's a manure pile of the universe, Earth is the turd closest to its center.

    Wordforger #3: Yeah, and Mars is just as bad. The beer is better and the people are more intelligent, but the climate is terrible.

    Chuck: I didn't know there were any people on Mars. Or beer.

    Wordforger #3: There aren't. :diacanu:

    Wordforger #5: Drop a tricobalt bomb on the whole system from beyond the heliopause. It's the only way to be sure. :bergman: Trust me. I grew up on Europa and attended university on Umbriel. Worst supercycles of my life.

    Wordforger #6: Hey, Neptune's not bad. The women there are hot, and they have the best Przt steak in the quadrant. :bailey:

    Wordforger #5: Okay, fair enough. But . . .

    [Chuck tunes the conversation out as it goes into rapid-fire Uranus jokes. A man is stepping up to the podium. He wears an important-looking uniform.]
  7. NAHTMMM

    NAHTMMM eating my lemon

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    This part is moderately important

    Administrator: Greetings, Wordforgers. I am Administrator Blues. As you know, the Intergalactic Peace Force has forged peace throughout the Local Group for over three thousand galactic standard supercycles --

    Chuck: Uh, wait. You've been fighting in space for thousands of years? Then why does most of your technology look like stuff from Earth around 2015?

    Administrator: [sigh] Fine. The Intergalactic Peace Force has only been operating since June. But, that's forever here on Interwebs. And we have, during that time, been highly successful in enforcing freedom and prosperity for all the free peoples of the known universe. The Wordforge program, needless to say, has been at the forefront of that success! Children grow up wanting to be a Wordforger! Bars give Wordforgers free drinks! Women, or men or quadrisexual beings as the case may be, smile at them on the street!

    [The Administrator turns grim. As he talks, Chuck mutters the familiar phrases along with him.]

    Administrator: But, as you know, there is a dark cloud on the horizon. One of our enemies grows strong and threatens to conquer the free peoples of the Intergalactic Peace Alliance. She is none other than missmanners, who recently overthrew the Peace Alliance and set up a Kingdom with herself in control. The horrors of her short reign are unspeakable. No amount of linguistic persuasion would convince her that it would have to be a Queendom, and in the end she had to be forcibly deposed and sent away in exile. Now, Intergalactic Peace Intelligence has learned that she has allied herself with the Whacker Alliance. With their power and her cruelty and cunning, this truly is a force that may spell the end of the gentle, benevolent reign of the Intergalactic Peace Alliance.

    Wordforger #5: Ha, what a load! Everybody knows the real threat to our safety!

    [The other Wordforgers groan and shake their heads. Several roll their eyes.]

    Administrator: What are you talking about? If it's the Teal Terror again --

    Wordforger #5: You know it is! They'll be strong enough to conquer us within five supercycles, but the government tries to distract us with false scandals because it's too scared to do anything! We'll be driving teal cars, eating teal food, sending our children to teal schools --

    Administrator: Silence! We will deal with Lanzman and his Terrible Teal Force soon enough. I assure you that your fears are overblown. He is no threat to our might.

    Wordforger #3: Yeah, light blue has been out of style for tens of supercycles.

    Administrator: missmanners is a deadly threat, however, because she knows too many of our secrets.

    Chuck: Like what?

    Administrator: Such as the frequency of the Moderator!

    [The Administrator presses a button on the podium, and an enormous hologram map flickers into life in the expanse ahead of and above the Wordforgers. Galaxies are shown in blue, with a red star labeled YOU ARE HERE. He presses another button, and a green, spherical lattice forms around several of the galaxies and the star.]

    Administrator: As you know, the Moderator is an energy shield that protects all of the peaceful worlds of the Alliance, which are all conveniently within the Moderator's radius, against the evil peoples of the universe, who are all conveniently located outside of the Moderator's reach.

    Chuck: That's an absurdly large shield.

    Administrator: Indeed it is.

    Chuck: What does it run on?

    Administrator: Uhh, antimatter.

    Chuck: Antimatter wouldn't be powerful enough. You'd need entire galaxies of it to keep something that big functioning.

    Administrator: Dark energy hamsters?

    Chuck: Ah.

    Administrator: The Moderator also keeps out all the impoverished ethnic people we don't like. Now, missmanners knows the precise frequency at which the Moderator operates. She will be able to make the Whacker armada vibrate at that same frequency, so that they can travel through the Moderator as though it weren't there.

    Chuck: Can't you remodulate shield frequencies, invert power couplings, defabrilize the globulator, and then reroute the tachyon beam through the deflector?

    [Everyone turns to stare at Chuck.]

    Chuck: Sorry, I got carried away. What I mean is, can't you remodurate the modulator . . . remodellate the mediator . . . remollu . . . change the frequency the Moderator operates on?

    Administrator: And void the warranty? Don't be ridiculous.

    Chuck: . . . O-kay. But how cruel is this missmanners? Why is she so scary?

    [A shudder and murmur go around the War Room. Grizzled veterans turn pale. Computer operators focus more intently on their screens.]

    Administrator: She . . . she takes you into her tea room . . .

    Chuck: Yes?

    Administrator: And . . . she offers you a cookie.

    Chuck: She offers you a cookie.

    Administrator: Yes.

    Chuck: Uh-huh. Look, I'm pretty sure you people are crazy. When can I leave?

    Administrator: Let us all be constantly vigilant. The Whackers may attack at any time. Dismissed, and may the blessings of Holy Cassandra go with you.

    [The Wordforgers begin to get up and leave as Chuck considers his situation.]

    Chuck: I always figured that extraterrestrials would be either wise and benevolent, or militaristic and evil. I never thought they'd be this weird.

    Wordforger #2: Good: Blues's enunciation was, as always, excellent. He continues to show the gravitas and dedication that it takes to be a convincing Administrator. Overall there was a strong focus on the audience. The speech itself was lucid and to the point for the most part. There were a lot of little touches showing that the writers tried to maintain a high degree of historical accuracy.

    Chuck: What are you talking about? Also, where did that bag of popcorn come from?

    Wordforger #2: Bad: missmanners was not a convincing antagonist. The speech left out her background completely. She's completely undeveloped as a character. For that matter, who are these Whackers? The enemies are all ciphers. Modern audiences expect the antagonists to have realistic, understandable motivations. The Whackers were given none.

    Chuck: There is a fleet of spaceships coming to destroy your society, and you're critiquing a speech?

    Wordforger #2: Ugly: Blues tries his best, but he simply does not have the ability to make effective gestures. I cringed whenever he tried to do something with his hands. Overall this gets a rating of 6.0/10. It's worth a rental.

    Chuck: Okay, I'm convinced. You people are crazy.
    • Winner Winner x 2
  8. NAHTMMM

    NAHTMMM eating my lemon

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    A skirmish

    [Chuck catches sight of Albert weaving his way along the edge of the War Room.]

    Chuck: Excuse me. There's someone I need to go talk to.

    [As he hurries after Albert, Chuck collides with an alien with a beard and antennae in the usual places. They both exclaim in shock.]

    Chuck: Sorry, sorry, didn't mean to run into you.

    Sync: I accept your apology, friend. For after all, what is civilization if not a system by which one can avoid having to eviscerate others over trivial wrongs? As the great philosopher Dnuammbe once said, “What is civilization, if not a system by which --

    Chuck: Look, I'm really sorry, but I need to catch up with that man and get an explanation out of him. And hopefully a ride back --

    Sync: Ah, Albert? That scoundrel owes a great many explanations to a great many people. Lately he has been recruiting for the Wordforger program. His efforts are appreciated, as we need all the assistance that we can get, but fully two-thirds of his recruits come from highly undesirable, backward worlds. Many of them know only a few languages and have never left their planet of birth. In fact, most couldn't name three recent Galaxial Governors if you spotted them two.

    Chuck: Actually --

    Sync: Why, some of them are so unevolved that they cannot even survive exposed to the vacuum of space for a few minutes! You can imagine how difficult that makes it for them to live through boot camp.

    Chuck: Uh, yeah. I'm one of those recruits. And I --

    Sync: You are a Wordforger recruit? Then it is I who should apologize to you. My name is Sync, and I am honored to be a Gunforge navigator. At your service!

    Chuck: Uh, thanks, but can we catch up with Albert before I miss my ride off this crazy planet?

    Sync: It is a little late to go back home for any objects generating placebo feelings of good fortune. Peace Alliance Intelligence expects a Whacker attack at any moment.

    Chuck: Yes, that’s actually why I want to go home. There’s been a mistake. I’m not supposed to be here.

    Sync: What do you mean? This is the center for the Peace Alliance defenses, home to the Wordforge program, for which you are a recruit. Therefore, you should indeed be here. Surely that logic is sound.

    Chuck: I don’t want to be a recruit. I played an arcade game, and then this guy kidnapped me . . . okay, that part was my fault . . . but then he took me into space and nearly killed me, then I’m here and people are putting spiky things in me and telling me I’m going to fight a war in space, and I am not remotely ready for any of this.

    Sync: So, you've changed your mind?

    Chuck: My mind was never unchanged. From wanting to not be stuck full of spiky things and getting shot at in a war, I mean. I was just hauled away from Earth without any clue what was going on.

    Sync: This is all alarmingly uncivilized. Where is Albert now?

    Chuck: Right over there.

    [They reach Albert as he is counting out his reward for bringing in Chuck.]

    Sync: Albert, I might have guessed it would be you! The odds of it being anyone else were miniscule indeed. Bickendan, Chris, and Damar, for example, all have excellent track records of --

    Albert: What are you complaining about now?

    Sync: This latest recruit of yours is entirely unsuitable for the Wordforger program.

    Chuck: Yeah, exactly what he said. Entirely unsuitable.

    Sync: He claims to have had no training and no idea that you were involving him in an armed conflict. Frankly, I believe him. He seems to be exhibiting signs of severe fear and distress.

    Chuck: No training, no idea, no guts. None at all. I’d be wetting my pants right now if I’d brought along an extra pair to change into.

    Albert: How is this my problem? I brought you a candidate for the Wordforge program. He’s healthy, he’s technically sentient, and most importantly, he passed the final exam.

    Chuck: Final exam? What, the arcade game? I thought it was a game! It was a game! It had graphics, buttons, everything! You don’t charge people fifty cents to retake a final exam!

    Albert: Okay, it's true that I may have packaged it as a game. But the fact remains, he meets all of the established criteria for a Wordforge recruit, and if you wanted some other criteria then they should have been written into the rules of the recruitment program. Therefore, I get the bounty money that I am entitled to, you get a recruit, the terms are fulfilled, and you go away and leave me alone. Everybody’s happy.

    Chuck: Uh, no, I’m not happy. I’m gonna get killed a million miles from Earth. I’m not happy, trust me. I want to go home. Now.

    Sync: The standards you have cited are indeed the written standards for recruitment into the Wordforger program, Albert. However --

    Albert: If you're going to start talking about unwritten laws, you can shut up now. I'm not going to play along with whatever imaginary guidelines you choose to invent after the fact.

    Sync: . . . and although many cite Rubber Ducky v. Board of Education as a landmark precedent for the sentience clause in current contract law, it is actually one of the steps toward the modern recognition of the fundamental importance of informed consent.

    Albert: Look, it’s not my fault that your people can’t write a competent contract --

    Sync: . . . in the phrase, informed, is clearly not met per the standards explained by Dehorse in his landmark treatise, Thinking About Thinking: Is It Right For You? To wit: Chuck himself has stated quite clearly that he did not have "any clue [as to] what was going on." The second condition, consent, is also not satisfied, as Chuck refers to his recruitment as a kidnapping. The word "consent" in this sense has a fascinating history, incidentally. Back in ancient Faht on Delmar IV, from whence many of our current ideas about freedom and government --

    Albert: If I give back the money and return Chuck to Earth, will you shut up?

    Sync: Actually, that’s a very interesting question. On one hand, by agreeing to this procedure, I would achieve victory for my side of the debate, insofar as I have been arguing for the endorsement of Chuck’s free will and for what is, as you have noted, not necessarily a legally supported interpretation of the requirements of the Wordforger recruitment program. On the other hand, honesty demands that I acknowledge that I cannot help but hope that Chuck could be persuaded to remain in the program, since he seems able-bodied for one of his species. Further, I’m really enjoying this debate with you, and perhaps it would be in my best interest if I were to prolong it for some indefinite duration. After all, who can say how best to calculate intangible benefits? Indeed, I cannot help but sometimes agree with the philosopher Zordoff, who said that “[t]he pleasures of the mind are the most beneficial of all.” Of course, that was partly a reaction to a society that had become too --

    Albert: Here’s the money. Chuck, get packed to leave.
  9. NAHTMMM

    NAHTMMM eating my lemon

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    You all saw this coming, right?

    [From across the War Room, a buzzing is heard.]

    Technician: Sir, we're getting a communications signal.

    Administrator: Put it on the main screen.

    [The main screen turns on, revealing missmanners! She is smirking and sitting in a planetbound room. When she speaks, her tone tends to be smooth and arrogant. Sunlight streams through the windows. Doilies, flowers, and other innocuous decorations litter the walls and tables. The impression is homey and warm.]

    Administrator: It's you! I might have known.

    missmanners: Hello, ladies and gentlemen. I hope I find you well?

    Administrator: What do you want, you madwoman?

    missmanners: Such rudeness toward your ex-king! I knew there was a reason I liked you. It just so happens that this is a courtesy call to let you know that, by midnight tomorrow, all of your precious Peace Alliance will once again belong to me. I'm preparing some special snickerdoodles for the occasion. I'll be sure to save one for you.

    Administrator: :shakefist: Fools we were to banish you! We should have killed you when we had the chance!

    missmanners: No, dear, you should have worshipped me as your rightful king when you had the chance. I'm afraid that everyone who rebelled against me will have to be straightened out with a visit to my . . . Tea Room.

    [A shudder runs through the War Room.]

    missmanners: Speaking of which, I have a visitor in there right now. He's someone you know, if I'm not mistaken.

    [As she continues speaking, missmanners gets up and walks over to a steel door, the only metal in sight. Her smile has become crueler. The camera travels with her.]

    missmanners: I caught him rooting around in my top-secret files this morning. Oh, he claimed to be the secretary, and the butler, and the maid, and the cook, and the satellite dish installer, but then he claimed to be the chauffeur and I knew that couldn't be true, because the chauffeur suffered a little accident yesterday when he didn't wipe his boots properly on the doormat. People are grossly inconsiderate these days, have you noticed?

    [She picks up a tray of cookies and opens the door. It's a barren room, aside from a nondescript man chained to a chair at a small table. His grim resolution drains away as he looks into missmanners's eyes. Chuck looks around, noticing that the War Room has gone dead silent and still, everyone staring at the screen.]

    missmanners: Sorry to keep you waiting, dearie. Let me make it up to you.

    [A tense pause.]

    missmanners: Would you like a cookie?

    [Focus on Chuck's horrified face as the screaming begins. Flashes of light, sounds of the chair being dragged around and knocked over, pleas for mercy, metallic thuds, squishy noises as of a body being beaten with heavy objects, power tool sounds, several different rattles, a sheep bleating, and finally a long whimper trailing into silence. Return to the screen, where missmanners is standing back up with a chainsaw in one hand and a dentist's drill in the other, both dripping blue ooze. She is not even breathing heavily.]

    missmanners: Oh dear. It seems that the cookies didn't agree with him. Perhaps I should have warned him that they were produced in an oven that handles peanut brittle?

    Administrator: [pale] You cannot hope to intimidate us, missmanners!

    Chuck: [under his breath] Oh, she's intimidated me just fine.

    Administrator: Have no doubt, we will prevail and bring you to justice for what you've done!

    missmanners: I look forward to it, dearie. Do make time to have someone dry-clean the red carpet, I hate stains that I didn't cause. Ta-ta! :diacanu:

    [The War Room is silent as the screen turns off. Chuck releases a shaky breath.]

    Chuck: I'm sure you people know what you're doing, but I want out of this. Take me back to Earth now.

    Wordforger #3: Ha, what for? We're gonna whip that armada!

    Wordforger #4: Yeah, they've got no chance to survive!

    Wordforger #3: We'll zig and zag through their fleet with our superior maneuverability!

    Wordforger #7: We're gonna spank those Whackers and ride 'em like ponies!

    [Uncomfortable silence, as several people edge away.]

    Chuck: I admit, I thought you were a little unhinged, getting worked up over cookies. I didn't realize they came with power drills or murderous livestock or --

    Wordforger #2: Good: missmanners was excellent in her role as the traitor. Her screen presence is why she’s a big star.

    Chuck: What are you . . . are you actually --

    Wordforger #2: Bad: The Tea Room scene went on for too long, and some of it was clearly grisly for grisly’s sake. The bassoon was especially over the top (those who've seen it will know what I'm talking about).

    Chuck: You cannot be serious.

    Wordforger #2: Ugly: That art deco poster was completely at odds with the rest of the décor. 8.5/10, strongly recommend you see it in theaters for the full experience.

    Wordforger #8: Are you serious? That was the worst communication I've seen in my life. It was atrocious from beginning to end. I wouldn't feed it to a bantha, then take the excretions, set them on fire, and feed them to my worst enemy. Everyone involved should be shot in the primary sexual characteristics. 3/10.

    Chuck: Yeah, that settles it. You’re all nuttier than Mr. Peanut diving into a vault full of pecans.
  10. NAHTMMM

    NAHTMMM eating my lemon

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    In which we meet the antagonists and other things happen

    [Next scene. Chuck is striding back to the parking area, several Wordforgers walking after him.]

    Wordforger #3: Relax. We'll shoot any long-distance barrage down with our B.A.B.A. defense system, and Wordforgers will take care of the actual invasion force.

    Chuck: Baba system?

    Wordforger #3: It was only just installed a few months ago, to replace the old A.B.B.A. system.

    [Chuck stops and turns around.]

    Chuck: You defended yourself with -- is this going to be a disco joke?

    Wordforger #5: :garamet: Disco is no joke. I lost my town to a disco attack.

    Wordforger #4: A.B.B.A. stands for Attack Blindly, Burninating Aardvarks. It became obsolete many supercycles ago when trained attack aardvarks went out of fashion, but nobody bothered replacing the defenses until recently.

    Wordforger #5: It's shameful. Millions for education, and not one cent for defense! Is that any way to run a planet?

    Chuck: Aardvarks?

    Wordforger #3: It was the '70s. You had to be there.

    Chuck: So, what does BABA stand for?

    Wordforger #3: Bang! And Banish Adversaries.

    Chuck: You people are terrible at this.

    Wordforger #4: We used to have someone in charge of coming up with acronyms. He was pretty good, but then an aardvark bit him. Never the same afterwards. Just babbled gibberish and grinned in a way that creeped everyone out. So we put him in charge of greeting tourists.

    Wordforger #3: He had an assistant, but then that guy was bitten by a zombie aardvark and . . . you know.

    [Just outside the Moderator's edge, a huge fleet of red, deadly-looking one-person fighters surround the Whacker flagship. On the flagship's bridge we see CaptainWacky sitting in his captain's chair while missmanners and Gagh stand at a pedestal that currently bears a tactical display. Gagh resembles but is legally distinct from a Hutt.]

    Bridge Officer: We have arrived at the Moderator field.

    missmanners: I love it when a plan comes together. We destroy their strength with treachery and a long-distance precision strike, then slip through their precious shield and wipe out any resistance that remains. Simple and foolproof. What could possibly go wrong?

    Gagh: What if they've remodulated the Moderator?

    missmanners: What if they've re-what?

    CaptainWacky: Hey guys, I've got new orders for everyone! For the next five minutes we shall only speak in Pig Latin! Eadyray, aaaandway . . . ogay!

    missmanners: [muttering to Gagh] How long must we endure this fool?

    CaptainWacky: Ah-ah-ahway! Uardsgay, eizesay erhay! Orfay ouryay enancepay, ouyay ustmay itewray away oempay inway raisepay ofway inceVay cMahonMay!

    [Gagh rolls his eyes.]

    [The War Room.]

    Chuck: And did you see what she did to that man?! Why are you so apathetic about it? He lost his life for your planet!

    Wordforger #4: It was just SOMA. You know, SOMe Android. There are billions of them and they're mostly used for hazardous tasks. It’s not worth getting upset over any of them. All that happened was he did something heroic and got killed horribly for it.

    Wordforger #6: I resent that. I am SOMA. Actually, on my home planet, we are all SOMA.

    [Everyone looks at him oddly. He gets defensive.]

    Wordforger #6: There was an industrial accident. We don't like to talk about it.

    Wordforger #3: Anyway, you should stick around, Chuck. Interwebs is a very advanced, very cosmopolitan planet. And with the economy booming like it is, I'm sure you'll be able to find work after this war is over. There's a niche for everyone here.

    Chuck: Really? Is mashing things up a big industry here?

    Wordforger #3: Well, I think there's a lot of it on the Citizens' Tubule . . .

    [Something offscreen catches Chuck's eye.]

    Chuck: What's that lanky thing skulking in the shadows over there?

    Wordforger #3: Hmm? Oh, that's Borgs. He probably looks like a scary monster to your primitive mammalian brain, but he's good people.

    Chuck: He doesn't look very happy.

    Wordforger #3: He used to be Administrator here, actually, until he was deposed for insanity.

    Chuck: Insanity?

    Wordforger #3: Yeah, he wanted to paint the War Room in neutrals. Ugh.

    Chuck: Well, I mention him because he's carrying what looks like a bomb.

    Wordforger #4: You should be careful assuming things about another society, you know. One person's bomb is another's back-scratcher.

    Chuck: Seriously, it has an LED readout and three colors of wire and everything.

    Wordforger #6: So? Everyone needs a hobby. Some people drink beer. Others build bombs and walk around in sensitive military installations with them. There's nothing wrong with that.

    Chuck: He just attached it to a server labeled Defense Systems Control. Now he's pressed a button on the bomb and it's making ticking noises.

    Wordforger #3: That does sound a little out of character for him, but I'm sure you're misinterpreting his intentions.

    Chuck: He's laughing maniacally and shouting, "Now I will be revenged upon Wordforge." Am I the only person hearing this?

    Wordforger #4: Don't be silly. He left on good terms. We even threw him a party.

    Wordforger #3: Remember at the end, when we tarred and feathered him and slid him down that muddy slope into the piranha pit? That was great.

    Wordforger #5: Yeah, everyone loved that.

    Chuck: . . . I need a drink. And then the quickest route to Albert's Jeep. Ship. Thing.
    • Winner Winner x 2
  11. NAHTMMM

    NAHTMMM eating my lemon

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    In which shooting finally happens

    [On the command ship's bridge.]

    Technician: Long-range cannon locked on target.

    Gagh: Fire when rea--

    missmanners: Excuse me?

    Gagh: What?

    missmanners: I believe you're forgetting who the real star is, dear. I should be giving that order. After all, who supplied the critical information regarding the Moderator's frequency? Who provided the special materials for the warheads? Who gave up a promising career in political agitation and cooking shows to aid your fleet in crushing the Peace Alliance? Who has the hottest thighs on this bridge? Who --

    Gagh: I won't deny that you are an integral part of this operation, but in the Red Whacker Fleet, we take authority very seriously, and --

    CaptainWacky: Weird, guys! Does anyone else hear laughter?

    Gagh: No. -- And I can't have you challenging the chain of command.

    missmanners: You shouldn't interrupt a lady. It's extremely impolite. Besides, then she won't be able to point out that she's the one in charge of the traitor, and that he hasn't reported in yet.

    [A cheery ringtone sounds.]

    missmanners: Ah that'll be him. Hello, missmanners speaking.

    Borgs: The blue sparrow has taken flight.

    missmanners: Excellent.

    Borgs: Six wolves await payment under a silver moon.

    missmanners: Of course. Is there anything else?

    Borgs: Granite yearns for no moss.

    [The transmission ends with a click.]

    Gagh: Was the mission a success?

    missmanners: Frankly, I have no idea. But there's only one way to find out.

    [She smirks.]

    missmanners: Fire when ready.

    [In the War Room.]

    Red-Haired Woman: Sir, the defenses are falling.

    Administrator: Raise them!

    Red-Haired Woman: I can't. Running diagnostics now . . .

    [Several minutes pass.]

    Administrator: Well?

    Red-Haired Woman: Finishing up, sir . . .

    Administrator: . . . Yes?!

    Red-Haired Woman: Aaaaand . . . apparently the network is down in some unspecified way.

    Random Technician: Well, that was useful.

    Red-Haired Woman: I think it might have something to do with that unscheduled explosion in the vicinity of the main defense server.

    Administrator: Switch to the backup, then!

    Wordforger #5: There is no backup! That money got diverted to calculus textbooks for second graders!

    Wordforger #4: :rolleyes: Stop lying about that. It was quantum chromodynamics textbooks, they were for third graders, and you always conveniently forget to mention that the government got an amazing bulk discount on the order.

    Wordforger #5: Call me a liar, will you? You're a bleeding-spleen conserberal just like the rest!

    Wordforger #4: Oh yeah? Well, your primary proximal maternal figure is so fat --

    Administrator: If you want to argue, you can do it later. Right now, I need all of you in the Gunforge bay, with everyone else, getting into your Gunforges. This may signal the beginning of an attack. I can only pray that we mobilize soon enough to stop it. The safety of billions depends on you.

    [The Wordforgers grumble and begin to leave.]

    Wordforger #9: I hope the news programs get good footage of the carnage. I need it for my space battles holostory.

    [The War Room hums with preparatory activity. Abruptly, the Red-Haired Woman looks up from her screen.]

    Red-Haired Woman: Incoming barrage!

    Administrator: Get our shields up! Now!

    Red-Haired Woman: It's not aimed at us, sir. It's aimed at the orbital Gunforge bay.

    Administrator: Get those shields up!

    Red-Haired Woman: I can't, sir. The server is down.

    Administrator: Tell them to get their shields up!

    Red-Haired Woman: They're too far away, sir. All external communications are on the fritz because of nearby electrical superstorms.

    Administrator: Can we signal the bay to hurry with launch by any alternate means?

    Red-Haired Woman: I'm afraid not, sir.

    Administrator: That's not the attitude I want to hear. I don't care if we use Voyager technobabble, we have to defend that bay or we're all dead!

    Red-Haired Woman: I could have someone rig up a semaphore in ten minutes --

    Administrator: You've got five!

    Red-Haired Woman: -- but it doesn't matter, because the missiles already hit.

    Administrator: Oh. How bad is the damage?

    Red-Haired Woman: Sensors indicate the payload was mint double-nuke with extra fudge. It's all just scattered debris, sir.

    Administrator: Huh.

    [A moment's pause, as aftershocks rock the War Room.]

    Administrator: Did those last pilots reach the bay before it was destroyed?

    Red-Haired Woman: I believe so, sir.

    Administrator: That's unfortunate, because we do have that experimental Gunforge in another part of the base. If only there were one last Wordforger to fly it, we might have a chance.

    Red-Haired Woman: Yes. If only there were a last Wordforger, then the last Wordforger could yet deliver us from defeat.

    Administrator: But, there isn't. A last Wordforger, I mean.

    [A moment's pause.]

    Administrator: So, anything you want to do before missmanners makes you shake hands with your own duodenum?

    Red-Haired Woman: Well . . . honestly?

    Administrator: There's no time like the present.

    Red-Haired Woman: I want David Tennant to whisk me away on a never-ending adventure that spans all of time and space, with exciting dangers and goofy-looking cyborgs.

    Administrator: Huh. I was just thinking I’d like to eat at the Whataburger one last time.

    [The Red-Haired Woman shrugs.]

    Red-Haired Woman: I guess that’s as good as anything else that might actually happen. Shall we?

    Administrator: May as well. Maybe your David Tendon will be there too.

    [They leave.]

    [On the enemy bridge.]

    Technician: Sensors indicate total destruction of target.

    CaptainWacky: Great job, guys! Navigator, head to Dairy Empress for a round of milkshakes on the house!

    Gagh: No! We must press our advantage immediately. missmanners, if you would be kind enough to supply the Moderator’s frequency to our engineers . . . ?

    [mm's cellphone rings again.]

    missmanners: Excuse me, gentlemen. [on the phone] Hello, missmanners speaking. Yes? Is that so? Dear me. Thank you for this information. Goodbye. [to Gagh] It seems that not all of the Wordforgers were killed in the attack. One last Wordforger escaped. [sinisterly] And that won’t do. That won’t do at all.
    • Agree Agree x 1
  12. NAHTMMM

    NAHTMMM eating my lemon

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    A very special guest star

    [Back on Earth, beside a dirt road in a wide-open patch of Arizona. Albert is working under the hood of the Jeep while Chuck stands by awkwardly.]

    Chuck: I wish I could help, but I don't know anything about interstellar car repair. I, uh, I hope you won't be stuck here on Earth.

    Albert: No, of course not. I have spares for everything that burned out. Your engineers never meant for the engine to handle superluminal velocities and a forcefield at the same time.

    Chuck: Yeah, I doubt that ever came up in brainstorming.

    Albert: Now that I'm going back into space without any dead weight taxing the environmental systems, it'll be fine.

    Chuck: Look. I'm really sorry that I wasn't the guy you thought I was. But I'm nobody special, with no special combat abilities. I'm not some amazing fighter or a super-spy. I'm not any good with a rifle, never mind a raygun. I'm just Chuck.

    Albert: How do you know who you are? There's a whole universe out there, billions of planets and trillions of species, and you're content to judge who you are based on your interactions with a fraction of the surface of a speck of dust. You have the talent to be a Wordforger, Chuck. You couldn't have completed that exam module otherwise. Take this beeper with you. If you decide that you don't want to live on this mudball the rest of your life, give me a buzz. If you’d rather go back to your old life, for as long as it will last . . . well, you had your chance.

    [Chuck walks away somberly. He arrives home after dark. Teekie is pacing in front of his house.]

    Chuck: Hey, Teeks! You'll never believe what's happened to me --

    [Teekie turns and slaps Chuck.]

    Teekie: That's for what you said about Sheldon!

    [Teekie storms off, leaving Chuck confused and rubbing his cheek.]

    Chuck: Well, that was strange.

    [Interior of Chuck's bedroom. X is in his bunk bed, asleep. Below, in Chuck's bed, is a person-sized lump. Chuck looks upset about this.]

    Chuck: Great, I've been missing for a day and Mom's already renting out my bed. Get out of there, buddy, the deal's off and I need --

    [Chuck tears away the blanket to find . . . Chuck!]

    Chuck: What the --

    Data: Greetings. I am the Data unit to whom has been designated the task of covering for you while you are off-planet. How is the war proceeding?

    Chuck: Data unit? Covering for me? What are you talking about?

    Data: *sigh* I am the being with whom you shook hands in Albert's vehicle. I absorbed all the data that pertains to living your life, reconstructed my pseudobiological and processing matrices to emulate yours, and have spent the last twenty-two-point-six Earth hours convincing your fellow Earth dwellers that I am Chuck Rogan, who is definitely still living normally in Podunk, Arizona instead of flying around in outer space, saving the universe from an evil armada.

    *** Flashback ***

    Dove: Good morning, Chuck.

    Data: Yes, my name is definitely Chuck and I am definitely continuing to live my normal life here. The real Chuck is definitely not flying around in outer space, saving the universe from an evil armada.

    Dove: . . . Right.

    Data: Because I am he. Good morning to you as well. The weather is currently pleasing to our sensory organs, is it not?

    [Dove stares at Data for a long moment, then continues on his way.]

    *** End Flashback ***

    Data: Unfortunately, there seem to have been substantial errors introduced into the assimilation of your memories, and I have had to estimate the corrections necessary to convincingly interact with your species' miniscule level of intellect.

    *** Flashback ***

    [Anna leans out of her door and yells.]

    Anna: CHUCK! Hey, Chuck! The TV's on the fritz again! Do you have time to come over and fix it before All My Children?

    Data: Of course I do. I am, after all, Chuck Rogan, a sad little resident of this sad little trailer park on this sad little planet, who has nothing better to do with his time than to fix old women's television sets so that they may continue to waste their existences in an obsession with the arbitrarily melodramatic antics of fictional people.

    [Anna stares blankly at Data.]

    Data: Also, the real Chuck Rogan is definitely not flying around in outer space, saving the universe from an evil armada. Because I am him.

    Anna: . . . Your standard hourly rate?

    Data: Of course.

    *** End Flashback ***

    Data: Upon review, I suspect I may have miscalculated the corrections slightly.

    Chuck: Did you insult Teekie's turtle?

    Data: I merely observed in a constructive manner that people might take her opinions more seriously if she took full responsibility for them rather than attributing half of them to her pet reptile. I am afraid that she then shouted at me and walked away before I had a chance to compliment her on her witty observations on the nature of financially motivated politics.

    Chuck: You -- you idiot! Teekie is, like, my only friend! Well, she's kind of a friend. She doesn't make fun of me and we talk regularly. I guess that counts. A good acquaintance, maybe? She's a nice person and you hurt her feelings! How else have you wrecked my life, you monster?

    Data: I took out the trash as your mother requested.

    Chuck: How dare you?!

    Data: I also completed a "kitbash". Observe.

    [Data pulls a starship model out from a drawer and shows it to Chuck.]

    Chuck: Why, that's -- that's beautiful.

    Data: It is merely adequate. If I had an Akira of the correct size I could have done much better. The nacelles would be more proportionate to the hull section. I am afraid that, despite the necessity of behaving just like you, I could not bring myself to paint it in the black and orange scheme you evidently prefer.

    Chuck: Never mind that. What happens now?

    [Data puts the model back in the drawer. The shutting of the drawer awakens X, who begins to stir.]

    Data: If the armada has been defeated, then I am no longer required here. I will return home and spend a long night on the town, drinking heavily in an attempt to forget my time in this wretched star system.

    Chuck: Uh, actually, the armada's still out there. I was never supposed to go to Interwebs in the first place. I'm no Wordforger.

    Data: In that case, I shall have to continue pretending to be you.

    Chuck: Oh no you don't! You're going back right now!

    Data: I am afraid that my programming is strict. I am required to impersonate you until either the Armada is defeated or you are.

    Chuck: I hate my life.

    Data: I assure you that I feel the same way.

    X: Chuck? What's going on?

    Chuck: Back to sleep, X, or I'm telling Mom about your animes!

    [X immediately pretends to go back to sleep.]

    Chuck: [leaving] I am going to call Albert, and he is going to take you away, and everything will return to normal.

    Data: You have extremely low goals in life.

    X: Huh? Didn't you just --

    Data: I said, back to sleep X, or I'm telling Mom about your animes!

    [X drops back down onto his pillow.]
  13. NAHTMMM

    NAHTMMM eating my lemon

    Joined:
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    More exciting action

    [Meanwhile, by the convenience store, a taxicab has arrived. We see an inhuman foot step out, followed by the rest of an alien. It is a Zanzoken, a blue, reptilian humanoid that is eight feet tall with a musculature that says "I could squash you with my thumb." Its voice is deep and growly. It is also wearing a moustache.]

    Zanzoken: Here. Keep the change.

    Cab driver: Funny thing, pal, in this light I'd think you was an alien, if it wasn't for that very human moustache.

    Zanzoken: Yes, I get that a lot. At least, I would if I were native to this planet.

    [The cab driver laughs and drives off.]

    Zanzoken: Now, to find this Chuck Rogan . . .

    [The Zanzoken pulls out an energy rifle and turns it on. Lights blink and the gun hums.]

    Zanzoken: . . . and kill him.

    [Outside nearby. Chuck is pacing back and forth and grumbling.]

    Chuck: Come on, Albert, answer your stupid pager. I want that thing out of my life five minutes ago.

    [The Zanzoken stops in front of the Wordforger arcade machine.]

    Zanzoken: Well, what do we have here?

    [The machine lights up and broompts angrily at him.]

    Zanzoken: A miserable little scrap of Peace Alliance propaganda! Ha! Listen, machine, I'm here to fry your masters' last hope, and then their entire civilization will fall before the might of the Whacker Alliance.

    [The machine starts to pulse green.]

    Zanzoken: What are you doing?

    Machine: ARCADE SMASH!

    [The machine fires a laser out of its screen, destroying the Zanzoken's moustache.]

    Zanzoken: RAAAR! That hurt! How did you do that?!

    Machine: Whaddaya want? I'm mysterious alien tech, I can do anything.

    Zanzoken: [sadly] That moustache cost me nearly two dollars at K-Mart . . .

    Machine: You can do anything, eh? Why don't you get yourself moved to a different, less crummy part of Earth?

    Zanzoken: What?

    Machine: Huh? Huh? Why can't you do that?

    Zanzoken: Why can't I do what? Are you --

    Machine: Well, I could, except it's all pretty crummy, so, what's the point?

    Zanzoken: I'm just going to go back to looking for my target and pretend this conversation never happened.

    [Chuck is pacing back and forth, glaring at the beeper and muttering, when a shadow falls across him. He looks up.]

    Zanzoken: Are you Chuck Rogan?

    Chuck: If I say yes, will you kidnap me and take me to a bunch of crazy people who want to get me killed?

    Zanzoken: No.

    Chuck: Then yes, I am.

    Zanzoken: I’ll simply kill you here and now.

    Chuck: Can I change my answer?

    [The Zanzoken fires his energy rifle at Chuck, who dodges by pure reflex and scrambles toward a pile of construction supplies behind the convenience store.]

    Chuck: Need a weapon, need a weapon . . . ah! A two-by-four!

    Zanzoken: A two-by-four? Are you serious?

    Chuck: Uh . . .

    Zanzoken: You mean to defend yourself with a plank?

    Chuck: If I can't find anything better, yeah.

    Zanzoken: I am an elite assassin! I trained for thousands of your years before I was entrusted with the slaughter of the merest of school boards! My ship is packed with weapons that could devastate your entire planet! And you dare defend yourself with an unenhanced piece of a tree?

    Chuck: Look, I'm sorry. But it's the only thing I could --

    Zanzoken: It's not even anything fancy, is it? It's just pine! PINE! Grrrrr! I was going to vaporize you cleanly, but this is a deadly insult! I'm going to rip your head off! And then grind it to bits!

    Chuck: Hey, I think I met your brother.

    [The Zanzoken lowers its weapon and stalks toward Chuck, growling and extending its claws. Chuck waves the plank around to fend him off, but narrowly misses being sliced open. The Zanzoken closes in for another attack, but turns his head at the sound of a footstep. It is Data.]

    Zanzoken: Two of you? I am not impressed! Either you're a twin, in which case I'll kill you both to be sure --

    Data: A twin? Ah, a twin, doppleganger, duplicate, look-alike, clone --

    Zanzoken: Shut up!

    Data: -- replica, forgery, double, and incidentally your weakness is blunt force applied to the ear.

    Zanzoken: What does that have to do with -- OW!

    [The Zanzoken collapses to the ground. Chuck backs away and prepares his plank for another swing. A sound distracts him. He looks over to see Albert pull up in his Jeep. The Zanzoken gets back up, snarling, and attacks Chuck again, this time moving to bludgeon him with the energy rifle. Albert gets out and fires a ray gun, slicing the Zanzoken's raised arm off at the shoulder. The arm thuds to the ground in front of a shocked Chuck. Albert then shoots the Zanzoken in the head. It falls to the ground, motionless.]

    Chuck: Albert! Boy am I glad to see y--

    [He flinches away as Albert pumps several bolts of energy into the corpse. Alien guts spatter onto Chuck's legs.]

    Chuck: What was that for?!

    Albert: Can't be too sure with those critters. They're used as assassins because they're so tough. Besides, if you hang out on Interwebs long enough, you learn to avoid Monty Python at all costs.

    Data: Monty Python? Ah. You refer to the "Black Knight" sequence in Monty Python and the Holy Grail. Are you sure this does not bear a greater resemblance to the climax in Men in Black?

    [Chuck notices the arm with the rifle is starting to move on its own. Creepy!]

    Albert: What are you talking about?

    Chuck: Albert, look out --

    [The rifle fires, hitting Albert and knocking him down.]

    Chuck: Albert!

    [Data sprints over to Albert, takes his ray gun, and points it at the arm just as it fires another bolt. This shot narrowly misses Chuck and destroys a sack of cement. Data vaporizes the arm and gun with a long pulse, then fires the gun repeatedly until nothing is left of the Zanzoken except a mound of black ashes. Chuck has dropped down beside Albert.]

    Chuck: Albert, are you okay?

    Albert: [coughing] I’ll survive.

    Chuck: Come on, we’ll patch you up and get you to a hospital.

    Albert: Oh no you don’t. Don’t leave me in the hands of twentieth-century Earth medicine.

    Chuck: I think this is supposed to be the twenty-first century, actually. Although there was the mail twice a day thing, and Teekie and my mom both have ridiculous ‘80s hair, so maybe –

    Albert: Even worse. They’ll want my credit card, social security, and preferred Gilligan’s Island woman before they lay a finger on me. [wheezing] Let’s get down to business. Are you coming back to Interwebs with me?

    Data: Absolutely. You would not believe how banal this planet is.

    Albert: Not you. Chuck.

    [Chuck looks at the remains of the Zanzoken and takes a calming breath.]

    Chuck: I guess I don’t have any choice.

    Albert: You always have a choice. But you are toast if you stay here. [He stands.] Hurry up.

    Chuck: What about Data?

    Data: Much as I find it unpalatable, I shall remain in this location to continue the impression that you are still here, while also drawing the fire of any further assassins.

    Chuck: I guess you're more of a bait-a unit now, huh? Get it? Beta? Data?

    Data: Would you like me to offend Teekie again?

    Chuck: I'll be good.
    • Agree Agree x 1
  14. NAHTMMM

    NAHTMMM eating my lemon

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    In which the writer is a dork

    [Chuck helps Albert back to his vehicle despite Albert's protests. Albert is stumbling erratically.]

    Chuck: I like what you've done with the Jeep.

    Albert: Yeah, yeah, I taped on tarps so your stupid respiratory system wouldn't shrivel up and die. [coughs] Don't let it go to your head.

    [The Jeep rises into the sky. Albert is looking worse by the minute.]

    Chuck: Look, just give me ten minutes with a first-aid kit, Albert. I'll --

    Albert: No time. Must get you back before the Armada strikes. [gasping] I swore I'd never do this, I had half a mind not to install it, but . . .

    [Albert presses the autopilot button, then goes still. The Jeep rumbles and enters hyperspace.]

    [Cut to the Jeep coming out of hyperspace above Interwebs, rousing Albert.]

    Chuck: The place seems a lot less impressive than I remember it.

    Albert: Yeah, that'll happen when somebody fires explosive cookies at your military installation. Parts tend to fall off.

    [They land roughly. Chuck gets out.]

    Chuck: [yelling] Is anyone around? We need medical help imme -- Sync?!

    Sync: Chuck, this is a surprise! I saw the signal of a landing vehicle and came down to --

    Chuck: Albert's been shot. He needs help.

    [Sync follows Chuck around to the driver's side. Both show concern over Albert, who looks to be going into shock.]

    Albert: [coughing] Hey. Brought Chuck back. Get him out there, so he can save the day, all that goody-goody nonsense.

    Sync: [soothingly] Of course we will. Relax. Take it easy.

    Albert: 'Course, I get the usual rate, plus fifteen percent for gouging . . . make it twenty, autopilot dinged the fender . . .

    Sync: I can state with confidence that you will be rich beyond at least several of your milder dreams. Now rest.

    Albert: Glad I already did the paperwork last time, heh, it'd kill me to go through that again . . .

    [Albert closes his eyes and goes still. Chuck stares at him, disbelievingly. After a suitable interval, Sync prods Chuck.]

    Sync: Chuck, we need to go.

    [Chuck stays a moment, then nods and follows Sync.]

    [Chuck and X's bedroom, still night. Data wakes up with a start.]

    Data: Ugh, what a terrible nightmare. I dreamed I was broken, my parts scattered across a barren landscape on a distant planetoid. A bald Frenchman drove a dune buggy around and whooped at the top of his lungs. Perhaps I should recalibrate myself.

    [He sits down at a desk and begins to remove his head. X, awakened by the noise, turns over and catches sight of what "Chuck" is doing. He watches, his eyes huge.]

    X: Are you an alien? Have I been living with a space alien as my brother my whole life?

    Data's head: What could possibly give you that idea?

    X: Well, everything on Earth unscrews counter-clockwise.

    Data's head: Be that as it may, you are experiencing an unpleasant random firing of your neurons during rapid eye movement. It is best that you regard it as such and return to total unconsciousness.

    X: Uuhhh . . . you mean this is a dream?

    Data's head: No, it is a nightmare. If you do not end it swiftly, I will manifest a television and tune it to a broadcast wherein all your favorite people give J. J. Abrams awards for being the most awesome person ever.

    X: Eep!

    [X drops his head back onto his pillow and shuts his eyes.]

    Data's head: Hmm. I seem to be getting good at this "big brother" role.

    [Back on Interwebs. Sync is leading Chuck to the experimental Gunforge.]

    Chuck: So the real ship is more powerful than in the arcade game?

    Sync: I should say so! This one is illegally modified for maximum power and durability, just the way the hardware junkies like it. No, hold a moment, I may be thinking of the single-seater model.

    [They stand before the Gunforge, which towers over them, beckoning with the freedom of spaceflight and the danger of battle. Sync pulls out the user's manual and flips through it.]

    Sync: This ship is entirely aboveboard and full of safety features mandated by our loving nanny state. It also has some aesthetic features sponsored by the government in an attempt to keep art majors off the streets.

    Chuck: Oh, so the smiley face under the cockpit serves as an ironic commentary on the horrors of war?

    Sync: No, they probably just had a bunch of stickers lying around.

    [They reach the platform leading to the cockpit and begin climbing as Sync continues talking.]

    Sync: The primary armaments include quad lasers and a fusion cannon capable of punching through a full millimeter of neutronium plating.

    Chuck: Swee -- uh, is that a lot?

    Sync: That is a lot.

    Chuck: Sweet!

    Sync: Secondaries include homing missiles, heat-seeking plasma torpedoes, and . . . no, sorry, I'm looking at the single-seater specs again. Ah, here we go. This model has a single-barrel laser pistol that can only be fired thirty times per minute. It also carries Rep Bomb, which has never been tested in actual combat but has an estimated seventy percent chance of not blowing the Gunforge up when activated.

    [Chuck stops climbing and looks back at Sync.]

    Chuck: Anything else for weaponry?

    Sync: The smiley face might confuse the enemy.

    Chuck: I've got an idea, Sync. Let me take the single-seater.

    Sync: Unfortunately, that one is banned by intergalactic treaty. We're only allowed to use it to fight malfunctioning robots. And, with the rise of the Robots' Rights groups, that may not be the case for much longer either. You see, several years ago . . .

    [Chuck sighs and ascends into the cockpit, with Sync settling in behind him.]

    Sync: . . . which was a deeply flawed ruling in my opinion, because it entirely neglected to acknowledge the third point in the state's argument that was really the underpinning --

    Chuck: Never mind that. Let's just get going.

    Sync: Very well. Let me check the Contents for the preflight safety checklist . . . ah, pages 3 through 38 . . .

    Chuck: Skip it. How do I turn on the engine?

    Sync: See the slot by your right knee? Insert two quarters into that.

    Chuck: Wow, everything's just like back home!

    [The engine hums into life. An infant's gurgle is heard. Chuck jumps and looks around wildly.]

    Chuck: Is there a baby in here?!

    Sync: No, that was a sound effect intended to serve as an ironic commentary on the horrors of war. The ship also plays the sound of a child crying for daddy every time you kill an enemy, but I can disable that.

    Chuck: Please do.
    • Winner Winner x 1
  15. NAHTMMM

    NAHTMMM eating my lemon

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    This part jumps around a bit

    [Morning in Arizona. Data is helping Dove attach a bulky antenna to Dove's trailer. Data is on the ground, feeding the antenna up, while Dove is on his roof.]

    Data: I still do not understand. How can you be so sure that this radiation will not harm yourself?

    Dove: If you read the literature you would know that. It's been conclusively proven that deltoid radiation, in moderate concentrations, has no effect on human beings.

    Data: And its exact effect on aliens . . . ?

    Dove: It's suspected that it messes with their minds, acts like alien repellent, but we don't know for sure. There are reports from people who were carrying portable emitters and survived a close encounter. The aliens all ran away before the people could get within visual range of them. Plus, one of the getaway ships wobbled as it flew into the sky, so it might affect their electronics too. Maybe even their robots!

    [Data drops the antenna.]

    Dove: OW!

    Data: Sorry.

    [Data hesitates, then resumes raising the antenna.]

    Dove: Yessir, this antenna poses no threat to anyone who isn't an alien. Speaking of folks who aren't aliens, what did that guy want to talk to you about the other night?

    Data: Guy? Oh, you mean, uh, yes, him. He called himself Albert. He, uh, congratulated me warmly and said that I had, uh, won. Something.

    Dove: Won something?

    Data: Yes. For beating the simulator. The game, I mean. A, uh, a fur-lined tennis racket.

    Dove: A fur-lined tennis racket? I'd like to see that.

    Data: Or my choice of several other fabulous prizes. I may simply take the money. I have not yet decided.

    [In the Gunforge.]

    Sync: Commencing launch sequence.

    [The Gunforge flares to life, then is launched into the blackness of space. Chuck breathes deeply and slowly.]

    Chuck: [thinking] I can't allow myself to panic. There'll be lots of other pilots out there with me, flying powerful fighters of their own. They're all much better trained than me, too. I've just got to think positive thoughts, do my best, and I'll be sure to come out alive! Yeah! There's no way we can lose!

    Sync:By the way, all the other Wordforgers were killed in the attack, and you are the universe's last hope against the tyranny of the Whacker Alliance.

    Chuck: Good grief!

    Sync: Due to an unforeseeable failure in the defense control server, the hangar containing our fleet of standard Gunforges was destroyed. This is an experimental prototype that was in the shop for an aesthetic upgrade.

    Chuck: Oh, the smiley sticker?

    Sync: No, the gun lobby wanted the pistol to be more reassuringly phallic.

    Chuck: I'm sorry I asked. Like, really sorry. On another horrifying topic, exactly what am I up against here? Just you, me, and a laser against the entire Armada?

    Sync: Splendid, isn't it?

    Chuck: What?

    Sync: The obvious hopelessness of our cause will make our victory all the more legendary.

    Chuck: You mean the hopelessness that will lead to our slaughter?

    Sync: Have faith, and things will turn out as they should, no matter the odds. Did not your David slay the mighty Goliath with a single pebble? Did not the brave defenders of the Alamo hold out for several weeks before being mercilessly torn to shreds? Did not Goloca, upon hearing that Yulu had succumbed to pig 'n' mouth disease, casually inquire when the next train left for Clarksville?

    Chuck: Huh?

    Sync: Never mind. I've never understood that parable myself. I keep hoping that it will be relevant eventually. My point is --

    Chuck: [sighing] Let's just get the target practice over with.

    [Data and Dove have nearly gotten the antenna into position. Dove is about to fasten it.]

    Teekie: Hey, Chuck.

    Dove: OW!

    Data: Sorry. Hey, Teeks. Perhaps I should apologize for my suggestion yesterday --

    Teekie: No, no. I should apologize for slapping you. It was silly of me to attack you for what you said.

    Data: I accept your apology. Have you given any thought to acting on my sugges --

    Teekie: And Sheldon was very understanding about it. He said that his feelings weren't hurt and that you were only human after all.

    Data: I see.

    [Data begins raising the antenna again. Teekie watches for a moment, clasping her hands and swaying from foot to foot.]

    Teekie: Soooo . . . This morning John offered to let me come along to the lake again. I asked if you were coming too and he said you could if you wanted.

    Data: That was very considerate of you. And surprisingly thoughtful of him.

    Teekie: Then he said something about having an easy target of abuse.

    Data: That is far less surprising.

    Teekie: It might be more fun if you did come. The more the merrier, you know.

    Data: In that case, I believe it would be in character for me to accept the invitation.

    Teekie: Great. I'll see you later.

    [Teekie leaves. Meanwhile Zanzoken #2 has been watching the scene from the edge of a wooded area. The wind shifts and Data sniffs the air.]

    Data: Do you smell something?

    Dove: Does it smell like ozone?

    Data: No. It smells approximately like three parts Miromindian death pheromones, two parts Bud Light, one part --

    [Data notices Dove's expression.]

    Data: That is, it smells bad. And quite unlike ozone.

    Dove: Good. I'd hate to think I was injuring any ghosts.
  16. NAHTMMM

    NAHTMMM eating my lemon

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    A little more talk, a little more action

    [Back to Sync and Chuck.]

    Chuck: Come on, Sync, I really need more target practice. I know you said the targets stopped moving because they ran out of fuel, but I still think they were taunting me.

    Sync: All things in proportion. We must now consider carefully the plan which we shall follow, if we are to have any hope of coming out not only valorous but victorious. For, as General Tso said in The Art of Fightin', glory and honor are fine things, but far better is beating the tar out of your opponent.

    [As Sync continues to ramble, Chuck familiarizes himself with the details of the cockpit. He also takes a moment to gaze outside in wonder. He is in an advanced spaceship, deep in outer space, and it is a moving moment.]

    Sync: It is critical to have a detailed plan for every conceivable scenario we may encounter, for we have scarce room for error and no chance to use many tactics that would require numerous allies. Let us start with --

    Chuck: What's that little red thing out there?

    Sync: That would appear to be a ship from the Armada.

    Chuck: What should I do?

    Sync: I suggest killing it before it kills us.

    Chuck: Thanks a lot.

    Whacker: Unknown craft, this is shuttle Tydbol. What is your cargo and destination?

    Sync: Our cargo is a flaming hot laser bolt, destination right up your --

    Chuck: Sync?!

    Sync: Sorry, I don't know what came over me. I recommend radio silence whilst I jam their long-range communications. Whacker Armada protocols dictate a minimum of ten seconds' wait before opening fire on an unidentified craft. We can use that time to get closer, so that the disadvantage of your inexperience with aiming the weapon on this ship can be nullified.

    Chuck: Uh, yeah, those ten seconds of yours passed a long time ago. It took a few shots at us and now it's headed into that asteroid! Should I go after it?

    Sync: That would seem advisable.

    [They dive into the asteroid in pursuit. It’s an exciting sequence involving weaving through crisscrossing tunnels and the occasional narrowly missed shot.]

    Sync: Now, Chuck, since this is probably your first time in a battle to the death, you may be feeling revulsion at the idea of attempting to kill a fellow sentient being. This is only natural, because as the philosopher Poccohonntos observed, “We are all connected to each other, and to break the circle that never ends invokes seriously bad juju.”

    Chuck: I’ll keep that in mind. Now please let me focus on staying alive.

    Sync: If you decide to turn back now, to leave this fellow spacefarer in possession of the gift of life, no one will think less of you. Those who do think less of you will doubtless be slaughtered swiftly under missmanners’s maniacal rule, so they will not really count. At the same time, the entire Peace Alliance would appreciate it if you killed him. It would, after all, bring us one step closer to ending the dictatorship threatened by the Whacker Alliance.

    Chuck: Uh, Sync?

    Sync: And so, if you find it easiest to use verbal means to cope with any ethical quandaries regarding the appropriateness of lethal action against the occupant of that ship, rest assured that I will gladly engage in extensive, frank, non-judgmental discussion of the subject with you. Seriously. I love this stuff.

    Chuck: I already blew him up, Sync.

    Sync: Oh. Did you feel any pangs of guilt that might require extensive philosophical discussion?

    Chuck: Let’s just go with “no.”

    [A short time later. Sync and Chuck are drifting through the asteroid. Sync is fiddling with a wiring panel.]

    Sync: That should do it. This is the first craft of its kind, something was bound to fail. Fortunately it was only the coffeemaker.

    Chuck: Mm.

    Sync: You seem to have something on your mind.

    Chuck: Well, I feel silly, but . . . I just survived my first space battle, and all I can think is that I hope that Data isn't ruining my life back on Earth.

    [Back on Earth.]

    John Clock: I fail to understand to whom you may be addressing yourself. My name is not John Cuticle, but John Clock. Now, are you coming with us or not?

    Data: Do you simply name yourself after the first thing your eyes focus on each morning?

    John Clock: Are you coming or not?

    [In the asteroid.]

    Chuck: There are a ridiculous number of tunnels in this asteroid. It's like a maze. A maze of twisty passages, all alike. Can the ship record our progress for us?

    Sync: Yes, an automap would be quite useful right now, but that feature was only installed on the --

    Chuck: [with Sync] The single-seater model, right.

    Sync: The functionality was omitted from this ship in order to leave space for the occupants to record their feelings about the war crimes they were committing. Here.

    [Sync presses a button. A panel opens and a microphone whirrs out of the dashboard, pointed at Chuck’s mouth.]

    Chuck: I feel that these “war crimes” would be a lot easier with an automap.

    Sync: Ah, wonderful. Purge that hatred. Leave plenty of fascinating sound bites for future historians to debate in their graduate theses.

    [Chuck drifts the Gunforge into an intersecting tunnel. He seems contemplative.]

    Chuck: I was going to start attending a technical school this fall, on the other side of the country. It’s like a college, but it focuses on getting you ready for a specific kind of job.

    Sync: I am familiar with the concept. Please, continue.

    Chuck: Well, funny thing is, I was really looking forward to getting out of that trailer park. See the world a little, experience cold weather, live where even the nearest McDonald’s isn’t thirty miles away. But right now, here I am, and I just want to be back home. With my mom and brother, with all those fussy old ladies, with Teekie. I’d even kinda like to be bullied around by John.

    Sync: Ah yes, it’s only natural to feel an increased longing for home when one is forced into distant environments for extended periods. Many of my planet’s most famous philosophers have written eloquent treatises on the subject. I myself have missed my family dearly these past few septacycles. Here are some holos of me with my children.

    Chuck: They all look like you.

    Sync: Naturally. They all budded off of me. There ought to be a resemblance.

    Chuck: No, I mean exactly like you.

    Sync: Hmph. Typical American, saying all foreigners look alike.

    Chuck: The position of the antennae, the facial expression, the beard, everything. It's like looking at hundreds of miniature yous.
  17. NAHTMMM

    NAHTMMM eating my lemon

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    Things you never wanted to imagine

    [Dusk at the lake. John Clock is sitting in a fold-up cloth chair, sipping wine and making conversation with a young woman in another chair. There are several empty bottles nearby.]

    John Clock: . . . And, in fact, the facility with which one may utilize the nobler levels of language can elevate one above one's perceived station in society. As I'm sure you'll agree?

    Woman: [leaning forward, smiling and nodding] Uh-huh. That's fascinatin'!

    John Clock: . . . but honestly, all this discussion of non-carnal matters has become tiresome. The fact of the matter is, as I hope you'll acquiesce, that it would be extremely delightful if I were to get intimate with your naughty bits.

    Woman: Uh-huh. That's fascinatin'!

    John Clock: No, what I mean is, well . . . to put it in the vernacular: would you like to "get it on" with me?

    Woman: Uhhh, yeah, I reckon I'd be up for that. [pointing] That is your truck, right?

    John Clock: Why, yes, although I fail to apprehend the relevance . . .

    Woman: Never done it in the vehicular before, but I bet the flames make it even better!

    John Clock: Well, we could retreat to that location if you truly wish to do so, m'dear. I am quite willing to suffer the cramped space for the opportunity to acquire a tactile experience of your extremely erotic tatas.

    Woman: Well, let's get goin'. Like I always say, YOLO!

    John Clock: . . . I want you out of my state by midnight.

    [Pan over to Other John, sitting in a frayed cloth chair of his own, surrounded by empty beer bottles and about a dozen giggling, attractive girls.]

    Other John: . . . so then I fired my anti-alien phasogun an' that wiped out five of their saucers. But the rest were still chasing me, so I peeled outta the parkin' lot and headed straight for the Say-garro Underpass!

    [The girls ooooh appreciatively.]

    Other John: I gunned it but they was hard on my heels. It was real close, but I got to the 'pass and zoomed right through at one-twenty. 'Course, they couldn't all fit under there so most of 'em hit each other an' blowed up. That's why there was all that busted glass on the road next day. Cops prob'ly figgered some loser lost a bunch of beer off his bed, but we know better, right whores?

    [A chorus of agreement.]

    Other John: I still had about thirty Martians after me, so I one-sixtied my pickup across the margin like in an action movie and headed back toward the hardware store --

    Several girls: Oooh, you have a pickup?

    Other John: I sure do. It's right over there.

    Girl #1: Oooh, it's got flames!

    Girl #2: That is such a turn-on.

    Girl #3: And you ain't bad-looking neither!

    [As the crowd converges on Other John, pan further over to where Other Other John is sitting near a campfire with a nervous-looking young man.]

    Other Other John: It's wonderful how well we get along. I feel this deep connection with you, like we really understand each other. Do you feel it too?

    Young Man: Yeah, yeah. I guess I do too.

    Other Other John: In fact, our relationship is so intimate that I feel like we could move to the next level.

    Young Man: Er, y-you do?

    Other Other John: Definitely! I feel very safe in asking you . . .

    Young Man: Yes?

    Other Other John: [leaning in] Would you like to see my pony?

    Young Man: [blushing] Er, yeah. Yeah, I would like to see your, uh, "pony".

    Other Other John: Okay then! [pulling a toy out of his backpack] This is Sweetie Pie. I saw her in a bargain bin at Toys 'R' Us two years ago, and I knew right away that we would be bestest friends . . .

    [Pan to where Chuck and Teekie are sitting on their sleeping bags, gazing up across the lake.]

    Data: That was certainly a beautiful sunset.

    Teekie: Mm-hmm.

    Data: And may I say that it has been a pleasure to spend the last few hours in your company, my kind-of friend or at least acquaintance who does not insult me?

    Teekie: Mm-hmm. Glad to be here too.

    Data: I am, if I may broach the subject, appreciative that the others were understanding enough to permit us to remain in the party after I "spazzed out" earlier.

    Teekie: Mm-hmm. Chuck?

    Data: Yes, Teekie?

    Teekie: Sheldon thinks you're an alien from outer space.

    Data: No! Of course I'm not an alien! I am definitely not an alien. I am Chuck Rogan, who is not an alien and who is definitely not in space somewhere, defending the universe against an evil armada.

    Teekie: Because you've been acting strangely ever since that guy in the Jeep showed up, and there were noises like something flying through the air last night. And X was telling me about a dream he had where there were two of you in your bedroom, so Sheldon and I think maybe you're a really bad duplicate of Chuck? And Chuck is on a mission for Interwebs? Like in the game at Dove's store, but with slightly better CGI?

    Data: All of this is unimportant and I do not hear it. Hypothetically, however, suppose that I were an alien. What would happen?

    Teekie: Well, in that case, Sheldon would like to meet with you. At my home. Sheldon finds aliens . . . interesting.

    [giggles distract both from the conversation. Girls #1 and #3 are getting cozy with Other John.]

    Data: The truth is, Teekie, that I am an extraterrestrial construct sent here to impersonate Chuck.

    Teekie: I knew it!

    Data: However, you must keep this secret from everyone. I am only disclosing my true identity to you because it is possible that your life is in danger, should you remain in my immediate vicinity. You see -- do you smell something?

    Teekie: You mean those girls' perfumes?

    Data: No, it smells rather like one of the intergalactic assassins that I was going to warn you about. But what are the odds of --

    [An energy beam flashes out from nearby bushes, burning a hole through Data's torso. Teekie shrieks.]

    Data: Apparently the odds are very good.

    [The second Zanzoken snarls in surprise and takes off running. Data runs to the John truck, starts it, and takes off in pursuit, with Teekie climbing in beside him. The others are roused by this turn of events.]

    John Clock: You come right back here with my gorram truck, Chuck, or you shall RUE the day you were born! RUE IT, I SAY!!

    Girl #1: [sitting up; to Other John] Wait, I thought that was your truck.

    Other John: Uh, I ride in it a lot?

    Girl #3: Ew, you're a lot less attractive now. Maybe I should go home, my boyfriend will be wondering where I am . . .

    [Both Girls start to get up.]

    Other John: No, no, wait! I'm, uh, I'm saving up for a Harley!

    Girl #1: I don't know . . .

    [The Girls look at each other.]

    Girl #3: Eh. I reckon it's good enough.

    [Aboard the enemy bridge.]

    CaptainWacky: . . . and that's why Xyquil the Exterminator of Adorable Kittens is actually a heel if you just stop to think about it.

    Gagh: Yes. Now will you hear my status report?

    CaptainWacky: The fleet's all in one piece, right? That's good enough for me! LOL!

    Comm Officer: Sirs, madam, there is a Priority One message coming through on the Assassins frequency.

    Gagh: Accept the call.

    CaptainWacky: Wait! Let's give it some ambiance first! How about the '80s?

    [CaptainWacky starts pressing buttons on his armrest.]

    Gagh: Sir, we have no time for this. We --

    [The opening notes of "Careless Whisper" (Never Gonna Dance Again) drown Gagh out. Everyone but CaptainWacky cover their ears. CaptainWacky turns a dial and the music quiets down to background level.]

    CaptainWacky: Sorry guys, I forgot to turn down the volume after last night's WWF bout! ROFL! That was the greatest match ever! Or at least this month probably!

    Gagh: Yes. May we please pay attention to the call now?

    CaptainWacky: Of course! Wait, just a sec, let's all listen to the refrain. It's the best part of the song IMHO!

    [Data tears along the road in the pickup.]

    Data: We must stop the Zanzoken from reporting that Chuck is not on Earth. Secrecy may be our best weapon at this time.

    Teekie: Right. What do you need me to do?

    Data: You need to jump to safety at a dramatically appropriate moment.

    Teekie: How about now?

    Data: No, give it a few minutes.

    Teekie: Well, if we're not going to die right away, could I ask you something? I've always wondered whether . . .

    [Back on the bridge.]

    Zanzoken #2: Hello?

    Gagh: This is the mothership of the Whacker armada, First Officer Gagh speaking, how may we help you?

    Zanzoken #2: I have news regarding the target I was sent to destroy.

    [In the pickup.]

    Data: No, please get this straight. The Zolians elect their Prime Minister via their tricameral legislature, whereas the Molians put their most elderly career politicians in a box full of spikes, shake it around, and whoever comes out alive gets to regulate the vegetable trade for the next three years.

    Teekie: I still don't understand what this has to do with whether there's Jell-O in space.

    Data: Of course not. You are a mere Earthling. The logic of advanced civilizations is far beyond your comprehension. Also, you need to jump now.

    [On the bridge.]

    Zanzoken #2: The last Wordforger . . . is --

    CaptainWacky: Hulk Hogan in disguise? LOL!

    Zanzoken #2: No, you idiot. The last Wordforger is . . .

    [The pickup plows into the spaceship. Metal buckles and the gas tank explodes in a fireball. Teekie gets up and stares at the scene.]

    Teekie: Wow.

    [On the flagship bridge. The sound of the explosion comes over the speaker.]

    Zanzoken #2: Hang on, someone's at the door. [grumbling fades out]

    Gagh: The last Wordforger is what? Is what?

    [Flames have spread to the spaceship. There is a moment's relative quiet. Then an alien-sounding kachunk is heard, and the ship’s engine explodes in a huge fireball that entirely consumes truck and ship.]

    Teekie: Wow. Wait till I tell Sheldon about this.
    • Agree Agree x 1
  18. NAHTMMM

    NAHTMMM eating my lemon

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    In which proper nutrition is discussed

    [In the Gunforge.]

    Chuck: Tell me, Sync. I guess the ship is called a Gunforge because it's piloted by a Wordforger. But why is the pilot called a Wordforger?

    Sync: Because the base of our operations, what is now the War Room, was called The Wordforge before the government took control. The name carried over. You see, originally it was a settlement of artists, mainly writers.

    Chuck: And then when the settlement died out, the government bought the building and moved their own people and stuff in.

    Sync: Oh, no, it's nearly all the artists' equipment in there still. [off Chuck's expression] What? They bought good brands. Everything was up to date. Why throw it away?

    Chuck: All that military equipment belonged to the writers?

    Sync: Well, not all of it of course.

    Chuck: Not all of it?

    Sync: A lot of it had to be replaced after the raid. That goes without saying. I understand the surveillance equipment in particular had to be completely scrapped. But yes, much of the equipment in there today was the artists'.

    Chuck: Raid?

    Sync: Gas grenades were mostly used, but, to paraphrase an adage, what's the point of a military assault if you can't have a few explosions?

    Chuck: [deep breath] Okay, let me get this straight. Did your government actually attack a bunch of artists?

    Sync: Of course. Why wouldn't they?

    Chuck: And did these artists actually have a huge room full of military-grade electronics?

    Sync: Yes. There were a lot of them and some of them were rich enough to buy the good stuff. Fortunately, Peace Intelligence caught on to them before they could do any major damage.

    Chuck: Damage like what? Writing nursery rhymes about politicians? Putting on allegorical plays about witch trials?

    Sync: I mean damage like enacting fictional political systems that were never meant for real-world use or simply assassinating critics who gave them poor reviews. I understand this particular group had been very interested in bioweapons graffiti.

    Chuck: I think your world and mine have very different concepts of art.

    Sync: I must agree. I believe that your da Vinci never even put missile launchers on his flying apparatus.

    [The mothership bridge. A yeoman troll approaches the Captain's chair.]

    Yeoman: Your lucky wrestler bobblehead, sir.

    CaptainWacky: Well, I'm ready to start the invasion! Who else wants to come along?

    Gagh: We must wait. Our last assassin was killed before he could report on his mission. We cannot take the chance that we have an enemy, still alive and unaccounted for, who could defeat us.

    missmanners: Nonsense. A strong Wordforger might be able to defeat one Zanzoken with luck. But this one was from Earth, a pitiful planet that would die if it lost a single moon. Zanzoken are the deadliest, most competent assassins in the universe. For him to defeat two Zanzoken would require an incredible amount of absurdity. The very thought defies belief. No, you may depend upon it, the last Wordforger is neutralized. Proceed with the invasion!

    CaptainWacky: Yeah, let's get this invasion going already!

    Gagh: As you command. missmanners, the Moderator frequency?

    missmanners: Transmitting now.

    [Exterior of the fleet. All of the ships begin visibly vibrating up and down. They approach the Moderator, and, as forboding music plays, slip through it as if it were not there.]

    [Back in the Gunforge. Chuck has found his way out of the asteroid. The Gunforge now rests just within the mouth of the tunnel.]

    Chuck: I don't suppose the enemy has a critical point in their armada that we could take out, instead of having to deal with all those ships.

    Sync: That is a ridiculous idea, which is clearly due to wishful thinking and a desire to avoid glorious death against overwhelming odds. As it happens, however, there is a transmitter on the flagship that coordinates the Whacker attack ships.

    [Sync puts up a schematic of the mothership on the HUD and begins to manipulate it.]

    Chuck: They're coordinated?

    Sync: Oh, very much so. Most of the Whacker Fleet's danger lies in how tightly coordinated their pilots are. It's what allows them to pull off extremely effective, exquisitely timed attacks against their targets.

    Chuck: Do you hear laughter?

    Sync: No. Now if we were to take out the transmitter here, those fighters would, to borrow a phrase from the historian Dorkus Maximus, flop around like fish on a griddle in a hurricane. But it will be very difficult. The target area is only the size of a peanut butter jar.

    Chuck: No problem. We used to bullseye tarantulas in our Ford Escort back home, they’re not much bigger than a jar. Well, the ones we shot weren't. We had a rule of thumb about not attacking things bigger than the tires.

    Sync: Hush! Look, there goes the invasion force.

    [The fighters are indeed coming into view, gliding noiselessly, menacingly, through the vastness of space. They keep coming, waves and waves. When they have disappeared into the distance, there is a long pregnant silence, then the mothership slowly proceeds into view. It is impressively large.]

    Chuck: Sweet mother of Monogram! That ship must be bigger than a Super Star Destroyer!

    Sync: Calm down, Chuck. Don't let the size fool you: it's only big enough to destroy very little stars.

    Chuck: It could conquer a planet all on its own! What good will destroying the fleet do?

    Sync: That will have to be dealt with when we come to it. Be brave and follow your plan!

    [The mothership has completely passed by. Chuck looks out at it and takes a deep breath.]

    Chuck: I'm ready.

    [Mothership bridge. Gagh is still standing at the pedestal, intently absorbing information as it comes in and revising battle plans. missmanners is lounging in a recliner. CaptainWacky is CaptainWacky.]

    missmanners: That dreadful War Room. I was thinking of repainting it in cool pastels. What do you think?

    CaptainWacky: Pastels are the best choice for a War Room! They keep everyone energized for a full day of slaughter!

    [Suddenly the lights dim and the room shudders.]

    Technician: Our aft is under attack!

    CaptainWacky: That's what she said!

    [Gagh brings up the damage readouts and a tactical display, showing a single approaching blip, on the pedestal.]

    Gagh: Can you get a profile on our attacker?

    missmanners: [lazily] Ah, foolish Peace Alliance. Do you know, I couldn't even ask that question there without someone screaming racism?

    Technician: The weapon signature suggests an abnormally great potence, but otherwise it falls within the specs of a Gunforge, sir.

    Gagh: [turning to face the recliner] A Gunforge, eh?

    missmanners: My dear, it isn't becoming for a man of your age to look at a lady like that.

    Gagh: So, the Wordforgers are all dead? Your precious assassins could never fail? Let's plunge ahead with the invasion and never look back?

    missmanners: I really cannot imagine how two Zanzoken assassination attempts could have failed against an Earthling. Perhaps they were both sick. Very sick. Realistically, they must have been almost dead. I should have inquired after their health. I make a lovely space chicken noodle soup --

    Gagh: I think we've had quite enough of your machinations. Guards, kindly escort missmanners to the brig. And know this, whether or not this is a trap we shall prevail in the battle to come.

    CaptainWacky: Hey, Gagh, whatcha doing?

    Gagh: I am putting a known WCW sympathizer into custody, sir.

    CaptainWacky: Carry on. Make sure she has peanut butter with her bread and water. Everyone should get lots of protein in their diet!

    [As Gagh barks out orders to return fire, a guard removes missmanners from the bridge and leads her along the corridor outside.]

    Guard: Sorry, ma'am, but orders are orders.

    missmanners: Oh, that's quite all right, dear. I understand. I hope you aren't stressing out over this little misunderstanding.

    Guard: It's funny you say that. I've been going through a difficult time at home lately, and combined with a full-time job harassing peaceful civilizations, well, it's been very wearing.

    missmanners: I can see it in your face. You look like you could do with some comfort food.

    Guard: I do?

    missmanners: You certainly do. Would you like a cookie?

    [The Gunforge closes in on the mothership from behind, evading laser fire and shooting intermittently.]

    Sync: There is the communications nexus. Shoot, Chuck! SHOOOOOOOOOOT!

    [Chuck shoots. The red squares fly straight and true, striking the nexus and blowing it to pieces.]

    Sync: Well done!

    [Chuck whoops excitedly and continues shooting as the Gunforge passes underneath the mothership.]

    Chuck: Hey, watch this! I'm gonna hit the bridge first try!

    [He swings the Gunforge around as it speeds away from the mothership and fires a single bolt. The shot surges toward the camera and past, hitting a structure just to the right of the bridge. The structure explodes.]

    Sync: Focus, Chuck. We must still stop the fleet from attacking Interwebs.

    Chuck: Oh, yeah. You're right. Let's go, then.

    [On the bridge. Sparks are flying from consoles because of course they are.]

    Technician: The tri-directional module has been destroyed! Steering is nonresponsive!

    Gagh: Dead stop! Commence repairs immediately!

    CaptainWacky: And someone get me a donut! I like the creme-filled ones best IMO!

    Gagh: I said dead stop! Why are we accelerating?

    Technician: We have entered the gravitational field of an old spambot disposal black hole. Engines are sluggish to respond.

    Engineer: That ship disabled several of our reactors. I can give ye 50% power in ten minutes.

    Technician: Not soon enough. We'll be crushed within two minutes!

    Gagh: We have no steering, no communications, and too little power to escape the spambots.

    [He turns to CaptainWacky.]

    Gagh: What do we do?!

    [Dramatic zoom-in on CaptainWacky.]

    CaptainWacky: We LOL! LOLOLOLOLO--

    [A tiny escape pod flies away as the mothership is torn apart by the black hole and explodes very satisfyingly.]
  19. NAHTMMM

    NAHTMMM eating my lemon

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    In which Chuck learns that the Forge will be with him . . . always

    [Establishing shot of the fleet of Whacker fighters coasting through the blackness of space. Far up ahead is Interwebs. Cut to individual cockpits like the attack on the Death Star in ANH.]

    Red Whacker 1: Communications with commanding officer remain in a state of total disruption. This unit requires input regarding further action.

    Red Whacker 2: Regulations indicate that we must proceed with standing orders until countermanded or modified.

    Red Whacker 3: Correct. Further data: this unit calculates that, despite the inefficiency caused by impaired communications, our force will be sufficient to overwhelm any resistance offered by the Interwebs defense systems.

    Red Whacker 1: Logical. Input accepted. The attack on Interwebs will proceed according to schedule.

    Red Whacker 4: Have any of you guys seen Steve? I haven't heard anything from him since he left for asteroid patrol.

    Red Whacker 1: Error. Error. Biological entity detected. Sterilization procedure commencing.

    Red Whacker 4: I'm serious, Jim. I've got a bad feeling something's happened to Steve.

    Red Whacker 2: Oh, shut up, you've ruined the moment! What are you so worried about? Steve's always late to everything.

    Red Whacker 3: Ah, here he comes. Hey Steve, hurry up!

    [Pew pew pew sounds, followed by explosions.]

    Red Whacker 3: Yikes, Steve's firing on us.

    Red Whacker 2: He's hitting some of us, too.

    Red Whacker 1: Hey, Steve, if you'd had markmanship like that on Saturday, that freighter crew wouldn't have escaped with the princess.

    [We see the Gunforge advancing and firing on one ship after another.]

    Red Whacker 2: Steve must be really mad.

    Red Whacker 4: I told you we should have waited for him.

    Red Whacker 1: Steve, I order you to stand down. We get it, you're upset with us for starting the invasion without you. Save it for after the battle, I'll buy you a beer and we can talk this over, okay?

    Red Whacker 3: Strange . . . that isn't Steve's ship. It looks like he's gotten hold of one of those Gunforges.

    Red Whacker 1: Is that a smiley face by the cockpit?

    Red Whacker 4: I think it is. Weird. Do you think it's supposed to be ironic?

    Red Whacker 2: No, Steve's more of a straightforward skull and crossbones guy.

    [More pew pew pew.]

    Red Whacker 2: He's destroyed at least a quarter of the fleet by now. We should probably do something about this.

    Red Whacker 1: Yeah, but what?

    Red Whacker 3: I think we're going to have to fight back.

    Red Whacker 1: Steve, this is Jim. This is your last chance. Cease your attack, or we'll have to --

    [BOOM as RW #1 explodes.]

    Red Whacker 3: Whoa, he blew up Jim!

    Red Whacker 4: No surprise there, Steve's always hated Jim.

    Red Whacker 2: That's definitely a court martial offense. Steve, as the highest-ranked living officer, I place you under arrest. Any further aggression will be met with --

    [BOOM]

    Red Whacker 3: That's it. Everyone, attack Steve.

    Red Whacker 5: Who's Steve?

    Red Whacker 4: He's in the, uh, the funny-looking ship.

    [The Whacker fleet turns, each individual ship at a different rate and angle, and begin to rain laser fire upon the Gunforge, which begins to dodge as best it can.]

    Chuck: Now they're beginning to fight back. Well, it was fun while it lasted.

    Sync: If you say so. I see little amusement in destroying those who refuse to defend themselves.

    Chuck: No, I meant my life. I'm not good enough to win this fight.

    [The Gunforge shudders under a direct hit as the battle continues.]

    Sync: With an attitude like that, you will certainly not be victorious. Hard to port!

    [Chuck has already dodged a head-on charging Whacker ship. The enemy continues straight on, colliding with another Whacker and exploding spectacularly, because no massive dogfight is complete without this scene.]

    Sync: We do have one more weapon in our arsenal: the Rep Bomb.

    Chuck: Okay, how do I use it?

    Sync: You must go without shooting for a whole sixty seconds, to allow it to charge up. Then, press the red button on your console and leave the vicinity immediately. I would also recommend that you previously bring all the enemies you can as close in as possible, for maximum effect.

    Chuck: Sixty seconds?! I could be vaporized six hundred times over in that -- fine, I'll do it.

    [Chuck begins to dodge and weave within as small a volume as he can manage.]

    Chuck: Reeeally not convinced this is a good idea . . .

    Red Whacker 4: I think he's stopped shooting at us. What do we do now?

    Red Whacker 3: I don't know. Is he surrendering? Steve, do you surrender?

    Red Whacker 4: Maybe his radio is out and he's trying to signal us with his ship movements?

    Red Whacker 3: Everyone, cease fire while we figure this out. Does anyone know Flatley Battle Language?

    Chuck: Hey, have they stopped attacking us? We might survive after all!

    Sync: Forty seconds to go . . .

    Red Whacker 5: I do. Uh . . . Galactic north is that way . . . I think he's saying that we couldn't hit the broad side of a highest-priority cruiser and we should concentrate fire at our mothers at bearing asteroid mark ugly?

    Red Whacker 3: Nobody insults the Whacker Empire with gibberish and gets away with it. Open fire!

    [Several direct hits rock the Gunforge.]

    Chuck: AAUGH!

    Sync: One more hit like that and we're done for! Twenty seconds . . .

    Chuck: Really wishing I'd paid attention to my brother talking about that Touhou thing . . .

    Sync: Rep Bomb will be fully charged in four . . . three . . .

    [A laser heads straight for the Gunforge! At the last possible moment, Chuck spins out of the way so that it merely burns off a stripe of paint.]

    Sync: Fully charged NOW!

    [Chuck pushes the red button. A red bubble extrudes from the gun port of the Gunforge. The bubble slowly expands to three times the size of the ship and then detaches, like a bubble gum bubble. A few shots bounce off its exterior as the Gunforge turns and dives out of the picture. The bubble ominously turns opaque as . . . ]

    Red Whacker 5: Huh. That isn't in the Flatley grammar at all.

    Red Whacker 3: What should we do? Go after the Gunforge?

    Red Whacker 4: Nah, let's poke this thing with a stick.

    [The bubble explodes, sending white-hot globs of laseriness in all directions. One by one, the Whacker fighters are struck with the globs. They either explode or are quickly burned through. This goes on for several minutes while Chuck and Sync alternately cheer and cringe. Finally the carnage is over. After a breath, Chuck scans the skies once more and turns to Sync.]

    Chuck: So. I guess that's it.

    Sync: We did it!

    Chuck: [slowly grinning] Yeah. We did it. [grin fades] Shouldn't there be one more, final challenge? It feels anticlimactic somehow.

    Sync: A natural response for a species that still relies on adrenaline and video game logic. Let us return to the Interwebs base. There will be festivities such as you have never seen! I have no doubt that the Administrator will bestow upon you the highest honor that the Peace Alliance has to give, the --
  20. NAHTMMM

    NAHTMMM eating my lemon

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    The end

    Administrator: -- Order of We Think You're Pretty Okay, with nut clusters.

    [Chuck, the Administrator, and a few other noteworthies are on a high platform before a cheering crowd of Interwebs residents.]

    Administrator: Wherever you may go, Chuck, rest assured that you will always be welcome in the Intergalactic Peace Alliance.

    Other Interwebs residents: So say we all.

    Administrator: You are of course welcome to return home. But, we would prefer that you stay and continue to risk your neck on our behalf. After all, that was only one Whacker fleet, and missmanners is still alive.

    Chuck: Are you setting me up for a sequel?

    Administrator: You'd think so, wouldn't you?

    Sync: If I may interject, this reminds me of a story. One day, Goloca decided to take a trip to Clarksville by train, but as he was packing --

    Chuck: Sync, tell me something. Why are you a navigator? You seem to have . . . very different knowledge.

    Sync: How perceptive of you! The truth is that, at heart and by training, I am a philosopher. In fact . . .

    [All the lights dim, except for a spotlight on Sync.]

    Sync: I am the very model of a modern learn'd philosopher
    I've information trivial, conditional, and uselesser
    I know the Five Tautologies, and quote debates historical
    From ancients to Zzoboxxaser, with footnotes quaint, wise, and floral –


    Chuck: Isn't it way too late to turn this into a musical?

    [The lights come back up.]

    Sync: Hmph. I used to be an ambassador to the Valcuns, but I was recalled and reassigned after an unfortunate incident. The most I am allowed to say about it is that, at a cocktail party, several people in my immediate vicinity perished while suffering from symptoms that were similar to extreme boredom.

    Chuck: Would you believe that I actually believe you?

    Administrator: Chuck? Have you reached a decision?

    Chuck: Yeah, sure. I'd be crazy to pass up a chance like this. But I'm not going to kill people for wearing mismatched socks.

    Administrator: Of course not. We have Sock-Wearing Action Teams for that.

    Chuck: And if I'm going to be risking my life for you, you're going to have to give me better support than a navigator and a pop gun. [under his breath] Like maybe that single-seater fighter.

    Administrator: Rest assured that we are continually improving our defense capabilities. In fact, we recently hired a master engineer who wants to add some sort of robotic tech to the Gunforge design. I don't understand the details, but he assures me that it's very popular among a people called the Japanese, and that their per capita death rate from monster invasions is actually on the low side for their galaxy.

    Chuck: Maybe I could help him with the design. I'm good at putting things together in creative ways.

    Administrator: I'm sure he would welcome your input. You are, after all, the hero who flew a Gunforge to victory. We all owe our lives, sanity, and intact thoraxes to you.

    Chuck: Don't forget Albert. I'm going to miss him. Sure, he was frustrating, abrasive, and smelled like Dagobah, but he died saving me from an assassin, and I've always held that the loss of one individual diminishes he's right behind me isn't he.

    Albert: Hello to you too, sweet cheeks. And pardon me for not being able to control my pheromone cycle.

    Chuck: Albert! You're alive! :) Whoa, how'd I do that?

    Other Interwebs residents: One of us! One of us!

    Albert: I just needed a little alone time to patch up my internals. I told you to believe in yourself, Chuck. You may think you're only a pathetic member of a backwards society from a laughably incompetent world, but you rose to the occasion and defeated a fleet of warriors when nobody else could. I tell you, it'd be fate if I believed in fate.

    Chuck: What made you decide to get into the recruiting business, anyway?

    Albert: None of your beeswax. But if you must know, I figured anything had to be better than selling trombones.

    Chuck: Is it?

    Albert: Not really.

    [Nighttime at the trailer park. The Johns accost Teekie as she exits the convenience store.]

    John John: Hey, Teekie, where's your boyfriend? I need to talk to him about the thousands of dollars and whuppin' he owes me.

    Teekie: I don't have a boyfriend.

    John John: Play coy all you want, but when I find Chuck I'm gonna --

    Chuck's Mother: *squawks*

    John John: [smarmily] No, we haven't seen him since yesterday. Why don't you ask Teekie? She took off with him to make out, and trashed my pick-up!

    Other Other John: That must have been some make-out session.

    Chuck's Mother: *squawks*

    Teekie: Well, he insulted Sheldon and now he's dead.

    [Everyone stares at her.]

    Teekie: But not really, because that was a fake Chuck and now he's in space somewhere? It's a little confusing.

    [The scene is flooded with light from above and an unearthly rumbling.]

    Teekie: Hey, maybe that's him and he can explain it all for you.

    [The others race out to the convenience store, where they can see that a bright, loud something is descending to the ground.]

    Teekie: I'd better get Sheldon. He'd never forgive me if he missed out on this.

    [The something turns out to be the Gunforge. The crowd murmurs convey amazement, fright, and curiosity in turn as it sets down and remains in place. A few distinct voices.]

    Voice #1: It looks like a spaceship!

    Voice #2: Who or what do you think is inside it?

    Dove: It can't be one of ours. All the secret American planes that can land on their jets are round.

    [Soon a hatch opens, and Chuck gets out.]

    Crowd: CHUCK?!

    Chuck: Uh, yeah. Hi, everybody. I've been in space.

    [Chuck hugs his Mom as Sync gets out, drawing more murmurs from the crowd.]

    Chuck: Wait here, I need to get a few things.

    [X goes up to Sync.]

    X: Wow, you're a real space alien!

    Sync: Indeed I am. You must be X. Chuck has told me a great deal about you. It is my pleasure to meet you. [to the crowd] Greetings and salutations. My name is Sync. I'm sure there are questions that you all would like answered. You see --

    Anna: Yeah! Like, why did Tara poison Robyn's evil twin's foie gras when her current personality is too young to remember Robyn stealing Charles from her?

    Voice #1: Have you seen my car keys?

    Voice #2: What happens to socks in the dryer?

    Voice #3: What happens to clocks in the fryer?

    Voice #4: What happens to jocks on The Wire?

    Voice #5: How come Earth is supposedly so insignificant, yet most aliens seem to know everything about its culture?

    Voice #6: Could you go back in time and make the ending of nuBSG awesome?

    Dove: [muttering as he flips through a notepad] "Hello" . . . "Don't shoot" . . . "I come in peace/revenge/search of my missing organs" . . . handshakin' protocol . . . ah, here we go. [out loud] Where are you from, what are your intentions, please explain in detail all of your interactions with the government up to this point, and would you like refreshments?

    Sync: I am from another galaxy in what you call the Local Group.

    [Impressed murmurs from the crowd. They continue in response to Sync's further revelations.]

    Sync: I am a navigator in the enforcement arm of the Intergalactic Peace Alliance. We have been at war with the Whacker Alliance for many a long season. In our bleakest hour, your Chuck bravely defeated the entire enemy armada single-handedly. You should be very proud of him. Even now, a statue is being planned for eternal display in our capital city.

    Anna: But hang on. Chuck's been with us this entire time. He fixed my TV!

    Dove: And helped me erect my anti-alien antenna! Er, no offense.

    John John: And blew up my truck!

    Sync: That must have been the Data unit that Albert left behind to fill Chuck's place. Where is it now?

    John John: Well, if he hadn't died, I'da killed him myself!

    Sync: That is sad news. But never fear, I am sure it will be honored with a passing mention on the plaque on Chuck's statue.

    [Chuck returns. He is carrying a duffel bag, the "pancake" saucers, and a pair of sunglasses.]

    [Chuck's Mom squawks questioningly.]

    Chuck: Uh, well, probably, yeah. Everything Sync said about me defeating an armada to save a bunch of crazy aliens from another crazy alien is probably mostly true. But if he mentioned anything about me mistaking a water fountain for an alien, don't believe it.

    [Chuck's Mom squawks.]

    Chuck: I'm afraid I am, Mom. I love you, but I have to make a choice. I can stay here on Earth without a future . . .

    [Chuck turns to look toward Dove.]

    Chuck: . . . or I can go out into space and chase my dreams. And wear a really thick pair of oven mitts while I do it.

    [Chuck embraces and kisses his Mom, waves farewell to everyone else, then turns to leave.]

    [Chuck's Mom squawks.]

    Chuck: Don't worry, I'll stay as safe as I can. And I'll visit often.

    Teekie: Wait up, Chuck!

    Chuck: Yes, Teekie?

    [Teekie arrives in the crowd, panting and carrying Sheldon between her hands.]

    Teekie: Chuck, I have to know . . . is there Jell-O in space?

    Chuck: If there is, I wouldn't eat it without reading the ingredients very carefully.

    [A strange trilling sound is heard.]

    Sync: That must be the alarm I set up. Chuck, the odds of our being detected and confronted by your country's military are reaching unacceptable levels. If we delay longer, we risk being asked to fix nuBSG's ending by people with enormous guns.

    Chuck: I'm coming.

    [Chuck follows Sync into the Gunforge's cockpit. The trilling grows louder.]

    [Teekie jerks away from Sheldon.]

    Teekie: Ouch!

    [The trilling stops.]

    Sheldon: Get your fingers away from my mouth and stop them, you nincompoop!

    [But it is too late. The Gunforge has already begun to rumble.]

    Sheldon: That's my ride back! Stop them imme --

    [The Gunforge rises into the night sky. Soon it is gone.]

    Sheldon: You buffoon! How many times have I told you, I want to meet aliens so they can return me to my home planet?

    Teekie: Sorry. Would some romaine make you feel better?

    Sheldon: Romai -- you truly do not comprehend the depths of your incompetence, do you? Even for one as long-lived as I, that might have been a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity!

    Teekie: Buttercrunch?

    Sheldon: With plenty of grated carrot on top, thank you very much.

    [Teekie heads back home with Sheldon. Everyone else disperses more slowly, still chattering about the night's events. Soon the scene is silent again. Then the arcade machine blinks and broompts into life.]

    Machine: Aaah, that feels better. Nothing like a regularly scheduled defrag to clean out the ol' polycircuits.

    Machine: Huh. There are a lot of fading thermal signatures over there. Like, a bunch of humans stood in a crowd, and then left. It was even too boring for them to hang around for long.

    Machine: And a huge thermal signature beyond. Must've been one of those bonfire things this planet likes.

    Machine: Yeah, that's gotta be it. I mean, if it was another assassin, the crowd would've been splattered all over the place, right? And if it was one of our ships, that'd mean the Armada was defeated, and I'd have been taken back, and not have to exist on this mudball anymore, right?

    Offscreen voice: Unfortunately, you are incorrect.

    [Data steps around the corner of the convenience store and into view.]

    Data: A Gunforge landed here,doubtless with Chuck at the controls. Unfortunately, as you see, I was too far away to reach it before it departed.

    Machine: Great, now we're both stuck on this backwards planet. Now what?

    Data: Based on the memories I assimilated from Chuck, I believe the traditional course of action is to form a novelty act in Las Vegas, Nevada.

    Machine: Ehhh, it beats hanging around here mocking that little squirt and wifi-ing Netflix, I guess. But if we're going into the entertainment business, I'm headed for Hollywood. I'm gonna make horror movies that'll make this bunch of mammals blow their minds.

    Machine: Like, they're all still on the "blood", and "cheap startles", and "supernatural monsters", stage. Barely started. Maybe a few internal organs, spattered here and there.

    Machine: Can you imagine if we just ripped off a few of the classics of Scaretor IV, or Bly-poq of Moz? I'm telling you, their heads would blow off. The Undotted i. The Missing Sandwich. Straight off. Poof.

    Data: The Middle-Aged Businessman Who Woke Up One Day And Understood Loneliness.

    Machine: Of course, I've always said Fluffy Dust IX is an underappreciated classic. I rank it up there with I or III or IV. But, you can't expect a bunch of flesh beings to understand the horror of grit when they wouldn't even get the brilliance of the shower scene in Perfectly Sane Person.

    Data: I would prefer to attempt to improve this planet more substantially if we are to be stuck here indefinitely. Perhaps if we were to create a suitable node on the fledgling planetary information network, we could attempt to inject advanced concepts into this society. Humans do not appreciate being instructed as to how to live their lives, but if we were to advertise it as a freewheeling center for debate on serious issues . . .

    Machine: Shyeah, like that would last for more than a week.

    Data: Perhaps you are correct. Do your propulsion units still work, or should I construct a gravbarrow to --

    [The end of a shotgun comes into view, pointed at Data's head.]

    Black Dove: Hello there, "Chuck".

    Data: Hello, friend or at least sort-of acquaintance who does not blow my head off. I am definitely Chuck Rogan, who is --

    Black Dove: Let's have a nice long conversation, "Chuck". I'm going to pour you a cup of refreshment all friendly-like, and then you're goin' to tell me all about the government collaborators and how they've been using alien technology to control the populace. And then, we're goin' back in time to fix the ending of a certain sci-fi franchise.

    Data: Would you instead be interested in shaping the socioeconomics of your planet?

    Black Dove: I'm listenin'.

    [Meanwhile, the Gunforge is soaring away from Earth into the blackness of space as the main theme plays.]

    Chuck: So, are we going back to Interwebs?

    Sync: Actually, no. We are headed to the Deep Blue Expanse. There are reports of economic terrorism on the planet Wwwtrkbbscm.

    Chuck: How is a fighter ship going to combat economic terrorism?

    Sync: Whackers are confronting outbound shippers and destroying all the vowels in their cargoes. Collateral damage is considerable. It's a heinous attack on the local zl, bnn, and ccnt industries.

    Chuck: The what industries?

    Sync: Exactly.

    [Chuck shakes his head, then grins in acceptance.]

    Chuck: Well, I guess we'll just have to teach them not to disemvowel people.

    Sync: Indeed. It will be a fierce fight, but I have the utmost confidence that it will end with us cutting their head off and grinding it to bits.

    Chuck: Sync? Do me a favor and never, ever use that metaphor again.

    [The Gunforge flies away from the camera and blasts into an opening wormhole. The music swells and stops.]

    Sync: I never said it was a metaphor.

    [The music rimshots. You know what I mean. Credits roll and THE END.]
    • Winner Winner x 1
  21. NAHTMMM

    NAHTMMM eating my lemon

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    So, believe it or not, I was actually concerned about things like pacing in writing this. So I took out a few bits that, like deleted scenes from an actual movie, I have saved for now because they were too derailing to leave in, but too funny (or “funny”) to leave entirely out. :naht:

    These both fit in in this part.



    [Next scene. Chuck is striding back to the parking area, several Wordforgers walking after him.]

    Wordforger #3: Relax. We'll shoot any long-distance barrage down with our B.A.B.A. defense system, and Wordforgers will take care of the actual invasion force.

    Chuck: Baba system?

    Wordforger #3: It was only just installed a few months ago, to replace the old A.B.B.A. system.

    [Chuck stops and turns around.]

    Chuck: You defended yourself with -- is this going to be a disco joke?

    Wordforger #5: :garamet: Disco is no joke. I lost my town to a disco attack.

    Chuck: You . . . what? How could that happen?

    Wordforger #5: We were enjoying a peaceful night at home, watching Saved By the Bell. Then the Beegians attacked. That bloodthirsty world of fools never would let us be. Everything was quaking, the ground itself was shaking. We ran outside to investigate, and saw there was something in the air up high. It was hundreds of bombs, plummeting straight at us. They burst and released disco album shrapnel. It was total madness. Panic! All over my village, people lay dying hideously. There was little I could do. In the end, only my mother and my brother stayed alive.

    Chuck: And you.

    Wordforger #5: Yes, obviously I survived. Alas, my wife did not.

    Chuck: I'm, uh, sorry to hear that.

    Wordforger #5: My species does not tend to experience what you would consider affectionate emotions. We grow to sexual maturity, find an acceptable mate, and produce offspring. But Stephanie . . . she was more than a woman, more than a woman to me.





    [Something offscreen catches Chuck's eye.]

    Chuck: What's that lanky thing skulking in the shadows over there?

    Wordforger #3: Hmm? Oh, that's Borgs. He probably looks like a scary monster to your primitive mammalian brain, but he's good people.

    Chuck: He doesn't look very happy.

    Wordforger #3: He used to be Administrator here, actually, until he was deposed for insanity.

    Chuck: Insanity?

    Wordforger #3: Yeah, he wanted to paint the War Room in neutrals. Ugh.

    Chuck: Well, I mention him because he's carrying what looks like a bomb.

    Wordforger #4: You should be careful assuming things about another society, you know. One person's bomb is another's back-scratcher.

    Chuck: Seriously, it has an LED readout and three colors of wire and everything.

    Wordforger #6: So? Everyone needs a hobby. Some people drink beer. Others build bombs and walk around in sensitive military installations with them. There's nothing wrong with that.

    Chuck: He just attached it to a server labeled Defense Systems Control. Now he's pressed a button on the bomb and it's making ticking noises.

    Wordforger #3: That does sound a little out of character for him, but I'm sure you're misinterpreting his intentions.

    Chuck: He's laughing maniacally and shouting, "Now I will be revenged upon Wordforge." Am I the only person hearing this?

    Wordforger #4: Don't be silly. He left on good terms. We even threw him a party.

    Wordforger #3: Remember at the end, when we tarred and feathered him and slid him down that muddy slope into the piranha pit? That was great.

    Wordforger #5: Yeah, everyone loved that.

    Chuck: . . . I need a drink.

    Wordforger #4: You shouldn’t drink on duty.

    Chuck: No, a Coke will do fine.

    Wordforger #5: There’s a vending machine in the hall over there. Have one on me.

    [Chuck looks the machine over. Unsurprisingly, none of the brands are familiar.]

    Chuck: Which of these tastes most like Coke?

    Wordforger #5: Hmm. I’d suggest the Widdles Classic.

    Chuck: That doesn't sound very appetizing, but if you say so.

    Wordforger #5: Unless you’re susceptible to cancer, of course.

    [Chuck recoils from the machine.]

    Chuck: I’ll pass. What’s this Furgle Shmurgle like?

    Wordforger #4: It’s a little sweet for my liking, but it’s pretty popular among non-bipeds. In bipeds it tends to induce vestigial limbs. Nobody’s sure why.

    Wordforger #5: :diacanu: Hey, you should try the Lethesoda. It’s the unforgettable cola!

    Wordforger #4: :garamet: I don’t think Chuck wants to spend the next few hours with absolutely no short-term memory.

    Chuck: How is it that you can build FTL spaceships and not be capable of making sugar water that doesn't attack whoever tries to drink it?!

    Wordforger #4: Now, that's not fair. There are plenty of perfectly safe soft drinks out there, depending on your species, gender, and latest meal. I just don't see any of them on this menu.

    Wordforger #6: It's not like any of the dangerous ingredients are included to deliberately damage the customer, aside from Lethesoda of course.

    Wordforger #3: They're all added to give the drink that extra something that sets it apart from the competition. Leola root gives Widdles Classic its bite, for example. You could drink Widdles Leola-Free and not risk cancer, but you'd miss out on what makes Widdles so special.

    Chuck: I'll risk that. Give me the Leola-free version.

    Wordforger #5: Ha, nobody carries it. It's not nearly popular enough to be profitable.

    Chuck: And the government does nothing about this?

    Wordforger #2: Oh, the soft drink industry was deregulated in the early 2000s. As long as the company prints "Buyer beware" somewhere on the can, it's all legal. See here.

    [Wordforger #2 buys a can of Lethesoda and hands it to Chuck, who looks it over.]

    Wordforger #5: It made for a nice boost to the economy for a while, but then the fizz went out and the bubble burst. Industry growth is flat nowadays.

    Wordforger #2: But, hey, having to scan the ingredients for things that can kill you is a small price to pay for access to over five million varieties of delicious sugar water.

    Chuck: But how can something that causes memory loss not have a warning about it?!

    Wordforger #4: Good old-fashioned bribery.

    Wordforger #5: Yeah. Every time the committee voted to require a warning label, the company gave each member a can as a “no hard feelings” gesture.

    Wordforger #4: Wasn't that the year the government diabetes rate skyrocketed?

    Wordforger #6: Ooh, this one has 110% of my government-mandated daily intake of Chemical X!

    Wordforger #5: Aren't you excused from that, on account of having iron-based blood and so your eyes would get huge and you'd lose all your fingers and toes?

    Wordforger #6: Oh, yeah, you're right.

    Chuck: Okay, whatever. Are any of these safe for me to drink?

    Wordforger #5: It depends. Are you pregnant?

    Chuck: I don’t even know anymore.

    Wordforger #5: Then that leaves Mr Jibb. It’s generally agreed to be downright mburtonkulous.

    Chuck: What does that mean?

    Wordforger #4: Slightly better than burtonkulous.

    Chuck: I’ll take it.



    And that's it! Hope you enjoyed reading along.
    • Winner Winner x 2