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Chapter Twenty Three – The Trip Out

Back to Chapter Twenty Two

Captain’s Log, Day Three.

Illustration of Mars.

Ok, I’m not the Captain of this crap parade, thank Baby Jesus I’m not. AWIS slammed this mission together and off we go. Liftoff and leaving Earth orbit performed with mechanical perfection. The tether system deployed as designed and now the hab unit and drive units spin around as counterweights, giving us Mars-compatible gravity so we stick to the floor in-flight.

Yet these jack-asses are already starting to grate on my nerves.

“Oh, let’s go for a run!” A run around the kitchen. Three hundred times around a 6 meter track is not a run, it’s a fantasy land.

Captain’s Log, Day Seven.

I am so not the Captain of this raft. Captain what’s’his-face insists on having an all-hands meeting every day at our fake 8am to discuss all the things that didn’t happen yesterday and aren’t going to happen tomorrow. This place is a waiting room, like an elevator with a sleeping area and a place to pee. To pretend otherwise means you’re higher than Paris Hilton throwing a “rave”.

Captain’s Log, Day Twelve

Still not the Captain. Discovered today that Mission Control is not only throttling our internet, but filtering it as well. PORN IS A HUMAN RIGHT! At our fake 5pm we are scheduled to play Monopoly on a real game board as a team. I will crush these fuckers. Step one: getting the railroads.

Captain’s Log, Day Twenty

I caught the Captain jamming our last stick of Pocky into his pie hole. Pie. I’d kill a man for a plate with a slice of still slightly steaming blueberry pie action with a scoop of vanilla on the side. I’d kill him twice, he’d go to Super Hell. That’s like Hell, only worse. Cappy, he just jammed that thing in his face looking at me with those cold, blue eyes establishing dominance with every lick of the stick. “Come and get it” that look says followed with “you can’t have it and you know that.” Fucker. Thank whatever god-like things that may be out there that the bacon is locked up.

Captain’s Log, Day Thirty-two

I’m still not the Captain. I snapped a towel on Hernadez’s ass. He jumped three feet in the air, and tried to deck me like I’d grabbed his mother. Finally someone separated us. It’s decided that tonight we’ll face off in arm wrestling. Our mission psychologist, a “Dr. Benway” suggests we process our aggressions out in a more structured format.

Captain’s Blog, Day Thirty-three

Fuck being Captain. So they tie our wrists together. I grab his other hand in mine so we can each lever off each other. His dumb spic tattoos showing under our AWIS-Branded wife-beater T’s. He stares at me, tells me he’s gonna eat my ears. I tell him his momma gonna be eating his ears and we fucking go at it. Screaming yayayayaya from the other three, sweating ass, blood coming from our fingernails. That shit didn’t go down easy or fast. Fuck, I lost.

Captain’s Blog, Day Forty-fuck, whatever

Still got that black eye, sucks. We’re at the god-damned table for our fake 8am “stand-up” meeting to discuss all the fake stuff we’re supposed to be doing while waiting to get on the real action on Mars. Everyone’s looking at Hwang. She drops her spoon. “Don’t you gentleman officers have access to porn? I am not your whore.” She stomps the two steps to her sleep compartment and fucking slams that thing like slamming a door. Fucking AWIS should have sent us with more chicks.

Captain’s Blog, mission day who the fuck cares

I’ve been thinking about Slushies.

Captain’s wish list, mission day: shit if I know

Still not Captain, and we’re not at Mars yet. It be sullen silence out there. Like the Vietnam types tell me. You’re looking at the jungle and it’s too quiet. I’m hiding in my bunk, reading the fucking dictionary. One word at a time. ​Deliquescent. Adjective: Becoming liquid, or having a tendency to become liquid.

Captain’s Fuck-what, who knows?

Not at Mars yet. Still not Captain. We’ve all stopped shaving. It’s like watching Scooby Doo but insterad all the characters are Scooby or Shaggy. At our fake noon we play Scrabble, while sipping on our recycled pee dyed yeller with our dwindling supply of “Tang” which we’ve come to calling “Taint” after that space between your pee-hole and and your poop-hole. Beady eyes. I think the captain’s cheating. He’s hiding scrabble chits in his sleeves. They don’t realize I’ve been studying up. Just wait until I lay down QUIZZICAL, JAZZINESS and MAXIMIZED. Just wait, it’s coming you fuckers.

Captain’s Who Gives A Shit?

Are we there yet? No one knows what’s under my bunk. It’s a secret.


Word from AWIS today:

“Greetings Space Marines, we hope you are doing well on your mission to retrieve the secret research project on Mars which I did not just mention. You understand the importance of your mission and the need for utmost discretion. We know that the unknown can be daunting, but we have complete confidence in your abilities. We have faith that you will complete your mission successfully and return home safely.

We also want to remind you that your hard work and dedication is greatly appreciated. Your sacrifice and commitment to this mission is a testament to your bravery and loyalty. We are proud to have you as part of Amazon World Information Systems and the people of Earth.

Remember, you are not alone out there. We are constantly monitoring your progress and we are here to support you in any way we can. We wish you the best of luck on your journey and look forward to your safe return.

Stay strong and stay focused. We believe in you.

Warm regards,

Amazon World Information Systems”

Queue up the band: “Thanks Asshole!”

Captaint’s Fuck-wut, day endless shitstorm

Why does this fucking tablet keep thinking everything I write is in fucking quote mode. I give up.

We can see Mars with the nekkid eyes. Dang, I’m gettin good at Poker. Can’t wait to claim Hwang’s shirt and Hernandez’s underoos. He’s got the fucking underwear that’s fun to wear.

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It’s Mars Day, 8 o’Spock. Peeps be brushing their teeth, shaving and putting on uniforms. Time to Marine-up and do it too. “People of Mars, your attention please.” Them fuckwads ain’t gonna know what’s hit em.

Onward to Chapter Twenty Four