Well, I ain’t too mispleased ‘bout gettin’ bumped outta command, but I hafta say, I ain’t in no barrel o’ fun now neither. I didn’t mind me much when ol’ Starch-britches were in charge; say what ya will ‘bout the guy, he’s a pain in the arse but he knows his stuff. The new CO is that lil’ religious dame, and she gives crackpots a bad name.
We’re gettin’ sent down to this dinosaur planet, see, and the absolute firstest priority is to req a camera from the boys in the lockers so we can all have our pictures taken with the dinos. Now, I ain’t sure if that’s a joke at first, but after a damn drunken officer beams us on top of 8 bloody lizards having bad nail days and one o’ us is bleedin’ out, what’s the first thing on her mind? Still snappin’ some shots o’ the occasion!
Now, I ain’t one for formal command or nonesuch, but a lil’ discipline can go a long way in keepin’ us alive, and that’s what I call in my best interests. She did manage to quiet her obsession a tad when we found the lizard folk, but only until we discovered they were worshippin’ the damn comp we’d been sent downta find.
Here’s the genius, though. They got this abstract little circle-line doodad all the folk’re wearing and carryin’ on about, so we make a ginormous replication of one outta ferns ‘n’ duct tape (ain’t nothin’ like duct tape for monkeyin’ up religious gimmicks) and carry the damn thing into their neck o’ the woods. Blow me for a hogswalloper if they didn’t go all buckwild on’s. Some o’ the freaks were bowin’ like fiends, others were runnin’ like the fires o’ the nine hells trailed after ‘em. Little missy did her whole religious schtick on the… priestess… and the rest o’ us slapped them stickers on the box.
Damn lucky to be alive after all that, but damn me if I’m goin’ down there unprepared like that agin.