Bullet Blasts Blogsnord Behind Big Booble's Bofforium, Part 2

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The Blogsnord, effecting graceful aplomb, dismissed Bullet's stinging comments with a dainty wave of an eleven-fingered, razor-tipped paw.

"I'm dangerous only when cornered," it mewed. "Otherwise, I'm as gentle as a Tribble."

The Blogsnord sniffed. Bullet folded his arms and opened his mouth to protest, but then realized that he was thoroughly dumbfounded by the concept of a Blogsnord which was anything but vicious. Perhaps, he thought, there was something that he missed. Could it be that there were a few good Blogsnords among the murderous masses?

"Zis is incomprehensible," Bullet announced. "Your entire race exists for ze sole purpose of annihilating und zen eating everything in your path. Your history iz filled mit countless examples of wholesale carnage."

"Yes," admitted the Blogsnord. "You are correct. The history of my people runs red, green, blue, and sometimes ochre with the life blood of the millions of extinct species we've obliterated throughout the galaxy. We ravaged entire worlds in order to feed the malevolent psyche with which we are all innocently born."

A small tear ran down the Blogsnord's furry cheek and landed in the downy snow without a sound.

"Mein lieben!*" Bullet squawked. "Zat is ze most nauseating sing I haff ever vitnessed."

Just then, a door swung open and a squat biped draped in a dirty white smock emerged into the cold morning air carrying a trashcan, its triple eyestalks focused on the ground. Bullet drew in a breath to yell out a warning, but the Hoozemite beat him to the punch.

"Fairbairne! Is that you raising all this ruckus?" the Hoozemite bellowed.

To Bullet's amazement, the Hoozemite appeared to be addressing the Blogsnord. He drew in another breath to howl an awe-inspired expletive, but he was interrupted by Fairbairne the Blogsnord.

"Morning, Booble. I was just having a discussion with a friend of mine."

Fairbairne the Blogsnord gestured toward Bullet with a pointy-clawed paw and the Hoozemite directed its three-pronged attention towards the Bozo.

"By the sweet arse of Mathilda! Isn't that Bullshit the Bozo?"

Bullet's right eyebrow twitched in a quick spasm. He inhaled a third time, barely managing to keep his wits about him. His mouth then opened and he scarcely begun to protest when he was drowned out by a loud roar of turbine engines above.

Nimbly, a large P.U.D.** planet hopper dropped out of the dim sky above, hovered a few seconds, then landed in a nearby copse of trees, thoroughly smashing every bit of lumber into splinters. Bullet, Fairbairne, and Booble stood staring at the ship for several long seconds.

"Well," Fairbairne said. "It looks like we've got company."

"Aye," Booble replied, absently setting the trashcan on the ground. "And they pilot a ship like a drunken monkey."

Bullet remained motionless, his mouth still open.



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* Mein leiben is believed to be pronounced as "mīn lē'-bin". Archaeological findings from several planets in sector M have led linguistics experts to what they believe is a complete morphology of a dead language thought to have originated from the Betazene-998-Wr3 system. Confirmation of these beliefs is virtually impossible, due to the fact that the suspected originating system contains little more than an ancient dwarf star surrounded by bands of asteroids.

** For the uninitiated, "P.U.D." is not pronounced "pud", but is in fact pronounced as "Pee You Dee".

Bullet Blasts Blogsnord Behind Big Booble's Bofforium

Whilst casually strolling down the boulevard one day, Bullet, the gun-toting uber-marksman of The League of Tremendous Bozos, caught sight of a fearsome Blogsnord which was nosing its way through a trash bin. He placed a firm grip on his trusty plasma blaster and cautiously approached the rummaging beast. The Blogsnord, being older and somewhat wiser than the average Blogsnord, heard Bullet's approach and turned to face the Bozo.

"Urrr," it urred.

Bullet froze in his tracks. The Blogsnord faced him squarely, making nasty urr sounds. Bullet ran through several options in his mind. There was some cover on the right, but not close enough to escape the Blogsnord, should it decide to lunge forward. The blaster in his hand was holstered and couldn't be removed without following the standard Bozo Safety First procedures: dialing the combination lock, holding his thumb to the Digi-print scanner, and verbally agreeing to accept any and all damages resulting from stray projectiles, molten shrapnel, or energy beams. Bullet silently cursed the day he vowed to follow the Protectors' rules.

"Yo, 'tard-monkey," the Blogsnord blurted. "You just gonna stand there all day staring into space with your hand on that pea-shooter in your pocket?"

Bullet's eyes widened considerably. A talking Blogsnord was the rarest of finds, an enigma both frightening and thrilling. This was no simple game for a master with the blaster. Bullet found himself face to face with a beast more predator than prey.

And so, before another beastly idiom was writ, the Blogsnord leaned back and lifted itself on it's four hind legs. It extended its forepaws, wiggled its fingers for a moment, then carefully began making motions like a hideous mime.

"Do. You. Un. Der. Stand. What. I. Am. Say. Ing?"

Bullet's uncanny fear suddenly ebbed when he realized what the Blogsnord was doing.

"I'm not deaf, beast."

The Blogsnord stopped waving its fingers about.

"Oh, so you do have a brain. Go figure."

"Zat iz right. Und I object to your suggestion zat my brain iz challenged in some vay."

The Blogsnord bared its titanium fangs and made a gurgly rumbling noise in its throat.

"Oh, man, I thought I recognized you. You're the monkey everyone calls 'Bullshit'."

"Ach!" Bullet slapped a hand to his forehead. "Vy iz it so difficult to remember ze name 'Bullet'?"

"Hey, I'm just telling you what I heard." The Blogsnord dropped down on all legs and moved into a more comfortable position. "So, what are you doing in this neck of the woods? There's no evil shit happening around here."

"Zat iz none of your business. Besides, vat are you doing here? A blogsnord in a resort town isn't exactly a common sight. Your species iz on ze ten most dangerous list of organisms in zis sector." Bullet shook an accusing finger at the beast. "I am required by law to shoot you on sight and deliver your carcass to ze nearest alien control station."

"Oh, please. Don't make me bite your arms off."

"Ach! Zis iz vy your species must be controlled. You are dangerous. Gott im Himmel, I cannot believe I am having zis discussion with a Blogsnord."

(To be continued..)

You can continue to Part 2 or just jump to Part 3 for the exciting conclusion.

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A Message From Pliers

Fade in from black.

A small leathery head hovers over a small flying saucer Pulsating waves of anti-gravity bubble out of the bottom. A sack of bubblegum floats in the air, surrounded by a fiery aura.

The head looks sad, then tired, then right at the lens. It opens a toothless mouth. A bead of sweat forms upon its forehead, twinkling from the 60,000-watt array of floods and spotlights that sit all around the cameras.

"Hi. Yeah, um, I'm Pliers. You might have seen me...like...somewhere while I was fighting crime and stuff. I mean, I don't really fight, 'cause I'm sorta pro-non-violence, you know? Well anyway, there's this...um...thing right here that...uh..."

A biped that looks more like a round pile of tomatoes than a proper, in-the-image sort of guy whirls around the conference room, grasping the remote controller for the television on the wall. The leathery face freezes in mid "uh".

"Sweet magenta cheese! Pliers, baby, what's with the 'um uh' thing? You sound like you're about to cry. That's no way for a super hero to act."

"I'm not sure," Pliers moans, leaning back on an energy chair. "I just don't feel the goodness in this...well, this thing, M.B."

"Pliers," M.B. explains, "this isn't about how good something is. It's about your face, baby. One look at those baby browns and...cha-ching! The goodness will be flowin' on in."

"But..."

"Just smile and say the words I showed you earlier. Do I have to remind you about the contract that P.U.D. signed with Blowit Enterprises?"

Pliers sighs and sinks down into the energy chair. "Well, ok."

"That's more like it." M.B. rubs his hands together and takes a deep breath. "Ok, everyone. Let's start all over from the top. Lights! Camera..."

A robot materializes in front of the camera and says: "Blowit Gum commercial, take seventeen..." The clapboard snaps.

"...Action!"

"Hi. I'm Pliers. The guy from the League of Tremendous Bozos. I like to fix things all the time. Sometimes, however, I like to get a quick fix when things are going all wrong. That's when I reach for Blowit Gum. Mmmm."

"Cut! Print! Way to go Pliers. I knew you had it in you all along."

Pliers sheepishly smiles as he leaves the set.

Fade to black.

Another Blip in Communications

GP - As the aquachurns disseminate resonance upon beetle-nosed slorns in temperatures analagous to particle-less vacuums, zep-eyed conundrumites gather in tribe fashion amidst speculation of the magenta-flavored sort. Such was the fruitless effort in recent decay cycles.

"A quandry most absent of taste," spake the mind-hive controller interface organism under the tumbling gaseous sentience at perigee. "A question with no answer."

Remote research facility Zorax of Sub-Quintile 3889 proceeds in and without active communication members. Mind-hive consciousness laments the frozen nothingness during the particle generation effort which remains status-less despite far-sight probe emissions of the deep violet. Resumption plans of the ochre sort coalesce.

Preceeding abrupt termination, Sub-Quintile threads argue of speculation: "A generator of extreme unction. A bi-transitive and abnormal substrate upon the mantle. A disruption which neither destroys nor is destroyed. A capsule from forgotten times. Tentacles gather in protection..."

Now the collective P.U.D. becomes active. Of organisms with solitary consciousness, the HH-Class limbs of four has active injectionism that proceeds on the unusual macro path over tainted embellishments. "We're going to find them," spake Paine, the title granted "Major".

Grel beasts mimic the slow accretion of silicate while another cycle spins. The modulatory efforts of simple organisms shall remain steadfast while the decay holds inertia. Thus had we Galactic Press and its concomitant member being in the same resonance.

Boponop T. 09-b reports from the Golgoth Mind-Hive Collection O.P. for the Galactic Press

The League is Born

GP - The Protectors of Universal Democracy (PUD) unveiled the details on their latest crime-fighting unit in their most recent press briefing. Dubbed the "League of Tremendous Bozos" (LOTB), the four-organism team was described as the most highly-trained group of agents that the galaxy has ever seen in its entire 300 billion year history.

Bliznit Pontifrab, spokesthing for PUD, gave no specific details on the organization of the LOTB and refused to answer any pointed questions, saying instead that "the League is out there to protect all citizens of this galaxy from the evil machinations of every terrorist thug, be they vertebrate or not".

Galactic Press wanted to know exactly what the PUD defined as "terrorist" thugs but were only told that "they only hate organisms with more freedom than they...currently...have".

The League of Tremendous Bozos, a fearsome foursome with the backing of PUD to boot, were painted as the only means of securing peace in the vast reaches of space. If this is indeed the case, then PUD's plea for "Bozo Support" certainly deserves everything's attention.

Xanthanadannabannannaofanna 'Chckkchk' Jimpimbimlimwim is the the lead reporter for the Galactic Press in Quadrant C-92-b05, during all third reproductive cycles.