Greeg'u's Punishment, Plu'ngi. Part 1/3

Personal Journal. Plu'ngi, Wife to Arcadian 1st Lieutenant Greeg'u. 05.05.3001.

(English Translation)

Oh, my poor, wonderful Greeg'u – my pitiable husband. How I wish I could whisk away the past few weeks for him, and save him from the humiliation he has endured. He came home a week ago, dejected, head hanging low and totally beside himself. There was almost no life left in his tentacles, and he just lumbered to the couch, turned on the proto viewer and watched game shows all day and infomercials about floor wax. It took me the whole afternoon pestering my husband before he would explain what was wrong.

"I totally 'flooed the coodle' (screwed the pooch)," Greeg'u said. "After what I did I'll be lucky to be a commander of a sewage transport."

Apparently he abandoned an extremely important mission into human territory because of a misinterpretation of mission codes. He allowed a human vessel to escape, compromising an assault that had been planned for months.

I tried to console him, but he just moped around the house in his bathrobe drinking hot cocoa, and playing with his collection of human testicles.

Then today, Greeg'u went before the Arcadian High Command to answer for his actions. He refused to allow me to attend, not wanting me to see his embarrassment. When he returned Greeg'u refused to say what happened, but he went straight to his office and dumped his entire testicle collection in the incinerator – even the one that looks like the Arcadian celebrity, Sung'du'kee, which Greeg'u has pined over since he sliced it from the human's scrotum.

I don't know what happened, but at least he will be allowed to make amends. He ships out tomorrow, which means I should give my husband a very special night to remember. I'll have to break out the lotions and jiggle-nibblers.

Death to humans.

A Brief Description of the Arcadians

United Intergalactic Nation (UIN) Archives:

A Brief Description of Arcadians

The Arcadians are a skeletal looking creature, often referred to with the cliché "skin and bones". Their head is asymmetrical, being more prominent to their left side. They have two eyes, two slits that may or may not representa a nose, and no distinguishable mouth, hair, or ears. The odd shaped head is perched on a stick of a neck. Their chest is a spatter of ribs with a bit of flesh stretched over them, and a long, slender torso. Their legs when at rest resemble frog shaped legs, but rather than hop, their legs work on rotator cups – one at the hip and one at the knee. When they move, their legs rotate in a forward or backwards motion in a pedal like fashion. Instead of walking or hopping, they sort of motor.

Arcadians have four arms – two on either side. They are boneless appendages, comprised mostly of ligaments and muscles. The arms are constantly moving, flittering about them like wiry ribbons. When they "motor", their arms are less fanatical and take on a wave like motion. Their speech or means of communication is a "gulping" of the throat, sort of like a bull frog. To humans they sound like they are saying "gump", "gump", over and over, but the Arcadian language is known to be quite diverse.

It is often disputed when the rivalry between humans and Arcadians began, but Buck O'Neal, the famed UIN Captain and Adventurer attributes the ill will back to his first encounter with the species. Apparently, Arcadians find hair, especially human hair to be truly disgusting physical traits. During that first contact, the Arcadians were quite insistent that they be allowed to shave every bit of hair off all the humans' bodies. O'Neal, who was heading up the peaceful delegation, and who is well known for his flowing golden locks, poignantly refused the Arcadians saying, "Hey, your head looks like a mailbox, but I'm not about to start whacking it with a baseball bat." Relations went downhill from there.

Slur Run In, Dr. Leary. Part 5/5

Personal Log. Dr. Timothy Leary XII. 04.25.3001

Haiku #62

My cure for the spins
is gin and hash with a hint
of fresh peppermint.

Slur Run In, Mao Ling. Part 4/5

Personal Log, Chief of Communications Mao Ling, 04.25.3001.

1st Mate Beck and I met with the Slurs that collided with our ship. I had met the Slurs once before. Given the state of my stomach and their grotesque appearance, I asked Dr. Leary to give me a nausea suppressant. When we greeted them 1st Mate Beck couldn't keep his cool. He barfed before we could even give our names. To say the least, the Slurs were not sure what to make of a human puking on their ship. As I am well accustomed with interspecies relations, there were a number of excuses that popped into my head, but I caught Beck checking out my ass on the way over to the Slur ship, so I couldn't help myself.

I explained to the Slurs that this is a common human greeting. They shrugged and regurgitated their lunch, which traditionally consists of mealworms and blood sausage. It had the desired result. Beck started hacking up meals he had ten years ago. Then, unfortunately, I felt a bit queasy myself. Despite the nausea suppressants, I began to vomit along with the rest of them. However, I believe this actually led to them not just repairing our engine, but improving them. It was like a weird and disgusting brotherhood was formed during our vomit share group, and the Slurs proved most generous.

Still, I've heard of blood brothers, but puke pals?

Slur Run In, 1st Mate Beck. Part 3/5.

Personal Log. 1st Mate Beck. 04.25.06

God damn Slurs. I should have vaporized their hairy asses. If it wasn't for our little side agreement, I would have hunted them down, skinned them and hung their grungy pelts from our hull. They would have mad a nice coat and maybe some slippers.

After the Liberace stopped spinning and I was able to get away from my toilette, Chief Communications Officer Mao Ling and I met with the Slurs. I had never encountered one before. They are sort of a cross between a slug, hippo and gorilla. Their fur was thick, but where you could see their gray skin it was scabbed and slimy. And the smell – oh god the smell.

I couldn't help it. I vomited before I could even shake their truncated flipper. Mao Ling said something to them, then for whatever reason, both Slurs started vomiting too. It was a chunky, yellow and green vomit that smelled like Tabasco and sour milk. So I vomited more. Then Lang started barfing and it was a good ten minutes of "guess what I had for lunch".

The Slurs did agree to repair our ship. I saw an opportunity and convinced Ling to talk the Slurs into actually giving our engines a little boost. Unfortunately they couldn't do anything for our weapons. As Ling explained it, a homemade potato gun would do more damage than a Slur phase cannon.

It was a lucky for Jean Sprat the collision occurred when it did. Before the accident, we were engaged in combat training and I was baiting him the whole time, completely pretending he was kicking my ass. I was about to unleash a whole world of hurt when we were hit by the Slurs.

Slur Run In, Jean Sprat. Part 2/5

Personal Log, Commodore's Liaison Jean Sprat. 04.25.30001

Today, a Slur Explorer clipped us, causing our thrusters to fail and turning the Liberace into a child's toy top. When the Liberace was struck, I was in battle simulations with 1st Mate Beck and we were pinned to the walls of the training room like mounted mackerel. When Pilot Vasquez finally managed to bring the ship under control, Beck and I gave the floor of the room a nice gooey vomit coating.

Later, after things had "settled", Chief of Communications Mao Ling and 1st Mate Beck met face to face with the Slurs. After a meeting that Beck refused to go into details about, and Ling could only snicker over, the Slurs have agreed to fix our engines.

However, our run-in with the Slurs (or their running into us) has caused a supply issue on the ship for Maylox DX. The collision had a ship-wide affect, creating varying degrees of illness throughout with the exception of Dr. Leary, who has apparently developed immunity to "the spins". Oddly enough, the debacle also cured Fergie, the Commodore's French poodle. After being frozen in space, and then rejuvenated by Dr. Leary, the poor dog could only walk upside down, sort of like a crab. We discovered high speed spinning temporarily solved the problem, but the collision with the Slurs has apparently cured Fergie permanently.

On a more personal note, I was upset that my training session with Beck was interrupted. I was kicking his precocious ass and was about to end our little competition with a strike to the wind-bags balls, when everything went to hell. I can't wait for the rematch – as soon as I can parry, thrust and slash without retching.

Slur Run In, Commodore Ludwig. Part 1/5

Personal Log. Commodore Ludwig. 04.25.3001.

Uh...gaw...J-Lud's got the blow chunks man. He's tossing cookies like a bulimic after a Girl Scout cookie rally. Not cool man, not cool.

We was cruzin' along, keepn' things melo' and on the d-low, when out of no where, some crazy kat side swiped us a mad fender bender. The impact took out our big rigs and left us without juice – y'know what I'm say'n.

Oh gawd, ug blurp...

That other kat bare-backed us a wooly one and it turned the old Liberace into a tilt awhirl, spinning us round and round on a not so merry go round.

Uh...grrrawl...blrawl....ga...

...before I knew it, I was a whirly bird flying all over the main deck. Cruel vibes, man. Cruel vibes.

I've been barfing up eggplant parm ever since.

burp...ggggrrraaaawwwlllbrlrbb...

A Brief History of the Slurs

United Intergalactic Nation (UIN) Archives:

A Brief History of the Slurs

The Slurs are a space travel capable species, whose home planet resides in the Nanook sector. They are a mammalian species recognized by their thick fur, of which they are quite insistent in calling burnt umber in color. Their most distinctive trait is that their sole purpose in life is not to have a sole purpose in life.

About four thousand years ago, the Slurs were a species of remarkable intelligence. It is even said that they had cracked the aged old puzzle, "What came first, the chicken or the egg?" Unfortunately, their race was nearly obliterated by an army of "Lurrquips", which is similar to a human invention called the Slinky. In an effort to create the never ending Lurrquip, the Slurs imbued them with a nuclear power supply and an artificial intelligence. Unfortunately the Lurrquips were tired of descending staircases over and over, and rebelled against their creators.

Since then the Slurs, go to extremes to stem their intelligence and prevent advancement. For example, Slur infants are induced with a stroke to retard their brain development. Most Slurs have severe facial and muscle damage because of this process. Due to their speech impediments, they were named the "Slurs". They have also adopted an attitude of "no goal in life" rationalizing that by not striving for anything, they'll never receive it.

Despite this, they have developed a star-ship capable of speeds dwarfing that of any vessel in the Intergalactic Armada. Unfortunately, due to their propensity towards misdirection, their ships are heavily lacking in navigation technology. Since they tend to run into things during their travels they have heavily armored hulls for protection, but woe to the ship that may lie in its path.

Voncats, Greeg'u. Part 4/4

Report to Arcadian Command by 1st Lieutenant Greeg'u. 04.15.3001.

(English Translation)

After high-jacking a Voncat ship, the task force was on route to the UIN outpost at Sigma Prime under the guise of a Voncat Peacekeeping envoy. Our mission was to sneak into the central command station in that sector and disable there defenses, whereby an Arcadian Fleet would takeover the sector. The plan was sound. This section of space is virtually unguarded by UIN patrols, the foul humans believing that it is beyond our touch. A successful mission would have granted us a sizeable advantage in our war against the insipid humans.

Five Hours from our destination, we encountered a UIN Cruiser. Keeping with our cover as Voncat Peacekeepers, we attempted to convince the repugnant humans that we wished to dine with them. When their commanders were on board we would have slaughtered them and then gorged on their insides in victory. By means that are beyond my reckoning, they saw through our plan and fired upon us.

We took up a position behind their ship and were preparing to target their engines when they emptied their waste. I was at first confounded by this strategy until our sensors picked up the signature of a canine corpse of poodle origin that had been scalded by high temperatures. This of course is the secret code to abort our mission. Only later did we discover it was all a ruse.

How the wretched humans were able to discover our mission codes, we'll never know, but their captain must be a cunning man in order to pull off such a feet. I will enjoy engaging him in battle and when I have defeated him I will drive an Arcadian lance up his anal cavity and mount him on the front hull of an Arcadian Raptor.

Death to humans.

Voncats, Jean Sprat. Part 3/4

Personal Log. Commodore's Liaison, Jean Sprat. 04.15.3001.

The Commodore had a trying day, yesterday. First, he fell very ill. Apparently he forgot that he was allergic to clams and had New England clam chowder for lunch. He was delirious all night, claiming that thieves were out to steal the recipe for clam chowder.

Fergie #3, one of the Commodore's replacement poodles, met her end yesterday as well. Johnny Junior's pets have always had a low life expectancy, so I keep replacements close by just in case. Well, Fergie #1 is still walking upside down like a crab, and Fergie #2 was given to the Corinthian's to make amends for destroying a couple of their satellites, so I went to Fergie #3. It was just a matter of time, though before an unfortunate accident terminated on of the dogs. Unfortunately for Fergie #3, it met quite a gruesome death. Likely due to his illness, Johnny Junior, went to give Fergie#3 a bath and inadvertently set the shower sprays to clean a Cretian Dune Bug instead of canine. A Dune Bug, which can withstand extreme heat, is washed in significantly higher temperatures.

Luckily, I was able to dispose of the charred poodle corpse and replace it with Fergie #4 before Johnny Junior knew anything was amiss. That leaves me with one healthy dog, and another that looks like it's possessed by a demon.

While I was tossing Fergie #3 into the waste ballasts, apparently the severely ill Commodore had an unfortunate incident with a Voncat peacekeeping ship. At least that is the story 1st Mate, Beck spewed at me while ranting about the Commodore's incompetence. I tried to question him about the incident, but Beck was spitting so much vinegar I couldn't learn much.

It all seemed so strange. In my experience with the Voncats, they show as much interest in peacekeeping as they do in warfare. There's a Voncat proverb that states: Quibble during the day, apologize during the night, why not forget it all and drown ourselves in a pint.

Which reminds me of a lesson I learned while in a Voncat pub. Never do shots with a Voncat unless you want to make your bed on the barroom floor and wake up the next morning with nothing more on than a hangover.

Voncats, 1st Mate Beck. Part 2/4

Personal Log. Ludwig from 1st Mate Beck. 04.15.3001.

That moronic piece of varicose ass is going to have us busted down to shipping duty transporting herds of rat swine.* There is no way I'm letting Commodore Suck-nut flush my career down the crapper.

At approximately 1700 hours, Commodore Ludwig engaged in combat with a Voncat peacekeeping cruiser. Upon first contact, the Captain of the Voncat craft extended an invitation to dine with their crew where upon the Commodore inexplicably grabbed the controls for our forward phase cannons and fired upon the vessel. If Commodore Dim-wit's aim had been true, the poorly defended ship would have been annihilated. However, the Commodore's targeting was so poor you'd think a child who had been dropped on his head was playing with the controls. The Voncat ship took up a defensive position to our stern, unable to fight back.

Then, mumbling incoherently about New England clam chowder, the Commodore dumped our waste while trying to deploy a mine spread in our wake. Believing our own garbage was the wreckage of a destroyed ship, the Commodore ordered us to continue on our way.

Chief of Communication, Mao Ling tried to issue a sincere apology to the Voncat craft, but it flew beyond our scanners without a response. Later, it was determined that the Commodore may have been suffering from the flu. Personally I think he's a bombastic baboon fresh out of the booby hatch.

I don't care what Admiral's loins he's the rotted fruit of. One more, just one more cockamamie antic from that gangrenous cow teat and I'll atomically attach his head to his butt cheeks so he can see just how far I can shove my foot up his Hershey highway.


* A rat swine is a product of the cross genealogy craze in the 2990s. It is a half rodent, half pig splicing. Most such creatures were destroyed or died out due to the inability to reproduce. Rat swines, however, showed a propensity for survival and are incidentally delicious barbecued with a side of cheddar mashed potatoes.

Voncats, Commodore Ludwig, Part 1/4

Personal Log. Commodore Jonathan W. Ludwig Jr., 04.15.3001

Success! In the first combat engagement with an alien species by the Liberace, we handedly thwarted a dastardly plot by a Voncat Destroyer to steal some of our vital systems information. Upon initial contact, the Voncats opened fire on us, obviously trying to destroy our thrusters. We returned fire and a heated battle ensued. Their Captain who was a crafty adversary – a bow-wow with the know how – then set up in an attack position on our stern. Tactically a UIN cruiser is no match to the fire power of a Voncat Destroyer and if they had been able to bust a cap on the ol' Liberace, we would have been space dust. However, due to my totally dope strategizing, I emptied our waste ballasts and the Voncat craft was disabled as it flew through the refuse. That's one crack head that won't be dissn' J-Lud's posse again.

I ordered Mao Ling to call in for a UIN clean up crew. We could have mopped up those douche bags ourselves, but I felt it was more vital to continue with or mission to Terraquadonis.

I also issued a command today that every Friday, Chef will serve New England clam chowder for dinner. I've never been to New England, but if the Chef's soup is any indication of their cuisine, J-Lud is laying out his pad in N-Gland fer-sure bra'.

Prolific Prose

Sample poetry by Dr. Timothy Leary XII


Haiku #14

I am ill at ease
Seeing Joan Miro's paintings,
Cartoons of disease


Haiku #22

It's hard to doodle
Old people who canoodle
On beds of noodles


Haiku #48

Mix Gorgonzola
With a strain of Ebola
And get crap-ola

Getting to Know the Crew, Dr. Leary

A Brief Biography of Dr. Timothy Leary XII

Dr. Timothy Alfonse Leary XII is the descendent of the infamous 20th century Leary of the same name. Graduating from the Jamaican School of Medicine, Dr. Leary earned instant notoriety for his doctoral thesis on the healing effects of his ancestor's LSD drug when treating Mad Duck disease. It was an affliction the Doctor himself suffered from. He apparently had become infected with Mad Duck while experimenting with a fungus that grows on fowl dung.

Outside the medical field, the Doctor is also a writer of some cult popularity. He is most recognized for the volumes of Haiku poetry he has written. Dr. Leary is touted by many as spawning the "Regurgitation Movement" of the modern Haiku. Some of his more noted poems are Pickle my Feet, Greased Suppository and Euphoric Brownie. More recently Dr. Leary has abandoned titles for his works stating that a poem should stand on its own. It is often conjectured that he writes so many Haiku poems he has in fact just run out of ideas for titles. None the less, Dr. Leary now simply labels his poems as Haiku #32 or Haiku #56.

Not respected by all, one of Dr. Leary's more staunch critics, Snell Silverstein, lamented that Leary's work represented "carnival prose". In which Leary responded, "Blow my pole."

Besides poetry, Dr. Leary has also written "The Event Horizon of Cream Cheese." It's a novella about a man who believes a bagel's empty center is the black hole for cream cheese everywhere. Some speculate that the book is autobiographical.

The Story Thus Far...

Admiral Jonathan Ludwig Senior
04.13.3001

I have received the first report from 1st Mate Richard Beck on the S.S. Liberace's exploits thus far into its maiden voyage. Though it hasn't exactly been exemplary, at the very least no one is dead...yet. Given my son's past and his inexperience as a commander of a UIN vessel, I should be glad that the ship and the crew for the most part are still whole.

1st Mate Beck's writing style leaves something to be desired. I counted no less than fifteen words that would give it an NC-17 rating. As well, I am forced to blatantly ignore some of his suggestions for improvement. Eradicating the planet of Mirald Prime with a photon bomb wouldn't sit will with the UIN Council. Plus, though at times I myself would have liked to jettison my son out a port hole, I don't feel it would be appropriate to do so while he is encased in lime green gelatin.

Things started out simply enough with the christening of the S.S. Liberace. I would have attended myself, but knowing my son, Johnny Junior, it could only lead to another scuff mark on my reputation. Given Beck's description of the attire my son chose to wear – an outfit Beck described as a mesh between a 1970s circa pimp and General Custard – I'm glad I wasn't there for that photo op.

Then the voyage began with a detour - a little off mission stop at Chinook Delta. Chinook Delta is an outpost most known for its liberal view on carnal pleasures and its delicious Philly Cheese Steaks. Not that I know personally. It's something I heard from a friend.

God knows what debacle Johnny Junior got into at Chinook Delta, but luckily the voyage continued with out any public incidences.

Thereafter, Beck reported some issues involving damage to his personal property. He was hazy on exactly what was damaged, or even how, but he wasn't vague on his anger.

"Whoever invaded my personal domain should be gutted, and then choked to death by their own intestines."

I wasn't sure if this was a serious problem that should be addressed or not. Then I looked at the date of the occurrence and realized it was April Fool's Day, a day my son often claims should be made an official Intergalactic holiday. Given the other odd things that occurred that day, including the annihilation of Corinthian satellites, I have no doubt my son's fingerprints were all over that mess.

I was much surprised to hear about how Johnny Junior personally piloted through an asteroid field. Thinking back to all the trouble I had just trying to teach him how to parallel park a hover car, it's difficult to believe that he could maneuver a ship with such skill. Apparently Beck was just as dumbfounded.

"No disrespect Admiral, but when Commodore Ludwig piloted through that asteroid field I nearly sucked my uniform up my anus and crapped it back out again,"

Beck's quite the colorful linguist.

Oh, and I'm not too sure about this "Commodore" nonsense. It makes me wonder if he's walking around with a feather in his cap and a giant parrot on his shoulder.

Finally, Beck described the crew's first away mission, something I tried to make as simple and safe as possible. Wouldn't you know it, three of the six members of the mission were afflicted in some way, my son included. Beck encountered his own problems, stating he would have sent his report earlier if his injuries would have allowed. He didn't specify what harm had come to him, but I noticed an expense report for Viagra 23 filled out by Beck. His reason for the purchase was "latent results of his wounds."

On the whole I should be glad my son didn't create a paradoxical anomaly in the space time continuum that would have destroyed life as we know it. That's my therapy. I think the worse, and then the nut-job antics of my son don't seem so bad. I tried drinking my woes away every time he screwed up, but I showed up to too many of Johnny's misconduct meetings snookered off my ass. Still, he is my son, and I do love him, as any Father should. We'll just have to see how things progress and hope he doesn't inadvertently fly the ship into a super nova.

Mirald Prime, Team Harriet. Part 4/4

Miraldese Pygmy Historical Annals. Chief Fred. 04.10.3001

(Translated)

A group of humanoids happened to cross our quaint abode once again, undoubtedly looking for the fabled "Great Intelligence". We gamely donned our loin cloths and face paint and hefted our faux idol of a tree frog. Inviting one of their members into our "prayer circle", we chanted an old child ditty they like to coo before dinner.

Good food
Good grog
Be a chap
And pass the frog

Then we gave the human a frog to suckle which he thought would bring him a sort of euphoria, but will only result in noxious emissions erupting from his arse for two or three days. It's sort of a little joke we like to play. It always gets a good laugh.

Then one of the humans ran out like a bloody lunatic into our circle and destroyed the tree idol with a plasma powered, photon vaporizer – an archaic weapon by our advanced standards. Before he could harm anyone, we collectively agreed to paralyze him with our minds. Of course we hid our higher cerebral abilities by shooting him with blow darts giving the impression that he was poisoned.

At that moment, a female human appeared, one that we sensed could understand our extremely diverse and dense language. Our forefathers stipulated that should any species decipher our language, then they are advanced enough to be led down the path towards the "Great Intelligence".

When the humanoid female spoke to us, mentioning something about shrimp egg rolls in a voice that was both mechanical and indicative of Earth's East Asian continent, we were somewhat perplexed. Apparently the human fast food conglomerates had decided to expand to our planet and this female represented a Chinese drive up microphone.

We were getting ready to order when they grabbed their frozen friend and departed. I have heard of a human saying that appropriately relates to this situation. "That's the way the fortune cookie crumbles."

Well it's off to work. Apparently one of the vacuum transports in Giroque malfunctioned. Our job as enlightened keepers of the "Great Intelligence" and caretakers of the Miraldese primitives, while keeping up the guise of a pre-industrial Pygmalion tribe, is never done.

Mirald Prime, Team Harriet. Part 3/4

Personal Log. Doctor Timothy Leary XII. 04.10.3001

Haiku #56

Sucking on frog's ass
Can give visions unsurpassed.
It just gave me gas.

Mirald Prime, Team Harriet. Part 2/4

Personal Log. 1st Mate Beck. 04.10.3001

-Ucking -ittle –astards. I'll –ip out d'ere –alls 'n ram dem down d'eir droats. Soon az I kun –ove.

Translation by Mao Ling: 1st Mate Beck is unhappy about being paralyzed by the pygmies and now he has to be propped up in the corner of the bridge and someone has to wipe his mouth every fifteen minutes.

I'll krind dem up –nto –ogfood n' fleed dem to da –ommodor'z –rench –oodle.

Translation by Mao Ling: Though he is completely humiliated, 1st Mate Beck realizes it was all a misunderstanding and wishes the pygmies all the best, even though he has to borrow adult diapers from Chief of Security Rumson.

I –idn't –ay dat. I –aid I –ill dem –all. Gut –em –ike vish.

Translation by Mao Ling: He wishes peace to all.

-eath to –ygmies

Translation by Mao Ling: Goodwill towards men and pygmies.

-uck you.

Translation by Mao Ling: Thank you.

Mirald Prime, Team Harriet. Part 1/4

Mission Report. Chief of Communications, Mao Ling. 04.10.3001

Mission Code Name: Harriet

I am making the Mission Report because 1st Mate Beck is incapable of doing so due to ailments sustained during the mission. At this time he is completely paralyzed and is unable to either manually enter the report, or dictate it as the computer can not understand the garble that comes out of his mouth.

Our objective was to study the Mirald Prime rainforest. Extraordinary discoveries have been made in the vast ecosystem on the planet. There is also a fabled Pygmalion species rumored to dwell in the rainforest. It is said that they have an advanced knowledge and intelligence, though our primary objective was to study the fauna and wildlife. Dr. Leary, 1st Mate Beck and I entered the forest to collect samples. In order to cover a wider range of geography, we separated in three different directions, keeping in touch by communicator.

After a half hour I received a transmission from Dr. Leary that he had found something unusual. Actually his exact words were, "A man is big at six by six, but I found me a tribe of tiny pricks. They're four by four and not an inch more. They have to be the men of lore. They say their friend, but if they take my head, please bury me with the Grateful Dead." He said nothing more and did not respond to my own transmissions.

While following the homing signal of his communicator, I later found it abandoned in the forest with no visual sign of the Doctor. However, I heard in the distance the chanting of many voices and the beating of drums. Pursuing the sound, I discovered a group of ten to twelve small men sitting in a circle around what looked like a large wooden idol of a frog. They were all of dark complexion, black hair, adorned with various face paintings and wearing only a leather loin cloth. I estimated them to be about four feet tall.

Amid the group sat Dr. Leary. He himself was without his uniform, sitting only in his underwear. Otherwise he appeared unharmed.

I decided to hide in the outlying brush and keep my presence unknown as the Pygmy men didn't seem to be a threat to the Doctor. If they were the Pygmies of myth, I did not want to ruin this rare opportunity to observe them and this unusual ritual.

As they chanted, they passed a live, yellow and green frog from one man to another until it reached the Doctor. Then he did something I did not expect. He placed the frog in his mouth.

Being a linguist, I was able to translate the chant to mean something like:

Good Food
Good Grog
Be a Chap
And pass the Frog

Suddenly, from the other side of the clearing, I heard Beck's voice yell out, "No member of my crew is going to be humiliated and tortured by a bunch of derelict dwarves." 1st Mate Beck broke from the forest firing wildly with a non-issue vaporizer. Luckily those little guys were quite spry. The only thing Beck managed to hit was the wooden frog idol. It instantly went up in flames.

The Pygmies didn't take to kindly to that. Before I knew what happened, Beck was hit by several blow darts. Apparently poisoned, he was instantly paralyzed – stiff as a board.

At this point I abandoned my position to see if I could quell the situation. I don't think they've seen a female in quite some time because there was much to-do behind their loin cloths. Suddenly forgetting the situation and letting my female ego get the best of me I said, "If you think you're getting anywhere with those shrimp egg rolls you've got another thing coming."

Apparently they haven't heard a Chinese accented voice box before because they jumped back squawking, "Pooladoolafukaroola". As best as I could tell it meant, "Devil in the guise of an ethereal goddess." Or something along those lines.

Not wanting to know how a mythical Pygmy exercises a demon, I grabbed the Doctor – who still had the frog in his mouth – and we both carried the catatonic Beck out of there.

Mirald Prime, Team Ozzie. Part 4/4

The National Mirror *
04.10.3001

Our top story today...

Doctor's have revealed that Amanda Cordes has been successfully implanted with a monkey embryo, the first medical procedure of its kind. Mrs. Cordes agreed to the procedure after an unfortunate collision with a sidewalk entertainer and his dancing monkey. The furry performer was injured in the incident and is now on her way to recovery, though the then pregnant monkey was unable to continue carrying its unborn child. Feeling responsible, Mrs. Cordes agreed to an unorthodox surrogacy, despite strong reservations by her husband.

Originally unsure how a lower primate would react to the womb of a woman, after Mrs. Cordes' first ultrasound her doctors agree that everything is progressing positively. When asked what her first impressions were when she saw the images of the ultrasound, Mrs. Cordes said, "It was quiet at first, but I think it realized it had an audience because it began to move all over – like it was dancing. I think it knows its roots. I feel so blessed."

Mrs. Cordes went on to say that she has formed a bond with her monkey fetus, and she feels it will be difficult to give it up once it is born. It is currently unknown whether the monkey's biological mother will be able to care for a child. Asked how she would raise a monkey baby, Mrs. Cordes' responded, "I would treat it as if it was my own. But I would make sure to teach it about its heritage, both as a monkey and as a street performer."


In other news...

A transit tube was backed up today after an accident occurred over Pahn Street. Authorities claim that it was a mechanical malfunction of one of the carriers, but we here at the Mirror have exclusive evidence that it was no accident at all. In fact, we believe that the carrier was purposefully sabotaged by an alien race visiting our planet. It could only be left up to speculation as to why they wanted to damage our public transportation, or what their intentions were on our planet. Whatever their mission, it must have been botched because our sources say that two of the aliens were injured in the event.

When questioned, official authorities vehemently denounced any such alien visitation as preposterous.


* The National Mirror is similar to Earth's National Enquirer.