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Darkness descends like a prurient cloak over the obscene chaos that is the Space Station Whisky, revolving drunkenly in her orbit like the Captain Priestess in her sleepless hammock, or the many victims of the bloodthirsty MAFIA in their unquiet graves.
The three remaining entities sit in the Space Bar, staring suspiciously at one another and making their way through the rest of the keg of Baz Beer. Grim silence is the order of the night: each has a weapon close to hand and the will to use it.
Iszabelle has chosen a bone knife fashioned from the spine of some obscure piscine ancestor on the moist and humid home world. She trims her scales with it from time to time, demonstrating its razor-sharpness to the others. Perhaps such a weapon would do little against the smooth silver bulk of T.O.D.D., but she could certainly skin a Rat with it, thinks Iszabelle.
rat’s weapon, as always, is in liquid form. A tiny vial of acid trembles on a chain around his hairy neck, ready to throw at anyone who attacks him in the night
T.O.D.D.’s assortment of weaponry comes as no surprise to anyone: every protuberance, dildo, pincher and tickler on his titanium body is out and quivering with alertness, ready to in-cock-ulate the ear of anything that dares approach with harmful intent.
The sworn vow of these three is to stay up, awake and alert, all Night, in order to prevent any one entity killing any of the others. But a Night is a long time on the SS Whisky, and slowly fatigue creeps over the vigilant trio …
Time passes …
Two of the three are startled awake by a foghorn blast and the Captain’s announcement over the station tannoy that Day has broken, along with an exhortation to wakey-wakey, rise and shine. The Captain Priestess strolls into the Bar, looking fresh as a daisy and obscenely awake.
"Hands off cocks, on with socks!" she encourages, rubbing her hands together. "Excellent! No corpses that I can see. Come on then T.O.D.D., time for you and me to celebrate!"
She approaches the bephallused sex-bot eagerly, but it does not in any sense rise to greet her.
"T.O.D.D.? T.O.D.D.? Nooooo!!!"
An altar droid trundles up to the collapsed and weeping Captain and reaches over her, extracting the neural chip of the dead robot. It is a mass of fused and smoking solder, melted beyond repair. The droid harrumphs and pushes a probe into T.O.D.D.’s aural orifice.
"Not only was this machine a Changeling model, subsequently converted to the Governor class, my systems analysis indicates that the murderer somehow introduced a virus into the T.O.D.D. unit’s datacore, which over-stimulated the reward centre of the brain until it literally exploded with pleasure. Hmm. How ironic.
I see also that living entity numbers being down to two, logic dictates that the MAFIA have won this game and that we should all immediately give obeisance to our new brain-sucking ruler."
The droid scuttles behind the bar, ignoring Governor Iszabelle and the gobsmacked Captain Priestess, and bows obsequiously to the last remaining MAFIA and lord of the SS Whisky unless and until rescues should ever come – humble bar-rodent rat.
"What’ll it be, sir?" enquires the droid.
"I think I’ll quaff the sweet liqueur of victory," crows rat, smugly.
"One limoncello then, sir. Coming up."
THE END – WE’RE ALL DOOMED!
(I suggest further discussion and game post-mortem stuff should hie it to the SS Whisky game discussion thread, which I will immediately revive for that purpose. As Bruce Forsyth would have it, "Good game, good game! Didn’t they do well?") |
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