Photo (c) Bastet / GSK 2014
Neither comet tail dust nor neutron shower nor super-nova nor the black hole of night stays these space couriers from the slipstream completion of their appointed cosmic rounds.
Gotta keep my big mouth shut. Don’t give a superior busted nose and black eye. Bad attitude permanently holographed on my record. Off telepathy. Back to fraking star-serve run.
Get the devoluting ones, yokels of the galaxies. Refuse to switch to telepathic communications as if some sort of witchcraft. Won’t go “virtual,” so Boat and I have to go slipstreaming and worm-holing to that h**l-hole
We go “viral” as if I wouldn’t decontaminate after a close encounter! Even built an Area 51 – a hotel, lounge or mail drop? Ya right, you launch those soda bottle rocket ICBMs at us. Boat has to take evasive maneuvers. Then you expect us to stop by for a Sagan which these yahoos probably never heard of.
No way, once we’re dumped the GPS mail (go pursue subject) on Devils Tower, I’m outta here. Back to station mlm menagerie, and the tale weaver’s bar. I’m gonna drink Asimovs til I fall off my stool.
If Boat and I are lucky, it’ll be at least another century in their time til I have to make another mail run to the a**-end of the cosmos!
Devils Tower National Monument, Wyoming; pix taken by Boat on last trip
Written for Tale Weaver’s prompt: Embracing the Future.