“I roll with the big boys now. I’ve got my own spaceship, and we fly around fucking people up. No more small, stupid crimes like stealing chips from the local convenience hub. Fuck that shit. Fuck you and your Dancing Chinchillas. It was a fucking retarded gang name, anyway.”

Zahar spat, pacing back and forth outside the makeshift jail I had been locked in, adjusting his devastatingly horrible haircut. Just like the good old days. Just wandering into the territory of the Hellhounds by accident fucked the entire gang up. Their firepower vastly overpowered our own. There was little we could do except surrender.

Looking around, I realised I had been locked in some sort of cyber-home exhibit. Opening the nearby fridge, I found myself some rum. Actual rum, not that space-pill nonsense.

I’ll light that fucker up. Scattering pieces of a torn-up Kleenex box, old newspaper, I gently released some oxygen from my space-suit, and held my cigarette lighter and rum in my other hand. Now, it was just waiting.