Skog Squad / ITM

YOU DON’T KNOW ME, typed Captain Derek.

YOU DON’T KNOW WHO I AM

He finished posting on his cyberdeck and turned his attention back to the barmaid who was pouring his fourth glass of Troglodyte Thistle Spacemead. “Say Miss,” he struggled to hide his New Adelaide accent, cursing the day his father laid his seed in New South Australian space. “Have I told you about Chomsky and Vonnegut, my spacechickens? They lay the most amazing eggs, maybe I could rustle you up some fancy scrambled one day.” He winked, looking somewhat like a stroke victim.

The barmaid stifled a yawn, “Twice already this evening, honey.” She dropped a coaster on the bar and placed his overpriced craft spacebeer on top. “I don’t eat eggs, remember. I’m a robot.”

Captain Derek winced. But she looked so normal! Oh well, he thought, I’ll be back on the Interstellar 95 tomorrow. Galactic Pizza awaits, no hippy fruitcakes there.

He stared into the dark frothy contents of the glass in front of him, wondering where it all went wrong.

Next year will be better, he promised himself. Next year will be better…