“So… you wanna hear a story, huh?
A tale about treasure hunters?..”
— RING-RING! RING - RING!—[sound so retro it should be illegal]“…Yeah, Todd? What do you want? I’m working.
What do you mean wrong franchise?
What new story? Unknown?
Are you kidding me?..
This is not what I asked for.
Fine. We’ll talk later, you little shit.Ahem.
Sorry, pal—totally wrong franchise.Goddammit… I told Todd—my agent—to bring me at least one decent story.
Something proper: vaults, treasure hunters, maybe another batch of chosen dumbasses…
But no. Of course not.Instead, he sells me out to this cosmic armpit and dumps a second-rate plot on my desk that would make a trash compactor choke.
He failed me. Again.
I really should FIRE him.But work is work, so…”
[sigh]“Welcome to another episode of this galactic crapshow.
It’s me—the one and only, universally beloved Dick Melody.
And yes, shut up—I know the name sucks.
Add it to the list of reasons I hate my agent.DJ Jacqueline “Jackie” Rho, hit the damn jingle…”
— VJJOOM-BAM-TUDUM!—[short cosmic jazz bumper]“This is the late-night show Nights with Melody™.
You’re tuned to Radio Nebula 69.99 FTLM.
We’re broadcasting across the whole damn galaxy—faster than light, yeah.
Every Sunday, nine to dawn, SST. Sol Standard Time, in case you lost…
Right when you have absolutely nothing better to do…
So yeah. Tune in.”
[whispering, with a snort]“I don’t know why you people even tune in… and honestly, I don’t wanna know.
What, Jackie?
Warn the listeners?
About what the hell exactly?Huh?
FTL… M? Oh RIGHT.Faster-Than-Light Modulation.Meaning some lucky bastards out there might receive this broadcast with a minus eight–second delay.
Or worse.
Which means the show might hit your ears BEFORE I EVEN OPEN MY DAMN MOUTH.Wonderful.
Yet another reason to hate my job.Alright, let’s see what we’ve got on tonight’s program…
November 23nd, 3479—SST…
And from this point on, we’re tellin’ a cosmic bullshit story called I Hate Humans.Hmm.
A story about two beings who absolutely, categorically, cosmically
should NOT be together.But space—
much like my dumbass agent Todd—
has a drunk sense of humor.Anyway, let’s not get ahead of ourselves.
First… by the sacred law of narrative canon…
we need the boring world exposition.
You know, so you, my dear pal, can understand what the hell is going on
and decide whether this story even deserves a single minute of your life.I, at least, might get paid a couple of c-bucks for this crap…
Todd, you moron… fifteen percent?
That won’t even cover nuggets and a Coke.
Maybe—maybe—a Triple Cheeseburger.
Cheap bastard.So, the briefing says the planet is called Mülldeponie.
Two centuries ago, this was Interstellar Disposal Zone #4-21-13-16-19-20-5-18, a dumping ground inexplicably registered to HANS & SAUSAGES™—the same corporation famous for… sausages.
Its current inhabitants?
Rejects from every corner of the galaxy, dumped into this cosmic landfill they insist on calling a city-state: Dumsta.But these days, everyone just calls the planet… Mold’Pony.”
[chuckles]“Mold. Fucking. Pony.
What a romantic name. My ass.From the description, the place is a complete hole.
The stench is so strong you can smell it in vacuum when you hit orbit.
What else can I say about this dumpster world?..Oh right.
It was founded by Baron Hans von Sausberg, founder of HANS & SAUSAGES™, long since dead but still legally profitable.
Rumor says his statue still stands there—
buried under trash, piss, drunks, and time itself.By the way?
That intergalactic sausage conglomerate still exists.
And their bratwursts slap.
Especially with beer.Pal, honestly…
I would NOT recommend buying a ticket there. On TripAdvisor.space, in the “Traveler’s Choice of 3479,”
this planet earned a respectable third place. From the BOTTOM.”