The pair returned to Mold’pony—
and, by Blindy’s immediate and unquestioned initiative, headed straight back into Tree Tits™ Bar.
Blindy declared with ceremonial seriousness:
“You didn’t let me drink last time, you asshole.
My liver’s been restored.
We gotta urgently bring that thing back down to… twenty-seven percent.”
And just like that, they were back in their natural habitat—
a place where absolutely no one had the slightest idea
that sitting among them was a walking, breathing error in the fabric of reality,
capable of turning everything into catastrophe at any moment.
People and non-people alike lived their lives in peace:
throwing punches,
losing money at cards,
ordering drinks of questionable origin,
and complaining about how life was “unfair as hell.”
[In the back, an old space blues track played—JUKEBOX #5—soft, raspy, the kind of sound that tricks you into believing, just for a moment, that your life has somehow worked out…
and that there's nothing left worth striving for]In short—
the bar was filled with its usual atmosphere of
bad ideas
and worse decisions.
And then—
the street outside exploded in flashing red and blue lights.
The glow poured through the windows like radiation,
washing the room in a howling alarm.
Everything froze.
Doce stood still behind the counter.
Chairs hovered mid-motion.
A gambler’s cigarette hung suspended between two fingers.
Six officers of the space police entered—
with the kind of synchronized precision
only possessed by beings who genuinely enjoy paperwork.
The silence thickened—
dense enough to pour into a glass.
One of the officers carried a small box
resting on a plastic container.
He raised it like a sacred artifact.
“Johnny,” he said, his voice echoing across the walls.
“Who’s Johnny?”
Eyes shifted. No one moved.
The officer repeated, louder:
“Johnny. Step forward. We’ll make this quick.”
Two local degenerates exchanged a glance, shrugged,
and shoved a poor bastard forward.
Johnny stumbled out, tripped,
face-planted hard,
then raised a trembling hand—
shaking like a connection that can’t decide
whether to jump to VoLTE, VoNR, VoWiFi,
or crawl back into the Stone Age on GSM.
“I—I’m Johnny! I swear, officer, it wasn’t me! It was Billy!”
The lead officer sighed
like a man long ago strangled by the galaxy itself.
“You place an order through HyperDash™?”
Johnny blinked like a dying lightbulb.
“I… don’t know… maybe…
I mean, I might in the future? Why?”
The officer extended the box.
“You’ve got a delivery.”
Johnny looked like he would’ve preferred execution.
Another officer stepped forward, voice perfectly monotone:
“The courier was a fraud.
Engaged in illegal trafficking of flagnator spleen fluid.
Warrant issued in three sectors.”
The lead officer added, same exhausted tone:
“We arrested him.
But delivery is delivery.
Please accept your package.”
Johnny stood up—legs trembling like overcooked noodles—
and took the box.
“Th-thank you, sir…”
The officer gave a short, professional nod.
“Mission complete. Boys, let’s move.
Let’s leave these fine citizens alone.”
The squad exited back into the night.
The sirens faded.
Silence lingered in the bar—
at least five feet thick.
Then someone muttered:
“HyperDash™, man… they don’t mess around.”