Blindy walked in, and Doce greeted him like a patron saint.
T.8.0.0 even dipped slightly, like he was welcoming someone important for once.
Tresbola patted him on the shoulders,
sat him down at a free table,
and a drink appeared instantly:
TRASH HEAVEN.
Not the trash sludge
he usually drank—
the kind that could send a bull to heaven.
…fuck.
Even I got confused for a second.
Alright.
“Trash Heaven” is the brand name.
The drink itself?
Kinda good.
Top-tier by garbage planet standards.
What he used to drink—
that was real trash.
Blindy started to feel like life
might actually be getting better.
An ancient cosmic blues track crackled to life, sounding like the bar itself was remembering every night that ended wrong, every wasted chance, every mistake that couldn’t be undone.
He took a breath and told himself:
“Yeah… I—I’m the white lion king.”
A few feet away from him
sat a mercenary named Mimi Glitterstutz—
a human with three surviving teeth,
wearing a dark, worn combat suit
and a crooked red cap
with the MGGA emblem—
Make Galaxy Great Again
Mimi, drunk, looked at the aliens and yelled:
“WE—
WE NEED TO MAKE THE GALAXY GREAT AGAIN!”
Gwir’Yusson—a hargult,
big enough to block
half the damn bar—
mumbled calmly:
“Was it ever… great?”
Next to him sat Kluu’Vres, a zhudefon—
small,
twitchy,
and loud enough to make up for it.
“Statistically?
Nah.”
From the corner, playing cards,
sat Dhal’Rrek—a nistox
who could slip out of sight
by bending and breaking light around himself.
He raised his hand and called out:
“Heh… nobody remembers it being great.
So yeah—
prolly never was.”
Mimi tried to stand,
collapsed right back into his chair:
“IT WAS!
When humanity first went interstellar!
Built colonies!
Opened frontiers!
One species! One system! ONE set of rules!”
He pointed wildly, almost falling again:
“AND THEN YOU SHOWED UP!
YOU— FUCK-FACES—
DON’T RESPECT OUR RULES!
Our. Human. NORMAL rules!”
He slammed his hand on the table, missed slightly:
“And then you wonder why everything falls apart!
WITHOUT OUR RULES—
THERE IS NO ORDER!
NO HONOR!
NO—”
Gwir’Yusson let out a wet, heavy snort—then spat a disgusting amount of saliva and roared:
“YOURS?!
Normal?!”
He leaned forward, voice deep and crushing:
“You hairless ape…
humans got exactly three modes.”
He raised a thick finger:
“Krah’t—
drink… and shit all over everything.”
Second finger:
“Drah’t—
scream about ‘order’ you don’t even understand.”
Third finger:
“Vrah’t—
call it ‘honor’…
and go kill someone
’cause you woke up wrong.”
The giant stood up.
Chairs flipped.
People scattered,
forming a circle around the tables
like they were about to watch a circus.
Blindy watched and thought:
“Ohhh… this gon’ be good.
Damn… nice to be home.”
Mimi, trying to sound confident—
and failing halfway through it—muttered:
“Oh yeah?
You— you want a fight? RIGHT NOW?”
He pushed himself up a little—then sank back again:
“Let’s go.
C’mon, bratha…
I ain’t… I ain’t scared of you.”
Gwir’Yusson didn’t raise his voice.
“Your arguments… are primitive.
Your logic… incoherent.
Your hat… ridiculous.”
He took his time before answering.
“This galaxy don’t belong to you only.”
The words settled between them—heavy, unmoving.
“It belongs… to all of us.”
He leaned forward slightly.
“We live here.
All of us.
There are no ‘guests.'”
He let that sit.
“We have equal rights.”
His voice didn’t rise. Didn’t soften.
“If you don’t like it…
go to another galaxy.
There are plenty.”
The last word landed heavier than the rest.
Mimi started choking on his own anger,
swaying like something inside him lost balance:
“That’s it…
that’s—
that’s it!”
He jabbed a finger into the air, missed the target entirely:
“I’m callin’—
FORST!”
He struggled to remember the words:
“Federal—
Organiza—
Organiz—
…Retaliatin’—
Stupid—
Theses!”
He raised his left hand—
his wrist lit up with a smart holo-watch.
The bar went silent. Everyone froze.