“If you remember our last broadcast…

Madam Hajime Kanzaki—matriarch of ‘Kanzaki Kō Sangyō,’
or as the entire galaxy knows it—
KANZAKI ARC FOUNDATION,
gifted our lovely duo a ship, Z-P-N-E-S 2.0,
with an onboard AI named Rusted Phoenix.

Since then, almost four months had passed,
and now Blindy was living in the captain’s cabin.
The ship had become his home.

He only ever left it to go to the bar ‘Three Tits™.’

And on one of those days,
when there were no jobs,
Blindy lay on his bunk, staring at the holo-screen.

Phoenix wouldn’t let the cabin turn into a dump
like his old room used to be
and cleaned the place with lasers and chemicals
about 48 times a day.

Whenever they were on the Mülldeponie…

Zeros was usually gone.

Nobody except him
knew where the hell he wandered off to.

And then…—a note from the author.”

[Dick grumbles]

“Baby… read what this dumbass wants now. Seriously, I’m fucking tired of him.”

[Jackie takes the sheet, reads softly]

“The author writes:

‘Dick and Jackie,
thank you again for continuing to read my story.

It’s… funny, but I sent my manuscript to different agencies,
and they all said the same thing:

“Garbage. Go learn how to write, idiot.”

And now…
look how the story is doing.

You two are fire.

As you’ve probably noticed, everything written here involves real living beings of the galaxy.

I had to spend hundreds of hours studying materials,
resources…
classified documents…
following Blindy and Zeros.

By the Goddess of Chaos, one time I almost died—
you both know exactly when.

Anyway… why am I writing to you?

What you’re holding right now
are events that happened roughly a month ago.

Considering you, dear Dick, don’t want—what was it you said—’filler’ type stuff.

Unfortunately, I’ve got nothing for next week.

I can’t see the future.

Well… I saw mine once.
In hyper-sleep.

And I’ll be honest—
I very nearly experienced an involuntary bowel situation, if I may put it that way.

I still dream about hyper-tunnels.

Wake up covered in cold sweat.

Anyway. Just wanted to say this.

I’m your huge fan.

Sage.'”

[Jackie hands the pages back to Dick. Dick snorted]

“Ha. Knew it.

Those agencies were right—they told the author to go fuck himself.

I’m pretty sure everything he wrote…
is AI-generated bullshit.”

[Jackie frowns]

“Hey! Dick!

Why would you say that?

You’re mad at everything, but don’t just throw accusations like that.”

[Dick smirks and taps the page]

“Oh yeah?
You see how many long dashes are in here?
Those little lines are fucking my eyes.
Feels like the author’s dragging a ruler straight across my cornea.”

[Jackie bursts out laughing so hard it knocks about ten percent off Dick's confidence]

“So what, you’re saying all writers back in the day
who used em dashes, colons, and a hundred thousand commas
were AI trash too?!
Even Edgar Allan Poe
wrote love letters where dashes felt like breathing!”

[Dick cuts her off sharply, like swatting a fly]

“I don’t know who the fuck that Poe guy is.

Probably used AI too.

And you know me, I don’t give two shits what they’re called.
Long dashes, em dashes, ass dashes.

Alright, that’s enough. Moving on…”

---

Blindy lay on the bed,
one leg crossed over the other,
flipping channels by voice command:

“M-TV.”

Mülldeponie Television popped up.
A local channel running, 24/7: ads, fucked-up corporate announcements, and more ads stacked on top of ads.

Blindy clenched his teeth and growled:

“TRASH. FUCK THAT. M-Plus.”

Premium channel.
Cheap movie garbage and music trash
that people only watched:
before sleep,
when drunk,
or after running outta passwords for real channels.

The screen suddenly flashed so bright
that Blindy nearly hissed.

A trailer started.

Massive golden letters exploded across the screen.

HOODYSSEY™

From the visionary director of: Tenant, Interstealer and the award-winning documentary:
Open Happenheimer

BWAAAAAAAAAM

Dark ocean.
Rain.

A man whispered dramatically:

“Home… is a myth…”

Lightning cracked across the sky.

The camera shook violently.

A BWAAAAAM hit the soundtrack.

Poseidon rose from the sea wearing armor,
gold chains,
and suspiciously modern sunglasses.

He slowly removed futuristic sunglasses despite the movie taking place in 1200 BC.

Then he pointed at Odysseus.

“YO, ODY, MA MAN…

YOU AIN’T CROSSIN’
MA DOMAIN.”

The ocean trembled.

“Y’ALL THOUGHT YOU WAS SAILIN’ THROUGH MA NEIGHBORHOOD WITHOUT PAYIN’ RESPECT?”

A crew member started crying.

Another crew member whispers:

“Cap’n… that’s the God of the Sea…”

Poseidon slams his trident into the water.

“NAH. LET ‘IM COOK.”

Massive wave rises behind him shaped suspiciously like a middle finger.

A legally distinct Zimmer bass intensified.

Odysseus steps forward dramatically.

“Poseidon… we seek only passage home, yanawmean?”

Poseidon leans closer.

“HOME? HOME???
HOMIE, YA STABBED MA BOI.”

Thunder exploded.

Cut.

A philosopher started rapping.

Ancient Greeks breakdanced around a burning temple.

A woman cried in slow motion for fourteen consecutive seconds.

Another BWAAAAAAAAAM

Text appeared:

HISTORICALLY ACCURATE SOUNDTRACK

Hardcore hip-hop started playing.

An old bard screamed:

“SPARTA AIN’T READY FOR THESE BEATS!”

The trailer ended with Zeus descending from the heavens holding lightning in one hand and what looked suspiciously like popcorn in the other. 

“F’REAL, Y’MORTALS…
KEEP DOIN’ DUMB SHIT.”

Another massive golden letters exploded across the screen.

COMING SOON
IN ULTRA-MEGA-IMAX-PLUS-MAXIMUM

Silence.

Blindy snorted:

“SHIT. That—that epic…
But—but now I wanna watch!!!”

Blindy’s face slowly collapsed into disappointment.

He took a breath, swallowed the betrayal, and mumbled:

“Anyway—Rust-64k.”

An exhausted alien face appeared.
Some telemarket seller
pushing whatever bullshit you could already buy on the street.

The exhausted alien face vanished.

A young android reporter, N-EX13, appeared instead, standing in the middle of some interstellar business summit.

He caught a richly dressed old alien—a Glurpanth—walking past.

“Sir! Sir! You’re one of the wealthiest beings in this sector.
Could you tell our viewers how you built your fortune?”

The Glurpanth smiled.

“Of course. When I was just a strobile, I had nothing. Absolutely nothing. Just a tiny thing, twirling through the air, with nothing but big ambitions.”

N-EX13 jerked into a different pose with every word that came out of his synthesizer—the thing he called his synthmouth.

“You started from absolutely nothing?”

The old alien laughed, and his sagging skin quivered.

“Nothing. One day, I found a single space-potato that had fallen from a cargo hauler. I was starving. But I didn’t eat it. No-no-NO. I—”

He raised one finger.

“—sold it. With that money, I bought two space-potatoes. Sold those. Bought four. Then eight. Then sixteen—”

The reporter’s lenses widened.

“Incredible.”

The Glurpanth nodded.

“Yes. And then my distant aunt died under unfortunate circumstances and left me eighty-seven quadrillion c-bucks.”

N-EX13’s lenses contracted to their normal size. He froze for several seconds, his operating system seemingly recalibrating, before producing a short synthetic response.

“…Riiight.”

The old alien walked away.

N-EX13 spotted another wealthy-looking figure nearby—a human this time. The man wore a flawlessly tailored suit stitched from the hides of twenty-three species, several of which had yet to be formally identified.

“Sir! How did you become a billionaire?”

The human stopped.

“Oh, that’s easy.”

He straightened his jacket and gave N-EX13 a proud smile.

“I was a trillionaire.”

N-EX13 leaned closer, his lenses widening with renewed interest.

“Yeah?” he sing-songed.

The human casually adjusted one of the jeweled rings on his finger.

“I invested.”

N-EX13 snapped upright, practically bouncing on his heels.

“Yeah?!!”

The human sighed and shoved both hands into his pockets.

“Now I’m a billionaire.”

N-EX13 remained frozen in his excited pose.

He slowly turned his head toward the camera.

The camera zoomed in.

His lenses made one tiny mechanical click as they contracted.

Somewhere behind him, glasses clinked. Someone coughed.

N-EX13 kept staring into the camera.

Then his professional smile snapped back into place.

“Want to become wealthy too?

Buy my course:

FROM ZERO TO BILLIONAIRE — THE SECRETS THEY DON’T WANT YOU TO KNOW!

Only Ꞩ4,999.99!

And if you order in the next ten minutes, I’ll include my exclusive guide:

HOW TO FIND YOUR OWN RICH DYING AUNT!

Results may vary.”

Blindy stared at the screen.

“Motherfucker… if your course works, why the fuck are you still working?”

Blindy rolled his eyes:

“FUCK THAT. Trash-TV.”

The screen switched to street streaming.
Young idiots filming whatever was happening outside,
messing with each other,
and about every two minutes
someone got punched in the face.

“NO. I can go outside and see this. Gimme Recycle-Vision!”

Old pseudo-mystical music started playing.
A hairy alien in a robe was preaching:

“Space hears your voice…
and will grant your wishes…
buy the audio recording for only Ꞩ9999.99…
open your third eye…
let Space hear you better…”

Blindy slapped his own face:

“I’M SO FUCKING DONE… Deponie Wave!”

Abstract colors, slowly pulsating.
No sound—just subtitles telling you what you’re supposed to feel.
Rumor says every 25th frame sneaks in a paid ad that just says: “BUY.”

“OH NO, THIS IS BULLSHIT. Channel M!”

Three hosts yelling over each other,
arguing about something that was irrelevant five seconds ago,
constantly changing the subject,
cutting each other off,
bringing in new “facts” nobody asked for,
until someone snaps—
and five seconds later
they’re throwing chairs and tearing the set apart.