Too much thinking does things to you.

[Rommie]

Why does everyone think mercs are bad? I find them to be one of the most peaceful group of people in Sirius. Right after the Zoners, who are to mercs what hippies are to plants. A nuisance. They're like babies. Poop, cry, cry when they poop, and poop when they cry. 'Oh help me the Corsair cannibal started to devour me when I accidentally skipped the line to spacedonuts while being overdosed on cardimine! I swear on my marijuana's roots that I didn't see it until I ate his donuts as well!'

So yeah, I consider mercs very peaceful. You don't upset us, we leave you alone. You step on our foot on a freeport, we cut it off and keep it as a charm against furry squids. Of course, all of this fades away when there's a big paycheck to receive if I make you disappear for the next four hours.

So. As I was flying around one of the stupidcores looking for material for my weekly 'punish the Zoner' hobby,
I stumbled upon two extremes: A space-soldier and a space-junkie.


Of course, as a completely humanitarian being that I am, I offered my help. I'm sure the space-marine would of liked a proper introduction, all space-martinies like to hear you sing the Liberty anthem and flash the badges you earned in space scout camp, but he did seem to be in a bit of a situation.


The overdosed space-junkie, obviously carying his entire planet's flora with him, had managed to pull the space-ranger's pants down. I was hoping to have a serious auction, but with the two dominating stereotypes present in the same 5 square kilometres, such a thing was not possible. The space-heavy weight lifter, obviously enraged by the space-junkie's action, was quick enough to accept my proposition.


By this time, I had noticed the space-junkie's unfortunate name, probably given by his just-as-stoned parents during a national who-can-get-stoned-faster session. Was he ever aware of it? Not that it matters.


As I began fulfilling my duty to the space-olympic swimmer, the space-junkie with the predestined name began to suddenly loose. I know the combination between a mercenary and a space-fireman results in a win-win ending as long as the space-policeman isn't under the influence of any substance that reduces ones mental capability, such as and not limited to space squid furry fur, space squid furry jelly, space squid furry liquid cardimine (which I suspect is produced through the space squid furry-wannabe's digestive system, and the inevitable action of releasing the extra material), and space squid furry adult magazines. Luckily, it was not the case. The space-traffic directing policeman was as clear as daylight.


Eventually, the space-junkie snapped out of his chemically induced trance, and decided it was time to go water his planet's remaining flora back at home. The space-olympic opera singer instantly began a tour of screams and assorted sounds, from which one could only understand he was upset to see his new friend leave. He did pay me however, so I couldn't care much. The space-junkie was upset however, and swore to pay me a visit when I'm alone. For what purpose, that remains to be seen.

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In space, nobody knows I'm a panda