Barnon E. Morse aboard the Ship-Post, a Single-User Mining Scrapping Privateer Class Vessel - 3034 Galactic Year

"Good Morning, Laborer-Class Citizen Mr. Morse! It is currently 6:02 AM Galactic Standard Time. It's time to get up! There's Credits to be making! Time to get up! Time to get up! TIME TO GET--"
Barnon slaps the top of his alarm clock, the annoying corporate chirping ceasing.

He blinks slowly, one eye at a time, staring at the ceiling of his ship.

A low groan escapes him as a viscious battle takes place inside of him, one of violent enough caliber that it could leave generations scarred.

Stay in bed, or get up and piss.

...

He weren't no bedpisser. With a long, exaggerated huff that would make the prissiest of daddies little princesses proud, Barnon rolls off his foldable bed-couch, bare feet slapping on the cold metal floor.

Barnon lived in a Privateer Class Vessel, the smallest form of Spaceship; basically one size above escape pod.

The size of a studio apartment, he had everything he needed for his extended stay in deep space.

The front of the ship was dedicated to flying the thing. A big, comfy spinny captains chair that could slide towards or away from the console systems. He had AI systems for casual flying, holding position and long distance travel, but manual flying was a good way to stop being bored. Until he almost hits something. Then its back to AI for a week, until his nerve builds up again.

Space and its innumerable stars slowly scroll past through the front window, streaking by as he travels through blipspeed to get to his next contract.

In the middle of the ship was the 'living' section. A compact but well stocked kitchen that had been built around a SpamazonTM Deposit Chute. He had all the basics, and anything else he needed could be ordered from Blipspeed Capable Drones that could auto-dock and deposit things aboard his vessel automatically through Spamazon. FlashFridge, Macrowave, Dish-De-Atomizer -- he had the works, and was proud of it. He was good at his job, after all.

His bed folded up and doubled as his couch, sat directly between his Kitchen, and his Entertainment center; which was also easily viewable from the cockpit if he span his chair around, thanks to its adjustable view. Big TV. Extendable, auto-adjusting arm that leveraged it to the wall, for auto-adjusting to best face you no matter where one stood on the ship. It took 5 different live services to get rid of all the commercials.

Then, just past the living space, was the large docking-door. His ship had a small airlock, where he could pressurize as needed for leaving his vessel, or if he needed to connect to a station or another derelict vessel. Directly beside it, his bathroom pod. Boasting a Smart-Toilet with all the works, Barnon was fierce about treating his Stomach, Dopamine Receptors and Butt like a king. The rest of the bathroom was as expected, fit with standing nutra-shower, designed to recycle his onboard water and enrich it so he'd get his needed vitamins through skin-absorption -- he installed a stool, because even standing long enough for a shower was sometimes just too taxing of a task. And again, kingly butt. It deserved it.

Past the crapper chamber, the back half of his ship was dedicated to the big, expensive parts of keeping his vessel running, and his actual job. There he could access the engines, propulsion system, pseudo-gravity system; shit he watched Virtua-Courses to know how to repair. Then, his space suit, mining laser (also great for ripping apart derelict vessels), gravitational beam lance (good for pulling ore and pricy, recovered ship parts towards his ships storage bay, which ran underneath his entire ship, accessible by a hatch in the back of his vessel), processing table, scanning and processing table, etc.

Basically, everything a lone bachelor would need to brave space for his corporate overlords.

From the outside, she was a chunky little thing, the Ship-Post. Bulky, not very pretty, but sturdy, and could get bumped around pretty heavily without worry. No weapons, unless something was stupid to sit in front of the front-facing ship-class mining laser as it spooled up, or got close enough that he could grab it with the manipulator-crane (big funny grabby hand for inserting cargo into the underlying cargo bay).

Barnon had been working this job ever since he'd gotten out of Virtual Highschool. Started as a little runt working alongside a crew, got a good deal, paid off this chunky little lady, and now flew contracts. Sometimes teamed up with other groups or individuals for a paycheck, sometimes worked solo.

Compared to life on some of the actual Planets, he had it pretty good.

The door to his bathroom pod whizzes open, and Barnon takes a comfortable seat, grabbing his nanobrush. Fancy name, its a toothbrush.

Humanity had taken to the stars, primarily thanks to corporate greed and the discovery of Blipspeed, pioneered by Spamazon when they tried to make a Drone that could travel between Earth and the Moon with some proprietary tech. They lost track of it -- only to realize it was already waiting for them, at the moon.

And it spiraled from there.

Pretty much everything Planet-Side and Station-Side is ran through corporations, parent companies, subsidiaries, and so on. But, Barnon had found his comfortable medium. Still plenty tied to the bazillion services they offered, Barnon could work when he wanted, as much as he wanted. Which, basically meant he had days to even weeks of downtime between weeks of work, alternating as he stored valuable goods or materials, ferried them, sold them, and repeated.

Lots of time for movies, games, shitposting and catching up on his orange YouTube subscription.

Oh, and they found aliens like 400 years ago. Whole galactic community out there. It stopped being new and cool like 300 years ago, so Barnon was already jaded to it. If you could think it, there was probably some weird species that looked like it. There's been some intermingling and immigration, but apparently most of their societies took the same paths. Corporate overlords, wherever you look.

His bathroom pod whizzes shut, and he muses on what's for breakfast. Cup noodles, frozen burrito, or meatballs.

Meatballs were the spaceman's hotdogs. Unknowable meat, jammed into a ball and packaged. Healthy? Not by a long shot. Yummy? The additives made sure of that.

...He stumbles over to his console, leaning against its cold, steel framed edges. He needed to turn the heat up.

"...Computer, turn Heat up by 5 Degrees." Barnon clears his throat, taking a droll, flat tone of voice. Easier for the AI to process.

"Okay, bitch." The AI voice chirped back.

Barnon grinned, remembering the Custom AI Voice pack he'd downloaded last night. Still funny.

There's a low, radiating hum somewhere in the bowels of his little studio-sized ship as the heat kicks up a few degrees. He turns his attention to the console screen, squinting. Still about a week out from that Borutine Deposit that'd been marked.

...Shit, speaking of last night.
"I didn't finish Gorgut! Oh, fuck no. Computer, resume last nights session of Gorgut. I don't care what time it is, I'm not getting spoilered by waiting.

If he waits, that's a monumental increase in the chances he idly sees some bullshit spoiler posted on the Galactic Net. Not happening. Barnon loved his Gorgut. Big sensitive intergalactic warlord. Big guns, big heart. Good budget.

His piloting chair was a lot more comfortable than his bed for movies, by presence of lumbar support. Honestly, he didn't even fold the bed from its bed-form half the time, couch form forgotten.

Buttery fingers galore, Barnon is kicked back in his seat, the large holo-screen leaning several feet from the wall, its mechanical arm holding it for the best possible angle. Ripping through a pack of Rock-O-Pops Extra-Buttery Buttered Popcorn, Barnons got a Burrito warming up in the Macrowave. Slower then a microwave, but actually warmed all sides of the fucking thing, including the inside.

Those were grim days at the start of his career. The half-cold burrito.

Barnon shivers, pushing the bad thought away, and turns his attention back to Gorgut.

"But... Sarah. I, Gorgut, Conqueror of worlds, slaughterer of Millions and claimant of the stars... Love you!" The 8-foot tall, completely armored and very spiky Astral warlord exclaims, falling to his knees. Sarah, the 4-foot oceanic species Flubian bubbles and bubbles. The subtitles say that she can't accept his love, for he isn't Flubian, and her father would never approve.

Barnon is shoveling popcorn down, fully invested.

Until the Macrowave beeps, and he slams the bucket to the side. Best part of the fucking day. Breakfast Burrito.

With a giddiness to his step, Barnon slides in front of the macrowave, face level with its door. He pushes the big button on the bottom, and it swings open, the wafting smell of a well-sizzled four cheese and psu--

Where was his burrito

Where was the inside of his macrowave

Why was there a small purple horse currently eating his burrito

Competent thought has all but left Barnon as he witnesses tragedy of an untold kind. The purple horse finally opens its (fucking big) eyes from the bliss of eating his stolen meal, locking into a stare with him. It makes a small, startled eep as its caught red handed. Hoofed? Its not even holding his burrito, its just floating, surrounded by some glowy purple shit.

The two stare at each other for a long moment, Barnons scowl clear. Some kind of... colorful library is past it, and some of what looks like a kitchen. Gorgut is but an ambient mumble in the background, now.

Arnon didn't know what the fuck this was, but he know it just ate half his burrito.

Barnon suddenly lunges forward, shoving his arm through the microwave. He snatches the burrito out of the air, dumb little purple wisps of bullshit fizzling away as he wrenches the burrito back to his side. The purple horse flinches back in surprise, and starts to open its mouth -- Barnon slams the macrowave door shut.

Gorgut still drones in the back as he stares at his silent Macrowave, half-eaten burrito in hand.

Was this even a victory? At such a hefty cost. And what the fuck was that? Did he have some kind of pest infection? Was it in his walls and it hollowed out his macrowave? It was literally fine when he put the burrito in.

Barnon takes a sad, slow bite of his already pre-eaten burrito, chewing slowly.

... He realizes he just bit exactly where the horse thing did, and was helping himself to a four-cheese, psuedo bacon and horse drool chew.

... Why the fuck did he taste lavender?

... He keeps chewing.

Barnon has spent most of the day stewing about the Burrito. Even Gorgut couldn't help, though he did manage to convince Sarah's father that he was the one for her. By conquering her planet and enacting law that he could marry her. Classic Gorgut.

Barnon idly browses Spamazon, his Holo-Tv barely a foot from his face as he scrolls it with a hand. Apparently the 'Horse Repellant' category wasn't as flush as he'd hoped it would be, it just kept trying to redirect him to a security license that would clear him for a gun.

He didn't really feel like blasting a little purple thing in the face for eating his burrito. Close, but that was a smidge too far for his taste.

... He could fart spray his microwave. Might backfire though. Yeah, no, he's not eating fart smell for the next month. Terrible idea. Prank it? Pranksters Kit for 39.99 Credits. That could be funny.

Barnon glances at the time. 8:56 PM, Galactic Standard. He'd spent nearly the whole day spitefully scrawling Spamazon. He checks his cart to see the fruits of his labors.

Backscratcher, Boptarts and Toilet Paper.

Barnon groans, leaning back in his seat and rubbing his eyes.

There's a knock at the door.

He pauses, leaning forward against his knee.

What?

He glances at his airlock doors.

"...Computer, Proximity Scan?"

"...Wait a second, bitch." It chirps. Still funny.

"...No nearby entities, Organic or Synthetic, in close proximity to the Ship-Post. Detecting one Time-And-Space related anomaly centralized in your Living Section. Would you like to alert Spamazon Support? Bitch?" It follows up, waiting.

"...Uh, no, I've got it covered." Barnon mumbles. There's an affirmative beep, and the ship is quiet again.

Then there's another knock.

It's coming from his fucking Macrowave.

A who-what Anomaly? He should've asked earlier, that's a whole different category on Spamazon than Horse Repellant.

Barnon slowly creeps towards the sound, pausing beside the Macrowave. He leans close, pressing an ear to it.

...

Knock knock.

He frowns, huffs, and opens the door.

The purple horse startles, staring back at him. Behind it, it looks like its... does it live in a tree? It might be night for it. He wonders if they follow the same time schedule.

The two stare at each other for a long moment, the horse twiddling its hooves.

"...Yeah?" Barnon finally speaks up, and the purple horses eyes get even wider.

"Y-you can speak?!" It stutters. Its got a soft voice, like a girl. Girl purple pony?

"And you ate my burrito." Barnon grunts.

"...Huh? No, you stole MY burrito!" She refutes, the shocked look slowly falling from her face as judgement takes its place.

Oh no, she wasn't spinning this around on Barnon.

"No, I put MY burrito in MY Macrowave, you--" He starts, pointing a finger.

"It's Microwave." She huffs smugly, giving his finger a weird look.

"It's Macrowave, you second millennium slugspawn. I would know, I paid for the fucking thing." Barnon bites back, surprising the purple horse, who now looks offended.

"S--Slugspawn? W--" She stutters.

"And it was MY four-cheese psuedo-bacon Burrito you stole, you little hamburglar. Don't bullshit me, I put it in there in the first place." Barnon continues, huffy.

Purple horse shakes her head. "No, I put my Burrito in, and casted a cook-quicker spell because I was hungry! You--" She pauses, ears slowly pressing against her head. "Bacon?"

"Yeah, dumbass. I know you could taste an actually good burrito, the way you had your fuckin' eyes closed in bliss." Barnon hisses.

"...It tasted... different... than usual. That was..?" She trails off, a horrified look on her face.

"Bacon. Pig. Its Pseudo-Bacon, so its not even real bacon. Its whatever meat they get their hands on processed to LOOK and TASTE like bacon. Probably chicken, cow, brognak-- you name it." Barnon huffs.

Purple horse looks like she's about to vomit, going from purple to green.

"Next time, ask before you chow down on someone else's meal, numbnuts." Barnon finishes, flashing a sarcastic smile.

"Computer?" Barnon calls.

"Bitch." Computer states. Purple Horse looks like a horrible mix of horrified, sick and about to yuck it up, as Barnon slams the door shut.

Quiet returns to his little abode again.

That'll teach it a lesson.

... Though the inside of his Macrowave was still wherever that thing was.

Shit, he couldn't heat stuff up anymore. Would he actually have to use his oven? Ugh.

"Thanks, Computer." Barnon sighs, slumping onto his bed. The victory was hollow. His Macrowave was still contested.

"You're welcome, Bitch." The computer chirps helpfully.

A muffled 'Heh' escapes Barnon. Still funny.

Author's Note