East Side Militia HQ

Here’s the funny thing about heroin.

People actually do it.

wa wa!

I got quit from my job. I will soon have to mount a campaign to get paid.

Fuck this rotten town.

trainspotting is on. this is some shit.

HEIRARCH SEVERIUS!!!

BRING IT!!!!

btw. canceled race til tom tom. i am worried about my boy-Bowyer. If he doesn’t make it in the chase i will just have to throw jack daniels bottles at every single person i see.

it’s required.

pss- the world is worth it.

psss

1=1

pssss

it is what it is.

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——
“T-minus thirty, boys,” slurs the Launch Control, heavy with drawl and
faded by a mild high.
“You are sure we are fine?” asks Splinterstrike. For the eighth time.
“This is my boy.  He’s launched me up more’n once,”  Tumbleweed
assures his partner.  Over his telecom – “That’s a roger.  All things
go on our side.”
Splinterstrike is not pleased.  Splinterstrike is used to doing
things.  But right now he is strapped down in a confined pod with no
connection.
With the delicacy of this kind of operation he couldn’t afford to
check his email right now.
“I know it’s just being hurled through the atmosphere by a shitload of
rocketfuel into low orbit around the only planet known to harbor life
in the entire universe, but did you have to smoke out the control
booth before our fucking space launch?”
“Brother, you just don’t know how these things operate.  You just sit
back. Relax. And enjoy the ride.  That is, if you don’t get us
killed.”
“How could I get us killed?  I’m stuck in this pod same as you. And
you’re at the damn controls.”
“Well, technically I can’t control much.  We go in the right direction
or we burn up. That’s a math problem they solved in the 1960s.  I was
refering to whether or not you properly spoofed our launch. Space
launches are highly monitored.  Every major corporation, nation, hell
even interested amateurs monitor space launches.  You know why these
people monitor space launches?”
“T-Minus 20, boys.”
“Espionage? Curiosity? Getting that competitive edge?”
“I see the logic in your guess, but it’s simpler than that. Satelites
are launched everyday.  Sub-orbital flights.  Lunar mining drops.   A
lot of things pass through our atmosphere everyday and all of them are
scheduled and recorded diligently.”
“That’s why you had me do all that legwork prior to this caper. Faking
authorizations and press releases. Hell, even Ares thinks it is
actually shooting this bird up.  I even got them to pay for some of
it.”
T-minus 10.
“Well that’s good.
9
“Because all of those launches”
8
” are tracked for a reason.”
7
” and sheduled for a reason.”
6
“because only one has to get through.”
5
“One what?”
4
“The only thing you don’t bother to register.”
3
“before you shoot it in the air.”
2
“A nuke.”
1
“Don’t want to look like one of those.  They shoot them down.”

The engines engage with a tremendous rumble.  The craft lifts slowly
at first overcoming its own lazy weight still clinging to Mother
Earth.

“It’s going to take a few minutes. But don’t log on while we are
heading up.  It’ll look suspicious if a communication satelite starts
communication before it breaks atmo.”

Splinterstrike is now bored and crushed.  He has never in his life
been subjected to G-force like he is feeling now.  He recalls now that
the plan involved shooting at the same speed they shoot satelites
which don’t have the worry of keeping a pesky meat-shell from
collapsing.  Tumbleweed had seemed to find the whole thing enormously
funny at the time and only now does Splinterstrike fully comprehend
the joke.

Several minutes of alternating horrible pain, lapses in consciousness,
and visions of angels ensue.

Tumbleweed’s slap stops his screaming.
He looks around him.  It seems someone has draped a black cloth over
the window, poked a ton of holes in it and shined a light behind it.
It takes Splinterstrike breath away the same way it does to every
single mammal that sees it.  You could probably go back in the records
of Russia‘s early test flights and see where even those poor dogs they
chucked on one way trips and see the blip where the pooch first beheld
virgin vaccum.

“The screaming helps, huh?  You took it better than most,” says Tumbleweed. “Looks like you did pretty good, chummer.  They haven’t killed us yet.

Splinterstrike gets his bearings.  Tumbleweed has obviously removed
his helmet, but it takes him thinking the thought for his mind to
register it.  Tumbleweed, meanwhile is making himself busy rolling a
blunt in zero-gravity.

Splinterstrike watches the activity simply for the novelness of it.

Tumbleweed catches Splinterstrike watching him, “We’re in a stable
orbit.  Just have to wait for the rest of our packages to launch.
We’ll link up with our drones and lander and be good to go.  Until
then…”

Tumbleweed forms the ground pot in the air in front of him. Bringing
out pressed tobacco leaf, he wraps it around the floating herb.

Just looking at his stubby fingers forming the cyclinder with no hesitation defies Splinterstrike’s imagination.  It’s like when you see a fantastic cook doing his thing and you just know the food is good.  Efficient, precision motion.  That’s something Splinterstrike far from excels in.

But he can also (perform some ridiculous math feat) in his head, so fuck you very much.

Tumbleweed draws the cylinder shut, irising around the suspended ground leaves. He licks it closed.  Let’s it float.  Burns the seal shut, bringing his lighter flame along the wet of his spit, deepening the brown.  Primitive adhesion technology to be sure, but best tool for the job…

Then, he sets it spinning.

“I fucking love space!” says Tumbleweed.  He lights up.  ”Hot box in
zero-G.”  He blows out his smoke then disengages his safety strap,
leaving him adrift.
“I have work to do,” says Splinterstrike engaging his trachial filter.
Annoyed for a second, Splinterstrike busies himself trying to log on.
He looks out the window, catching the glitter of a satelite in the
distance.  He reaches out to it and sees it is in his local telecom’s
range.  Of all the unique experiences he has had today, this one
pleases him the most.

“I fucking love space.”

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