So yeah, the bitching about my methods needs to stop, people.
For fuck’s sake here, I’m trying to save the entire fucking universe already. Maybe this whole reality, according to the sages, or mages, or whatever they are. I don’t know, the glassy-eyed old guys that stare into space and pronounce all sorts of doom and gloom while not doing one damn thing to help a brother kill these orcs.
Space orcs. God. So. Many. Space. Orcs.
I’m tired already. I’ve tread the multiverses, laid foot on too many planets and backwater cantinas and desert wastelands and uninhabitable frozen places full of fuck knows what genetic experiments gone wrong and all I hear on the ‘nets is bitch, bitch, bitch, and whine, whine, whine.
“Oh that was an endangered species!” Whatever.
“Oh you made my home planet uninhabitable.” Well, yeah.
“That alien hivemind was a wholly unique ecosystem that had been alive for millions of years.” The fuck I care, it had enslaved an entire colony of people and it scratched my damn ship. I do not fucking care how old it was, it had to go.
All you people do is complain, and all I do is try, as hard and as best as I can, to save the whole fucking universe. The whole of reality. Yeah. That’s all.
I can’t even get someone to feed the damn fish on my ship reliably.
My crew is a motley fucking gathering of every cast-off race of creature imaginable. Murderers and thieves, the lot of ‘em. When I hit a planet they steal and/or rape anything that moves and some things that don’t, but they are the only semi-intelligent beings I can count on to have my back when we charge down some godawful barely lit tunnel to try and recover some fucking space-widget that is the only missing piece of whatever fucking artifact that can stop the alien Emperor or whatever.
Or maybe we are just trying to find a good sandwich. Or a proper blowjob. Hell, I’ve done so many of these things now I don’t even know.
I drift in the blackness of space, terrified and alone, crushed beneath the knowledge that I’m the only one, somehow, that can save everything. And all I can think of is a hot shower, and maybe a nice warm girl with soft curves who doesn’t have a mysterious past or secret psychic powers or is a one-time princess of some forgotten race. Or maybe, just maybe, a nice long nap where the goddamn red alert siren doesn’t go off.
Yes. I dream of these crazy mad things. Stupid things that everyone seems to have but me. But I don’t get them, do I? Oh no, I get blasters and armadas and alien assassins and no sleep and a uniform covered in the blood of creatures I don’t even recognize. I’ve got scars and aches and pains and boils on my ass and a crew that is always about two shots in the face away from full on mutiny.
But I will keep on shooting, and fighting, and trying to save you all.
I’m not sure why, sometimes, in the darkness. I guess I’m just wired this way. I’m just that guy, you know? That guy that can’t do anything else but save the universe. I can’t handle relationships with normal people, I can’t balance a checkbook, can’t keep my credit ratings up, can’t keep the shitty 10 meter square yard I have looking neat and tidy like everyone else. Can’t manage a marriage, or a family.
But put a blaster in my hands and an experimental spaceship under my boots, and I will fix everything. Even if I really don’t understand why. Just because it’s the right thing. My thing.
Maybe one day I won’t have to do this, maybe one day the universe will be safe again, forever. No more alien invasions from another dimension, no more nefarious plots, no more mad emperors. Then I can retire to Mars and grow space beets or whatever the fuck they do on Mars. Or buy some little bar and spend the rest of my life quietly drunk as hell and hitting on beet farmer’s daughters. I mean, that’s possible right? Sooner or later we have to find universal peace, don’t we?
Fuck. Probably not.
So until then, you people out there, the one’s I’m trying to save…
Quit your bitching.
I’m doing the best I can.