"Something extraordinary has happened!!" Potto cried out, running as fast as he could, ankle-deep in desert. He immediately spat out a mouthful of sand, as was often a necessity with the constant sand storms that circled him, and everything in his very limited view.

"Again good Potto? This has become a daily occurrence! You are the lucky one, aren't you?" Lempshop smiled as he spoke, always appearing the educated gentleman. He knew exactly what Potto would say next. A new extraordinary something did not happen to Potto daily. The same extraordinary something happened, and there was nothing lucky about it.

Lempshop had become accustomed to it and always found it amusing. Though Lempshop found most things amusing. He, in the past, had even found gutting whole families amusing. He had often laughed as they pleaded for their lives. That was a long ago whisper, however.

"I have just realized that I remember very little about yesterday. I remember you, sweet, sweet Lempshop...I remember the little shack we call home. I remember books..." Potto started.

"Those are merely books I talk about, Potto. We have no books, fella."

"Hmmm. You must describe them very well."

"Oh. I do! I really, really do!"

"And I remember sand. Lots of sand...but I do not remember any events. So today could be my birthday. So, this extraordinary thing that has happened? It became my birthday! Happy birthday, me!!" He spun and flapped his arms with joy.

Lempshop knew why he was on Tractos, he knew the crimes he had committed (and there were enough of them), but what Potto, a gentle and brain-damaged albino Quarol, had done was anybody's guess. Potto sure as hell didn't remember. Potto didn't even know he was on a prison moon.

Potto also didn't remember Lempshop constantly murdering him earlier in their relationship. He had the scars, but like the quaff of white hair that jetted straight up on the top of his head like baby bird fluff, he assumed he was born with them.

After the thirty-sixth murder Lempshop grew bored and decided to simply befriend Potto. He had never had a friend before but he knew that murder was a no-no on all the friend etiquette lists, as it should be.

These past murders didn't take because the moon had been equipped with a Life Core. This Life Core, which had been drilled deep into the moon's core, was a device that kept all those imprisoned there alive. It acted as a battery for the billions of microscopic nanobots it sent into the sand storms to continually cure people. In fact, one would be hard pressed to tell the difference between one of these bots and the grains of sand they called flight companion.

The planet that this moon orbited was Lyme Node, the most powerful planet in the known universe. Its leader, The Node, had decided that it was much more cruel to keep prisoners alive and drop them off on a hellishly dry moon forever than to kill them, and The Node was nothing if not extraordinarily cruel.

He also made sure that the male prisoners (and females of the odd alien species) had been given a serum that made them permanently sterile. He couldn't have little criminal and P.O.W. babies running about.

As a side effect it also made all of their bodily fluids extremely poisonous to others, an effect that didn't affect possible lovers while on can't-be-killed Tractos.

The Life Core device was created by master inventor and failed megalomaniac Emperor Reginald Zophricaties. When The Node took over the known universe, Zophricaties was no longer needed as the emperor of his satellite, much to his chagrin. He had invented the Life Core, and a glitchy humanoid cloning machine called the Master Cloner, but he was also responsible for many of the killing machines The Node had forced him to create before he went missing. It had been many many years since anyone had seen Zophricaties, and the universe was probably better for it.

Lempshop had never heard of Zophricaties, and if Potto had, it was many years absent from his struggling brain.

"Happy birthday, my love!" Lempshop said with a chuckle. Things could be worse than having something to celebrate every single day. "I got you a gift!" He spat as he took the small parcel wrapped in a filthy piece of cloth from his tattered coat pocket and passed it to Potto, who accepted it with the excited energy of a small child at an amusement park.

It was an old compass. The same old compass Lempshop gave to Potto every day before stealing it back when Potto was asleep. He didn't do this to be deceptive. He did it because it was all he had to give. Besides, Potto wouldn't remember, and even an old serial killer and badger of a man like himself enjoyed making his only friend feel special on his daily birthday.

Not every day was exactly the same for Lempshop. Potto may have been predictable but the variables and challenges that Tractos dished out made things interesting. Though other prisoners generally steered clear of the "well-spoken criminally insane killer and his very irritating pet idiot", newcomers did still pop up thinking they could best them. They came and went, and went quickly. They always underestimated Lempshop's strength and Potto's ability to frustrate.

On this particular day, something happened that had never happened before. Shortly after Lempshop presented the birthday boy with his present, a small eddy of sand swirled around Potto and took the compass from his hand, blowing it into the side of their shack and breaking it.

The heirloom compass that had survived all these many years was now useless. Potto let out a quick, "Oops", like a startled hiccup. Lempshop stared.

Years of smiling, years of pleasantries and attempts to remain good-humoured wrapped around his brain like a great serpent, constricting until something deep within had to pop. His face turned scarlet, veins popping in ways that reminded Potto that they were definitely not of the same species. A hand quickly jetted out, grabbing Potto by the throat without Lempshop removing his bulging eyes from the broken compass on the ground.

The hand squeezed with strength beyond its modest size. The pale skin on Potto's neck soon bruised and tore, and blood poured out like a faucet. Potto seemed caught in a mid-hapless grin, which was all the more infuriating.

"Happy birthday!!" Lempshop screeched as he turned and started tearing the rest of poor Potto apart from the throat down. He opened up Potto's neck with both hands like he was prying open elevator doors.

After thirty minutes of the most disgusting display of temper tantrum imaginable, he stopped and fell to his knees and tears started streaming down his cheeks. He did not cry for his victim; he did not cry out of guilt...he cried because he knew this was a futile gesture and that the nanobots were already working hard to restore Potto to his old healthy self.

Potto would wake up tomorrow, decide it was his birthday, and wonder what had happened to his clothing and his singing voice. There would be no gift to give him, and for the unforeseeable future, no cheer.

Potto's lifeless body-in-repair, and all the blood was quickly covered over by the blowing sand and nanobots. Soon only his head stuck out. His eyes open and blank, filling up with the sand and its fleas.

Lempshop left him there and went into their shack. His own eyes were stinging with sand and tears.

The absence of furniture seemed more noticeable now. He sat down on the floor next to his imaginary pile of books and let that great serpent loosen its grip on his throbbing brain.

As the constriction dissipated, so did his ability to stay awake. He slapped himself in the face. If he slept he would have less waking time to himself before Potto woke him with non-stop talking, absentmindedly seeking his waning approval. What was once amusing would be hard to cope with. Harder to stomach.

He needed some quiet to think. He needed some solitude to ponder.

For the first time in decades Lempshop was depressed. He needed to rethink his situation. He absentmindedly glanced down at his leg and for the first time in his life noticed how delicious it looked.