Phrewy Tarmuster loved his horrible job, and perhaps his horrible job wasn't so horrible if he loved it. He always got to work three hours before a shift and left three hours after. He dreamed that one day The Node (or even a representative of The Node, a representative of a representative of The Node, or even a representative of a representative of a small pet belonging to The Node, should The Node happen to have a pet and that pet's representative needed representing) would recognize all the free overtime he did and reward him.

He didn't want a promotion; he loved his job after all. And he didn't want a raise; he didn't have any free time to spend it with all the overtime he received nothing for. He only wanted a small trophy to put on the one (empty) shelf he had in his tiny flat. He wanted a reason to invite people over. "Oh my!" they would exclaim and pick up his tiny trophy in their clammy hands. He would scold them for touching such an accolade with such clamminess and feel an enormous sense of satisfaction.

This satisfaction always enveloped him when he scolded people, for scolding people is what he liked most about his job in Lyme Node's Space Ship Parking Enforcement and Impound Lot Management. It was absolute bliss. It made him feel huge. It made him feel smarter than all those that occupied the offices and flats above his underground lot. It was almost in some ways (yet not at all in most ways) orgasmic.

His favourite part of the job was scolding someone looking for their impounded ship as they tried to talk him out of the hefty fine (that he purposefully marked up so he could then bring back down and appear to be doing them a huge favour). He would then scold them further for being cheap.

As far as scolding went, he perhaps did deserve a trophy, and the Human Resources department head Vas Melphoido agreed. He had been following Phrewy's career for some time and was quite impressed. He was not impressed with Phrewy's free overtime; it was purely the scolding.

Vas Melphoido liked to be scolded, and he liked watching security footage of the master at work. He was so impressed (and also titillated) that he, on this particular day, had purchased (with his own pocket money) a tiny trophy for his favourite scolder. He had even spent the extra two credits to have it engraved with "Hooray for Employee 67543! You fantastic little Son-of-a-Bitch!" and a small yellow winky face sticker. He had added son-of-a-bitch last minute. It was something he had heard friends call each other when playfully ribbing. The winky face ensured Phrewy knew that this was playful ribbing and not a slight on Phrewy's mother, who actually was quite terrible and deserved a good slight or two.

Vas was so pleased with himself. He had never in his life done something nice for someone before, and he was sure that no one had ever done anything nice for Phrewy "Employee 67543" Tarmuster before either. He could tell by the way Phrewy scolded.

Indeed, it was true. Phrewy had never had anything nice done for him. This wasn't a reason to feel sorry for him. It wasn't because he was a sad and lonely man with no friends. Well it was because of those things, but those things were because he was an asshole who scolded everybody.

Vas got on the elevator from his mildly damp eighty-sixth floor office where he spent most of his time watching other employees do things such as scold. He descended down to the depths of the impound lot, rubbing his thumbs over the smoothness of the little gold plastic man with the wagging finger that stood atop the small trophy. He had practised dropping the trophy without breaking it several times. He would present the trophy to Mr. Tarmuster, "accidentally" drop it, and see a wonderful and rare display of joy-for-receiving-it and scolded-for-dropping-it mastery. It would be marvellous to behold. It would be like watching celebratory fireworks go off in an anger management clinic.

When he stepped off the elevator, he was hit by a waft of engine plasma and rust. He smiled and did a little dance. To get to the impound booth where an unsuspecting employee 67543 no doubt sat waiting to scold someone (or something for that matter), he would have to wander through a fleet of small-to-large ticketed and towed spaceships. He didn't get to see many spaceships in his day-to-day, and he found it quite exciting.

He passed smaller ships of various shapes and designs, from crystal shards to mid-twentieth century Earth hot rods. He passed boxy brown delivery ships that had idled too long outside residential high-rises. As he passed a medium-sized Shiv ship that looked remarkably like a giant light bulb, he heard a noise.

It was the kind of noise that was concerning and startling for it was the sound of someone purposefully dropping something so that someone else would ask "Who's there?" before something terrible happened to them.

"Who's there?" asked Vas Melphoido, having seen enough movies to know that this instantly condemned him. He shook his head in disappointment with himself.

Weird Jimmy came around the corner like a character from a very scary pop-up book. Vas screeched like the mating call of a Flotsamian Hyena Monkey before that awful sound was abruptly interrupted by Weird Jimmy's fist through his chest.

He instantly recognized Jimmy from the news and the posters. As he felt Weird Jimmy's hand grab at things inside him that no one should have access to, only one thought passed through his mind before his consciousness drifted off into the universe forever: "Hmm. He's much skinnier than I had imagined."

~~~

When Phrewy Tarmuster was making his rounds, checking on the ships to scold anyone trying to break into them to retrieve their sunglasses, he came across a set of bloodied foot prints. At first he wondered how the owner of bloody boots (such an odd fashion statement, but he had seen odder) had gotten past him as the trail led to the lunch room attached to his booth. The same lunch room he had just left after finishing his soggy microwaved "grilled" cheese sandwich.

Within moments he came across the body of Vas Melphoido. He didn't know that it was Vas Melphoido as he had never met the man, but instantly, and literally, hated his guts. Especially after slipping on them.

He sat on the floor of the impound lot, partially panicked and partially wondering who he could scold for such a mess. Both feelings dissipated quite quickly however when he saw the small plastic trophy.

He picked it up off the floor and wiped blood from the small engraved plaque on its base. His eyes welled up with tears as he read the employee number and recognized it as his own. It was as if the corpse, the guts, the blood and the imposing (yet skinny) man standing menacingly over him all ceased to exist.

In his head he was dancing. He was dancing with a life-sized version of the small gold plastic figure from atop his trophy, and that is where his mind would stay forevermore as Weird Jimmy separated that head from his shoulders without him even (or ever) noticing.

~~~

Winstslen Doorhassler was an inventor. He held an unofficial record for having been rejected more than any other inventor in history. This did not stop him. He had invented over seven-thousand devices, and not one of them ever saw a patent, a buyer, a neighbour's envy or even one credit piece. He lived off of the inheritance of a childless uncle who had become very rich off of his own invention many years before.

Yes, Winstslen Doorhassler was the nephew of the man who invented the Little Butter Fridge. A small refrigerator that was only big enough to fit one brick of butter and keep it not too cold and not too room temperature. Cool but spreadable. And it looked exactly like a tiny regular refrigerator. In fact, you could buy it to match the shape and colour of your particular model of regular refrigerator.

One of the main department stores in the great mall of Earth (BigBigTerraMart) had picked it up and soon they could barely keep up with the demand. Jincoln Doorhassler got rich, and billions of people and people-ish beings kept their delicious butter at an optimal temperature.

Winstslen had not been so lucky, but he was driven. He had been lucky enough to be Jincoln's only living relative when Jincoln dropped dead from a heart attack caused by the cholesterol of the thousands of pounds of wonderfully spreadable butter he had consumed over his life.

His own inventions had not been successful at all. Not even his re-invention of his uncle's Little Butter Fridge, the Little Butter Softener which did to butter exactly what simply leaving it on the counter would do.

His failed attempts included The Hair Spooler, The Bread Spiraller, Musical Pancake Mix, The Swiss Penis Splitter, The Cramped Tent, My Panda Buddy, Laser Fur, The Pizza Vacuum (for removing unwanted toppings), The Quick-Flame Jogging Suit, Rat Sweaters, My Panda Buddy Sr., Aerosol Onions, and The Space Parachute.

He had just finished boxing up his prototype for the Varicose Vein Magnet, a pen-shaped device that could be dragged over one's legs to move one's varicose veins into pretty pictures under one's skin, forming them into what looked like swollen and craggy tattoos.

He was excited about this one. He addressed the parcel to the same company that (still) made his uncle's Little Butter Fridge, and that had turned him down over seven-thousand times before. He left his flat and made his way down the hall to the postal pick-up bin by the elevators. He dreamed of the invention giving him fame and prestige. Though he had his uncle's fortune, he had never felt good enough to move himself from his tiny flat only one floor up from the Impound Parking Garage.

His entire floor always smelled of engine plasma, rust and soggy microwaved "grilled" cheese sandwiches. With even one success he'd be moving up to a bigger flat. One that had its own workshop. One that smelled of cherry blossoms and soup.

As he walked with purpose towards the bin, he stopped. He could feel the presence of another. He could feel the presence of evil. He immediately thought of inventing an evil detector. It would have come in handy on this day, and perhaps he wouldn't have left his flat when he did.

By the time he turned around, Weird Jimmy had shoved a dull butter knife through his back and into the many organs he probably needed if he intended to ever invent anything again. Which he wouldn't.

Winstslen did not die right away. With his last bit of strength, he dragged his parcel down the hall, crawling in agony. His attacker had already moved on.

He got to the postal pick-up bin and managed to get the box over the edge. With the satisfaction of hearing it hit the bottom of the inside of the bin, he promptly passed on, never finding out that his Varicose Magnet was to be the biggest thing to ever hit the market. Even bigger than The Little Butter Fridge.

~~~

Weird Jimmy was enjoying himself. There was so much life to extinguish on Lyme-Node, and the slight dampness helped keep his sinuses clear. Everything about Lyme-Node agreed with him and seemed set up for the criminally insane. He felt unstoppable.

"Stop right there!" a voiced called out to him.

He stopped, but not because he was instructed to, and definitely not because he wasn't unstoppable. He turned to see a Node Guard down the hallway with a laser pistol aimed at him. The guard requested backup through his communication watch. Jimmy just stared. He didn't move. He waited. The more the merrier.

From the Shiv to this particular hallway he found himself in, he had managed to kill three people and pick up a dull butter knife from a lunch room that smelled of grilled cheese sandwiches and misplaced pride. It had been ages since he got to really be himself at the expense of others. He was still good at it. It was like riding a bicycle. A very horrible, easily-hosed-down nightmare bicycle of death.

Within minutes the hallway was filled with Node Guards with guns. They all recognized the infamous James Flowermorey and were confused as to why he was not off killing the same people over and over again on Tractos. They had not received the memo yet about Tractos. Or the return of the Shiv.

With his insane (seemingly superhuman) strength, Weird Jimmy threw the butter knife so hard it went through a guards's head, and he dropped to reveal that it had gone through the head of the guard behind, and the three behind him. This was a lesson, perhaps, in not standing in single file when trying to apprehend a super-strong psycho killer with a projectile.

By the time an off-work Foam Whistler (Lyme Node's favourite shock radio DJ) got off the elevator and turned the corner on his way home from a rather intense (yet juvenile) interview with Bartloff Hectic (the most famous rock star in the known universe), the hallway outside his flat looked like an abattoir had exploded inside a second abattoir. An assortment of body parts, gut-soaked carpet and bloody bits of guard uniforms decorated the hallway.

Weird Jimmy was gone, but he left the kind of mess behind that would make Foam Whistler write two best-selling books about his experience from the flat that he never ever again left.

~~~

Vitrie sat on the edge of the bed she once, but no longer, shared. She stared at the indent her wife had made on the far side of the mattress. It was a fairly formless indent, as Stig had rolled around a lot in her sleep. She hated that it was formless. She hated that it wasn't the perfect shape of her beloved, a shape so perfect that she could use it as a mould for plaster and have a statuesque duplicate to look over at in the middle of the night and make her feel safe.

She was in the dark. Not only literally (she did forget to turn the lights on, opting for the more moody hall light shining in through the open door) but figuratively as well. Stig's offices had told her nothing.

The Shiv had taken off with James Flowermorey in tow, the prison moon of Tractos had been destroyed, the Shiv had escaped moments before and had come back...but somehow her wife wasn't on it when it returned. Nor was there any indication she had left the ship while there.

No one had told her about the brainless body they found in a Shiv store room when the ship was impounded.

No one had told her that the missing brain was now keeping the ship's operating system functioning and that they were unwilling to pay for it to be repaired properly.

No one had told her that one-hundred-percent her Stig was dead. And no one had warned her about the annoying and absolutely infuriating little Impound Lot Manager's scolding condescension when she went looking for answers herself. She had wanted to murder the little bastard.

The communicator would sometimes ring and she would get her hopes up, but no one would be on the other end.

She started crying. This was something that had happened so frequently she was unaware she was doing it. She shuffled to the kitchen where she had made too much food and took a bite of the "fanged dangling jessop" stew straight from the pot she had cooked it in on the stove hours before. This was once their favourite comfort food. And how comfortable they had been.

She had lost so much, and now she had lost her appetite and her cool as well. With a wide swat she sent the pot flying across the room, covering half the kitchen with ground jessop, Squamboggian swamp potatoes, and instant regret.

She grabbed a bottle of "The Node's A-plus Brand" Merlot from the fridge, pulled the poorly-made cork out with her teeth, slid down the one clean wall in the room and stared blankly at the mess as she sat on the cold floor. She felt empty. She felt hollow.

The communicator rang. As much as she wanted to ignore it and avoid the disappointment, she instinctively sprang to her feet, took a huge swig of wine and answered it. This time there was a voice on the other end.

"Are you there? I'm sorry! I wasn't thinking! I got so upset thinking about you! His brain was attached to the ship! It didn't occur to me until after it was too late that he could read my thoughts! And I him. I can trace him! And he's coming for you! He wants to kill you! All because of me! Get out of there!" said the voice on the other end.

Vitrie had worked on various ships before as an engineer. She recognized the voice of a Knutt, the standard voice of the computers on several different models of ship, including the Shiv. Though she had never heard one with an urgent tone. Or any tone. It was usually quite a dull voice, not one that was both excitable and somewhat familiar in cadence.

"I don't understand. Who has programmed you? This isn't funny," she said in a confused haze.

There was silence. It was as if this Knutt was thinking. Knutts didn't stop and think, they instantly calculated.

"Wait. Who wants to kill me?" Vitrie finally asked, filling in the silence with her own urgency.

The words were no sooner out of her mouth when the door to the hallway came crashing down and Weird Jimmy was standing smiling in the door jam with a dripping butter knife. And it wasn't dripping with butter.

For the first time in the history of space ships, a space ship panicked. And when a space ship panics, it no longer needs a pilot.