And so it was, that after thirty minutes of Boy In a Dress quitting his job and saying farewell to the would-be billionaire teenager,
the three of them walked towards the clunky-looking craft that had brought Tibbs and Mucklebones to the dusty moon called
Barabas and it's cheaply-ran mining facility.
"It isn't much, but it's my own design" Tibbs said proudly and as BIAD surveyed the spherical contraption, even he with his
limited scope of intergalactic vehicles, silently agreed it wasn't much. The metal ball was around eight-foot in girth and its
surface was covered with antennas. Bent and in some cases, snapped off, the aerials made the ship look like a well-worn
hedgehog that had curled up and called it a day.
A single metallic leg with a three-toed foot kept it from sitting on the ground and as BIAD scanned the little door on the sphere's
side to see if he could actually enter the spaceship, he saw that an act of vandalism had occurred in it's history. Not wishing
to deflate his friend's pride, the bare-thighed physical version of a singularity moved on with his negligent audit.
Mucklebones made the decision to relieve herself of water during the Man-Girl's inspection of Tibb's invention and squatting
beside a nearby defunct generator, she ignored her husband's smouldering stare. "If I've told you once, I've told you a thousand
times not to do that in public" Tibbs hissed and stepped between BIAD and his wife performing her natural function.
"What's it called?" the red-dressed anomaly asked as he stood with his hands on his hips. Tibbs sighed and whispered "Er...
it's called urinating". The great Time-Manager shook his head at the mammoth task that lay ahead of them and the innocent
hebetudinous of the pawns on the chessboard who were about to undertake such a mission.
"No..." said BIAD, "...what's the ship called?" and after two seconds of the stuff Tibbs had pledged to manage, the three friends
were giggling like children.
The little man with the beard had initially named it 'Muckles' to celebrate his devotion to his Missus, but after the poncho-wearing
love-of-his-life had daubed the word 'Bitch' over his fine calligraphy -after an intense argument that she'd won again, Tibbs had
resigned himself to not christening the make-shift craft with a appellation.
As the laughter echoed out under the pere-flex dome, one may think the vessel should've been called 'Companions'
It wasn't a spaceship. That was what Boy In A Dress realised after Tibbs had tripped a bank of switches, banged his fist
against a console of lights that were embedded in the hull to his right and turned a large dial in front of where the Vithian
now sat.
The interior seemed to glow with an odd-blueish colour and from the cramped area of seating, BIAD marvelled at how the
ultramarine-toned effulgence intensified as Tibbs pressed more switches.
In most accounts of space-travelling vehicle design, the inside of the ship usually involves comfortable seating that wraps
around the user and gives-off the feeling of security. Sadly in this telling, we are to fail miserably.
Tibbs sat in a leather seat that held material so cracked, it would rival his wife's ancient posterior. A large safety belt had been
sewn to it's side and being ever-the-conductor of life-concerns, the Vithian had ignored it and now the tough strap dangled like
a forgotten gym-sock.
Mucklebones and Boy In A Dress enjoyed the luxury of a distorted uncomfortable bench which -I swear to the deity Tibbs had
attempted to murder, was made of wood. Since BIAD had been around since the forties back on Earth, he recognised it as a
standard park-bench from a long-ago playground area. Pilfered -no doubt, on one of Tibbs' jaunts.
It had been altered to fit into the craft's interior, but the cast-iron leg supports still brandished the name 'Wicksteed Kettering' and
BIAD guessed that this was the manufacturer. During the hermaphrodite's examination of his seat, he felt Mucklebones watching
his perusal and looked up at the monitoring of the unblinking Witch.
"Iron me-lad... you devil-bastards hate the stuff, dontcha?" Muckles whispered to BIAD as her husband busied himself with his own
brand of magic. The part of the question that referred to 'devil' was something Boy In A Dress had given-up on long ago.
Tibbs had predicted that there would come a time when his red-dressed friend would become the sole ruler of a world where all
its residents would believe he was Lord Satan -himself.
It was obvious that Muckles -with her paganistic beliefs, had accepted her man's assurances and now took delight in reminding
her fellow-passenger and trusted-associate of his destiny. BIAD's softly-spoken response of "with all respect, you're full of shit"
sat well with the sorceress of Carbiox simply because it was her type of vocabulary and he knew it.
Muckles' smile dissolved the fake confrontation and with assistance of her eyes, told him she liked him anyway.
The blue air throbbed as the noise increased and Tibbs shouted over his shoulder at his passengers that they'd better hang on
and not touch anything. As a series of lights began to flash from a display above the Vithian's head, he'd have sworn he'd heard
his wife yell "he's not my type!" -but he could have been wrong and it was merely a confirmation regarding his instructions.
Oh yes, it wasn't a spaceship, the kid who'd worked with Boy In A Dress at the pit-face could testify to that as he walked to the
canteen. With the popping-sound of air speeding back into the area where the ramshackle jerry-built vehicle once stood, Mason
Conroy would suggest to anyone who would listen to his usual bullshit, that the thing was actually a time-machine.
the three of them walked towards the clunky-looking craft that had brought Tibbs and Mucklebones to the dusty moon called
Barabas and it's cheaply-ran mining facility.
"It isn't much, but it's my own design" Tibbs said proudly and as BIAD surveyed the spherical contraption, even he with his
limited scope of intergalactic vehicles, silently agreed it wasn't much. The metal ball was around eight-foot in girth and its
surface was covered with antennas. Bent and in some cases, snapped off, the aerials made the ship look like a well-worn
hedgehog that had curled up and called it a day.
A single metallic leg with a three-toed foot kept it from sitting on the ground and as BIAD scanned the little door on the sphere's
side to see if he could actually enter the spaceship, he saw that an act of vandalism had occurred in it's history. Not wishing
to deflate his friend's pride, the bare-thighed physical version of a singularity moved on with his negligent audit.
Mucklebones made the decision to relieve herself of water during the Man-Girl's inspection of Tibb's invention and squatting
beside a nearby defunct generator, she ignored her husband's smouldering stare. "If I've told you once, I've told you a thousand
times not to do that in public" Tibbs hissed and stepped between BIAD and his wife performing her natural function.
"What's it called?" the red-dressed anomaly asked as he stood with his hands on his hips. Tibbs sighed and whispered "Er...
it's called urinating". The great Time-Manager shook his head at the mammoth task that lay ahead of them and the innocent
hebetudinous of the pawns on the chessboard who were about to undertake such a mission.
"No..." said BIAD, "...what's the ship called?" and after two seconds of the stuff Tibbs had pledged to manage, the three friends
were giggling like children.
The little man with the beard had initially named it 'Muckles' to celebrate his devotion to his Missus, but after the poncho-wearing
love-of-his-life had daubed the word 'Bitch' over his fine calligraphy -after an intense argument that she'd won again, Tibbs had
resigned himself to not christening the make-shift craft with a appellation.
As the laughter echoed out under the pere-flex dome, one may think the vessel should've been called 'Companions'
It wasn't a spaceship. That was what Boy In A Dress realised after Tibbs had tripped a bank of switches, banged his fist
against a console of lights that were embedded in the hull to his right and turned a large dial in front of where the Vithian
now sat.
The interior seemed to glow with an odd-blueish colour and from the cramped area of seating, BIAD marvelled at how the
ultramarine-toned effulgence intensified as Tibbs pressed more switches.
In most accounts of space-travelling vehicle design, the inside of the ship usually involves comfortable seating that wraps
around the user and gives-off the feeling of security. Sadly in this telling, we are to fail miserably.
Tibbs sat in a leather seat that held material so cracked, it would rival his wife's ancient posterior. A large safety belt had been
sewn to it's side and being ever-the-conductor of life-concerns, the Vithian had ignored it and now the tough strap dangled like
a forgotten gym-sock.
Mucklebones and Boy In A Dress enjoyed the luxury of a distorted uncomfortable bench which -I swear to the deity Tibbs had
attempted to murder, was made of wood. Since BIAD had been around since the forties back on Earth, he recognised it as a
standard park-bench from a long-ago playground area. Pilfered -no doubt, on one of Tibbs' jaunts.
It had been altered to fit into the craft's interior, but the cast-iron leg supports still brandished the name 'Wicksteed Kettering' and
BIAD guessed that this was the manufacturer. During the hermaphrodite's examination of his seat, he felt Mucklebones watching
his perusal and looked up at the monitoring of the unblinking Witch.
"Iron me-lad... you devil-bastards hate the stuff, dontcha?" Muckles whispered to BIAD as her husband busied himself with his own
brand of magic. The part of the question that referred to 'devil' was something Boy In A Dress had given-up on long ago.
Tibbs had predicted that there would come a time when his red-dressed friend would become the sole ruler of a world where all
its residents would believe he was Lord Satan -himself.
It was obvious that Muckles -with her paganistic beliefs, had accepted her man's assurances and now took delight in reminding
her fellow-passenger and trusted-associate of his destiny. BIAD's softly-spoken response of "with all respect, you're full of shit"
sat well with the sorceress of Carbiox simply because it was her type of vocabulary and he knew it.
Muckles' smile dissolved the fake confrontation and with assistance of her eyes, told him she liked him anyway.
The blue air throbbed as the noise increased and Tibbs shouted over his shoulder at his passengers that they'd better hang on
and not touch anything. As a series of lights began to flash from a display above the Vithian's head, he'd have sworn he'd heard
his wife yell "he's not my type!" -but he could have been wrong and it was merely a confirmation regarding his instructions.
Oh yes, it wasn't a spaceship, the kid who'd worked with Boy In A Dress at the pit-face could testify to that as he walked to the
canteen. With the popping-sound of air speeding back into the area where the ramshackle jerry-built vehicle once stood, Mason
Conroy would suggest to anyone who would listen to his usual bullshit, that the thing was actually a time-machine.
Edith Head Gives Good Wardrobe.