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The Fleet
Topic Started: Jun 19 2011, 06:28 PM (237 Views)
Griff
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Extra, extra, read all about it: TUFFLES DIE DAILY
The might of the Northern Alliance armada left without fanfare from a hidden base located in off the western coast of Africa. Aboard the Souleater, perched mightily in the captain’s chair, Griff felt powerful, more powerful than he ever did aboard his own ship, the well-crafted and superfly Bearded Lady.

Kami, he was pissed about losing his ship to the notorious space bandit known galaxy-wide as the Blue Balls. What kind of name was that for a pirate, anyway? Blue Balls? Seriously? He couldn’t decide which was worse – the moniker Quick used to describe his prowess at leaving his male lovers in the lurch, or the fact that he, Griffon E. Sertelem, had been taken advantage of by something with that name.

“Full speed ahead!”

“Uhm, sir?” A quiet technician seated behind him raised his hand, pointing one finger toward the cabin’s ceiling as if that helped Griff see him. Pressing a button on the arm of his chair, Griff spun slowly to face him, gears below the base of his seat working so as to make him, and any captain, a lazy prick.

“What is it, Reynolds?”

“My name’s actually Jordan, but I wanted to say the ship doesn’t work like that. We’re already at cruising speed.”
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Griff
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Extra, extra, read all about it: TUFFLES DIE DAILY
Ten minutes later, Griff found himself deported from the bridge for the comfy confines of the brig. Hey, they were almost the same thing. Brig was bridge minus the d and the e, right?

He’d been taken down with a stun rod to the back of the skull after trying to throw the technician out of the nearest airlock, screaming all the while that he was wrong about everything.

“Cruising speed!? I drive around on Sundays at cruising speed and it’s not the fastest my car is capable of traveling, are you KIDDING me!?”

“Please, sir, you’re hurting me!” Griff had been dragging him along the halls, fingers tangled into the young man’s hair, digging into his scalp as he pulled the kicking and screaming body behind him. Lumbering down the hall with the tech in tow, people gave him a wide berth. At least until security came with their stun sticks and prevented him from committing an act of manslaughter.

Totally deserved manslaughter, but manslaughter nonetheless.

“AND YOUR NAME ISN’T JORDAN, REYNOLDS! IT SAYS IT RIGHT ON YOUR BREASTPOCKET!” He stopped in his slow march, turning to actually view the nametag that was sewn into the breast pocket of Jordan’s uniform. Sadly, it did not say Reynolds, but these creeps had a way of being clever and psyching you out. Of course it didn’t say Reynolds, that would’ve blown his cover. “ARE YOU A TUFFLE SLEEPER AGENT?

TALK!

“My name’s Jordan, sir, and I don’t have any idea what you’re going on about! And you’re really hurting me!”
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