Tuesday, September 17, 2013


1 comment:

Carter said...


Excerpt from the daily log.
Communication with the Dark Sector.
As follows:
Here at The Edge of the Runway, we get quite a crowd of Dralvekians a couple of times a year, usually when they’re playing Squamish in the Sagrial Desert Arena. They band together and try to act the part of the Gran Spoiler, but Squamish usually beats them. Badly, mostly. Then the Dralvekians get angry and hungry at the same time and Squamish gets eaten. Fans, team and all. Of course the Squamish fans follow suit, and before you know it (you should have, you know), the field is one mass of carnal slobbery.
We’d like to say that the whole spectacle disgusts us (it does), but the credits we gather after the games more than makes up for the carnage. They all come here to grab a shuttle or use the Tesser Tubes to get back to whatever stinking, fetid rock from whence they hail, but when they’re here at our Interdimentional Intergalactic Transport Hub, they behave themselves and sometimes actually get along. I sometimes see them pass without sneering and clawing each other, which is quite the coupe’, I can tell you. An Austin-Healey, I imagine.
It figures. Since the fans take their ire out on each other at the Field of Play, when they come back to the Terminal at The Edge, they are pretty much used up. Very little confrontation takes place here at The Edge, I can tell you. But you’ve seen Arliss in action. Whatever the Dralvekians leave uneaten, Arliss does away with, whether it’s by feeding The Beasts or if he’s a bit peckish himself.
No one makes trouble here at The Edge or they become lunch. Literally. When Arliss’ eyes begin to glow minkle or clarny, you should run. Trust me, it won’t help. The Dralvekians (as well as the remnants of the Squamish fans) know this all too well. It’s why they behave here.
The Dralvekians are strange in their way, though. Being mostly Lizardian (with a dash of gato sapiens for good measure), they do like to devour those with whom they deal. And sports? They love a good game as long as there are leftovers.
Which, between you, me, the Dralvekians and Arliss, are often few.
I gotta go. The grumbleworms need feeding. And they don’t brook no lateness. I’ve been stomped before. And just imagine what a few feet from a seventy-foot caterpillar can do. It ain’t pretty. I’ve got the footprints to show it.

Soupy Twist!