Buzz Fletcher: Galaxy Defender

By Busted

I wake up to the knowledge that I, Buzz Fletcher, have soiled myself.

"Peasants! Clean me!" I call and in 30 seconds flat my father, Thomas Fletcher, bounds into my room wearing a fluffy, pink onesie. I writhe around to show my discomfort.

"Aww does the baby need changing?" He says patronisingly.

"Yes! You imbecile!" I yell furiously. He approaches me and wearing one of his toothy grins ge cleans me up.

"Who's a good baby?" He asks, poking my classic, beloved Buzz Light-year onesie.

"You can leave now." I inform him, but, as always, he doesn't listen.

"Does Buzz want to go fly?" He asks happily.

"Don't you dare, you grammatically incorrect fool! Or I'll vomit down your back!" I threaten him for perhaps the eightieth time this week. It's a Tuesday.

"Yes? Okay!" He says enthusiastically. Honestly, it's like I'm talking a different language. Much to my discomfort, he scoops me up, hold me above his head and jogs around the room whilst singing thunderbirds are go by busted.

"That's not even one of your songs!" I groan as I almost hit my head on a toy rocket that dangles from my star speckled ceiling. I like space. What I love most about space is that the possibilities are endless. Is there a planet out there that's completely inhabited by guinea pigs? Maybe. Is there a species that worships cheese? Perhaps. My thoughts are cut off by father slowly lowering me back into my cot. He tucks me into my star wars blanket and puts my "dinosaur that pooped a planet" toy by my head.

"Get back to sleep, star boy." He whispers, kisses my head and leaves. Can't explore the galaxy when you're tired, I remind myself and dream of stars.