Tevun-Krus #47 - Galactic Empire

#askmadmike, Part 2

Mad Mike's Madder Mail

"Yo, yo, yo, pussycat,

My dad says I'm not allowed to go out sniffing for hooch anymore. Fuckin' homo! Fuck you, Dad! Prick! But, like, I was wonderin'... I know you're a guy who has all the trippy contacts and shit, and like, uh... Think you could hook a nigga up with some sluts? I'm talkin' big tits, big asses, mouths like Hoovers, man... Send these biatches to the palace on Rindor 4. I'll wait by the mail slot so I can get my screw on. I'm horny as fuck, bro!

Peace."

—Prince Jake Sniffler, of the House of Rindor

Sir, may I first say that it is truly an honour to be the recipient of a letter from a being as powerful and well-connected as you. It humbles me that one with a title such as yours should seek my contacts in times like these. I would think my ho's are trashier than the Grade-A whores you've got going in and out of the palace, but a request is a request, and it behooves me to find some girls for you to fuck.

I shall bag them and tag them ASAP, and send them with my special whore-delivery guy. Listen for three knocks—the first two, a pause, and then the third. The girls might arrive a little bit dead, but one can't have everything in life, can one?

"Dear Mad Mike, Knower of all Things...

So have you ever had one of those days where you wake up and find that because back in the day, your mum opened her legs and took bucket loads of baby batter up in her business, and after a wholly fucked up childhood it turns out you're actually the rightful heir to the throne of a completely and totally unknown Microuniverse?

Wouldn't be so bad, I suppose, if I actually wanted to rule said Microuniverse but dude, I'd far rather keep on doing what I'm doing... I mean, being the world's leading Dik Dik pornographer is a pretty sweet gig.

Any advice you can give would be most graciously received."

—Yours, Mr Vincent Ip

Vincent, in times like these, my advice is always the same: Fake your own death. Lucky for you, I've got a guy who fakes deaths for fun. I've already called him and arranged your accidental death, so no worries.

First, tell your mother you're going for a drive. Make sure she is well-aware that you won't be long, and you are determined to return to her side in fifteen to twenty minutes.

Next, drive your car on a road that gets traffic, but not too much traffic. You don't want to be seen for the next part, but you also don't want your car to never get found. Then you'll just be missing, and you want to be dead.

Approximately two miles into your drive, you'll hear a rattling inside the car. This is perfectly normal, it's simply the engine about to explode. Keep driving. At mile three, you will remove the cap from your in-car cigarette lighter, which has been wired to trigger a spring-loaded ejection mechanism in your seat. The seat has a parachute attached to it, so keep your seat belt on unless you'd like to die for real.

By this point in time, you'll see your car veer off the road and smash into a wall, or something else, like maybe a tree. A minute or so later, the car will explode—just in case. My guy will come around shortly after and place a charred corpse as well as a freshly burnt seat inside. This corpse has been provided with your teeth, your DNA, a gallon of your semen—everything needed to prove that you are dead. Don't ask how my guy got all that. It blew my mind the first time I learned of his methods, and I'm still recovering.

From there it's quite simple. Get plastic surgery, change your name, and live your life the way you want to do it: poor as fuck, and filming animals having sex with each other.

Good luck, and stroke a dik-dik's dick for me. I hope you received this letter before you went driving.

"Dearest Mad One

It seems I find myself in a bit of a bind. You see, I command a small flotilla of vessels in the Galaxy's premier naval fleet, but since the last engagement it appears 'small,' has taken on an entirely new meaning for our enemies made use of new technology in the form of some kind of shrink-ray. Now, the small flotilla of vessels of which I have command is collectively smaller than the most minuscule speck of space dust."

—Yours, Cpt. Inee Dashite

I'm not sure what you're asking for, Inee (is your brother's name Outee? serious question...). But lucky for you, I'm a man of many hats and I've got a lot of connections.

I've taken the liberty of sending a fleet of TIE Fighters, ripped straight out the last Star Wars movie. They are fully functional and are piloted by drones. Little do you know, I control the fleet remotely. And now I've just captured your flotilla.

My ships are shooting your personal craft.

It just exploded.

You are dead now.

And still, I find myself finishing this letter, and still I will send it to your last-known mailing address. I wonder: Who will receive such a letter?

Obviously not you, Inee.