The following chapter depicts scenes of abuse. Reader discretion is advised.
Commander's log.
Sunday, February 11, 12198 H.E.
We have reached the planet Temilis VII, but due to recent events, my wife has decided to have land the ship on the planet—for how long, I do not know, but it will be nice staying a few weeks somewhere stationary while we make external repairs. In the meantime, some of the crew members have left the ship and got careers to earn a few spending privileges, although everyone now has to follow tight behavior procedures.
We also let Keltalis free on the planet.
* * *
Roger groaned, putting on a customer service face. "Can I help the next guest please? Hello. Welcome to Glubnorb. What can I get for you?"
"YEAH CAN I GET A MOTHER FUCKING. . . UHHHHHHH. . ."
His co-workers snickered, hearing the loud customer on the speakers.
"UHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH BUMGORF?"
Roger glanced out the drive-thru window as his co-workers burst into laughter.
"Sir, we don't sell bumgorfs here. This is a Glubnorb."
"WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU DON'T SELL BUMGORFS?"
"We sell grubtharks, plorgborks, and breakfast grebnacks."
"YOU THINK I KNOW WHAT A GRUBTHARK IS? JUST GIVE ME A BUMGORF, EXTRA RUTHA."
"No, we don't have bumgorfs extra rutha. Sir—"
"YOU DON'T UNDERSTAND. I NEEEEEED THISSSS."
Roger rolled his eyes as his coworkers laughed around him.
"Listen here, you Clorbag Varblernek, we DON'T sell bumgorfs!"
"WHY ARE YOU SUPPRESSING FOOD FROM THE PUBLIC?"
"Can I get you a shlorvax grimplork?"
The microphone sounded like a hurricane. "YEAH I'LL HAVE A BUMGORF, EXTRA SOKKA."
Roger sighed. "We don't have bumgorfs. Sir, this is a Glubnorb, not a Throknar."
"PLEASE. THEY'LL TAKE MY WIFE IF I DONT GIVE THEM BUMGORFS."
Roger face-palmed. The customer was clearly delusional, high on some local drugs. "Sir, you're at the wrong restaurant."
"HELLO? I WOULD LIKE A BUMGORF!"
"We sell klorthogs and gorb-gorbs here. Jesus Christ!" Roger took off his headset. "Boss! There's a high customer."
The middle-aged Kotarin walked over, his belly fat wavering with each step. He sighed. "Not again. Ever since the Zal forsaken opium crisis started. . ."
The Kotarin grabbed the mic set. "Sir, this is the manager. I am going to have to ask you to leave."
"YEAH CAN I GET A FUCKING BUMGORF?"
"SIR. You, milnip wusserloop, you need leave immediately. I will call the cops on your ass!"
The sleek robin egg hover car in the drive-thru then sped off.
"You are off the clock, kid. You do serving tomorrow."
* * *
Roger sighed, turning to the next sitting customer. "And for you?"
"I'll have the sun flame spec—"
A child from another table threw a bottle at him, the glass projectile missing and crashing on the floor. The child screamed at the top of her lungs, throwing a tantrum. Roger rolled his eyes. This was not the first time today some Kotarin brat harassed him.
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