Before World War Terminus I lived among the masses without consequence. After the war, I took a job in mood organ maintenance, which required extensive testing of codes before pronouncing the devices repaired. I frequently dialed a 175, reckless abandon. I fault that feeling with pushing me into stealing real animals by swapping in synthetics. I sold the real ones – at least most them, all except a chicken, which I ate. Don’t ask what it tasted like because I can’t say. My crimes went off without incident until they gave Rick Deckard a bounty for my head.

Having heard of Deckard’s success against the Nexus 6s, I decided to jump off-planet when the Spacing Guild’s next transport passed. They brought me to Arrakis where I broke Fremen strikes on spice harvest for Maud’Dib. Yes, I know they viewed him as a savior and all that; but life isn’t so tidy below the surface. That’s where I work. Everything went along swimmingly until I took upon myself the habit of calling Maud’Dib by the nickname ‘Piddly Pauli Pissant’ in front of his Fremen. Don’t know why I did this; sometimes words just slip out – repeatedly. You know. Well, Maud’Dib soured on our mutually beneficial arrangement and I found myself on another Guild ship.

I write this biography from the asteroid those bastards dropped me on, which ironically hurtles through space on a collision course with Earth. I’m not worried. They always miss with the missile shot and have to send a crew of flimsy characters to overcome a handful of predictably unforeseen events and save the world. That’s where I jump in – on the ride home as a hero. I figure on blending into the background as filler with high-fives and “Yeah! Alright, we did it!” By the time we arrive, I hope Deckard’s found something else to occupy his time. Otherwise, I’m toast.