She was a diminutive contemporary among her peers with gaunt, slender, pragmatic hips and thighs that could jackhammer hormonal words like "pummel", deep into submission.
Her stark, bleak, world was noxious, suffocating and would steal your new baby's breath and that was just the pallid baraethryllium gas that rapidly sustained her as it passed her throat. A supply stemmed into the cut vase of her torso.
The nights were a cyan-azure tinctured mix of thaumopolis winds so biting, she'd forgotten it wasn't a lovers dank foreplay riddling her body.
But, not here.
This world, Genoue, was a green and blue, multi flouraed, bioluminescent, paradise and she, one Mrs. Ruma, became stoically determined, after crushing on some local fauna, that she would be returning for pleasure, again and again.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The vapid stew simmered for fifteen minutes before it had been ladled into the waiting bowls.
Roeückblatt never tasted so good. But it had an attitude which many customers disliked.
The Roeückblatt gurgled euphorically at the virile Nylers most unfortunate loss of much of its liechenstacht soeamposium's purlnapping from the tri-annual ritual: the Hansha Gri-Lordac Throgrhat Tree's mass rooting, transplantative, displacement of its lucious, curled, vibrant and protuberant Maccenack thorns.
Named for Fredliss "the Visionary" Janeer Jon Maccenack, the crippled blind man who used them to cure the spread of the contagious and deadly, Drydaughtt's Syndrome.
It was a mating ritual that Thron the Nyler was not thrilled about, but he had bedded sixteen furry vixens and, at least, four would litter his rampant offspring. He was exhausted and he was dissapointed at the loss of his Maccenack thorns which he invested ample time and rare resources in growing and grooming.
Bitter, the Nyler salted the stew and slurped it down. The farajak spices scented the eatery with pungent-sweet deli'd scents and the blue collared frere rabbit began grumbling loudly, in order to, help mildly distract him from hearing its liquidy laughter still continuing down into his gullet.
The rabbit quickly scurried off when she had entered. Ruma was a tad bit heartbroken. She loved a rabbit once, but he ran off. It wasn't so long ago. She shook off her coat and sat down to the rabbits stew. Nyler rabbits, it appeared, always ran off.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"I used those two peaks right there, on top of the Angulodd Ribbon, for a compass and map triangulation. We're at 118° with an inclination West of 12° for a true bearing of 106°.", said Corporal Pilsner, trying to show Commander Antilles the map, but the infantile Commander, annoyingly, waved it away.
"Egghead!", the Commander exclaimed. Then, the Commander began trying to shove a yellow sticky note with the words, "You're a cod, bone head!", on it, into an irritated Corporal Pilsner's face, while asking him, "Wanna come into my Cruiser cabin? I see how you look at me. I'm not that way, but you look like you'll cry if you don't get your way and I like sissy girls. You a sissy girl, egghead?"
Unperturbed, the Corporal shot back, "I know you're trying to be fecetious, however, most women I know would snap you like a twig and are twice as commanding as any man. Those who aren't are soft, beautiful, gentle and have more ounce of care in one little finger than you have throughout the whole lot of your being. I'd have been proud to have been born a woman, I should say. Beats being born the man who has to put up with you. Besides, you lout, this here cod, bone headed, egghead's gonna get us out of here!"
The Commander shook his head and laid a heavy, muscled hand onto the Corporal's shoulder, saying, "Face it, screwy. We're lost."
"We're not lost!", the Corporal threw the map onto the ground.
"Spare me your psycho babbling!", an irritated, child-like, Commander said, while pulling an antiquated Emerald-Verdiean liquor, far too nice for the very auspiciously grooted and messed up occasion, from a broken shaft compartment on the downed Krorthrite craft.
The Corporal felt like a groot because he didn't resonate with being subjected to the unwanted advances of the Commander or his personal conduct and bottle-filled living space, period, and, most certainly, not when receiving a loving sticky note with quantumnuscopic three point alledos font and a look of unpreproportional squinting at the incessantly neurose, vain and the absurdly uncompromised, nigh' unyielding, berating on the part of, his High Royal Supreme Lord of Retardedness, Commander Antille's.
Antille's, oblivious of the Corporal's unassauged displeasure, continued ...
"I get it. I do. We're all here. This is in the eternal now and we're just viewing panaramic slices of time, 'cause we can't wrap our head around it and we all have our feelings hurt! So we can sit around and 'Whah! Whah!' All day.", motioning with rubbing hands to his eyes as he prattled off his insults.
"Noo! ... It's on the map!", the Corporal said, slowly, so the simpleton before him could follow and understand.
"What are you gonna believe? Pictures or your own eyes?", then the Commander made a "V" with his fat, pudgy fingers and went to poke at the Corporal's eyes.
"Well, you stay lost, I'm getting out of here.", the Corporal leaned over and scooped the map off of the ground.
The Commander squeezed his arm before Corporal Pilsner could take another step, intoning, "Noo! ... We need 'you' to set up camp."
"You Kurlagh-f**ker!", spat the Corporal.
"Aww, the egghead's mad. Be careful! He might throw a Grigand Stohl book at you.", said the Commander walking off while guffawing about his own joke about the author who had been crushed to death by his own two-billion-some, paginated-ly monstrous, work of a novel.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"You'll want Commander Antille, located on the Anlil footpaths off of Fozzner's Peaks.", said the confident local who served her at the low eatery counter. He brought her a plate of Ancillaeyan dives and Spraütznasster cheese. The cheese was still moving. The hot Roeückblatt stew was just an appetizer, the cheese and dives were the main course. The Menji had contacts for the their elite Gouadd Nal assasins, everywhere.
"How much is the lottery up to?", Ruma asked.
The informant server said, lowly, "I hear it's up to as high as three million six hundred fifty seven thousand and a delectable eighty-icious beads of Ka'ron with a remarkable two point three anthrocite vials."
Just the payday, Shareefa Ruma, the Nal trans hyper galactic corporate world's assasineness had, forever and a day, dreamed of.
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