Remember the problem you paid brief mind to in the Milky Way galaxy, the one for future you? Well, that becomes one for PRESENT YOU very shortly en route. You’re not quite sure the commode on your ship will ever be the same, but you feel a little better by the time you reach Trappist-1. You’re also EXTREMELY proud of yourself that you remembered the name of the system where you were supposed to make the exchange.
As you land, a bunch of pockmark-skinned, three headed beings, who you can only describe as “bros” greet you with popped collars (yes, on EACH NECK), backwards ballcaps (again, ON EACH HEAD), and a completely unfounded superiority complex. “‘Sup, buttface. What do you want?”
You smirk quietly. They so deserve what they’re getting. “I hear you ordered some space tacos?”
They high five each other and produce guttural laughter that would turn off any female species in the galaxy. The universe probably. And any alternate universe out there, expect for maybe #34, because, that one is JUST THE WEIRDEST.
“Dude, I hope you ordered them extra mild, because of your sad little tum tum,” one in a salmon colored shirt pokes at another wearing a shirt with a logo that says, “SPACE ED HARDY” with more sequins than should be worn by anyone on any planet anywhere.
You clear your throat. “Ahem, I think I heard they were extra mild. You may even want to add some extra hot sauce, they were pretty weak.”
Once again, with the horrible laughter. “Dude, let’s go crush some tacos and then call some space babes.”
The third one, who was inexplicably shirtless, punches the one in the salmon shirt. “Dude, when they’re on this planet, just call them babes. You don’t have to sound so fucking freshman about it, bro.”
The punch was returned. “Word up, bro-shot. Your mom had a space for me, so I just assumed…”
Something between a bar brawl and a slap fight breaks out, so you turn to the sequined one who seems to be, for some reason, preening. “So, about that space hay…”
He rolled his eyes. All six of them. “My parents sent that shipment out yesterday. I told them we hadn’t gotten our space tacos yet but they said something about space horses dying. Fuck space horses. Who gives a shit, bro?”
You ask incredulously, “Your parents are farmers?”
Again with the eye rolling. “Dude, they own all the farms on this planet. They wanted me to take over the family business but I really just want to make movies about how badass me and my bros are. We’re pretty famous. Maybe you’ve seen Space Jackass?”
You haven’t (neither has anyone else), but that’s all you need to know and you make a hasty exit. The delivery has been made. The space horses will live. And these douchenozzles will totally be experiencing fire and brimstone later of the lower intestinal kind. All is right with the universe, and you can return home until the next space quest calls.