If it Goes "Bip", Don't Take it's Shit.

     Clone Trooper Clyde had a story to tell you about the time, one of the times? a time? he stole a small Imperial shuttle, but then I got sidetracked by a little thought that has always bothered me about life in our (my) galaxy.  You see, when you have to book it in what clever scientists call a “quick fastin’ hurry”, the usually careful, nuanced, and research necessitating process of ship shopping is distilled into is basest necessities.  These necessities are survivability (armor, firepower, life support), and of course, the quick fastin’ hurry part.  Awesome drugs never hurt either.  Don’t death stick and fly kids, drink booze.  Space is big enough for booze.  

I am not a credible source.

     Hyperdrive! That’s what I’m getting at on getting to.  If you gotta run, sublight is great in a pinch, but if Star Destroyers are closing in, you need a good hyperdrive.  Even Handles himself Solo knows that, as does the rest of the Compensator, I mean Skywalker clan.  When it comes to the shit you find in any given Imperial hangar, your choices are exactly that, shit.  Being reliant on clones, from birth conscripts, and whatever other fucked up ways people come into the fold, soldier safety features tend to fall into the “none” category.  The expansive nature of the imperium and the uncertain nature of a perpetual war economy doesn’t help the reliability of the tech much either. TIE fighters are the gods damned doctoral thesis on this exact concept.  Safe bet, Lambda shuttles.  There is always one, so get there first, and despite her looks and slug like performance, an X-wing can literally shoot at her for ten fucking minutes before she tanks.  I know, I’ve tried.  I’ll tell you later.

I could have binged a whole season of Gilmore Girls instead.

     The traitors though, they’ve got options.  If you find yourself deep in the bowels of those flying fish tanks they call capital ships, you can be in any amount of hurry you like, anything you stumble upon will have a hyperdrive.  Tuning fork?  Hyperdrive.  Penis-Letter plane? Hyperdrive.  Wedgie thing?  Hyperdrive.  Its a damn shame.  Obviously there are myriad tactical benefits to this technological proliferation that justify the cost, but Clyde’s nerd has begun to show and he only shows his dick!  

Eeenie, Meenie, Miney, fap, fap, fap.

     I just get all misty eyed when I think about what might have been. My flight evaluation is a thing of beauty:  “ST-058's behavior behind the stick leaves nothing but death.  A swath of carnage and suffering that any man or clone who had survived the Clone Wars or witnessed the genocidal campaigns of the early Empire would still find themselves shocked by and loathe to revisit.  ST-058  is a danger to his fellow troopers on and off the field, giving him access to the gross firepower of a cutting edge war machine would do naught but expose the inadequacy of such words as negligent and irresponsible.”  I broke words.  It’s glorious.

Nailed it.

     Take a closer look at the wedge thingy.  Not to be confused with Wedge’s thingy.  Not a bad piece by the way.  But!  Also, BUTT!  Look at it, what makes it different?  What stands out?  And not the fact that its just a bubble with some big fuckoff engines attached to it?  Now that I think about it, that is all a Y-Wing is, so why is it a dumpy slug where the A-wing hauls so much sex ass?  Actually, do look at the fact that it is just a bubble with engines.  You know what there isn’t room for? Whip-Woot-weep-woot-Whew!  You win the mother fucking prize!  There is no slot for an Astromech Droid. Why?  How?  Jumping through hyperspace ain’t like crop dusting kids, and only slightly less rewarding.  It takes an advanced computer doing millions of calculations with countless variables to…oh, did I say computer?  Yeah.  It has a fucking computer.  Just. A. Computer.  A computer?  A COMPUTER!?  I CAN JUST HAVE A FUCKING COMPUTER?!  Then WHY in Poppa Palpatine’s Wide FUCKING butt SU-uh-cking galaxy are we putting up with all these gods damnned lippy ass robots! 

This, was a nightmare.

     Aren’t they though?  I mean, all Astromech droids do is shit the bed with their mouths all the fucking time.  If you don’t speak beep-boop, it’s just annoying, and if you do, well, have you seen the face of someone fluent in it?  It’s the most shit eating smirk you’ve ever seen.  Miserable.  Do not even get me started on those Fuck Turd piece of shit protocol droids.  I hate talking to them, I hate seeing them, I hate getting stuck behind them in crowded or narrow walkways. Why can’t I have a simple Universal Translator?  And protocol, really?  If you can’t function in society without a droid, you have bigger problems. You people here on this planet have A.I.’s yourself.  Those Siri’s or whatever?  Don’t think I haven’t noticed how none of you use them.  So why haven’t my people ditched the “bitch in the machine”?  

BACKHAND!

     Well, I’m glad you asked.  Since I’m a long way from home, I’ve taken it upon myself to fix these little problems.  As a veteran of the Clone Wars, I will admit I have a naturally acquired hatred for droid kind.  Which, is why I cope by brutally enslaving them.  My Clone brothel on Coruscant currently employs two droids of my…own design.  A modified protocol droid to handle The day in day out business and the in and out business.  His name is I-CU-Touch Yourself, Human/Cyborg Masturbations.  The clanker started out life as a basic battle droid.  I Found him on Utapau, crawling up their main highway.  He wasn’t crawling so much as shoving himself along with his feet, the dumb nob.  Some trooper had blown his arms off but failed to finish the job.  I was inclined to grease him as that highway had cost a lot of good troopers, but then I thought, perhaps I could help him atone for all the suffering he’s caused in this world?  Before you could say “Roger, roger” (which is now only one of three things he is capable of saying), I’d bolted some protocol droid arms onto him in a permanent “grip”, and gave his little beak mouth a fleshy modification.  Now, he can only “Roger”, as well as say “Beejer, beejer” (and I hope I don’t have to explain that), and cry.  Mostly, he just cries.

Picture Pending...

     The other member of my driod army is my good Assdestruct droid, A2-M2.  I modified him from an astromech droid for the sole purpose of breaking in recalcitrant additions to my brothel.  This isn’t to say he hasn’t found a place helping with the client workload, some folks even ask for him now.  Point is, I think the little fucker likes his job.  He comes with a load of modifications, most of the internal doodads and various and sundry probes have been replaced with, well, probes more apt to his current position.  The taser and periscope remain, however, for obvious reasons.  I could say more about him, but one look is usually enough to horrify the words right out of you.  Just think “Sexually aggressive backhoe”.  

No, not at all like that.

     Alright, gods that was wordy.  But educational, yes?  Point is, boys and girls, don't take shit from robots!

Grappling Clonexistential Dread

     Clyde hasn’t felt like writing much lately, but he has to because his therapists tell him its good for his chronic depression.  Which in Clyde’s opinion is bullshit because how can you write when you think everything you spew is garbage and you hate yourself?  Also, yes, Clyde has therapists, plural.  One for each neuroses.  Clyde don’t half ass crazy, you got to commit to that shit.  Hell, half the reason Clyde sees therapists is just to have it on the record that he is in fact mynock shit balls cray-cray.  Certified.  Clyde also has to write because of these damn publishers and if he doesn’t write every day, they take his Moneycumasaurus away.  You’ll mother fucking see depressed then.  Probably the violent kind.  MONEUCUMASAURUS NOOOOOO!!!!  Something like that anyway.  Moneycumasaurus.  I cannot say or express that enough.

     It’s not easy being a clone.  I mean, it’s easy in the physical necessity sense.  You come into the world with a general purpose, you get housing, food, “friends” and “family” pretty much  on lock straight outta the tube.  To any rando norm, that would seem to solve all of life's problems.  There is no “what is my purpose in life” bullcrap, that purpose is murder and good for you, you're hella good at it.  To any creature with a fraction of higher brain function however, you can see the issue.  “What happens when the killing is done”?  That is the main issue.  It’s not all of it, I mean, I’m generalizing, but its where we can start talking.

     There is a great clone author who wrote books on clonexistentialism.  That’s pronounced Clone-zi-stentialism, by the way, not clone-exi-stentialism, you ass, don’t be a prick.  Well, there are two, because Clonez Cloneka is popular as well, but I could never relate to being turned into a Quosit. Now a Corellian wine-bee on the other hand…  There is this book from Clonemus called the Cloneger (also yes, all clones insert clone into damn near everything because what the fuck else do we have?  And I’m sad again.)  In the story, a clone goes to Space Algeria, or is it Space Morocco? And he shoots a Gungan and feels generally indifferent about it and nobody cares.  Point is, they exist and they are very similar and have an equal number of Gungan Ex-pats on them because once again, fuck Naboo.  

This is going to hurt you more than it hurts me because I feel nothing.

     On the surface, you can sit there and think “yeah, and?”  Because pretty much everyone can relate to killing a gungan and feeling nothing because we all hate them, have probably secretly murdered a few, and in the end, a shrug was all that was called for.  But think about it from a clone’s perspective.  Here you are, a retired clone, all alone on some outer rim world that more than likely, you have razed at some point in your career. Your days of genocide and jackboots are well behind you.  Your account is full of credits and your boudoir full of fly Alderaanian ladies eager to experiment, but your blood calls out to you.  Your one true purpose in life, what you were bred for, is no longer a skill the galaxy or your empire need from you.  Life is emptiness.  Writhing in endless pleasures becomes rote to the point of tedium.  Walking on a beach, the city beside you begging to be set ablaze, you see a Gungan.  The thought starts slowly.  An old enemy.  Joy came from his demise.  You see his idiotic walk, you think, perhaps, just once more, I can feel that joy, a fleeting moment of life.  A change, no matter how small to break the cycle.  

     You hear his voice as he draws near and addresses you:  

     “Hisa der friendo, Messa..” You don’t even notice yourself do it.  It is pure muscle memory.  Your blaster pistol, that you still carry out of habit is in his ribs and discharged.  The slimy, big ears are spread across the sands, unhearing.  Nothing.  You search for a twinge, a stirring, anything to give you hope.  You find only more questions, uncertainty. 

     You are a clone.  Bred for war.  What is even yours?  Is your desire a product of your upbringing?  Or are these thoughts deeper, the longings of the father, the twin you never knew, is this his head you wear?  Are you even the only clone who feels this?  Can you live your own life?  Had your life ended the moment the war did?  Was that even a life?  Do you remember it? Or are these too, the memories of a progenitor, part of the program you dreamt in the tube?  Perhaps you are simply the program.  This life, begins and ends at the same point, never changing, doomed to repetition across a thousand galaxies, a thousand wars and a million battlefields.  The Space slug burrow opens up before you and you must know how deep it goes, down the path where madness lies.

And is this all I am?