Stifie's Chooper Gang

After a productive MRC where we reorganized some storage under the workbench, hung up the remaining cleaning supplies, tagged SCUL stickers, sharpened drill bits, created more wheel storage and loafed around wasting loads of time unambitiously and directionless, we settled into the experience of the cell phone autocorrected version of SCUL, Stifie's Chooper Gang.

The night was sultry.

Rear Admiral Upper Half Stifie provoked our spirits with witty pre-mission furtive exhortations to "Fly Casual". Cadet Turin Christine'd his new ship PESTO, featuring hand-drawn Adventuretime artwork on the fork. We launched promptly with baby maggot Rusty HIV in tow. Rear Admiral Lower Half Yurts Triply navigated us on a Haptoesque journey to the Davis Constellation where we received much hooting and hollering and high fiving. We also refrained from texting while riding. We then traveled to the Lower Tallston System and discovered that the Harried Bantha Pit's airlocks had been left open. The siren call of Bantha spoor could not be resisted, and we found the dark underside of the Pit smelling slightly of locker juice, empty of Banthas, dark and moderately grimy. We dumped fuel, avoided speaking to one another, IM'd it up like a bunch of Daleks stuck in barely functional battle armor, then gathered ourselves together and continued towards Hookline.

The streets were shrouded in fog thicker than the handset on an IBM Simon. We navigated among excitable food in Hookline, then through heavy ST action to Luna 7-11 where we stopped for savory snacks.

After refueling, we continued wandering through Hookline, eventually reentering Tallston airspace. While cruising down a posi g-well, Lt. Commander Digital was forcefully ejected from Complicated's cocky, repaving the roadway in smears and gobbets of blood, guts, flesh, bone and teeth. He played down his injuries for the camera even though his face had fallen completely off and every time he tried to open his flip phone a new digit ended up dangling by its skin. We applied hamburger helper and other useful molecules to dull the pain and Digital rallied to the cause and remounted his ship.

Thus started the journey home. After less than a light year of travel, we found an out-of-the-way parking lot and derbied derbied derbied. Lt. Commander Hoselicker, unsurprisingly, won two of the three. Vice Admiral Widget won the remaining derby simply by flying casual as Stifie and Hoselicker annihilated each other like the way that two Nokia phones stuck on push-to-talk implode in a horrible feedback loop if they meet in the reaction chamber of a superconducting supercollider.

The night wound down, rotary style, and we returned to base without further incident.