It turns out that my worst enemy isn’t a Caldurian Poacher or nest full of Zimdims. I woke up this morning sneezing and coughing. Despite being impervious to trampling, smashing, bites, gashes, slicing, dicing, acid baths, lasotron blasts, lava, and being digested by Pekka, I was laid low by the common Space Flu.
It must have been that pesky little fur ball Jens putting his dirty paws all over my sleeping pod. He puts his paws Jörg knows where. He probably carries more germ cultures than the inside of Pekka’s stomach. The crew was lucky Timpa had turned the gravitron on or we all would have had to spend the next two weeks dodging balls of snot floating around like mines in asteroid belt. The worst thing about being sick is not the snot but the boredom. I thought about starting an intergalactic war or two but that didn’t even cheer me up. I was too sick to properly come up with any schemes worthy of my name. To add insult to injury the whole crew was milling about my sleeping pod; Jens and Timpa kept bringing me extra warmers, Pekka tried to make me eat all manner of revolting things he pulled out from behind his teeth, and the Captain even brought me healing rocks from an Elder Jörg…don’t they have a mission to prepare for? I threatened to vaporize them all if they didn’t leave me alone, but none of them took me seriously. How will I set fear into the hearts of the inhabitants of “little blue” if I can’t even send my crewmates packing. I hate being sick!