His eyes squinted. I would say his eyebrows furrowed, except he didn’t really have any. At all. People said that he had lost them in a super galactic war. They said he was defending the prince when all hope had appeared to be lost. They said that the only reason why they won was because he was there. He was, as such, their hero.
I was the only one who knew the truth. I was there when it happened. The war was, as usual, very bad, very continuous, and rather monotonous. There was no killing, no anything. One wouldn’t think there was really a war except for one thing: the rationing. Yes, to give us the feeling of combat and all that jazz, they cut down our supplies dramatically. Now, a porn magazine could be worth a hundred dollars a peep by some entrepreneur soldiers. There was, of course, food rationing, but that wasn’t really complained about. Food is okay, but a soldier cannot live on food alone.
He was there, his name was Kal at the time. No, it wasn’t Admiral Kalazookel’miché like it’s known to be now. He was just Kal. And he was trying to shave. What’s more, he was trying to shave with a dull blade.
“What are you doing?” I asked. Mind you, I knew perfectly well what he was doing. He was being a moron, as usual. I just wanted himself to remind him how stupid he was acting.
He didn’t really pay any attention to me. “Shaving.”
Which would have made sense if he were shaving his face. The problem was, he was shaving a little doll’s hair. I looked down at the doll and the synthetic little curls of hair at his feet. Then I looked up. He still had eyebrows then.
“What did she ever do to you?”
“I hate blondes.”
I looked back at the pile and noted the little golden curls. Then I understood. “It’s Chelsea, isn’t it?”
His head snapped back up, and he was gripping the razor in a rather menacing way. “Don’t you even say her name! You were the one who…” I didn’t really understand what he said after that. Saliva was hurtling out of his mouth at a speed that was faster than our light-speed ships (they didn’t really go the speed of light) could ever go. I yawned.
“Do you have a match?”
The sentence caught me off my guard.
“What!”
“A match.”
I just stared at him. He sighed. “You know, a uberduberjumerwoober. Stop acting dumb.”
“What are you going to do with a match?”
“Just see.” He grinned. I stepped away.
“You’re insane.”
“Don’t be a spoil sport! Oh, all right, I’ll do it myself.” He produced the match from his pocket.
“Wait!”
But it was too late. Little did he know, but dolls were made of a very flammable material. The flames burst in his face and he screamed. A bloodcurling scream; I don’t think I can forget it. Anyway, he being the moron he always was, ran out of the hallway, screaming his little panties off. I raced after him, about to save him when suddenly I heard a blaster shoot. Then there was another scream.
Apparently, the prince had stepped out of his room and an assassin ready to shoot. My idiotic friend had gotten in the assassin’s way, and his leg had been pretty badly hit. But, he saved the prince!
It was sickening at first. The media. The press. The fawning over an idiot. And of course, he got all the credit. Why? Because of that damn uberduberjumerwoober.
Hmph!
I say Chelsea should get the credit.
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