Spurn of the Crew

"Crew," I said, emphasizing in intonation my rank. "I am leaving you now."

Bollycks was sitting down there, showing Tirsa how to weld a proper mackarel with an electric tongue-twister. I could see his twiggy hands, trying to reach, reach into her drafty blouse. His little gray, pustule-ridden hands just shivering for that one texture of her wet and warty tits. Fucking nerds.

Contasyhage was of course showing his brains to the succulent Lambasta. Like a woman body-builder would ever take interest in the cortexes of a bleeding worm. I smirked as he did that one trick where he cut off his hand, and then grew another one on the other side, making it look really difficult.

Wait? How does that work again? You tell me. I am your control substance. I am what you put inside this experiment so that *your* 'little cocktail' would take first place in the *evolution* of your spacetime cozooistry and still not seem 'zany'.

"And I am not happy, so I am leaving," I said to them. Those ... characters.

"Sod off then," said Bollycks.

I had put myself in a terrible place.