Meanwhile, aboard the MoonShip Waist of Space… (continued from part 2)
“What a bloody nice bloke,” Tristram said.
“You sound just like that Tory Boy; you know, the one from the Fast Show,” Meredith replied.
“No point saying that, Merry old thing,” Tristram complained, “only the British readers will get that; the rest have probably never heard of the Fast Show.”
“Why not? They get Doctor Who and Downton Abbey in America, don’t they? And they even have their own version of The Office. Perhaps they get the Fast Show as well.”
“Oh, Yah. Good point. Didn’t think of that. Glad you’re here to think of things. Never really got the hang of it myself.”
“You were clever enough to get us on this trip, though, Trist.”
“Yah. That wasn’t too hard. When the other chaps—”
“And chapesses heard that we had applied for it, no-one else tried.”
“Competition too much for them?”
“Yah, ‘spect so.”
The cabin was silent for a little over three minutes, while the pair digested the wisdom that had just issued from their mouths.
Tristram broke the silence first.
“Merry, old thing?”
“Funny name for this mission, Waist of Space. What to you suppose it means?”
“Hadn’t thought about it. Ahm. Well. Your waist; well, a woman’s waist; not yours, you being a bit of a porker; is the narrowest part of the body. Perhaps it means that… Oh, yah! It means that we were on Earth, which is, like, the top part; nicely large, then we were in this narrow thing we’re in now, then we’ll be spreading out on the moon which is like the bottom.”
“Gosh, Merry; I do think you have something there.”
“Have we got any of that stuff left, Merry?”
“You know, that … stuff.”
“Oh, that stuff.”
“Not your fault, Merry. What do we have left?”
“Yah. Computer says 2714 tins of sardines, and…”
“And that’s all.”
“If we had some bread, we could have sardines on toast, if we had some sardines; hahahahaha.”
“We have sardines, Tristram.”
“I know. That’s what makes it so funny. Don’t you see, Merry?”
“You remember when you were away for a few months last year, Trist?”
“Do you remember where you were and why?”
“Yah, sure. It was some sort of magic place, but they never really taught me anything. Gave me lots of magic potions, but I don’t think they helped.”
“Because I didn’t learn any new tricks or anything.”
“What makes you think it was a magic place?”
“Well. The doctor chap who fixed it all up for me said I was illusional or some such; and illusions are like magic, aren’t they?”
“Go to sleep, Tristram, and dream of large aliens.”
“Yes, Tristram, called Arty. Good night.”
“Nighty night, Merry. Sleep tight; don’t let the bed-bugs bite.”
I wrote part one of this tale in response to Kreative Kue 39, issued on this site earlier. Feel free to join in; just follow the link.