Writing Resources from Fifteen Minutes of Fiction
TV Advertisment: Mars Grill2213 A.D.
Ten years after the Bieber Wars flooded the planet with hermaphroditic clones, I graduated from Barack Obama High School and left earth to pursue my Associates Degree in Xenocultural Studies at Mars-Tech Community College. I wanna be a Cosmopologist one day (that's an anthropologist of the cosmos, not a beautician, which only takes one year at Mars-Tech).
But, as fate would have it, I ended up here, on Phobos, at the Mars Grill, the only five-star truck stop and sandwich shop this side of the asteroid belt. My name is Prit Lashky and these are my friends:
This is my best friend Shiz Paf, he's the sous-chef and a veteran cyborg from the Carbonaraan Wars. Although he's just a floating head cybernetically attached to a robotic jetpack, he's not just all brains. He holds his own in a fistfight and he doesn't mince words...but, man, can he mince garlic!
These are our dishwashers, Nachoberto and Grokk, Jr. Nachoberto is a Tarantulonian who learned his broken English from the blue-ray DVD barges that dumped their "recyclables" on his home planet, back when magenta-ray players became all the rage. He's got six arms, a good work ethic, and can quote every episode of MacGyver verbatim. Awesome.
The slime mold in the corner of the dishroom is our resident "assistant" dishwasher, Grokk, Jr. Junior listens to classical music: Wu-Tang, Tupac, Dre, Geto Boys, you know, the oldies that you can still find on NPR. He doesn't wash dishes. He's usually too busy plotting our doom.
The maitre d' with the metal dome is not here to kill you, but don't believe him! XJ-37 is a reprogrammed assassin droid. XJ's refurbished motherboard is one bad mother. Let's just say that although he's been retrofitted with the finest hospitality sub-routines and a prodigious database of the galaxy's most palatable wines, XJ-37 often flashes back to less savory moments in his re-re-reprogrammed memory. Check please!
So here I am, two semesters in, working the odd restaurant job in this strange little chocolate corner of a butt-crack of the Milky Way. Just tell us how you like your alien: fried, sauteed, or broiled. We'll get it wrong every time. This is...
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