Wolf 9021

I've never been the same after what happened on Wolf 9021. You see, I was sitting in this bar, strictly VoidJumpers, Slidehawks and those ridiculous green alien things with the suction cup faces who's name I can never remember. Just sitting in a booth at the back, facing the door because you never know who's coming in to a dump like the Black Hole Bar.

So, I'm sitting there, drinking shots of Mongorian Klop (with NanoLytes!) and getting my brain hammered into little goo nuggets, when this old guy sits at my table. I'm not kidding you but this guy was the damn oldest crocker I've ever seen. He looked like those old asteroid miners that enjoyed too much Syn to meet quota. He's sitting there leering at me with that crazy look old crockers get when they've checked their final neuron.

"You're a spicy VoidJumper, ain't cha?"

I didn't want to be impolite to the old ballmasher, so I says "Piss off, crocker. I'll crack your hips, you waste of O2."

At which point, this crocker starts wheezing, tears oozing like he's on the verge of the Final. I gets up to search his pockets, see if he's got anything worthy when he grabs my forearm in a polytite grip.

"I got that bastard," the crocker hisses at me, covering my good looks with spittle. "I've waited seventy-nine years. He's dead. I'm alive."

"Well good on you, crocker." I say prying his fingers off my arm.

"I good and well shattered his bols. Took every cent he ever made. I'll teach you Artie Worthheimer! Nobody steals my girl! I ruined you, you miserable bastard. Now this nice VoidJumper is going to take me to The Coordinates!

Now, I have to interrupt the solilo. There's something you need to understand. This crocker looked like ten tons of excra. But he sure sounded convincing. And you never know. Hell, I hadn't made any money in six cycles.

"Well, I didn't realize you came with custom!" I says in a great recovery. "Where will you be going to then?"

Well, we get's on the ship, he's mumbling about Coordinates. My good old LA-87b flying like some fat bird of prey clears Departure Control, travels the required distance from atmo and jumps the void to The Coordinates.

We clear the singularity and disengage the barriers in the coldest part of nowhere you could imagine in the darkness of the Infinite. There's barely any foam activity and sitting in the middle is this giganto cargo container, like they use in the haul to Portio F82. I mean big. And the old crocker begins to solilo again.

"Seventy-nine years, you bols. I knew I'd outlive you, you miserable scum. Now I will spend your great wealth. I shall live like a king." And the like, followed by more wheezing and eye ooze which I come to learn is just the crocker having a mirth.

Now, dear reader, let me tell you a few things. The thought of Finaling the crocker crossed my mind about a million reps. Let's face it, even with a full regen, the crocker was wasted. Wasn't I really just doing the old bols a favor? I had Molly on my hip. One shot, clean, polite and alot less to clean up.

That's when the crusty crocker clubs me from behind with some concealed e-stunner and I drop like a jettisoned corpse. I don't know what happened afterwards. I woke up in my boat, airseals untampered and alive with a cracking headache. The crazy crocker and beautiful spinning box of treasure unaccounted for missing.

But piled in my pilot's chair is a handful of Sextonite gemstones.

Like I said, fellas. I haven't been the same since Wolf 9021. And if I ever find that old crocker, I'll space him.