dave-llamaman

Christmas comes but once a year. Thank fuck.       It was such a thought that preoccupied Milkman and Paperboy as they pottered around in the dark at silly o’clock on a Monday morning in early November. The number of houses they’d passed with Christmas lights up had already reached triple figures and it wasn’t even 6-30.       ‘Christ on a bike,’ Paperboy grumbled as he boarded the Milkfloat after making a delivery, now light one Daily Mail and, interestingly enough, one special interest magazine entitled Thai Femboy Vore Pictorial Review,  ‘that ten-foot-tall inflatable snowman nearly fell on me!’       ‘It’s too early for all this shit,’ Milkman grunted, with the air of someone on their way to the gallows. ‘It was only Bonfire Night last week.’       ‘Time flies when you’re enjoying yourself, boss,’ Paperboy said with a shrug.       There followed a protracted pause while they tried to figure out what in the nine circles of hell either of them had been enjoying lately.       ‘Still,’

Orion VII, Ross 614 system. 31 August 2246. The Fourth Fleet had paused in combat operations briefly to refuel and rearm. With the space station at Orion VII gone, they were resorting to orbital rendezvous with fleet tenders. Some of the crews were putting down on the surface for a few days R&R, at an emergency facility set up on the opposite side of the planet to the main colony. The inhabited areas of Orion VII were still quarantined until whatever the hell the Minbari had dropped on them was analysed and isolated. A team of the best xenobiologists Earth Force had to offer were on the planet now, under Doctor Benjamin Kyle. Working within an armoured box with little or no way to contact the outside world, the seven physicians had been air-dropped in their thick steel prefab. They were close to the wrecked Minbari flyer that had been packed to the gills with an unknown biological agent, which was proving worryingly adept at burrowing through almost any form of protective clothing.