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A letter from Dick Power

[Temp Title] My struggle by Richard “Dick” Power (remember to check if there are any other books with a similar name, because I don’t want to use the title of a disgusting book by accident)

“My name is Richard Power and you’ve probably never heard of me; that is because the powers that be made sure of that. That has never stopped me before and it won’t stop me now. I am writing this account of the events that led me here, on the moon with Chinese and Russian space agents, on a Rocketship with a Homicidal AI, while the agents are placing a bomb to destroy the moon. Lots of things happened that even I don’t understand (and I’m particularly clever), so you know things are going to get complicated, but don’t worry I will guide you through it; read this and share the information with the world (also my voice is really deep and stoic like Liam Neeson, so imagine him narrating). I’ve given you the truth; do what you will with it, but only if it involves spreading it and if you’re an influencer, I’ve included modelling headshots from my recent past for your thumbnail. You will be required to sign an NDA and you will need to believe everything without question; also, you have no choice in the matter, I’ve accepted on your behalf.

In order to understand this story, you need to know me and who I am. I was born on a night with a full moon – ironic since I basically saved the moon (spoiler alert) and I hate irony – and my mum (who was a tailor) was worried I’d become a werewolf, but as soon as she saw in my blue eyes, she knew I would be no such abomination, but that I was just really hairy and manly. She also sewed my new, blue jeans, that looked surprisingly like beige, cargo shorts from Gap; that may have to do with the fact that she had to give up her dream of being a tailor to enter the daily grind in being one of the best biomechanics’ researchers on the globe. She worked day till early afternoon to put food on the table; sometimes she worked during Saturday mornings and would get well compensated, but that left me and my dad without her full attention for several hours, which created rifts in the family dynamics. My father was a gambling man; I saw a betting ticket for a soccer match in his jacket where he lost 20 pounds. That may not sound much, but that is the monthly pay of several Chinese children (adjusting for inflation), so it was a real problem; in fact, he did not have a suitcase because he probably betted it away. He was a doctor by trade (the correct term is Major Doctor or M.D.) and despite his gambling addiction (which is a fact that can be corroborated by that betting ticket), he was an alright bloke; a bit too British for his own good, but I can’t blame him since he spent his entire life in the United Kingdom or UK for short. He was never the scumbag his gambling suggested and believe you me, I tried to get him to show it. He always gave me all the money I needed, he drove me to and from school, he never treated my mum badly, he knew if the heart was on the left or the right [so he was definitely an MD], and he was really supportive; when I went through my teenage years (not that long ago, actually) and I wanted to rebel against the establishment, he handled it pretty well. When I went to school with cigarettes and blamed him for it, he was not cross with me and tried to understand me; when I was having unprotected sexual relations with ugly women so our offspring would never achieve anything and my father would have to care for them, he was pretty mellow about it and just sat on the sofa, being confused; when I cured my friend Todd from the decease of being too wimpy, by chanting black magic verses, thus proving beyond a reasonable doubt that modern medicine is no match for unconventional, paranormal treatments, he gave me 10 bucks (probably from a Monopoly board as these notes had an ugly lady with a tiara on, which suggests he gambled all of our money away) and told me to leave him alone as he was in the middle of a surgery. These things actually happened; I am an avid smoker, but I choose not to smoke for the past 25 years, because smoking is bad for you; for me it is a trivial matter as my black heart cannot be harmed by smoke and modern science, and it provides comfort as I wake from my horrible nightmares. My off-springs were very ugly and I still get pictures from their village where they have been exiled to, along with letters about how much they appreciate my donation; those are proper children, not like the kids these days who need “proper care” and “quality time with their father”. I tried to prepare a random kid for the hardships of life by making him hunt deer with his fists and I’m “lucky” the parents won’t press charges! They are the ones who should not be allowed to raise wimpy kids with no psychological damage; how are they going to be better than the last generation if they don’t have a dark backstory to overcome? Moreover, Todd’s now a manager of a chain restaurant after years of rising up the ranks and at the tender age of 45, so he’s definitely not a wimp. I admit I was a hard boy to raise, given that after the age of 8 I would have whooped their asses if need be, but my parents treated me good despite our troubled living; I went to a private school where teachers cared and students were not wearing chains or getting in gangs (besides the drama club those fuckers were drama queens with knives), so I was not prepared for the difficulties of life, and my parents didn’t shelter me by exposing me to its realities from an early age, which is what I intend to do to my children. If you can’t survive 3 days locked in a storage warehouse with a ticking time bomb and a venomous snake, then what makes you think you can survive the hardships of office jobs and HR? Although I will say, that summer camp they sent me to where we had competitions of who could hold their breath longer – a competition I won easily and used the grand prize of free hospital admission and a complementary use of a defibrillator immediately – ended up saving my life as I was strapped to a Rocketship later on (spoiler alert).

So, anyways I told my dad if I can’t be a doctor because I tried to fight cancer by injecting more cancer into the patient (which is what all vaccines are by the way and still think it should at least be tested on unimportant humans, like woke social media managers, orphans, and unattractive people), I would be a Major and keep half of the family business going. I joined the army at 18 and got “kicked out” about 2 months later when I got caught gambling at a time I “technically” was supposed to be patrolling my route; at the time I thought that was hypocritical, because the lieutenant who caught me was also coming to gamble and I was leaving so that should be all square, but I then realized my “dismissal” was more of a cover. I was told by a highly reliable source – who at the time was undercover as a drunk, homeless man, trying to get someone to buy him a drink in order to infiltrate a terrorist group operating in the shady underbelly of Notting Hill, specializing in selling empty plastic bottles filled with rocks online packed in boxes for things people want – that I was actually let go in order to have a perfect cover for special ops. From that day forward, I trained my body and mind to be ready for any circumstance.

Shortly after I went to jail because someone wearing a hoodie – turned out to be a stocking and not a high-society clothing item, which is a mistake I and most people with Colorblindness often make, and would cost me dearly in my time of need when I will be trying to defuse a bomb on the moon (spoiler alert) – gave me a bag of money, a firearm, and the hoodie/stocking, and ran away. When the police found me, I confessed on the spot; if that’s not a ruse for the perfect undercover backstory then I don’t know what is! I seriously don’t know what is, because it turned out that man robbed a convenience store called Apple (I assume it’s a convenience store at least, given the uninspired naming) and I spent 3 years in jail trying to infiltrate the lowlife gang of the SW6, which turned out to be a joke my roommate was playing on me – no doubt another ruse to keep me away, which I’m ashamed to admit has actually worked since I haven’t yet managed to infiltrate their ranks, and I’ve literally saved the moon from Chinese/Russian occupation (spoiler alert) so you know they are good at remaining hidden. Anyways, while I was plugging away at being a lowlife in order to infiltrate a deadly squad of goons (hence the name “scalpers”), the country came calling again; I got a visit from my old army mate who was now a high-ranking officer handling official social media accounts and delivering important liquid refreshments to other high-ranking officials. He used the identity of his boss to gain access to my exact whereabouts and brought the form for my release; I assume it’s either that or his fingers were perfectly placed to obscure the picture and details of the identity card by coincidence, but I’ve seen too much shit to believe in those (working in a pig farm will do that to a person). I also don’t like coincidences, so I confront them about it and they say it is for secrecy and keeping a low profile. I trust my buddy; his name is Dean and he shared with me some erotic fanfic he wrote based on King Kong called “King Cock”. You don’t share that kind of thing with anyone, so I trust him, but this other guy? I don’t know him and I don’t trust him, but what choice do I have? My country, the US of A, is under attack by Chinese contractors; when I say my country, I mean my spiritual country and when I say under attack by Chinese contractors, I mean that those rice-eating, bitches are being mildly annoying to us, and they need a man of culture who can use his “words” wisely and diplomatically, so I was obviously the best choice. The situation is that Chinese contractors have started building their moon base right next to the American one and they are being very noisy, which is “annoying at worst” as per one of the scientists in the base and since that is a man of science, that quote is an actual scientific fact.

So, the job is simple: First, they get me out of jail. Then, we go get lunch from McDonalds. Then, they take me to the launch site, I take off with a rocket towards the moon, deal with the diplomatic red flag (or in this case yellow and narrow), take the rocket back towards earth, land, have dinner at Burger King, take a well-earned vacation to Hawaii with Angie Harmon, and ride off into the sunset with full immunity from the President himself and 10 million dollars as a reward for my services. Obviously, there’s something not right here; the plan’s too good, too bulletproof and well thought out to not be hiding a trap somewhere. I smell an ambush and I see an armbush (which is what I call a particularly hairy armpit) and they both smell and look rotten; I know I can trust Dean, he once lent me a VHS tape with all “Mr. Bean” episodes on it and that is something only a true friend would do, but what of the other guy? He told me his name, but because I don’t like him, I did not care to remember it; he also told me to go ahead and wait in the car while they finalize the papers for my release, which I obviously did not do because he told me to and I don’t like orders or people who use those pointy-small-dick lighters that are supposed to be wind resistant – they always burn my eyebrows. Also, sidenote that was a heck of a segue! Just thought I should point that out because you probably aren’t as gifted as I am at writing (or the things that I am gifted at which is everything) and you might not appreciate the craft and talent necessary to pull something like that off.

So anyway, I sneaked behind them and heard them talking about someone who was incredibly stupid and was the “perfect fall guy” for this; the guy had a cool handle, which was Power, but he can suck it because that is my last name so I’m naturally cooler than him. Dean’s partner – I’ll call him assface because he looks like a successful experiment by a mad scientist attempting to merge an anus with a face – seemed pretty anxious about this whole thing. He kept telling Dean that if this Powers situation got out of hand they would be in deep shit, so this Power guy seems like a real threat; best keep an eye out for him. There was something else about stealing an identity and their boss making sure they rot in jail, but I stopped paying attention because there was a catfight breaking out nearby and wanted to see who would win; I tried to get the city clerk to put money on it, because I was certain the grey cat with the big balls was going to win, but he refused, said he was busy trying to help blind school-children cross the street. In hindsight, I realize that some aspects of my strong personality showed a less favorable side there, but I blame my father for my gambling demons and society for not understanding that if you can’t cross a street because you’re blind how can you be a valued member of society? I should have stood my ground and made those blind children cross the street on their own so they can be taught the lessons my uncaring parents never taught me. The cycle of injustice should have ended with me…

Anyway, we arrive at McDonalds and I get a Biiiiig Mac with a Biiiiig Coke and a Biiiiig side of fries – and extra pickles in the burger – while Dean gets 5 double cheeseburgers, Biiiiig side of fries, and a Biiiiig Fanta (Dean’s always been kind of fancy). Poopoo-head is a wanker and made the exact same order as me, because he is jealous of my masculine superiority, my wholesome and not-gay relationship with Dean, and due to the size of my penis, which is massive but I’m sure you don’t need that to be spelled out for you; in case you do its m-a-s-s-i-v-e p-e-n-i-s. While we wait for the staff to prepare our meal, Dean suggests we go and find a booth to sit in while Tiny-penis brings our food, and I agree of course since I won’t have to be next to Dirty-toenails for the next 2 minutes and smell his vomiting lack of any interesting traits. Dean takes this opportunity to brief me on my mission, but unbeknownst to him, I use my unique talent to see one thing and listen to another at the same time without missing context in either; I was obviously looking at future-Cosmetic-Surgery-test-corpse checking to see what spiteful thing he will do to my meal, as he cannot hide his intense jealousy of my general character and physical traits. The weird thing is Dean was moving his mouth and making noises, but since I recall zero of those noises, then it means they were gibberish; I don’t know why he did that, but that is part of the “Dean package” – he is living la vida loca and he sometimes can’t help but gets some sprayed all over you. He was probably playing along, now that I think about it, in order to fool Bum-bum Margera, because he was suspicious of him too; surprisingly, he doesn’t seem to have done anything to my food, but I know better than this. I also notice something peculiar about the whole thing; each single one of the staff is Asian, presumably Chinese or something like that. This could be a trap set up by fuckface and the enemy to get me out of the game, but I know better; I take a small sip and I spit it right on his stupid face, claiming this is diet Coke and I don’t need to lose any weight as I have a perfect weight to muscle ratio of 110%. A Russian speaking man hears the commotion and brings all of us new Cokes, courtesy of the shop he said; mister Conspiracy didn’t like that, because he was sitting behind us and doesn’t wear a uniform and can’t speak English at all, but my enemy’s enemy is my friend as I say, so I trust the nice Russian man with his nice and not at all intimidating friends, and their very normal white van. He’s probably just jealous he’s never known the pure joy of winning a woman (or most likely a man for door-knob-shiner) with the manly charisma naturally-gifted alpha males like me or the nice Russian men possess; he kept going on about “this is how people wake up with one kidney missing” and all that jazz, but mister ‘no-junk-in-the-trunk’ is likely jealous of our social exploits and can go suck it. At this point I realized that all of that came out of my mouth (they were supposed to be inner thoughts, because although I hate the fucker, I’m also a nice guy and would never tell it to his ugly-face) and not even half a sip of Coke later, we are in a huge argument that escalates to the kiddie pool of plastic balls and swings. A lady tries to calms us down and that is where things need to be censored as those details are part of one of three trials Dean and I are in. After some light squabble, I use an old jail trick I learned to win in a fight (or at least run away); “forcefully remove” the contents of my stomach from my mouth hole on the attacker, but lizard-brain ducked out of the way and I spray my meal on a nice lady (she would have you believe that I vomited on her, allegedly, but that is part of the case as well so I can’t go into it).

In the ensuing chaos (trust you me, it was chaos), I snuck out the back to find a pharmacy to buy roofies and drug that unholy abomination and dump him in the river. Meanwhile, the scene at McDonalds escalated quickly, as I would later come to find out, because I am being sued by the nice lady; I can’t really talk about the case (or the other three cases I and Dean have, which are ongoing), but oh boy does Dean love a good bar fight! I know it wasn’t actually a bar, but Dean did not care one bit; as soon as there were nerves, he started throwing stools (don’t know where he got them from) and causing absurd misunderstandings like bumping unto a tall, bald man back-to-back, causing him to throw a punch before he ducks away and it hits pee-pee-pants. He apparently even had a playlist in his phone for such occasions, consisting of whacky country songs with wild banjo solos and violins, called “bar fight music” and he played it over the speakers to “get pumped boy!”, which he yelled repeatedly while beating an old lady with her own food tray. Unfortunately, the story doesn’t have a cool ending as the fuzz came over and tased Dean into submission…meaning he submitted his own excrement in his own pants while yelling his own name for some reason.

My story doesn’t end in a particularly cool way either (spoiler alert I heroically die) and it doesn’t pick up in a cool way either; I found the closest pharmacist and asked them to provide me with cheap drugs to make someone lose consciousness and drag them to a river of my own picking. I tried to explain that this was not a sex thing and I wanted nothing to do with this man’s butthole, this was purely to get rid of them, never to be seen again, but little miss pharmacist said she can’t help me, because what I was doing was considered to be illegal, but by that point, I was getting very tired and sleepy for some reason. I did try giving her a white envelope with cash and betting tips for the next horse derby (damn you father and your sins that I have to pay), but she somehow seemed offended by that; probably more of a football better herself or maybe she had a pony when she was little that was shot accidentally on a drive-by from local horse derby betters. Then I tried to be diplomatic (which is why I was picked for this mission anyway) and let my “words” do the talking; “words” is the name of my right fist, because of a tattoo I got in Ibiza under unknown circumstances. Her glass protection did the job for her though, so I tried another diplomatic trick; throw a chair through the window. I couldn’t actually find a chair, so I threw the Tamagotchi stand which does nothing but make a mess; that is when I found out the pharmacist lady is a pretty good diplomat herself; I, once again, cannot go into detail about what happened later, because this is the second case me and Dean have under our names. All I will say that Dean was shouting his own name at the top of his lungs, chicken-boy (I swear I didn’t come up with this one, it was the pharmacist lady) wore glass frames and kept saying to the lady that it was wrong to punch someone wearing glasses (which meant little for her), while I used an umbrella, the gloves of a homeless man (that were still worn by the homeless man), and the spare tire from a car, to defend myself and my new pets. Unfortunately for you, this row kept going for quite some time and it’s all part of the case, so this next transition will be a bit jarring; don’t worry I will explain everything in excruciating detail as the need arises.

So, Dean, mister “stewardess-this-man-has-shat-in-my-paper-bag-and-it-smells”, and me (officially-unofficially undercover as a wanted criminal fleeing the cold hands of the law in 3 separate countries), are in Russia to meet Vlad, our chaperone and comrade for the space fight against space Chinamen; I now also have another tattoo that is a lifelike portrait of a nude, professional scarecrow cosplayer Boris Johnson, miraculously made on accident during an altercation involving the previous case which I still cannot discuss. Now, as you may recall, I voiced my displeasure at involving the Russians with this case to Dean in a memo I wrote to him, which was also addressed to the president, and although I was proven right once the shoutout on the moon started, it was a classic triple-cross at the end and Vlad heroically saved the day (or night I guess since we were on the moon) before dying on my crying arms (spoiler alert). Anyway, my point is that just like most great friendships (Roddie Piper and Rick Flair, Jason Statham in the Fast and Furious movies, The Rock in the Fast and Furious movies, Vin Diesel and Paul Walker in the Fast and Furious movies, basically every friendship in the Fast and Furious movies), our friendship also started as a rivalry; it mostly consisted of me being too smart, too strong, and too good with the ladies (and the men), and Vlad being viciously jealous of my natural charm and athleticism.

Before that though, I have been informed about the proper use of pronouns – specifically using gender-specific pronouns to describe a person whose gender is not known – and will mend my thoughtless and harmful behavior, as you can already tell; it takes nothing to be inclusive and if Dick Power can do it, so can you. There was also some other comments about racism and sexism, but those were provably wrong as I can say with certainty I am neither a racist nor a sexist person. Anyway, Vlad introduced us to the Agency of Russian Security Experts (or ARSE as they would call it); I did not trust them at the time to point out how silly their name was, but I sincerely regret that now and proudly wear their official emblem of a bum near my heart. He said he would take us to the headquarters and I have to say that, my gut feeling about them being a bunch of amateurs was wrong, and that is only the second time my gut was wrong about something – the first lasted an hour in an outdoor shitter and a week in the hospital. These guys (and gals) were the real deal and actual pros; they were hiding in plain sight, like the Agency from “Men (and Women) in Black”, but not as cool as that (lets be real here nothing is as cool as that). There were a couple of homeless people “sleeping” in the front of the “apartment building”, which may seem like a slum to most people, but to a trained eye (of which I have two) they were clearly trained assassins hiding ninja stars in their unwashed t-shirts. Once in the building, Vlad took us to the basement through a secret door that had the stairs sign on it, but it clearly did not say stairs as it had numbers and weird characters on it; my guess is that if an unauthorized handprint touched that knob, it would shock them or throw a brick in their nutsack (or bushy lady bits if it was a lady, or their general genital region if they were still deciding how they identify – I am very inclusive as you can see). What awaited us was a sight that I will never forget and it still brings a tear in my eye. The number on the door was 801, which was weird as this was the basement, but it could be a defensive tactic to disorientate the enemy, and as soon as you opened it, you were greeted by the stench of wet dogs, cigarettes, and empty farts; they were posing as hobos! How genius! No agent would hold their nerve here; as I was thinking this, there was a man having a drinking contest with a radio and losing. What agent is going to be able to extract any information from that?! A few feet away, there was another man spitting on Frisbees and throwing them out the window; what an intelligent networking solution! How you gonna hack that?! But the surprises did not end there; our Russian friends were here and they had nice, cold, funny-tasting Cokes waiting for us. Shit-for-brains and Dean seemed reluctant to drink the Cokes, but I failed to see what the problem was and I drank the whole thing in seconds (releasing a glorious burb at the end); Dean and Rabbit-teeth had a bit more trouble with their drinks, so our Russian friends helped them drink it by holding them down and closing their oxygen intake, forcing them to swallow, but I acted on my feet and proposed to drink their Cokes as well. It did take me 15 minutes to come up with that, so there wasn’t much left, but my tank was full (by which I mean my pee-pee was full and I needed to wee); this was to be the fateful beginning of my rivalry with Vlad. We used the same toilet and had a round of pee-pee fighting (crossing streams and all that), which I won easily and Vlad saw in me a worthy opponent of physical might and wit; to that I can say the feeling was one-way as I was pretty sure I could defeat him in just about anything, and that was proven beyond doubt in the following events (spoiler alert). After we returned to Headquarters, I found a rather embarrassing scene; it seems my good friend Dean and his pet-parrot had both fallen asleep, drooling over our guests’ couch, which now seemed to change color from blood-ish red to wet blood-ish red. Just when I thought that couch was the worst thing I saw in my life, it just got worse; it’s one of those fundamental rules of physics: All things get worst when they are wet; There is literally nothing that gets better by becoming wet. I offered to wake them up, but Vlad insisted it was not a problem. For a Russian spy, he was both nice and honest, which is strange for any spy – let alone a Russian one. I still felt like leaving them there was a bad idea, so I thought that I should at least get them some coffee for when they wake up. They offered to get us some coffee themselves, but I refused and insisted; I wanted some of that good Starbucks, liquid-turd-looking coffee and that is something only a bonified Merican like myself can order. As they realized there was no convincing me, they gracefully opened the door and stood behind me with a steel bat; the traditional way Russians say farewell to guests. Then, after a sudden and unrelated strike in the head, I felt like napping and decided to drop right then and there to take a nap.

I woke up strapped to the outside of a rocket, beginning its launch sequence and it was too late to escape – I only had one shot at survival: The use of one of my many unique talents of holding my breath for a really long time. That solves the “there is no oxygen in space” problem, but there was another pressing issue; I was strapped in the bit that would eject after a while and I know this because I know lots of things and have seen Armageddon a billion times. So, I would have to break out of these bonds, hold my breath and hold on to the rocket until it stops rising, then get into the cockpit (which is also the name many lovers gave to my penis, although they pronounce it as cockbit, probably because they were foreign models and their pronunciation was rough) and contact Earth by using the walkie-talkie on board. Luckily, my incredible foresight and paranoia for these types of situations will finally come to the rescue, as I have a hairpin under my tongue at all times – who’s the idiot now Dad?! Unfortunately, I am tied up with a rope, but in my mind, it would have been handcuffs, so a hairpin is literally pointless now, except for the fact that the constant taste of metal has made me numb to all tastes. Thus, I will use my Olympian-esque agility to lower my mouth towards my stomach region and start biting my restraints. Like Odyssey’s sailors tying themselves to the stern in order to resist the call of the fair maidens, I too am tied up, but unlike those idiots I have proper dental health care and snake-like flexibility, so I will reach those fair maidens, woo them, and get the location of the fair maiden Helen and that of her illegitimate lover Achilles and kick his ass; then we’ll see how invulnerable he really is, although in this metaphor the fair maiden Helen was Vlad and Achilles was a bunch of Chinese agents, which is weird as I am not gay, but it is also a really good metaphor and I can’t just delete it now! What should I do?

Alas, I am only human and cannot perform miracles, but I am really smart, so I devised a new plan immediately – this may sound like a coincidence, but trust me, I meant all of this.  I convinced myself that I was going to die and pushed really hard to allow liquid to come out of my eyes, nose, and pee-pee; if you are in a similar situation, yelling and pleading to a God of your preference really helped me release those liquids – in fact I pleaded with all Gods just to make sure all the liquids were used. I then used that liquid as lubricant to wiggle away from my restraints. I used my experience as a free-flowing rock-climber to scale the massive Rocketship, barely missing the ejecting bits, reached the top where the conveniently placed hatch was at, and entered it safe and sound. I use the on-board map (you know the one that always knows where you are) to navigate myself to the cockpit and, after entering every other room to look for survivors (which was my initial intention obviously), I finally reach the cockpit. This is the conversation that followed:

“Hello, can you hear me?” I say stoically and without any desperation whatsoever.

“Hi, is this Clem Fandango?”.

“No, this is Richard Power, world renowned undercover spy. Did you think I was Clem Fandango the actor?”.

“Who are you? What are you doing inside Clem Fandango?”.

“Those were just Hollywoo rumors, Clem and I were dear friends who liked each other’s company in front of lit fireplaces and that was it; one time it seemed he took he shirt off, but it was just one of those silly shirts he likes wearing…”

“No, you don’t understand. The Rocketship you are in is called the Clem Fandango; why are you in the Clem Fandango?”

“I got lost on the way to the men’s room. WHAT DO YOU THINK I’M DOING INSIDE CLEM FANDANGO? I told you I am a world-renowned undercover spy and I was restrained here to die, but that clearly failed, and I need to go back!”

“Well, you can’t. This is a one-way, unmanned journey to the moon, so…”

“Or unwomaned.”

“I’m sorry?”

“The crew could have had women in it, so you should include them as well. It’s not hard and it only takes a second to not hurt someone else’s feelings”

“Riiiight…Anyways you are in a personless, one way trip to the moon.”

“There’s nothing you can… Wait a minute! Did you say the moon?!”

“Yes, I did.”

“My good man (or woman), what is your name?”

“Steven and I’m sorry there are a few interferences and I’m also multitasking, so can you say the name of your Rocketship every time you want to say something, it would really help.”

“Hello Steven, this is Clem Fandango, can you hear me?”

“Yes, I can hear you Clem Fandango, what do you want?”

“There are going to be a few interferences and I also have other tasks I’m doing simultaneously that are more important right now, so call the FBI and tell them that Dick Power has landed on the moon and is ready to take on the Chinese spies. Dick Power, over and out.”

End of conversation.

These bloody Chinamen (or Chinawomen)! They tied me up to a Rocketship heading towards the moon and thought that would be the last they see of me, but they inadvertently sent their biggest nemesis to where they never wanted him to be. I hadn’t any time to believe my luck and neither should you, because now you should turn your attention to me looking for weapons, which is what I was doing now. I advised the on-board map and saw something peculiar; one of the rooms called “stash”, was shaped like a Walther PPK (which is the Goldeneye handgun from that Nintendo game I obviously never played because video games are for nerds). But when I entered every room last time to check for survivors, I hadn’t encountered a room with that peculiar shape – that must mean it’s a secret room! It seems to be just behind the storage area, so it should be a good start…yeah, no this seems like a pretty normal storage area; there are boxes, shelfs, uncanny amount of blood spilling from the back wall, a mop, a broom, and…hold on! Why is there a second broom on the back wall? That must be the sign! I start knocking on the wall, doing the thing most people do in movies when searching for a hidden compartment, for reasons I fully comprehend and not just out of desperation. As I’m doing that, I stumble upon a happy birthday card in the bloody mess that is that storage room – then I hear “What’s the news from the front?” to which I reply with “Your Birthday card came, but it’s all bloody”, to which the voice replies “What is the Password?” to which I say “1234 Password!”. Voila (French for “Open Sesame”). The secret door opens and I enter the room, sidestepping the dead bodies. There were plenty of guns left, but not a lot of ammunition; apparently, the AI (I forgot to mention that, don’t worry I will tell you what you need to know later on) told me that there was a mutiny and all the men (and women) died during that fight. The only ammunition left was a clip for the Walther PPK, so I took that and I sat down to write this letter, as I waited for the ultimate showdown with the Chinese spies on the moon. I can hear the landing sequence starting so I have to stop now – wish my foes luck, they’ll need it. Also, wish for them to break a leg that would help a lot as that particular activity is really physically straining for me.

I get out of the shuttle and I see the Chinese graffitiing dicks cumming on our beloved flag and I lose it! I yell at them to stop that, because it is offensive, or at least add female reproductive organs climaxing as well in order to keep inclusivity. They turn around and I am stunned! It was Vlad and his friends! They were the Chinese spies all along, but in an incredible twist, they lied about their nationality; they were actually Russians, trying to pin it on the Chinese, while they sabotaged our flag and make us look silly to aliens! That back-stabbing prick – I think to myself, without knowing his eventual turnaround as a triple agent (spoiler alert) – I need to stop their evil plans. I pull out my weapon (by which I mean the handgun) and I start shooting at them, killing one of them; it was now 1 vs 3, which was unfair…for them. As they shoot towards the rock I was behind 10 seconds ago, I outmaneuver them and outflank them, killing one more; but, my gun jams, which is still unfair for them, but did give them a fighting chance. I give them my first and final ultimatum to stop fighting and come out with their hands up, but they never responded, so I air-kick Vlad out of the moon and pierce the other’s suit with my nimble fingers. With the threat neutralized, I go to inspect the damage done to our flag. It’s ruined. There’s fake, sharpie dicks and balls all over the place, and fake, sharpie cum; I can’t stand to watch this disrespect waving on top of the moon, so I lower the flag to replace it with a spare one I keep on me at all times. Then, I notice something…one of the balls is shaped like the moon! And the hair drawing within the ball, leads to a specific spot; could this be a sign? I investigate immediately as this felt like trouble was brewing. What I see will constitute as the 3rd big shock of the night (I guess it’s night because I’m on the moon, but I don’t know for sure), which is a shock in itself as I’ve never been shocked more than twice before, so I guess that was the 4th big shock of the night.

The Chinese are planting a bomb on the moon! The Russians were not using our racial bias against the Chinese as a distraction for their nefarious plans, the Chinese were using our racial bias against the Russians as a distraction for their nefarious plans! What a twist! I sneak up on them and keep them at gunpoint, while I try to work out the type of bomb and how to dispose of it, but I am ambushed by…the 4th Russian! Shit, I knew I had forgotten something! The 5th big shock of the night was that I was ambushed by someone I knew was there but forgot about! The 6th was that the Russians and the Chinese were in this scheme together; if they couldn’t have the moon, no one could, so they decided to destroy it. By the way, this whole explanation came from one of the Chinese men (or women) and I have to say that their accent was offensively Chinese, like a Hollywoo stereotype not like an actual Chinese person would sound like, so I also think they were racist. At that moment, I thought of my sons and melancholically whispered a “mea culpa” to them, as I had failed Merica and humanity as a result. In the last moments, when all hope was lost, the last big shock of the night happened; the 7th wonder of the world. Vlad, diving with two pistols in hand shooting at fools; he was a triple agent and he came to save the moon. Within the chaos I escape from my captors and I shoot everyone, but, because I am too good of a shot to miss, I also accidentally shoot Vlad, because I thought he was one of the bad guys, because he was bad up to now, but now he is not and it was all a mess! I hadn’t been that confused since Lost ended – just like that show, everyone ends up dead with their careers ruined.

I rush to my comrade who is slowly dying. I put his body in my arms. I don’t know if it is the changed atmosphere and levels of gravity, but he felt lighter – like a weight lifted from his body. I don’t believe in the soul, but I do believe in the burden men (or women) carry throughout their lives. Past mistakes, worries for the safety of family and friends, patriotism; those are not just traits and characteristics of a good man (or woman), they also weigh heavy on one’s psyche. I don’t know how but I can tell Vlad had turned cold; I now know the warmth of people hides in their souls, but it wasn’t enough to save this sweet and selfless man from his mortality. Death comes for us all, I guess. I spontaneously break out a song to comfort my fallen comrade, in the tone of my father’s Nation’s National Anthem; written by Queen for the Queen (at least one of the two is true):

Vlad my dearest friend

You’re in my arms; again

I tragically lose a friend

Oh, will my woes ever end?

I was born in

difficult times

not as difficult as finding

what rhymes with times

I push everyone I know away

This is because I think it will keep them safe

When my personal demons awake

I have a hard time keeping face

Now as the world’s greatest spy

Going on missions as time passes me by

I keep the world order by dealing with threats

I spit on the mirror because I can’t stand myself

Why did I break out to a song again?

Oh right, Vlad is dead

This song is for you my friend

Why must I be the sole survivor again?

I will avenge your death

I will save the world again

Although you never beat me at piss swordfights

Let’s just say me pissing on you got me disqualified.

Sweet dreams my friend I will see you in the next life and I will fight with you again…in Valhalla.

I close my friend’s eyes and put two quarters for Charros’ fare; then I realize he still has a helmet on and the quarters fly away due to gravity, which really sucked the drama from the scene. I honestly didn’t care about the money at the time, as I knew the agency would cover the costs as “travel expenses”; yes, I abused the system to buy my friend/rival a boat ride to Hade’s Underworld, if that’s illegal then I am a proud criminal. At that point, I realize the danger from men (or women) was over, but not from their devices; I’m talking about the bomb, which I totally still remembered and was just thinking of a way to dispose it. I look at the bomb and I’m ready to cut the right wire, but then I realize something; my one weakness has come to haunt me. I’m colorblind and I can’t tell which one is the red wire! There is only one solution; damnit colorblindness, you’ve defeated me for good this time! I take Vlad’s body and the bomb. My friend, you may not have your Ancient Greek memorial, but I will give you a Viking’s fitting end! We will float towards the sun with a bomb, just like we talked about. That’s how I died; heroically giving my friend his last wish, while saving the world and the moon.

As we float, I remember I left my wallet on the moon (as well as the receipt for the quarters) and push Vlad with the bomb away to get back, but it was too late and the bomb goes off in a spectacular showing of fire and viscera from Vlad. I…overshoot the moon and I am heading straight towards Earth; if you’re thinking this is the end of me, then you must be a Millenial with the attention span of a baby with a full diaper, because I just said I already died heroically. I hold my breath again and aim for the bushes. I land on the bushes of a man’s back yard; he comes out to see what happened. He is furious I destroyed his precious bush and – I won’t lie, I have no idea how this happened – Dean is here and he smells a fight, so stuff happens that I can’t go into because that is the 3rd case me and Dean are involved in that are ongoing. All I will say is: Fish. Fish get better while wet. Also, everyone is missing a kidney and we have horrible scars on our bodies from shoddy surgeries, I don’t know when or how that happened, but I now have another cool-yet disgusting looking scar on my body.

These are the facts. These were buried by the government to a point where not even Mission Impossible could have predicted. I was watching the news the other night and saw that they “arrested” Vlad and his Russian-spy friends with the cover-up story of them being black-market organ sellers, which is ridiculous; I know the truth of what happened and everyone knows the color of the market (as with a man or woman) has nothing to do with their legality. That is clearly a clone to silence me and convince me that what I saw was a figment of my imagination or as the doctors put it “a way for the brain to make sense of the trauma”. But they were not Major Doctors; I would only trust my dad, had he not been replaced with a clone as well, programed to lie to me and sell me their bogus story. I. WON’T. HAVE IT. If anyone finds this letter floating in outer space alongside a homicidal AI, you have to present this to an investigative reporter or find Dean and come and rescue me. The World still needs saving and you can be the hero that saves the actual hero (moi) – YOU NEED TO SPREAD THE TRUTH.”

Kind Regards,

Richard “Dick” Power

Psychiatric Institute…of China.

P.S.

Rhymes! Rhymes rhymes with times! Do you see?! The word “rhymes” rhymes with times!

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