The year was 1981. the company was “Edgewater Steel” located in Oakmont, PA. A steel company. They went bankrupt in the early 1990’s and this is a story of my first “engineering position” after I left the United States Navy, but before I began my training in the ONI.

It was a large forging company. They made railroad wheels. And they employed 6000 people. It was a sizable operation located on the banks of the Allegheny river north of Pittsburgh.

When I was hired, the HR manager explicitly told me that they had “phased out bonuses for all new hires”, and myself not knowing what that meant, gleefully signed the contract. Sure, I knew that I wouldn’t be getting a bonus; but you know, all my bonuses up to that time was in the $25 to $50 dollar range. Roughly about 1/2 of a week paycheck as a laborer.

So I figured, “what’s the big deal about a mere $25?”.

So I work there, perhaps for nine months, and Christmas rolls around.

And everyone was being handed the envelope with their Christmas bonus. And they were all happy, as the bonus was 2 – 3 times their monthly salary. This is around $3000 to $6000 in a lump check.

Except for me.

I got nothing. I got exactly ZERO.

I an the other six “new hires” for the year got absolutely zero. And the rest, bound by contract, and union agreements got nice plump juicy bonuses. Big, BIG money in those days.

So, let me summarize for you all, in the event you are absolutely STUPID.

6000 people that I see every day; about the size of a small town. Each and every one of them; All of them, got around $6000 in a Check on Christmas Eve. Roughly around $35,000 today.

And me and six others got nothing.

…

Fair? No.

But legal. Yes.

…

So firstly, the steel company was a union shop. Everyone made “big money”, and also got “big bonuses”. And I, who had never before worked in that environment, was unaware of this. I thought that everyone would be getting around $35 checks. Not $6000.

Ah. What did I know?

So the end result was as you can expect. Lots of “ribbing” and making fun of me. Everyone was pointing their fingers at me and laughing. “Well, they told you!” they would say in a laughing sneer. They would giggle at the water cooler, and call me names to my face like “dumb kid” and “walking idiot”.

…

Of course, they could have handled this different.

Maybe given me a reduced bonus.

But no. The others (after all this was a steel company with hard beer drinkers and roustabouts, we constantly ribbing me about their bonuses. One bought a new car. Another went on a vacation to Hawaii. Yet another was going to add a swimming pool to their house.

On and on it went. And I got nothing.

Not even a little Christmas card.

…

And that, boys and girls, was my first experience with the joys of corporate life. It was a lesson that I have never forgotten.

But has since, been repeated over and over again over the decades.

Ah. It is no wonder that this gen Z has given up and “checked out”. They have peered behind the veil and see the lies and nonsense for what it actually is. And, you know, they don’t want any part of it.

Today…

Life on a Station

Submitted into Contest #24 in response to: Write a story set in the dark recesses of space where the two main characters are often at odds with each other in humorous and comedic ways.… view prompt

Corey Melin

Gorgin walked the corridors once again to make sure everything was okay.

“Why do I have to continue to check out the station when we have systems set-up to make sure everything is in order on the station?” he asked the commander of the station, Morgan.

“Just do it,” said Morgan.  “You never know what can get past our systems way out here in space.  There is a lot of unknown things out here. I’m tired of explaining to you each time it’s your turn.”

Now, Gorgin was walking through the corridors, and checking out room after room.

“Why such  huge station for just a few people?” thought Gorgin.

Gorgin rounded the corner, and in front of him stood an alien that stood seven feet tall, green scaly skin, fish eyes, a mouth full of sharp teeth, and claws reaching out to him.  All Gorgin could do is stare in shock then let out a piercing scream as he started backing up around the corner, then turning and running as fast as he could. Before he reached the end he could hear someone laughing hysterically behind him.  He came to a stop and turned around seeing Dwight in the alien outfit pointing at him and laughing.

“I will be taking this to the commander!” he cried out, as soon as he went to his room to change.

“I can’t believe I have two adult men standing in front of me,” said Morgan.  “The two of you clowns have been at each other since you came to this station.  Should we go over everything the two of you have done to each other?”

“This was all started by Dwight,” said Gorgin.  “He was the one who set the dials so I woke-up out of slumber as an old man.”

Morgan and Dwight chuckled over that one.

“That was a quick fix, but it was fun while it lasted,” said Dwight.

“It didn’t end there with the two of you,” said Morgan.  “I believe the next mishap is when Dwight transported in the station and appeared in another section with three butt cheeks.  Courtesy of Gorgin tampering with the controls.”

“Sitting down was quite comfy,” admitted Dwight with a grin.

“Even though, the two of you have brought much humor to everyone you need to act like adults,” said Morgan.  “You think the two of you can do that?”

The two of them nodded their heads.

“Now get out of my sight and do your duties,” demanded Morgan.

Both of them left the room, staring at each other with dislike.

“I would greatly appreciate it if you could move to the other side of the station so I would see you less,” said Gorgin.

“I would say that it would be even better if you would move off the station,” said Dwight.

“Just stay away from me,” both said at the same time, and they went their separate locations.

It was a couple of days later that the two met again.

Gorgin went into what everyone called the “Pet Room” to create himself a pet to keep him company.  As he entered the room he saw that Dwight was already in the room at the controls.

“What the heck are you doing in here?” he asked.

Dwight turned to him.  “Looking for a pet. What do you think idiot?”

“Hurry up then,” said Gorgin.

Dwight went back to the controls and went back to pushing buttons.  Time went by as Gorgin waited impatiently for him to finish.

“I think I got it,” said Dwight.  “Oh wait. That won’t do.”

“That is enough,” huffed Gorgin, stomping over to Dwight.  “Give me the controls.”

Next moment, both of them were fighting over the controls, pressing and clicking until there was a sudden flash that lit up the room.  Both of them stopped and looked at each other with befuddled looks.

“What the heck was that?” asked Gorgin.

“Not a clue,” replied Dwight.

“We should probably check around the station to make sure everything is okay,” said Gorgin.

The two left the room, trying to call the commander, but getting no answer.

“Let’s go to command center first,” said Gorgin.

The two rushed to the command center.

“Dwight did it!” Gorgin cried out as soon as they entered the room.

“No I didn’t!” Dwight called back.  “You butted in!”

But the two realized they were wasting there blame game for the commander was nowhere in sight.  They looked all over, but no sight of the commander.

“He’s not in the freshening room,” said Dwight coming out after a flush.

“Strange for him to be gone,” said Gorgin.

Then the two of them heard a squeak.

“What the hell was that?” asked Dwight.

“Sounds like the commander has a pet,” replied Gorgin.

The two started looking around until the two came to the commander’s chair.  Both saw at the same time a squirrel on the seat looking at both of them. It started chattering, then jumped off the chair.

“I didn’t know the commander had a pet?” asked Dwight.

Gorgin shrugged his shoulders and scratched his head.  Then a light bulb popped on inside his head.

“What pet were you looking at getting?” he asked Dwight.

“I was contemplating on getting a tamed squirrel,” he replied.

It didn’t take too long for the two to figure out what happened.

“Did we turn the commander into a squirrel?” asked Dwight.

Gorgin just nodded then the two searched for the squirrel, which ran around the room.

“We need to get him,” Gorgin said.

The two chased after the squirrel, bumping into each other, and Gorgin grabbing the squirrel, but it bit him, and was loose once again.

“We need to get the room robot,” said Gorgin as he shook his hurt finger, going over to the panel.

He pressed some switches and next moment the robot came out.

“Retrieve the squirrel,” said Gorgin.

It didn’t take long for the robot to scoop of the squirrel and deposit it into a glass came.

“Now to see about the rest of the crew,” said Gorgin.

The two of them checked for lifeforms on the station, then checked the screens for each room they detected life.  All the lifeforms were squirrels.

“What did you do?” asked Gorgin.

“You were the one pressing numerous buttons,” said Dwight.

“We need to fix this fast,” said Gorgin.

Gorgin released the robots in each room, and the squirrels were scooped up.  The other robots were sent to the pet room.

“I hope we can reverse this,” said Gorgin as they headed to the pet room.

All the robots were in the room as the two of them tried to figure out a way to make their crew human again.

“I think I got it,” said Gorgin.  “We need to get out of the room so nothing happens to us.  The robots will be released once we leave.”

The two left the room, robots released, and there was a bright flash.  The two went back into the room and saw everyone was human again. The only thing is that they were all naked.  Commander Morgan stood up and looked at the two men with a stare of death.

“We are in trouble,” muttered Dwight.

The next day the two were put in cryosleep  until the next crew came in a couple of years.  Before both of them lay down for their sleep they looked at each other, and both of them grinned.

Slow Cooker Brisket Sofrito

Slow Cooker Brisket Sofrito is an excellent filling for corn or flour tortillas.

Yield: 6 to 8 servings

Ingredients

• 1 (3 pound) brisket
• 2 teaspoons salt, + extra after cooking
• 2 teaspoons freshly ground pepper, + extra after cooking
• 1 large onion, sliced
• 4 cloves garlic, minced
• 1 (12 ounce) jar tomato Sofrito
• 1 teaspoon ground chipotle chili (or more for an extra kick)

Instructions

1. Season brisket on both sides with salt and pepper.
2. Place onion and garlic in a 3 1/2 to 5 quart slow cooker. Place brisket on onions and garlic, fat side up. Pour Sofrito over brisket and sprinkle chipotle chili over sauce. Cover and cook on LOW for 9 to 10 hours or until brisket is fork tender.
3. Carefully remove brisket from cooker with as little sauce as possible. Place on cutting board and cut into three pieces cross grain. Shred beef with two forks and return to cooker. Stir into sauce and season with salt and pepper (and a little more chipotle seasoning if you like it spicy).
4. Serve with tortillas and other desired toppings.

Nutrition

Per serving: 530 calories; 23g fat (5g saturated fat; 0g trans fat); 195mg cholesterol; 1340mg sodium; 5g carbohydrate; 1g fiber; 0 g sugar; 71g protein; 2% vitamin A; 6% calcium; 20% vitamin C; 35% iron

A MM slice from the past

I generated this chart back in 2019.

What do you think? Do you think that I was accurate in my predictions?

Shorpy Goodies

A confession

This is a heartfelt true confession from the top spokesperson for the Huawei Mate 6.0—Gina Raimondo. In a recent interview, Commerce Secretary Gina Raimondo went beyond discussing export controls, stating that efforts to hold back China in the chip race are ultimately a “fool’s errand.” She stressed that sustained investment in domestic innovation is what will ensure the U.S. remains ahead of Beijing.

Four years after the Biden administration made chip manufacturing a priority, Raimondo explained that the attempts to restrict China’s access to technology haven’t significantly slowed the country’s progress. According to her, export controls are merely “speed bumps” in China’s drive for global technological dominance. “The only way to beat China is to stay ahead of them,” she asserted. “We must run faster and out-innovate them. That’s the way to win.”

https://www.wsj.com/politics/national-security/china-biden-chip-manufacturing-gina-raimondo-b98c2606

Ribs in Orange and Chile Sauce (Costillitas en Naranja)

Ingredients

• 2 tablespoons lard or vegetable oil
• 4 pounds country-style spareribs, cut into individual ribs
• 2 medium white onions, cut lengthwise into 1/4 inch wide slivers
• 1 (1 pound) can whole peeled tomatoes, undrained
• 2 cloves garlic
• 1 to 2 tablespoons ground, seeded, dried ancho chiles
• 1/2 teaspoon ground cinnamon
• 1/4 teaspoon ground cloves
• 1/2 cup fresh orange juice
• 1/3 cup dry white wine
• 1/4 cup piloncillo or brown sugar
• 1 teaspoon shredded orange rind
• 1/2 teaspoon salt
• 1 to 2 tablespoons cider vinegar
• Orange slices, cut into halves
• Fresh cilantro sprigs

Instructions

1. Heat lard or oil in large Dutch oven over medium heat until hot. Add as many ribs as will fit in single layer without crowding. Cook, turning occasionally, until brown on all sides, 15 to 20 minutes; remove to plate.
2. Repeat with remaining ribs.
3. Remove and discard all but 2 tablespoons drippings from pan. Add onions; sauté over medium heat until soft, about 4 minutes.
4. Process tomatoes and garlic in blender container until smooth.
5. Add chiles, cinnamon and cloves to onions. Cook and stir over medium heat for 30 seconds.
6. Add tomato mixture; cook and stir for 5 minutes.
7. Add orange juice, wine, piloncillo, orange rind and salt to pan; heat over high heat to boiling. Add ribs; reduce heat to low. Simmer, covered, until ribs are tender, about 1 1/2 hours.
8. Remove ribs to serving plates.
9. Skim and discard fat from cooking sauce. Stir in vinegar; spoon sauce over ribs.
10. Serve, garnished with orange slices and cilantro

Shorpy

South of the Border Shredded Pork

Yield: 8 to 10 servings

Ingredients

• 1 (2 1/2 to 3 pound) pork shoulder roast (weight after trimmed of fat)
• 1 tablespoon oil
• 1 medium onion, chopped
• 2 (1.25 ounce) packages taco seasoning mix
• 1 (14.5 ounce) can Mexican style diced tomatoes
• 1 (4 ounce) can diced green chiles
• Tortillas
• Shredded Cheddar or jack cheese
• Scallions
• Tomatoes
• Sour cream

Instructions

1. Cut pork into 1 1/2-inch chunks and sear in hot oil until browned on all sides.
2. Add onion, taco seasoning mix, tomatoes and chiles; stir well. Cover and simmer over low heat for 1 hour and 15 minutes.
3. Remove cover and cook 15 minutes more or until liquid has reduced and sauce is thick.
4. Shred meat with two forks.
5. Spoon filling into tortillas and top with desired fillings

Little Red Balloons

Submitted into Contest #24 in response to: Write a story set in the dark recesses of space where the two main characters are often at odds with each other in humorous and comedic ways.… view prompt

Matt Strempel

I can’t put my finger on why I murdered Jerry, because I lost my fingers in an accident.

Accident. That is to say, Jerry hit the go button on the waste disposal unit while I was fixing it, and it munched my right hand off at the wrist. To be fair, the robotic prosthetic is about a thousand times better than my real hand was, but it hurt like hell at the time. He maintains I said, “Hit it,” but what I said was, “Quit it.” I was always telling Jerry to quit it. He was the most infuriating guy in the entire universe, I’m telling you. I should know; as a DSD I’ve seen more of the universe than most.

A DSD is a Deep Space Diviner. In short, we look for water out in the dark corners of the universe in the hope of finding evidence of alien life. I used to get work out on farms and such, walking around with a curled piece of wire waiting for the thing to snap down towards the ground. That’s when I’d tell the boys to get digging. I never missed. Went all over the country helping folks get water out of the ground. I’m telling you, I could find water in the middle of a goddamn desert. Now I follow my hunches into deep space.

When I heard they were asking for water diviners to head into space I thought it was some big joke. Checked the date to see if it was April 1st and everything. But it’s no joke. Turns out it’s cheaper to have guys like me out in space than sending probes from Earth.

So anyway, they’ve had us out in Sector 35 for two years. Me and Jerry Portman. I told them I could do it on my own, but company regulations state I gotta have a partner. Jerry goddamn Portman from Chicago. I couldn’t stand him.

How do I explain this to you? I mean, how do you come across a guy that can make you feel claustrophobic in the vastness of space? Even when I couldn’t see him, it was like he was right next to me with his stale open-mouth breathing. I’ve sent countless requests to be transferred, or have him transferred, or sought permission to blast him out the goddamn airlock, but no luck. I knew nothing was going to come of all the complaints, but it was the only way I could get the frustration off my chest.

It’s true that in space no one can hear you scream, but email works pretty good.

Anyway, that opening line about not being able to put my finger on why I killed him on account of not having any fingers? That’s the type of corny gag that Jerry loved. Drove me crazy. Is there anything more infuriating than a guy who laughs at his own jokes? I must have heard him use variations of “lend you a hand”, “right-hand man”, and “second hand” about a million times. He laughed every single time like it was the first time anyone ever said, “Get a grip” to a guy who just lost their hand and was rolling around on the floor spraying blood all over the goddamn ship.

You ever see a gushing wound in zero gravity? It’s really something. It looks like the wound is spurting little red balloons. Or, it’s like looking at cells under a microscope.

Space does that. Changes your perception of size. Entire planets appear tiny, then, the next second, a speck of space rock hitting the ship could end your entire existence. Big is small, small is enormous.

Anyway, the latest thing with Jerry was he wanted to head out on this new vector. I’m telling you right now, where he wanted to go is a bust. Oh, but he’s “got a feeling”. Feeling, my ass. This guy hadn’t found a goddamn drop of water in two years. Plus, we would have had to go through a goddamn asteroid belt.

It’s not that he was bad at his job—he was terrible—it’s that he was bad at everything. I mean, literally, everything. You ever meet a guy who couldn’t even use the goddamn toothpaste properly? I mean, who squeezes from the middle? Leaves the lid open so I’ve got a tube that’s flat through the centre, with all the good paste at the bottom, blocked by dried toothpaste at the top. He was such a goddamn imbecile.

The thing is, though, medically speaking—on paper—he was a goddamn genius. Like, off the charts smart. He’s just got no common sense. Know what I mean? As in, he could solve the most complex mathematical equation known to man, but he’d set fire to his helmet. He really did that. Tried to make some modifications and shorted the regulator. Nearly killed us. He was always nearly killing us.

I’ll say it: Jerry Portman was the stupidest guy ever to be classified as a genius.

I swear he has nearly killed me at least a dozen times. Obviously, losing my hand was pretty bad, but he’s also shut off my oxygen while I was outside repairing a cracked solar panel. I was under 50% oxygen saturation when I finally got back inside. That much carbon dioxide in your lungs? You can’t take that too long. When I hit the emergency retract button on my umbilical to get back inside, well, let me just say, if I’d had the strength to even stand up, I swear that would have been it. I would have murdered Jerry right then.

I think the worst one was when he opened the bay door—that’s where we keep the drones—before I was in my suit. I know it’s against the regulations to be in the drone bay without your suit because of the potential for that exact situation, but fucking Jerry, man. The guys who wrote the regulations must have been like, “What’s the most galactically stupid thing anyone could do in any given situation?” and then they’d write a rule just for kicks. They were probably laughing their asses off the entire time. “No one could be that much of a moron,” they’d say. But guess what, fellas. Jerry Portman is your guy. It’s just lucky there’s a ten-second warning before the doors open.

You know the worst thing about guys like Jerry? It’s never their fault.

“It was an accident.”

He said it every goddamn time. It’s always an accident with these guys. Like that absolves them from any wrongdoing. As if just because you didn’t do it on purpose, all is forgiven.

Imagine opening the bay door while there’s a guy in there working on the drones.

Speaking of the drones. Jerry lost another one yesterday. This should come as a great surprise to exactly no one, but even for him, this was stupid. That’s three of our six drones lost. Don’t worry, Jerry. They’re only worth about half a billion dollars each.

“But they’re fitted with a homing device to automatically self-dock if they lose the control signal” I hear you say. Yeah, well, you haven’t met Jerry. He’s the kind of guy a car salesman tells, “Pal, if you’re the kind of guy that accidentally locks his keys in the car, then this is the car for you. You can’t do it, see? It’s impossible.”

Then, a week later, Jerry’s back and tells the guy he’s locked the keys in the goddamn car.

Can you imagine being stuck in space with Jerry Portman? I’m telling you, it’s the pits.

The first drone Jerry lost was on account of him tinkering with it. He was trying to make the water sensor more sensitive after striking out on another of his feelings. He’s always making excuses that it’s the equipment’s fault when he strikes out. So, yeah. The first drone he tinkered with—well, we don’t know what he did exactly—but the first time we took it out after he fiddled with it, it took off like a bullet and it was gone.

I can still see Jerry watching the screen as we lost the signal. He was like a kid who’d taken his model plane out for its first flight and watched it disappear over the trees never to be seen again. Only this model plane cost half a billion dollars.

The second one, I’m not sure about. He swears he didn’t touch it. For all his million faults, one thing Jerry wasn’t, was a liar. Maybe we chalk that one up to bad luck. Maybe the drone was a dud.

But the latest one? Jesus Christ. I won’t bore you with a bunch of technical crap about how the drones work, let’s just say in the simplest terms, it confirms the presence of water in any form within a given target. Most commonly, this means we find a meteorite that we feel has potential, and the drone sends out a probe to take a sample. It’s basically a drill that bores into the target and removes a metre-long cylinder of material. If there’s a trace of water—it’s ice, of course—there’s a bunch of readings and measurements done by the computer and it sends the data back to Earth for further analysis.

As you can imagine, a machine that performs this function is incredibly complex. So you don’t just open up a panel and start poking around with a goddamn Phillips-head. Well, you and I wouldn’t. But you know who would?

So, yesterday he’s telling me, “I know what I’m doing this time,” as if he’s read the manual since losing the first drone. I just shake my head and leave him to it. I used to argue with him all the time, but I learnt pretty quick what a waste of breath that was. He’s one of those guys that when they get something in their head, you can’t shake it no matter how much sense you’re making. They could be wearing a red tshirt and you say, “Nice red tshirt,” and they say, “What’re talking about? It’s blue,” and you just have to say, “Fine, you moron. It’s blue,” and walk away.

That’s what Jerry was like when he was tinkering. Maybe part of me thought he’d electrocute himself so I wouldn’t have to murder him.

When he finished playing around with this drone, he came back into the control room and placed these screws and some other little bits and pieces in a drawer. He did it as if he didn’t want me to see it, but I saw it clear as day. You know when someone gets home drunk and they’re trying to be quiet but they make way more noise than if they just stumbled around? People trying to be discrete just scream I’m up to something fishy.

So I say to Jerry, “What are those, from the drone?”

And he just says, “They’re spare. We don’t actually need them.”

Then I go off on one about how every single thing on this ship right down to the tiniest screw has been reduced in size and weight to make everything as light as possible—like, the angle of trajectory for our landing factors in the weight of the urine that will be in our bladders—but sure, Jerry. They’ve included a bunch of spare parts. “It’s not a goddamn IKEA chair, Jerry” I remember saying that to him like he was hiding some leftover dowel he forgot to put in.

Well, sure as eggs, Jerry sent the drone out yesterday and I’ll give you one guess what happened to it. You’re goddamn right it blew up. Nearly killed us.

He’s just lucky the drone was far enough from the ship that the explosion didn’t do any damage to the ship. Nothing that the self-diagnostics picked up, anyway. Naturally, I did my block at Jerry for nearly killing us again and I said someone’s going to have to go outside and have a closer inspection of the hull. Now, normally I’d be the guy that does that. I mean, you can’t leave something that important up to Jerry goddamn Portman.

Then I had a thought—maybe I would send Jerry out. It would be a real shame if his umbilical somehow untethered from the ship and he floated out into space…

Ashamed as I am to admit it, this was not the first time I’d thought about killing Jerry.

Did I tell you about the time Jerry destroyed one of my samples? You know how people who can’t cook, they say “Oh, so-and-so could burn water.” That’s what Jerry did. We got this sample back on the probe one time and it had all these microorganisms in it. The core sample was about 85% ice. Normally, we’re lucky if it’s even 5%. The core analysis told us it contained 37 different forms of bacteria plus a bunch of other unidentifiable crap all suspended in ice. It was the most exciting goddamn discovery since penicillin. So I placed the core in the freezer and looked forward to the fame and fortune awaiting those DSDs lucky enough to find something. I couldn’t sleep that cycle I was so excited.

Of course, back then I didn’t have a complete understanding of the magnitude of Jerry’s stupidity. Had I known better, I would have guarded that freezer with my goddamn life.

Now, it wouldn’t have surprised me in the least to discover Jerry had destroyed my sample by switching the freezer off by accident. These things happen to the best of us. But Jerry isn’t your average moron. No, Jerry decides he wants to take a look at the sample himself under the microscope. Only, the microscope doesn’t work with a chunk of ice, you gotta melt it down to go in a petri dish. So Jerry puts the core in the blast box—the blast box, I should explain, is this unit that works like an oven or freezer depending on what you need heating or chilling. Only, the blast box will roast or freeze something in three seconds. In hindsight, this is exactly the sort of thing you could see happening, but the designers of the blast box would have been counting on the operators being actual scientists, not Jerry goddamn Portman.

Now, someone like you or me, we’d take a small piece of the sample if we wanted to take a closer look. Not Jerry, though. Jerry Portman’s the kind of guy who takes your alien lifeforms precariously suspended in million-year-old ice and microwaves them to kingdom come. “Why the hell did he…? Oh, never mind,” I hear you saying. You’re getting the picture now. He cost me a lot that day. Maybe not money—who knows—but certainly renown. They probably would have named one of the bacteria after me.

That was two years ago, but I remember it like yesterday. Time flies when you’re having fun.

Yesterday, when Jerry was out on the spacewalk, I considered trying to make it look like an accident. But there are so many instruments taking every goddamn reading on this ship that they’d know for sure I had something to do with it. I mean, no amount of tinkering could have got the drone to accidentally deploy its probe with such surgical precision right up Jerry Portman’s goddamn ass.

I’ll be leaving Sector 35 for Earth in a year next week. When I splashdown and I get arrested on live television, it’ll be because I murdered Jerry Portman. They’ll drag me out of the ocean next to those giant orange balloon floaties and put me straight in handcuffs but I’ll be laughing my ass off. You can’t spell manslaughter without laughter, right?

I’ll be thinking about the last thing Jerry saw as he was fatally probed: me in the cockpit with the drone remote, my smiling face looking out through the glass where I’d stuck a piece of paper saying IT WAS AN ACCIDENT.

Thousands of little red balloons.

I just want them to know I was provoked. I was standing my ground. I feared for my life, Your Honor.

It wasn’t self-defence, really, more like self-preservation. I’m not sure if there’re any laws about killing in self-preservation but if I didn’t kill him, he was going to kill me. I’m absolutely goddamn sure of it.

Why You’ll Hate Living in France