ROTFLMAO
6. Bill
As the 217 sentient beings aboard the 21ZNA9 began to assemble in the lounge, straggling in from their cabins where the PA system had relayed the lieutenant's speech, the sergeant's lower jaw began to drop.
"Lootenant!" he bellowed after the officer, who had set off to return to the Noko Marie.
Bad Cat spun in his tracks, glared at the sergeant, then, as he followed the NCO's pointing paw, his whiskers began to twitch uncontrollably. He returned to the sergeant's side.
"Gimps!" hissed the sergeant. "A whole shipload of gimps!"
Indeed, nearly every one of the 217 passengers exhibited some severe infirmity or deformity. Bad Cat narrowed his eyes. His whiskers continued to twitch. The fur at the nape of his neck began to rise. He had a really bad feeling about this.
"Get me the flight plan," he said, very quietly, to the sergeant, who passed the order on to a nearby corporal.
Moments later, while the crowd milled about (to the best of each being's ability) uncertainly, the ship's papers were produced. The lieutenant stared at them, did a double-take, stared again, as his stomach began to sink, and that really bad feeling became a serious case of the screaming willies. His tail drooped. His knees turned to rubber. The Catmandian Empire had just expended over 150 million friskies waylaying the wrong ship. Bad Cat's ass, along with the furry hindquarters of the rest of the officers of the Noko Marie, was grass.
Their orders had been to capture a shipload of hormonally overcharged vacationers enroute to Prophylactica, planet of a trillion sensual (and safe) ecstasies. Instead, they had pounced on 217 of the sorriest cases in several galaxies.
Lieutenant Bad Cat coughed up a hairball. No way it could be covered up. What to do now?
7. Gareth
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