[i]MunchMunch…[/i]

Space wondered while he ate, wondered how much fat he was going to have to manage between the chicken and the cream inside of the honey wheat wrap, which led to thinking about his morning muscle blasts that he had only half-assed. However, dismayed as he was(or wasn’t), he wanted some cheese dip and that big satchel of nacho tortilla chips. He wanted two beers; he wanted to go to hit the second level of the gymnasium for its cardio installments, he wanted to navigate to the practice shooting range, and then he recognized be was beginning to panic. He had some extra medication in his pocket, he thought while he started to precipitate, and then so he placed one on his tongue and picked up his drink and dunked some in his mouth and swallowed. He knew he would feel better momentarily. And then he thought the huge chicken-cream crepe was to blame. There was too much fat inside the honey wheat wrap.

He sit for two minutes waiting for the waitress to return to his table because he wanted one shot of high-powered alcohol drink, for it would create a total benevolent calamity inside of his chest(body) when it mixed with his tranquilizer. It was going to take twenty or thirty minutes, because the pill was not a large dose, and the alcohol always eliminated itself from the body not only through the urine reaction, but by being turned to easily digested waste and shipped to the levels inside of the body where it is stored.  And then as soon as he began thinking about the feeling of being drunk, the waitress arrived and asked him if there was any menu item or drink, and he smiled to her and he ordered hard liquor with a lime twist and a protein drink item. She went into the back and spun back to the table ASAP. She brought back a twelve ounce green liquid in a clear glass, and a shot of whisky. He killed both of them, fast. And, of course duty called because he programmed his military watch to alert him with an archaic assault helicopter sound clip. He jumped up and ran out.

He crossed all of the kinds of strangers you would encounter on the Mammoth heading back to his loft, most notably a redheaded chick that had give him the pie two weeks ago. Military, engineering, love, what would you do? He wondered about the future. Was it going to be a slew of redheads and sound clips for dummies, or maybe big profits from working with big time contractors and could he then open and operate shipyard that conducted business with every body. He was not a greedy man, but every body needs a path to follow so they don’t get lost. His current, literal path culminated with Space rushing into his house and changing into a black uniform and black boots, and packing up the things he would be expected to have. He rinsed off his face and clipped his fingernails, and then he becomes a little disoriented because the medicine was combining the liquor. He was packed scantily, and locked his door on his way to ZELTA 01.

He toted his belongings, after a while some difficulty carrying his weight was noticed, but it did not interfere or last long. He saw several people he knew from passing by, but he kept it professional, at least until he could get a redheaded shipyard owner. He had the plasma pistol in his carry-over military issue bag, and some times he had gotten a pass, and sometimes it was a fail and a mark was recorded. He was thinking about several things standing at the docking bay, but soon every thing hit a calm environment that he would not have trouble managing in. And, he had a normal ideas and thoughts.

And suddenly, he realizes he was standing in the wrong place. He couldn’t help but smile. He turned around, and he called his senior officer, and when his team leader answered Space was kind of laughing at himself, but he zipped his lips immediately and explained to the officer that a woman run him an eye and he pursued, but fast remembered his job and needed the bay number the unit was instructed to rendezvous. 

The number of the placement was C-27. Space was at C-5. That letter C crossed him up for some reason. Maybe he would live, or maybe suffer death, the whole world knew that ZELTA could be easy, could be very hard. There was only one way to find out arriving at the dock and looking around, and waved over a crowd of people who he had thought shot him the kind gesture. Suddenly, he felt suspicious. It wasn’t anxiety. Then, it was OK. He supposed he would wait. The back of his black bag had an identification code, and he was holding it over his shoulder. His boots could crack concrete. His accuracy was looking good. He didn’t know what was coming at him, but he was ready for what he could take.