his feet and scanned the bridge. Lots of dust. A couple of small electrical fires. Crew strewn in all directions. The tiki torches were, fortunately, still operational.
“Is everyone alright?” asked J.
The crew, though a little battered, answered affirmatively.
“Bugger,” he said softly to himself.
Jemima had ripped the upper part of her stocking, revealing a section of her labia majora. J was momentarily distracted. Her almond eyes were fine as she stood up and adjusted her microskirt.
J’s top was ripped strategically to reveal his left nipple. He was in a rage that seemed forced and hammy.
“Let’s go and kill those Gorgan motherfuckers!” he exclaimed with unlimited passion.
“Grongorgans, sir,” corrected Tamagotchi.
“Kill the Gorgorans!” yelled J.
“Grongorgans, sir,” corrected Tamagotchi.
“Kill the Gregorians!” yelled J.
“Grongorgans, sir,” corrected Tamagotchi.
“Kill the Grappledons!” yelled J.
“Grongorgans, sir,” corrected Tamagotchi.
“Kill the Googlebuns!” yelled J.
“Grongorgans, sir,” corrected Tamagotchi.
“Kill the Grabarsegoodons!” yelled J.
“Grongorgans, sir,” corrected Tamagotchi.
“Kill the Gromulans!” yelled J.
“Grongorgans, sir,” corrected Tamagotchi.
“Kill the Bluketards!” yelled J.
“Grongorgans, sir,” corrected Tamagotchi.
“Kill Hi-5!” yelled J.
“Grongorgans, sir,” corrected Tamagotchi.
“Kill Ensign Tamagotchi!” yelled J.
“KILL THE GRONGORGANS??” yelled Tamagotchi,